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It ends up I liked being an escort, far more than I believed I would anyway. I even started taking the money, primarily because 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 good sense I wouldn't have been an escort either. I would have been simply another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little silly things that little girls do.
I had not been a little lady in a long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a great thing due to the fact that he might in fact charge more, particularly if the person I was going with picked me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't truly 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 additional 200, which I thought was ridiculous, but you 'd be shocked how lots of guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an underage whore to fuck and draw . These were all older men too, like my papa's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. He said that was generous due to the fact that he was my manager, my representative, my security person, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. That wasn't real. It was more like acting than anything else because I needed to really like these people for an hour or 2. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little girl maybe eleven or twelve years old; but never ever older. None of the men paying for me wanted a woman, simply a lady, and understanding that I actually was just fifteen, that was the kicker for them. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it. I had a skill for the sex stuff anyway, no doubt about that, and the more I did it the better I got.
The men enjoyed me for a little bit, although some of them loved 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 since I knew it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that way. Like a man who loved me wouldn't hurt me, you understand? I was in love with my daddy. That had actually altered too and I do not understand if something pertained to the other specifically, but I don't believe in coincidence either. I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, most of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. A few of them wanted to call me by a different name, their child's name, or a niece or the little girl next door possibly. However a great deal of them didn't mind calling me Samantha either, which troubled me at first, but then it didn't and I began liking it.
I might close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me really was my dad. I could speak to him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel special and developed and loved. And someplace, in some way along that trip, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go house and see my genuine father and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not help it. It was programmed into me, maturing not as his child but as his wife. We 'd done whatever however consummate our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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