Mailroom Girls Part Two - The Executive Floor
by Cambridge Caine
At work Kirsten Allen was simply “Mailroom Girl #12.” Her job duties were simple: she was to deliver mail throughout the building, and she had to do it naked, save for the lycra armband that held a company iPhone. She wasn’t allowed to touch it, rather it gave her assignments, dictating her movements through the building. Currently, it displayed a plain green field - she’d finished all her assignments without accruing any demerits.
Kirsten’s bare feet padded softly on the marble tiled floor as she walked on the far right side of the corridor which had been marked off with a painted line. That was the mailroom girl lane, the right side was reserved for girls heading west, the left side for girls heading east. The directional arrows demarcating the corridors were a new development, they’d been added after two naked girls had slammed into each other while running around a corner, knocking each other out. Even Kirsten had been amused by that one.
Kirsten was happy that she’d thus far avoided demerits, but it had been hard work. She felt sweaty and dirty, she had ‘gotten salty,’ as the mailroom girls put it. She couldn’t wait to get back to the mailroom and wash up in the mop sink in the janitor’s closet.
She was also incredibly thirsty. Her runs had taken her past a half dozen water coolers, but the mailroom girls had been forbidden from using them. Human Resources had designated special doggie bowls for their use, but the regular employees were the only ones allowed to fill them, and they’d been slipshod when it came to actually doing so. So when Kirsten saw the half-full water dish chained by the cooler in the Finance department, it was like striking oil.
Kirsten brushed her hair behind her ears and knelt by the dish, placing her hands on either side of it and letting her nipples brush on the carpeted floor, as she’d been instructed to do at the training brunch. Her hindquarters when in the air, exposing her shaved pussy and bleached asshole to the whole of the department. H.R. had explained the need to put on a show, that was the incentive for the hard working assistants to fill the water dish.
She lowered her face to the water and began lapping. She had yet to master the trick, so drinking took her much longer than it should have. The water was room temperature, stale, and tasted faintly of the sweat and spit of other mailroom girls. There were tiny particles of carpet dust floating on the surface. Kirsten was far too thirsty to care.
As Kirsten lapped, two executives walked past her to the nearby coffee machine. They ignored her, the sight of a naked girl crawling at a water dish had long since lost its novelty. Kirsten pretended to drink as she listened to their reassuringly deep bass, hungry for news of the company.
“Any world from Bill’s office?” That was Sandford Roberts, a senior manager who liked to write rude messages on the mailroom girls in grease pencil and send them to his buddies.
Cristof Heisler replied, “Nah, he’s been in meetings all day. But the way I hear it, he’s leaning towards pulling the plug on the program.”
Bill was Guillermo Martinez, the Senior Vice President of the company. The Mailroom Girl initiative had been his brainchild, but this wasn’t the first rumor Kirsten had heard that he was going to pull the plug on the program. For Kirsten, this was very good news - if the program was terminated she’d be paid the remainder of her contract and she could leave with a good reference and get a job at a company that judged her on her Summa Cum Laude from Pepperdine, not for the fact she’d spent the better part of a year running naked through the halls.
“I’m good either way,” said Mr. Heisler. “This has been fun, but let’s face it, these girls are pretty dumb when it comes to it.”
The execs finished getting their coffee. They looked down at Kirsten as they passed. “I think you’re out of water there, sweetheart,” said Mr. Roberts.
It was true. She’d been so intent on hearing their conversation that she’d unconsciously been snuffling at the bottom of the now empty bowl. She blushed, embarrassed at providing supporting evidence for Mr. Robert’s low opinion of her smarts.
Roberts plucked the bowl away and filled it up with water. He placed it down before Kirsten. Kirsten timidly approached the bowl again, not wanting to irritate Mr. Roberts. She lapped at the cool, clean water.
Then she felt something on her pussy. Mr. Roberts was rubbing his loafers against her sex. “You gotta try this. The mailsluts are so greasy that they just shine your shoes right up.”
Kirsten gasped in shock, lifted her head. “Keep drinking, little one,” said Mr. Roberts. He continued to rub the vamps of his shoes on her bare, oiled pussy, switching them intermittently.
“I’ve got tassels,” said Mr. Heisler.
“Horrible fashion choice, but I doubt she’ll mind.”
Kirsten's pulse raced as the fat tassels of Mr. Heisler’s shoes brushed against her clit. “That is a good shine,” he said.
The executives chuckled, then walked away. Kirsten forced herself to catch her breath. Thirsty as she was, she left a portion of water for the next girl who might need it. She wiped her mouth and got to her feet, her legs unsteady. Just then, her armband beeped, a sound she’d come to loathe. She glanced at it and then ran towards Mr. Dunn’s office in marketing.
