Love Do Cost A Thing

Hey everybody, thank you for stopping by. What you are about to read is a bit darker than my usual content, and I don't want people to come looking for a love story only to be met with this. Please know going in that the latter portion of this story is less cheery than my previous stories, so please do not continue if you are hoping to find something like Mother of Love.

Thank you, I hope you enjoy <3

-ChloeKendall

It's hard to dress for a job you don't have. At least, at first it is. After a while you get pretty good at pretending certain items of clothing are dirty, you master the art of switching outfits in the car, and hiding your

real

uniform under your clothes so your Son doesn't start asking questions he doesn't want the answer to - questions that would make him wonder things about you as a Mother.

Thomas, or Tom by his preference, was everything to me. His pathetic excuse for a Father left the two of us alone when Tom turned two. I didn't get so much as a "sorry, buh-bye" before he left, turning me into a bitter witch for the better part of a decade: scarred by the man that I let ruin my life. By the time Tom was a teenager it felt like I had put his father behind me for good. Tom didn't really remember his Dad, and if he missed him he never let on that he did.

The two of us were inseparable for Tom's entire childhood, fearlessly conquering the world before us like two soldiers, each made invincible by the other. I gave him everything I ever could and more, even if it wore me down to nothing. I needed to be two parents because that's what he deserved.

I felt like I could do

anything

with Tom at my side, but if that feeling had actually materialized into

something

we wouldn't still be living in a rundown apartment. Yet here I was; applying my nightly makeup in a mirror that had been cracked in half ever since the day Tom threw one of my heels at it in a fit of petulant young rage. Mirrors are expensive, and that was money we didn't have. His tantrum came at the mere mention of a cancelled a playdate, which tells you how old he was at the time.

That feeling that we could rule the world together slowly dissolved under the touch of a painful, acidic reality. I found myself scraping together two dead-end jobs just to keep the apartment warm, but even some nights that was a pipe dream. I knew my Son was smart, so I knew if I worked hard I could put him in a school that would do something with that big brain of his.

I think that's when we started drifting apart; when I started working more and talking less, leaving him to wait for me to come home late at night smelling of stale bar cigarettes and cheap liquor on my dress. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I realized too late that as my Son started high school I no longer knew any of his friends. I used to be so involved with his life and now I felt like an outsider whose sole purpose was to waste away at work until I broke down into nothing.

That's when I found my current job; one that I've held for several years now. Ages ago a young "in-the-know" bartender I worked with told me she was quitting for some fancy, prestigious new gig uptown. They had vetted her for over a month before letting her in, but she said it was worth it. She was assured that at the highest level she would be making more money in tips alone than either of us made from both of our jobs combined. Entry level was nominally less lucrative, but depending on how "flexible" you are with the roles you enter you could work your way to up "generous promotions" (those are

her

air quotes, not mine).

She said they told her in one of her many interviews that they were looking for older women. They wouldn't tell her why. She told them she knew just the person (lucky me) and gave them my number. If I didn't want it I could just decline, but it gave me plenty of time to mull it over before their call.

I figured if I could cut down on how many hours I worked, maybe Tom and I could get back to being the iconic duo that I still daydreamed about in my heart. I missed him more than I did oxygen when underwater, so I knew this was something I had to do. Even if I just stayed at the entry position I would be making fistfuls compared to what I did now, and that would give me the security I needed to work less while still providing for my Son.

Waiting for that first interview was the longest experience of my life, but the next day I got a call from a gentleman with whom I got along famously with. He said I fit the description of the type of hire they wanted and specifically mentioned my age, but again failed to mention why that mattered. The call ended just as abruptly as it started, and I was left with more questions than I had before.

Over the course of several long weeks I received calls asking for various, sometimes strange, information. Things about my past, my living situation, my relationships with people they had no right asking about. I didn't know the kind of answers they wanted, so I tried to be honest and hope for the best. I must have said a few things they liked, as I was asked to come for a proper interview in person.

