The Birth Of A Mailgirl Day 01

Day 1 - the start at home, a lesbian threesome

I discovered the Mailgirl category of stories several months ago and was quickly hooked. An absurd, but delightful premise, made entirely plausible by a number of excellent authors.

What follows is a story about a young woman, who is as hooked, amused and fascinated by the concept as I am and wants to be a Mailgirl. Not in the parallel reality as conjured up by the Mailgirl authors, but in the world that you and I inhabit.

My story is an homage to the genre.

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There is a long segment at the end that features a lesbian threesome. Lots of abstract action. Skip that, if want. Or not...

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'You want to be a Mailgirl! What? Are you serious? Why is working in the post service suddenly your thing?'

'No, not in the post service, you silly! Haven't you heard about the Mailgirl phenomenon?'

On a Friday night, the start of the weekend, I am having this exchange with my roommate, second year of college. I am twenty. In my prime, and I know it. Sally and I have been roommates since day 1, last year, when fate threw us together. It took us a few days to find our click, but since then: BFF! After our year in the dorm, we moved off campus together. We have continued to share a bedroom, because it is cosy. Separate beds though. When the occasional lover comes along, the other one of us tacitly moves to sleep on the folding bed in our little living room.

For the longest time now, we have read online erotica to each other, for fun and for titillation. We have masturbated in each other's presence, safely under the blankets though. But openly still. We occasionally see each other naked coming from the bathroom, if we forget to take our underwear along and get dressed back in the bedroom.

During the previous weekend, Sally was away back home and I stumbled upon a

Mailgirl

story. What an outlandish idea! Yet how much life was blown into it - it was incredible, it was credible, it was horrible, it was fantastic! I spent a lot of that weekend reading all the stories I could find.

So, what is the idea? The idea is that a large company employs girls, model-class or instead girl-next-door-type, to run around the building, literally, delivering messages under a risk/reward scheme, the risk being demerits on late delivery or insolence, and consequently caning, the reward being... well, to remain a mailgirl, I guess. And, frequent semi-public masturbation. Outlandish, because it is sexist, no male mailboys, and non-body-positive, as the girls are all young and model material or at least pretty. And yet, they are the bottom of the bottom of the totem pole, lower than the lowest in the company and all other employees and guests are allowed to undress them with their eyes, shamelessly, and to insult them. Undress them

as it were

, because, fasten your seatbelts, they are nude at all times! (And it is legal!)

Nude, with addition of their number marked on their hips, they are 'in uniform.' Nude, they run around the corporate building, wearing a smartphone through which they receive their directions, delivering messages, apparently voluntarily, seduced by their own ticks and by a wad of money at the end of their contracts. What is in it for the corporation? Higher morale, a raised bottom line... such corporate things!

The stories account of the young women, with their highs, lows and doubts. They function alone or in pairs, but their hub is the communal Mailgirl locker room, where they shower and make up, and pee openly, and masturbate, with the walls being one-sided mirrors so that they can be observed. Not all can hack the situation and some disappear, but those that stay are described as getting off on the vibes, on their companions, whatever, and get seriously hooked. And aroused! A way to self-confidence, empowerment! Ludicrous, but many stories are convincing and evocative. And, compelling!

So, I tell Sally, I want to be a Mailgirl! She says, leave it with me and spends the rest of Friday evening reading up on the subject.

Before we go to sleep, she says, the stories are ridiculous, as you say! But, as you also say, compelling! I will dream about Mailgirls tonight. And so will you.

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The next day is a Saturday and we eat breakfast together at the kitchen table. I have already showered and sit in my robe, hair wet. She sits there in knickers and T-shirt, straight out of bed.

Sally suddenly asks me, 'Now, Vita, do you have a fat black waterproof marker?' What is she on about? 'Well, I don't know... Let me think... Ah, I do! You know, we made a banner for

the Sexual Harrassment at College

demonstration two months ago, remember?' 'You're right. Get it, will you?' I am inclined to reply, get it yourself, because we bought it together, but somehow, I just get up and get it. Her tone of voice, I guess. When I return with the marker and hand it to her, she smiles at me mischievously and says, 'So, you want to be a Mailgirl, eh?' 'A Mailgirl, well, it is fun to fantasise about it, isn't it? To play at being one?' 'Yes, to play... Okay, let's play! Please drop the robe.' I didn't see that one coming and am slow to respond. 'Anything the matter with your hearing? Drop the robe!' She slaps her hand on my butt. With the robe it doesn't really hurt, but I start nonetheless. And drop the robe.

