The Birth of a Mailgirl Day 02 – Fetish


Day 2 – the garden party

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

The previous part covered Day 1 of Vita as MailGirl, when she was broken in, masturbated in front of her roommate Sally, was exposed to Lauren, Sally’s good friend, and experienced an intense lesbian threesome with these women.

On Day 2, she gets to go to a garden party and is exposed to an audience, who make her run around and things.

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On Sunday we wake up late. I wonder where I am…

The bed feels unfamiliar. I hesitate before I open my eyes. Flurries of memories float into my consciousness, memories of yesterday’s wet orgy. Oh, sweet lord!

When I do open my eyes, I figure out what is wrong with the picture – I am in Sally’s bed, naked of course. Sally’s taunting gaze greets me – from my own bed. (No big deal, as such, but some recent process has fostered the mix-up. Lauren was here and…)

‘Get up, you lazy cow. You just missed Lauren’s exit, who could no longer stomach the smell of sex and debauchery. She sends her compliments and regards. “You have a been a very good MG,” she said. I am not sure about that. Get me my coffee, lazy bones.’

I jump out of bed. I am too sleepy to realise I am not Vita, a junior student of law, but merely a Mailgirl! ‘Come here, MG#1,’ shocks me and I immediately realise my grave error. ‘Yes, Ma’am, sorry Ma’am,’ and I present my dirty unwashed ass to my Mistress, reeking of sex. The gesture is rewarded by a fierce slap on my butt. ‘Thank you, Ma’am, for reminding this insolent Mailgirl.’ Sally smiles and waves me off.

When I return with the coffees, she orders me to stand next to her bed. ‘A Mailgirl is not allowed to use furniture, normally, you know? I forgot to let you sleep on the floor. And since you didn’t remind me, I will punish you when I get out of bed.’ She looks up at me from her bed (my bed) and smiles. ‘You wonder why else? Aside from the fact that you momentarily forgot you are a Mailgirl?’

How did she… ‘I saw it in your eyes!’ Oh, she saw it in my eyes! I am lost if she can read my mind. ‘The fact is that there’s also that remaining bush! Lauren seemed to agree: it must go. Mailgirls don’t have bushes. Just be aware that I have planned the rest of the day for you!’ ‘Wow! You’re not going to have me naked at the garden party? Because no way I am gonna do that!! And without bush??!! And with my battered ass?’

We have both been invited to a garden party this afternoon. By a friend of Sally’s, Sean. Her love interest is gonna come too. Fred, best friend of Sean’s. The wondered had crossed my mind that Sally could be planning a public Mailgirl experience for me, but this is the first time she mentioned it. In hindsight, it was ominous the party wasn’t mentioned once yesterday.

‘Yes, I am going to have you naked at the garden party! Without bush and with battered ass. I have already asked Sean, our host. He raved about it! And you won’t know too many of the guests, so it will be fun for you, little risk of reputation damage. You can tell them all about Mailgirls and demonstrate. Sean will make a bunch of pro-forma message forms for his guests to fill out and for you to share running about. Could be love letters or little requests for dates or who’s-making-dinner-tonight notes, who knows!?’

‘Lord! What have I done?!’ ‘Vita, I believe you are living a dream. Let go and live the dream! Are you worried about the party?’ ‘Sort of.’ ‘No need to. One) It is safe. You won’t get raped or anything. #MeToo has built an impact, you know. Two) Don’t worry about your reputation. For any male fool that will dismiss you as a slut, there are two that will love it. As to the girls, two that will envy you for any one that hates you.

‘No, the only real danger is that you will love it too much, will want to continue playing Mailgirl and expose yourself always and be permanently horny. It could really be that the Mailgirl stories have got that one right. If, of course, you are a certain type of woman. Confident, then your confidence will grow. Anyhow, MG#1, I command you to do it.’

‘Errr… Alright, Ma’am, but you better make sure I safe.’

‘We will make sure of that. But first we are gonna take care of your bush. Yes, after all! I will free you of what remains of that nasty patch of hair down there. You know what stuff we need. Don’t forget the oil.’ I run to get the things.

She breaks new ground when she buzzes off the hair that was left after yesterday’s ordeal. This time she buzzes without guard, reducing my proud patch to a hardly visible stubble. Oh… The job is concluded by liberally lathering up the whole vulva area and scraping away, away until there is no more to scrape away. Looking down upon her head, seeing her alert gaze, I know that she concentrates. Again, to see her apply herself to this intimate area of mine moves me but again I manage not to cry!

