Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

"They'll be fine. I've had a pair of underwear go missing every now and then. But, honestly, that's been during the day. I don't think anyone's taking your pants on you."

The casualness with which Ten just divulged someone had stolen her underwear was alarming. Thirteen had hoped the thong she'd handed over to Will Barrow yesterday would be the last undergarment she surrendered to USF. Now, it seemed, she had reason to be concerned that the panties she'd worn in this morning wouldn't be there when she got back to her locker later in the day.

"Yeah, maybe don't leave your underwear here overnight," Ten suggested. "I'm assuming you're wearing those out of here tonight? Because if not...ewww...you can't borrow the dress."

"As long as they're still here at the end of the day," Thirteen joked. She hoped it was a joke.

She didn't wash her hair. This was just a quick rinse. She'd showered here in the locker room that morning. She'd showered last night, at home. She'd showered before that, too, in the locker room before leaving, at Mistress Zero's request. She'd showered early yesterday afternoon, not long after she, Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen had been added to USF's roster. All of this bathing was going to take some getting used to.

There was a lot about her new job that would take some getting used to.

Seven apologized when they got back to stairs, when morning break was through. Thirteen wasn't sure if she was saying sorry about forcing her to eat the chow against her will, and abandoning her after her promise to consume half. Or if she was apologizing for her behavior in the showers. It turned out to be both.

"Once you've done it once..." Seven said, sheepishly. As much as Seven clearly didn't want to talk about it, she had to at least acknowledge that it had happened. She was using Thirteen's own words.

Thirteen did the same, using Seven's. "Genie's out of the bottle."

"Genie's out the bottle," Seven agreed.

They descended down to B2, to the mailroom. Master Hooper was no less unpleasant than he'd been yesterday afternoon. But Thirteen and Seven didn't stay long. They collected everything he had for the 33rd and 34th Floors, and they were off.

Regular mail. Interoffice envelopes. Electronic messages, bumped from cell phone to cell phone, and delivered by gorgeous young girls in the nude. Thirteen was down on her knees, up on her feet. She was bounding up the stairs behind Seven, following behind her on the descents, and -- every now and then -- tapping her toe and waiting for one of the service elevators to arrive. Occasionally, they passed another mailgirl in the stairwell, but it mostly just Seven and Thirteen alone together. They got handed the occasional odd job -- empty my trash bucket, fetch me another cup of coffee, run this lint brush over my coat over there. At one point, after fixing a paper jam, the pair was asked to Xerox their tits. They both did as they'd been asked, and the middle-aged man who'd made the demand went back to his cubicle staring intensely at both pictures side-by-side, comparing them.

Thirteen's time in Commercial Banking made her uncomfortable. It all made her uncomfortable, of course. But the bankers there were particularly aggressive in walking right up to the edge of what they were allowed to do. One after another, they ordered Seven and Thirteen to their knees before accepting their deliveries or giving them their pick-ups. And then they'd step right up close to the kneeling mailgirls so that their crotches were in the girls' faces. Time and time again, Thirteen was instructed to forego her usual stare-at-the-floor submissive act, and instead to "look me in the eyes." She could see the bulges in their pants as they made this request. She could smell them right through their flies. It was clear what they were doing -- it was fellatio without the fellatio. Everything but. All that kept these men from jamming their cocks down her throat were a few thin layers of fabric and the rules Human Capital had put in place to keep USF's employees from crossing that final line.

"Alpha male stuff," Seven said, when the pair was back on the service elevator. "It started with the I-bankers a couple of weeks ago, Three said. It's bled down into Business Banking now, too."

It would only be a matter of time before someone tested Will Barrow's resolve. Someone senior. Some rainmaker whom USF couldn't possibly part with. What frightened Thirteen more, though, was how she'd respond.

Later in the afternoon, when they got the call up to the 47th Floor, Thirteen saw the color run out of Seven's face.

"Tony Manzanillo," Seven explained. USF's Chief Human Resources Officer. "Strap in. This one's going to be rough."

"What? How?"

"Think Parker Wertz," Seven went on. "But with a Senior Executive VP. He wants to check out the new girls."

Was it Manzanillo who'd be the one to cross the line? After all, how was Will Barrow going to discipline his boss?

"He brought me up last week, with Three. On Tuesday morning. He had us...put on a little show."

Now it was Thirteen's turn to blanche. "What does that mean?"