Picture the situation. A sunny Saturday morning, a small kitchen, one girl standing in front of her seated friend. The one standing is naked, dark wet hair, dark bush, slender hips, left breast a trifle heavier than the right, with a taken-aback look; the other in ragged green T-shirt and grey knickers, dirty blond hair with a red rinse, looking her friend over from head to toe.

'Offer me your right hip, Vita,' Sally says. I do as I am told and turn left a quarter circle. She removes the marker cap, stretches the skin of my right hip with her left hand and with her right writes, 'MG #1', in fat 5 cm capitals. 'There, you are a Mailgirl now! We'll renew this every morning from now on. That is

One

.'

'

Two

is, you will be naked indoors at all times, unless I allow you otherwise. Is that understood?' 'Yes, but...' 'No but. You want to be a Mailgirl or not?' 'Okay. We will play.' 'We'll play, but within the playing, you ARE a Mailgirl, is that clear?' 'Not entirely, but okay, I will be a Mailgirl.' 'That is right!'

'So,

third

, you will never close, let alone cross your legs in this house.' 'OK, Sally.'

'

Forth

, when I issue a command, you will respond with, "Yes, Ma'am!" You don't have the right to use my name.' 'Okay', I say and receive a slap on my buttock, bare this time.' 'Oh... Yes, Ma'am!' '" Yes, Ma'am." That is my girl!'

'Now,

fifth

, you will learn the "Kneel", "Feet" and "Toes" positions and assume them whenever I call for them.' 'Yes, Ma'am!'

'

Sixth

, you will always sprint your way from A to B in this apartment, never just walk. I wanna see those titties bounce, you hear.' 'Yes, Ma'am!'

'

Seventh

. Today, you will shave your twat and hence will keep it soft and bare.' 'But, Sally...! Oh... Yes, Ma'am!' I receive two slaps on my butt for my two transgressions - the "but" and "Sally".

'

Eighth

, at the end of each day, I will administer the accumulated punishments for the day, by bare hand on your ass. No discussion. Those, in addition to those you receive

in the moment

.'

'

Nineth

, which should have come first, you are a Mailgirl and have no name, but your MG#, #1 in your case. Vita does not exist. Is that understood, MG#1?' 'Understood, Ma'am. Vita does not exist.'

Sally closes with, 'There may be more rules as we go along, because I am sure I have forgotten some essentials.' 'Okay! Sorry... yes, Ma'am!' She lets it go.

Finally, Sally is done. She stands up, hugs me and issues a broad smile. 'This will be fun, won't it?' I beam back, 'Yes, it will Sal!' She raises her hand to slap me, but in this moment of joy leaves it at that. 'For the next couple of hours, we'll just act normally, laugh, watch TV, drink tea, except you'll be naked and won't cross your legs. And if I issue a command, you'll know and respond. I won't let you play slave girl to me. That would be a bit too obvious. And too sexual. What am I saying...? A bit slave girl and a bit sexual is part of the Mailgirl concept. So, from time to time I will look at you, undress you, so to speak. And from time to time, I will command you to "Kneel" and masturbate. We have masturbated in each other's presence, of course, but I have never

seen

you do it. Nor any other girl for that matter.' Wow, I didn't see that coming. I develop a cold sweat. Sally? Another broad smile... which turns dark after a short while. Oh, no.

'Kneel, Mailgirl No. 1!' I am paralysed. She looks at me, with menace. Slaps me hard on my behind. 'Don't you understand English? Or, worse, don't you know what "Kneel" means?' 'I do, Ma'am!' 'So, do it!'

This may be the hardest thing I have ever been asked to, no... commanded to do. And I trust and love Sally. I assume the 'Kneel' position. I crouch down, get to rest on my toes and knees, knees far apart, gaze to the ground, arms relaxed on the outside of my thighs. My sex is opened, for now still largely hidden by my bush. Which is to disappear, if Sally remembers. She will. I am no prude, but this so embarrassing and demeaning. Like nothing ever was. 'Now, Mailgirl #1, masturbate.' Again, I hesitate. Again, she slaps me, on my right breast and pinches its nipple hard. Hard! I close my eyes in pain, inhale sharply.

