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I even started taking the money, mainly because I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the method of common sense. 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 hadn't been a little woman in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a excellent thing because he might actually charge more, particularly if the guy I was going with chosen me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't truly 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 extra 200, which I believed was ludicrous, but you 'd be stunned how many guys wanted exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an minor slut to fuck and draw . These were all older men too, like my daddy's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. He said that was generous because he was my supervisor, my representative, my security person, my marketing and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing and the things I need to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to in fact like these men for an hour or two. I had to act younger sometimes too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real talent for it.
The guys loved me for a little bit, although some of them liked 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 due to the fact that I knew it wasn't truly me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that method. Like a guy who loved me wouldn't harm me, you know? 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 different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little woman next door perhaps.
I could close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me really was my father. I might speak with him, inform him I liked him, how he made me feel developed and unique and loved. And somewhere, somehow along that trip, I 'd started to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine dad and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. However I was falling in love, in grown-up 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 whatever but practiced our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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