The Secrets Of Mrs Jean Pettigrew - Chapter 6

Jean closed the laptop quickly as she heard her husband
open the door and greet her with his usual cheery hello.  She had forgotten all thoughts of their
dinner, indeed she had forgotten all thoughts. 
Except the one of her being filmed masturbating !  She couldn’t face making polite conversation
with her husband so she told him she had a migraine and was going straight to
bed, suggesting he order a pizza for dinner. 
As an afterthought she told him she would sleep in the guest bedroom so
she wasn’t disturbed.  Michael wished his
wife a good night’s sleep and thought nothing more of it. Migraines were a
curse of her life and nothing unusual and besides, he smiled, having no need to
apologise or offer an excuse for watching the football on TV while eating his
pizza.

Jean found herself alone in the guest bedroom, her secret
afternoon masturbation room.  She sighed
as she remembered her incredible orgasms here, just a short while ago.  How life can change in three hours!  She undressed, noting that the clean panties
she put on that afternoon were already soaked, put on a thin robe, and got into
bed as she said she would, in the unlikely event Michael came up to check on
her.  She opened her laptop to find it
still showing the email she had received. 
She needed time to think how to respond. 
She lay in the semi darkness for hours, staring at the screen but her
mind wasn’t in the room with her. It was in the car park, remembering the urgent
need she had felt that afternoon. Having been deprived of her usual
masturbation time at home that afternoon, and suddenly seeing those enormous
phallic carrots it the supermarket, she had let herself get carried away with
lust, and now she would pay the consequences, her one secret vice exposed.  But there was still moisture between her pussy
lips. She could feel it, taunting her. 
Why are you aroused Jean? You should be distraught with the thought of the
shame that you and your family might be exposed to in the near future.  It didn’t take her long to figure it out, and
it was obvious when she finally grasped what inner self was telling her.  She wanted to be seen, she wanted to be
exposed, literally and metaphorically.  

She thought back to her most recent fantasies whilst
masturbating that afternoon.  She had imagined
herself as the centrepiece of a cult ritual, strapped to an alter and fucked by
a huge wooden phallus, manipulated by some priests or shaman. But then she expanded
her mind view outwards, and there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people watching!
 They surrounded her in the amphitheatre,
cheering, laughing and willing her onwards towards that tumultuous climax, revelling
in her sexual depravity and display.  And
there it was, it had always been there, but her mind would not let her see it,
for fear of the shame it would bring on her, such a Christian family woman.  It had taken the email, its contents, and the
graphic picture of seeing  her own
undeniable sexual abandonment, to open her mind to the realisation that what
she actually craved was being exposed. 
She shuddered as if cold, as her mind went straight to her pussy as she
felt the wetness again, escaping her vagina and trickling down to her bum.  Such a slut, she thought, not a godly woman
at all.  Her fingers splayed herself open
and plunged inside. No time for accessories or toys, just the need to rub and
thrust hard. She grabbed her discarded panties from the side of the bed and rubbed
her pussy lips with them as a different texture, and on her clit.  It built fast as she knew it would be
explosive. She quickly stuffed her panties in her mouth as she moaned for fear
of waking her husband in the room next door. The taste of her arousal wasn’t
new to her, but it was dirty this time, not sensual. A measure of how far her
mind had sunk into the depths.  Biting down
on them ,she came for the fourth time that afternoon and twitched as little
post orgasmic flutters hit her inner pussy muscles.  In the short time it took her to fall asleep,
she clearly formulated her reply to her mystery blackmailer.  In typical Jean Pettigrew style, if she had
to do this, it would be on her terms.