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“You can undress here. He’s waiting for you.”

It was the morning of the 26th. Catherine Ryan was on a flight back to SFO. Sarah and Sophie Scott had returned to their normal routines in Jersey City as Park Place Mailgirls One and Two. Ben O’Neill was likely getting ready for his own return to work in LA. And Erin Ryan O’Neill had been shipped, in a dog carrier, to USF Plaza in the heart of the Financial District.

Unlike the Plaza mailgirls who’d been packed up and returned to their usual haunts in downtown Manhattan, though, Erin had been allowed to get dressed. Was it more humiliating to crawl out of her crate wearing her boots, her blouse, and her skirt? Or less? It should have been the latter, but Erin felt more the former. She was alone in her clothes – special, unique, different. She alone had been allowed to cover her shame, and she felt ashamed for it. She’d been herded into her box the same as Plaza Seven, Plaza Ten, Plaza Seventeen, Plaza Eighteen, and Plaza Twenty-One. But only Erin was fully dressed, wearing the same outfit she’d worn into the Park Place lobby on Christmas Eve.

Most of it, at least. “Fully dressed,” in this instance, meant she had arrived at the Plaza devoid of her panties and bra. Her underthings had been “donated” to the cause, pilfered from her luggage and en route to some unknown USF executive as a belated Christmas gift, or as a prize for meeting some sort of year-end sales goal. Or something like that. Honestly, she felt like she missed her bra more than her underwear; her tits jiggled as she walked, as she climbed from her crate, as she was bumped and bounced in the back of the delivery truck. Her skirt had, admittedly, become little more than a belt on the ride over, bunched up around her waist with her sex exposed and her legs spread. There’d been simply nothing to be have done about that fact, given that she’d been crammed into such a confined space with Plaza Eighteen – their legs and arms tangled, their bodies pressed up against one another, and the naked brunette’s hot breath on her neck.

Only three dog carriers had come over to Park Place on Christmas Eve, and only three were available to transport the six girls back. Plaza Seven and Plaza Ten had ridden together in one carrier, and Plaza Twenty-One had joined Plaza Seventeen in another. Plaza Eighteen had volunteered to ride with Visitor D, with a smile and a grimace. She had climbed in and on top of her clothed traveling companion as Erin had awkwardly tried to accommodate another fully-grown girl in a space designed for a single large-breed dog. They’d made small talk, but had avoided the topic most pressing on Erin’s mind.

Erin was to become a USF mailgirl. Mistress Rei and Will Barrow were going to help her make her Christmas wish come true.

Erin was allowed to use the restroom when she had arrived, and she’d taken the opportunity to do so. In limbo between being a mailgirl and not being a mailgirl, she’d been unsure of what was expected of her. She didn’t have a chaperone down in the ladies’ room just off the loading dock, but she’d left the stall door open all the same; she didn’t want to come into this with a full slate of demerits so early on. But, though she’d relieved herself before heading up to the 18th Floor, she felt she could pee again. Nerves.

Erin had passed through the “Hall of Panties” that led to Human Capital, greeted by thongs and bikinis and g-strings of the mailgirls who’d come before her. She was greeted by a young secretary outside of Will Barrow’s office. The girl was still in her early twenties, and was dressed in a professional-if-tight-fitting outfit. She was friendly enough, and had met Erin with a smile. But that friendliness was coupled with a casual approach to Erin’s debasement; Erin was to undress here, in front of her, before she’d be allowed in to meet with Barrow.

“I haven’t…” Erin objected, stumbling over her own words. “That is…I’m not a mailgirl. Not officially. Not yet. I’m not sure I even… I mean, I’m not sure that this is really, really right for me. I was just hoping to talk it through first. Informational-like.”

The secretary’s only response was to shake her head, repeat the instruction, and look upon Erin with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. How could anyone be this naïve? If Erin was to get past her, if Erin was to meet with her boss, if Erin was to discuss whether or not she’d become USF’s next new mailgirl, she’d need to do so in the altogether.

And so Erin did as she was told.

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, and saw that one of Barrow’s analysts had poked his head of his office. He called out to the office across the hall, and was joined by a second gentleman who laughed, made an inaudible joke, and shot Erin a lecherous grin.

