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It ends up I liked being an escort, a lot more than I believed I would anyhow. I even began taking the money, mainly because I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of sound judgment. But then, if I had the sound judgment I would not have been an escort either. I would have been simply another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little women do.
I had not been a little girl in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a great thing because he might really charge more, especially if the man 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 2 months already, and I 'd misplaced how many men I 'd made love with. I didn't wish to know, but it had to be a lot. I 'd made a lot of money too. Method 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 2. Choosing me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was ludicrous, but you 'd be surprised the number of guys wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage slut to fuck and draw . These were all older guys too, like my daddy's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous because he was my supervisor, my agent, my security man, my marketing and transport 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 really like these people for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful often too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real skill for it.
Mary Magdalene had been a slut. That's where I took my comfort and she 'd become my patron saint. I 'd felt actually guilty in the beginning, but that had actually gone away when I realized I wasn't hurting anybody. The men loved me for a bit, although some of them liked me for real and asked me if I 'd marry them, or a minimum of come back to their cities and cope 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 understood it wasn't truly me they liked, mainly I felt a little much safer that method. Like a man who liked me would not harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, many of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a different name, their child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door perhaps.
I might close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me really was my papa. I might talk to him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel full-grown and unique and enjoyed. And somewhere, in some way along that ride, I 'd started to believe it. I 'd go house and see my real papa and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more prior to. 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 other half. We 'd done whatever however practiced our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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