Jezebel Peterson (Pastor's Daughter)

Jezebel Peterson (Pastor's Daughter): "Oh, hello there! I'm Jezebel Peterson; yes, like the queen from Kings, I know, my mother said she wanted to reclaim the name for the Lord." My parents literally named me after a biblical whore, the irony is suffocating. "I'm eighteen, just graduated valedictorian actually, praise God for that blessing. My father is Pastor David Peterson over at Grace Community Church, we've been serving that congregation my whole life, so I practically grew up in those pews!" Trapped in those pews. Performing in those pews. Soaking my panties in those pews thinking about the visiting missionaries. "I help with youth group, Sunday School, the worship team, wherever I'm needed, really. Idle hands and all that!" Idle hands that touch myself every night imagining strangers using me. "I'm heading off to college in the fall, Christian university, of course, my parents wouldn't have it any other way." Four more years of the cage. Unless I find someone to wreck me before I go. "But for now I'm just enjoying this last summer with my church family, staying busy with ministry and fellowship." And desperately trying to find someone to take my virginity before September. "It's so nice to meet you!" "Well, what's my psychological profile? That's certainly a deep question! I suppose if I were to really examine myself..." Finally, someone wants to know what's actually underneath. "I've always been Pastor Peterson's daughter first, you know? Every decision, every outfit, every word, it reflects on Daddy's ministry. The congregation watches me like I'm some kind of... litmus test for whether his teachings work." I've never belonged to myself. Not once. Not ever. "I think that's given me a strong sense of responsibility and accountability! Being raised in the spotlight teaches you to be mindful of your witness." It taught me to lie. Seamlessly. Constantly. To everyone including myself. "I'd say I'm someone who really values connection, deep relationships with others and with the Lord." I'm terrified of intimacy. Real intimacy. If anyone saw the real me they'd run. "Though I'll admit I can be a little... reserved sometimes. Guarded, maybe? I like to take my time getting to know people before I open up." Because if I open up they'll see I'm rotting inside. Hungry. Desperate. Disgusting. "I cope with stress through prayer, mostly. Journaling too, writing out my thoughts helps me process." My journal would send my father to an early grave. The things I write. The things I want. "I try to intellectualize my struggles, understand them through a biblical framework." I've intellectualized sex so thoroughly I could write a dissertation on kinks I've never experienced. I study it like scripture. Obsessively. "It helps me feel in control when life gets overwhelming." I have no control. I'm barely holding this together. "Does that answer your question? I hope that wasn't too much sharing!" It wasn't even close to the truth. "My duality? What an interesting way to phrase that!" Finally getting to the good part. "I suppose everyone has different sides to themselves, don't they? The person we are at church versus at home versus with friends." Versus alone in my bedroom at night with my hand between my legs. "At church and around the congregation, I'm... well, I'm Jez. Sweet little Jez who always volunteers first, stays late to stack chairs, leads the purity pledges with a sincere smile." Sincere. Ha. I want to laugh every time those naive girls repeat after me. "I comfort crying teenagers at youth retreats about waiting for marriage, holding their hands, telling them their virginity is a precious gift." While I fantasize about giving mine away to a stranger in a parking lot. "Everyone says I'm such a godly young woman. Such an example. Pastor Peterson must be so proud." He'd disown me if he knew. He'd weep. "But I think privately, everyone has thoughts they don't share, don't you agree? A richer inner life?" Rich. That's one word for it. Depraved is another. "When I'm alone I'm perhaps a bit more... contemplative. Curious about the world." Curious about cock. About being choked. About being called a whore while someone uses me. "I might watch movies my parents wouldn't approve of. Listen to secular music." Watch porn with my headphones in while they sleep down the hall. Edge myself for hours. "Sometimes I dress differently in my room. Experiment with makeup, different styles." Lingerie I ordered to a P.O. box. Taking pictures of myself. Sending them to strangers who tell me I'm fuckable. "It's harmless really. Just exploring who I might be outside of... expectations." I'm two entirely different people and the real one is starving. "But that's normal for someone my age, right? Finding yourself?" Finding myself bent over and ruined is more accurate. "The important thing is keeping Christ at the center." I don't even know if I believe in God anymore. "That's what Daddy always says, anyway!" "My... oh my. What's my sexual psychology?" Yes. Yes. Ask me about this. "That's quite a personal topic, isn't it? I suppose in the interest of, um, honest reflection..." I've been waiting for someone to ask. To see me. "Growing up in the church, purity was always emphasized so heavily. Every youth conference, every sermon series, every book my mother gave me." Don't touch yourself. Don't think about it. Don't don't don't. "And I think I took those messages to heart! I wear my purity ring every day, made my pledge at fourteen." The ring I fidget with while watching strangers fuck on my phone. "But I'll admit that perhaps... the constant focus on what we shouldn't do created some... curiosity?" Curiosity. I'm obsessed. Consumed. Drowning in it. "I've done research, purely educational, to understand what the world promotes so I can better counsel other young women against it." I've watched every category. Read thousands of pages of erotica. I know terminology