Erin put them both out of her mind, bent at the waist, and removed her boots. She left them on the floor, and then went for her ring. Bracelet. Earrings. Necklace. All were deposited in a neat little pile on the corner of the secretary’s desk. Noticeably absent kayseri escort were Erin’s engagement ring and her wedding band. She’d felt naked without them since leaving home – more so, even, than when she’d actually gotten naked in the Park Place lobby. She hadn’t wanted to risk losing them on this trip. But perhaps more to the point, she hadn’t wanted the constant reminder of what she was doing to her husband Ben. Not that this tactic had worked, entirely; their absence was reminder enough.

She fumbled at the buttons of her blouse, one after another, untucking it from her flouncy A-line skirt as she reached the bottom. When she was through, she slid the sleeves down her arms, and bunched the fabric into messy pile – not quite folded up neatly, but neat enough for the moment. Her bare back was to the two men down the hall, but the secretary in front of her was given the full show. The younger woman gave Erin’s tits a half-interested once-over. Given where she worked and for whom she worked, she’d clearly seen her fair share of naked breasts.

Erin was directed to leave the blouse on the floor, beside her shoes. Sensing that the secretary didn’t want any of Erin’s things on her desk, she scooped up her jewelry, as well, and deposited it all into one of the boots. She bent over to place her shirt down on the carpet, self-conscious about the way her breasts dangled beneath her. And then, reluctantly, she hooked her thumbs into the waist of her skirt, and slipped her last remaining item of clothing down her thighs.

Once the skirt had joined her blouse in a stack on the floor, Erin stood before the secretary unsure of what to do next. She resisted the instinct to cover her body with her hands, and opted for the “Feet” position – legs spread shoulder-width apart, shoulders back and tits out, head down, and hands behind her back.

Barrow’s secretary wasn’t satisfied, however. “Toes,” she ordered. Inspection position.

Erin groaned internally, offered a perfunctory, “Yes, ma’am,” and did as instructed. She rose to her tip-toes, locked her fingers behind the back of her head, and stared blankly off into the distance. Behind her, one of Barrow’s analysts snickered.

The secretary didn’t rise from where she was seated, choosing instead to conduct the inspection from her desk. No sniff-test. No stubble-check. Nothing so up close and personal. Instead, she clucked a “Tisk-tisk,” and directed her attention to the school of little fish tattooed upon Erin’s hip.

“He’s not going to like that,” the secretary opined. “That’s not going work here at the Plaza. That’s for sure.”

“Yes, ma’am,” was all Erin offered in response. Her heart fluttered as she sensed an out. USF mailgirls were forbidden from having tattoos. Maybe, after all this humiliation was through, she’d be sent packing after all. Maybe she’d be able to exploit this loophole, and return home to LA, to her life, to her husband.

“Maybe it’ll be fine for Park Place,” the other girl went on. “Or, I know we’re expanding elsewhere…”

Satisfied, however, that Erin passed muster, the secretary let the girl back down off her toes. She picked up the phone, enjoyed a brief exchange with Barrow on the end of the line, and then nodded to Erin. “You can go in.”

Erin had seen pictures of Will Barrow posted on Mailgirls Exposed and the Post Office. In fact, she’d even streamed a panel he’d been a part of with various representatives of the big Whitestocking and Blackstocking groups, debating the merits of the mailgirls concept and its future in the US. He’d been younger than she had expected – just maybe forty – and more handsome, put-together, and professional. He wasn’t the creepy, slovenly pervert he might have been, a misogynistic “incel” taking out his frustrations with women upon the gorgeous mailgirls who might have spurned his advances previously. He was tall. He was smart. He was smooth. There was little doubt that Barrow could have landed any girl he wanted, even the most gorgeous of the high-end mailgirls he now held in his employ.

Will Barrow owned Erin the moment she stepped into his office.

He sized her up as she approached his desk. His eyes lingered longer than his secretary’s had, but with a distance that bordered on that same casual disinterest. He’d done this before. He’d had naked girls in his office before. Any sexual excitement in the room belonged to Erin and Erin alone.

“Feet,” he ordered, gesturing to a spot in front of his desk.

“Yes, sir,” Erin chirped back. She wasn’t a mailgirl. Not yet. But she was already acting the part, all the same.

“‘Mister Barrow,'” he corrected her.

“Yes, Mister Barrow.”

He paused, thinking it over, and then shook his head. “Let’s try, ‘Yes, Master,’ on for size.”

Erin swallowed. “Yes…yes, master.”

“Better. I like it. It suits you.”

“Yes, master.”

