The Birth of a Mailgirl Day 02

Oh, I would be embarrassed about all that, but I have turned a corner and manage to realise that this is an opportunity for growth - some will admire my body and me in all our glory, good luck to them! - some will look down on me, god help them and I don't care! A turning point for me - I resolve to enjoy all that comes my way and cast away the negatives!

I never find that Kathy, that is: Kathy was the girlfriend of the sender after all, she does own up once I return to them, all sweaty! Against the bloody rules! But still, I am not in a position to mind. Her boyfriend, the sender, knew of course. For punishment, he tells her to strip and follow my example, to much acclaim of the folk around us. But she refuses and nothing comes of it, in spite of Sally's and Sean's protestations. Fine by me. Don't need to share the limelight this way. In fact, her boyfriend decides to punish me for his girlfriend's mistake by slapping me twice on my butt - against the rules! - to a mix of laughter and indignation.

I don't care. I don't care.

The next message is delivered successfully after just a minute of running around. I get a 'Thank You' and answer back, 'Thank you, Ma'am', to which the recipient woman blushes. I have run around for over five minutes now, in the hot sun, and have continued sweating.

The sender of the third message along objects to this and asks Sally to get me a bowl of water - cold water, mind! - and a washcloth. Sally refers this order to me and I am to get a washbowl with water and a washcloth. 'Thank you, Sir. This Mailgirl is too sweaty.'

Wondering where to go, thankfully Grace offers to assist me so that I don't have to search the house. She is confidential when she softly scolds the 'annoying' guy who wanted this done. Armed with a bowl of water and a washcloth, I return to the garden and report to the young man.

'Go ahead, MG#1, wash yourself fresh!' He expectantly sits down on the lawn, surrounded by a bunch of acolytes that all look at me. I try not to look them in the eye. I wash myself from head to toe, wash myself well, I think. Obviously, he finds faults. 'Better between the legs, stupid Mailgirl, front and back! I am sure you get very sweaty there!' 'Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir! This Mailgirl does get sweaty there too. Sorry, Sir.' I wash between my legs again, front and back. Of course, the dear message man is not satisfied with the quality of my work and slaps me on the ass, saying, 'Now, don't be a slouch, wash your cunt and asshole well, really well, MG#1! They are still dirty!' He is only satisfied once he - closely - sees me wash between all my folds and flaps, sees my asshole and then finally lets me off.

I run another ten, twelve messages, until people start to get bored. In their eyes, I may have been royally humiliated. And I am very, very sweaty, dripping in fact. I have parked myself in 'Feet' position. My hair and make-up would be messed up by now. I can't see. Sally comes and checks on me. We speak with our eyes - she checks whether I am okay, I signal that I am. In fact, I am tired. And thirsty. No one yet has offered me anything to drink.

Sally senses this - well, it is obvious and gets me a dog bowl with sparkling wine, of course again against the rules. I'd have preferred water, lots of it, but it's not my choice, is it? A bit of oblivion perhaps is welcome. I have turned a corner but can't help feeling embarrassed by this scene: me lapping up my sparkling wine from a dog bowl, drooping tits, ass up, slit in their faces. Because, again, a crowd forms around me, playing close attention and shamelessly commenting about what they see and what I am. When I have had enough, half a bowl, someone grabs the bottle, refills the bowl to overflowing point and makes me drink the lot. 'Thank you, Sir!' Sally prohibits refilling it again.

There was a rule, wasn't there, about alcohol. It didn't do the job. I am tipsy. My legs are heavy when I run another two or three messages. My sense of self-awareness is heightened. I feel the heaviness of my body, of my bosom. My tardiness earns me several severe butt slaps. I can't care. My state makes me like my pain. Pain brings me to the surface. Give me pain!

Sally, the dear - she gives me a message addressed to Fred, who has momentarily left her side. I bring it to him. He is talking to Grace. When I interrupt them, silently, he looks at me, playfully, though benevolently. So does Grace. For the first time this afternoon, I feel respected. Strange concept for a Mailgirl, respect. I guess they see me as a fellow human being, just one that is playing, and take my playing as Mailgirl seriously - if that makes sense.