I should have said no. I should have asked more questions. I should have known it was too good to be true. I should have known that a club like this wouldn't be in full operation during the day, when my in-person interview was took place, so I had no idea of the kind of sickening, depraved things I would be immersing myself in when the night crowd rolled in.

But I didn't do any of these things. I didn't say no. I didn't ask questions. I thought it was true.

I got the job, to my surprise, and started working the next weekend. My Son didn't even notice that my schedule changed when I left for work an hour earlier than usual.

My first shift was extremely eye opening: frighteningly so. My interview focused on how I would talk to customers, the importance of discretion, and the amount of money that could be made should I wish to "climb the ladder". I asked my boss-to-be about the ladder, but he told me it was a discussion for later. I was blinded by the promise of riches. I ignored all the red flags because I thought that if I saw anything I didn't like I could just leave and go back to my old job.

At first I was simply doling out drinks to thirsty patrons, making my way through the crowd on nimble feet. They told me to dress sexy, and when I showed up they said it was about half as sexy they were looking for, so I made a mental note to go shopping in the clothing departments I usually avoid at all costs.

I stood out like a sore thumb in my crop top, because I was one of the few women in the building who even bothered to cover their breasts. Everyone from the bartender to the bouncer was shirtless, though the latter was a man so I think he gets a pass.

It dawned on me pretty quickly just what kind of place I was working at. I decided to stick it out despite how perverse I eventually found the dealings in the club to be. I dipped my toe in the water and it was cold, but not so frigid that I was scared away. I told myself I simply needed to wade in slowly.

Once it was clear that I would be sticking around, the owner of the club began revealing exactly how I could make more money at the club. It was like I passed some informal initiation and could now be trusted with more opportunities. The owner broke down the various roles I could insert myself into, raising the hairs on the back of my neck as he did.

First, he explained, there were Servers; women who can be topless by choice, but can't be touched by the patrons. That's where I was at the time and that's all I thought the job was going to be.

The next step, as he called it, were Company Girls. These were the women who strode around fully naked, bodies on display so that even the most averted gaze could not avoid them. For a price, they would spend time with you and your friends. Drinking, dancing, and generally making you believe that they

want

to be there, despite the high fees. You could touch them a bit, but nothing too crazy ever took place.

Above them, in a sense, were the women whose fee matches their talents: Maids. The Maids were designated as the formal prostitutes of the club, and were likely the reason that the bar remained such a well-kept secret. They pulled in the money. They were the stars, and they had to be protected. Maids are made to walk the floor with nothing but a gold necklace to indicate that their services extended beyond that of a Company Girl. With their services procured, a backroom would be booked for the Maid and her client to spend time in. With services ranging anywhere from blowjobs to butt stuff, they truly did it all.

Well, not quite

all

.

A final group, one I was initially told I wouldn't need to worry about, towered above the rest in both hierarchy and fees. They made exorbitant tip money and only had to work sporadically to give them time to relax in between shifts. These were the Genies; women whose sole purpose is for you to fulfil that

one

desire. That one, extremely depraved, thing that nobody wants to do. That thing you won't ask your girlfriend to do because you respect her too much. That is what a Genie is for.

Most of the time a Genie is booked ahead of time with a client's specific fetish in mind, but in the event of a client shortage they are permitted to invent their own idea of what sacrilegious fantasy someone might want to see, albeit for a cheaper fee. This option gave Genies the freedom to pick their own kink to explore, and clients got to try out high-level services for a reduced rate in the hopes that they would be hooked for life.

To the surprise of everyone at the bar, I stayed as a Server for almost six months. Most women don't spend more than a couple months before realizing the value a Company Girl position could offer, so very few stayed on a simple servers. The promise of money was huge, but since I had only been with a couple of men before and after Tom's father it felt foreign to parade my body around like a sex object for complete strangers. Plus, Company Girls have to walk around fully naked and I had never been comfortable enough to do that, even with Tom's Father.

