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I even started taking the money, primarily since I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the method of typical sense. 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 lady in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a excellent thing since he could in fact charge more, especially if the guy I was going with chosen me up at school. That opportunity turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't truly like it.
Way too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Choosing me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I believed was ridiculous, but you 'd be shocked how many guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real deal, an underage whore to fuck and draw . These were all older men too, like my dad's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security guy, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He bought my clothing and the stuff I require to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to really like these people for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real skill for it.
The guys 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 lonely since I understood it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little safer that method. Like a person who loved me wouldn't harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, most of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them wanted to call me by a different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little lady next door perhaps.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me really was my dad. I might talk with him, inform him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel special and full-grown and liked. And somewhere, somehow along that flight, I 'd started to believe 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 developed love, and I couldn't help it. It was set into me, growing up not as his child but as his wife. 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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