The Ties That Bind

Belonging.

Whether I enjoy the ties or not, I’m bound to everyone I know from the instant I meet them. The position I hold with one person may be inherently and wholly different from the place I hold with the next, but the ties, no matter how few, are always there, in joy and in suffering and in adventure and in monotony and in love and in hate and in life and in death. The nature of the ties that bind me to them depends solely on how much I’m ready to give them…

…and on how much of myself I’ll let them take.

To some I may give very little.

I afford my mailman a sweet smile and a pleasant greeting for bringing my mail to me, but I owe him nothing and I give him nothing else. His position with me forces him to take whatever I give, no matter how little, and ask for no more. He, too, realizes that I owe him nothing and that he can expect nothing from me beyond common courtesy. But we have a bond. He belongs to me as my mailman and I belong to him as his recipient… and he receives a cordially warm greeting for free.

To some I may give deceivingly less.

At any point in time when I collect my mail from the mailman, I can shift the tide of normality. My dress on any usual day centers on some variation of jeans and a tank top accompanied by a breezy pair of flip flops and an equally breezy demeanor. But let’s say that, one sultry day, I decide to afford my mailman more than the usual friendliness and choose to greet him in a pair of stockings decorated with delicate seams running up the back of my legs, covered slightly by a dangerously short black cocktail dress and flanked by a dangerously tall pair of heels. Perhaps on an afternoon when I’m preparing to head out on a dinner date, or perhaps on an afternoon when I have nothing better to do than torture the mailman. I might have a necklace with a tricky clasp dangling from my fingers and ask him, before taking my mail, if he’ll relieve me of my distress and fix it around my neck. He owes me nothing more than my mail, but may see no reason not to oblige me this favor… and may also be well aware of the thanks he will receive in return for his help.

The tide has been molded by me and it remains in my hands up until the very second that the mailman takes the necklace from my grasp. Once that occurs, I no longer have the ball in my court, and he now holds the ability to change the tide. What if he should drop this necklace, necessitating that one of us bends down to pick it up? Should he pick it up with my back still to him, awaiting the proper placement of the trinket, he could easily follow the seams tracing down my legs to the ground and, unless I move, sneak what he may or may not believe to be an unintended peek up my dress. And maybe he’ll need to wrap a worker’s hand around my thigh to steady himself on his way back up, having been walking all day and already suffering from aching knees. But, should I pick it up, he stands to face a few more possibilities. Perhaps the tops of my stockings and tips of my garter attachments will be uncovered by the journey down and the inevitable rumpling of my little dress, and perhaps he’ll be standing so closely to me that I gently brush his hips as I make the trek. Perhaps he’ll help me straighten my dress when I return with the necklace in my hand once more, and perhaps he’ll notice there are no panties hidden by the garter belt as he does so. The direction our story takes is up to him as soon as the necklace leaves my hands, but no matter which way it goes, the ties between us have forever been changed. He no longer belongs to me as just my mailman and I no longer belong to him as just his recipient, but we both become the other’s prey… and he can neither expect to receive more nor expect to receive a repeat performance. I owe him nothing, and he can ask nothing of me.

To some I may give deceivingly more.

Perhaps the mailman hasn’t realized that he is not solely my prey. Let’s say that it was not originally me who shifted the tide of normality. Having seen my naturally friendly interactions with the mailman, perhaps another man spotted the opportunity for play and—knowing that the ties that bind me to him compel me to follow his desires, to stay his playmate, to remain his co-conspirator, and to be his good little harlot—he arranged for the event to occur. Where I would have dressed myself in youthful comfort and airiness in preparation for the friendly meeting, he has chosen something far more decadent in that little black dress and pair of stockings that he instructed me to wear instead, and he intends the meeting to be more than friendly. Perhaps he is watching his plans unfold in my hands, and occasionally in the mailman’s hands, from around the corner or from an upstairs window. Perhaps he has a riding crop in his hand waiting for me, should I decide to change his will in any undesirable way… and perhaps he ran it gently across my exposed slit before the mailman arrived to remind me of the rules of this game. To remind me to be his good little slut.

Perhaps.

And, although the mailman knows nothing of him, he is now bound to him through me, and he will forever be bound to him through me, but he may never have the privilege of knowing.

Look around you, kids.

To whom do you belong?

<3 Goldy <3