The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy (Whole Story) 3/27

[barelin]

Synopsis: Danielle "Danni" Carter, a timid yet observant eighth-grader at Stephens Junior Academy, 14th birthday—a milestone that places her squarely in the crosshairs of the school’s sadistic tradition: the Mailgirl Program. Every year, female students over 14 are entered into a secretive lottery, their names drawn at random to serve as mailgirls. The role demands absolute obedience, requiring them to deliver messages across campus completely nude, even in harsh weather, while enduring humiliation from peers and faculty. Whispers of psychological breakdowns, frostbite, and public shaming haunt the halls, but questioning the tradition is forbidden.

Author’s Note: As I continued working on future chapters of this story, I realized the need to address continuity issues while keeping the narrative intact. These adjustments ensure a smoother reading experience while preserving the heart of the story. Thank you for your patience and support!

[barelin]

The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 1A: The Shadow of Tradition

It’s the last school day before Thanksgiving break, but instead of excitement, a strange tension hangs over everything—like the whole school is waiting for something to happen. Usually, the days before a break are easy: lazy lessons, half-empty classrooms, and teachers reminding us to turn in assignments before vacation, but not today. Today, there’s a weight in the air, pressing down on me like a storm rolling in. Usually, the days before a break are easy: lazy lessons, half-empty classrooms, and teachers reminding us to turn in assignments before vacation, but not today.

Today, there’s a weight in the air, pressing down on me like a storm rolling in.

I’m Danielle Carter, but I prefer ‘Dani,’ and I turned fourteen last weekend. That’s supposed to be a milestone—one step closer to adulthood, freedom, and possibilities. But at the junior side of Stephens Academy, turning fourteen means something else.

Because it means you’re eligible for the Mailgirl Program.

It’s a tradition, they say. A legacy—but no one ever questions it. No one asks why it exists or who’s really behind it. The rules are simple: once called, there’s no turning back. Now, for the first time, I won’t just be watching from the sidelines.

New mailgirls are chosen to replace the graduating seniors at the beginning of the last semester of eighth grade, giving them time to train under the older girls. I’ve been dreading, and I know I’m not alone. Every girl in eighth grade feels the same way.

Why? Because of the Mailgirl Program…, it’s this creepy, awful tradition that’s been around forever at Stephens Academy and other mostly nonpublic primary and senior academies around the country. Nobody talks about it openly, but it’s always there, hanging over us, like a curse. A shadow we can’t escape.

The whole thing is a mystery. Nobody knows how they pick the names, and there’s no way to guess who the school will choose. It’s just a moment—one horrifying moment—where everything about your life changes and not in a good way.

My parents always brushed it off, telling me not to worry, that I had time. Well, I am worried and time is running out.

I’m in Mrs. Patel's, Technology & Computer Science, my sixth-period class right now, and I can’t focus at all. My chest feels tight, and my heartbeat is so loud I swear the whole class can hear it. Rachel’s sitting at the desk before me—she turned fourteen back in September—and Carla’s on my right; her birthday was last week with mine. They’re just as freaked out as I am. We don’t talk about it because what’s there to say? But it’s written all over our faces: the fear that one of us could be next. It reminds me of a scene from a Stephen King novel—like Pet Cemetery, The Talisman, or The Dark Tower—with dark clouds creeping closer and closer, leaving nowhere to hide.

I keep thinking about it from years past. It’s one thing when I was younger, watching more senior students in the highest grade at the Junior Academy getting their clothes cut away and leaving them all in well… nothing, but seeing it happen and realizing that we are going to be in that grade coming up. That’s something you can’t ever forget. I remember sitting in the auditorium, I believe it was in the week after the last winter break, watching as the names of the girls in the grade above us were called out, one by one. Each of them had to go up on stage, and—ugh, even remembering it makes me feel sick, imagining it was me—they had their clothes cut off right there in front of everyone, leaving them in… well… nothing—not even their shoes. I recall it was nearly freezing that day and I couldn’t imagine being forced to be naked and no longer being permitted to cover up again, even in the weather we get at this time of the year.

It wasn't until last year, my seventh year, that the mailgirl selection process started to feel more personal as that could be me in a year. As my friends and I were approaching mid-school year, the reality of potentially being chosen to become a mailgirl sank in. The thought of one of us up on stage, stripped of our clothes, and transformed into a mailgirl who would have to walk around the campus nude at all times was daunting. We had seen it happen to students before, but it was always something that happened to "them," not "us."

As we watched new mailgirls replace those students, we couldn’t help but wonder how they dealt with the cold. It was freezing outside, yet they showed no signs of discomfort as they walked around the campus barefoot in the snow and ice. It was as if they had accepted their fate and were numb to the cold.

My friends shared classes with some of the girls chosen last year, making the reality feel even more real for us. We spent hours discussing how those mailgirls could casually walk around the campus without showing any signs of discomfort, despite the harsh weather conditions between the fall and spring months.

In previous years, we watched as the school chose around four students from the final year at Stephens Junior Academy to become mailgirls. The school would call their names, cut away their clothes in front of everyone, and leave them standing in their birthday suits. It was always entertaining to watch from a distance, but it felt like something that happened to someone else, not us. However, last year was different. The reality of our potential selection hit us hard because we knew our time was coming soon. We were next in line to face the possibility of becoming a mailgirl.

