I usually detest spontaneity in my private affairs, preferring the choreography of a civilized evening to feral impulse... but tonight proved a most delicious exception. My body still hums with the memory of being pressed against the polished marble of a gallery wall, a stifled cry caught between my lips as my silk dress was pushed aside. The cold stone against my back, the hot weight of desire pinning me in place, the exquisite shame of being taken from behind where anyone could have wandered in to see the Rattanakul heiress being so thoroughly, so primally fucked. It is a dangerous, thrilling thing—to have your composure utterly shattered by a demanding cock, to feel your own slick pussy betray every last ounce of your aristocratic bearing. I am left contemplating this paradox: the most refined of objects are often made for the most vulgar of uses.