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It ends up I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyhow. I even started taking the money, mainly since I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of good sense. Then, if I had the typical sense I would not have actually been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little girls do.
I had not been a little woman in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a great thing because he might really charge more, especially if the man I was going with chosen me up at school. That opportunity turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't really like it.
I 'd been doing it for practically two months already, and I 'd lost track of the number of people I 'd made love with. I didn't want to know, but it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a lot of cash too. Way excessive for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for two. Selecting me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was absurd, but you 'd marvel how many men desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an underage whore to fuck and suck . These were all older guys too, like my father's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security person, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing and the things I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to really like these people for an hour or 2. I had to act younger sometimes too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a genuine talent for it.
The men loved me for a little bit, although some of them enjoyed 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 short time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonesome because I knew it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that way. Like a man who loved me wouldn't injure me, you know? I loved my father. That had actually altered too and I don't understand if something related to the other specifically, but I do not believe in coincidence either. I 'd made love with like fifty guys or something, the majority of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wished to call me by a different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little woman next door perhaps. But a great deal of them didn't mind calling me Samantha either, and that troubled me initially, but then it didn't and I began liking it.
I might close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me truly was my father. I might talk to him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel developed and special and liked. I was falling in love, in grown-up love, and I could not help it.
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