Parting Gift

Thirteen looked at the smartphone on her arm, and confirmed that she had less than two minutes to get into position back at her locker. She wasted no more time, shedding the lycra armband and the smartphone itself, and then walked briskly to the showers. There was no need to wait for the water to warm up; even if mailgirls had been allowed a creature comfort as negligible as warm water, Thirteen knew she'd benefit from a cold shower. She needed to cool herself down inside and out.

In a perfect world, she would have left herself enough time for a trip to the toilets, as well. But Thirteen did not live in that perfect world – far from it – and so she squatted in the shower itself. It was a common enough practice among the mailgirls, one that Thirteen regularly employed on her morning breaks, so that she could maximize the amount of time she spent on her most pressing urge. It struck Thirteen, not for the first time, that only a panel of mirror glass separated her from the elevator lobby beyond, but she didn't linger on that thought – it was out of her control.

Paradoxically, it was that very lack of control that Thirteen found so freeing. She was a mailgirl – of course she wore no clothes. She was a mailgirl – of course she would get herself off in the middle of the day. She was a mailgirl – of course she'd subject herself to inspections and spankings and whatever else Mistress Zero and Human Capital chose to throw at her. All of this was expected of her, and it was only in pushing back, in demanding some measure of dignity, that she called attention to herself. It was what Thirteen felt that Five didn't understand, what Eight struggled with, what Twenty-Four would only soon likely come to realize – things were easier if a mailgirl just bent with the wind, and accepted her place.

Maybe it was easier for Thirteen, as she hadn't worked at USF prior to becoming a mailgirl and would be leaving the company and the people behind that afternoon. Maybe she was in no position to judge. But she saw just how miserable Five and Eight were, in particular, and couldn't help but believe that they, too, would find freedom in submission, just as the other girls had done.

Freedom, and maybe something more. The summer had been eye-opening for Thirteen, and she'd shed any number of preconceptions about who she was when she'd shed her clothes. The girl she'd been three months ago seemed almost unfamiliar to her now – prudish and uptight, stressed out over longer-term deadlines and tuition bills. That girl had never, truly been looked at as a sexual object, and had never experienced just how surprisingly good it felt to be objectified, to be an object of lust. That girl had never cum like Thirteen had just cum now, had never had an orgasm that belonged in the same conversation as the orgasms she'd had that summer. That girl had never streaked through a public place, had never had a one night stand, had never had a girl-on-girl experience. That girl had never felt the us-against-the-world camaraderie she'd felt while holding Ten's hand in Products & Segments that morning, or the open and honest sharing she'd be a part of tonight at the Imperial. Thirteen wasn't looking to run out and volunteer to become a mailgirl somewhere else, and she felt plenty of sympathy for the girls who still had twenty-some more months to go. But with her summer now almost over, Thirteen could admit that at least part of her was happy she'd experienced life among the mailgirls.

She rinsed her body, but was careful to avoid getting her hair wet. One of her pigtails was out, but she knew – if pressed for time – she could re-do it at her locker. Soap and water washed away the sweat and the sex, and even some of the grime from Thirteen's bare feet. It wasn't a full shower; she wouldn't take a long, complete, scrub-every-part shower again until the end of the day. But it was one of a number of periodic rinses throughout the day, to make sure that her "uniform" remained presentable.

She toweled herself dry with one of the rough, white hand towels the girls were provided, rolled on a fresh coat of the girls' communal deodorant, and misted herself with conservative amount of perfume. And, even as she returned to her locker, she was already doing her hair. If she'd had more time, she might have checked her reflection, but time was a luxury that mailgirls rarely enjoyed. Thirteen was well-practiced at this, however, and knew she was in good shape as she took her place beside Fourteen at her locker. Down on her knees, thighs spread, arm band back in position, and now leashed to the floor, Thirteen was now ready for the rest of her morning.