"Kissing. A little heavy petting. That sort of thing."

"He can...he can do that?"

"He can't touch us himself, if that's the question. But, when he's got a pair of girls..."

Thirteen wasn't ready for this. She'd never been with another girl before. Sure, Seven was hot. And she smelled amazing. Thirteen was admittedly turned on, just being in the girl's presence. "I'm not sure I can do this."

Seven shook her head. "It's not going to go that far," she assured Thirteen. "We're not going to be...like...you know. Putting on THAT sort of show."

That was a relief.

"I bet I'd be good at it, though," Seven said, doing her best to make a joke out of it.

Thirteen chuckled politely. "Don't take this personally, but I don't really want to find out."

Seven feigned hurt feelings, projecting her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. She didn't really want to go down on Thirteen, any more than Thirteen wanted her to. "I'm a good kisser, at least. That, I'm pretty sure you're going get. If this plays out the same way it did last week."

"Okay," Thirteen smiled weakly. "Go easy on me, though. This is...this is my first time."

"First time kissing another girl?" Seven scoffed. "I'm a veteran. My first time was in Manzanillo's office last week, with Three."

Seven winked at her friend. "We'll be fine. Buddy system, you know?"

"Buddy system," Thirteen agreed.

"We're buddies," Seven said, sounding more like she was attempting to reassure herself than Thirteen.

The 47th Floor wasn't all that different from the other floors Thirteen had visited so far. Bigger offices, sure. Secretaries seated out in front of them all. It was quieter. But the carpeting was more-or-less the same, the office furniture the same sort of stuff she'd run past dozens of times over by that point. The occasional topiary. The banal seascapes and other inoffensive choices of "art" that hung on the walls.

And yet being up here affected Thirteen in a way that trips to Capital Markets and Commercial Banking and Product Management hadn't. Or, at least, hadn't -- as much. There was power here, and Thirteen had already confessed to Seven that the power dynamics at play at the Plaza were turning her on. Seven had confessed to the same. Thirteen wondered which of the offices they passed belonged to the General Counsel.

Manzanillo's secretary - a gorgeous young thing who couldn't have been any older than twenty-three or twenty-four - greeted the two naked mailgirls with a knowing smile. They were heading into the lion's den, and she was getting a kick out of it. She knocked on her boss's door on their behalf, showed them in, and reminded Manzanillo about an upcoming call. Whatever he was going to get up to with Seven and Thirteen, it couldn't last any longer than ten minutes or so.

Whereas Will Barrow was polished and professional, Tony Manzanillo came across like an unmade bed. It seemed unlikely that he'd have risen to his station, overseeing 80,000 employees world-wide, on merit alone. He didn't look the part. He was overweight. Fat, even. He seemed the sort of man who'd break into a sweat just sitting there at his desk. The sort who'd be huffing and puffing if he'd been forced to climb a single flight of stairs at the Plaza -- let alone the ten-at-a-time the mailgirls were expected to take. He had a bad comb-over, pudgy cheeks, and jowls. He loosened his tie as the girls entered, but it had been loose already and crooked. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone, and a well-worn white undershirt was on display, with a ill-fitting collar that looked like it had gone through the wash a few too many times.

Melanie Lowrie had pushed back against mailgirls at USF. And, for that sin, she'd been demoted down the 18th Floor and somehow forced into an administrative assistant's job in Human Capital. Tony Manzanillo had been installed as USF's new head of Human Resources, presumably based on little more than his willingness to let Senior Management have its way.

"Good morning, girls," Manzanillo smiled as his secretary left them alone with him.

"Good morning, sir," Seven replied.

"Good morning, sir," Thirteen echoed.

"Let's get a good look at you," he said. "Come over here, why don't you? 'Feet.'"

They did as they were told, taking up position a few feet in front of Manzanillo's desk. Seven on the left. Thirteen on the right. Legs spread wide, hands behind their backs.

"Not bad," Manzanillo remarked, his eyes tracing up and down Thirteen's body. She could feel them on her, lingering on her breasts. When he spoke again, he was addressing her pussy and the not the girl to which it belonged. "Open up for me. Let's see what we're working with. Use your fingers. Number Seven, you too."

Thirteen wasn't sure what he meant. Or, rather, she wasn't sure if he meant what she thought he meant. She risked a glance in Seven's direction, and confirmed that the order was exactly as she'd heard it.

