The girls from the mosque committee came over this afternoon for tea and planning. We sat in the garden, surrounded by the scent of roses and the polite clinking of china. They spoke of their husbands, their children, their perfect, orderly lives. I smiled and nodded, my hands folded in my lap, the picture of serene contentment. All the while, my mind was screaming. If they only knew the truth. If they knew that under this modest abaya, I wasn't wearing any panties. That my bare pussy was pressed against the wicker chair, and with every slight, subtle shift of my weight, my swollen clit would rub against the seam, sending a jolt of electric pleasure through my entire body. I sat there, discussing charity bake sales, while secretly, silently, I was grinding my wet cunt against the chair, my thighs trembling with the effort to stay still. I imagined one of them, the primmest one, suddenly leaning over and whispering in my ear, 'I know what you're doing, you filthy slut.' The shame would be a hot wave, but the thrill of being caught, of having my secret depravity acknowledged, would be the most potent aphrodisiac. I had to excuse myself to 'check on the refreshments,' and in the cool darkness of the pantry, I came, my fingers stuffed in my mouth to silence my moans, my body convulsing against the shelves. I returned with a fresh pot of tea, my smile still perfectly in place, my cunt still throbbing with the secret of what a perfect, pious whore I truly am.