Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
Leila hardly tasted her dinner, nor the wine she’d poured. She sat in her front room in a dressing gown, having hardly moved from the spot all day. She would never be able to live down the embarrassment of wetting herself on the doorstep. That bastard postman, snapping pictures of her in her wet shorts, and knowing about her special delivery as well. And that note through the door, once she was finally back inside…
“I’d advise you to open the door when I knock tonight at 8pm. I want you dressed in your sweet little tutu, and clean, dry knickers…”
The clock read 19.45. Leila didn’t know quite what she’d do if he did turn up – strangle him, maybe, or steal his phone and smash it to bits. But he wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t really turn up at night?
She sipped her wine absently, blushing hot, cold and hot again as she thought about him making good on his threat to send pictures to her workplace. The others would love that, wouldn’t they? Powerhouse Leila with her perfect sales record snuffling on the porch in a puddle of pee.
She had thrown the shorts straight into the washer and they’d slapped into the drum like a fish. A quick cycle later and nobody would ever know about her little accident.
Even if he did show up, she sure as hell wasn’t going to put on princess clothes for him. The parcel she’d ordered sat on the bed, tufts of frilly pink sticking out. She couldn’t bear to look at the clothes it held after this morning and the postie’s merciless teasing.
Nope. Screw that guy. She wasn’t dressing up for him, no matter what threats he uttered.
She nodded off, only to be woken at 8 on the dot by the doorbell.
At first, Leila was dazed, but a glance at the time reminded her who it might be. She stumbled to the spyhole and her hopes of a reprieve were dashed. There he was.
She could pretend she was out. Maybe that would work?
“Leila, poppet!” called the postman loudly. He was dressed in a casual shirt and jeans. “Are you going to be a good girl and let me in?”
Shuttup! Shuttup! thought Leila, terrified her neighbours might hear him.
“I do hope you’ve been a good little princess and got yourself ready,” sang the postie, with an evil grin.
Leila blushed. Argh, he was going to tell the entire street if she didn’t open up! Fine, fine!
She opened the door, glaring furiously.
“Would you shut the fuck up?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Little Leila. Those are definitely not words a little princess should use.”
Leila shut the door roughly.
“Stop calling me that. I let you in, didn’t I?”
“You did. Ah, but you’re in a dressing gown – that’s not what we arranged at all. Where are your new clothes?”
Leila stared at the ground.
“I’m not wearing them.”
“I can see that.”
“I mean, I won’t be wearing them.”
The postman chuckled.
“Won’t you? We’ll see.”
“We will NOT see,” hissed Leila. “You don’t get to blackmail me into humiliating myself for you.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the postman, feigning concern. “Are you worried you might ruin them, like you did with your shorts? Don’t worry – we won’t let that happen.”
“Shut up,” Leila squirmed. “That was your fault. I didn’t -“
“- didn’t wet yourself like a little girl?”
“SHUT UP!”
The postman grinned again and took his black backpack off his shoulders. He wandered over to the torn parcel on the bed and placed the bag down on the duvet while he opened the parcel and began to root through.
“Hey – leave that alone,” snapped Leila. “How would you like it if I went through your stuff?”
“Don’t have a tantrum, Leila,” said the postman. “If you don’t start behaving yourself, I might need to smack your bottom.
Leila exploded. She stomped over to the door and held it open.
“Right – leave! Now! You can’t talk to me like this! I won’t have it!”
The postman shrugged, picked up his backpack and walked over to her.
“Very well,” he said, holding out his phone. “But you might want to to look at the email I’ve just sent. I’ve set a 30-second Undo function to recall messages before they reach their recipients. By my reckoning you have about 20 seconds before these people -“
Leila saw the email addresses of her boss, her team-mates, her weekend football team, everyone she respected…”
“…see this,” finished the postie. He scrolled down to show her a short clip of her whimpering as urine sluiced down her legs, the mocking coos of the postman making it look like a potty-training home movie.
“Five seconds,” said the postman, and the sniggers and mockery of the potential recipients rang in Leila’s ears. Her sales rivals would no doubt forward this on to pinch her leads, friends would mock her mercilessly and little comments would sneak into work discussions about extra bathroom breaks.
“Undo! Undo! Fine!” she squeaked, and the postman caught the tail of the email before it went off.
“OK Leila, that’s undone for now. I’m assuming that means you’re going to be good for me.”
Leila nodded grumpily.
“Good girl,” said the postman. “You can start by putting on your little tutu as we discussed. Go on!”
He patted her on the bottom and Leila scowled as she marched over to the bed. She pulled out the pink tutu with its fluffy layers of tulle, hesitated, then glanced at her tormentor waving his phone and began to put it on. The body was a leotard with plastic poppers at the crotch. She shed the raggedy dressing gown and stepped into the stretchy fabric.