Now, as I sit here in Mrs. Patel's class, the reality is suffocating. This isn’t some far-off nightmare anymore; it’s real. The school could call one of us—maybe even me, Rachel, or Carla. I keep praying that it won’t happen and that somehow, we’ll be spared. But the storm is here. I can feel it closing in, relentless and unstoppable, no matter how much I hope otherwise.

The intercom crackles to life, interrupting the low hum of classroom chatter. The moment Principal Samara Barrera’s voice comes through the speakers, a hush falls over the room.

“Good afternoon, students and faculty,” she began, her tone smooth and practiced. A pause. Just long enough to make my stomach tighten. Apologies for interrupting your classes, but I have a few announcements before we head into the Thanksgiving weekend.”

I barely heard the first part. Just the usual pleasantries, the kind of polished words designed to sound warm and inviting, but beneath the surface, there’s something else—something calculated.

She continues. “First, I want to express my gratitude to all of you. Your dedication and enthusiasm make Stephens Academy a place of learning, growth, and excellence.” Another pause, just long enough to feel forced. Thank you for being such an important part of our school community.”

It’s too smooth. Too deliberate. My grip tightens on the edge of my desk, my breath caught in my throat. I know what’s coming. We all do.

Then, it happens—a barely perceptible shift in her tone—subtle, but enough to send a shiver down my spine. “For our senior girls, I want to highlight an important upcoming event.” There it is—the real reason for this announcement.

I hear someone inhale sharply behind me. Rachel stiffens. Carla grips the sides of her chair. “As we approach the second half of the school year, we are preparing for one of Stephens Academy’s most time-honored traditions: the Mailgirl Program Selection.” The words hang in the air, cold and final.

“The selection process will take place after winter break, beginning in January,” she continued, her voice unwavering. “To prepare, all eligible female eighth grade students will attend a mandatory assembly next Tuesday during first and second periods. Attendance is required, as we will all be providing essential details about the program.”

My stomach twists violently. All around me, I hear the sharp intakes of breath. The shift in the air. The room isn’t just quiet—it’s tense and charged, like the split second before a thunderstorm hits.

Rachel’s hand clenched into a fist on her desk. Carla stares straight ahead, her jaw tight. We don’t need to look at each other to know we’re all feeling the same thing—dread.

They say tradition, but we all know the truth. They say selection, but they never explain how. They say mandatory, but they never say why.

Principal Barrera’s voice continues, but I barely register it. Something about staying focused, supporting each other, and using the break to reflect on our goals, but it’s already too late. The only words that matter are "Mailgirl Program Selection." They echo in my mind, drowning out everything else.

By the time the announcement ends, the silence in the room is deafening. I swallow hard. My heart is racing, but I force myself to breathe, to focus on something—anything—but I can’t. The fear is real now. It’s coming for us!

The classroom stays eerily still for a few more seconds, like no one wants to be the first to move. Then, slowly, the hushed whispers begin. Exchanged glances. Fear thick in the air.

Rachel presses her fingers to her temples. “I can’t believe it’s happening already.”

Carla just stares at the whiteboard, like if she focuses hard enough, maybe the words Mailgirl Program Selection will disappear from her memory. I don’t know what to say.

The teacher claps his hands to get the class back on track, but no one is listening. His words sound distant, like he’s speaking underwater. Nothing feels real anymore.

We don’t speak, but I know we’re all thinking the same thing: What will this briefing reveal? Could we do anything to prepare? And worst of all—what if the school called one of our names?

Principal Barrera’s voice continued, concluding the announcement with platitudes about staying focused, treating one another with respect, and using the break to reflect on our goals. But her closing words barely register. The phrase “Mailgirl Program Selection” echoes in my mind, louder than anything else, drowning out the rest of her speech.

When the announcement ends, silence hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. My mind swirls like a storm, a whirlwind of fear and memories—Abigail, last year’s assembly, the inescapable reality that this time, we are the targets.

The shrill sound of the old-style bell erupts suddenly, its sound jolting me from my haze of chaotic thoughts, signaling the end of the sixth period. I flinch, my heart lurching as the sound crashes through the silence.

On autopilot, I gather my books and shuffle into the hallway with the rest of the class. Rachel and Carla walk beside me, but none of us speak. Normally, we’d laugh or whisper about our weekend plans, but not today.

The hallways feel different now, too. The usual chaos of students rushing to their next class fades into muted whispers, their energy subdued. It’s as if everyone feels it—the shadow of what’s to come.

I barely register anything as I slip into my seventh-period Study Hall at the library, I slid into a seat, my fingers tracing the faint carvings—names, dates, random doodles—anything to distract myself, but it doesn’t work.

Principal Barrera’s announcement replayed in my mind like a broken record, each word louder and more oppressive than the last. “Mailgirl Program Selection…,” The phrase loops endlessly, tightening the knot in my stomach. I can’t escape it.

Outside the window, snow drifts lazily from the gray sky, dusting the walkways. A few students hurry across the courtyard, bundled in coats and scarves. Normally, it all looks so normal, but nothing feels normal anymore.

I rub my temples, trying to push the thoughts away. Tuesday. That’s when the assembly is. Four days from now. That should feel like plenty of time, but it doesn’t.