Mailgirl Number Thirteen winced as she accepted another blow. The sound of the paddle connecting against the bare flesh of her behind echoed through the locker room, and carried over the murmured conversation of the other mailgirls behind her. She was standing, with her legs spread and bent at the midsection over the spanking bench, just to one side of the locker room's entrance. If she had looked up, she'd have been able to watch as her own reflection received the paddling in the mirror-glass. But, as she was painfully aware of the audience on the far side of that glass, she kept her eyes cast downwards and braced herself for Mistress Zero to connect again.

She wasn't alone. The spanking bench, such as it was, had always reminded Thirteen of a pommel horse, and was large enough to accommodate two girls at a time. She might have been alone for most of her day, dashing from mailstop to mailstop in the buff among a sea of fully-clothed Wall Street types. But, here in the mailgirls locker room, she was rarely alone, and typically suffered her embarrassments and indignities in good company. And so she'd waited patiently, in position, as Mailgirl Number Twenty-One was paddled first, just as Twenty-One was waiting now for Thirteen's punishment to be complete.

Not that Mistress Zero was today willing to let either girl wait without inflicting a new form of torture upon them. As early as that morning, Thirteen had suspected that her mistress, her dominatrix, had something waiting for her, something for Thirteen to remember her by. That something turned out to be a pair of weighted nipple clamps, a new hell that Mistress Zero was gifting to her mailgirls as a celebration of Thirteen's last day at USF Plaza. Each time another blow connected, Thirteen grimaced in pain - not so much at the paddling itself (after all, no matter how red Thirteen's bottom became, it was a pain she was used to), but at the tug and pull the clamps' momentum exerted upon her nipples.

It could have been worse. It could always be worse. It was the motto of the mailgirl, the mantra that allowed Thirteen to accept a new form of torment without complaint. In the grand scheme of all she'd suffered that summer, a pair of nipple clamps and a paddling was a parting gift Thirteen would happily accept.

Thirteen had thought, for sure, she'd be treated to the riding crop. She'd picked up her twenty-fifth demerit on one of her first few deliveries back from her morning break. And then another just before lunch. And she found herself wondering how Mistress Zero would make her pay for any demerits that earned that afternoon. The paddle had been a surprise, though; the girls were subjected to corporal punishment every time they racked up twenty-five demerits, but Mistress Zero had been granted latitude in how that punishment was delivered. She could spank a girl with her own bare hand, if she so chose - it was the least painful, and it was also the choice that Thirteen had to admit got her hottest. There was also the paddle - a long, cricket-bat-looking piece of wood that was one part fraternity basement and one part sex dungeon, and the instrument that Mistress Zero was currently applying to Thirteen's naked ass just now. Then there was the riding crop, which stung tremendously, left welts on a mailgirl's behind for the better part of a day or so, and would have made the ride tomorrow from New York to New Haven less than comfortable. And then, finally, there was the most sadistic - the whip that sat curled, ominously, in the bottom left-hand drawer of Mistress Zero's desk. She'd used it only once all summer, on Twenty-One, and the memory of the sound alone was capable of sending a shiver of fear up Thirteen's spine.

The paddle hurt, sure. And Thirteen's ass would be red when she returned to duty after lunch. And, yes, she'd feel it if she found herself tempted to sit down tonight for Bitch Sessions at the Imperial. But the very fact that she'd be able to ride back to Connecticut without the painful and present memory of Mistress Zero seemed almost like a kindness.

Almost, Thirteen thought to herself. The nipple clamps were a powerful counterargument.

It wasn't the physical pain of the paddling that had Thirteen wet - she hadn't picked up that particular kink that summer, thankfully. And it wasn't the embarrassment and humiliation over the act that turned her on. Like so, so many other aspects in the life of a mailgirl, it was the very fact that she'd ceded power over to Mistress Zero that hit the sweet spot somewhere deep inside of Thirteen. She was entirely at the mercy of the tall German woman spanking her, and it was the submission itself that had Thirteen's pussy tingling.

The memory of the whipping Twenty-One had received triggered the memory of what had come after. And if submission to Mistress Zero now had her wet, submission to Mistress Zero that particular weekend would haunt Thirteen's fantasies for years to come.