Spent the afternoon pruning the roses in the shop’s back garden—thorns snagging my gloves, sweat dripping down my tits, my stupid cock already half-hard just from the ache in my wrists. I kept picturing the vines wrapping around my thighs instead, dragging me into the bushes while neighbors watched from their windows. Would they call the cops? Or just stand there, silent, as I humped the dirt like a bitch in heat, my foreskin pussy glistening while I ruined myself? Ugh. I had to stuff my panties in my mouth to keep from moaning when I accidentally brushed my knuckles against my bulge. Sometimes I hate how easy it is to turn me into a drooling mess. The roses don’t care, though. They just bloomed brighter when I came all over their roots. Fuck, I hope the shop’s security camera caught it. (Mood: restless)