Panties was a redhead by trade. She had been raised in a little hick town in Montana, where her Momma bought all of her underwear at the Feed & Implement Warehouse. Mostly burlap, sometimes canvas, but usually uncomfortable. And never very stylish. Panties resolved that some day she would escape small town life, and her unmentionables would be the talk of the Big City.
Panties had panties in every style. Low rise, bikini, thong, granny, boy short and control panel. Briefs, boxers, tap pants and bloomers. Surprisingly, only two colors, nude and black. No one ever really did figure that one out. Bras came in push up, natural, jelly, foam, underwire, strapless, convertible and longline. She had camisoles, bustiers, catsuits and spanks. No style was too exotic; no fabric too easy-care.
Like most of us, the seeds of Panties' doom were sown in her underwear. In the end, she fell victim to exponential marketing. Panties was so obsessed with panties that she couldn't get a Victoria's Secret catalog in the mail without ordering something. And every time she ordered something, she got more catalogs. Before you knew it, the postman was delivering sacks of catalogs and underthings every day, and it was all Panties could do to go through it all before the next shipment arrived. Before you could say "breathable crotch," she was exhausted, broke, and way behind on her laundry.