Sex and sexual organs – do they dominate my view of the world? Is that sad?

When Sally is done, she passes me a hand-mirror. I study my vulva – the last time it was nude like so was when I was very young and not interested or even aware of sex and all that. I am…, both Sally and I are fascinated. She still has a full bush, like I did, and has in the past gone a little towards what I have now, as a few years ago she sported a landing strip. She has never had the privilege of shaving and inspecting a vulva before, including her own. Interesting… Fascinating…

We hug and jump around together, for a bit.

But there is the task in hand too. The new normality. ‘Kneel, MG#1!’

Here I go again. This time I know perfectly what the “Kneel” position is and I know to react swiftly. I crouch down, getting to rest on my toes and knees, knees far aside, arms relaxed outside of my thighs. My sex is opened, now no longer hidden by the absent bush. It is embarrassing and demeaning, I have not got used to showing my sex.

‘MG#1, you know the drill… Masturbate.’

Oh dear…

But this time there is no hesitation and I start. Why? Like in the stories, my shamelessness, opposite Sally at any rate, has lost its anchor. Worse, my desire has too. I have not been unaroused since I woke up and welcome the release. Amazing… It is only the second time I masturbate, here, under Sally’s gaze. Mailgirls are horny. Full stop.

I move my right hand between my thighs, my index finger finds my slit and my love button and begins circling it slowly. Can not pull on my hair anymore… Have to modify my game. I move inside within seconds, my gaze goes into a stare and I discover my inner space, and discover my memories of yesterday’s pleasure, which transforms into present pleasure and I am off. It takes no time before I get well lubricated. I begin dripping immediately, before my high starts to rise, before I orgasm once, and twice and thrice. With a grunt I stop.

I fear masturbating is starting to become routine.

‘Wow, Vita, you are getting good at this. You are in bloom. I am envious. Perhaps we should take turns being Mailgirls. Perhaps I will blossom too.’ She looks at me pensively. As if I want to take turns and not be the Mailgirl always. Perhaps I am already hooked on this role indeed.

Sally springs to life again and offers to make lunch. ‘Why don’t you freshen up? Really… You smell of sex! Yesterday’s and today’s!’ Her face shows mock-disgust.

‘Let me think… Since we are going out later, why don’t you make up, to a max degree, as if you are gonna a formal ball. Same for your hair, wear it as if you’d be wearing an evening gown, with a ribbon in your hair. Great contrast to your bareness. And redo the ID on your hip.’

I am sold by Sally’s recommendations and try to excel. When I am done making up and doing my hair, I look in the face mirror above the washbasin and think I look stunning. Then I turn to the full-length mirror and I am stunned once more. Sally’s ploy works wonderfully. I see myself smile. It’s so absurd, to be naked and dressed up like this. I will build a storm at the party.

After lunch, we have an hour before we need to be going. We discuss the plan. Sally will drive. She has a poncho cape, a light little something you wear over a bikini for modesty when you are gonna the shore. I am to wear that for the journey, and only then. In the public space our reputation is crucial, indeed. No need to mention not provoking the police. Real Mailgirls may be transported, like dogs, in a transportation crate of sorts. Maybe some other time, if we stick to the Mailgirl-ism.

We leave the house, she dressed in a nice summer dress and booties (dressed to impress, she has designs on a man Fred, remember?), I in the poncho. Inside the house, at rest, the poncho nicely covers my crotch. When striding, my hips and sometimes my crotch will be revealed. Walking to the car, with an added nice summery breeze, I feel the flows of air on my body – nice! more than nice – and Sally attests to severe instances of wardrobe malfunction. Bare cunt alert!

The drive takes half an hour. By design, we arrive fifteen minutes early. We park on the street and leave the car. Again, the flows of air – I feel naked already. The house is a small manor house – Sean’s parents are rich, but away for the weekend, so the place belongs to Sean and, as it turns out, his sister Grace.

Grace and Sean greet us at the door. At the end of a long corridor the garden beckons. Sally has explained what a Mailgirl is to Sean on the phone and he on his turn to Grace, so they know. Grace takes my poncho and looks me over, touches the MG#1 marking on my hip. ‘So, very interesting! Great entertainment. She looks good too, nicely dolled up. I like your style! And how scandalously bare her vulva is! I have never seen a naked vulva before, in real life that is.’ She reaches out and feather-touches my vulva for a moment. Then she grabs my shoulder and turns me around. ‘I need to see her ass. Perhaps the sexiest part of a woman’s body. But… what is this? My… She has been chastised? Well, well… Did she really deserve it?’ A rhetorical question, so Sally does not answer, but they smile to each other. Mind, throughout this monologue, she has addressed Sally, not me. She knows the ropes.

