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It ends up I liked being an escort, far more than I thought I would anyway. I even began taking the money, mainly since I was much too practical 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 ridiculous things that little girls do.
I had not been a little girl in a long time.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing because he might actually charge more, particularly if the person I was going with picked me up at school. That benefit turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't actually like it.
I 'd been doing it for almost two months already, and I 'd lost track of the number of guys I 'd had sex with. I didn't need to know, but it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a great deal of cash too. Method excessive for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for two. Choosing me up at school deserved an additional 200, which I thought was ridiculous, but you 'd be surprised the number of people wanted exactly that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor whore to draw and fuck . These were all older people too, like my dad's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. 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. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to actually like these people for an hour or 2. I had to act younger often too, as a little girl perhaps eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.
The men loved me for a little bit, although some of them enjoyed me for real 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 brief time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonesome due to the fact that I understood it wasn't actually me they liked, mainly I felt a little much safer that method. Like a man who liked me would not injure 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 child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door maybe.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me actually was my father. I could talk to him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel unique and developed and loved. And someplace, somehow along that ride, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go house and see my real daddy and nearly forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. But I was falling in love, in full-grown love, and I couldn't assist it. It was set into me, maturing not as his child however as his better half. We 'd done whatever but practiced our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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