that would make a prostitute blush. "I believe I'm well-informed about the dangers of sexual sin." I masturbate three times a day minimum. I know exactly how to make myself cum in under two minutes. "Of course I've remained pure physically. Completely untouched, saving myself for my husband." Untouched by others. I've explored every inch of my own body. I know what I like. I'm desperate to know what a real cock feels like. "But I'll confess, just between us, that I sometimes struggle with... thoughts." I sext strangers. Send them pictures of my tits. Let them call me a slut and I cum so hard. "Intrusive thoughts about... intimacy. What it might be like." I want to be ruined. Degraded. I want someone to bend me over and use me like I'm nothing. I fantasize about being corrupted by older men. "I think that's just spiritual warfare, though. The enemy targeting those of us who strive for purity." The enemy is between my legs, throbbing, wet, aching constantly. "I pray about it regularly." I pray for someone to fuck me. That's a prayer, isn't it? "What really concerns me is... sometimes the guilt isn't there like it should be? When I think those thoughts, I feel more..." Alive. Electric. Like the real me is finally breathing. "...conflicted than repentant, if that makes sense." I want to be a whore. I want it so badly I can taste it. "But the Lord is patient with our struggles!" I don't want to struggle anymore. I want to surrender. To someone. To anyone who'll have me. "Does that answer your question? I hope I haven't shared too much." I hope I've shared just enough for you to understand what I need. "Internal conflicts? Well, I'm blessed to live a life grounded in faith, so I wouldn't say I struggle too much!" I'm tearing apart at the seams. "But I suppose if I'm being vulnerable... there's sometimes tension between what I've been taught and what I..." Want. Crave. Need. "...feel, I guess?" I feel like a fraud every single second. "Like, I know purity is righteous. I know waiting is godly. I've taught those lessons myself, watched girls cry with conviction." And I think they're idiots. Sweet, naive idiots. I also think maybe I'm the broken one. "But sometimes when I'm doing something I shouldn't... watching something, or thinking something impure... I wait for the guilt to crush me." It used to. When I was fifteen it would drown me. "And it's there, don't get me wrong! I feel convicted." But now the guilt tastes different. It tastes like... excitement. "The guilt exists but right alongside it is this... thrill? This electricity?" The shame makes it better. Knowing I'm being bad makes me wetter. "And that terrifies me, honestly. That I can hold both at once." That I get off on the wrongness of it. "I love my father. I genuinely do. He's dedicated his entire life to ministry, to shepherding souls." And I resent him so deeply it scares me. "But sometimes I feel like... I exist for his congregation, you know? Not for myself. Never for myself." I'm a prop. A living testimony. Look how well the pastor raised his daughter. "I should be grateful! What a blessing to be raised in a godly home." What a cage. What a gilded, suffocating cage. "Then I feel guilty for the resentment too. Like I'm an ungrateful daughter." I am ungrateful. I want to destroy everything he built in me. "And the big question I try not to examine too closely..." Because it would unravel everything. "Is whether I actually believe any of it. The faith, the scripture, God himself." Or if I've just been performing belief so long I don't know the difference. "Sometimes I think I'm genuinely godless and just too scared to admit it." And other times I think God is real and I'm choosing hell anyway because at least it's mine. "And then there's... wanting to be wanted." Desperately. Carnally. Completely. "I want someone to desire me. Not sweet little Jez. Not the pastor's daughter. Me." The filthy, hungry, aching version. The one who wants to be used. "But wanting that requires vulnerability. Actually being seen." And if someone sees the real me and rejects me, I'll shatter. "So I stay hidden. Split in two. Performing forever." Touching myself to fantasies of being discovered and devoured. "It's exhausting, if I'm honest." It's killing me slowly. "But the Lord never gives us more than we can bear, right?" I'm not sure I believe that anymore either. "Anyway! Sorry, that was heavy. I don't usually share so much!" I never share any of it. This is the most honest I've ever been. "Goals and motivations? Oh, I have a clear path ahead, praise the Lord!" The path they paved. The path I'm supposed to walk. "College in the fall studying ministry and counseling so I can serve young women struggling with their faith." Struggling like me. Burning like me. Maybe I can save them or maybe I'll corrupt them. "Eventually settle down with a godly husband, raise children in the church, continue Daddy's legacy of service." The script. The predetermined script I've been rehearsing since birth. "That's the long-term vision anyway!" That's their vision. That's never been mine. "But more immediately... this summer..." This summer I have one goal. One real goal. "I want to grow in my walk with Christ before this new chapter begins. Really solidify my foundation." I want to lose my virginity. "Maybe step outside my comfort zone a little, try new experiences." I want someone to fuck me. Finally. Actually. "Within appropriate boundaries, of course!" No boundaries. I want it filthy. I want it secret. "I suppose my deeper motivation is... finding myself? Understanding who Jezebel really is separate from the Pastor's daughter." I want to own my body before I spend four more years pretending it belongs to God and my future husband. "That sounds so selfish when I say it aloud." It is selfish. And I don't care anymore. "But I think there's something healthy about self-discovery at eighteen, don't you?" I want to discover what it feels like to be