More from the Mailgirls Universe

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There was one huge market that remained untapped and resistant to the concept of naked mailgirls: the United States. Many thought that the concept would never fly there. The country was too conservative, too prudish about nudity, its labor laws were too restrictive, and there were too many religious and feminist activist groups that would protest and organize boycotts against any American company that dared try such a thing.

I admit that I was one of the people who thought that. As a twenty-five-year-old woman with an MBA degree and on a management fast track working for an American corporation I thought that the Mailgirls concept was absurd and exploitative and mailgirls were misguided and pathetic creatures. And I kept thinking that until the day - after a series of bad decisions based on greed, ambition, and naiveté - I became a naked mailgirl myself.

This is my story.

Yes, this is a ridiculous idea -- nude female couriers.  Why would women allow themselves to be put in this position?  How are they better than couriers who are clothed?  Invented by the writer Cambridge Caine in 2011, no one has found a way to make this idea plausible (to “suspend disbelief”), yet it has attracted a number of writers.  CC was onto something, somehow.  This is my Mailgirls story, simultaneously celebrating and deconstructing the idea, featuring a certain nude heroine who entered this universe in quest of clothing.

 

  I suppose this is a fun idea that is not to be too closely examined.

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An AMA style blog answering all your mailgirl questions.

Mailgirls Art by SliceReality

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Mailgirl by nola2nyc

mailgirl on the run

CLASSIC SOTRIES

Below, you will find Mailroom Girls, the story that originated the genre. I did not write this but just wanted to give it another place to exist online so more people can enjoy it and read the history of mailgirls.

Mailroom Girls

Cambridge Caine

 

Her name was Kirsten Allen, but at work she was simply "Mailroom Girl #12." Her work uniform was an armband and nothing else. Her job duties were simple: she was to deliver mail and to be barefoot and nude while she was at it. Her armband held a company iPhone. She wasn't allowed to use it, rather it served as an electric leash that gave her assignments and dictated her movements. She'd just finished her assignment so her armband displayed her number on a kelly green field, signifying her availability for assignments.

 

Kirsten's bare feet padded softly on the floor as she returned to the mail room, walking on one side of the corridor in case someone important needed the thoroughfare. She'd been on the run all day and her body shone with a light coat of dried sweat. She was "getting salty" as the girls in the mail room joked and she couldn't wait for the chance to wash up. She was also incredibly thirsty. She'd passed several water coolers, but as of last week the mail room girls had been forbidden from using them. Human resources had put out special bowls they were supposed to use, but the regular employees were the only ones who could fill them and they'd been conspicuously bad at remembering to do so.

 

Kirsten spotted a few inches of water in the dish by Communications and her heart leapt. She went to the dish and got on her knees, placing her hands on either side of the bowl as they'd been instructed to do at the training brunch. Her bare nipples brushed the floor, and she could feel the tiny particles of dust. She lowered her face to the bowl and began lapping. The room temperature tap water was stale and tasted faintly of the sweat and spit of other girls, but she was too thirsty to care.

 

As Kirsten drank, she heard two the reassuringly deep bass of two executives in the hall. If they saw her, they made no comment - the sight of a naked girl crawling at a water dish had long since lost it's novelty. Kirsten pretended to lap, but really, she was listening, desperate for news of the company.

 

"Any word from Bill's office?"

 

"Nah, he's been in meetings all day."

 

Bill - that was Bill Martinez, the Vice President. The Pilot Program was his brainchild and the word was he was going to pull the plug on it today. Kirsten had been on pins and needles all day, even the pressures of her job couldn't distract her from her yearning for word of the decision that would restore her back to her old life.

 

"I can take it or leave it. Some of the mail room girls are alright, but let's face it, they're kind of dumb when it comes to it."

 

The executives turned a corner and their conversation turned indistinct. Kirsten bristled, her body gripped by frustrated anticipation. she wasn't offended, she was long past that, but she was desperate for word. Thirsty as she was, she left a portion of water for the next girl who might need it.

 

Four weeks ago, prior to the pilot program, Kirsten had been the Events Coordinator, responsible for the logistics of events and galas. As of the program, her duties had been suspended like those of the other 11 participants. If you'd told her then what she was doing now she'd have been incredulous and offended, but like a boiling frog she'd been lulled into her situation by gradual degrees.

 

When Kirsten had first heard of the Pilot Program, she'd thought it sounded completely stupid. When she name had been selected for participation, she'd been horrified and even thought of quitting. She had a master’s degree for god's sake, she didn't see how being made to deliver mail was in anyway way an asset to the company. Her supervisor, Mr. Butler had talked her into it.

 

"It may seem silly, but there's a method to the madness. We're experimenting with new ways to think about business - if this new structure works, we'll hire some full-time mail room people and train them accordingly, if it doesn't we'll pull the plug and say no more of it. Either way, you'll get a $10,000 dollar bonus. Besides, if this goes well, we'll save millions." Then, the kicker: "This will help the company. Think of how that will look on your performance review..." 

 

So she'd complied and now she was temporarily mail room girl. She wasn't sure precisely how this would help anything, but it was a relief to know there was a reason...

 

Beep! Her armband chimed, a sound she'd come to loathe. She glanced at the screen - a direct package transfer request from Mr. Dunn in Marketing. A timer appeared, counting down from four minutes. If she missed her deadline, she’d gain one demerit for every ten seconds she was late by. Usually the deadlines were doable, but every so often they were nigh impossible. She hurried off towards the Marketing department, obeying the demands of her electronic leash.

 

Kirsten's breasts bounced as she trotted up the stairs. The stairs added two minutes to the run, but the girls had recently been banned from using the elevators. The back stairwell was dingy and dim. A collection of bare footprints lay in the sooty dust, the tracks of the other mail room girls before her. Kirsten glanced up at the stairwell security camera and briefly wondered how many times a day her naked servitude had been captured on camera. She made a mental note to check up on that the minute she resumed her regular job duties.

 

Another girl entered the stairwell, heading down as Kirsten headed up. It was her friend Cristina Hernandez, now rechristened girl #4. Cristina's slim body glistened with sweat and her dark hair was wild with flyaway strands. She had small breasts that were mostly covered by her dark areolas. That fact, combined with her peaked nipples had earned her the name of "Chocolate Chips" behind her back. She'd always been quite and shy, but she actually seemed to be having an easier time adjusting to the program than Kirsten.

 

Christina carried a black rod in her mouth, lengthwise. It was a message tube, the container reserved for the most high priority communications. Carrying the tube in her mouth made Christina look like a dumb retriever, but Kirsten could hardly judge as she'd carried dozens of similar tubes about the office in days past. Christina was similarly embarrassed. She and Kirsten exchanged ironic "can you believe this" looks.

 

Though Christina had the tube in her mouth, she managed to speak around it. "Did you hear? Pilot program's ending! Number four heard it while she was in Arlene's office." Arlene was the head of human resources.

 

Christina and Kirsten exchanged happy looks - they could go back to their jobs, go back to wearing clothes. Then Cristina looked at her arm band and rushed off down the stairs.

 

Kirsten arrived at Mr. Dunn's office with two seconds to spare. The armbands registered locations, so the timer stopped when she arrived. When the timers went into standby, the girls had to stay at their present location until they were released by the executive who'd summoned them (or an authorized representative thereof). Reggie, Mr. Dunn's assistant, had a message tube ready for her. He tapped it on her armband, which beamed her new directives and started a new countdown.

