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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I believed I would anyway. I even began taking the money, mostly because I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt obstruct of good sense. However 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 homework, doing her nails, doing the little silly things that little women do.
I had not been a little lady in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing because he could really charge more, particularly if the man I was going with picked me up at school. That opportunity turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't really like it.
I 'd been doing it for almost 2 months already, and I 'd lost track of how many people I 'd had sex with. I didn't need to know, but it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a lot of money too. Way too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for 2. Choosing me up at school deserved an extra 200, which I thought was ridiculous, however you 'd be surprised the number of people desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an minor whore to fuck and draw . These were all older people too, like my daddy's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He stated that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security person, my advertising and transportation all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I require 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 people for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful often too, as a little girl maybe eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a genuine skill for it.
The men liked 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 lonely because I knew it wasn't truly me they liked, mainly I felt a little safer that method. Like a person who liked me would not injure me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, most of them wanting 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 girl next door possibly.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me truly 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 started to believe it. I 'd go house and see my real dad and nearly forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or 2 prior to. But I was falling in love, in developed love, and I couldn't assist it. It was set into me, growing up not as his child but as his better half. We 'd done everything but practiced our relationship, I believed, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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