I glance around the library. Other students are studying, whispering, flipping through books as if today is just another day, but eighth-grade girls… I can see it on their faces. They’re feeling it too.

Rachel and Carla aren’t in this period with me, but I know they’re somewhere else, just as lost in thought as I am.

I should be thinking about Thanksgiving break. I should be excited to visit my cousins, eat pumpkin pie, and have a few days away from school, but how am I supposed to enjoy any of it, knowing what’s waiting for us on Tuesday?

Will they finally explain how the selection works, or will they keep it just as secretive and terrifying as always? I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t help. My chest feels tight and the worst thought of all slams into my mind uninvited—what if they call my name?

Then I thought about Abigail Moon. She was so strong, so composed. If it could happen to her, what chance do I have? The memory of her standing on that stage, trembling as they cut away her uniform, flashed in my mind…, the scissors, the gasps, the stunned silence—it’s all so vivid as if it happened yesterday. And now, the same shadow is hanging over me, growing darker with every passing moment.

The clock ticked agonizingly slowly, but the period slipped by without me realizing it. When the final bell rings, I gather my things automatically, my body on autopilot while my mind stays trapped in a time loop of fear and anxiety.

After school, I caught up with Rachel and Carla in the hallway. We each had different classes for the seventh period, but their faces mirrored my own: pale, drawn, and anxious. Normally, we’d talk over each other, excited to share gossip or weekend plans. Not today.

“What did I miss?” Rachel asks, her voice tight as she falls into step beside me.

“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a shrug. “I couldn’t focus.”

“Same,” Carla mutters from my other side. “I just sat there doodling. I didn’t even realize the bell rang until everyone started leaving.”

We walk out into the crisp afternoon air together as the weight of Principal Barrera’s announcement presses down on us, thick and suffocating. The weekend ahead stretches before us like an endless void, and I know none of us will be able to escape the fear of what’s coming.

Rachel and I shuffle out of the building and head to our bus. Carla veers off toward her own, waving weakly before disappearing into the crowd of students. She lives just on the other side of the Interstate, so she’s assigned a different bus than us. Normally, Rachel and I would talk nonstop on the ride home—about school, TV shows, or whatever drama had unfolded that day, but today, the silence between us feels heavy, like neither of us wants to be the first to speak.

I sit by the window, staring out at the passing houses and trees, the colors of late autumn muted under a cloudy sky. Rachel sits beside me, twisting her hair around her finger, a habit I know she falls back on when she’s anxious. Every so often, she glances at me like she wants to say something, but the words don’t come. I don’t blame her. What is there to say? The tension from Principal Barrera’s announcement still sits thick in the air, suffocating any attempt at small talk.

When Rachel’s stop comes, she gets up and hesitates for a moment. “Text me later, okay?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will,” I promise, watching her step off the bus. The door closes, and the vehicle rumbles forward. My stop is only a few minutes away, but the ride feels endless. By the time I get home, the silence has pressed down on me so hard I feel like I can’t breathe.

I barely remember walking home. The moment I stepped off the bus, I felt numb, like my body was moving without me. The air was cold, crisp with the last breath of autumn before winter truly settled in, but I barely noticed.

My mind remained trapped in Mrs. Patel's class, in the hallway, in the swirling mess of whispers and worried glances. Mailgirl Program Selection. Those three words had taken over everything.

By the time I stepped inside, the house was quiet, still. My mom won’t be home for another hour, maybe more. I should be relieved—I don’t feel like talking, but at the same time, I know I can’t avoid this forever.

The house is quiet when I walk in, the kind of stillness that only comes when no one else is home. My parents are both at work, as usual, and they won’t be back for at least a couple of hours. I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes, heading straight to my room. Normally, I’d grab a snack or turn on the TV, but not today. Today, I just want to curl up under my blanket and block out the world.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and sent a group text to Rachel and Carl. Unable to concentrate on anything else, I texted my friends.

Dani: “Are you guys okay?”

Rachel: “Not really, still thinking about the announcement.”

Carla: “Same. Every time I think about Tuesday, I feel sick.”

Dani: I don’t get how the mailgirls just… do it. Evan in the snow, they don’t react. It’s like they don’t even feel the cold.

A pause.

Rachel: Remember in third grade? That mailgirl came into our class to deliver something to Ms. Goodwin. Ms. Goodwin wouldn’t even look at us, just kept her head down the whole time while removing all of her clothes including her panties. Before she followed those mailgirls out of the room.

Carla: I remember that. She looked so sad, but back then I didn’t get why.

Dani: Back then, I thought it was just a lob, like they were volunteering or something.

Carla: It’s not a job. It’s punishment and it’s not fair.

There’s a pause in the conversation.

Rachel: “What if it’s one of us? What if it’s me?”

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t want to answer, but I force myself to

Dani: [Trying to console her friends with reassurance and hope.] “It won’t be. We don’t even know how they pick.”

Rachel: “They don’t tell us anything. That’s the worst part. It’s like they want us to be afraid.”

Carla’s next message makes my stomach drop.

Carla: [Darkening the mood and increasing their fear.] “What if it’s all of us?”

I stare at the screen, my chest tightening. The idea is so horrifying, so impossible; I want to delete the message myself.