It took time, and a lot of convincing from my co-workers who wanted to see an old gal sexually liberate myself, but eventually I took the job as a Company Girl. I became quite close with many of the younger women I worked with, and their open approach to sex was one that I was too stubborn to accept at first. Once I did, however, things began changing very rapidly.

Now I was sneaking out of the house and hoping my Son wouldn't hear me. Hoping that he wouldn't ask me why I so often wore such a large, baggy coat to work when it was too warm for it. Truthfully, I cannot even conceive of what I would have said to him.

"Oh, don't worry, honey. Mommy's just going to get drunk with a group of strangers and let them stare at her big, fat milkers all night!" Yeah, fat chance

that

would go over well.

I kept it secret; slinking in and out of shadow to build a better life for my Son. I tried my best to connect with him in the free time I had, but he always told me he was too busy. Whether that was true or not I would never know, but I needed it to be true. I couldn't imagine life where he was avoiding me, not after I'd worked this hard.

This is what finally motivated me to turn to something I never thought I would do: selling my body for money. The club insisted it wasn't so dire, that the stigma of old world prostitution had put an unfair black mark on what they viewed as a valuable profession, but that didn't stop me from feeling any less guilty when I said yes.

Tom's friends-what were their Mothers doing for income? I wondered that the first night I slipped into an outfit that would have gotten me a ticket if I hadn't covered it up. I never once dressed like this for my Husband, so it felt incredibly wicked to present myself like a wrapped present to a man whose name I would never bother to learn.

He was not attractive, my first client. He was older than me, and heavier, with an overpowering stench of whiskey and cigars mingling horribly with the scent of the two warring colognes that he had chosen to bathe in. It was my first time in a backroom at the club, and despite the powerful bass pounding on the walls I could hear my heartbeat echoing around the modestly room the entire time.

I kept reminding myself that I was doing this for Tom, right up until I was asked if I wanted to take a bump of cocaine before we started. My heart was already thumping against my throat, and I would have made a Telltale Heart joke if I thought the lumbering oaf would understand it. With a desperation in my heart for anything that would make me feel less like myself, I did drugs for the first time in my life.

Moments later the sweaty, nameless drunk hastily bent me over the desk and shoved his dick inside of me. I went home defeated - shaken to my core, trying to wrestle with my new life while struggling to stay tethered to my old one.

Now, I think back on that night and wonder what I would have done if I hadn't been given the money on my way out the backroom. With cold, slimy cum still trailing down my inner thigh the owner flashed a wad of cash that put a week's worth of tips at my old job to shame. It never happened that way again, so I now recognize that the club was basically waving the money right in my face as a way of saying "see? It was worth it, so be smart. Come back tomorrow."

From that moment on, I never allowed myself to ask if that were true; if it really

was

worth it. I carried on, solemnly showing up to work every day knowing that I was going to be used like a piece of meat and then abandoned the same way. I began fragmenting myself, my personality, into who I was at work compared to home. I knew what these beasts wanted, what they needed to see from me, and I gave it in spades. I fucked every client I had to, sucked every greasy dick and swallowed every ounce of cum so that I could get what I needed.

But it wasn't working. It was like Tom knew my secret, or mybe I was exploding with guilt in such way that every time I spoke to him he could tell I was hiding

something

. He just didn't know what. We became more distant than ever, but I couldn't let this be for nothing. I couldn't let myself be treated like a whore for so long just to end up worse than where I started.

I told myself I needed more.

When I applied to be a Genie, it was a much different reaction than when I accepted their offer to promote me to a Maid. That promotion was widely celebrated as a formal liberation from my sexual chains. But this, being a Genie, had people asking me why I was taking the "big step". They asked if I was sure this was what I wanted, if I knew what I was signing up for, but they weren't curious. No, they were concerned. They would never understand that I was desperate to retire in the next few years, hopefully right around when Tom finished university. I was scraping every single cum-soaked dollar I could and stashing it away for the right moment.