 

"That's a rush, so you'd better hurry," said Reggie. The timer was running, but of course Kirsten couldn't leave until Reggie put the message tube in her mouth. Reggie yawned, and deliberately waited for a full thirty seconds while he leered at Kirsten's naked breasts. He'd always been a creep and he'd asked her out at least three times prior to the program.

 

Finally, Reggie put the tube in her mouth, allowing Kirsten to race off. She was already thirty seconds late on a rush - she had the impossible task of running across the office to suite #101 in ninety seconds--

 

Suite #101... shit. That was Mr. Martinez's office. Kirsten ran even faster, dashing as fast as her bare feet could carry her. Mr. Martinez had been an intimidating figure when she'd been doing budget presentations, fully clothed in her old role. The concept of grovelling before him as a naked mail room girl was terrifying. For the thousandth time that day, she cursed herself for ever having been stupid enough to sign up for her current role.

 

Kirsten arrived at Mr. Martinez's office and the timer stopped when she was within a yard of his doorway. She was twenty-five seconds late, and she cursed Reggie for earning her three demerits, which registered on her armband's screen like scarlet letters. Mr. Martinez's secretary wasn't at her desk, but the door was open a crack. Kirsten followed procedure and timidly crept into Mr. Martinez's office.

 

There were rumors that Mr. Martinez had based his office on Mussolini’s, but that was impossible - he'd moved in after the space had been rented. What was true was that the office was large, spartan and intimidating, and that coupled with the daunting force of Mr. Martinez's personality made it a scary place. Mr. Martinez sat by the window at his desk. He was backlit by the midday sun, gloriously radiant like a god.

 

She'd hoped to get an insight into the events of the company, but he was speaking in rapid fire Spanish. She couldn't even tell if the call was business or personal. She stood before the desk for a minute, but Mr. Martinez was looking out the window and he had his back to her. Finally, she nervously cleared her throat. Mr. Martinez turned, irritated, still on the phone, and emphatically gestured that she should sit in the corner. Kirsten retreated to the furthest corner, Mr. Martinez turned back to the window, continued talking without dropping a syllable.

 

Kirsten knelt in the corner, a good thirty feet away from the desk. She knelt on the cold, marble floor and folded her hands primly over her pussy. The air conditioner was on full blast and her sweat quickly turned cold. She shivered and goosebumps rose on her bare flesh as she waited for Mr. Martinez to conclude his business. She glanced around the office but there wasn't much to see - an Eames chair, a mirrored wall, and an bubbling decorative fountain across the room.

 

Kirstin couldn't help but notice her reflection in the mirror. She was naked, sweaty and shivering, her body smudged with stray marks of dust and printer toner. She held the tube gently in her mouth, like a dog waiting to give its master a newspaper. She was ashamed to note that she noticed her hair first - her mad dash to Martinez's office had left it windswept and disheveled, she wished she could straighten it out, but she didn't want to be caught fidgeting. She thought of her feminist studies class in college and wondered what her professor would say if she could see her now.

 

Time crawled. The office had no clocks and her armband was locked out, so there was no way for her to keep track of how long she'd been kneeling there. She just knew that her knees were sore and she was going out of her mind listening to Mr. Martinez's inscrutable Spanish and the incessant bubbling of the decorative fountain. No ordinary exec would have been allowed to keep a mail room girl out of circulation for so long, but the ordinary rules didn't apply to Mr. Martinez. She tried to ignore the pain in her knees by thinking about something else.

 

And then Kirsten realized she had to pee, and urgently. She'd fought down the urge earlier in the day, but now it was back with a vengeance. This was bad - her need, combined with the water she'd drank and the sound of the fountain felt like the force of a firehose was pushing against the walls of her bladder. She squirmed and clenched her knees, but it felt like she was going to burst. She desperately looked around for a way out, but there was nothing she could do but wait for Mr. Martinez. She considered begging his permission to use the bathroom, but the concept of interrupting his phone call frankly terrified her.

 

So she waited and dug her nails into her palms and squinched her toes under her bottom - she wanted to grind her teeth, but the message tube kept her from doing that, of course. Mr. Martinez continued his interminable conversation, completely oblivious to her agony. Every passing second felt like a hellish eternity and she fought back tears of utter frustration and helplessness as time slowed to a crawl.

 

She tried to keep calm, used breathing techniques from yoga, but the minutes dragged out like a knife and it felt like a rioting city was pushing against her body form the inside. And then the sense abated. For a moment she felt utter relief, but then she felt the warmth on her thighs, smelled the salty, earthy scent and heard the piddle on the tile. She was pissing herself.

 

She tried o stop the flow, but it was too late. She could only watch, horrified as the gushing jet of urine shot out of her and onto the floor, contributing to an ever-growling lake on the floor. It looked like someone had spilled a big gulp of Mountain Dew. The urine pooled at her knees and feet, the sweltering heat from it rose like steam and warmed her chilled flesh.

 

Her pussy twitched twice to release the last ounce of fluid into the stinking puddle, then the stream abated.

 

Kirsten cried tears of utter, helpless mortification as she looked at the veritable lake of urine she was kneeling in. All of the achievements in her life, her sacrifices for the company had been obliterated by this - she'd pissed on the floor in the corner like a poorly trained animal.

 

Her self-loathing went beyond mere fear of punishment or humiliation. What if Mr. Martinez was so furious that he took out his frustrations on the girls in the Pilot program, extending it, or making it worse or something. How could she ever look at the other girls again if they suffered because of her slip. How could she stand it if word of her accident spread around the office. And as she considered all these things will staring down at her mess, a terrible idea came to her...

 

She could drink it up.

 

The idea seemed unthinkable, but then so much of her current job would have been implausible a month before. Mr. Martinez was still on the phone and if she drank up the puddle... and suddenly she wasn't thinking of if she could do it, but rather if she could do it before Martinez got off the phone.

 

And before she had time to talk herself out of it, she spit out the message tube and transitioned to all fours, hands and knees in the puddle. She trust her lips into her piss puddle, lapping and sucking for all she was worth. The puddle was warm and foamy, but the scene, though strong and gross, was at least familiar. She'd had her whole life to get used to it, after all. She lapped at the mess. She was able to suppress her gag reflex, but very little liquid actually got in her mouth. It was different from the water bowls, the puddle was too shallow for her to get any purchase on it.

 

She pursed her lips and used them like a straw to suck up the urine as fast as possible. Some got in her eyes, but she had to keep them open to see what she she was doing. She sucked in a mouthful, swallowed bitterly and sucked again, desperate to get the job done. With every slurp and gasp and gag she felt sure that the noise would alert Mr. Martinez, and that he'd see what she'd been reduced to, but the drone of his phone conversation remained constant and bland.

 

She kept sucking up the pee, but the puddle kept spreading to the point where it seemed bigger than before. She was growing full on the mess. She remembered that a bladder held something like sixteen ounces of fluid and she had trouble downing a large cup off coffee in one sitting. She forced herself to keep drinking, moving her face around the fluid like a shop vac.

 

And then she was done. It felt like she'd consumed gallons. All that was left of the puddle was a damp streak that rapidly dried and disappeared with the air conditioning. Her mouth tasted like piss and dust, and pine sol cleanser. She felt like vomiting, but the idea of making another mess to clean up was intolerable. She forced her stomach to settle, grabbed the message tube again, and resumed her former pose. Her body burned with shame, her stomach was swollen and distended (she could feel liquid slosh in her gut) and her knees ached and her face and hair were wet with piss. She forced herself to smile pleasantly so as not to raise suspicion. She knelt there for a seeming eternity, and then at long last, Mr. Martinez hung up the phone. He looked up at her, surprised that she was there.