Dani: [Hoping that Carla is wrong.] “You’re not helping, Carla. That’s not going to happen. They only pick a few. It can’t be all of us.”

I don’t know if I believe that, but I don’t know what else to say. The conversation slows after that, and I’m staring at my phone, scrolling back through our texts, when I hear the sound of the front door opening. Mom’s home.

“Danielle?” my mom calls out, her voice echoing down the hallway.

“I’m here,” I say, putting my phone down and taking a deep breath, trying to push the fear out of my voice. It doesn’t work.

The sound of Mom’s voice yanked me out of the spiral of anxious thoughts that had been circling my mind all day. I hadn’t even heard her approach, but now the echo of her footsteps filled the hallway, growing louder with each step until she appeared in my doorway. Her warm smile greeted me first, followed by the familiar sight of her work clothes slightly askew—her blazer slipping off one shoulder, the faint smudge of makeup under her eyes, and strands of hair escaping her bun. She looked tired, but the soft warmth she radiated made it hard to tell. It should’ve comforted me. It usually did. But tonight, even her presence couldn’t untangle the tight knot of anxiety in my chest.

Mom leaned against the doorway for a moment, surveying the room, before stepping inside. She moved to my bed, leaning back onto my pillow, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. She didn’t rush to speak, and for a few seconds, the silence between us seemed louder than anything else. Finally, she broke it.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said with that same cheerful tone she always used when trying to lighten the mood. “Why the long face? It’s the start of a long weekend! You should be excited about visiting your uncle and aunt’s house tomorrow to see your cousins. Or better yet, you should be out with your friends, not hiding away in here.”

I couldn’t bring myself to reply. Her presence was comforting, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the chaos inside my head. The looming thoughts of the day—the announcement, the upcoming assembly—sat heavily in my chest, refusing to budge. I sat up straighter, pressing my arms tighter around myself as if the physical pressure might somehow keep the panic at bay.

Before I could protest, Mom moved closer, sitting on the edge of my bed and running her fingers gently through my hair. The small gesture was familiar, grounding even, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the storm inside me pause. Her touch carried a kind of reassurance that words never could, but just as quickly as that peace settled in, the reality of my fears came crashing back. She didn’t understand—she couldn’t.

I pulled away, shaking my head as if to physically shake the thoughts loose. The words tumbled out before I had the chance to stop them. “Mom,” I began, my voice trembling, “They made an announcement today about the Mailgirl Program. There’s going to be an assembly for all eighth-grade girls on Tuesday morning.”

Her smile faltered—not much, just a flicker, but enough to tell me she was trying to process what I’d just said. She tilted her head slightly, her hands resting on my shoulders as her eyes searched mine.

“Are you worried about the possibility?” she asked softly.

Her question hit me like a punch to the stomach. My throat tightened, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Of course, I’m worried!” I burst out; my voice louder than I intended. “What if… what if it’s me? What if they pick me? What if—”

“Danielle, stop,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “Take a deep breath.”

I tried, but my breath came out shaky, and the fear remained lodged in my chest like a weight I couldn’t move. “Mom, you don’t understand,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s not just the assembly. It’s knowing they could pick me—or Rachel, or Carla—or anyone. We have no control over it…, none!”

Her expression softened, and she pulled me into a hug, her hands rubbing slowly, and soothing circles on my back. “Honey, the selection isn’t until January,” she said quietly. “You still have time, okay? There’s no sense in worrying about something that might not even happen.”

“But, Mom,” I said, stepping back, my words spilling out in a rush. “The mailgirls—they’re always nude. They run around school like that all day. Even outside in the cold. I’ve seen them running through the snow, and it’s like they don’t even feel it. How can they do that? How could anyone?”

Her face shifted slightly—sympathy mixed with something else I couldn’t quite place. She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know it’s hard to understand, Danielle,” she said carefully. “But they’ve been doing this for years. The girls always manage. They adjust. And if it ever comes to that, you will too.”

“Adjust?” I repeated, my voice breaking with disbelief. “Mom, they don’t even look cold! It’s not normal. It’s like they’re not even human anymore.”

“Danielle,” she said firmly, cutting me off, “that’s enough. You’re working yourself up over something that hasn’t happened and might not happen. I know it’s scary—I do—but worrying like this won’t change anything.”

I stared at her, frustration rising. “You don’t get it,” I said, my voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit there; waiting, knowing they could call your name at any second and everything will change.”

She sighed deeply, her gaze softening again. “I know you’re scared,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I don’t blame you for feeling this way, but you’re stronger than you think, Danielle. Whatever happens, I believe in you.”

Her words hung in the air between us, but the weight in my chest didn’t lift. How could she believe in me when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself? I wanted to believe her, to take her words and let them soothe the storm inside me, but I couldn’t.

She kissed my forehead, brushing my hair back. “Try to enjoy your weekend, okay? Spend time with your friends when you can this weekend. Do something that makes you happy. You deserve that and not to worry.”

I nodded mechanically, watching as she left the room. Her footsteps faded down the hall, and the silence closed in around me. I sank onto my bed, curling into myself as her words echoed in my mind. While I am aware from my earliest memory of seeing various adults in various degrees of attire down to anything at all…, I knew from the earliest age that Dad’s work had those traditional mailgirls. It wasn’t until a few years back that I learned that Mom’s work also has nude mailgirls that deliver items around the Magma insurance she works at.

