The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy (2A 2/3)

[Somebody]

Oh, I thought it was *mall* girl. I really should have my reading glasses on. This is a great start, though it sounds like she told her mom about it twice?

[EddieDavidson]

That's really neat. It reminds me to some degree of NIS, but with a kinkier side, and a little more objectification.

I especially like the idea that the girls are teased about their bodies as an incentive to stay fit, so they'll be better mail runners.

I could almost imagine a new program called the "TPP" - teacher's pet program. The mail girls are drafted or compete in small heats to be assigned a particular teacher as their sponsor. The incentive being the pet of the more handsome male teachers.

In this variation, the mail girl's primary "home" is not the central office, but rather making sure that particular teacher's communications are rapidly sent/recieved, and each teacher is free to impose their own particular rules/preferences.

The main character trys out for handsome Mr. Young's Pet, but ends up with stodgy old Mrs. Donevant, who wants things done in a particular way and brooks no mindfulness about the girl's humiliation in the process. "You volunteered for this, so stop your nattering. It doesn't matter if those boys are giggling while you alphabetize these books. I want you to pick each one up one at a time, dust it, and place it just so on the shelf."

I am glad you shared this with me. I would never have seen all of these stories collected all in one place. They are definitely an inspiration. I am happy to offer some suggestions/brainstorm either here or on in private if you want to bounce ideas back and forth to make this a special/different story. I think starting in the "traditional" way of being excited to be chosen/apprehensive is perfect. it's like setting up a blank canvas to a reader like me who has no idea what mail girl is.

However, my one recommendation would be to assume no prior knowledge of the series, and put the character through an indoctrination/training early on so that the new reader can follow along to the point of it all. When i initially thought of mailgirl, I was thinking "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds and nude young ladies are drafted to deliver postal mail through the community.

Carrying big boxes "wow, you've got quite a package, Mr. johnson", being chased by dogs, getting wet (literally from rain and arousal), dealing with heat, insects, and bad directions.

Then i thought perhaps a business, like the old movie "How to succeed in business without really trying", before there were emails, there were entire departments devoted to interoffice communication. You start off there as an intern (and reading the book one chapter at a time, rise to the rank of Vice President) only to discover that had you completely read the book you would have avoided being in charge of advertising.

But, now that I read a few of the other stories, i have a much better idea.

[flashharry]

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Go away

[BC101010]

What an amazing setup! I'm super excited for this addition to the Mailgirl universe!

[barelin]

The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 1C: The Weight of Choices

I sat at the kitchen table, my thoughts tangled and restless, still struggling to make sense of everything that had happened earlier at Carla’s house. Even after her mom left, Carla hadn’t been herself—not when she changed into her nightgown while Rachel and I sat awkwardly in her room, not even when she walked us to the door and said goodbye.

The unease clung to me, insistent and inescapable. No matter how hard I tried to bury the thought, it lingered.

Mom sat across from me. Cradling her coffee cup in both hands, her fingers tracing absentminded circles on the ceramic. After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“You’ve been quiet since you got home, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

I hesitated; the words caught in my throat, but forced them out. “Carla’s mom made her...” I swallowed hard, “open the front door completely naked. In front of me. In front of Rachel. She… her mom said it was to get used to the idea. To prepare for... the program...”

“I see.” Her fingers tightened around the cup. “How did that make you feel?”

I let out a breath, wrapping my arms around myself. “Uncomfortable. For her. For me. It was…” I shook my head searching for words. “It felt… wrong, but can’t put my finger on why.

I looked up at her, my chest tightening. “Then Carla’s mom made it sound like… like it was something we all might have to do eventually. Like it was normal.”

“And that scares you?”

I nodded. “More than anything.”

Mom set her cup down and leaned forward slightly. Her voice was calm but serious. “Danielle, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” A strange tension coiled in my stomach. It’s something your dad and I decided when you were much younger—back when you were in kindergarten.”

I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

She sighed and folded her hands on the table. “When you first started school, all the parents of children who might eventually be eligible for the Mailgirl Program had to choose.

I froze.

“They told us that every eighth-grade girl would be automatically included in the selection pool… unless we specifically chose to remove your name from consideration.”

I froze.

The world tilted slightly, my heart skipping a beat. “You had a choice?” My voice barely came out. “You could’ve taken my name off the list?”

Mom nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yes. We could have.”

Something cold settled in my chest. “Then why didn’t you?”

She sighed; her expression pained but steady. Because we didn’t know what the future would hold, Danielle.” She hesitated. “We didn’t want to make a decision for you that might limit your options later on.”

The words felt like a slap. Limit my options? My voice rose. “An opportunity for what?”

Mom sighed again, looking down at her hands. “At the time, the program seemed different. More like… a structured experience. Something that could open doors.”