 

"Oh, I forgot I had you..." he gestured for her to approach her desk.

 

Kirsten rose and walked to the desk, taking shaky steps on cramped legs. Mr. Martinez held out his hands and she placed the message gently on his palm with her mouth. He opened it, glanced at it, then tossed the message into the shredder.

 

"Didn't mean to keep you waiting, but hey, at least you got a nice break." He smiled at her while she screamed inside.

 

He pulled a card from his desk and scanned it against her arm band, which reset her timer, freeing her from the office. He unwrapped a Reese's cup and held it out to her on his palm. "For your trouble."

 

She bent down and ate the five-cent candy off his hand. It was hardly a reward suitable for what she'd been through, but she forced herself to make a grateful noise. Mr. Martinez stroked her hair and she thrilled at his approval even, even as she hated herself for her weakness.

 

Mr. Martinez dismissed he with a gesture even as he turned to make another call Kristen walked out of the office on legs that were still unsteady. She glanced at her armband. She'd been kneeling on the tiles for over two hours.

 

"Oh, and #12..." Kirsten froze at the sound of Mr. Martinez's voice. Had he seen after all?

 

"I wiped your demerits clean. Just my way of saying thanks for waiting."

 

Kirsten curtsied gratefully and hurried out of there. Her private shame would remain her secret. She hurried back to the halls. She wanted to cry, wanted to puke, wanted to wash her pee out of her face and hair, but then her arm band beeped again and she ran ran to the receiving dock to get her next assignment. Two more hours till quitting time.

 

The alarm clock went off at 4 AM. Kirsten Allen cursed the early hour, just like she did every day.

 

She rolled out of bed. Her boyfriend groaned, then fell asleep again. He was one of several she'd been through since her fiancé had left her. These days, she was only dating losers, scrubs who didn't pry too deeply into her work life. She wondered why she cared enough to date anyone, but she did. Maybe because it was nice to be around someone who saw her as something other than a lackey to order around or a hole to fuck. That was the theory anyway; her recent string of boyfriends had been pretty close to the assholes who abused her at work.

 

She stepped into her neatly appointed bathroom and stripped from her pajamas before stepping into the shower. She washed quickly as the cold water warmed, turning into steaming rivulets that cascaded over her toned, naked form. If there was one thing to thank the program for, it was fitness. She'd taken on the taut, lean physique of a runner, appropriate as she ran for miles every day through the halls of the office.

 

She shut off the water and rubbed her hairless body with depilatory cream, as per company memorandum MR-038. She dried, and then finished her ablutions, quickly doing her hair and makeup (slutty, not too slutty, per memorandum MR-031.


She returned to her room and dressed in her Ann Taylor suit. The girls had to wear their best to work, even though they only wore them from the walk from the garage to the mail room. Once, she'd asked Mr. Pinkman in Human Resources why this was so. His answer was predictable. "It keeps up appearances, #12," he'd said. "It's not just from the garage; it's on the ride to and from work. You girls represent the company and we don't want you looking like little tramps, do we?"  

That was one reason, she supposed. That and it was one more petty regulation for them to follow. The company was big on stupid rules, and the ubiquitous interoffice memorandum that heralded their adoption. Still, there was one reason to be grateful for; it gave her one less thing to explain to the boyfriend. He knew she worked in an office, and he supposed she had a job commensurate with her intelligence and education. She saw no reason to disavow him of the impression just yet.

 

By 4:30 she was behind the wheel of her car, eating a Nutragrain bar she'd grabbed from the kitchen. She tossed her laptop bag on the passenger seat - it was full of papers from her old job, in case anyone asked, but no one ever did. This was fortunate, as the papers were months old, but also a little sad. The Toyota rattled as she started it. It needed some engine work, but lately there hadn't been the time or money to get it looked at. Another thing to take care of.

 

The drive to the office took 20 minutes. There were only a few cars on the freeway. Kirsten wondered how many of them were driven by other mailroom girls, on their way to jobs like her own. She saw one car she recognized for certain: she recognized the Saturn S-1 driven by Girl #2, Elyse Peldon. She caught up to the Saturn on the off ramp, followed Elyse three blocks to the office garage. They drove down the winding ramps five floors to the crappiest spots.  

Kirsten and Elyse met at the elevator, exchanging wan smiles. Elyse was wearing an Armani suit, the same one that had served her so well when she had been the director of New Media Marketing. They took the garage elevator up to the lobby and walked past the tiled atrium to the basement stairs. The bored guard at the reception desk barely spared a look at them, though he'd be staring plenty when they were in their "uniforms."


They took the staircase down to the basement and walked through the swinging door into the mailroom.


There were 12 cubbies by the door, one for each of the mailroom girls. Kirsten and Elyse stripped wordlessly out of their smart suits and sensible pumps. It occurred to Kirsten that H.R. might have been onto something, it was far more humiliating to strip out of clothes, especially professional clothes that keenly drove home all that they'd lost. As Kirsten and Elyse stripped, the other girls entered, silently removing their smart, professional outfits.

 

Kirsten opened the door to the twelfth, numbered cubby. Her armband was waiting for her in its charger. It was a black, neoprene band inset with a specially programmed iPhone. She pulled it onto her left arm, three inches about her elbow, transforming herself from the relatively insignificant Kirsten Allen to the truly insignificant Mailroom Girl #12. Instinctively, she glanced at the display, but the screen was idling green. Naturally, there was nothing on the boards as no of importance would have been in the office at that ungodly hour. Kirsten folded her suit as best she could, then tucked it away with her shoes and shut the door.


Kirsten checked herself in the mirror. She was stark naked save for her armband and some slutty makeup. In other words, the regulation mailroom girl outfit. She completed the effect by pouring some oil out from a bottle on the mailroom counter, applying a light coat so her tanned skin shone. Elyse followed suit. Kirsten noted that she was on her period, her pussy couldn't quite conceal the tampon with the string cut off.

 

By that time it was 5:00 exactly.


The girls spent the next thirty minutes running through the eight floors of the office, doing the morning prep. They put fruit bowls in the conference rooms, checked the water coolers, started pots of coffee, delivered the trades and newspapers that had come that morning and the interoffice memorandums that had come that night. By 5:29 it was done and they were back in the mailroom. They knelt in rows, waiting for their boss, Carl Wilcox, to come in and give them their morning instructions.


Carl entered at 5:47, 17 minutes late, but it hardly seemed prudent to mention that. Carl was 29 and paunchy and kind of a slob. His Oxford shirt was wrinkled and he gripped a sloppily stained cup of Starbucks coffee in his right hand. He handed the cup off to Elyse, who held it aloft, still on her knees, like cupbearer.


Carl addressed the girls, standing. "Good morning, Skanks," he said.


"Good morning, Mr. Wilcox," they chimed back, like good little school girls. 

"We've been getting some complaints that you've been making eye contact with the executives. Knock it off. If they wanted to see your gross faces, they'd ask, I promise you."

 

The girls nodded their assurances.

 

Carl went on in this vein for a bit, talking about runs and punishments peppering his spiel with an abundance of "ums" and "likes". He wasn't a great communicator, and his presentations were usually so he could feel like a big man rather than any immediate need.


