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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I believed I would anyhow. I even started taking the money, primarily since I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt obstruct of sound judgment. Then, if I had the typical 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 silly 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 good thing because he might really charge more, especially 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 practically 2 months currently, and I 'd lost track of the number of people 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. Picking me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I believed was ludicrous, but you 'd be surprised how many guys desired exactly that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the real offer, an minor whore to fuck and draw . These were all older guys too, like my daddy's age, or more often even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He said that was generous due to the fact that he was my supervisor, my agent, my security man, my marketing and transportation all rolled into one. He bought my clothing and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and junk like that. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to actually like these guys for an hour or two. I had to act more youthful in some cases too, as a little woman possibly eleven or twelve years old; however never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.
The men enjoyed me for a little bit, although some of them liked 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 knew it wasn't really me they liked, mainly I felt a little more secure that method. Like a person who liked me would not harm 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 girl next door maybe.
I could close my eyes and envision the man who was making love to me really was my father. I might speak to him, tell him I liked him, how he made me feel grown-up and unique and enjoyed. And someplace, somehow along that ride, I 'd begun to believe it. I 'd go home and see my genuine papa and practically forget that it had not been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. I was falling in love, in developed love, and I couldn't assist it. It was set into me, growing up not as his child but as his spouse. We 'd done whatever however skilled our relationship, I thought, and he needed to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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