Seven, parting her legs just a bit further, found either side of her pussy with each hand and spread her labia open. Thirteen, hands shaking noticeably, did the same.

"Good girls," Manzanillo praised them. He left them holding themselves, just as they were, while he licked his lips. Thirteen couldn't have been sure, but it looked as if he rubbed himself -- carefully, casually -- beneath his desk. He was silent for a moment, and the silence was more uncomfortable than if he'd asked them to do something even more humiliating.

"You look hot," he said, finally. "Your pussies. They look hot. Hot and bothered."

"Yes, sir," Seven replied on their behalf. "These mailgirls...their pussies are hot and bothered, sir."

It wasn't a lie. Thirteen couldn't believe that Seven had just admitted it like that, out loud, to Manzanillo. But it wasn't a lie. It wasn't Manzanillo, of course. It was the collective weight of the day -- every delivery she'd made, every new embarrassment she'd suffered, every time she'd been viewed as nothing more than a lowly mailgirl.

There was a plastic cup on the man's desk, one that had probably been ice coffee earlier that morning but was now nothing more than half-melted ice cubes. Manzanillo removed the lid and used his big, meaty paws to retrieve a handful of ice. "Here. Cool down."

He didn't mean...? He couldn't mean...?

He did.

"Thank you, sir," Seven said, stepping forward to take one of the cubes from his outstretched hand. "These mailgirls' pussies are hot and bothered. This will help."

Why was Seven going along with this? Why was Seven repeating the confession? He hadn't ordered her to. Seven had done this before, though. Maybe not this, exactly. But she seemed to know what Manzanillo wanted, and was playing her part.

"Thank you, sir," Thirteen said. She couldn't bring herself to repeat the rest. She took the offered ice cube, however. She knew where it was supposed to go.

Seven shivered beside her, and Thirteen knew the other girl had done what Manzanillo had wanted her to do with it. She was using her thumb and index finger of her left hand to keep her labia open, and gently touching the ice cube against the top of her slit with her right.

Thirteen followed suit. She touched herself with the ice just so. She, too, felt a shiver run up her spine. It was too intense, and she pulled it away. But, she went back with it a second time. And then a third. And then, by that fourth time, her pussy was numb enough that she could hold there in place. It was on her clit. Her throbbing, fully alive clit. As much as she hated herself, it did feel good. It did feel cool.

Was she supposed to...insert it? Again, she looked to Seven in an attempt to follow the other girl's lead. It was hard to tell exactly what Seven was up to, at least without being blatantly obvious that that's what she was doing. But, the way that Seven was standing, the way she was holding her hands, the way her right arm was rocking just ever so back-and-forth, suggested to Thirteen that her ice cube was still on the outside. She was rubbing herself with it.

Thirteen did the same.

She wasn't masturbating with the ice cube. Not exactly. It was sexual, and it was on its way to being masturbation. But it was more like foreplay. Gentle. Tender. Slow. And, of course, cold.

"When those melt, feel free to take another," Manzanillo said to them. He pushed the cup closer to their side of the desk.

"Thank you, sir," Seven said.

"Thank you...sir," Thirteen said, as well, though the honorific got stuck in her throat. She was distracted.

It went on like this for another few minutes, Manzanillo saying nothing, only watching. Seven's pussy was warmer than Thirteen's, apparently, or her ice cube had been smaller to start with; the other girl reached an empty hand into man's cup and retrieved a second piece of ice.

"That helps, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Seven answered. "Thank you, sir."

"Maybe we need to get an ice maker down in the locker room," Manzanillo snorted. "You'd think the cold showers would be enough. But, you girls. You girls are still down there, finger-fucking yourselves anyways."

Did he know what Seven had just done? Had he seen? Thirteen knew there were cameras in the locker room. Regular USF employees didn't have access to them, but it wasn't inconceivable that Manzanillo might. After all, Human Capital reported in under him.

The accusation, though, didn't come off as one specific to Seven. When Manzanillo said, "you girls," it wasn't just Seven and Thirteen he was talking about it. It was a comment on mailgirls, in general. That, even under the cold spray of water in the shower blocks, USF's mailgirls were still able to masturbate. That they needed to, and there was little that USF could do about it.

"So, Thirteen? You're our summer intern?"

"Yes, sir. Sort of, sir."

"Sort of?"

"Sort of. Yes, sir. I'm...I'm...this mailgirl is here for research."

"But we're not paying you," Manzanillo said, clarifying.