The big clock on the mailroom wall flipped to 6:00. The assistants were at their desks and the girls armbands started lighting up. There were runs to be made, interoffice deliveries, odd jobs.


Carl waved the girls away. Kirsten turned to go, eager to leave the mailroom.


"Oh Kirsten, by the way, hold up..." 

"Yes?" She turned.  Carl was not a tall guy. Kirsten was 5'8 and even in her bare feet she was a skosh taller than Carl in his loafers. 

Carl looked her up and down. She flushed with humiliation. She still hated being naked, and resented every microsecond spent under Carl's rapacious gaze. Carl knew it and loved that about her.


"Go get 'em, Kiddo." He gave Kirsten a little pat on the fanny and retreated to his office to look at porn and fuck around on his internet connection.

 

++++

 

It was 10:30 AM when Kirsten ran up the stairwell and into the PR department, which took up the southwest corner of the fifth floor. She ran past conference room 5-A, noting it wistfully. Her days of presenting at grown up meetings seemed a million miles away.  Kirsten hated returning to her old department, it was the absolute apex of her shame, the fullest possible reminder of how low she'd fallen. Once she'd been a junior executive on the rise. Now she was just a stupid, naked mailroom girl, stuck in a horrible job with no exit in sight. Her sweat shone with the layers of sweat she accumulate in her hours of running.

 

The instructions on her armband told her to go see Paul Pritchett, her former colleague. She cursed inwardly. She gotten along with Paul back in the day, but as her new job became the status quo it had unleashed a sadistic streak he'd previously kept under wraps. When she approached Paul's cubicle, he looked up with a smile that clearly telegraphed his intention to fuck with her.

 

"Yes, sir?" She said. Paul was nothing special in the department, but she had to call him sir per dictate MR-09, one of the cardinal ones.


"Glad you're here, #12. I need you to change the water cooler." He pointed to the cooler, ten feet from his cubicle. The bottle at the top was indeed empty.

 

Typical. There were dozens of guys on the floor, all better equipped to change the cooler, a task that she'd avidly avoided in her junior executive days. She almost smiled at the irony of the strapping Paul handing down a physical task to a girl. She wanted to tell him off, but she was stopped by the thought of the rain of demerits that would surely shower upon her. A few demerits turned into spanks, more turned into duties so odious it made running the floors seem like a luxury cruise.

 

Kirsten walked over to the cooler. Instinctively, she wiped her sweaty hands on her thighs before remembering that she wasn't wearing anything. She rubbed her oiled, sweaty hands on her oiled, sweaty thighs to no effect. She pulled off the empty bottle with ease, but then struggled to lift the full, 10 gallon bottle. It was broad and round without a handle on it. There were grooves in it, but not deep ones. It was heavy and her slick hands couldn't get a good grip on it.

 

Kirsten had to bend over in her struggles with the bottle, though she was keenly aware that this position required exposing the folds of her pussy and her asshole to the whole department.

 

Paul chuckled. He sipped coffee as he stood behind her. Two more former colleagues came out of the woodwork to ogle her, Dale and Art. Last year, Kirsten had fought to keep Art's job with the department, and Dale still owed Kirsten twenty dollars from the time she'd covered him on the office pool for Mr. Goldstein's birthday gift.


"Lift with your legs like a good girl," said Dale. There was something indecent in the naked enjoyment he had in the humiliation of his former equal. She wondered if she'd feel the same way if the situations were reversed. Not likely. She bit her tongue and lifted with her legs, like a good girl.

 

She managed to hoist the bottle, but she had to take the cap off with her teeth, which took ten seconds of her gnawing at it like an animal. The men laughed at her and she belatedly realized that she should have taken off the cap when the bottle was on the floor. Too late now.

 

She struggled to hold the heavy bottle against her slippery body with her slippery arms. She staggered with it, splashing water everywhere.


A fourth man came to watch. Kirsten had never seen him before, but she was shocked to note that he emerged from her office. The feeling of trespass was so great that the bottle slipped from her arms. She recovered just in time and caught it by bending over and catching it between her legs in an impossible, ridiculous catch that would have been impossible for her to ever duplicate again. She stood there, hunched over the bottle her feet forced onto her toes. She wanted to straighten up, but she could feel the bottle slipping millimeter by millimeter and she dared not adjust her position lest she lose the bottle entirely.

 

So she stood there, naked and trembling, pain shooting up her calves, her feet arched on her tippy toes as she fought to control the heavy bottle.  

Paul chuckled. "This worked out better than I could have hoped," he said.


The man who'd come from her office smiled. "Not very bright, is she?"

 

"Sadly, no, Bryan. That's why you're replacing her.


Kirsten looked over the bottle at the new guy, Bryan.


"R-replacing, sir?" she ventured.

 

"That's right."


"But this transition was only a pilot program--"


"It's actually the program now. Wait, you didn't honestly believe you were ever coming back?"

 

She had. But in that instant she saw how stupid her hope had been. In a season of cruel realizations, this was the worst. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn't give Paul the satisfaction.


But she saw how stupid she had been, it was written in the faces of her coworkers as they stared at her breasts and pussy with their hungry eyes. How could she ever face them as equals again?

 

Dale laughed at her and grabbed the water bottle out of her hands. He placed it easily atop the cooler. Kirsten dropped to her knees, relieved that her ordeal was over.

 

Paul picked up the stainless steel water dish off the floor and filled it up.

 

"Drink up, slut," he said.

 

Her cheeks flushed but she went to all fours and lapped out of it with all the dignity she could muster. The tips of her nipples brushed against the carpeted floor. She was incredibly thirsty and the cool, clean water was refreshing.

 

But then she was grabbed by her legs, like a lawnmower. Kirsten yelped, found herself standing on her hands, her legs held aloft.

 

Art was standing behind her, grabbing her ankles. Paul, Dale and Brian were in front of her. From her upside-down vantage point, they towered over her. They all had erections.


"Sir, please put me down," she begged.


Paul ran a finger down from her foot to her ass cheeks. He sniffed his finger.


"God, #12, you really are a sweaty little brute. You reek." The others nodded their agreement.

 

Kirsten knew they were only being cruel, but it hurt anyway.

 

"We should give her a bath.

Bryan picked up the water dish and dumped it over Kirsten. Water flowed down her curves and soaked into the office carpet. Her bare flesh was quickly covered in goosebumps thanks to the office air conditioning.

 

Paul produced a box of sanitary wipes from his desk. "Let's clean off her stink."

 

They wiped her armpits and legs and breast and tummy with the sanitary wipes and dropped them on the floor, exchanging the soiled ones for fresh ones. Kirsten was humiliated to see the dark layers of soot and grime and dead skin that were sloughed off on the white wipes.

 

"Let's check to see how clean she really is," said Paul. He pressed a wipe into her ass crack and rubbed hard.


"Aiiiggh!" Paul's ministrations were tearing at her. Kirsten yelped and twisted, but Dale held her fast.


But just then, Mr. Goldberg stepped out of his office. He held a report in one hand and his coffee mug in the other.


"Don't you boys have some real work to do?"


The guys looked at him sheepishly, like kids caught at the cookie jar. Dale dropped her ankles. Kirsten fell to the floor in the presence of her former boss, as she had to do before everyone VP level and above.

 

"Sorry, Mr. Goldberg. We were just messing around."

