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It ends up I liked being an escort, far more than I believed I would anyway. I even began taking the cash, mainly since I was much too practical to let a little thing like regret obstruct of common sense. However 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 women do.
I had not been a little woman in a long period of time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good thing since he might actually charge more, especially if the guy I was going with picked me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't actually like it.
Way too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Selecting me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I believed was absurd, however you 'd be stunned how many people wanted precisely that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage whore to suck and fuck . These were all older men too, like my father's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. They had a great deal of cash to invest and it was the pointers that really flushed my savings account. Deke provided me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous because he was my manager, my representative, my security person, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and scrap like that. He did all the work if you listened to him inform 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 guys for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little lady perhaps eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a genuine talent for it.
The males loved me for a little bit, although some of them liked 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 lonely due to the fact that I understood it wasn't truly me they liked, mostly I felt a little more secure that way. Like a guy who enjoyed me would not injure me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, many of them desiring 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 lady next door maybe.
I might close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me really was my father. I might talk with him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel grown-up and unique and enjoyed. And somewhere, somehow along that ride, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go house and see my genuine dad and practically forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two prior to. I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I could not assist it. It was programmed into me, maturing not as his child however as his partner. We 'd done whatever but practiced our relationship, I thought, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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