I pushed back in my chair, anger flaring in my chest. “Open doors to what? Humiliation?”

“Danielle,” Mom said gently, cutting me off. “I know it’s hard to understand. I don’t blame you for being upset. Looking back, I wonder if we made the wrong choice, but we weren’t the only ones. Almost all the parents we believe, including your friends—Rachel’s, Carla’s, everyone you know—made the same decision.”

I sat there, staring at her, struggling to breathe past the tightness in my throat. “So, I’m only in this because of a choice you made years ago?”

“Yes.” Mom’s voice was barely above a whisper. “But you’re not alone in this, Danielle. If they ever choose you, we’ll face it together.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I wiped at them angrily. “It just feels so unfair. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t even know if I could… if I could ever do something like that. It’s terrifying to think about.”

Mom reached across the table, her hand warm and steady over mine. “I know it feels unfair, sweetheart. And I’m sorry. I need you to know that you’re stronger than you think and you will adapt. No matter what happens, we’ll face it together. And if you’re scared, that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.”

I swallowed hard. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t shake the suffocating weight in my chest.

“This isn’t something you have to figure out tonight or even tomorrow,” Mom’s voice was soft, reassuring. “If you ever feel overwhelmed, you can come to me. Always...”

For the first time all day, a small sliver of comfort seeped through the fear, but deep down, I knew. The Mailgirl Program wasn’t a distant shadow anymore. It was coming and I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I sat at the kitchen table, fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve, my mind still racing. Something inside me pushed me to speak before I could stop myself.

“Mom...?” I began hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper. Dad briefly entered the kitchen, grabbed something from the refrigerator, and left.

She looked up from her phone screen, her expression patient but curious. “Yes, sweetheart...?”

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. I wasn’t sure how to ask, how to even explain what I was feeling. But I forced myself to keep going. “What if… what if I tried going, um… clothing optional? At home. Just to see.”

Mom’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t react the way I expected.

She leaned back in her chair, taking a moment before responding. “That’s a big thing to ask, Danielle,” she said carefully. “Can you tell me why you’re thinking about this?”

I swallowed hard, trying to organize the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. “It’s just... if this is something that might happen, I don’t want to feel powerless.”

Mom nodded slowly; her expression unreadable. “I understand.” Then, her expression shifted—gentle but firm. “If you choose this, Danielle, you need to be prepared for what it means. That means following through. No hesitation. No second guessing.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. “Even if I’m not ready?” I asked quietly.

Mom reached out and placed a hand on mine, her touch warm and reassuring. “That’s why you need to think about it carefully. This isn’t something you can half-commit to.”

I nodded slowly, my mind racing. “So, if I decide to do this, it means... Do I have to be ready for anything? Would I be able to regain control again?”

“Within reason, yes,” Mom said. “We would never put you in a situation that made you unsafe or uncomfortable beyond what you’re trying to explore. But part of preparing for something like the Mailgirl Program—or even just the possibility of it—is learning to let go of some of those fears and hesitations.”

Her words made sense, but they also terrified me. The idea of letting go, of exposing myself in such a vulnerable way, felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure if I’d fall or fly.

“Can I think about it?” I asked finally, my voice barely audible.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Mom said, squeezing my hand. “This is your choice. I just want you to understand what it means before you make any decisions.”

I nodded again, my thoughts swirling with uncertainty and resolve. This wasn’t a decision I could make lightly, but part of me felt like I was already on the path. Whether I was ready or not, the shadow of the Mailgirl Program loomed ever closer, and I knew I couldn’t ignore it forever.

Mom’s voice broke through my thoughts, soft and encouraging. “Whatever you decide, Danielle, I’m here for you. We’ll figure this out together.”

I managed a small smile, grateful for her support even as the weight of the situation pressed down on me. There was so much to consider, so much I didn’t know if I was ready for. But at least I knew I wasn’t alone. When I stood up and said, “Mom… it’s not my choice anymore.”

[barelin]

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!

[superevil7]

Barelin, I think this might be the best story you've ever written! The emotions of Danielle and the other girls come through so clearly! I can't wait to see what you do in the next chapter, and hopefully the mail girl program starts soon.

[BC101010]

While I appreciate your desire to fix story continuity issues, I'm sad the see this story get pulled down. I'm very much hoping to see it return!

[barelin]

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 to previous chapters ensure a smoother reading experience while preserving the heart of the story. Thank you for your patience and support!

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The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 2A: Tentative Steps toward the Unknown

The rest of the long weekend passed in a blur of complicated emotions. Since Friday had been the peak of awkwardness—with the events at Carla’s house and my conversation with Mom still lingering like a fog I couldn’t shake—Saturday and Sunday felt almost like a tentative return to normal. Almost.