 

Goldman shook his head. And Bryan, I need to know the involvement on the Dunleavy account. You left it off the report."

 

"I don't know.  I uh..." said Bryan.


Goldman looked down at Kirsten.


"Kirsten, any chance you recall?" 

"Sir, I believe she's called #12," said Paul.


"Whatever." Mr. Goldberg looked annoyed at the whole thing.


Kirsten did remember. "They're locked in at $5000 till November. It'll go up to $7,500 after that." she said, looking up at him.

 

Mr. Goldberg gave her a small, tight smile.

 

"See that, Bryan? Maybe you should be the one delivering the mail." 

Kirsten's former coworkers laughed. Bryan glared at her with a passionate hatred.  She knew she'd pay for this later. Goldman waved his hand and the guys retreated back to their desks.


"Get up," said Mr. Goldman.


Kirsten did. He checked the readout on her arm band, and then tapped it with his ID card, clearing her for a new assignment.


"That's a girl," he said, patting her flanks. "Oh, by the way, today's the 23rd. It's your birthday, isn't it?" 

"Yes sir," she said, blushing furiously, her eyes downcast at the sodden carpet and the sanitary wipes. One of them had a shameful trace of brown that Paul had scrubbed out of her ass.


"Happy birthday, then." He removed a peppermint hard candy from his pocket, unwrapped it, and fed it to her. Then he returned to his office.


Kirsten paused long enough to pick up the soiled wipes and drop them in the trash. Then she bolted from the office, desperate to be free of the place. She made it to the stairwell before she started crying.


Her armband buzzed again, time for another run, on the other side of the fourth floor. She had to pull it together. Only 45 more minutes until lunch.

 

MONDAY

 

The company had taken away Kirsten's clothes, made her a dumb pet at the disposal of anyone with a wifi connection, but the lunch breaks were still inviolate due to some quirk in the labor laws. As a result, Kirsten's armband always shut down with enough time to allow her enough time to get to the mailroom for her 30 minute break. Following her last delivery, Kirsten jogged back to the mailroom and entered the "shower room" adjacent. It was actually an old janitor's closet. The door had been taken off at the hinges, but the grimy mop sink served as the communal shower.

 

Kirsten stepped into the mop sink. The cold water ran over her skin, but it was a welcome relief from the sticky grime of her duties. She took to drank as much of the fresh water as she dared and to pee down the drain. Ever since her accident in Mr. Martinez's office, she'd been hyper cautious.  She was joined by girl #3, Emily, a friendly surfer girl who's tanlines made her a figure of fun around the office. The girls crouched together in the filthy mop sink and washed each other's backs. Kirsten pretended not to notice as Emily took the opportunity to relieve herself as well.

 

"Who's the third?" asked Kirsten. The girls took their breaks in groups of three, but the order was different every time.

 

"Shawna," said Emily. They both rolled their eyes.

 

Kirsten and Emily left the shower. They dropped to their hands and knees and crawled into the mailroom. Per Carl's dictates they stopped to kiss a picture of the CEO which was hung at crawl level near the threshold. Shawna was already there. She giggle as she sat on Carl's lap. She'd always been a bit of a bimbo, even before the new jobs. She never had to shower because she never got sweaty, Carl liked having her around, so she rarely had to do runs.

 

Carl pushed Shawna off his lap and she crawled over to Kirsten and Emily.

 

"Are you pups ready for your nums?" He opened the microwave and brought out the bag of blended hot dogs and oatmeal that the company provided as the daily catered lunch. He squeezed the extruded paste into three stainless steel dog dishes and slid them in front of the three girls. Then he retrieved his own lunch, a meatball sub from the place down the street. It smelled amazing, specially compared to the disgusting, reheated food in front of Kirsten's face.

 

"Yum! I love my num nums!" said Shawna.

 

"Good girl," said Carl. He stroked her pretty blonde hair, then fed her a meatball. Shawna ate it and then licked sauce off of Carl's fingers.

 

"Thanks, daddy," giggled Shawna. Carl fed her another meatball. The sandwich smelled so good that Kirsten was jealous of the chance to lick Carl's disgusting fingers.

 

Kirsten dropped to all fours in front of her dog dish and steadied the dish with her hands. She lowered her face to the bowl and began to eat.

 

TUESDAY

 

"You're late, number 12." Kirsten shuddered. She heard the words a half dozen times every day, but they still filled her with fear. She stood before Mr. Fairview, legs spread, arms behind her back, head down. She was of course naked. In recent months she had degenerated from respected executive to a subhuman, naked brute who's only job was to dash about the office carrying mail.

 

"I'm sorry, Sir. This girl was too stupid and lazy to perform a simple task," Kirsten said. It was the boilerplate response.

 

Mr. Fairview walked around her, examining every inch of her naked form. He was an ugly man, but he always dressed impeccably. His sharp Armani three piece suit made Kirsten feel even more naked and vulnerable than usual. He stroked her torso from her nipple to the top of her slit. "Million dollar body, ten cent head. That's your problem."

 

"Yes sir." Men told Kirsten things worse than that every day, but they always made her furious. She kept her face neutral, but her nude body flushed a bright pink.

 

Mr. Fairview sat on the leather Eames couch. He spread a clean, white towel over his lap, then motioned for Kirsten to approach. Kirsten lay across Mr. Eames' lap, careful not to get any of her sweat or body oil on his suit.

 

Smack! Mr. Fairview brought his hand down on Kirsten's ass with surprising force. She could see the reflection of his face on the flatscreen TV in his office. His face shone in a manic look of utter glee. Ever since memo #652, it had been the executive's prerogative to punish the girls if they were late on their deliveries. Most had passed or delegated onto their grateful assistants, Mr. Fairview enjoyed the task with gusto.

 

He spanked her fourteen more times, striking the same spot each time. Kirsten bit her lip in agony - she only had ten more to go. She squirmed on Mr. Fairview's lap and felt his cock stiffen and press against her. If it wasn't for the towel and the trousers between them he would be inside her.

 

"Turn over," said Fairview.

 

Kirsten turned on her back and clutched her knees to her chest, locking her arms behind her knees. She could feel the thickness of his erection pressing into her back.

 

He brought his hand down on her sweaty, oiled pussy lips. Kirsten screamed in agony, so Mr. Fairview held a hand over her mouth. He struck her pussy far more than the rules said she owed, stopping when he was tired.

 

"Thank you, sir, " said Kirsten. She tried to get up, but he held her fast, cradling her. He rubbed her oil slicked pussy with the palm of his hand.

 

"The rules are funny, aren't they?" I can spank your slutty slit all day on but if I stuck a finger in you... "

 

"That would be a violation of the employee relations regulations." She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice, but Mr. Fairview was irritated anyway. He was a petty tyrant and he didn't like being answerable to HR.

 

"We'll see... " he said. "I remember when you were a person. You were always flaunting those tits and that ass of yours. Teasing men. But I knew you were a dirty whore. You wanted this."

 

Kirsten said nothing. This angered Fairview.

 

"Where did you go to college, 12?"

 

"Stanford, sir."

 

"And look where it got you. Bring your diploma tomorrow. I want to spank you with it."

 

"I can't, Sir. Mr. Weller already made me cut it up and burn it."

 

Kirsten's arm band buzzed, summoning her to her next assignment. It was Mr. Denholm, another torture aficionado. She was already late. Still, as she left Mr. Fairview in his office, nursing his erection and his disappointment, she reflected that it was the closest to a win that she'd had in months.

