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It ends up I liked being an escort, far more than I thought I would anyway. I even started taking the money, mainly due to the fact that I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt obstruct of good sense. However then, if I had the common sense I would not 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 women do.
I hadn't been a little lady in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a great thing due to the fact that he might in fact charge more, particularly if the guy I was going with picked me up at school. That privilege turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't truly like it.
I 'd been doing it for nearly two months currently, and I 'd lost track of the number of men I 'd made love with. I didn't want to know, but it had to be a lot. I 'd made a great deal of money too. Method too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for two. Choosing me up at school deserved an extra 200, which I thought was ludicrous, however you 'd marvel the number of people wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an underage slut to draw and fuck . These were all older men too, like my dad's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security guy, my advertising and transportation all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the things I need to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to actually like these people for an hour or two. I had to act younger in some cases too, as a little lady maybe eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I think I had a genuine skill for it.
The men liked me for a little bit, although some of them loved me for genuine 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 since I understood it wasn't really me they liked, primarily I felt a little more secure that method. Like a guy who enjoyed me would not harm me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, many of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a various name, their child's name, or a niece or the little girl next door maybe.
I might close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me truly was my father. I could talk with him, tell him I liked him, how he made me feel unique and full-grown and loved. And someplace, somehow along that flight, I 'd started to think it. I 'd go home and see my real daddy and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. I was falling in love, in developed love, and I couldn't help it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his child however as his wife. We 'd done whatever however consummate our relationship, I believed, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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