The Secrets Of Mrs Jean Pettigrew

Jean Pettigrew was a pillar of her community.  A former schoolteacher, a member of the local council and organist at the parish church.  She was 48 years old and had been married to her husband Michael for 26 years.  They had two children, both of whom now had now left home to pursue their own lives.  Their existence proved that Jean must have indulged in intercourse at least twice in her life but, other than that, you would not notice any outward sign of a sexual being lurking beneath her prim exterior.

But Jean Pettigrew had a secret.  It had its roots in an accidental moment of pleasure astride an ill-fitting saddle on her father’s horse at the age of 14 but had developed a life of its own for may years since then. Jean was a compulsive masturbator!  She had rarely let a day go by without pleasuring herself at least once. Her husband, of course, knew nothing of such behaviour on his wife’s part and quietly went about his life, accepting his rare allocation of marital pleasure, as and when Jean allowed him to indulge is manly needs.

During the week, while her husband was at work, she was always up early in the mornings doing things around the house. Cleaning, laundry, baking and generally being the perfect ideal housewife.  The afternoons were spent in a much more leisurely manner. After a light lunch she would take herself up to the attic bedroom and undress.  She loved the way the sunlight played through the lace curtains across the bed and walls and she would always open the window if warm enough to feel it against her skin.  She had lots of soft fluffy pillows plumped up against the headboard on the bed and, once reclined comfortably, she would close her eyes, relax and play out her chosen fantasy for the day. Her fantasies rarely involved men, or at least not penises and sex.  Instead she imagined  her vagina and clitoris being manipulated, invaded and ravaged by anonymous hands and all types of implements, machines and devices.  She would begin to run her fingers lighty over her upper body until they eventually found their way to her small breasts and nipples. She loved to tug and pinch them harder and harder while all the time the wetness between her legs began to soak the bed beneath her. Only then, when her body craved release, would she reach for something she had carefully chosen to reach her climax. Sometimes it was something delicate like a soft brush to flick across her clitoris until she could stand it no longer. On other days it was something thick like the end of a rolling pin or a large cucumber to plunge into her and stretch her until her vaginal muscles spasmed around it and her juices gushed out.  Today it was soft feather she had found in the garden.  She teased her clit for as long as she could stand then alternated with gentle strokes around her puffy labia.  But the end result was always the same.  She screamed out as she came, alone in the empty house, her secret passion safe for another day.  After recovering her senses she would calmly dress, change the bed, wash the sheets and start to prepare her husbands dinner.  Perhaps that cucumber would make a nice salad……..