'How are you doing, MG#1,' he says, 'Sally has told me a lot about you. Quite something, what you are doing. I can see the point. I like it.' Grace nods enthusiastically. 'Thank you, Sir, Ma'am.' I hand him the message. He instructs me to open it and read it. 'But...,' I try, sensing it may be personal. 'Please, MG#1.' I open the message and softly read, 'Fred, can I play your Mailgirl sometime? Yours, Sally.' Grace's eyes light up, 'Oh la la! I see a MG#2 in the making! I fear I might be envious!' and she claps her hands in a quick rhythm, like an excited girl. Fred comically screws up his face and says, 'Wow, don't know about that... And Sally as Mailgirl? She would be running, before we have walked,' he says, 'Pun intended. If this is an invitation to go on a date with her, fine, I am game... Would you get me a message form, MG#1?' 'Yes, Sir.' I fetch him one and he scribbles "Dinner sometime? Next Saturday? Fred." I nod to him and exchange a look with the spellbound Grace. I run and deliver Sally her message. She looks pleased and hugs me.

Momentarily unoccupied, I park myself in 'Kneel' position in front of the rose garden. People have got used to a Mailgirl in their presence and spare me their attention at the moment. I withdraw and meditate over Sally being a Mailgirl. Or Grace. Mailgirl-ism could be catching on. I can't decide whether I'd like not being the only one anymore.

I need to pee. I run and report to Sally and kneel next to her, gaze on the ground. I gesture to my slit. She pretends she is not sure what I mean. With the little group she is talking to around her, she calls out to me, 'What do you mean, MG#1? Nod once if you need a wank, twice if you need to pee.' Her group giggles. I feel this response is a betrayal, but have no choice but to nod twice. She is inebriated too, has unearthed a sadistic streak, when she calls, 'Sean, Grace, MG#1 needs a wank, sorry, a wee! But she can't use a toilet, can she, because she is not allowed to! What do we do?' Again, all attention on her, on me really. Is this fun?

I know she is right, Mailgirls don't use toilets, but pee in holes in the floor, like French toilets, under the gazes of visitors who can see them through one-way mirrors, that don't allow looking back. Here is a disadvantage - I am able to see, or sense, the gazes of my audience.

Grace joins Sally and looks pensively at me, like she really cares. 'Well, our cat pees in the garden, why can't a Mailgirl? Just not on mama's roses. Right here on the lawn is fine!' She gestures to a spot near her. I look at Grace with pleading eyes. 'Yes, MG#1, it fine. You can pee now, sweety.' Lord! I hate it. Peeing in public does not suit me. At home, Sally or Lauren didn't expose me to peeing under their eyes.

I cast my gaze to the ground again and start withdrawing from the world. I sense a crowd forming around me, the entertainment, once again. Then someone yells, 'At the back, we can't see! Let her stand up!' Grace replies, 'Well, that is not what girls do, you know?' He counters, 'Her? She is not a girl, but a Mailgirl. She can wash herself afterwards, like she did earlier, right, if she can't avoid making a mess of her legs?' Grace seriously considers this and says, with a big smile, 'Well, you're right. It is extra-humiliating, though. Part of the game, I guess! Okay, MG#1, stand up and pee. Spread your legs widely, if you wish.'

I do as I am commanded, 'Yes, Ma'am.' 'Grace, we still can't see. Can she stand on a table?' Roars of laughter! Grace doesn't join the laughing. She looks captivated by the prospect, and I blush like crazy. My resolve to enjoy whatever comes my way is shaking. Is there no end to my humiliation?

I am being led to one of the party tables, which Grace strips of its tablecloth. People push me by the ass - against the rules! -, push up my battered ass to help me climb onto the tabletop. I now tower above the crowd. Without exception, the partygoers crowd around me, all sixty or eighty of them. Poor, naked me, everybody's eyes looking up my cunt, from which the waters must flow and make a mess of me. Which I will have to clean up.

From this high up, it is harder to stare at the ground and lose myself within myself before peeing. Fuck it, I am going to be focussing on Grace - let her share my discomfort. Our eyes lock and I see her turn red. And then I release the waters. A bucket full, it feels. No one speaks. Of course, I make a mess. My thighs, my feet, the tabletop all get royally wet. Grace is embarrassed, my eyes are locked on hers and can detect it, and hers can see that I see! Why is it embarrassing to witness such an intimate event, even if everyone has privately peed a million times without thinking anything of it? I see mixed emotions when I look around me. Embarrassment, astonishment, disbelief, glee, scorn...

