"Bag'O'Snake" is what was printed on the front of the bag, and for the life of her, Sandy could not figure out what was actually in the bag. It was a vacuum sealed bag no larger than a Gummi Bears package, and it certainly didn't feel like it had snakes in it, let alone one snake. And if there was a snake in it, why was it called "Bag'O" anyway? Why didn't it just say, "There's A Snake In Here, Don't Buy This"?
Sandy was not your typical community college student; she'd actually finished high school, she was quite smart, and she didn't have five children and live in a single wide aluminum trailer. She was young, not yet twenty three, and had a body that any three busty, over-active porn stars would kill to have. Her blonde ringlets hung about her tank top supporting shoulders, and she leaned her left minishorts wearing hip against her shopping cart. Her long lean legs, tanned and hairless, dove down to rest in her white sneakers.
"Bag'O'Snake," she muttered, looking downward at the black plastic bag. Weight read four ounces and felt less than that. What snake weighed four ounces and didn't even feel like a snake in a bag? It felt like- cotton balls, or something. And what would you do with a snake in a bag, anyway? Was it a decoration? Did you eat it? Sandy pursed her blood red lips in disgust. Yuk.
Sandy was a hair over five foot two inches in height in bare feet, five foot eight when she wore her favorite pair of pony pumps, ultramini, cross-strap blouse and her hair set, tanned an even bronze over her entire body without even a hint of a tanline anywhere. She wasn't exceptionally overbusty- some people thought she was trying to smuggle overinflated basketballs in her blouse, but she wasn't chesty enough to have upper back pain all of the time. Her bosom didn't weigh a hair above sixty three pounds.
She ended up buying the Bag'O'Snake along with her other items although she had no clue what the heck it actually was or did. She kept thinking about it the entire ride home even as she dealt with traffic and thirst and dammit, she should have worn a different shirt 'cause the straps on the tank top kept digging into her shoulders, and the material was seriously chafing her nipples. The rest of her items, food and a killer pair of slippers that had been on an aisle cap display, sat on the seat beside her as she drove the pickup home.
She tucked the Bag'O'Snake into her pocket before dragging her stuff inside, although she kept thinking about it even as she put everything away. Maybe you made soup with it. Maybe it wasn't about snakes at all, maybe it was like some facial treatment or something. She set the Bag'O'Snake on the countertop and tried to forget about it as she ate dinner and got ready for a night welcome alone.
On the sofa she'd set her bag of chips (salt and vinegar), chunkymunky chocolate chip cookies, a six of Miller's at her feet and another in the fridge. There was House on Fox, and for afters she had a tape of Steve Martin comedy, and a DVD of nice looking naked people having extended periods of sex in strange and unusual positions. She was wearing a combination of comfortable and casual; for comfortable, she was wearing a pair of granny panties and nothing else below the waist (it was very warm and the grannies didn't have the tendency to slide inside). For casual she wasn't wearing anything above the waist, although it sometimes felt better if she wore a bra for support but, dammit, sometimes you had to be free.
Bag'O'Snake. It was on the coffee table as she sipped a beer, tv off. What on earth could a Bag'O'Snake be? After staring at it for a few minutes she decided to ignore it for a while. She finished her beer quickly and dropped the can on the floor at the end of the sofa. The chips bag got opened; the salty chips spilled on the cofee table and she clicked the tv on. Feet on footstool, she began ignoring, watching, eating, and getting buzzed.
House was fantastic as always; Steve made her laugh like an idiot; the naked people having extended periods of very wet sex made her terribly aroused. But twelve cans of Miller also made her terribly, terribly tipsy (if not outright drunk as a skunk) and she had to pee for what seemed like the four hundredth time. Felt like a gallon sloshing around in her bladder.
She slouched on the toilet in a sideways angle with her head against the cool side wall, breasts resting on her thighs and piss draining loudly into the water like a bucket being dumped into a gentle pond. After finishing, and boy was that a relief, she sat there still, granny panties around her ankles.
end part 1, part 2 to follow! One Day! Promise!