Safety In Numbers

Masturbating at her locker should have been liberating in one sense, at least: it should have made it a little less embarrassing for Seventeen to pee in public. If she could the do the former in front of an audience, how embarrassing could the latter be?

There were six metal toilets that stood behind Mistress Zero's desk, standing like sentries -- three to a side -- in the narrow corridor between the locker room proper and the service elevators. There were no partitions or privacy screens, and they sat closer together than any reasonable person would have placed them. So close, in fact, that Seventeen's naked thigh couldn't help but brush up against Mailgirl Number Three's own as she sat down.

Seventeen grimaced. "Safety in numbers," she thought to herself. And then, echoing Sixteen's assurances, "Together."

The fact of the matter of was, Three's body served as a privacy screen of sorts for Seventeen, as she sat on the toilet closest to their mistress's desk, and therefore closer to the wall of mirror glass, and to the elevator lobby on the other side. Three was in the middle of a conversation with Twelve, one that wasn't interrupted by Seventeen's presence, one that wasn't interrupted when Seventeen's bare skin rubbed up against Three's, one that wasn't interrupted as Three and Twelve finished at the same time and stood to leave. So casual had this become to the two veteran mailgirls that they approached this act of public elimination with no more fear or attention than if they'd been having that very conversation over lattes in a crowded coffee shop.

"...he made me rub hot sauce on my nipples. And then Twenty had to lick it off..."

Well, Seventeen thought to herself as Twelve continued on, maybe not that particular conversation...

Seventeen glanced over Mistress Zero's desk, towards the double doors leading to the elevator lobby. She could see only her own reflection, wide-eyed and nervous, staring back at her.

Maybe peeing like this had become casual and commonplace to the other girls, but Seventeen was still painfully aware that she was being watched. Or, at least, that there was a chance she was being watched; it was after seven on the Friday, after all. On the other side of that mirror were chairs and café tables, a coffee cart and a shoe shine service (both likely closed now), and the elevators that USF's non-mailgirl employees took up and down to their floors. She'd just fingered herself for whomever was out there, but her bladder was less cooperative than her pussy had been, and she was forced to abandon the attempt for now.

It still felt odd to just walk away, without having to pull up her underwear or fix her skirt. But Seventeen rounded the desk in the center of the locker room, and joined Mailgirl Number Six at the far dog dish. Twenty-One had finished at the other, and been replaced by Twelve. Mailgirl Number Two hovered nearby with a can opener and a few spare cans of dinner, waiting to refill the bowls upon request. Seventeen dutifully dropped to her hands and knees, but was patient enough for Six to finish her meal before inserting her own face into the bowl. Instead, she went to the water bowl beside her, comfortable enough now at the end of the day to drink as much as she wanted; no need to have bathroom breaks chaperoned out at the bar. She lapped away at the cloudy water thirstily.

"One can or two?" Two asked her politely, as Six pulled back and wiped her face with her hand. Six, a brunette, possessed an enormous set of tits, and Seventeen couldn't help but be distracted as they bounced into line-of-sight. USF's mailgirls all had the same general, tall-and-slender build, and most -- like Seventeen herself -- had breasts in the vicinity of C's. But there was some minimal variation when it came to chest size, with Thirteen and Ten on one end of the spectrum, and Six unchallenged on the other. Seventeen's own breasts had a dull ache from bouncing bra-less up and down stairs all day; she couldn't begin to imagine what it must have been like to be Six.

"Uh...just one," Seventeen replied, re-focusing herself. There was still a little food in the bowl, and she had no interest in eating more than she absolutely had to.

"Bon appetit," Two offered sarcastically but good-naturedly. The thick, foul-smelling mush oozed forth from the can.

Seventeen held her breath and dove in.

She gagged once, at her first bite. But the overpowering urge to vomit was not as powerful this time around as it had been during her first two meals of this sludge. Maybe Fifteen had been right, and she'd slowly get used to it. Or maybe, as Seventeen accidentally breathed in the accompanying bouquet, she never would -- as Fourteen had suggested. Either way, she labored away at the bowl, doing her best to avoid remembering that this particular meal was undertaken by choice. Unlike lunch, where she'd be downing bowl after bowl of mailgirl chow for the next two years.

Two years. Two years! Two fucking years! It was difficult to conceptualize, given that today was only her second day. And given how hard the past two days had been, two years seemed like a lifetime from now. She'd be thirty by the time she was out from under her contract. She wondered about how mailgirl chow would taste then. She wondered if it'd be easier to pee in public then. She wondered if she'd even be able to recognize herself then.

She pulled back from the dog dish, but was caught by Two. "Uh...I'm sorry," the girl apologized, "but you've got to finish it all."

Seventeen looked up at the other girl blankly. She glanced down the length of the locker room, where Six was starting to get into the shower. "But, she..."

"We've got to keep the bowl clean," Two explained. "There's no one else waiting."

Seventeen groaned, but complied. At lunch, they were forced to lick the bowl clean, making sure they'd eaten every last drop of the so-called food given to them. For snacks over break -- and, it seemed, for dinner -- that responsibility fell to last girl to eat. Seventeen wasn't sure she'd be Two's last customer of the night; in fact, she doubted that she would be. But she was the last customer for now, and Two knew the rules better than Seventeen. She pressed her lips against the bowl itself and sucked down every last morsel, and then used her tongue to lick the bottom of the bowl. The bowl likely hadn't actually been washed since Evening Shift the night before, and it had likely been "cleaned" just like this at least two or three times since. If the mailgirls were expected to share communal deodorant and toothbrushes, Seventeen supposed this wasn't so bad.