I begin. I move my right hand between my thighs, my index finger finds my slit and my love button and begins circling it slowly. In alternation, I pull on my ample pubic hair, until it hurts. Then go back to my clit and slit. If my mind isn't on the task when I start, I make a conscious effort to consider the floor in front of me and move inside, manage to go into a stare and find my inner space, and find my memories of past pleasure, find present pleasure and am off. I don't know how long it takes before I get well lubricated, before I start dripping, before my high starts to develop, before I orgasm once, and twice and thrice and stop with a grunt.

After a long, long minute I find that arms embrace me and that Sally's voice whispers sweet words. I cry briefly and she hushes me. 'Thank you, Vita... That was so intense, so moving... Thank you so much.' She leads me to the couch, sits and has me lay down, my head in her lap. She strokes my hair.

After twenty minutes I recover and sit upright next to Sally - who corrects me with a little peck on my thigh when I mechanically cross one leg over the other. We laugh. 'It is hard, when you are well brought up like us, isn't it?' she says. 'Yes, Ma'am.' 'Oh, Vita, you don't have to call me Ma'am all the time!' Strange, that it is now I that has to insist on discipline in the process. 'Yes, Ma'am, for now, I should. I'd like to immerse myself in the role, Ma'am. And please call me Mailgirl#1, please. Do not use the name I forewent. Until further notice, at least.' 'Okay, we are carrying this far. You are right. But you can sit on our furniture though - we will not be taking it that far.' 'Thank you, Ma'am, maybe we should do some of the time.' 'Okay, and sometimes we will play harder.' Strange, her leniency, her inconsistency. She is still getting her bearings too, sweet Sal.

I get up to go to the bathroom. I start walking normally, but Sally jumps up and slaps me on the butt. 'I am starting to hurt myself!' She laughs as she shakes the pain off her hand. 'Run! Always run! A Mailgirl always runs.' And I run the 10 m to the bathroom. Breasts bouncing hard. I have C-cups. Awkward, having to run. The distances are too short to get really out of breath, however. I don't work out per se, but I am used to cover most of the local distances by foot or bicycle, instead of driving (I don't own a car.) I could lose a pound or two, but, yeah, who couldn't? I don't eat too much. And healthy. The true key to weight control.

A typical lazy Saturday, today turns out to be. I get used to my nudity. The challenges are to not cross my legs and to run when I move. I bump into the edge of a chair doing it, which hurt a lot for a minute. Every ten minutes or so, I have a moment when I realise the situation - me, naked, playing Mailgirl, Sally, dressed, commanding me. It is a turn-on.

Like we normally do on Saturdays, we go out to our favourite coffee bar mid-afternoon. I am not called upon to do this naked, but I don't really enjoy getting dressed. It is warm outside, so I volunteer to wear just a loose-fitting, hippy-esque summer dress and no knickers, with trainers and little socks as footwear.

No knickers

is strange, but to me not less strange is

no bra

. I am a free kind of woman, but I never ever go out without bra. I consider my breasts too heavy and bouncy for that. So, going like I am now is a serious nod to my Mailgirl existence. Fortunately, Sally is not inclined to run the couple of blocks to the coffee place, so I am not called to duty that way. But the feeling is very unusual as it is and disconcerting, a bit, yet stimulating! My nipples chafing against the dress as they jiggle! Lord! I have to actively seek diversion in my conversation with Sally. The topic is boys. Featuring a guy called Fred, whom she seeks to ensnare.

The Mailgirl literature highlights how addictive, but also how empowering the Mailgirl existence is. I have smelt a faint whiff of this during the day. The forced masturbation is a case in point. This can become addictive! I am almost afraid. Even though I am no prude, make no mistake, the masturbation was so very embarrassing. But then the climax was so intense, probably the most intense I have ever tasted. Lord, what is happening to me?

When we are settling in the coffeebar it emerges that Sally does aim to keep me to the

not-cross-your-legs

rule. I don't think I have ever sat at a low coffeebar table with my legs uncrossed for more than a minute. The comfy seat being low, my knees are up and if I am not careful, the skirt will slide downward and expose my cunt (I deliberately use this abrasive term - I am in the mood!) I keep my knees a foot apart or so, but continue tucking the skirt down between my legs. Sally lets me, thankfully. We still talk about boys. She is in love and we talk about the designs to reel young man Fred in. The stars seem to be right, she believes...

When we get back to the apartment, I waste not a second to get naked again. Well, maybe a second, because Ma'am is not pleased. Once I am naked, she leads me to the wall, lines me up face towards it, arms up, chest and cheek against the wall, butt extending away from the wall. Once I am in position, she repairs to the kitchen and comes back with the spatula we use for stir-frying. Without warning, she slaps my butt with the thing, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten times - she makes me count. She is forceful and I cry the numbers out loud for the last five. Again, not wasting a minute, she drops the spatula, takes my hand and leads me to the couch. I whimper, 'Thank you, Ma'am. This Mailgirl is well corrected.'

