Finger and Peppermint

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.

Hoblitzel cleared his throat. He looked down at his smartphone, and then up, confusedly, at Thirteen.

"This says it's your last day here at the Plaza?"

"Yes, sir," Thirteen answered. No eye contact.

Hoblitzel hesitated, and then asked, "I thought you all signed two year contracts?"

Two years was the standard length of a mailgirl's contract worldwide, not just at USF. The length of subsequent contracts, when a girl re-upped, tended to vary a bit more; but, even then, two years tended to be the accepted standard. Thirteen, however, was here at the USF Plaza for just three months.

"Yes, sir," Thirteen replied. "It's just me. I'm was only here for the summer."

Hoblitzel looked confused.

"I'm a graduate student at Yale, sir. Anthropology. I'm studying mailgirl culture for my thesis."

"'Mailgirl culture,'" Hoblitzel repeated, as if he could not understand how Thirteen didn't realize how inane the idea was. He shook his head, stood, and came around to the other side of his desk. "Jesus. You don't even work here."

She did, technically, work here – albeit as a mailgirl, for another ten-plus hours. But she understood what the executive in front of her meant, and she saw no upside in correcting him.

"And I thought Amanda was stupid..." he amended, but allowed the thought to trail off.

"Number Three, sir," Thirteen corrected him this time. She was required to.

Hoblitzel just raised an eyebrow. He paused, looked down at the naked blonde kneeling alluringly on his floor, and then bumped his phone against the device on her arm. "Yes," he conceded, "Three."

"Here," he said, turning back to the desk, and fished another piece of hard candy out of his bowl. "One more, as a thank you." He unwrapped another peppermint, and then – without asking permission, held it up to Thirteen's lips.

Thirteen took the candy graciously, even as Hoblitzel's forefinger ever-so-gently welcomed itself into her mouth – touching her tongue, running absently over her lower lip, and then cupping her chin so that she was finally forced to make eye contact. She wasn't sure, exactly, what he wanted from her, so she met his eyes briefly, offered a submissive, "Thank you, sir," and then averted her gaze.

His dismissed her, this time with more of a pinch of her than a pat. He closed his office door behind her, and the counter on Thirteen's smartphone buzzed to life.

In another world and in another life, Thirteen might have needed a moment to collect herself, to cool herself down. The thought of servicing Hoblitzel with her mouth, or the thought of bending over and servicing him with her pussy, had been all she'd thought about over the last half hour. He was in the position of power. He was in control over her. And she was nothing more than a set of tits and ass. In another world and another life, she likely wouldn't have gotten so turned on in the first place.

But Thirteen now had a delivery to make and a deadline to meet, and so her entire being was making that delivery; she had just thirty seconds to dash – walk swiftly, in this case – down the hallway to Mark Stansbury, the first of six recipients. As she passed Hoblitzel's assistant and the analysts seated in cubicles outside his office, she paid no attention to those who lifted their heads to watch her go by. She paid no attention to the leers, the whispered derision, or the catcalls.