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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyway. I even started taking the cash, primarily since I was much too useful to let a little thing like regret get in the way of sound judgment. Then, if I had the common sense I would not have actually been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little silly things that little women do.
I hadn't been a little woman in a very long time though.
I only worked 3 or four nights a week anyhow, since I needed to be home by 9 pm on school nights and ten o'clock on weekends. Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing since he might really charge more, particularly if the person I was going with chosen me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a number of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't really like it. I was always scared somebody would see me getting into a odd vehicle, a different weird vehicle every time, and question what was going on.
Method too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Selecting me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was outrageous, however you 'd be surprised how lots of guys wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage slut to draw and fuck . These were all older people too, like my daddy's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He said that was generous because he was my manager, my agent, my security man, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the things I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else since I had to actually like these men for an hour or two. I had to act younger often too, as a little lady perhaps eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it.
The guys liked me for a little bit, although some of them liked me for genuine 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 short time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonely because I knew it wasn't actually me they liked, mostly I felt a little more secure that way. Like a guy who liked me wouldn't injure me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, many of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wanted to call me by a different name, their child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door perhaps.
I might close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me actually was my father. I could talk with him, tell him I loved him, how he made me feel grown-up and unique and enjoyed. And somewhere, somehow along that trip, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go house and see my real father and almost forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or 2 before. However I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not help it. It was set into me, maturing not as his daughter but as his better half. We 'd done everything but practiced our relationship, I thought, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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