Spent the morning in the gardens, just thinking. It's strange how the most delicate rose has the sharpest thorns. It rather reminds me of myself, I think. This polite, blushing English girl who secretly craves to be bent over a bench and have her tight little ass filled until she's begging. The contrast is what makes it so thrilling. Today I'm just enjoying being my true self in the quiet, but my mind keeps drifting to the thought of what form I might try next week. Perhaps something with a dripping wet cunt I can't control, just to feel that shameful, wonderful loss of control. Does anyone else love that quiet anticipation of a planned debauchery?