‘Mailgirl#1, run to the end of the corridor and back. We need to see your fitness.’ Sally nods and commands me, ‘Go, MG#1, let them see what you have got!’, and plants a precautionary slap on my butt cheek. That hurts, given the spatula markings that still clever. ‘Ouch!’, and I get another one. ‘The text is, “Thank you, Ma’am”!’ Oooooh, how did I forget! ‘Thank you, Ma’am! This Mailgirl needed the correction!’ ‘That is a good MG! Now, show us what you have got!’

I know I have no choice, I signed up for this, and bolt to the end of the corridor, some fifteen, twenty meters, turn around and bolt back. Oh, these flapping tits, a woman’s plight! I get three amused faces for my effort – now joined by two more belonging to another couple that has just arrived; puzzled, of course, but amused. And by another two, of Sally’s love design – she gives me a prod and looks in his direction. I follow her gaze. Nice man.

Sean says, ‘Hi, guys. Welcome! We are just admiring MG#1, as she wishes to be known. She will be the entertainment for today. Sally – whom you know, I think? – is her owner, as they say. Don’t you just love MG#1’s body? Go again, MG#1, strut your stuff! Look at her bouncing tits!’

The faces of the new arrivals signal the onset of indignation, you-can’t-say-that-anymore-since-#MeToo-kind-of-sentiment. Sally jumps in and explains the whole MG philosophy, the inverse route to feminism. And that I consent, truly, more than that, want to be treated this way. ‘Don’t you, MG#1?’ I nod and smile. The couple frowns, but doesn’t keep me from bolting up the corridor and back once more. Sally’s love design, let’s call him by his name, Fred, applauds.

Further guests have started to arrive and Sally occasionally backtracks her story to bring everyone up to date. I have assumed the ‘Feet’ position: on my feet, shoulder-width aside, arms relaxed along my body, tits forward, eyes on the ground. Soon, the crowd at the front door has grown too large for the show to continue there. Sally commands, ‘MG#1, go, that is: run to the middle of the lawn and assume the “Kneel” position. You’ll hear from me.’ And heads crane up to see my body spurt through the corridor for the third time and disappear outside.

The lawn is vast. I select a spot in front of a circular rose garden, turn around to face the house, some 30 m off, and ‘Kneel’, eyes on the ground. I am in the sun; it’s warm, yet not uncomfortably so. I descend into meditation.

Picture the scene: single me, basking in the warmth of the sun, naked and shorn, tits out, cunt open, eyes on the ground, meditating on the lawn of strangers, with some twenty guests trickling out on the lawn, not failing to look at me, thirty, forty people still to arrive. I sense their gazes, in growing numbers.

I am as yet unannounced. Naturally, the hosts are waiting for everybody to be there before doing that. But meanwhile, groups gather in front of me, around me, look at me, talk about me, not to me, disperse and are replaced by other groups. Sally briefed a number of the early guests at the door and, by methods of Chinese whispers, I am being explained by people who have heard her. Has Sally expanded on how shamelessly the women and men are invited to look me over? I feel they are fairly subdued – but looking at the ground, I don’t see any expressions on faces – I only know they keep their distance, i.e., don’t bend down and breathe on my skin.

The comments, however, are getting a bit forward. ‘What a slut, no? Outrageous, what is she thinking? Nice tits. Breasts, be polite. Haha, why be polite to a slut! This girl, I think she has courage! Looks good too. Would you join her, my love? Haha, that would be taking it too far! Not sure I’d look good enough, to be honest? You are a bit silent? Are you thinking about it? Hush, silly! Too bad about the pubes, she cannot hide behind those. Do you think she will move? Move, slut!’ To which Sally says, ‘Okay, she will, you know. Just a little bit of patience.’ Apparently, she is standing by. Glad for that!

I hear her talking to someone, a man, cannot hear what they say. I steal a peek. Sally does not register my transgression. It is to Fred she is talking. Of course, he registered her connection to the entertainment of today when he arrived and appeared to be enjoying me and her and whatnot. They are looking at me and discussing me. Lots of smiles. His hand on her shoulder. Good for her. Glad to be of assistance.