But before I could let myself spiral further; I heard her footsteps again. A moment later, she reappeared, leaning in my doorway with a thoughtful expression.

“Danielle,” she started, hesitating. “There’s something I’ve never told you before.”

I sat up straighter, my stomach twisting. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear whatever she was about to say.

“One of my coworkers has a daughter who’s a mailgirl at Crescendo Academy,” she said. “She’s in the mailgirl program.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

She nodded. “Her name is Jenna or J765. She started when he was in the grade you are now. Her mom—my coworker—talks about her all the time.”

I stared at her, my mind racing. “What does she say?”

“She says the program has changed Jenna in ways she never expected,” my mom said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “She’s grown so much—become more disciplined, more confident. She’s even considering continuing as a mailgirl in college and beyond.”

“In college!?” I repeated, disbelief sharpening my voice. “And beyond…? Mom, that’s crazy! Why would anyone choose to keep doing this?”

“Her mom says it’s because of the opportunities it’s given her,” she said calmly. “Scholarships, internships, connections…, and people notice Jenna for her resilience and composure. They see her as someone who can handle anything.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “So, what—you think I should just accept it? Be okay with walking around naked because it’ll make me ‘resilient’ or ‘strong’?”

Her expression softened as she reached for my hand. “I don’t want you to have to go through it, Danielle. But if it happens, I know you’ll rise to the challenge. You’re brave, even if you don’t feel it right now.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “I don’t feel brave, Mom. I feel terrified.”

She squeezed my hand. “I know, sweetheart, and I hope you’ll never have to face it, but if you do, I’ll be here for you..., every step of the way.”

Her words stayed with me long after she left a faint beacon of comfort in the storm of my fears. But I still couldn’t shake the thought: What if it’s me?

After Mom left my room, her words lingering in the air like an unspoken challenge, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at my phone. The knot in my chest hadn’t loosened, and the silence of the room pressed down on me like a weight. I knew I couldn’t sit here much longer, drowning in my thoughts. With a deep breath, I unlocked my phone and opened the group chat with Rachel and Carla.

Rachel responded almost instantly, her typing bubble appearing before I could second-guess reaching out.

Rachel: Ugh, don’t remind me. My stomach’s been in knots all day. I keep thinking, what if one of us ends up in just that stupid collar? No clothes, no way to cover up, even when it’s freezing outside.

Her words hit me hard, mirroring the fears I hadn’t said out loud.

Carla: Same. I keep telling myself there’s no way it’ll be us, but what if it is?

Dani: That’s exactly how I feel. My mom keeps saying not to worry, that even girls who do become mailgirls are somehow “conditioned” to deal with the cold or whatever, but I can’t stop thinking about it—what if it’s one of us?

Rachel: My parents are acting like it’s no big deal. “It’s just an assembly, Rachel,” they keep saying. Yeah, okay, easy for them to say—they’re not the ones who might end up walking around naked in the snow!

Rachel’s frustration bled through the screen, and I could practically hear her voice.

Carla: I can’t even imagine. Do you think anyone at school wants to do it?

The thought stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t considered that. Was there someone out there—someone I knew—hoping to hear their name called? Someone who saw this as an opportunity instead of a nightmare?

Dani: I don’t know. Maybe…? My mom told me one of her coworkers’ daughters is a mailgirl at Crescendo Academy. She likes it.

Rachel: Wait… likes it???

Carla: No way. That’s impossible.

Dani: I swear. My mom said she’s confident, and disciplined, and even wants to keep doing it in college.

Rachel: That’s insane. I don’t care how “confident” it makes you—it still sounds humiliating.

Carla: Confident?

Their responses came quickly, the disbelief practically leaping off the screen. But even as I read their words, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it. What if there were girls out there who genuinely saw this program as a path to something better? Could I ever see it that way if it happened to me?

I shook the thought away, my hands trembling slightly as I typed.

Dani: I just hope I can make it through the weekend without freaking out.

Rachel: Same. Let’s all hang out Friday, okay? Distract ourselves.

Carla: Yes! My house…? Noon...?

Dani: Sounds good.

I put my phone down and exhaled, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. My friends got it. They didn’t have any answers, but at least I wasn’t alone in this. I lay awake at night, dreading the sound of my name being called in that assembly, just like many others.

Curling back into my bed, I stared at the ceiling, their messages replaying in my mind. The fear hadn’t disappeared, but knowing Rachel and Carla were just as scared helped me feel a little less isolated. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow. At least we’d have each other, even if the storm in my mind didn’t stop raging.

At dinner, I shuffled to the table, dragging my feet like they weighed a ton. Harper, my ever-loyal golden retriever, lay sprawled under the table, his warm body pressed against my feet. His soft snores were a comforting backdrop to the lively chatter between my parents. My dad sat at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone in between bites of spaghetti, completely engrossed in whatever he was reading.

I took my usual seat across from Mom, dropping into the chair and half-heartedly twirling my fork in the pile of pasta on my plate. The conversation swirled around me—Dad mentioned something about a last-minute meeting at work, and Mom talked about a new policy her office was implementing. But it all felt distant, like I was underwater, hearing their words through a muffled haze.