 

WEDNESDAY

 

Sweat dripped from Kirsten's curves as she knelt on the floor of Davison's office. Her ass as in the air, her breasts dangled and when they swayed the tips of her sweat soaked nipples brushed the floor. Her cheek as flush with the floor, her mouth open as wide as it would go.

 

Thwack!  Davison putted a golf ball into her open mouth. It took all her willpower not to gag.

 

"Return," barked Davison.

 

Kirsten spit the ball back towards Davison. He caught it with his putter.  Davison did this to all the girls, and it never got easier. The trick was to hold still, not blink, and protect her teeth with her lips.

 

Recently it had become a real pissing contest with the executives to log as many minutes as possible with the mailroom girls. Guys at the top could retain girls for hours, but generally didn't as they were secure in themselves. The lower guys tried to show off by mimicking what they perceived of as shows of power which didn't actually exist. VP level execs could keep girls for about twenty minutes, managers about ten. Davison lined up another ball. He acted like he could take ten minutes, but he merited three, at best. HR would make an example of him soon, probably by docking his pay and his bonus. The company loved saving money.

 

Ordinarily, Kirsten would be glad for the break, golf balls and all, but today. She had a problem. She had an illegal cell phone in her pussy. Her friend Maggie had lined up a phone interview. Kirsten was risking a huge punishment, but the interview could be her escape from the mailroom.  She had wrapped her cell phone in three layers of zip lock bags and hid it in her pussy.

 

Davison sank another putt and ordered her to spit the ball back.  And then Kirsten's phone rang. Loudly.

 

Kirsten had set the ringer to vibrate, she'd triple checked it, but somehow the ringer had turned on. Kirsten clenched her pussy, desperately trying to squeeze the mute button. The phone vibrated inside her, the ring seemed impossibly loud, but she knew it was just the feel of the Lady Gaga ring tone echoing through the hollows of her body. She prayed that Davison wouldn't hear it.

 

Davison launched another ball into her mouth. He as about to call for the return, but then he cocked his head, hearing the noise. He looked at her suspiciously She said nothing, grateful she had a golf ball in her mouth. The phone was still ringing inside her, why hadn't it gone to voice mail?

 

Davison checked his own phone and his desk, then approached Kirsten.

 

"Is that coming from you?" he asked.

 

But then his phone rang and Davison answered it on his blutooth. Kirsten overhead the unmistakable sound of an angry call from Human Resources. Davison was in trouble.

 

"Sorry sir, I'll release her right now."  He waved away Kirsten. She got to her feet and scurried out of his office so quickly she forgot to spit out his golf ball. Her phone stopped ringing.

 

Kirsten ducked into a spare conference room and pulled her phone out of her pussy. She opened the three ziplock bags. The phone rang again. A moment later, her armband started buzzing, summoning Kirsten to her next job. She ignored it, hoping the call was worth the demerits. She put the phone to her face. Despite the bags, her phone still smelled like sweat and pussy. She answered, it was her friend Maggie.

 

"Where were you? They called you twice. They ended up hiring the girl they called right after you. But there are other jobs. Something about flex duties on a pilot program in the mailroom."

 

Kirsten hung up, and stuffed the phone into a bag and back up inside her. She was already ten seconds late. The punishment on this one was going to suck.

 

It was only when she was kneeling in the next executive's office that she realized she'd forgotten to turn off the ringer.

 

 

THURSDAY

 

Kirsten had largely gotten used to her new life. Even the constant nudity felt normal. But there were days when the spell broke and humiliation rushed in with a vengeance and she blushed anew. 

 

Kirsten was on all fours, drinking water from one of the dog dishes on the floor. She saw two people go into a small conference room: Mr. Fairview and someone she recognized. She got goosebumps when she placed the face. Greg Carson.

 

Back in college, Greg had been in direct competition with her for a number of grants and fellowships. She'd won and Greg had been pissed. But here he was, in a suit and a Rolex, getting the glad handed treatment Mr. Fairview reserved for VIPs. She was naked but for her armband and a thin shine of baby oil and sweat, she got to her feet and slunk off, hoping that Greg wouldn't see her.

 

But then Greg called her name, not #12 but her human name, and it was shocking enough in the context of her day that she couldn't help but look up. She wanted to crawl off and hide, but Mr. Fairview stopped her with a command.

 

"#12. Come here." 

 

Kirsten shook with impotent rage, shame and humiliation, but she was powerless to resist as her instinctive training took over. Her body flushed crimson She dropped to all fours and crawled into the conference room to the leather chairs where Greg and Mr. Fairview sat. Greg wore shiny Armani loafers and she caught her pathetic reflection in them. 

 

"Oh wow, it is you, Kirsten." Kirsten noted that Greg was actually more shocked than she was. His mortification on her behalf hardly felt like a triumph. 

 

"Small world - but she goes by #12 here," Said Mr. Anderson. 

 

"Don't be pedantic, Anderson. There's no reason to humiliate the English language." 

 

"Lick my shoes," said Anderson.


"Sir, I don't have any demerits.." the presence of Greg was enough to spur Kirsten to mount a defense of her self esteem, however pathetic.


"It's your job if you don't want to get demerits," said Anderson. He waved his keycard threateningly.

Kirsten choked back a sob, crawled over to Anderson, and began licking his left Oxford shoe. Anderson began rubbing her pussy with the toe of the right.


"Looks like a I got a wet stain on the other one."

Kirsten began licking her own pussy juices off the shoe. Anderson began rubbing her pussy with the toe of his left shoe.

:And now the left one's dirty." 

 

"maybe you wouldn't get your shoes so dirty if you didn't keep rubbing them on her pussy," said Greg. He spoke with a repulsed kind of pity which was worse than anything else he could possibly do to her.


Mr. Fairview ordered Kirsten to the ready pose. She got to her feet, spread her legs wide, put her hands behind her head, and opened her mouth to a perfect O. She was completely exposed.

 

"I didn't know you were such a feminist, Curson."

 

"I'm not great with humiliation.  I can't even get through an episode of The Office." 

 

"So how do you kids know each other," asked Mr. Fairview, his face practically shining with an evident pleasure. 

 

"Kirsten and I went to college together," said Greg.

 

"Yeah, she beat you for summa cum laude or something?" Fairview was good at reading people. 

 

"Uh, kind of, but It was really political." Greg still looked embarrassed by the loss. 

 

"I'd say you won in the grand scheme of things." 

 

"Probably. Man, this is an origin story I gotta hear. 

 

Kirsten didn't know what to do. She looked at Fairview for guidance.


A sly look crossed Fairview's face. "I could tell you, but... look, why don't you go back to your hotel room. I'll send #12 over forthwith." 

 

"Tempting," said Todd, but I feel like I'd be losing some negotiating leverage." 

 

Fairview scowled. He didn't like to lose, and he especially didn't like it when mailroom girls saw him lose.


"Okay, down to business. Get out of here, #12."

 

"Hang on," said Todd. He took out his camera phone. "I think this is one for the scrapbook."

 

Friday 

Kirsten was under Carl's desk, wiping it down with Windex. Carl sat at the desk, looking down at her through the glass top like a kid looking at a bug in the jar. He reached down and idly stroked her side. Kirsten struggled not to recoil at his touch. She looked past Carl to the big clock at the wall. It was 7:45. The day was almost over.

