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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I thought I would anyhow. I even started taking the money, mainly since I was much too useful to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of sound judgment. Then, if I had the common sense I wouldn't 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 ridiculous things that little girls do.
I had not been a little woman in a very long time though.
I only worked 3 or four nights a week anyhow, since I had to be house by 9 pm on school nights and 10 o'clock on weekends. However Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a good thing because he could actually charge more, especially if the guy I was choosing chosen me up at school. That opportunity turned out to be worth a number of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't truly like it. I was always scared somebody would see me getting into a weird car, a different strange automobile every time, and question what was going on.
Method too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Picking me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was ridiculous, however you 'd be surprised how many people desired precisely that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an minor whore to draw and fuck . These were all older men too, like my father's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He stated that was generous since he was my supervisor, my agent, my security guy, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I require to work, like prophylactics and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to really like these people for an hour or 2. I had to act younger often too, as a little lady maybe 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 liked 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 brief time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonesome since I knew it wasn't truly me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that way. Like a man who enjoyed me would not injure me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty men or something, most of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a various name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little woman next door possibly.
I could close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me truly was my daddy. I might speak with him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel developed and special and enjoyed. And somewhere, in some way along that ride, I 'd started to believe it. I 'd go house and see my real father and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I could not help it. It was set into me, maturing not as his child but as his other half. We 'd done whatever but consummate our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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