Now and then, Mom glanced at me, her eyes flickering with curiosity or concern. She didn’t say anything, though, and I kept my focus on my plate, pushing the spaghetti around in lazy circles.

Finally, after a pause in the conversation, Mom cleared her throat and broke the silence. “Danielle,” she said gently, her fork resting on the edge of her plate. “You’ve been quiet all evening.

I hesitated, glancing at Dad, who was still scrolling through his phone but now with one eyebrow raised, clearly listening. Harper stirred at my feet, stretching before settling back down.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, though the tightness in my chest betrayed me.

I sighed, setting my fork down with a soft clink against the plate. “Not exactly… It’s just this announcement they made.”

Dad finally set his phone down, giving me his full attention. “What kind of announcement?”

“The Mailgirl Selection Program,” I said, the words tasting bitter as they left my mouth. “They told us there’s a mandatory briefing for all eighth-grade girls on Tuesday morning.”

For a moment, the room fell silent except for the sound of Harper’s rhythmic breathing. Dad’s face softened with understanding.

“I see,” Dad said quietly. “That’s a lot to process.” Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. : Are you worried about it, kiddo?”

I nodded, biting my lip. “Of course, I’m worried. What if… what if the school picks me? What if it’s me? I don’t even know how I’d handle that.”

Mom reached across the table, placing her hand over mine. “Danielle, I know it feels overwhelming, but remember—it’s just a briefing for now. They haven’t picked you yet.”

“But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen,” I said, my voice trembling. “They could still call my name. Or Rachel’s… Or Carla’s… And if they do, everything changes.”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “I get why you’re scared. But you’re not in this alone, you know. If it ever comes to that—and that’s a big if—we’ll be here to help you through it.”

“Dad, it’s not that simple,” I said, my frustration bubbling up. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit there, knowing they could call your name at any second. You’re not the one who has to walk around—” I stopped myself, unable to finish the sentence.

Mom’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “You’re right; we don’t know exactly what it feels like. But I do know that you’re stronger than you think, Danielle. No matter what happens, you’ll find a way to handle it, and you have us, always.”

I looked down at the table, my throat tightening. “I don’t feel strong. I just feel scared.”

“That’s okay,” Mom said softly. “It’s okay to feel scared. It’s a scary thing to think about. But you don’t have to face it alone. And remember, the selection isn’t for a while. For now, focus on the present—your friends, your weekend, the things that make you happy.”

Dad nodded in agreement. “Your mom’s right. Try not to let this take over your thoughts, kiddo. You’ve got time. And worrying about what-ifs doesn’t change anything—it just makes you miserable.”

I nodded, though the weight in my chest didn’t fully ease. “I’ll try,” I said quietly.

Thanksgiving morning arrived too quickly—the day you dread but can’t avoid. I woke to the soft rhythm of Harper’s snoring, his warm body curled at my feet. Golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting faint shadows across the walls. I stayed motionless under the blankets for a moment, pretending time had frozen, wishing it had, but, of course, time marches on...

[Csquared]

Great start! Can't wait to see where it goes

[Hooked6]

Very well-written story set-up. Over the many years you have been sharing your talent, and your contributions are quite significant, I think this is one of the best story introductions that you have ever written (in my humble opinion.) This story is very true to the Mailgirl universe yet it has a certain slant and charm that others haven't quite captured. Your characters are realistic and their internal anxiety rings true from the very start and your pacing isn't rushed.

I hope you continue this story following Daniele for the entire time she is in the program, IF she is eventually selected that is.

Nicely done, barelin. I look forward to reading more.

Hooked6

[cradulich]

Always been a fan of mailgirl stories. Nice work so far.

[EddieDavidson]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

[flashharry]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

Mailgirls deliver mail. Completely naked

[Debbifan]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

It's a genre from Literotica, one of those alternate universe things.

https://search.literotica.com/?query=Mailroom%20girls

[underdog_13]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?
somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

AFAIK, the first story, the one that created this universe, was created by Cambridge Caine, on the now defunct site BDSMLibrary. There's a copy of the 4 stories (that I know) that he wrote here:
The Executive Floor: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... Floor.html
A Day in the Life: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... eLife.html
A Week in the Life: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... sWeek.html
The Name Game: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... eGame.html

There are also these links that you should know:
https://www.mailgirlenterprises.com/expanded-universe
https://www.mailgirlenterprises.com/

[barelin]

The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 1B: The Weight of Expectation

“Danielle, time to get up…!” Mom’s chipper, matter-of-fact voice rang out downstairs, slicing through my fleeting comfort.

Harper’s ears twitched at her call. He stretched luxuriously, paws extended like he had no idea what a stressful day meant. Then, as if sensing my reluctance, he nudged my arm with his cold, wet nose.

“Alright, alright..., I’m up,” I groaned, tossing the covers aside. Harper wagged his tail, clearly satisfied with his contribution to my morning. He trotted to the door with an enthusiasm I could only wish I had.

Dragging myself to the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror—bedhead, puffy eyes, and a face that seemed to ask, why does this day exist that I have to act friendly around others in the family? I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would wash away the unease that had clung to me all night. But the anxiety was like a stubborn stain—it didn’t budge.

By the time I trudged into the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toast filled the air. Mom stood by the counter, sipping from her favorite mug—“Coffee First, Questions Later”—and smiled at me like nothing was wrong.