This time, she sits down in the middle and has me lie down across her lap facedown. She rubs and rubs my distressed buttocks to ease the pain. She is a kind mistress. She softly addresses me, 'MG#1, I hope I am a good mistress. Not too kind, not too hard. I will cook dinner tonight and you'll get a rest. We'll see what we do tonight. Are you happy being a Mailgirl, MG#1?' 'Yes, Ma'am, I am. Really.' I flinch slightly as she guides me to sitting beside her. My ass is still glowing. Strange, but I do cherish the feeling. A badge of honour or something.

True to her word, Ma'am cooks us a tasteful and sustaining dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese. Mailgirl#1 is happy. After dinner, Sally tells me to clean up and do the dishes. Like I am, of course. She sits at the kitchen table while I do this and watches me. I sense that I'm putting on a little show. After all, we are playing, aren't we? Playing at Mailgirl and Mistress. Let her admire me, in an ever so slightly exaggerated form. Extra graceful, and making sure she sees all sides of me, in every possible posture, bending forward, backward and sideways, moving fast and slowly, gyrating my hips, singing as I go along. 'Ah, love to love you, baby...' When the show reaches its natural ending, she says, 'We could go out, but I'd prefer to stay home. Plus, we are not quite ready to out you as a Mailgirl.' I interject, 'To out me? What do you have in mind?' 'Hush... No, I can't tell you what I am planning to do. Tomorrow, hopefully, we should be able to go out. Besides, you're a Mailgirl, not party to important decisions. No decisions at all, to be exact.'

'So, shall we just watch a film? Switch off for a little while more?', I offer. 'Switch off more? Was dinner not enough switching off? Was it not you who wanted to be a Mailgirl? It is not a parttime job, you know, it's 24/7. Your insolence bothers me. Besides, it is time for some more punishment, isn't it?' 'Punishment? But why, Sally? I was already punished this afternoon, can't even remember for what!' 'Just because! You forget I am not Sally to you, but Ma'am! That is one reason for punishment. And you know why you deserve a double punishment?'

'No... I don't know...? Why? I am not sure about all this punishment...'

'You don't know? Really? We talked about it this morning. And said we would take care of it this evening. I am looking right at the issue.'

She is looking at... my bush! Oh, dear!

I have been proud of my bush ever since the first few hairs started sprouting. I had wanted to graduate from little girl to woman from when I was nine, ten years old. Had to wait too long, until eleven or so. I called it "my bush" when there were only five or ten hairs there. I distinctly remember being proud it - I was no longer a baby! My bush turned out to be quite dense. I do limit it, keeping my groin area free of hair, and the perineum and asshole area, but I let the rest grow to its natural length. So, with a dense growth and the curliness my vulva complete with slit is completely invisible.

'You are not making me shave my bush, are you? I am proud of it and have never ever shaven. All I have ever done is trim the sides, in order to safely wear a bikini and the shaving down there has only been the bikini line.'

Sally looks at my bush and reaches out to ruffle it. 'I agree, if you like bushes, yours is a great one. Okay, I know what we'll do. We'll clear your vagina, pardon, your Mailgirl cunt, and leave the rest that grows above. We'll just trim it. For now. If we decide later that you'll continue as Mailgirl, all the hair has got to go!'

'Continue as Mailgirl! What are you thinking!?'

'Me? Do I have to remind you it was you who announced you wanted to be a Mailgirl?'

'Okay, okay, that is what I said, but I meant it as fantasy or whatever!'

'Yet here you are, having played Mailgirl for half a day already. To your satisfaction, I hasten to add. And I am not just referring to your orgasms! My satisfaction too, I will admit. So, do you want to stop now and forget about it? The bush... Okay, I suppose we could spare it and not go all the way. Yet. So, you may be glad! Not that you have a choice, as Mailgirl. But, do you agree with what I propose now?'

'Yes, Ma'am. Thank you for your understanding, Ma'am!'

It could be worse. She ruffles my hair some more and pulls it this way and that.

'Yeah, well... Disgusting it is, the hair, really. Isn't it? No, it isn't, really, I have got some too, but for a Mailgirl it is unbecoming. Get us the stuff to sheer it off! Chop, chop!'