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Boss of My Panties
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
I sell lingerie online, just tiny little scraps of lace.
I like to call myself an entrepreneur. Most of the kids I went to high school with went off to college, but I stayed behind and started my own business selling lingerie.
In this book you’ll find:
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Wow, did those red panties really just sell for five hundred dollars? I think to myself. For a moment, I stare at the listing, blinking slowly and waiting for the number to change. I expect a zero to vanish. After all, $50 seems a little more reasonable, all things considered. Let’s not forget that I’m selling panties.
My panties, no less.
I grab my pen, click it by pressing the butt against my thumb, and jot down a couple of notes.
Apparently, red panties yield even more money than black ones. Who would have known? But I guess it makes sense. Red has always been a scandalous color – the color of seduction. For whatever reason, it has the power to spark naughtiness in even the most innocent of characters.
With a grin on my face, I sip from my mug, enjoying the taste of Earl Gray tea sweetened with a hint of honey. Mmm, there’s nothing like a good cup of tea.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
And to think, most of my high school classmates are probably wasting their summers going to the beach while here I am, tucked away in my home office, making over $10,000 a month. While they’re off at college spending money, I’ll be here raking in the cash.
You see, I’m an entrepreneur, first and foremost. And despite being young, I have business sense built into me – practically flowing through my blood.
Just a few months ago, I turned eighteen. Then, a few weeks later, I graduated from high school – valedictorian of my class. Most people were surprised to hear that I wasn’t going to some fancy Ivy League institution. I mean, I got into some great schools, but realistically, spending all of that money on a degree, getting into debt, and earning next to nothing upon graduation seemed like a worthless investment to make – if I could dare call it that.
So instead, I took the logical route and started my own business. I got the idea when I first ran across this website. Let’s just say I was perusing the darker side of the net. There, I found women’s underwear for sale, and not just the sexy kind, either. Everything. From thongs to granny panties. I kid you not.
Look it up.
Or better yet, look up my website: pantytime.com.
But in this line of work, it’s important to stay anonymous. After all, I sell my used panties for a living. Do you know how many creeps would come knocking at my door if they knew exactly who I am and where I live? Trust me, it’s always best to keep your identity a secret in a situation like this.
As a result, I’m going to be a teeny bit vague when talking about myself. I’m not proud of it, but I still bunk with my mom. She’s the only parent I’ve ever known. And yet, sometimes Meredith still feels like a stranger. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s a huge drunk. I mean, I can’t remember the last time she was sober. It’s that bad. Plus, she has this habit of using men. Every day, it’s a new dude splayed out on the couch, also wasted out of his mind.
Try living with that, especially in a small apartment.
There’s a reason why I locked myself in my room all the time growing up.
But the flip side of having a mom like mine is that she’s totally on board when you tell her about your panty-selling idea.
I still remember the conversation…
It was a couple of months before graduation. I came home from my shitty retail job and shuffled into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Of course, the pantry was empty and the fridge too. My mother, tasked with buying groceries that week, had once again neglected her duty.
I sighed. With no other choice, I popped a couple of stale pieces of bread into the toaster and waited.
As I tapped my foot, Meredith stumbled into the kitchen holding a bottle of cognac by the neck. There was a self-satisfied smirk on her face; the same smirk that always appeared whenever she was tipsy.
“Hey, baby girl,” she cackled. “Want a sip?”
“Mom, I’m eighteen, remember?”
“I was drinking by the time I was sixteen,” she said airily.
“Maybe that’s why you have a problem,” I answered under my breath as I grabbed the step stool and snatched a jar of peanut butter from the top shelf – my hidden stash because if I didn’t hide it, my mother would devour it in a day’s time.
“Problem? I don’t have a problem!” she protested, her words slurring together.
“Sure, okay.” Slowly, I slathered the peanut butter on the slightly burned toast. “Anyway, I have something to tell you.”
“Oh?” Meredith slumped into a nearby chair, taking another swig of cognac. The bottle was nearly empty at this point, and it was only three in the afternoon.