She came hard. She came fast. She came loud.
Louder than she'd expected to, at least. Louder than she'd intended. The rapid in-and-out breathing had turned into a repetitive series of increasingly high-pitched "ohs" as she'd begun to crest, and she was borderline ultrasonic by the time she hit her actual climax. It wasn't that these squeaks and squeals were echoing off the tiled walls of the locker room, or shaking the mirror-glass that separated it from the elevator beyond; she was likely louder in her own imagination than in actuality. And, besides, any excited exclamations joined in among a chorus of happy conversations, genuine laughter, and other similar victory cries offered up that filled the room around her.
But she hadn't been able to control herself all the same, and it was embarrassing to let loose with such a genuine admission of her own self-indulgent satisfaction. It was honest, and authentic, and shameful in a way that even the overall act of getting herself off wasn't. There was no wry detachment, no stagecraft, no going-through-the-motions-just-to-fit-in. As she came, her body had felt the need to release its own version of a war whoop, conquest achieved.
Mailgirl Number Seventeen was standing at her locker, her legs spread and knees bent, with her right hand coaxing every last drop of orgasmic bliss from between her legs. Her left hand was braced against the open locker, with her fingers clutching the partition that separated hers from Sixteen's. Her eyes were shut. Her head was bent. And she found herself rising to her tip-toes even as her legs turned to jelly.
Even when not in the midst of such carnal ecstasy, she would have been magnificent. Long, chestnut brown hair was done up in a ponytail, which waggled back and forth as her body shuddered and shook. Her bare back shimmered with sweat under the fluorescent lights from above. Two large round breasts bounced beneath her with each breath. She was skinny -- too skinny, in fact, according to her new supervisor -- blessed more by genetics than by the discipline of exercise. And she was tall, just shy of five-foot-ten, capable of rising to a full six feet in the right heels.
She worked to catch her breath, but the ministrations against her pussy didn't stop; they only slowed. Her middle and index fingers were still deep inside of her, and the heel of her palm continued rub forceful, grinding motions against the top of her slit -- almost as if she were working her clit from both inside and out. She shivered, though not from the temperature -- given the state of dress of its occupants, the mailgirls locker room was thoughtfully kept a few ticks warmer than the rest of the building. Rather, it was from the last little aftershocks of her orgasm shooting up her spine.
Seventeen couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten herself off while standing up -- outside of the shower, at least. But she'd chickened out of doing so in the shower here at work earlier that afternoon. Flat on her back would have been her first choice if she'd been alone, and seemed to be the most popular option among the other mailgirls, but Seventeen had felt unnerved about the vulnerability of it. Standing, with her back turned to the mirror glass, had made it feel like she was more in control.
Which was laughable. Seventeen was not in control. She hadn't been able to control her vocal chords from singing her own praise. She hadn't been able to keep herself from giving in and getting off here at the Plaza. She'd been stripped, whipped, and humiliated. Hell, she wasn't allowed to go to that bathroom without asking for permission. It scared her how much control she'd given over to her new masters in Human Capital. And it scared her how much that turned her on.
Her eyes had been closed since she'd first found her pussy, and she was nervous to open them back up. She imagined a semi-circle of her nude coworkers around her, watching on with interest, and applauding her success. She imagined a muffled cheer erupting from an audience on the other side of the glass. But, as she released her sex, she risked a peek with her peripheral vision. For the most part, the girls were all busy doing their own thing; in some case, their own selves. And as significant as this new capitulation was in Seventeen's own life, she was sure that it barely registered to a USF workforce that had grown accustomed to such things over the last six months. It was after seven on a Friday; she doubted that anyone was interested in yet another mailgirl debasing herself in the corner on the far side of the locker room.
But Seventeen hadn't entirely gone unnoticed. As she relaxed, and turned, she found Sixteen waiting for her with a smirk.
"I can log that for you," she offered, the gentle teasing evident in her voice. She, like Seventeen, was naked from head-to-toe, save for her collar, her armband, and the number inked upon her hip. But she had Mistress Zero's tablet in her hand, which was new, and the confusion -- on top of the red-faced embarrassment -- must have been evident on Seventeen's face.
"She's out of here when the afternoon breaks are over on Friday," Sixteen explained. "Saturdays, too. Evening Shift gets play the jailer." The girl jangled a key that hung from an elastic on her wrist.
"Liberator," Seventeen croaked, correcting her.
Sixteen chuckled politely. She had brown skin and dark, curly black hair, as well as a megawatt smile that she showed off on those rare instances a mailgirl had something to smile about. She was the lone African-American among the group, and Seventeen -- prior to becoming a mailgirl herself -- had more than once found herself wondering about the racial politics at play in USF enslaving a black girl. That she could be collared, chained, and whipped like the rest of them was a weird sort of equality, Seventeen had supposed. They may have been sadists, sexists, and misogynists up in Human Capital, but no one could accuse of them of discriminating on the basis of race.
"I can log that for you," Sixteen repeated again gently. "If you want me to."
Of course Seventeen didn't want her to. Only deepening the humiliation she had just suffered at her own hand, Seventeen was required to report that she'd gotten herself off here in locker room. This little episode would get logged in her file, and anyone with access to USF's mailgirls app would know she had succumbed to her baser instincts. They'd have quantifiable confirmation that the company's new little mail slut was getting off on her new station in life. But to not report it risked another round on the receiving end of Mistress Zero's riding crop - or worse -- and the red welts still gracing her backside from that afternoon provided persuasive motivation to catalog the event. And, regardless, Sixteen's offer was likely little more than an empty kindness; she'd no doubt be punished alongside Seventeen if Mistress Zero discovered the omission.
"Okay," Seventeen replied meekly. "Sure."
Sixteen seemed to hesitate, and then took a step closer to Seventeen. It was intimate, as if they were sharing a secret, and made even more so as Sixteen draped an arm around Seventeen's naked shoulders. Seventeen was acutely aware of the fact that she was still breathing hard in the aftermath of her orgasm, that she was covered in sweat and grime, and that Sixteen was sure to be breathing in a musky combination of the brunette's pussy and body odor. She also couldn't help but drink in Sixteen's own combination of the same, or keep from noticing Sixteen's adamantine-and-at-attention nipples pressing against the bare skin of her torso.
"Seventeen of twenty-four," Sixteen said softly. "You're number seventeen of twenty-four. You're a mailgirl, and just a number. You're just another mailgirl who got herself off like any other mailgirl on any other day. It comes with the uniform. It's part of the job. And you call more attention to yourself as an individual if you're fighting it."
It was, more or less, the same speech that Fourteen had given her yesterday. Fourteen's argument had been that the other girls weren't going to judge her for masturbating in their midst; rather, they'd judge her if she didn't. Part of it was that these twenty-three other girls were the only ones who truly understood what it was like to live the life of a mailgirl, to wrestle with the constant and confusing arousal, to feel what it was like to need -- not want -- to get off right then and right there. But part of it, understandably, was peer pressure; if Five and Twenty-Four were capable of controlling themselves, what did it say about the other girls who couldn't?
But Seventeen knew full well that there were pools going on upstairs, throughout the building, as to when Five and Twenty-Four would finally cave. And that even in her own department, she had had coworkers who had obsessed over those two girls, and who had pulled up their app profiles daily to see if they'd joined the ranks of masturbating mailgirls. It wouldn't have surprised Seventeen if it had been well into the hundreds of thousands of dollars that had changed hands when Mailgirl Number Eight finally surrendered herself in September.
The brunette grimaced to herself. She wondered who'd had the new Mailgirl Number Seventeen masturbating on just her second day on the job.
She felt whore-ish and dirty.
