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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyway. I even started taking the cash, mostly since I was much too useful to let a little thing like regret obstruct of good sense. Then, if I had the typical 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 woman in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a good thing because he might in fact charge more, specifically if the person I was going with chosen me up at school. That privilege turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't really like it.
Method too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Choosing me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was outrageous, however you 'd be stunned how lots of guys wanted exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor slut to fuck and draw . These were all older people too, like my dad's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my representative, my security guy, my marketing and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to in fact like these guys for an hour or two. I had to act younger often too, as a little woman maybe eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a genuine skill for it.
Mary Magdalene had been a slut. That's where I took my convenience and she 'd become my patron saint. I 'd felt truly guilty initially, but that had disappeared when I understood I wasn't harming anybody. The men enjoyed me for a little bit, although a few of them enjoyed me genuine and asked me if I 'd marry them, or a minimum of return 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 lonely because I knew it wasn't truly me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that method. Like a person who enjoyed me would not injure me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty men or something, most of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wanted to call me by a various name, their child's name, or a niece or the little woman next door possibly.
I could close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me truly was my father. I might speak with him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel developed and unique and enjoyed. And someplace, in some way along that trip, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go house and see my real papa and nearly forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. However I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I couldn't help it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his daughter however as his wife. We 'd done everything but practiced our relationship, I thought, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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