A mother's love 1

The story of a mother's fall into the spiral of prostitution, forced to sell herself and her children to a pedophile, without being able to stop.

(Hello, In this first part the children will only have a marginal role, from the second half of the second chapter that I will post soon even Giselle's children will have to do terrible things to survive, IT'S A MADE UP STORY, I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO CONTACT ME FOR COMMISSION STORIES LEAVE YOUR SESSION CONTACTS IN THE COMMENTS)

My name is Giselle. I’m forty years old, I have three children, and a life that’s collapsing around me.

It’s summer. Hot, but not the kind of heat that caresses your skin—it’s a stifling, suffocating heat, that sticks you to the chair and makes you feel even dirtier, even more tired. The blinds have been down for days, yet the light still sneaks through like a judgment. Sarah, my eldest, is thirteen and pretends she doesn’t see me as I cry. Hayley, ten years old, draws imaginary worlds to escape this. Billy is ten, and he’s starting to wonder why the fridge is emptier every day.

I don’t know how to explain it to them anymore.

This morning, I opened the work email—a mechanical gesture, almost hopeful, as if deep down, I expected something to change. Inside, there was a response. Cold. Subtle. Lethal.

“Dear Giselle, we regret to inform you that...”

I don’t read the rest. I already know. My heart stops for a moment, then starts again like a broken drum. The walls spin. My hands tremble. I never tremble. But now I do. Because now, there’s nothing left.

My ex-husband left us with debts. Houses to pay for, overdue bills, threatening letters with red stamps. Now even the job is gone. What else must I lose before I stop being a person?

I stand up. The house is silent. The kids don’t know yet. But they will feel it. They will understand. Because this despair has a smell, a color. It’s black. Sticky. It seeps under the skin.

And from today... it lives here with us.

I drag myself into the kitchen. The floor is cold under my bare feet, but at least it doesn’t shake like my knees. There’s a dirty cup in the sink, half full of old coffee. I look at it as if it could give me answers. As if it could save me.

I open the fridge. A half-empty bottle of water, a piece of cheese wrapped in dry paper, and an apple that’s already starting to rot. I close it. I don’t want the kids to see me like this: kneeling in front of absence.

Sarah enters without a sound. She has the look of someone who already understands everything but pretends not to. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are those of a mother too young, forced to grow up fast because the real mother is drowning.

“What’s for lunch?” she asks.
Her voice is soft, kind. It breaks me in two.

“I’m... I’m about to cook something,” I lie.
She nods and disappears again, like a shadow among shadows.

I sit down. Or maybe I collapse. I don’t know. The table is covered with papers, unpaid bills, notices. The letters seem to look at me with contempt.

Among the dozens of opened envelopes and payment requests, one stands out. Black. Smooth. Perfect. No stamps, no logos. Only my name, Giselle, written by hand in ink that looks like dried blood.

I touch it. It’s different from everything else. Cold, as if it’s been kept in a drawer far from the light. I open it, almost out of anger. And then I read.

“Dear Mrs. Giselle, we are contacting you because our records show that Mr. Daniel F. is still residing at your address. Please be reminded that his subscription to our agency has expired, and he may renew it with a 30% discount for Platinum clients. Feel free to contact us for any inquiries or, if you prefer, take a look at our section for new collaborators. Discretion and compensation guaranteed.”

I stand still. My eyes skim the words again, but my mind refuses to accept them. Escort agency. Frequented by my husband. That same man who left me with three children, unpaid bills, and dreams reduced to ashes.

My mouth opens soundlessly. I get up, but my legs don’t respond. I remain there, staring at the page as if it might suck me in. And maybe it’s doing just that.

Then I hear Hayley crying in her room. Billy shouts at her to be quiet, and Sarah... Sarah tries to calm them both down. At thirteen. When she should be thinking only about school, her first secrets, the music in her headphones. But instead, she’s playing mother to her siblings. Because the real mother is slowly disintegrating.

Me.

I approach the kitchen mirror. The woman who looks back at me has messy hair, violet dark circles, a hollowed-out face. Chapped hands, dry lips. I don’t recognize her anymore. A mother is supposed to protect, nourish, build. Instead, I am a wreck.

And that envelope between my fingers is still staring at me. Inside, there’s an obscene truth. Maybe even an escape route. Not honorable, not clean. But real.

