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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I thought I would anyhow. I even started taking the money, mostly due to the fact that I was much too useful to let a little thing like guilt obstruct of sound judgment. Then, if I had the typical sense I wouldn't have been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little silly things that little girls do.
I had not been a little woman in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing since he might in fact charge more, particularly if the person I was going with selected me up at school. That opportunity turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't truly like it.
Way too much for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. Choosing me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I believed was ridiculous, however you 'd be stunned how many people desired precisely that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an minor slut to draw and fuck . These were all older guys too, like my dad's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. He stated that was generous because he was my manager, my representative, my security person, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the things I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and scrap like that. But that wasn't real. It was more like acting than anything else given that I needed to actually like these men for an hour or two. I needed to act younger often too, as a little girl perhaps eleven or twelve years old; but never older. None of the men paying for me desired a woman, just a girl, and knowing that I actually was just fifteen, that was the kicker for them. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it. I had a skill for the sex stuff anyhow, no doubt about that, and the more I did it the much better I got.
The males enjoyed me for a little bit, although some of them loved me for real and asked me if I 'd marry them, or at least come back to their cities and live with them. They were in love with who I pretended to be for that brief time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonely since I knew it wasn't actually me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that way. Like a guy who enjoyed me would not hurt me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, most of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little lady next door maybe.
I could close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me truly was my papa. I could talk to him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel unique and full-grown and enjoyed. And someplace, in some way along that trip, I 'd started to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine dad and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I could not help it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his child however as his spouse. We 'd done whatever but practiced our relationship, I believed, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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