Mailroom Girls - A Day in the Life
by Cambridge Caine

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

She rolled out of bed. Dave groaned, and then fell asleep again. He was one of several scrubs she'd been through since her fiance had left her. Her standards, once so high, had plummeted in favor of the seedier Class F loser who wouldn'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.

Kirsten stepped into her neatly appointed bathroom, stripped from her pajamas, and then stepped 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 her new job 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.

Kirsten shut off the water and rubbed her body with depilatory cream. She did this daily, as per company memorandum MR-038. There were lots of memos, and Kirsten and the other girls in the mailroom lived and died by them. This was in her mind as 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 and it was one more petty regulation for them to follow. The company was big on petty rules, and the all-too-frequent memos 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 assumed 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 position. It was just to keep up appearances, but she felt a pain in her heart as the dates on the papers she'd handled in the old days receded further and further into the past.

The drive to the office took 20 minutes. Her Camry rattled all the way, it needed some engine work, but lately there hadn't been the time or money to get it looked at. 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 recognized the Saturn S-1 driven by Girl #2, Elyse Peldon. She follwed Elyse's car from the off-ramp to the office garage. They drove down the winding ramps, five floors to the most remote spots in the structure.

Kirsten and Elyse met at the elevator and exchanged 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 a helix staircase down to the basement and walked through the swinging door into the mailroom.

The mailroom was a spartan, functional room. There was a wall of mailslots on one wall, and cases of mail on the floor. There were 12 cubbies by the door, one for each of the mailroom girls. The only furniture was in the head of the mailroom's office, which would be locked until Carl arrived.

Kirsten and Elyse stripped wordlessly out of their chic suits and sensible pumps. The morning dress code was the most subtly cruel regulation on the books. Every day, when they stripped out of their best suits, it keenly drove home all the privileges and respect the girls had lost. On the plus, it saved on cleaning costs. Kirsten hadn't had to have her suits dry cleaned in months.

Kirsten knelt on the floor by her cubby, which was marked #12, the name she went by at work. 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 above 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. During the rush of the day, the armbands were alive with instructions and timers, timers that had to be beaten to avoid demerits and humiliating punishments. Fortunately, there was no one of importance in the building at that ungodly hour, the only small positive that Kirsten could find in her grueling arrival time.

By this time, the other girls had filtered in, stripping at their cubicles, exchanging their clothes for their respective armbands. Kirsten folded her suit as best she could, then tucked it away with her shoes. Then she stood in front of the mirror at the end of the room. She was stark naked save for her armband and 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 skin shone. Elyse followed suit, and Kirsten noted that Elyse was was on her period, her full pussy lips 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 By 5:29 it was done and they were back in the mailroom, where they knelt in rows, waiting for their boss, Carl Wilcox, to come in and give them their morning instructions.

Carl entered at 5:47. He was 17 minutes late, but it hardly seemed prudent to mention that. Carl was 29, paunchy, and cruel. He gripped a sloppily stained cup of Starbucks coffee in his right hand, coffee had alreadhy stained his rumpled Oxford shirt. He handed the cup to Elyse, who knelt before him, holding his coffee as high as she could reach.

Carl stood before the girls, looking for any flaws in their uniform presentation. "Good morning, skanks," he said.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilcox," they chimed back.

"We've been getting some complaints that you've been making eye contact with the executives. This stops now. If they wanted to see your disgusting faces, they'd ask."

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox,” the girls said, in unision.

Carl went on in this vein for a bit, discussing stuff they all already new, peppering his dull speech with an abundance of "ums" and "likes". Like always, the presentation was in service of making him feel like a big man rather than any immediate need.

The big clock on the mailroom wall flipped to 6:00. By this time, the office assistants were all at their desks. There were interoffice packages to be delivered and memos to be distributed. One by one, the girl's armbands started lighting up, displaying the location there were needed and the laughably insignificant time they had to get there.

Kirsten turned to go, eager to leave the mailroom.

"Hold up Kirsten."

"Yes, Mr. Wilcox.?" She turned, being careful to stoop a little. 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 or god knows what.

++++

By 10:00, Kirsten was already exhausted from the runs she'd performed and the distance she'd dashed. Her armband summoned her to the PR department. She ran up four flights of stairs (the girls were forbidden from using the elevators), then ran to the southwest corner of the fifth floor. This was the department she had worked in. She ran past conference room 5-A; once she'd presided over grown up meetings of real import, but those days seemed eons 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 armband directed her to Paul Pritchett, a former colleague. She had gotten along with Paul back in the day, but her new job 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 memo MR-09.

"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, rubbing her oily skin on her oily skin hand no effect. She pulled off the empty bottle easily, but then struggled to lift the heavy, full replacement bottle. It was broad and round without a handle on it. There were grooves in it, but not deep ones, and she couldn't get a good grip on it with her oily hands.

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. As she bend over, she caught sight of the door to her office – or the office she'd once had. She hadn't seen the inside in months and she wondered what had become of her desk and her photos and all her possessions from home.

Paul chuckled as Kirsten continued to flash her pussy and ass to the PR department in service of changing the water bottle. He sipped coffee as he moved behind her to get a better view. He was joined by two more guys, 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. Then 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.

Kirsten struggled to hold the 80-pound 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 old 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 couldn't help but look at Bryan, stupidly forgetting not to look him in the eyes, but he so enjoyed the look of hurt shock on her face that he let it pass without comment.

"R-replacing, sir?" she ventured.

"That's right."

"But my assignment is temporary. This is 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 had brought a doggie dish from his desk. He filled it from the cooler, and plopped it at Kirsten's feet.

"Drink up, slut," he said.

Kirsten's 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 Bryan were towering front of her, from upside down they looked like giants. 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,” said Bryan. He picked up the water dish and dumped it over Kirsten in an unwelcome second shower of the day. 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 Lysol 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!” she cried. Kirsten yelped and twisted, but Dale held her fast.

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

The grown up voice cut through the office, and the guys went from bullies to contrite school boys. Mr. Goldberg had stepped out of his office. He held a report in one hand and his coffee mug in the other.

Dale dropped Kirsten's ankles and she fell in a heap at his feet. She scrambled to kneel at the shoes of her her former direct superior, as she had to do before everyone VP level and above. This time her groveling was heartfelt, she'd never been so glad to see him.

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

Goldman shook his head at Paul. “You have work to do. 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, but Bryan glared at her with a passionate hatred. She shuddered to think how he'd punish her 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. Only 45 more minutes until lunch.

The End

Copyright© 2013 by Cambridge Caine. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at cambridgecaine@gmail.com