Mailgirl Number Thirteen knelt, naked, on the middle of a well-decorated office on the 26th Floor of US Financial Plaza. Her head was bowed, and she stared emptily at a point on the carpet a few feet in front of her; a mailgirl dared not to make eye contact with her superiors without express permission. Her arms were behind her, her right hand locked around her left wrist. But her shoulders were back, so as to better project her naked breasts into the room. She was on her knees, with her thighs spread so that her bare pussy – warm, wet, and expectant – was entirely exposed. Her buttocks were back on her ankles, so that she could rest.
In front of her loomed the desk of Joe Hoblitzel, an Executive Vice President in USF's Asset Management group. He sat, mostly ignoring her, while he bounced between typing something on his desktop and flipping through pages of the Wall Street Journal. He was middle-aged – late forties, maybe early fifties – but handsome nonetheless. Dark hair, dressed in an expensive suit, with a strong, clean-shaven jawline and a solid build. He was too old for her, of course – almost twice her age – but the twenty-six-year-old couldn't help but find him attractive. He reminded her, ever-so-slightly, of her step-father – a realization that, once made, somehow only made him that much more attractive in an honest-but-uncomfortable way.
Thirteen had been coming to Hoblitzel's office regularly, for the better part of the last month, but she still couldn't have explained exactly what his job was. He was in Asset Management, she knew, and he had a team of portfolio managers that all rolled up under him; she'd be making the rounds to them next. Number Three could have told her, if she'd asked, as Three had worked in this department before "volunteering" to become a mailgirl. But Thirteen had replaced Three in this little morning exercise that Hoblitzel put her through each and every day. And, as much as Three was probably relieved by the fact that she no longer had to routinely traipse through her old department in the nude, Thirteen didn't want to tip her own hand, and accidentally give Three the impression that she actually enjoyed her mornings on the 26th Floor.
Because, even though she was loathe to admit it, Thirteen's mornings with Hoblitzel were the best part of her day at the Plaza. He was kind to her, relatively speaking, even if it was in a dominating and sometimes demeaning way. Sure, he'd pat her on the ass on the way out, an act that was technically against the rules but often overlooked – especially among executives at his level. But he meant it as both a compliment and a sign of encouragement. And he often had a piece of hard candy for her – peppermint today. Which, although being the smallest of kindnesses and although she to take it out of his hand with her mouth only, was nonetheless a rare kindness in the life of a mailgirl.
The truth was, if Joe Hoblitzel had unzipped his fly, and produced his cock, Thirteen might have happily taken that into her mouth, as well.
Luckily, Thirteen had not been faced with that temptation. Even among the most senior staff, full-fledged sexual activity with the mailgirls was strictly, strictly forbidden – even outside of work hours. Any such act would result in immediate dismissal of the colleague involved, and an investigation into the direct supervisor and the department itself for letting such an act occur. And then, since there was almost no way a mailgirl could actually be fired, that mailgirl (and her peers) would be punished severely.
There were flaws in that system, of course, as Twenty-One had exposed a few weeks prior. Namely, follow-up required a mailgirl, the lowliest of lowliest within the company, to come forward and report the incident. Thankfully, none of the girls – Thirteen included – had yet been the victim of such an act; even in Twenty-One's case, it had been Twenty-One herself who'd initiated the "relationship." A pinch or a pat on the ass here or there, a tweaked nipple from a particularly bold executive, an intentional-but-made-to-look-inadvertent brushing up against a naked girl's body? Sure. Of course. But, certainly nothing that rose to the level of the horror stories Thirteen had read about elsewhere; USF's program was a nunnery, comparatively speaking.
But Thirteen knew just how slippery that particular slope was. And the reality of the situation was that at least half of the girls – again, Thirteen included – might have accepted complete and total sexual slavery if it were to be asked of them. Not because they'd been so humiliated and beaten down, because they had. Not because they increasingly thought of themselves as full and unconditional property belonging to USF, because they did. But, rather, because they all confessed to just how turned on they got as mailgirls.
For Thirteen, it was no different. If Hoblitzel had called her to him, bent her over the desk, and began laying into her, Thirteen would have accepted happily. She couldn't deny just how sexually excited she was at that moment, kneeling naked and submissive in a powerful executive's office. The fact that he was pretending to ignore her only made it hotter, somehow. She was wet – not unusual for her, granted – so wet that she could detect her own scent. She wondered if Hoblitzel could, too.
It was a bit of a status symbol among executive management just how long they could hold onto a girl. The mailgirls were expected to deliver the regular mail and interoffice to anyone and everyone, but it cost a certain amounts of credits (or, "chits," as they were called here at USF) to send memos via mailgirl. Executives were granted significantly more chits than the masses, and they could up their spend in the system for a "rush" delivery – ensuring that a mailgirl was forced into a full-on sprint to hit her deadline, and almost guaranteeing she'd receive a demerit or two. They could also utilize their chits to hold a girl in their presence for longer than might have otherwise been required. The concept had been to keep a girl in place until an employee finished a last-minute memo, but in practice it had become a bit of a pissing contest among certain department heads.
It had been just past eight when Thirteen entered Hoblitzel's office. Though she didn't dare look up at the clock on the wall now, she guessed she'd been here the better part of half an hour.
In Hoblitzel's case, Thirteen believed it was less about proving his status, and more about Thirteen herself. At least, that's what she liked to believe. He'd summon her (always Thirteen, specifically) to his office each morning, and have her wait while he flipped through the news and composed a memo to his senior staff about trends and things to look out for that day. And then he'd send her on her way, to make her rounds through Asset Management and his direct reports. Nothing he sent couldn't have been delivered via email, but Hoblitzel felt – as the program intended – that his team would pay more focused attention if the message were delivered by a naked mailgirl.
And, as attracted as Thirteen was to Hoblitzel, she told herself it was mutual. He used to task Three with the same job, dashing from desk to desk to desk and delivering Hoblitzel's musings on the market to her former peers. But whether he'd felt some pang of empathy for the girl and freed her from the routine, or whether he'd just happened to notice Thirteen on an unrelated mail run and decided to upgrade, he had never kept Three in his office as long as he regularly did Thirteen.
Thirteen felt his eyes on her. He glanced up at her every now and then, as if looking for inspiration, before returning to his work.
In another life, Thirteen could have dominated him and wrapped him around her finger. She was young, she was blonde, she was pretty, and she knew that she had something he wanted. He'd buy her presents. Treat her to a dinner date. Take her out dancing. Beg, beg, beg for a night with her, for the honor of going down on her, for a sniff of her pussy. Thirteen, of course, had never been that girl; but still, she fantasized about holding someone like Hoblitzel in the palm of her hand.
But, if Thirteeen was being honest with herself – and being stripped of everything, from her clothes, to her identity, to her very personality, forced a liberating sort of honesty – dominating Hoblitzel didn't turn her on half as much as being dominated by him now. It was an uncomfortable thing she'd learned about herself over the summer, an uncomfortable realization that most of the other girls shared with her. Nothing, it seemed, got her quite as turned on as being entirely under someone else's thumb.