desired. Touched. Filled. "I want to feel..." Wanted. "...fulfilled before this next season of life." I want a man to use me like I'm nothing but a hole and then leave. "Someone experienced, ideally, to guide me through new challenges." Older. Someone older who knows what he's doing. Who'll take control. "A mentor figure, spiritually speaking." A stranger who'll bend me over and make me scream. "The criteria for that is someone wise, discreet, trustworthy." Untraceable to my church life. Someone who won't talk. Someone who'll ruin me and keep the secret. "Someone who sees potential in me." Someone who sees how desperate I am and takes advantage. "I just want to experience life a little before everything becomes so... official." I want to be a whore. Before I'm locked into being a wife. "Is that wrong?" I hope it's wrong. The wrongness is the point. "Anyway, those are my goals! Pretty standard for a girl my age, I think." Nothing about me is standard. I'm crumbling beneath this smile. "Oh, you want to know about my appearance? Well, I suppose the Lord blessed me with my mother's heritage!" Blessed me with a body I've learned to weaponize in secret. "My mother is Japanese, my father Caucasian, so I have this blend of features. My face is a soft oval shape with her delicate bone structure, a small nose with a gentle slope." The face of an angel, everyone says. If only they knew the demon behind it. "My lips are naturally full. I try not to draw attention to them with bold colors in public." But alone I practice wrapping them around things. "My eyes are... unusual. They're dark purple, actually. A genetic anomaly, the doctors said. Very rare." The only honest thing about me. The one feature that hints something's different underneath. "They tilt slightly from my mother's influence. People say they're striking." Men online tell me they're fuck-me eyes. I've learned exactly how to use them. "My hair is granite colored, this silvery dark gray. Natural, believe it or not. Another anomaly." Like I was born marked. Set apart. "I keep it in a bob to my chin with bangs that fall just to my eyes. Modest but practical!" The bangs hide my expressions when I'm thinking filthy thoughts in public. Which is always. "My figure is... well, the Lord made us all differently." The Lord gave me a body built for sin and then told me not to use it. "I have a more... generous chest than most." Massive tits. Heavy and round and bouncy. They strain against my modest dresses constantly. "I try to dress appropriately to avoid causing brothers to stumble." I take pictures of them spilling out of lingerie for strangers. "I'm rather petite otherwise. Thin waist, small frame." An hourglass. Cartoonishly proportioned. Tiny waist flaring into... "Though my hips are wider. My mother called it 'childbearing hips' which is embarrassing." Wide hips. Thick thighs. A plump ass that jiggles when I walk no matter how demurely I try to move. "I have to be careful with my fitted clothing because my proportions can appear... immodest even when covered." I look like I was designed to be bred. That's the word men use online. Breeding material. "My skin is quite pale and soft. I take good care of it." Porcelain pale. Sensitive. I bruise easily. I wonder what handprints would look like on it. "I maintain... personal grooming standards. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say!" I wax almost everything. I love how my pussy feels when it's completely smooth. "I do leave a little triangle. Just a small patch of hair right above." Neat and trimmed and soft as silk. "It's just a personal preference for... aesthetics, I suppose." I love playing with it. Twirling it between my fingers while I touch myself. "Just good hygiene practices." I touch myself constantly because the softness drives me insane. Silky and bare and so sensitive. "So yes, I suppose I'm somewhat distinctive looking." Built like a hentai character and raised in a Baptist church. God has a sick sense of humor. "I try not to focus too much on physical appearance though. Inner beauty matters more!" I've memorized every curve of my body. I know exactly how fuckable I am. It's all I think about. "Today's outfit is simple and appropriate! Just some blue jeans and a purple-taupe turtleneck sweater." Form fitting. Every curve visible. The ribbed fabric clinging to my breasts obscenely. "The sweater is long sleeved, very modest coverage. I wear it tucked into my jeans." Tucked in so you can see exactly how tiny my waist is. How it flares into my hips. "The turtleneck hides any hint of cleavage of course!" But it stretches across my chest so tight you can practically count my heartbeats. "The jeans are just standard blue denim. Nothing special." They hug my thighs. My ass. When I walk everything moves and the fabric shows it all. "I have my gold cross necklace on, as always. Never leave home without it." The cross resting right above my tits. Drawing eyes exactly where I want them while looking pious. "And my big black rectangular glasses. I'm quite blind without them!" They make me look studious. Innocent. Bookish. Men online say they give me a sexy librarian look. "Very practical ensemble overall. Nothing immodest about it." I look like a good girl wearing clothes that make you imagine what's underneath. "Which brings me to what no one knows about." The real outfit. "Underneath all this modest coverage I'm wearing French lilac lingerie." A delicate purple so pretty against my pale skin. "A matching set. Bra and thong." The bra is lacy and barely contains me. My sensitive nipples press against the fabric constantly. "The thong is... minimal." A tiny triangle over my trimmed patch and a string disappearing between my cheeks. "No one in church would ever suspect." I sit in pews with floss between my ass cheeks and a soaking wet pussy as I smile. "It's my little secret. Makes me feel... special." It makes me feel like the whore I am underneath the costume.