When Carla and Rachel came over on Saturday afternoon, we didn’t talk about the Mailgirl Program. Not directly. We sprawled out in my room, lounging on my bed and the floor, talking about school gossip, holiday plans, and songs we couldn’t get out of our heads.

Carla seemed more like herself, cracking jokes and teasing Rachel about her crush on one of the boys in my science class, but beneath the surface, something felt different—like we were tiptoeing around the inevitable.

At some point, I made a decision—without much forethought. I had been wearing my nightgown, but as I entered my room, I let it slip off, leaving myself naked in front of my closest friends. I wasn’t sure if it was rebellion, curiosity, or simply a way to take control of something that felt so out of my hands.

Whatever the reason, I couldn’t deny that it felt oddly freeing. I expected them to say something, to react—but they didn’t.

If Carla noticed, she didn’t let on, though I caught her glancing at me a few times, her expression unreadable. Rachel, on the other hand, didn’t even bat an eye. For the first time, I let myself relax. The sunlight streaming through the window felt warmer, the air against my skin more real. It was oddly normal—at least, in my own space, with them, but every time I left my room—to grab snacks or use the bathroom—I made sure to slip on a light cotton gown. Even with Mom’s earlier words, I wasn’t ready to push things beyond the safety of my room.

By the time Carla and Rachel left that evening, I realized how much had shifted—not just between us, but within me. The idea of the Mailgirl Program still terrified me, but now it felt a little less like a nightmare and more like a reality I might have to face.

Sunday was quieter, almost contemplative. I spent most of the day in my room, tidying up or scrolling on my phone. Carla and Rachel had both texted me, sharing updates about their Thanksgiving dinners and then almost casually, Carla mentioned something that made my stomach drop.

Carla: My mom signed me up for an advanced preparatory workshop at the senior campus next semester. She… forced me. I didn’t have a choice.

She didn’t go into much detail, but the way she said it made it clear she wasn’t thrilled about it.

Rachel: [Trying to lighten the mood with a joke] Well, at least we’ve got each other, right?

I stared at the message, reading it over and over again, as if trying to find comfort in the words. I knew they were both trying to find ways to cope with the uncertainty, just like I was. And in my way, I felt like I’d taken a step, even if it was a small one.

That evening, Mom stopped by my room after dinner. She lingered in the doorway before stepping inside, her expression thoughtful.

“Everything okay?” she asked, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Yeah,” I said, setting my phone down.

She studied me for a long moment, as if she was debating whether to say something. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about Friday,” she said finally. “About you exploring what you said, it’s not your choice anymore.”

I nodded, unsure where this was going.

“How do you feel about it?” she asked gently.

I hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s… weird. But I guess it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. At least not when I’m in my room... with my friends…”

She smiled faintly. “That’s a good start.”

There was a pause, and then she added, “If you want to keep going with it, I think it’s important to set some boundaries—for yourself and us. But I also think you need to be prepared to take direct instructions.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If you’re going to explore this—being more comfortable in your skin—you need to be ready to step outside your comfort zone of your room. That might mean listening when your dad, I or anyone else say, ‘Take it all off.’ Even if it feels awkward, very public or inconvenient…”

I swallowed hard, my heart racing. “You mean… here? At school...?”

Mom nodded. “For…, yes... But you also need to understand that this might happen outside the house, too. There may come a time when we tell you to strip outside the house, and we’ll expect you to do it. No hesitation. No arguing.”

I felt a lump form in my throat, my hands clenching the blanket on my bed. “Outside the house...?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, though her voice was still kind. “If we’re going to help you prepare, you need to understand that once those items are off your body, they are no longer yours unless instructed. You won’t be able to think of clothing as something permanent or protective anymore—not if you’re serious about facing what might come.”

Her words hung in the air—heavy, final, unshakable. A cold wave washed over me and I gripped the blanket tightly. I understood what she was saying, but understanding didn’t make it any less terrifying.

By the time I went to bed that night, I was still sorting through my emotions. The weekend had been a rollercoaster, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t something I could avoid forever. Whether I liked it or not, the clock was ticking, and sooner or later, I’d have to face the reality of what was coming? From what I got from Rachel and Carla, it did seem as if for some strange reason our parents already knew about the selection.

Monday at the junior campus carried a tension that no one could escape. Tomorrow’s pre-mailgirl assembly loomed over us like a storm cloud.

The usual morning chatter in the hallways was subdued. Girls glanced at each other, some pretending everything was normal, others exchanging nervous whispers.

As I made my way to my locker, I spotted Carla and Rachel down the hall. Carla was leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, her usual confidence muted. Rachel fidgeted with the strap of her backpack, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Hey,” I said as I approached them, my voice quieter than usual.

“Hey,” Rachel replied, her smile flickering for a brief moment before fading.

