James Armstrong

Young mothers work harder


If it weren't for her legs, she would starve to death. Now, those same legs that brought subsistence for her and Danny were bringing her trouble.

No one was bothering her, but Donna sensed trouble coming as she walked between tables in the dimly lit barroom, carrying the plastic tray with empties back to her place behind the bar. It warn a slow night, she only had fifteen minutes left until closing time and there were only five people left. The halfway-drunk couple seated at the bar, the elderly white-haired man just coming back from the restroom to his barstool, and the two guys sitting, at the table in the darkest corner. It was the curly haired good-looking guy she knew as Tony. Every time she walked past that table he looked at her like he was seeing right through her skimpy outfit, and in his eyes there was more than mild interest.

She reached down and tipped up the mirror she kept below the bar. Her blue satin dress almost covered the tops of her sheer stockings and the little round garters that held them up. The stockings and garters were twisted a little out of place, so she straightened them. As she wiggled her ass and swayed back and forth in front of the mirror, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of her own bare thighs above the garters.

Four months before, when she'd started running the bar, she'd worn pantyhose under her uniform, and the tips she'd gotten had been pretty small. As soon as she started showing a little bare legs above her stockings, the tips started getting bigger. Finally, she shortened the uniform dress so it showed a little of her ass whenever she bent over a table.

She needed the tips to live on. Her pay for running the bar, and being the sole employee, was the minimum wage, that and free rent in a shabby little apartment upstairs. On a good night she got double her wages in tips. It was enough to support herself and little baby, Danny. But it was barely enough.

She shrugged and checked for last drinks before closing time. The old man was on his feet, reeling toward the door. The halfway drunk couple still had their glasses nearly full, enough to last them the ten minutes remaining. Donna picked up her tray and walked back among the tables.

As she approached the table in the corner, she flipped her flowing blonde hair forward over her shoulders and smiled.

"How 'bout it, fellas? Last call."

The skinny man she knew as Bill said, "Guess I'm okay, Donna."