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It turns out I liked being an escort, much more than I believed I would anyhow. I even began taking the money, primarily since I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt 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 simply another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her homework, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little women do. I had not been a little girl in a long time. Deke didn't mind, he said that was a good thing since he could really charge more, specifically 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 really 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 additional 200, which I believed was ludicrous, but you 'd be surprised how many people wanted exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an minor slut to fuck and suck . These were all older people too, like my father's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He stated that was generous due to the fact that he was my supervisor, my agent, my security man, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He bought my clothing and the stuff I need to work, like prophylactics and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else because I had to in fact like these men for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little lady maybe eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I think I had a genuine 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 truly guilty in the beginning, however that had disappeared when I realized I wasn't hurting anybody. The men enjoyed me for a bit, although some of them liked me genuine and asked me if I 'd wed them, or a minimum of return to their cities and deal 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 lonesome since I understood it wasn't really me they liked, mostly I felt a little safer that way. Like a man who liked me wouldn't harm me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty men or something, most of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a various name, their child's name, or a niece or the little woman next door perhaps.

I could close my eyes and think of the man who was making love to me actually was my papa. I could talk with him, tell him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel special and grown-up and enjoyed. And somewhere, somehow along that trip, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go home and see my genuine father and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. I was falling in love, in grown-up love, and I couldn't help it. It was programmed into me, growing up not as his daughter however as his partner. We 'd done everything but skilled our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?

 

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