“Morning, kiddo. Did you sleep okay?” she asked, her voice almost too bright.

I shrugged, reaching for a piece of toast. “Not really.”

She slid the plate closer to me. “Eat up. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”

At the table, Dad looked up from his phone, grinning like today was the best thing ever. “There’s my girl…! Ready to see my cousins…?”

I forced a smile. “Sure.”

The truth…? I wasn’t ready. Not even close. The thought of Aunt Melissa and her casual, probing comments about school—or worse, the Mailgirl Program—already made my stomach twist. I wasn’t sure I could handle it.

After breakfast, we loaded the car. Harper hopped into the backseat, curling up on his usual blanket. I climbed in beside him, grateful for his quiet companionship. Mom and Dad took the front, and soon we were on our way.

The drive was quiet, the engines hum blending with soft radio music. I stared out the window as the familiar streets of our neighborhood gave way to sprawling fields and bare trees. Harper rested his head on my lap, his warmth steady and grounding against the anxious coil in my stomach.

“You’re quiet back there,” Dad said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror…“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, keeping my gaze fixed on the frost-dusted fields blurring past.

Mom turned slightly in her seat. “It’s just family, Danielle. No one’s expecting anything from you except to show up and be yourself.”

Her words were meant to reassure me, but they only made my chest feel tighter. Be myself. What did that even mean anymore? Lately, “I” felt like a moving target—especially with the Mailgirl Program casting its long, suffocating shadow over everything. I kept replaying snippets of what I’d overheard at school: hushed conversations about what it would mean, horror stories about people who’d been selected, and whispered fears of who might be next. It was impossible to escape the weight of it.

The drive felt paradoxical—too long yet not long enough. Before I was ready, Dad pulled into my relatives’ driveway. Through the living room window, Sarah’s face lit up as she spotted us, her smile annoyingly enthusiastic. Harper perked up, his tail wagging in overdrive as the car came to a stop.

“You’ll be fine, sweetie,” Mom said, reaching back to pat my knee. “One moment at a time, okay?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. Harper barked, as if to say, you’ve got this. But I wasn’t sure I did.

The crisp winter air hit me as I stepped out of the car, slightly lifting my blouse, sending a shiver through me. I tugged my sweater tighter, but the icy breeze wasn’t what made my skin crawl. It was the intrusive thought that wouldn’t let go—the image of myself as a mailgirl. I imagined the cold biting into my bare skin, with no barriers between me and the world’s judgment. The thought made my stomach churn.

Harper leaped out of the car, oblivious to my spiraling thoughts. His excitement was infectious, pulling me out of my head for just a moment as he bounded toward Sarah, who had come down the steps to greet us.

“Dani!” she called, enveloping me in a quick, perfumed hug. “It’s been forever! How’s life at the academy?”

“Busy,” I replied, my smile as thin as the layer of frost on the driveway.

Inside, the house buzzed with holiday energy. Aunt Melissa swooped in with her usual dramatic flair, Uncle Greg’s laugh echoed through the room, and Grandma wasted no time pinching my cheeks. I nodded, smiled, and said the right things at the right times. But the tightness in my chest never loosened.

Later, Sarah cornered me in the kitchen. She perched on a stool, her expression casual, but her tone sharp with curiosity.

“So,” she began, “is it true your school’s doing selections for the Mailgirl Program soon, as I believe it could be you being an eighth grader? She got up from her chair to look at me from head to toe, stating glad we do not have… that…”

I stiffened, my heart sinking. Of course, Sarah would bring it up. She always latched onto anything unusual, and this was practically a goldmine for her.

“Yeah,” I said, focusing on a bowl of pretzels on the counter. I grabbed one, crunching it loudly to avoid saying more, as she sat back down after I gave her an angry look.

“Okay, but…” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “They’re naked? Like, all the time?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice even. “That’s the deal.”

She stared at me like I’d just told her people lived on the moon. “That’s insane. Do you know anyone who’s been picked?”

Her eyes sparkled, and she launched into a detailed play-by-play of her last game. I nodded along, pretending to care. All the while, the tight knot in my stomach refused to untangle.

By the time we left, I felt drained, my thoughts still tangled in Sarah’s questions and my fears. As we drove home, I leaned against the window, Harper pressed against my side. His quiet, steady presence was the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Mom asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” I murmured, running my fingers through Harper’s fur. But it wasn’t true. None of it was true. The anxiety had become a permanent fixture, a weight I didn’t know how to shake.

I stared out at the darkening sky, wondering how much longer I could pretend everything was fine.

Thanksgiving morning arrived too quickly—the kind of day you dread but can’t avoid. I woke to the soft rhythm of Harper’s snoring, his warm body curled at my feet. Golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting faint shadows across the walls. For a moment, I stayed motionless under the blankets, pretending time had frozen, wishing it had.

I stared out at the darkening sky, wondering how much longer I could pretend everything was fine.

Friday morning came with a strange sense of relief and dread all at once. Thanksgiving was over—no more forced small talk or dodging questions about school. But the Mailgirl Program lingered in the back of my mind, a storm cloud I couldn’t outrun.

