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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I thought I would anyway. I even began taking the cash, mostly due to the fact that I was much too useful to let a little thing like regret get in the way of common sense. But then, if I had the sound judgment 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 silly things that little ladies do.
I hadn't been a little girl in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good thing since he could really charge more, specifically if the man I was going with chosen me up at school. That benefit turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't really like it.
Way too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Picking me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was ridiculous, however you 'd be shocked how numerous people wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an minor whore to fuck and draw . These were all older guys too, like my papa's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. They had a great deal of money to spend and it was the ideas that actually flushed my checking account. Deke provided me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my representative, my security man, my marketing and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and junk like that. He did all the work if you listened to him tell it, and all I did was lay there and get rich. It was more like acting than anything else because I had to really like these men for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little woman maybe eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it.
The guys loved me for a little bit, although some of them loved 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 lonesome since I understood it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little safer that way. Like a man who loved me would not harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty men 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 daughter's name, or a niece or the little woman next door maybe.
I could close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me truly was my father. I could speak to him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel grown-up and special and enjoyed. And somewhere, in some way along that trip, I 'd started to think it. I 'd go home and see my genuine papa and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. But I was falling in love, in grown-up love, and I could not help it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his child but 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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