I close my eyes.

I don’t want to become that kind of woman.

But I want my children to eat tomorrow.

And in that moment, with my forehead pressed against the cold glass, I understand one thing: pain has a price. And I am ready to sell it. To sell MYSELF. If this is the only way to stop them from crying.

I sit down, turn on the old laptop, and search for that site.

“Discretion. Freedom. High pay. No commitment. No shame.”

The site loads slowly, as if even it has pity on me, and wants to give me time to change my mind. But I don’t. I can’t. The children’s screams are still there, behind the door. Hunger doesn’t wait. The cold doesn’t forgive.

The homepage is sleek, unsettling in its cleanliness. Smiling women, shiny skin, perfect curves, magazine-cover bodies. None of them look desperate. None of them look like a mother who cried in the bathroom half an hour ago because her daughter asked if we could buy snacks.

I click on "Work with us."

A form appears. "Register as a new collaborator."

I want to vomit.

Name: I write Giselle. The real one. Because even if I’m about to sell my body, I don’t want to lie about my name. It’s the only thing I have left.

Age: 40.

Height, weight, measurements. The screen reflects my shadow as I type. I don’t even know if those measurements are accurate. I haven’t weighed myself in months. I don’t care anymore. But I lie a little. Just a little. That’s enough.

Eye color, hair, skin tone. Dull brown eyes. I just write "brown." My hair was washed three days ago, dry, messy. I say "dark brown, long." That’s true. More or less.

Languages spoken, availability, operating area. I stop. Operating area. It sounds like a war mission.

I fill it all out. Each field is a stab. Each click is another step farther away from who I was.

Then comes the worst part.

“Upload at least 3 attractive photos of yourself. One full-body, one in lingerie or swimsuit, one close-up. Quality affects selection.”

I stay there. Motionless. I look at my reflection in the window. I’m wearing my husband’s old, oversized t-shirt. Torn sweatpants. Bare feet, swollen.

I get up, go to the bathroom, lock the door. I turn on the light. It’s disgusting in here too. The mirror is dirty, but I can see myself enough to feel sick. I open the wardrobe. I pull out a black lace bra I haven’t worn in years, back when I still wanted to please him. Him. Me.

I put it on. Then I throw on a loose jacket that slips off, leaving one shoulder bare. I look at myself. It’s not beautiful. It’s not sexy. It’s sad. But I take the picture anyway.

One. Close-up. I bite my lip, try to smile, but it turns into a grimace. It’ll do.

Two. I turn to the side, raise the phone, frame my whole body. I try to hide my stomach. I tilt slightly. More cleavage. Less truth.

Three. Lingerie. Just the bra and panties. The only black ones that aren’t faded. I sit on the edge of the tub, legs crossed, looking down. The shot is taken as I’m about to turn my head. I look at it again. I look alone. I look real. I upload it.

Then I press send.

It’s done.

I feel like I’ve let something inside me. Rust. Mold. Poison.

I go back to the kitchen. Sarah looks at me from the hallway, silently. She knows I’ve done something. She doesn’t know what. But she feels it. Kids feel everything. And I... I just want them to eat tomorrow.

I sit down. I wait for a response. And I pull my arms around myself.

Not because I’m cold.

But because I’ve lost myself.

And I hope it’s worth the price of bread.

The email arrives after a few hours.
Subject: "Welcome, Giselle."

My heart skips a beat. My stomach closes like a fist.
I open it.

"Hi Giselle, thank you for choosing us. Your profile has been approved. Your photos were appreciated, especially the one in the bathtub: you have something that conveys vulnerability and intensity. Our clients value authenticity.
We already have a request for you, selected based on your appearance and location. First appointment tomorrow night, 9 PM. Reserved location, you’ll receive address and instructions via encrypted SMS. Dress code: elegant, black. Fee: 600 euros, in cash, at the end of the evening. The driver will pick you up at 8:30 PM. Reply CONFIRM to accept."

I read it over and over.
600 euros.

For one night.

A tear rolls down my cheek. But it’s not just sadness. It’s humiliation. It’s also relief. It’s everything at once. It’s disgust.

I type "CONFIRM" with cold hands.