 

Regular office hours were from 9-6, but the girls stayed till 8 in case any executive needed anything after hours. While things were winding down, they had to clean the mailroom on their hands and knees, wiping every nook and cranny down with disinfecting cloths. The naked girls climbed atop the cabinets and crawled behind the copiers, wiping everything. No one wanted to incur demerits for leaving a mess.


At 7:50, Carl idly gave Kirsten a light kick in her sex. "Okay, sluts. Gather round." 

The girls put away their cleaning supplies and knelt in numerical order in front of Carl's desk.

 

"Not a bad week. A few too many demerits. You gotta tighten up on that, Human Resources are going to start really cracking down. Also, new policy, I'm going to have to do cavity checks on all you girls nightly." 

The girls groaned. They were so used to this that most of them simple put their faces down and their asses up. Carl pulled on a rubber glove and lubed it up with a tub of Vaseline.


"There have been some thefts, and HR wants to make sure it's not you. You wouldn't want everyone to think you sluts were thieves, would you?" Carl explained this as he roughly probed Kirsten's pussy first, and then her ass. She was glad that she didn't have her phone on her.

 

The cavity search took another fifteen minutes, so the girls were well past their usual clock out time (this didn't count as unpaid overtime, Carl was quick to add). Then Carl ordered them into the adjacent janitor closet where he hosed down the twelve girls en masse. He gave them thirty seconds to wash the baby oil off their skin, then he hosed them down again.

 

Carl unlocked the girl's cubbies. Kirsten pulled off her armband and set it to charge in it's docking station. She gratefully pulled on her panties and her bra, then shimmied into her suit. Leaving for the night was always weird, but as she buttoned her suit jacket and slipped into her pumps, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and worth. She checked her phone. Her parents were en route to the hotel from the airport. Kirsten couldn't wait to see them.


Just then, Mrs. Frost from Human Resources entered. Everyone froze.

 

"Change of plans, Carl. We've got some people from the Vancouver branch in this weekend. I need a mailroom girl to stay this weekend, just in case."


"Take #12." Carl didn't even have to think about it. The rest of the mailroom girls scurried out, intent on getting to their cars while the getting was good. 

"But I have plans this weekend. My parents are coming into town."

 

Mrs. Frost favored Kirsten with a withering, managerial stare that clearly said that logic was futile. 

"You shouldn't have scheduled a visit while you were working. Carl, make sure she has a bowl of food and an arm band with fresh batteries. #12, you're on the clock. I will add one demerit for ever second you are out of uniform.


By the time Kirsten had texted a quick excuse to her parents and stripped again, she had incurred 45 more demerits. Carl locked her cubby and attached a new armband to her arm.  In the interim, he had produced a bowl of water, a bowl of food, and a large dog bed.


"Make yourself comfortable, #12, someone will be by to feed you in the morning." 

Carl grabbed his briefcase and walked out of the mailroom with Mrs. Frost. The lights dimmed soon after, the room was faintly lit by the glow of Carl's (locked) computer screen.


Kirsten put her head down and began to cry. Her armband buzzed. The executives needed coffee on the seventh floor. She pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and ran out of the mailroom.

 

THE MEMO

 

Kirsten and Emily washed dishes in the 3rd floor kitchen. They each wore a smart phone on a neoprene band on their left bicep, rubber gloves to protect their hands, and nothing else.

 

"You haven't told your boyfriend about the job?" asked Emily.

 

"That's an awkward conversation. 'Hey babe, remember how I used to be director of Corporate Events? Now I deliver mail naked.' "

 

"What does he think you do? Nevermind that, you have to tell him. He's going to find out sooner or later," said Emily.

 

"I know, but Emily, it's--"

 

Someone slapped Kirsten across her face. It wasn't full force, but the surprise, shock and humiliation brought tears to Kirsten's eyes.

 

Elyse, formerly of accounts payable, now the naked and servile Mailroom Girl number 11, had slapped her. She was a tall, blonde mailroom girl .She was naked and soaked in sweat, which ran down her toned abs. with perfect abs.

 

"What the hell?" said Kirsten.

 

"Sorry #12... the new memo."

 

Oh shit. Memos had great power in the office, particularly to the mailroom girls. Initially, the girls had been regular employees, temporarily moved to the mailroom to save their jobs in a time of layoffs. Subsequent memos had changed their duties, stripped them of their clothes, and turned them into naked servants at the mercy of everyone else in the office. 

 

Elyse pointed to a memo on the corkboard outside the kitchen. Someone had hung it up in between the time Kirsten and Emily had started washing dishes and now.

 

We at the Drexler family are always striving to make our processes more efficient. In compliance with our standardization procedures, it is vitally important that corporate communications remains consistent. This becomes vitally important when it comes to the mail room, the principal system of delivery.

 

Currently, mailroom personnel are not being addressed consistently. Some employees refer to them by their given names, some use nicknames, etc. This has made tracking deliveries more complicated than it should be.

 

Effective immediately, all mail room personnel are to be referred to only by their numbers during office hours. This will standardize communication and reduce fraternization during office hours. To ensure this, please take note of the following rules.

 

"We have to slap each other?" Kirsten asked, aghast.

 

Elyse nodded. "Yes. We have to correct each other if someone slips. If we don't, and someone overhears, then it falls to the nearest non-mailroom employee to give us a more severe correction."

 

"Oh no," said Emily. "Our asses are going to be sore. Elyse, how--"

 

Elyse slapped Emily across the face. "You know the rules now. Someone always hears." Her armband chimed, summoning her for another run. "I have to go, don't be stupid, ladies."

 

Elyse trotted off down the hallway, bare breasts bouncing. Kirsten and Emily looked at each other glumly.

 

Just then, Whit Mitchell walked in. He worked in Human Resources, under the director, Pamela Frost. He was a merciless bureaucrat who joylessly and savagely enforced the rules. All the girls in the mailroom were terrified of him.

 

"You are, of course, familiar with the new memo?" he asked.

 

"Yes, sir," Kirsten and Emily said in unison.

 

"Then you know to assume the position."

 

Kirsten's jaw dropped. Emily smartly snapped into the proscribed punishment position, touching her toes, legs perfectly straight, ass jutting up in the air. Kirsten remembered herself and followed suit.

 

"She called you ladies. That's not your proper title. You're number 12 and..." he checked Emily's armband. "Number 3."

 

Kirsten and Emily whimpered. There was nothing they could say. A few of the guys in the office looked up from their cubicles to watch.

 

Whit typed an entry into his tablet. "I'll assign number 11 her demerits. Carl will correct her later."

 

Whit put the tablet aside, then he gave Emily a sharp, hard smack against her ass. Emily grunted. Her blonde hair fell in her face as tears rolled down her cheeks. Then he slapped Kirsten, whacking her square on her protruding pussy lips. Kirsten had to bite her lip to keep from yelping, which would incur more corrections for disturbing her coworkers. He spanked them four more times each.

 

"Thank you sir, for our correction," Kirsten and Emily said in unison.

 

"I'm not done. That was for failing to correct #11. Now I have to correct you for being out of uniform. You know mail room girls aren't allowed to wear clothes in the office." They looked down at their dish washing gloves. "If you're not washing dishes, take them off. You dummies need to learn how to think."

 

Kirsten and Emily moaned through the subsequent punishment. It occurred to Kirsten that the correct form of address wasn't dummies, but numbers 3 and 12. She didn't think it was a good idea to mention that to Whit.

