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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I thought I would anyhow. I even started taking the cash, mostly due to the fact that I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of common sense. Then, if I had the common sense I would not 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 ridiculous things that little women do.
I had not been a little woman in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing because he might actually charge more, especially if the man I was going with selected me up at school. That privilege 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. Selecting me up at school was worth an additional 200, which I thought was absurd, however you 'd be shocked how lots of people wanted exactly that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage slut to suck and fuck . These were all older men too, like my papa's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mostly. They had a great deal of money to spend and it was the ideas that actually flushed my savings account. Deke provided me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous because he was my supervisor, my representative, my security person, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing 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 because I had to really like these men for an hour or 2. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; but never ever older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a genuine talent for it.
The males 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 understood it wasn't actually me they liked, mostly I felt a little more secure that method. Like a man who liked me wouldn't harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty men or something, most of them wanting 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 woman next door maybe.
I might close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me actually was my papa. I could talk with him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel grown-up and unique and loved. And someplace, in some way along that trip, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine father and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two prior to. But I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not assist it. It was configured into me, maturing not as his child but as his better half. We 'd done whatever but practiced our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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