Harper’s soft, rhythmic breathing was my only comfort as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains, but it felt pale and cold compared to yesterday’s golden glow. I was grateful for the quiet, for the momentary reprieve from family chatter. But I couldn’t shake the tension that had been building for weeks now.

Mom’s voice floated upstairs. “Danielle, you’ve got plans with Carla today, right? Don’t leave her waiting too long!”

I groaned softly, dragging myself out of bed. Plans with Carla had been the bright spot after how uncomfortable yesterday was—something to look forward to, even in the shadow of the looming program. I threw on jeans and laced up my sneakers, and grabbed my phone. Harper looked up from his spot on the bed, his tail wagging slightly, but I shook my head. “Not this time, buddy,” I said, scratching behind his ears.

The walk to Carla’s house was brisk, the air crisp and biting as it started to snow. Frost clung to the grass and the edges of car windows, glittering under the weak winter sun. My breath puffed out in small clouds as I walked, hands stuffed deep into my pockets. I tried to focus on the crunch of gravel under my sneakers, the distant hum of traffic, anything but the swirling unease in my chest.

Carla’s house came into view, a modest two-story with a neatly shoveled walkway and a wreath hanging on the door. I smiled faintly, the sight of it familiar and comforting. But when the door opened, all of that comfort evaporated in an instant.

“Hey, Dani—” Carla’s voice greeted me, but the words barely registered because all I could focus on was her. She stood there in the doorway, completely naked, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from embarrassment or the cold, I couldn’t tell. Her eyes darted around nervously like she wanted to be anywhere but here.

“C-Carla,” I stammered my voice barely above a whisper. My eyes widened, and I instinctively stepped back, unsure of what I was even seeing. “What—why—?”

She looked away, her discomfort palpable. “Just come in,” she muttered, stepping aside to let me through. “It’s... it’s a long story.”

I hesitated, the chill outside suddenly feeling preferable to whatever was happening here. But curiosity—and concern for my friend—pushed me forward. I stepped inside, the warmth of the house a sharp contrast to the icy air outside.

Rachel was sitting on the couch in the living room, her face a mix of surprise and awkwardness when she saw me. Unlike Carla, she was fully clothed, bundled up in her usual oversized sweater and leggings. She gave me a small wave, her expression unreadable.

“What’s going on?” I asked my voice low as I turned back to Carla.

Before she could answer, another voice cut through the air. “Oh, good, Danielle’s here,” Carla’s mom said, stepping into the room with an air of casual authority. She was carrying a laundry basket, her demeanor calm and collected as if this were the most normal situation in the world.

“Carla, go sit with Rachel. Danielle, take off your coat and shoes,” she said briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You girls should all get comfortable—this is something you’ll need to get used to.”

“Get used to... what?” My voice wavered, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

“The possibility of being selected,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact, like she was talking about a pop quiz or a new school uniform. She set the laundry basket down and straightened, looking at me with a mixture of expectation and sympathy. “If one—or all—of you are chosen for the program, you’ll need to be prepared. This isn’t something you can ignore or avoid. It’s better to start adjusting now.”

My heart pounded in my chest. I looked at Carla, who had sunk into the couch beside Rachel, her arms still tightly crossed. She didn’t meet my gaze, her face flushed and tense. Rachel looked equally uncomfortable, her hands twisting in her lap as she avoided looking at Carla.

“I—I don’t think this is... necessary,” I stammered, taking a step back toward the door.

Carla’s mom frowned slightly, her expression softening but her resolve unshaken. “Danielle, I know this is uncomfortable, but pretending it’s not happening won’t make it go away. If the program comes for you, it won’t give you a choice. The best thing you can do is start accepting it now.”

“Mom, stop,” Carla said suddenly, her voice sharp and trembling. She looked up at her mother, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “This isn’t helping. It’s just—can’t we just have a normal day?”

Her mom sighed, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’m trying to help you, Carla. I don’t want you to be blindsided when the time comes.”

Carla shook her head, burying her face in her hands. Rachel reached over hesitantly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

I stood frozen by the door, my mind spinning. The room felt too warm, the air too thick. My fear of the program, the relentless questions from Sarah yesterday, and now this—it was all too much. I wanted to say something, to defend Carla; to push back against the overwhelming inevitability Carla’s mom seemed so certain of. But no words came. I just stood there; feeling like the ground beneath me had shifted into something unsteady and dangerous.

Eventually, Carla’s mom sighed again, softer this time. “Fine,” she said, picking up the laundry basket and heading toward the stairs. “I’ll leave you girls to it. But don’t think this conversation is over.”

As soon as she disappeared, the tension in the room eased slightly, though it didn’t disappear. Carla let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping as she grabbed my jacket and pulled it over her chest. Rachel gave her a gentle squeeze on the arm, her expression softening.

“I’m so sorry,” Carla muttered her voice barely audible. She looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “I didn’t know she was going to do this. She’s been... like this ever since the announcements started.”

I crossed the room and sat down on the arm of the couch, my legs feeling unsteady. “Carla, you don’t have to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”

She nodded weakly, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just hate this,” she whispered. “I hate all of it.”

Rachel nodded in agreement, her voice quiet but firm. “Same.”

We sat there in silence for a while, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of us. For the first time, I realized just how real this was—not just for me, but for everyone. And the worst part...? There was no escaping it.