"No, sir."

"Meaning, you're doing this for free?"

Thirteen groaned inwardly. She was running around naked at the Plaza, and rubbing herself with an ice cube in front of him, and she was doing so without money changing hands. She had the grant that she had access to, but it wasn't like she needed to get into any sort of detail there. It wasn't the point. It wasn't what Manzanillo was after. "Yes, sir."

"Maybe we ought to get a few more interns," Manzanillo chuckled. "The rest of these girls are costing us a fortune. You can't be the only girl out there wired this way, ready and willing to be a mailgirl just for the charge of the thing."

Thirteen felt the thin sliver of ice against pussy melt away to water. She didn't want to take another. She did so anyways.

"Seven, what are we paying you?" Manzanillo asked.

"A lot, sir. More than I was earning in Legal," she replied. She caught her mistake, and began to correct herself. "More than this mailgirl was earning in --"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Manzanillo waved her off, annoyed. "A lot. I don't need the specific number. It's a lot. I just hope you're worth the investment."

"Yes, sir. Me, too, sir."

Manzanillo leaned to one side, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and made a show of counting out, "one, two, three...," and so on, until he got to seven.

"Seven dollars," he said, stacking the singles neatly and tapping them on his desk. "How about seven, Seven? What are you willing to do for seven dollars?"

Seven was at a loss for words. She wasn't sure how he wanted her to respond.

"Never mind," Manzanillo said, shaking his head. "I can look up your price." He turned his attention to Thirteen. "Maybe the better question, intern, is what you'd be willing to do for seven dollars?"

They were whores. USF had found Seven's price. Thirteen's was a little less black-and-white.

"Sir?" Thirteen asked, fumbling for words.

"It's not fair, is it? You're doing the same job, and Seven here is taking home a check. A big, fat check. I'll tell you what. How about you do a little dance for me? You do that, and I'll let you keep all...seven...dollars."

No, Thirteen cried to herself. Please, no. Not that.

"Sir, I --"

Manzanillo wouldn't accept no for an answer. Thirteen didn't have a choice. He shifted back to Seven. "Use that ice cube. Get her nipples nice and hard first."

Thirteen's nipples didn't need any attention. They'd been rock hard long before she'd set foot on the 47th Floor. But, with a guilty look in her eye, Seven nodded and reached for Thirteen's tits. The ice cube that had been only just now on Seven's own pussy was applied -- gently -- in a circular pattern around Thirteen's left nipple. Then, her right. Goosebumps formed on the edges of her areolae.

As Seven attended to Thirteen's chest, Manzanillo busied himself fiddling with his computer. At least both his hands were now where Thirteen could see them. A few seconds of pecking around, and he found what he'd been hunting for. Music began to play from the tiny, tinny speakers built into the desktop.

Thirteen had been a musician. If Manzanillo had handed her a violin, Thirteen would have been more in her comfort zone. In fact, possibly the only thing more embarrassing than dancing in front of him would have been if he'd asked her to sing. Her music was Mozart. It was Bach. It was Vivaldi, Haydn, Rachmaninoff. Still, though Thirteen didn't recognize the song, she was just knowledgeable enough to recognize that Manzanillo had selected the Rolling Stones for her.

"I am the little red rooster," Mick Jagger began to growl. "Too lazy to crow for day..."

She felt like an idiot. Nothing she'd done that morning, nothing she'd done yesterday, was as humiliating as this. As Seven returned to the ice on her pussy, Thirteen tried to find the beat.

"I am the little red rooster," Jagger repeated. "Too lazy to crow for day..."

Thirteen had never been to a strip club, of course. Not that she really had anything to strip off, though, either -- making that particular touchstone relatively less helpful here and now anyways. But, she swayed her hips along with the music, making a go of it, and doing her best to match the slow, sexy, purposeful rhythms of the song.

"Keep everything in the farmyard upset in every way..."

She closed her eyes, hoping that that would be okay, and tried to pretend she were alone, in the privacy of her own apartment. "You've got to dance like there's nobody watching," went the saying, and Thirteen tried to find some comfort there.

But as the song progressed, Thirteen found herself doing exactly the opposite. What did Manzanillo want? Did he like it when she dipped a shoulder towards him? Did he like it when she ran her hands down her sides? She gave her tits a slow, purposeful shake. She turned, shimmying her ass seductively in his direction. She rolled her neck and tossed her hair with purpose.