Kirsten’s breasts bounced as she trotted up the utility stairs. They added two minutes to the run, but the girls weren’t allowed to use the elevators. The stairs were dingy and dim, and there were dozens of bare footprints in the sooty dust. Kirsten glanced up at the stairwell security camera and wondered how many hours of her naked servitude had been captured on camera.
She met her friend Cristina Hernandez, aka Girl #4, in the stairwell. Cristina's slim body glistened 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 quiet 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.
Though Christina had the tube in her mouth, she managed to speak around it. "Did you hear? Pilot program might be ending! Maddie, I mean Girl #7, heard about it while she was in Arlene's office." Arlene was the head of human resources.
“But what does that mean for us?” asked Kirsten, but Cristina was already dashing down the stairs, eager to complete her run.
Kirsten arrived at Mr. Dunn’s office with two seconds to spare. The armbands registered location, so the timer stopped when she arrived, it would stay in standby until Kirsten was released by the executive who’d summoned her 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 two minute countdown. If she missed her deadline, she’d gain one demerit for every five seconds she was late.
"That's a rush, so you'd better hurry," said Reggie. The timer was running, but Kirsten couldn't leave until Reggie put the message tube in her mouth. Reggie idly dragged it up Kirsten’s taut belly and drew lazy circles around her pert nipples. He teased her with it a few times, extending it to her, but pulling it back as she tried to take in in her mouth. Reggie liked to make Kirsten pay for the times she’d rejected him, prior to the program.
Finally, Reggie jammed 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 building to suite #101 in ninety seconds--
--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 a daunting figure when she'd been doing budget presentations, fully clothed, in her old life. The concept of grovelling before him as a naked mailroom girl was terrifying. For the thousandth time that day, she cursed herself for ever having been stupid enough to volunteer for the program.
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 the 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 dropped to her knees and timidly crawled into Mr. Martinez's office.
There were rumors that Mr. Martinez had based his office on Mussolini’s, but he'd moved in after the space had been designed. Mr. Martinez sat by the window at his desk. He was backlit by the midday sun.
She'd hoped to glean some news, but Martinez was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish and she couldn't even tell if the call was business or personal. Mr. Martinez didn’t seem aware of her and she didn’t want to disturb him, so she knelt on the cold marble floor in a far corner of the office, thirty feet from the desk.
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 noted 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 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 tried to ignore the pain in her knees. The bubbling of the fountain filled her ears.
And then Kirsten realized she had to pee, and urgently. It 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 didn’t dare interrupt his call.
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 prevented that. 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 riotous ocean was pushing against her body from 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 water pour on tile. She was pissing.
The jet of urine gushed out of her pussy and onto the floor, pooling in a vast puddle. It looked like someone had spilled a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew. The urine pooled at her knees and feet, the heat from it rose like steam.
Kirsten cried tears of utter, helpless mortification as her pussy twitched twice to release the last ounce of fluid into the stinking puddle. 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.
What if Mr. Martinez was so furious that he took out his frustrations on the girls in the program. 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 the lake of urine that surrounded her. Then 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 few months earlier. Mr. Martinez was still on the phone... 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 mess, lapping and sucking for all she was worth. The puddle was warm and foamy, but the scent, though strong and repellent, was at least familiar. She'd had her whole life to get used to it, after all. 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.
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 sixteen ounces of fluid and she had trouble downing a large cup of coffee in one sitting. She forced herself to keep drinking, moving her face around the fluid like a shop vac.
And then she was 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 cleanser. She forced her stomach to settle, grabbed the message tube again, and resumed her former pose. Her body burned with shame, her belly was swollen and distended (she could feel liquid slosh in her gut) and her knees ached and her face and hair were wet with with piss. The message tube had rolled away, she searched desperately for it. She retrieved it from under the Eames chair and stuck it in her teeth, resuming her kneeling position as if nothing had happened.
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.
He gestured for her to come. 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.
"I forgot I had you. At least you got a nice break."
He pulled his ID card from his desk and tapped it against her arm band, resetting her timer. He unwrapped a Reese's cup and held it out to her on his palm.
She bent down and ate the five cent candy off his hand, forcing 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. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long,"
Kirsten curtsied gratefully and hurried out of there. She wanted to cry, wanted to puke, wanted to wash her pee out of her face and hair.
But then her armband beeped again, and a new assignment popped up. Kirsten winced at the latest tug on her electric leash. She broke into a quick trot, heading towards the maintenance department. Her piss-filled belly groaned in protest as she ran, and she realized that she badly had to pee again.
Copyright© 2013 by Cambridge Caine. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org