She is too worked up

May 20th (very early in the morning)

Dear Diary,

I should have known I would not be able to sleep. First, I discovered that, somehow, I did not have a butter knife among my things, which I always need to heat to help straighten my hair. I would have thought I'd surely have packed it, but perhaps I had not, or, even more concerning, perhaps it had been discovered and removed by whomever unpacked my things.

As if all that wasn't upsetting enough, and another indication of my distracted state, I must confess that the butter knife had not even occurred to me until I was getting ready for bed and thought of the wild-haired house **** who served us. And thinking of her, I simply could not help thinking of ... other, much more vulgar things. Even more than my worries about how my carefully oiled, combed, and wrapped hair would look in the morning without the help of the hot knife, of all the things I expected to keep me awake, I did not think that it would the brief interaction I witnessed between Mr. Thornton and that pretty **** who brought the sandwiches.

Would he take her to his room? It is not hard to imagine a man like Mr. Thornton feeling the need to relieve his primitive urges, and who better than a light-skinned fancy girl who was available for the asking. I found, as I lay on the soft bed in just my night shift, that I too felt the need to relieve some of those same urges. I became sexually active much earlier than many of my acquaintances, and ever since my earliest experimentation with boys (and then men) I've found that once this mood comes over me, I may as well accept the inevitable.

The down-filled pillows on the bed were too soft for my purposes, but on the chaise near the window a much firmer cylindrical bolster was just the right size to ride like a child might ride a rocking horse. With the pillow between my legs, I knelt gripping the back of the chair and prepared to go for a ride myself. When I first straddled the bolster and pressed my itching sex against it, I did not know which of my favorite fantasies I might indulge in, but almost immediately I knew who I wanted.

I pictured the very proper Mr. Thornton alone in the coach with me as I lifted my skirts and climbed onto his lap. Each and every one of the jolts from that long ride would now serve as extra stimulation and I could feel the heat building rapidly in my core. I wondered, as I rubbed myself up and down against the fabric of the bolster, how long it would have taken for the gentleman to overcome his reserve and start taking an active role. It was all too easy to imagine this young man tearing down the bodice of my dress and then cupping my ass with his ink-stained fingers as he met my gyrations and filled me with his swollen manhood.

As oblivious as I was to the somber young man's potential, perhaps Mr. Thornton had been concealing his desire for my nubile body. Perhaps when I was not paying attention, he had been stealing surreptitious glances at my bosom and figure imagining what I might be like in his bed. Maybe, I remember thinking as the heat in my loins started to concentrate at that special point just on the top of my slit, maybe that was why the normally reserved Mr. Thornton would lead that **** to his room. With her fair skin, she even looked a little like me. Maybe he intended to take out the frustration that had felt watching me as we traveled on the girl who quite literally could not say 'no.' I bet he plowed that fertile field with a fierce determination as he pictured me laying spread out on the bed under his lean body. I could feel I was getting close, but unexpectedly my mind played a trick on me.

I was still riding the excited Mr. Thornton when the hired coach pulled up at Havenhall, and just like I remember from my arrival two stableboys came sprinting around from the back of the big house. This time though, the pair are bare-chested with sweat gleaming on their ebony skin. The negros ignored the angry shouts from the coachman and instead pulled open the carriage door to find me still riding the poor Mr. Thornton. My dress, already in disarray, was torn from my body as I screamed and kicked. I was pinned to the grass in front of the porch while the larger of the two ebony men kicked open my legs and stood over me removing his linen trousers with deliberate slowness.

The stableboy:

The African buck ignored my frantic pleas as he lowered himself between my thighs and without a word **** his swollen member into me, making me scream. As the **** rutted on me like a bull mounting a heifer, in my imagination I saw the same delegation that had met me, but this time they were sitting on the porch and laughing while watching the show with casual disinterest.

Oh my God, I can't stop shaking ... what is wrong with me?