It’s tempting to think that mundanity, your everyday life can be a form of protection. That, through the sheer normality of it all, you’re safe from the kink, the fetish, the depraved things that I’m going to do to you. You think that your tight skirts and your smart blouses and your work heels are things that instil an inherent innocence, the setting and use of them so inherently unsexual that to suddenly insert the perverted into them would be a taboo too far.
But, my dear, there is never a taboo too far. You’re not safe, because safety is an illusion that you buy into whenever you leave this house. You think you’re protected by your job title, and the desk you sit behind. You think that all of these things provide a sort of cocoon, a place away from the bedroom, away from me.
Not that you’d ever actually think these thoughts. They’re just assumptions that you’ve let slip into your day to day, a belief that’s gone unchallenged. That’s all very well, until that first time you get home and settle in for the night only to find me walking into the room, cuffs in tow. The first time I send you to work with a plug in your rear keeping my come from leaking out. The first time you leave your panties behind and can’t stop thinking about me and my bedroom for the entire day.
You’re not safe. You were never safe. And nothing is going to give you that safety from me, because I am your safety. Your protector. The one thing you have no protection against.