Calling Their Bluff

Thirteen wasn't the fastest mailgirl – that honor probably belonged to Sixteen or Four. But she wasn't the slowest, either. She admittedly picked up a few more demerits than average, but it was Twelve who seemed to be subjected to a punishment on an almost daily basis (to the point that some of the other girls had begun to speculate she enjoyed it more than the rest). She wasn't a "star," like One or Fourteen, both of whom had decided to embrace what it meant to be a mailgirl more than others. No, Thirteen was a middle-of-the-road performer, but a middle-of-the-road performer who'd been cursed with a small bladder.

She'd suffered two accidents, both earlier in the summer, both of which still embarrassed her more than just about any other humiliation she'd suffered at USF. The first, in the actual mailroom, had been her own fault, that first week as a mailgirl. She'd simply been too embarrassed to ask, and had convinced herself that she could make it to her next break. That had been a small one, as she'd bolted to the bathroom without permission as it began to happen; she was paddled by Mistress Zero until her ass glowed. The second accident, two weeks later, had taken place more publicly, in Investment Financing, and was the result of a particularly bitchy administrative assistant who refused to grant Thirteen permission. She knew she was in trouble as soon as she'd taken her place on the mat, as she hadn't entirely learned to regulate her water intake at that point. She lost control, to the disgust and contempt of everyone in the area, and to this day hated having to go to Investment Financing more than just about any other department in the building. Custodial had been called, but it was Thirteen who had to clean up her own mess, and then carry the soiled mat down to the locker room and report the incident to Mistress Zero. She'd been paddled again, of course. But, as she apparently hadn't learned her lesson the first time, she'd also suffered her first overnight in the locker room – gagged, blindfolded, handcuffed, and leashed to her locker at the end of Evening Shift, and then left to sleep on the hard, tiled floor until Mistress Zero arrived the next morning.

About half the girls had had an accident at least once, usually in the first week or two. Only Thirteen and Nine had suffered the indignity twice. And while that wasn't Thirteen's last overnight stay in the locker room, it was her last overnight stay for that particular offense; Thirteen hadn't had an accident since.

Finished, Thirteen joined Mrs. Shean at the sinks and washed her hands. The receptionist then dutifully punched her employee ID into Thirteen's smartphone once more, logging that the bathroom break was over, and led the naked girl back to her desk.

Bladder empty and her morning break pending, Thirteen stopped for a drink before returning to her station. She got down on all fours at the silver dog bowl, and then dipped her face down to the water. As the bowl was full enough, she sipped with her lips, but she wasn't above lapping up water with her tongue when the water level got low.

"I will never get tired of looking at that!" Thirteen heard from behind her, and she knew that she and Mrs. Shean were no longer along in the reception area.

She was fully aware of how exposed she was. Her head was down, her ass was in the air, and her sex on display like a female animal presenting.

Thirteen swallowed, and then turned her head. She dared not look up and meet their eyes, but confirmed that there were three men now behind her. And, while she doubted that she was being addressed directly, she offered a "Thank you, sir," nonetheless.

Indeed, as she returned to her mat, it was clear that the three men – all about her age – were talking to one another, about her, as if she couldn't hear them. One of them had pressed the down button for the elevator, and they continued to talk as they waited for their car.

"Look at those lips," one of them offered. And, though Thirteen couldn't be sure which set of lips he was talking about, she suspected they'd moved on to her mouth. "Those are lips tailor-made for providing relief."

They all laughed. "Providing relief" was mailgirl program code for a blowjob, though thankfully the practice hadn't spread to USF. Thirteen had chosen to do her research at USF specifically because the company had drawn a line in the sand of just how far they were willing to go, and "relief" was off the table, as were insertions and touching of almost every kind. Her faculty advisor, Gillian Schang, had known Human Capital's Will Barrow back as an undergraduate, and felt that with Will in charge USF wouldn't tolerate some of the over-the-line abuse that plagued any number of mailgirl programs elsewhere.

Which wasn't to say that abuse didn't happen; after all, that was what the mailgirl program was all about.

One of the other men glanced over his shoulder, to check if Mrs. Shean was paying them any attention. She wasn't. He ever so slowly and quietly unzipped his fly, and whispered, "Hey, Tits. Open up."

Thirteen steeled herself. He wasn't going to do it. Of course he wasn't going to do it. At least, not here, not now. And so, calling his bluff, she met his eyes, opened her mouth, and dared him to follow through.

"Do it," laughed another of the three men, urging him on.

Thirteen could have protested, could have called Mrs. Shean's attention, and could have told them she'd report them for harassing her this way. But it wasn't worth it. She could handle this, this childish level of bullying, without sounding an alarm. It was nowhere near the abuse she suffered at the hands of Mistress Zero, and it wasn't so objectionable that she needed to make three new enemies.

But before the game of chicken could go any further, the first man grabbed her roughly by the chin, and asked, "Aren't you supposed to correct him? For not using your number?"

The whole thing was supposed to feel menacing, and Thirteen was supposed to feel victimized. She was naked, on her knees, and surrounded on all side by fully-dressed young men. She smiled, however, knowing full well that she'd called them out. She might have even been willing to take him into her mouth, as she'd been willing to do to Hoblitzel, confident that the repercussions to her – while painful – would be nowhere near as severe as they'd be to the three of them. To the one with her chin in his hand, she said, "Yes, sir." To the one whose fly was open, she corrected, "Thirteen, sir."

"Thirteen," he laughed, starting to get uncomfortable. "Open up."

But though Thirteen parted her lips and opened her mouth, the offending member never came.

"Gentlemen?" Mrs. Shean called over. It wasn't a question. It was an admonishment.

These three young men probably earned more in a week than Mrs. Shean did in a year, but she still held some power over them, as if she were scolding them like their mothers might have. They looked over at her sheepishly, and apologetically. And then the whole confrontation ended abruptly, when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

When they were gone, and Thirteen was again alone with the receptionist, Mrs. Shean shook her head and wondered aloud, "I don't know how HR expects them to get anything done with you girls strutting around with all your goods on display."

Thirteen knelt silently.

The older woman looked over at her now, directly, and seemed to be sizing her up. Not physically, as Thirteen was used to, but deeper. Psychologically. Puzzling through the naked mailgirl's inner workings, figuring out just what made her tick.

"You get off on this, don't you?"

Thirteen hesitated. Three months ago, when she first started at USF, she might have issued a denial. Now?

"Yes, Mrs. Shean."

"That's what I thought," she responded. She went back to her typing, but not before amending, "Who knows? Maybe if I was in your position..." She trailed off.