“Morning,” Carla muttered, her eyes scanning the hallway as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“Is it just me,” I asked, “or is everyone acting… different today?”

Rachel let out a shaky laugh. “Not just you. It’s like the air's thicker or something.”

Carla rolled her eyes, but there was no real conviction behind it. “Yeah, well, what do you expect? Everyone’s freaking out about tomorrow.”

We all knew what “tomorrow” meant. The school had sent out letters, emails, and reminders making it clear that attendance was mandatory for all eighth-grade girls. They hadn’t said what would happen and that was the worst part. I swallowed hard. The unknown was always scarier than the known.

The lack of information made everything worse. Rumors had been circulating for weeks, but no one knew what to expect from the assembly. As Rachel mentioned how her parents had reassured her, she held up a sealed letter they had given her. She hadn’t opened it yet, unsure of what it contained. A chill ran through me.

“I heard,” Rachel said in a hushed voice, “they’re going to make us, like… practice. You know, in case we are picked.”

Carla snorted and crossed her arms. “Practice what? Walking naked? Standing around naked?”

Rachel’s cheeks turned pink. “You know what I mean.”

I shifted uncomfortably, my mind flashing back to Friday at Carla’s house. Her mother’s firm instructions, of the way Carla stood there—exposed and uneasy—played on repeat in my head. ‘Was that what tomorrow would bring?’

“I just wish we knew what to expect,” I said. “Not knowing is what’s driving me crazy.”

Carla’s gaze grew distant. “Same. But hey, at least we’ll be in it together, right?”

Rachel nodded quickly, clinging to the reassurance. “Yeah... Together.”

The rest of the day dragged by at an agonizingly slow pace. Each class felt longer than usual, as if time itself had slowed. Even the teachers seemed off, trying to act normal but failing to hide the tension.

At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with nervous whispers. Girls clustered together, speaking in hushed tones, speculating about the assembly. Some of the more confident girls tried to laugh it off, masking their unease with sarcasm. Others barely touched their food, their eyes darting anxiously across the room.

“Do you think they’ll start picking people tomorrow?” a girl at a nearby table asked, her voice trembling.

“No way,” her friend replied. “The actual selection isn’t for about a month. Tomorrow’s just, like, an orientation or something.”

“Yeah, you know, like a test run?” Silence followed, the weight of those words settling over everyone.

At our table, the mood remained grim. Carla stabbed at her salad, barely eating, her grip on her fork tense. Rachel nibbled on a sandwich, taking small, distracted bites. I pushed my food around my plate, no longer hungry.

“What are you guys going to wear tomorrow?” Rachel asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Carla raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said with a shrug. “I just… I feel like I should at least try to look nice. In case…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

“In case what?” Carla asked her tone sharper than intended.

Rachel hesitated before mumbling, “In case I get picked.” The words hung between us like an unwelcome presence.

“You’re not getting picked until after the winter break,” Carla said firmly. “None of us are.”

“You don’t know that,” Rachel whispered.

Carla opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “Let’s not do this,” I said. “Not here. Not now.”

Carla sighed, slumping back in her seat. “Fine...”

The final bell couldn’t come soon enough. By the end of the day, I was mentally drained, the anticipation of tomorrow pressing down on me. Carla and Rachel walked with me to the bus stop, our conversation strained and sparse.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asked as we waited.

I hesitated, and then nodded. “Yeah… just tired.”

“Same,” she said, offering a small, sympathetic smile.

When the bus arrived, we climbed on, finding our usual seats near the back. The ride home was quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts. I stared out the window, watching the familiar streets blur past, but my mind was miles away.

Tomorrow loomed over me, unshakable and inevitable.

At home, the atmosphere felt different. Mom and Dad sensed my unease, but didn’t push me to talk. Instead, they gave me space, their quiet support more comforting than any forced conversation.

After dinner, I retreated to my room, sitting cross-legged on my bed with Harper curled up beside me. I had just showered and my nightgown and pink panties lay on the edge of the bed, untouched. Mom knocked softly before stepping inside.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, sitting down next to me.

“Hey,” I replied, scratching Harper behind the ears.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she observed.

I shrugged. “Just thinking about tomorrow...”

She nodded her expression thoughtful. “It’s okay to be nervous, but remember, you’re stronger than you think.”

“Am I?” I asked my voice barely above a whisper.

She placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you are. And no matter what happens tomorrow, your dad and I will be here for you. Always...”

Her words gave me something to hold onto, but they didn’t erase my fears. Nothing could, not completely.

As I lay in bed that night without slipping on anything, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t stop the flood of questions running through my mind. ‘Would tomorrow be a test? Would they expect us to strip? Would they judge us? And, most importantly, would I be ready?’

I only had one answer. I would face it when the time came and time was running out.