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It ends up I liked being an escort, far more than I thought I would anyhow. I even began taking the cash, primarily due to the fact that I was much too useful to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of sound judgment. Then, if I had the typical sense I wouldn't 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 woman in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a great thing because he might really charge more, especially if the man 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 actually 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 believed was outrageous, but you 'd be surprised how numerous guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor slut to fuck and draw . These were all older guys too, like my dad's age, or regularly even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. They had a lot of cash to invest and it was the pointers that actually flushed my bank account. Deke gave me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous because he was my supervisor, my representative, my security person, my advertising and transportation all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like condoms 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 since I had to actually like these guys for an hour or 2. I had to act more youthful often too, as a little lady perhaps eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.
The guys enjoyed me for a little bit, although some of them liked 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 lonesome because I knew it wasn't actually me they liked, mainly I felt a little much safer that method. Like a guy who liked me would not hurt me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, most of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wanted to call me by a various name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little lady next door perhaps.
I could close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me truly was my daddy. I might talk with him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel grown-up and unique and liked. And someplace, somehow along that ride, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go home and see my genuine daddy and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more prior to. But I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not help it. It was configured into me, growing up not as his child but as his wife. We 'd done everything but skilled our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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