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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I thought I would anyway. I even started taking the money, primarily due to the fact that I was much too useful to let a little thing like regret get in the way of sound judgment. But then, if I had the good sense I would not have actually been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her homework, doing her nails, doing the little silly things that little ladies do.
I had not been a little girl in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a good thing because he might in fact charge more, especially if the person I was going with picked me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't truly like it.
I 'd been doing it for nearly 2 months currently, and I 'd misplaced the number of men I 'd had sex with. I didn't wish to know, but it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a lot of cash too. Method excessive for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for 2. Choosing me up at school deserved an extra 200, which I thought was ludicrous, but you 'd be surprised the number of people wanted exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an minor slut to draw and fuck . These were all older people too, like my father's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous due to the fact that he was my supervisor, my agent, my security guy, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He bought my clothing and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to in fact like these guys for an hour or two. I had to act younger in some cases too, as a little girl perhaps eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it.
The men liked me for a little bit, although some of them liked me for real and asked me if I 'd wed 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 because I knew it wasn't actually me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that way. Like a man who enjoyed me wouldn't harm me, you know? I was in love with my daddy. That had altered too and I do not understand if something involved the other specifically, but I don't believe in coincidence either. I 'd made love with like fifty men or something, most of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. A few of them wished to call me by a various name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little girl next door perhaps. But a great deal of them didn't mind calling me Samantha either, which bothered me in the beginning, however then it didn't and I began liking it.
I might close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me really was my daddy. I might speak to him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel unique and developed and loved. And somewhere, in some way along that trip, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine father and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more 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 daughter however as his partner. We 'd done everything however skilled our relationship, I believed, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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