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It turns out I liked being an escort, far more than I thought I would anyway. I even started taking the money, primarily due to the fact that I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of good sense. But then, if I had the good sense I wouldn't have been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her homework, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little ladies do.
I had not been a little girl in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good thing due to the fact that he could really charge more, especially if the person I was going with picked me up at school. That benefit turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't actually like it.
Method too much for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. Selecting me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was ludicrous, but you 'd be stunned how lots of guys desired precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor slut to fuck and suck . These were all older men too, like my papa's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. They had a lot of money to invest and it was the ideas that actually flushed my checking account. Deke provided me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous since he was my supervisor, my representative, my security man, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing and the stuff I require to work, like prophylactics and lube and junk like that. He did all the work if you listened to him tell it, and all I did was lay there and get rich. 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 lady possibly eleven or twelve years old; but never ever older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a genuine skill for it.
The men enjoyed 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 brief time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonesome because I understood it wasn't truly me they liked, mainly I felt a little safer that method. Like a person who loved me wouldn't injure me, you understand? I loved my daddy. That had altered too and I do not understand if something involved the other exactly, but I do not believe in coincidence either. I 'd made love with like fifty guys or something, the majority of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. A few of them wished to call me by a different name, their child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door perhaps. A lot of them didn't mind calling me Samantha either, and that troubled me at first, but then it didn't and I began liking it.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me really was my dad. I might speak with him, tell him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel grown-up and special and loved. And somewhere, somehow along that trip, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go home and see my real papa and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. I was falling in love, in developed love, and I couldn't help it. It was programmed into me, maturing not as his child however as his partner. We 'd done everything however skilled our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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