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It ends up I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyway. I even began taking the money, mainly since I was much too practical to let a little thing like regret get in the way of common sense. Then, if I had the typical sense I wouldn't have actually been an escort either. I would have been simply another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her homework, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little women do.
I hadn't been a little lady in a very long time though.
I just worked 3 or 4 nights a week anyway, since I needed to be home by 9 pm on school nights and ten o'clock on weekends. But Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good idea since he could really charge more, particularly if the guy I was choosing selected me up at school. That privilege ended up being worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't truly like it. I was constantly scared someone would see me entering a odd automobile, a various weird cars and truck each time, and question what was going on.
Method too much for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. Picking me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was outrageous, but you 'd be shocked how lots of men wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor whore to draw and fuck . These were all older guys too, like my dad's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. He said that was generous because he was my supervisor, my agent, my security man, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the things I require to work, like prophylactics and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to actually like these guys for an hour or two. I had to act younger in some cases too, as a little woman perhaps eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.
The men loved me for a little bit, although some of them liked me for real and asked me if I 'd wed 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 because I knew it wasn't really me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that way. Like a person who loved me would not harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people 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 child's name, or a niece or the little girl next door maybe.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me actually was my father. I could talk to him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel special and full-grown and liked. And somewhere, somehow along that flight, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine father and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or 2 before. But I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not help it. It was set into me, maturing not as his daughter however as his wife. We 'd done whatever however practiced our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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