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It turns out I liked being an escort, a lot more than I thought I would anyhow. I even began taking the cash, mainly since I was much too practical to let a little thing like regret obstruct of common sense. 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 research, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little ladies do.
I hadn't been a little girl in a very long time though.
Deke didn't mind, he said that was a excellent thing because he could in fact charge more, specifically if the person I was going with selected me up at school. That advantage 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. Selecting me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I believed was absurd, but you 'd be shocked how numerous men wanted precisely that. Like it proved beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an underage whore to draw and fuck . These were all older men too, like my papa's age, or more frequently even older, in their 40's and 50's primarily. He said that was generous because he was my manager, my agent, my security person, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothing and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and junk like that. But that wasn't true. It was more like acting than anything else considering that I had to in fact like these men for an hour or two. I needed to act more youthful sometimes too, as a little girl maybe eleven or twelve years of ages; however never older. None of the men paying for me desired a woman, simply a girl, and understanding that I really was simply fifteen, that was the kicker for them. I liked acting though and I think I had a real talent for it. I had a talent for the sex things anyway, no doubt about that, and the more I did it the much better I got.
The men liked me for a little bit, although some of them loved me for genuine 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 lonely because I understood it wasn't really me they liked, primarily I felt a little more secure that way. Like a guy who loved me wouldn't injure me, you understand? I 'd had sex with like fifty guys or something, most of them wanting me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a different name, their daughter's name, or a niece or the little lady next door possibly.
I could close my eyes and picture the man who was making love to me really was my father. I could talk to him, inform him I loved him, how he made me feel special and developed and liked. And somewhere, in some way along that ride, I 'd begun to think it. I 'd go home and see my real dad and almost forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or two before. I was falling in love, in grown-up love, and I couldn't help it. It was set into me, growing up not as his child but as his spouse. We 'd done everything however consummate our relationship, I thought, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?
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