Restless

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, as Mama taught me, could be heated and adapted 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, of all the things I expected to keep me awake, I did not think that it would the brief interaction I had 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. Ever since my early 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, 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 facing 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 startled reaction of the very proper Mr. Thornton alone in the coach with me as I lifted my skirts and climbed onto his lap. As I rubbed against the bolster, I let each and every remembered jolt from that long ride serve as extra stimulation and I could feel the heat building rapidly in my core. I wondered, as I slid 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 in this wild coupling. It was all too easy to imagine this young man carefully loosening the bodice of my dress and gripping my ass with his long smooth fingers as I rose and fell on 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 stealing surreptitious glances at me as we travelled together and 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. Maybe he intended to take out the frustration that had felt watching me 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, instead of holding the team of four so the coachman could help me disembark, the pair of negros pulled open the carriage door and dragged me off of Mr. Thornton. My dress, already in disarray, was torn from my body and as I screamed and kicked, I was pinned to the grass in front of the porch while the larger of the two ebony men climbed between my thighs and without a word **** his 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 and watching the show with casual interest.

I wonder if this sketch I made even comes close to expressing the intensity of the pleasure I felt with this climax. In none of my previous sexual encounters or fantasies had I ever even considered a negro as a partner; to climax so hard, so uninhibitedly, at the notion of a coal-black **** taking me without a hint of hesitation, left me shaken to my core.

I closed the leatherbound diary with a loud 'thunk' and pushed it from me in shock and undeniable arousal. I have read a few erotic books, and (like most women) rented the Shades of Grey movies, but this account of the young woman's confused masturbatory fantasy leaves me as shaken as the woman who wrote these words almost 200 years ago. To make matters even more complicated, there is a very real possibility that Bianca is an ancestor of mine. After all, the diary had been in the possession of some distant relative before it was donated to the museum. Was it a family heirloom passed from mother to daughter when the time was right?

More than ever, the post-script on the letter from the law firm that made it clear they were not going to disclose where the book came from, added to my frustration and confusion.