Where Do You Carry Your Wallet?

**Welcome today's guest, Stephy Smith.**

I had to break down and buy new underwear the other day. I made my choice, walked to the checkout stand and stood in line. I couldn't wait to get home and slip into one of the pretty little tuffs of material. Just something about new panties makes you feel all fresh and clean.

Piling my hair on the top of my head, I jumped in the tub and slathered up with baby oil. What a delight. I dried off and slipped into a pair of new black bikini panties. Soft, expandable little numbers I might add. My droopy ass was now in tight firm rolls instead of knee knockers. So what's a few lumps? I wear jeans anyway that will flatten the hills.

Long spaghetti tits swung just above the waistline as if they were Vanna White pointing out the correct letter. I pranced around the bathroom admiring the view for a few moments then dressed. I couldn't wait for the next need to pee! I drank tons of water, tea and coffee to forward the process... nothing!

Hours later, the need finally hit! Yes, oh yes I thought to myself. I perched on the thrown like a queen. All done and time to pull them up to experience the comfort of these little critters climbing across the hills and sinking into crevices excited me. The feel of the material of my new bloomers sliding up my legs, tantalized and molded cellulite as I tugged upward.

The pliable band clenched in my hands, sent tingles down my spine.

What the hell... my ring caught in the crotch.

Who put a pocket there and why? I re-read the package. It doesn't say anything about a frigging pocket! And it sure doesn't say what you are suppose to put in it. Am I wearing these things wrong side out? Were the panties made for a pole dancer? Is this where the men stuff the money?

Holy shit, are they for a cross dresser to stuff his dangling parts inside the pocket to hide them? Should I roll up the saggy lips and tuck them in to make a camel toe to be envious of? Do you braid the pubic hair before swimming and tuck the braids neatly inside so you don't have to rip that shit out before entering the pool?

Is there some kind of little vibrator you stuff in it to give you an all day orgasm? Do you carry extra Kotex in there? I don't have to worry about that any more, cancer cured that problem over twenty years ago. Is this a new place to hide your wallet for gravity possessed women? What the f***? Oh, hell! Has it been twenty years since I bought new underwear?

Blurb: Shawnee Turner left her home, family and friends to start a new life on a Colorado ranch. When the ranch sold, she was forced to return to her Texas hometown and the job she left behind. Emory Creek owned the sale barn. Anxious for his one true love to return he had to come up with a plan to convince her, he was the man for her.

Short excerpt:

Pool balls clanked together, Alan Jackson bellowed to be propped against the jukebox, while whoops and hollers filtered through the wooden door.

Shawnee and Cheyenne entered the dimness of the Lonely Steer Bar and Grill. They stepped to one side of the door and let their eyes adjust to the darkness then zigzagged through the crowded room to the bar.

“Two cola’s, hot wings, and an order of fries, if you got ‘em,” Shawnee called to the bartender. Shawnee slid a cola in front of Cheyenne.

Food in hand, they wove their way past pool tables, pinball games, and a dartboard to an empty table near the dance floor. A woman escorted her man in their direction, leaning one way and then the other toward them.

“Pick up,” Shawnee reached for her drink and food. Cheyenne followed suit until the intoxicated couple slithered past.

Cheyenne swiveled the straw in the glass. “I’m getting butterflies about tomorrow, Shaw.”

“If it makes things any better, I’m kinda nervous, too. At least we’ll be working together. It’s not like we haven’t been to a sale barn before,” Shawnee tilted her head to the couple shuffling their way to the dance floor.

“I know, just the thought of strange people, good-looking cowboys; you know I’m not comfortable around them anymore.” Cheyenne’s eyes scanned the room. Her last job consisted of working as an unsupervised vet tech.

Shawnee followed her gaze. “You know, most of these guys are wanna-be cowboys and not real ones. They’re gonna be different than the ones you’ll work around.”

“They’re still men. I haven’t been around men in so long they just make me a little jumpy.” Cheyenne glanced as the dance floor filled with couples.

Shawnee twisted to face the bar. A tall, dark-haired man headed in their direction. His slow, easy saunter and broad, muscled chest sent a strange quiver down her spine.

“Yeah, all these guys in here just want to rub belt buckles and have a good time.” She stared as the man’s back pockets tightened across his hips until he took a seat. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice, “I wouldn’t mind unpacking his saddlebags.”

Visit Stephy's site to buy Shawnee's Creek and check out her other titles too.

Stephy Smith
www.stephyjsmith.webs.com