I was leading a happy middle-class life. I had a red sandstone house in a lovely part of the city, a husband, two children, and was working as a coach at a local girls' swimming pool. We used to regularly entertain guests at our house, which I had painstakingly decorated, and I used to spend every morning and evening tending to our garden, which had all sorts of flowers and vegetables. We used to go out of town for short holidays. So, all in all, we were living a pretty good life. But then suddenly, and painfully, life took a wrong turn.
My husband, who was working at a shoe factory, had a friend who was always struggling to keep a job and was always short of money. This friend, whom I had never liked, somehow convinced my husband to start his own shoe business. When I heard my husband's plans, I was furious and told him not to leave his job, not to invest all our money in business, and not to listen to that good-for-nothing friend. But my husband's mind was made up, he refused to see sense and, without even telling me, left his job, took our savings and, on top of that, a bank loan, and decided to open a shoe factory in partnership with his friend. I don't know all the details as my husband never told me, but before he could even start the paperwork for the factory, his friend ran away with all the money, including the one we had borrowed from the bank. We tried to find him, even going as far as hiring private detectives, but he simply vanished with everything we had.
The shock of loss had a devastating impact on my husband. First, he tried to find his friend and then after four months of desperate and futile search he went into severe depression and, when the bank and other lenders started harassing him, he simply ran away, leaving me behind with the children.
I tried to manage things, even taking up one more job, but with lenders constantly on my back, with neighbors talking, and with bills piling up, I had no choice but to move, so sold the house, cars, jewelry, and everything I could, paid whatever I could to lenders, and moved to another city with little money and two children, Derek, 19, and Irene, 18. The cash shortage was so severe that I could only afford to rent a small apartment in a rundown part of the city. The apartment had two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom, that's all. I knew I had to stretch whatever cash I had, so I decided to sublet the other room, while I took the main bedroom with my children. I searched around for any women willing to live in that filthy neighborhood and finally found two girls in their 20s who agreed to live in the other room. The girls said they were working in a salon, but it later turned out they were actually hookers.
I had never, not even in my dreams, thought that I'd be living in such a dangerous and dirty building with hookers, strippers, pimps, drug users, drug pushers, muggers, and all sorts of shady characters, but my financial situation was so bad that I was willing to sublet the apartment to any woman. As soon as I moved in, I took up a job as a teacher at the local school, which suited me fine as the two girls were working at night and could keep an eye on Derek and Irene.
Life was hectic and difficult. Each morning, I got up at six, prepared breakfast for all of us, drove down to school, came home, went through schoolchildren's books, did household chores, and made dinner. The children went to school by bus as they had to go later than me. Since all three of us were living in one room, privacy was an issue but day-to-day problems were so huge that privacy - or rather lack of it - became just one of the problems. At night, we used to sleep on one bed, there was no room for a couch or anything, and that was difficult for all of us. But money problems, the bad neighborhood, and the lack of a husband/father occupied our minds so much that spending the nights in one bed was just one of the problems.
While privacy was an issue for us, the girls living in the next room had no such qualms. They would come back from work early in the morning and we would find them sitting in the living room smoking, half-drunk and still wearing clothes that left much of their breasts, back, and thighs uncovered. Sometimes we would find them sleeping on the couch wearing see-through tops and thongs and sometimes they would come into the kitchen in their bras and panties.
Initially, I didn't like their half-nakedness and told them to cover up but after working long nights they were so drunk, broken, and tired that after telling them three or four times, I just felt bad for them and didn't have the heart to further ruin their day. While I was uncomfortable with such a naked display, Irene was watching and apparently copying their every move, especially the way they walked with their chest out and swayed their hips. Another person closely watching and enjoying was Derek who couldn't take his eyes off their bodies.
As the days went by, we settled in and adjusted to the new life and its surprises. Within a month or so, I got friendly with the girls and we started going out for drinks and they started telling me about their lives, their expectations, and their customers.
We were all now friends and were comfortable with each other, so when one morning one of the girls came into my room - Derek was there getting ready to go to school - I didn't find it odd or anything. She sat down on the bed next to me and without saying a word lifted her bra and started showing me how a customer had bitten and bruised her right nipple and breast. Derek and I stared in shock at the red marks all over her tit -- although I think Derek was staring at her for altogether different reasons. I told her to apply some cream over the bruises and to inform the police, but she said it will heal itself and had already told her pimp who would take care of the customer. While I was talking to her, the other girl entered the room, wearing only a T-shirt and panties, and started washing the girl's bruised boob with a wet cloth. The sight of her bruises had shocked and saddened me so much that I had completely forgotten that Derek was sitting there watching everything, but when I realized he was there, I turned toward him and told him to stop staring and get ready for the school bus. After a couple of days, the breast was completely healed, the client was in hospital with broken bones, and the girl was back in business.
Irene, meanwhile, was now seriously into wearing their clothes, although only inside the apartment. On every weekend, she would strut around the house all day long in low-cut dresses, in dresses with slits reaching up to her thighs, in tank tops with her stomach exposed and sometimes she would walk around the house in nothing but a bra and panties. I shouted at her, screamed at her, but the more I told her not to dress like that, the more she threw back her short brown hair, pushed her perfectly round, perky boobs out, and swayed her young, tight ass. The more I told her to dress properly, the more she acted like a slut. By the time summer came, she had shed most of her clothes.
Summers were turning out to be a difficult period because the heat was baking the house and everything else. Even the girls were not getting that many clients as the customers preferred to stay home rather than look for girls in the scorching weather. The sun was boiling the apartment so much that even Derek, who until now had kept his clothes on, decided it was much more bearable to wear shorts and nothing else, so we had the girls walking around the house in bras and panties and the boy in shorts. This undressing was especially problematic at night because all three of us were sharing the same bed, which meant that Derek would be in bed in shorts, Irene in her bra, with half of her boobs out, and in shorts sleeping next to her brother, while I would be on her other side in either a nightgown or a loose T-shirt and shorts. I remained covered up until the heat got worse and then I, too, decided to get rid of the T-shirt. So, now the whole house was in a semi-naked state.