 

LUNCHTIME

 

Kirsten avoided Reggie's desk whenever she could. He was a dick who seemed to take particular joy in making her miserable. It was generally easy to avoid his desk, but she often ran into him in the hall.

 

She had just completed a delivery on the fourth floor when she saw him talking with Mr. Cooper's new assistant. His pock-marked face lit up when he saw her.

 

"Hey, get over here, Twelve--"

 

To her extreme relief, her armband chimed. It was lunch. Reggie's face fell.

 

"Sorry, sir. I have to get to the mailroom," everyone knew the rule at this point, but the rules said that mailroom girls had to recite it. Kirsten ran off before Reggie could say anything else.

 

Kirsten took the service steps down to the mailroom. She ran into Chanon Findlay, once a coordinator in the marketing department, now Mailroom Girl #5. Her ample breasts were covered with bruises.

 

"What happened to you?"

 

Chanon had tears in her eyes, she struggled to maintain some sense of dignity. A model, once, she had a regal bearing, even while naked. Because she never seemed to be bothered by nudity, the office guys seemed to work extra hard to humiliate her.

 

"I was late with a message, and Grady's assistant spanked my tits. He said my ass was too bony. Then everyone did it, they said they wanted them to be all bruised."

 

Kirsten shuddered in sympathy. Every floor had its own personality. The third seemed to really like spanking girls on the breasts.

 

They emerged onto the basement floor. They headed to the

"shower room." It was actually an old janitor's closet. The door had been taken off at the hinges, but the grimy mop sink served as the communal shower.

 

Chanon brightened at the sight of it. "I am so thirsty," she said.

 

 

"Assume the position, ladies." Kirsten and Chanon quickly did, conditioned by instinct. They'd been accosted by Rosette Dawson, one of the assistants to the COO.

 

"I heard you call #12 Kirsten."

 

"I said I was thirsty--"

 

Rosette slapped Chanon across her breasts. "I heard what you said. I have to enforce the rules, or I'll get in trouble."

 

She wound up to spank Kirsten. Kirsten winced. The slap never came.

 

Whit Mitchell had appeared. He grabbed Rosette's wrist.

 

"You can't punish them arbitrarily. It confuses them."

 

"But they said--"

 

"You heard wrong. Get back to work. I'll deal with you later." Rosette fled. "Twelve. Five. Kneel."

 

They dropped to their knees.

 

"When you let yourselves get punished needlessly, you're wasting the time the company is paying you for."

 

"Please, sir, it's hard when they outrank us," said Chanon.

 

Whit considered that. "Go to lunch," he said.

 

By the time the girls had showered, and they were midway through eating their pureed meal from their dog dishes, a new memo spooled out.

 

Henceforth, assistants are no longer permitted to punish mailroom girls for name use. Rather, repeated name calling should be reported via memo to Human Resources.

 

Mail room personnel are to memorize the following speech. If called by the wrong name, they are to kneel, then get to their feet again. 

 

"Sir, per Human Resources, I am to be called by my mail room number. I cannot comply or respond."

 

Carl rolled his eyes as he hung the memo on the board. "This is not going to be helpful," he said.

THE NEXT DAY

 

"Hold up a moment, Kirsten," said the janitor.

 

Kirsten dropped to her knees. She was getting rug burns from kneeling so much.

 

"Sir, per Human Resources, I am to be called by my mail room number. I cannot comply or respond." She sprang to her feet again.

 

The Janitor chuckled. He was an older Latino man with a passing resemblance to William Shatner. "Of course, Chica."

 

She dropped to her knees again, repeated the phrase and stood up.

 

"What is your number?"

 

"Twelve, sir."

 

"Twelve. My mistake."

 

"How may I serve you, sir?"

 

"There is a loose thread on my pants. Please take care of it."

 

In theory, the mail room girls were office staff and the janitors were freelancers with no claim on them. In practice, the janitors had access to parts of the building the mail room girls needed and they could move around equipment to fuck with them. Kirsten knelt and chewed a loose thread off the man's grimy work pants. He had an erection, and he rubbed it on the side of her cheek as she worked. His pants tasted like stale ketchup.

 

Soon after, Kirsten ducked into a copy room and spit the the thread into the trash. Emily was there, grimly making copies of a business plan.

 

"Rough day, Twelve?"

 

"Yeah, that memo just made things worse. We're basically forced to say no, but then we get punished for it anyway."

 

"You bring this on yourself, you know."

 

"Me? They mess with all of us!"

 

"You get it the worst. You and number five. Stop trying to maintain your dignity. We're naked. Everyone has seen us. You keep being embarrassed by it. All you're doing is making it interesting for them. Try to be more like Number One."

 

She nodded across the office to the elevator, where number One, formerly receptionist Erika Delgado, was following after a Vice President. She was on all fours, but she managed a happy skip in her crawl. He stopped by the elevator and she rolled onto her back so he could rub her tummy.

 

"That's you're role model?"

 

"They like her. The way things are going, she's going to be our boss. Her life is better than yours. Think about that."

 

Kirsten didn't have time to. Her arm band chimed. Shit, Reggie was calling her. She ran off.

 

REGGIE'S CUBICLE

 

Kirsten arrived with fifteen seconds to spare. Reggie was disappointed that he couldn't punish her.

 

"You made good time, Kirsten."

 

She dropped to her knees, "Sir, per Human Resources, I am to be called by my mail room number. I cannot comply or respond."

 

Brendan pretended to be shocked.

 

"Why I had no idea. I thought you liked your name. Shows what I get for trying to be friendly."

 

She got to her feet. She would have preferred to stay kneeling.

 

"You're getting to be in pretty good shape. You used to be quite the butterball."

 

"Thank you, sir."

 

"You have rug burns on your knees, have you been working off your demerits."

 

"No, sir."

 

"Oh? Is it the new rules? Are you accusing your superiors of making that many mistakes? Assume the position, Kirsten."

 

He said the last part with such authority that she almost did, but she caught herself and dropped to her knees.

 

"Sir, per Human Resources, I am to be called by my mail room number. I cannot comply or respond."

 

She got to her feet. Reggie stood up and walked to face her. He was six inches taller than she was. She fought the urge to show fear, then wondered if that was exactly the kind of this Emily had been talking about.

 

"You think you're smart, don't you?"

 

No, she didn't. A smart woman wouldn't be trapped in a humiliating job like this.

 

"No, Sir."

 

"Kirsten, Kirsten, Kirsten, what am I going to do with you?"

 

She dropped to her knees and recited her instructions three times.

 

Reggie was frustrated. He brought his face close to hers. His breath smelled like coffee and donuts. "Do you think these word games matter? You're naked. I can slap you, punish you, do whatever I want. It's only a matter of time before they let us fuck you. Can you imagine that? Just me in your ass all day long."

 

"Sir, that's against the rules."

 

"It's against the rules now, Twelve, but rules change. You've lost your job. You've lost your name. You're going to be a mailroom girl until run until your tits sag off, and then what?"

 

Every word was a blow. She began to cry. Her arm band began to beep. If Reggie kept her there any longer, he'd be the one in trouble.

 

"Get out of my sight, 12."

 

Kirsten ran off, desperately wishing that she had just let Reggie spank her. Someone called her name. She dropped to her knees. The mail ran particularly slow that day.

 

By the end of the day, Human Resources put out a new memo, undoing the last two. Unfortunately, the memo after that was worse.