Lord, Grace actually cries! Grace cries silent tears, her face screwed up with emotion.

No one believes what happens next. No one but me.

Grace kicks away her shoes, takes off her golden tank top, her black satin bra, her short black leather skirt, her white thong - and is naked - smallish tits, an ample landing strip, bare fat (swollen?) labia, pretty. But there is little opportunity to consider and admire her body, as she immediately climbs on the table too, stands next to me and, after a furtive look around, releases her own waters, with the same effect - a great mess.

'Fuck! I am MG#2! Get me a marker. No, get me marked, Sean!'

She turns to me, pulls on me to face her and starts kissing me with passion. I allow it - all emotions topsy-turvy. She makes love to me, we make love to each other, standing on that table, dripping of urine, with wet feet - past care. Our hands find and feel up the other's folds and clit, stroking and frigging and probing, our other hands covering everything else, the rest of our healthy bodies. The fact that her brother Sean scribbles MG#2 on her hip doesn't interrupt our ploy. We reach climaxes within five, six minutes - as a result of my pent-up energy and, evidently, hers. Heavenly. Grace has come twice before I come once, but I do get a second one seconds after she lands a third. After a frozen minute in each other's arms, we smile and jump off the table.

'We are now ready for messages,' Grace says.

The audience is still dumbfounded. Before meeting her, I was told Grace had always been the wholesome cheerleader type, in her final year of medical school, lively though, with lots of energy. But if anyone had expected this turn of events, no one lets on. Not even Sean, who appears as shocked as the next man. He is also a sport, however, and is the first to hand a message to me, addressed to Grace! No running required. We do run the extent of the garden together, hand in hand, just because! Arriving back in front of Sean, she calls out, 'Sean wrote: "If you must... Go! MG#2!"' Cheers all around.

There is another dozen messages that is required to be run. It is no longer a plight. It is now a joy, to run hand in hand with Grace from happy senders to happy recipients. Humiliation? A meaningless word! We are the heroines of the day, the source of envy. I bet that everyone wants to be a Mailgirl now. Our sweat adorns us.

We both get royally fed drink from the dog bowl, at which we playfully alternate, pushing at each other's snouts like dogs. And we get royally drunk. Then we barge to the swimming pool and jump in. About a dozen partygoers strip and joins us. Including Sally and Fred - good for them. And Sean. What follows is an orgy of water being kicked, splashed up - orgiastic! Grace and I are exhausted when we leave the pool and fall asleep right there in the middle of the garden, side by side, shameless unaware of our bodies, what we show or not, our hands in our crotches. Blissfully unaware.

Sally reluctantly wakes us after what turns out to be an hour. She is applying sunscreen to our bodies. 'You'll burn, my dears', she says softly. We let her, turning around when the back needs doing. We don't mind her reaching our forbidden places - where the sun does not shine.

I sense Sally feels left out and proceed to hug her at length when she is done oiling us. Grace joins us. Sean does too - touching his naked sister in the process. So does Fred, in what is getting quite a huddle. A quintet. I see joy in Sally's face. Happy again. A rollercoaster for her too, so it seems.

The remainder of the afternoon is spent at leisure. No more running around with messages, no more demonstrations of sexuality, other than playful little inspections, where we are to show our holes, adopt sculptural, dancer-like, photogenic postures, including the 'Kneel', 'Feet' and 'Toes' Mailgirl postures of course... We chat here and there. A splendid time was had by all, many now also naked. For Grace and myself, we bask in new-found confidence in our femininity, feel empowered women. Inversed feminism.

When we say goodbye to Grace and Sean at the front door, Sally is the only one dressed. We warmly embrace the nude pair, and Grace and Sean thank us wholeheartedly. When we finally turn to go, Grace grabs Sally by the shoulders and whispers in her ear, 'You can be MG#3 next weekend!'

All four of us smile and we are on our way.

Wholly satisfied.