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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 useful to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of common sense. But then, if I had the good sense I wouldn't have actually 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 very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he stated that was a excellent thing due to the fact that he might in fact charge more, specifically if the person I was going with picked me up at school. That advantage 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 2 months currently, and I 'd lost track of the number of guys I 'd had sex with. I didn't need to know, however it needed to be a lot. I 'd made a great deal of money too. Way too much 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. Picking me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was absurd, but you 'd be surprised how many guys desired exactly that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine deal, an minor slut to draw and fuck . These were all older people too, like my father's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He said that was generous since he was my supervisor, my representative, my security guy, my marketing and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing and the things I need to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else since I had to really like these men for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful in some cases too, as a little girl possibly eleven or twelve years old; however never ever older. I liked acting though and I think I had a real talent for it.
The guys liked me for a little bit, although some of them enjoyed me for real 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 lonesome due to the fact that I understood it wasn't truly me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that method. Like a man who enjoyed me would not injure me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, many of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a different name, their child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door maybe.
I might close my eyes and imagine the man who was making love to me truly was my father. I might speak to him, tell him I liked him, how he made me feel special and full-grown and loved. And somewhere, in some way along that ride, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go home and see my real father and practically forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. But I was falling in love, in developed love, and I could not help it. It was configured into me, maturing not as his daughter however as his other half. We 'd done everything however practiced our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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