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Deviant Deb

sissification modification of pathetic man parts

I need.



Hi boys.

My name is Deb.

Don’t take me for just another girl on-line.
I may not look it but I’m shy.
This is not me in real life.
Or maybe it is.
Maybe the other me is the fake and this is my true self.
I don’t know.

All I know is I could never do this kind of thing if anyone found out.
I mean, you know, anyone out here or whatever you call it.
Anyone I would meet on the streets.
So, keep my secret, okay?
Let’s just keep this between me and you.

Private.

Secret.

I like secrets.

They make me wet.

In case you couldn’t tell, I’m new to this whole internet business.
Excuse me if I’m clumsy or a little forward.
I’m still finding my way. But see, I had to do something.
There comes a time, you know,
when you have to take control of your own life and if you don’t,
well, whatever happens then is your fault.
Well, I’ve decided to take control.
You see, I’m thirty nine, I’m married.
Sometimes I look around and
I realize that a lot of this world feels like I’m done.
I’ve already finished what I came here to do.
The rest of the world may feel that way,
my husband may feel that way,
I even understand that.



It’s just not the way it is.

I’m thirty-nine, not ninety-nine.
I’m not ready to be put out to pasture.
I still have my looks. I take care of my body.
When I go to the supermarket I feel eyes searching, probing, my cleavage, my ass, my neck, my legs.
I might be a MILF but I think they’d all fuck me anyway.
I would be a liar if I were to say it didn’t give me a little bit of a thrill…and I’m not a liar.
Well, maybe sometimes. Just a little. Like when I let my husband believe that I’m happy, that
I’m fulfilled, that there’s no more to me.
I let the town believe all there is to me is a great wife,
an excellent homemaker and a good girl.
Trust me.
I am good.
I’m very, very good.
Just not so much in the way they think.

No, not so much at all.




See, I’m a bad girl really.
It’s not my fault.
Or I don’t blame myself anyway, I don’t punish myself.
I have needs, that’s all.
My husband might be ready for his rocking chair and his pipe
but my breasts are aching to be touched, to be kneaded, bitten, fucked.
When a man bumps into me “accidentally”
in the post office and I feel that tell-tale hard bulge in his crotch
as our eyes meet
and he mumbles “excuse me”
I can feel myself soaking with want.
I’m always bordering on embarrassed whenever that happens.
I always think somebody must see, surely they can tell.
That possibility only makes things worse.
I’ve literally, had to fight myself to keep from running to the car
and finger-fucking myself into oblivion.
I, uh, don’t run, anyway.