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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I thought I would anyway. I even started taking the money, primarily due to the fact that I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of common sense. However then, if I had the sound judgment I would not have 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 girls do.
I had not been a little lady in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a excellent thing because he could actually charge more, especially if the person I was going with chosen me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't really like it.
I 'd been doing it for practically two months currently, and I 'd lost track of how many people I 'd had sex with. I didn't need to know, but it had to be a lot. I 'd made a great deal of cash too. Method excessive for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for 2. Picking me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was ridiculous, however you 'd marvel how many guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage whore to suck and fuck . These were all older men too, like my father's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He stated that was generous since he was my supervisor, my representative, my security person, 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. It was more like acting than anything else since I had to really like these men for an hour or 2. I had to act younger often too, as a little girl maybe eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real skill for it.
The men loved me for a little bit, although some of them enjoyed me for genuine 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 lonely since I understood it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little much safer that way. Like a person who liked me wouldn't hurt me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, most of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wanted to call me by a different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little woman next door perhaps.
I might close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me really was my papa. I could speak with him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel unique and developed and liked. And someplace, somehow along that flight, I 'd begun to believe 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 more before. I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I couldn't assist it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his daughter however as his other half. We 'd done everything but practiced our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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