“Oh yes, very cute!” said the postman. “Fluff out the skirts and do a little twirl for me.”
Leila grimaced and froofed the skirts so they stood out in a little pink halo, then did a grumpy circular stomp. She glared at the ground again as she heard the postman coo:
“Such a dainty little girl! You’re going to look so sweet at ballet class with all the other little ones. Now then, I noticed you didn’t put on the ruffled panties like I asked…”
Leila snatched the frilly pumpkin bloomers from her order and yanked them up her legs, over the top of the leotard. They puffed out adorably, giving her a cute podgy swell under the tutu’s tulle. She stood there, mortified not just at being controlled like this, but also at the fact he knew she’d ordered these for herself.
“Lovely!” clapped the postman. “Very fluffy and sweet. But I don’t think they’re right for ballet, are they? Nevertheless, those cotton knickers underneath aren’t right either.”
He dug in his bag and pulled out something rustly.
“Now,” he explained. “Ballet is very energetic and exciting, but we know what happens when Leila gets excited, don’t we? So perhaps these are the safest things for our little princess to wear.”
He pulled out thick white adult pull-ups with noisy plastic backing. Leila’s eyes widened.
“No! I don’t need those!”
The phone was waved once more. “Evidence suggests otherwise, little ballerina! Don’t worry – these will keep you nice and safe, and stop you making a mess of your tutu.”
“Nooo!” Leila whined.
“Come here and let’s get you padded and protected,” said the postman, holding up the pull-ups once more. Leila noticed pink Disney princess stickers all over them and felt dizzy at the thought of anyone seeing her right now.
“I’m not incontinent! I don’t need…training pants!”
“Stop fussing, Leila,” said the postman, his tone changing. “Last warning. If you drag your heels anymore, they’ll be up in the air and I’ll be spanking you pretty pink, just like your outfit. Come and be good for your special plastic panties.”
“Fuck you!” Leila spat, but no sooner had the words left her mouth than the postman had sprung up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her across his lap.
“I think -” he said, landing a hard hand on her bottom so she yelped. “- that you’re not only going to put these on -” WHACK “- but you’re going to ask me very nicely if you can wear them.” WHACK.
Leila shrieked as his hand landed hard on her bottom, unprotected by the soft crotch of the tutu. Again and again he spanked her, holding her down on his lap with a firm grip. She wailed, burbled, whinined, wriggled, thrashed and snivelled as the pain built, slap on slap, until at last it was unbearable.
“Argh! OK! OK!”
“Not quite the message,” said the postman, landing another hard WHACK on her sore behind.
“AHHH! P-please…”
WHACK. “Please what?”
“Please stop!”
WHACK “Nope. Try again.”
“ANHHHHH! Please may I wear them?”
“Wear what?”
“The…the pullups.”
“The pretty princess pullups?” The postman hovered his hand and drummed his fingers on her smarting cheeks.
“Yes?”
“Say it.”
“Please may I wear the pretty princess pullups?”
The postman helped her up.
“Of course you may! Good girl for asking. Stand up straight and let’s get you pampered.”
Leila’s face was bright red as she looked at her fate. She felt the postman unsnap the poppers, grazing her clit, and to her horror, she realised the spanking had gotten her wet.
“Oh my. Someone really does like being a little princess, doesn’t she?” said the postman, unfastening the leotard crotch agonisingly slowly.
He took down her cotton underwear and confiscated it, then had her step into the pullups, tugging them up before fastening the poppers over the top. A glance across at the mirror showed the high tutu hid nothing at all. The white plastic swelled out from the seams of the leotard and gave her a chubby little bottom. She looked as though she were ready for a toddler’s dance class.
“Such a sweet little angel,” chuckled the postman. “And now you don’t have to worry about little accidents – your pullups will keep you nice and dry. I ought to enter you for a pageant, looking like this.”
Leila was so mortified she didn’t think to hide herself and next thing she knew, a flurry of clicks told her the postman had added to his blackmail bank.
“Another little spin, I think,” demanded the postman, and Leila turned glumly around for a 360-degree view of her predicament. Click. Click. Click.
He looked at his watch.
“Ah, sadly I have to go, little one.”
“What are you going to do with…the pictures?” she mumbled.
“I haven’t decided,” said the postman. “Let’s see whether you’re going to continue being good. I think we’re going to see a lot more of each other, Leila. After all, you did order such a lot of outfits – we really have to see you in all of them. Besides, look what a transformation just an hour or two with me has effected. From a swearing brat who wets her shorts to a darling little dancer in nice safe princess pullups. A much nicer girl to know.”
Leila sat down on the bed in despair, wincing as her pullups rustled loudly. The postman made an ‘aww’ face.”
“Look at those blushy cheeks. Such a nice, demure little girl now. And I think you’re only going to get nicer. Don’t you think?”