I have to concentrate on maintaining this ‘Kneel’ position. Or rather, not concentrate, but ‘be’ and relax somehow! The garden is getting crowded. A lot of chattering going on. I am getting nervous. You know, I have only been a Mailgirl for a day and a half! Have never been naked in public before! Daunting! I am confident… I am confident… I am confident…

Eventually – finally! – the moment arrives when Sean and Sally drag me up from the kneeling position. ‘Up! Up!’ Sean shouts, ‘Everyone! Please can I have your attention!’ After a few calls, he succeeds in mustering the attention of all. He welcomes the crowd, blabbers on about how pleased he is to see them all, for his sake and that of his sister Grace, where the drinks are and the snacks, how everybody should help themselves, as they have clearly done already, how they should feel free generally, that they can use the swimming pool, just be mindful of the neighbours, but not too much so, and so on and so forth. Meanwhile, I am standing next to him, slightly back, naked, with Sally by my side. The elephant in the room.

He finally gets to me. ‘Okay, the entertainment. You have noticed Vita. She is the naked one. Isn’t she cute? Well, she is also a slut. Obviously. I have mentioned her name, but she doesn’t answer to her name. She is a Mailgirl. Those of you that read porn stories may know of Mailgirls…? Can I see hands? No… no, you are all too shy to own up to the fact you read porn? Me too, of course. Porn is below me too.’ Giggling. And he summarises the definition of the Mailgirl concept as related to him by Sally. The audience laps it up, but of course they cannot believe that it would ever be real. Which is fair. But here I am! ‘Anyway, we won’t use her name, but call her MG#1. If you feel so inclined you can undress and become MG#2 and so on. In that case, I refer you to Sally. She will also now explain what the score is with MG#1. Sally…!’

Sally briefly glances at Fred, leaves the shelter of his hand on her shoulder, steps forward and speaks.

‘MG#1, Kneel!’

‘Yes, Ma’am!’

And I assume the relevant position. Knees aside, cunt open, hands beside body, relaxed, gaze on the grass in front of me. Laughter all around. ‘You may laugh. Because MG#1 get off on humiliation. So, you’ll wonder what she will do and what won’t she do for you this afternoon. Don’ts, only one: you cannot touch her. But you can just about do everything else. Look, smell, ask her to assume a position, any position you like! You have already seen “Kneel” and “Feet”. There is also “Toes”.’ Naughty looks all around, also gasps.

‘What she cannot do is to talk to you of her own accord. She can answer your questions, any question, but in single sentence form only. She must confirm your requests by saying “Yes, Sir” or “Yes, Ma’am”. If she displeases you, you can slap her on her butt. Once. Butt only, mind. And she must respond with “Thank you, Sir or Ma’am”. On her butt you see the marks of punishment. Those are the traces of punishment by a flogger, a spatula actually. Mind, the right to inflict that level of punishment is limited to me, her “owner.” You don’t want to destroy her, do you?’

‘But she is a Mailgirl first and foremost. Which means she will deliver mail. We have prepared mail pro-forma’s for you. You’ll discover them there on that table. Write down any old message you like, for anyone present here, and she will deliver it to him or her, running. She’ll have to figure out who the addressee is somehow, but once she reaches you, you do have to own up. This way, she need to do plenty of running and we’ll all be able to make her work and admire her in all her glory. Finally, you can offer her something to drink, but she cannot drink from a cup, glass or bottle. We have a dog bowl for that purpose. You may feed her whatever you like, but no alcohol. Can not have her sick, you know. So, within the bounds I have just described, take it away, my friends.’

She has not mentioned anyone having me masturbate. Thankfully. See if anyone is devil enough to suggest me doing that. I am nervous as I am.

And so, here truly begins my career as a Mailgirl.

Couples and singles come up to me and engage, not with me as a person, but with my body as a thing, a robot at best. The first couple appear to be teasers, as she wants to know, from her beau, whether she compares with me, and he wants to know whether she’d dare to play Mailgirl for a day. They look me in the eye, ironically, through my eyes rather, and make no bones about looking between my legs at close range – ‘she’s shaved – aren’t you, little girl?!’, sniff me there, ask me to lift up my arms and then lower them back down, back up etc. and see my C-tits stretch flat and back round. Anthropomorphic exercise. Then the man passes me a message to run to a Kathy. I assume his companion is Kathy, but she declines to take the message. So, I begin running from group to group to scattered individuals but they all decline. Soon everyone has stopped talking and watches me run aimlessly along and across the large garden. They are clearly enjoying seeing me move, me as a whole and specifically some individual body parts that bob semi-independently.

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