That money came rolling in when I was promoted to a Genie. Every bill was paid on time, every expense covered, and I finally had time to get myself a car so I didn't have to take the subway home from work every day with a suitcase full of laundry that consisted of more dried semen than fabric.

If I had seen myself now, back when I was hired, I would have never taken the job. If I had witnessed the unabashed lawlessness with which I conducted myself in front of these men I would have been admitted to the psych ward to recover from the trauma. But not now, not after what I'd already been through.

I grew comfortable spending nights at home with the semen of dozens of different men churning like thick, muddy glue my stomach. It became normal to feel it start dribbling its way out of me on the drive home, so I permanently placed a towel on the seat to soak up any of the leaks. It became second nature to lie on my back, let my eyes defocus, and remain still as a man I didn't know pounded his dick against my throat until he bruised it. I had never done anal before the club, but now I was intensely familiar with the sensation of warm, gooey cum slithering through my bowels as I said goodnight to my Son. Sometimes it wouldn't come out until the next day, so I became quite adept at hiding my reaction when the white paste unexpectedly started to ooze out and make a mess of my underwear.

That was how I was at work, but somehow I still felt like myself at home even if I was too bloated with cum from the night before to have the appetite for a proper breakfast. When I entered the club I became an entirely different person; one that I never wanted my Son to meet.

On one particularly fateful Friday night, I said goodbye to Tom as I tightened my coat around my sheer lingerie to hide the lace from view. He was watching TV on the couch to wind down for the evening, while my night was just getting started. "I'll see you in the morning, okay? I love you."

"Sure thing." Tom grumbled with no effort to hide his disdain.

"Is everything okay, Thomas?" I used his full name to try and goad him into responding, but he was a brick wall.

"Nope. It's all good, Mom." He didn't even look at me.

I stepped towards him and laid a hand on his arm. "You know you can talk to me, right? You used to tell me everything."

"Likewise." He yanked away from me and stared at the floor.

"What does that mean?" My voice caught in my throat.

Tom leaned against the doorframe and the wood creaked under his weight. He scanned me head to toe like he could see through my disguise with x-ray vision, and he was disgusted with what he saw. The steely aroma of his cologne stung my nostrils in a way I had come to like. Perhaps because it reminded me of home. I inhaled a little deeper than necessary just to feel it saturate my brain with his comforting scent.

"Where the hell are you going?" He cut right to the chase and yanked me from my blissful state. "Right now; where are you going?"

"To work, honey..." I trailed off softly, certain that he knew my secret.

"It's like 7pm. Why are you working so late? Does that prick manager of yours not care how late you're out?" I heard familiar temper rising in his tone. "I mean, for Christ's sake, Mom, you're forty five years old! There's no way they need you to be there this late."

"I know that." I shuffled my feet. "I ask for the late shifts because they pay better. You know we need the money to-."

"To buy new cars, right?" He stared holes straight through me. "I don't know what the point of working like this is. These last few years you've just been working, coming home to sleep, then going right back out again. It's like you hate being at home."

"No, Tom, no." I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose. "I love being here with you, I promise. I know it doesn't feel like it, but I think about you all the time, honey."

"I know, Mom. I miss you, though. Ever since you got this job you've been more distant." Tom shifted in his seat. "Like, I know you have to sleep during the day sometimes, but even on your days off it feels like all you do it wait for your next shift to roll around."

He was right, and I had nothing to say besides a million sobbing apologies that I played on repeat in my head every night before I cried myself to sleep. I couldn't afford to let any of them out, not if I wanted to be in the right headspace for work. Ever the empath, Tom noticed my shaken disposition and his tone immediately softened.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I really am, I'm just so stressed out by finals that I've been snapping at everyone." He took a deep breath and looked like he entered a moment of clarity as a thin smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "You know what? I'm gonna blow off some steam tonight. I feel so wound up it's like I don't know who I am anymore."