The next day.
I quickly get the kids ready. Billy looks at my black dress with the zipper on the back and asks:
"Are you going to a job interview?"
"A business dinner," I lie.
Sarah doesn’t buy it. She looks at me straight on. Says nothing. But she’s not stupid.

Hayley hugs me tight. Her little hands on my hips are the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
"Bring me a treat if you pass by a bakery," she says.
"Of course, sweetie."

When the driver rings, my heart beats like a crazed animal in the cage of my chest.

The villa is outside the city.
Red curtains, black carpet. The smell is sweet, mixed with expensive perfume and something more... organic. Sick.

He’s waiting for me in the suite. Tall, elegant, a man in his sixties. White smile, empty eyes. Speaks little. Watches a lot.

He offers me a drink. I refuse. I don’t want to lose control.
He laughs. Says: "They chose you well. You’ve got that destroyed mother vibe. Turns me on."
My bones freeze.

He touches me like I’m an object. Studies me. Asks me to whisper motherly phrases while he touches me.
My stomach turns.

I dissociate. Switch something off inside. I pretend. I do it for them. For the bread. For a bill. For a new pair of shoes for Sarah, who’s been wearing ones with her heels sticking out for weeks.

When it’s over, he leaves the money on the nightstand.
I take it with trembling fingers. Count it twice. Put it in my bag like it’s poison.

I leave. Cry silently in the car, while the driver says nothing.

At home. Late.
The kids are asleep. The house is dark. I undress in the dark, like a thief.
I sit on the bed.

Sarah is awake.
She opens her bedroom door, on tiptoes.
"Mom... are you okay?"
She looks at me. Glossy eyes.
I lie again.
"Yes. Now I am."

She comes closer. Hugs me.
"You’re strong, Mom. I know you are."
I hold her. And I cry. Hard. Silently.

She stays there, with me.
Holding me.
While I keep sinking inside.

The money from the first job disappears in three days. Part goes to groceries: milk, bread, a bit of meat, a few sweets. The rest evaporates into overdue bills, a medical check-up for Hayley who has asthma, and new shoes for Sarah.

600 euros. Three days.
Then back to nothing.

The agency doesn’t wait. Another email. Another client.
This time not a villa. But a basement, staged like a theater set. Dim lights. Gray walls. A camera on a tripod.
They tell me not to look him in the face. Just obey.

"Private session for fetishists. Very selective client."
They make me wear a kitchen apron, high heels, and nothing else.
The client wants me to pretend to cook. Then to sit on a transparent plastic chair.
And then...
Then he wants me to pee on myself.
"Naturally", says the voice behind the camera.
As if there’s anything natural about this.

The shame burns on my skin. But I grit my teeth.
I do it.
I close my eyes, relax, let go.
Feel the warm liquid run down my legs. The smell. The nausea. The camera buzzing like a fly.

When it’s over, they hand me 900 euros.
I say nothing. Don’t even look at them.
I take the money. And disappear.

From there, it’s all downhill.
Each new job is worse than the one before.

Once, they ask me to drink my own vomit while a fat, mute man licks my toes.
Another time, to pretend I’m pregnant, tied to a bed, while a stranger strokes my belly and whispers: "You’re my mommy."
I cry every time I come home.
Sometimes I don’t even shower. I throw myself on the couch, still smelling like other men, their skin, my shame.

Sarah senses it.
She’s stopped talking to me.
Billy locks himself in his room, plays with action figures like they’re the only living things left.
Hayley draws. Always the same thing: a family with a burning house.

Still, the money isn’t enough. Never.

The agency sends me more and more often. Sicker, richer clients.
One time, a man hits me. Leaves a bruise on my side.
I write to the agency. They reply:
"You accepted. You volunteered. Platinum clients pay well. Don’t cause trouble."

I understand.
I’m not a person anymore.
I’m a product.
A file in a catalog.

One night I come home and find Sarah sitting in the kitchen. She found the money. And the second phone the agency gave me.
She looks at me.
"Mom...
I know what you do."

I can’t speak.
She comes closer.
"Do it again, and I’ll leave. I’ll take Hayley and Billy. We don’t want to see you like this anymore. You’re destroying yourself. And you’re dragging us with you."

I look at her.
And I hate her.
Because she’s right.
Because she’s taking away the only reason I was doing this.

For the kids.
But the kids are afraid of me now.

And I’m alone.
More than before.
More than ever.