for Copperblue
Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
Leila’s phone pinged. Oh my gosh, they would deliver it today. Her heart pounded. She’d finally got up the courage to order the stuff, wincing as she hit Pay on the website, and it would be here in the next few hours. Her head raced and she felt her cheeks grow hot thinking about opening the parcel. She was so preoccupied she ate breakfast in a daydream and forgot to do much else.
A short while later, the doorbell rang. Crap, Leila though. I’m not even dressed yet. She jogged downstairs in her sleep-shorts and shirt and opened the door to a cute postman in his 30s, who greeted her with a cheery grin.
“Leila Stanford?”
“Yup,” she said. “That’s me.”
“Afraid the packaging was a little damaged in transit,” the postman said. Leila gaped as she saw a pair of pink ruffled bloomers had fallen out of the parcel.
“Um, it’s not – it’s a costume,” she blustered, snatching for the parcel. The postman held it back mischievously and read a packing slip that had fallen out onto the porch.
“Pretty Princess Panties,” he read, chuckling.
“It’s for my…niece!” blurted Leila, turning scarlet. How dare he read her mail? “Um, she’s five!”
“…for big girls who want to be little again,” concluded the postman, looking up at her with a mischievous smile. “Aww.”
“Give me that!” snapped Leila, and grabbed at the parcel again. The postman stepped back, playing keep-away with the parcel. Leila dashed out onto the porch in her bare feet. “That’s private property!”
“Not until I get you to fill out a couple of damage forms, I’m afraid,” said the postman, pulling out a clipboard and pen. “Until then, it’s property of the postal service.”
“Fine, whatever!” Leila grumbled, taking the board. The postman continued to play with the frilly panties while she filled it out, greatly amused at her discomfort. It was chilly outside and her nipples were clearly hard under her little vest. This was so embarrassing. She couldn’t wait to spirit the package into the warm and unpack it all properly. She was also desperate to use the toilet. All morning she’d been downing anxious cups of tea, and had forgotten to visit the bathroom.
How long were these bloody forms? She didn’t know what her postal sub-code was, or what the sender’s address was! She tried filling in most of it and handed it to the man, but he took one look and shook his head, pointing at several sections.
“Afraid I need these bits in full, please.”
The pressure mounted on Leila’s bladder. She really, really needed to pee now, and her shivering was only making it worse.
“Look, I just need to go back in for a second,” she pleaded. “Can I not just take the parcel?”
The postman whistled in an ominous way.
“Not unless you want us to open it back at the depot, examine the contents and file a detailed report. Your name’s written beautifully clearly on this package, so we’ll all know who the little princess is…”
Leila gritted her teeth in fury, her cheeks blazing. She tried to race through the form, praying she could control herself. Date sent? No idea! She could try scrolling through her phone for the dispatch notice but that was in the kitchen. It would take too long. Think, think! It must have been…Tuesday 24th. No, Monday 23rd! She’d been at the pub when the notification buzzed on her phone.
To her horror, a tiny hot droplet escaped her, and she crossed her legs as subtly as she could.
“Are you ok there?” asked the postman. “You look a little…uncomfortable.”
“Fine, thank you!” grimaced Leila. “I just need – I just want to take my property and go back inside.”
She scanned the form desperately, looking for asterisks indicating required fields. No, no, no….all good…oh god, hold on, bladder. Nearly there. You can’t wet yourself on your own doostep. Not after he’s seen the clothing label.
Finally it seemed to be complete. She thrust it back at him.
“And sign here and here,” he smiled, tapping two fields at the bottom of the page. She growled and scrawled her signature with enough pressure to tear the paper.
“Right! Give me that!” she barked, and ripped the parcel forcefully from his hands.
A little too forcefully, given the cheapskate wrapping. The paper tore and all of the items she’d ordered fluttered out onto the ground.
“Oh, that IS precious!” said the postman in delight. “Look at these adorable ruffle socks and this fluffy little petticoat! Oh, and I love the pink bunny dungarees. Are those more frilly knickers? So cute and ruffled! Oh my God, a tutu and little ballet shoes! Are you practising for your first dance pageant, sweetie? Somebody really does want to be a perfect little princess.”
Leila was frozen in humiliation for a moment as the childish clothes were revealed. Then she snapped into action, scooping up the soft frills and ribbons in a single armload, before turning to the postman.
“Fuck you, arsehole! I’m going to complain to your boss about your invasion of my privacy! And I’m not a fucking princess! You can go to hell!”
Satisfied, she turned back to her front door, absolutely dying for the toilet. She turned the handle, but it had locked behind her.
“No!” She cried in dismay. “NO!”
Leila felt trickles of hot pee soak her shorts and run down her legs, pooling around her bare feet. The trickles turned to gushes as she wet herself helplessly, sobbing with embarrassment. She couldn’t stop once she’d started, and it was all she could do to keep hold of her bundle of frills as she made a mortifying puddle on the doorstep.
Finally the flow stopped. Her shorts were dripping, with a huge dark butterfly of wetness across the crotch. She heard several clicks and looked up to see the postman photographing her miserable state.
“These pictures should come in useful,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll be writing to my boss, will you? Because I don’t think you want anyone seeing you wet yourself like a little girl. Aww, poor little princess – not quite grown up yet.”
“Wh-what are you going to do with those?” Leila stammered, feeling about one inch tall.
“Nothing for now,” grinned the postman. “And I’ll even help pick the lock to get you back inside. Isn’t that nice of me?”
He took a credit card and fiddled with the mechanism until the lock clicked open.
Leila pushed past him to get inside, and slammed the door in embarrassed fury, her shorts still dripping on the doormat.
She listened to see if he’d gone, but all she heard was the sound of the pen writing on crinkling paper. A note came through the letterbox.
“Naughty girl, not even saying thank you. I think you need to learn some manners. If you don’t want your workmates and neighbours seeing a lovely gallery of Princess Leila wetting her knickers (and don’t forget, I can work this out quite easily from your mail), 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. Otherwise I might decide you’re too young for those pretty panties, and find you something more appropriate for a girl who’s not potty-trained.”
It was signed “Your friendly neighbourhood postie.”
As Leila stripped off her sodden knickers, squirming at the sensation, she knew she had no choice.