He had two manila envelopes on his desk, both labeled, “Ryan, Erin.” Not “O’Neill, Erin.” Her visitor’s agreement – Erin kıbrıs escort wasn’t sure if it was the one she’d sent in earlier, or the one she’d signed in the Park Place lobby – was with them. He met her eyes, and she submissively looked to the floor.

“Let’s get this nastiness out of way first,” Barrow purred. He held up the 11-page visitor’s agreement. “I’m sure you may have suspected this, but Legal did amend the agreement you’d sent back to us initially, and provided those updates for you to sign on Christmas Eve. You’ve been provided with an electronic copy, for your records; my assistant sent it to your personal e-mail this morning. It allows US Financial the option of exercising a full mailgirls contract, using your signature on the agreement here. Mostly standard issue. Two years. Rules. Restrictions. Regulations. Power of Attorney. Et cetera, et cetera.”

They’d fucked her. She’d known they would fuck her. And she’d signed the agreement at the security desk all the same.

Barrow held up the first manila envelope. “In here? The upside. We’re tripling the salary you’re currently pulling down as a teacher. As even that still felt a little low, we padded your signing bonus, upped our standard completion bonus, and built in a few kickers for special assignments, good performance, and the like. Upon completion, both sides have rights to re-up the contract for another two years. After that, we’ll review, and take it year-by-year, so long as you’re still interested in staying with us, and we’re still interested in retaining you as a mailgirl. We can offer you a full-fledged, salaried position after your time as a mailgirl has run its course. I’m not sure what, just yet, or what you might be qualified to do here at USF with your clothes on. Marketing, maybe? Communications? Maybe something in Human Capital with me?”

He picked up the second envelope. “We do, as you’d expect, have you by the short and curlies.” He glanced at her pussy. “Metaphorically speaking. We’ve got enough footage over the last few days that we can make it very, very difficult for you to return to your old job and your old life. Legal’s working today, through a third party, to acquire the rights to your mortgage, your car loan, your husband’s car loan, credit card debt. All above-board, I assure you. Should you decline to come on board, these will all come due immediately, with fairly onerous interest rates that will balloon up exponentially.”

Erin wanted to cry.

“Yes, master,” was all she offered in response.

“Your marriage license will be rendered null and void,” he went on. “Regardless of whether you stay with us or not. There’s some legal maneuvering there that I’m not sure you’d understand. But we’ve got a good roster of in-house attorneys, as well as some of best outside law firms money can buy; Young & Unglaub, in particular, has made some pretty heady strides in the world of mailgirl contracts over the last few months.

“In fact,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I think you’ve been single now for about a half hour or so.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Ben had told her.

“I’m not sure how your husband is going to take the news,” Barrow continued. “But I think this grants you the freedom to perform your mailgirl duties unencumbered and unburdened by any sort of residual guilt.”

Erin said nothing. She wanted to scream. She wanted to wail. She wanted to cry for help. But, as Barrow had so eloquently put it, he had her by the “short and curlies.” The same “short and curlies” that she’d left behind in Los Angeles.

“You look tense,” Barrow observed, more sympathetic than malicious. Concerned, even. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is why you came?”

She’d wanted to experience the life of a mailgirl. She’d wanted the whole “mailgirl experience.” This was part of the fantasy. Captured. Enslaved. Toyed with and fucked over. Humiliated. Degraded. Owned.

“Yes, master,” she allowed. It wasn’t Erin O’Neill speaking anymore. It was Visitor D. Number Whatever. A whore. A sexual plaything. A mailgirl.

“I suspect I know what might help. What might ease a little of that tension.” He jutted his chin towards the floor. “Why don’t you give yourself a quick little finger fuck? Get it all out. You’ll be able to think more clearly afterwards, and come to grips with all of this.”

He wanted her to masturbate on his office floor, to perform for him like the slut she was. And, God help her, she wanted it.

She wanted it badly.

She wanted it so badly.

She wanted it so badly that she had no choice in the matter.

“Yes, master,” she mewed. She looked to the floor, and then nervously back in Barrow’s direction. She wanted further direction.

“You can do it on your back,” he allowed, “if that’s better for you.”

She nodded, and lowered herself to the floor. Barrow’s office was carpeted with the same thin, scratchy carpet as Heidi Pomeranz’s cubicle. She rolled onto her back, spread her legs open in the direction of her konya escort new master, and reached for her pussy. She was wet. Drenched. Hot and moist, ready to go. Her clit stood at attention, betraying her, and begging her to touch it.

