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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyhow. I even started taking the money, mostly because I was much too useful to let a little thing like guilt obstruct of good sense. But then, if I had the good sense I would not 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 had not been a little girl in a long time though.
I just worked 3 or 4 nights a week anyway, given that I had to be home by 9 pm on school nights and 10 o'clock on weekends. Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good thing because he might really charge more, particularly if the person I was going with chosen me up at school. That benefit turned out to be worth a number of hundred dollars additional, although I didn't truly like it. I was always afraid someone would see me entering a unusual cars and truck, a different unusual cars and truck every time, and question what was going on.
I 'd been doing it for almost 2 months currently, and I 'd lost track of the number of guys I 'd made love with. I didn't wish to know, but it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a great deal of money too. Way excessive for a ninth grader to invest, even after Deke took his cut. He charged 300 dollars an hour for me, or 500 dollars for 2. Choosing me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was ridiculous, but you 'd be surprised how many guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an underage slut to fuck and suck . These were all older men too, like my papa's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. They had a lot of cash to spend and it was the suggestions that really flushed my savings account. Deke offered me 30% and kept 70% for himself. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security person, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He bought my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like prophylactics 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 guys for an hour or 2. I had to act more youthful often too, as a little lady possibly eleven or twelve years old; but never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real skill for it.
Mary Magdalene had been a slut. That's where I took my comfort and she 'd become my patron saint. I 'd felt really guilty at first, but that had gone away when I recognized I wasn't injuring anyone. The men enjoyed me for a little bit, although a few of them liked me for real and asked me if I 'd marry them, or at least come back to their cities and live with them. But 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 lonesome due to the fact that I understood it wasn't truly me they liked, primarily I felt a little safer that way. Like a guy who enjoyed me would not injure me, you know? I loved my father. That had altered too and I do not know if one thing related to the other exactly, but I do not believe in coincidence either. I 'd made love with like fifty people or something, the majority of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. A few of them wanted to call me by a various name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little girl next door perhaps. A lot of them didn't mind calling me Samantha either, and that troubled me at first, but then it didn't and I started liking it.
I could close my eyes and think of the man who was making love to me really was my daddy. I could talk with him, tell him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel unique and full-grown and loved. And somewhere, in some way along that trip, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine dad and practically forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or 2 prior to. 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 daughter but as his other half. We 'd done whatever but consummate our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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