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It ends up I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyway. I even began taking the money, mainly because I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of good sense. Then, if I had the common sense I wouldn't have been an escort either. I would have been just another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her homework, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little girls do.
I hadn't been a little woman in a long period of time though.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing because he might really charge more, especially if the man I was going with picked me up at school. That benefit turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't actually like it.
Method too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Picking me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was outrageous, however you 'd be stunned how lots of men wanted precisely that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an underage whore to suck and fuck . These were all older men too, like my father's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He said that was generous due to the fact that he was my manager, my agent, my security man, my advertising and transportation all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I require to work, like condoms and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to actually like these guys for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful often too, as a little girl perhaps eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.
The men enjoyed me for a little bit, although some of them loved 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 short time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonely due to the fact that I knew it wasn't actually me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that method. Like a person who enjoyed me would not harm 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 child's name, or a niece or the little girl next door maybe.
I might close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me actually was my father. I could talk with him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel grown-up and special and liked. And somewhere, in some way along that flight, I 'd started to think it. I 'd go house and see my real father and nearly forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more prior to. But I was falling in love, in grown-up love, and I could not assist it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his child but as his better half. We 'd done whatever but skilled our relationship, I believed, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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