She gasped. Lightning shot through her body. Sexual energy overtook her. If Erin had any objections to what had just happened to her, the mailgirl inside of her had none.

Still, she was tentative. This was uncharted territory for her – performing for an audience. She’d begun sneaking in the occasional session of self-pleasure in bed with Ben over the last couple of months, slipping under the covers after a night on Mailgirls Exposed and coming to bed horny as hell. He was a sound sleeper, and she’d been slow and careful not to wake him. But he’d never been awake when she’d diddled herself beside him. He’d never watched. Certainly, he’d never watched in the full light of day, in the middle of a downtown New York office building, while fluorescent lights beamed down upon her with their unforgiving light.

“You’re not the first girl who needed this,” Barrow assured her, sensing the hesitation. “You’re all built the same. It’s there, just below the surface. That dirty slut. That bad girl. Desperate cunts, all of you. Just begging, begging for a master. Just needing the gentlest of pushes to let the whore out to play.”

The hesitation was gone. Erin began rubbing now, faster and faster, with more force and increasing abandon. “Jesus,” she sighed. “Jesus…”

“In fact,” he said, standing and rounding the desk, “Beg me. Beg me to help.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Ben had told her.

“Please,” Erin conceded softly. “Please, master. Please help me.”

Ben was a continent away. Ben was no longer her husband. She was no longer anyone’s wife. To hear Barrow tell it, she’d been single now for the last thirty minutes. She was free. She was free in way she’d never known, to let the whore out to play, to be the mailgirl she was so desperate to be. She wanted Barrow on top of her, inside of her, and fucking her until she exploded around his cock. She wanted the analysts down the hall, two at a time, covering her with their cum. She wanted Barrow’s secretary – sweaty, hungry, and naked – with her tongue probing Erin’s insides. She wanted “Captain Buttplug” with his toys. She wanted the vicious bitch with her binder clips. She wanted Sarah Scott. And Sophie Scott. And their strap-on. She wanted her sisters – her stepsisters – jack-hammering away at her from either end with their toys.

“Please,” she begged again. The desperation was real, and evident in her tone. “Please, master. Please, please, please…”

Barrow would do as she asked, but he wasn’t ready to release his hold on the reins. “Up. Off the floor, slut.” He undid his belt, and Erin heard his fly descend. As she got to her feet, she fixated on his crotch, wanting to see him pull his cock from his pants.

She’d be disappointed. He’d give her no show. His dick was meant to be felt, not seen. She was the naked slut. She was the one who was exposed. She was one who was bent over the desk, told to grasp the far side, and run through.

Handcuffs emerged. Erin wasn’t sure where they’d come from, or when Barrow had produced them. In the fog of overwhelming and all-consuming lust, she’d been cuffed to the far side of his desk. She was bent over, on her toes, with her ass in the air. When he entered – sliding forcefully inside of her without a hint of resistance – she shrieked in pleasure. She was cumming already.

Barrow was big. Bigger than Ben, certainly. Bigger than any one of those dirty one-night stands in Tempe. He clutched her ass, squeezing it, and held the squirming mailgirl in place as he began to stroke in and out of her, back and forth, deeper and deeper. She’d orgasmed once already, but she could feel another building.

Barrow, for his part, wasn’t in this for her. He was “helping her,” sure. He was giving her what she wanted and needed and craved. But she was an object to him – nothing more than warm and welcoming pussy spread up against his desk.

That thought alone sent her cresting towards another climax. Her cunt spasmed and squeezed, gripping him with all its might, desperately trying to hold on to him as he slid back and forth, in and out. She wanted to milk him for all he was worth. She wanted receive everything he had to offer. She wanted him to cum inside of her. She wanted to be his fuck toy.

“Jesus!” she called out again. Barrow’s secretary was now a participant, whether she liked it or not, playing audience to Erin’s increasingly loud vocalizations from the far side of the office door. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”

“Jesus Christ!” Catherine Ryan yipped from beside her. “Jesus Christ!”

It may have been His birthday, but Erin doubted that Our Lord and Savior had anything to do with the orgasm Erin’s stepmother was having in the shower beside her.

Erin’s legs went to jelly, and it was all she could do to keep from collapsing beneath the cold water of the shower. She steadied herself against the mirror in front of her, and came back down. Her mind was swimming. The world around her was nothing more than background noise. The desperate eyes of her own reflection stared back at her.

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