Pocketbook For Women Novels & Stories

Unobtrusive. She pulled it out and began packing with systematic precision. Two changes of clothes. Comfortable. Easy to move in. Underwear. Socks. A jacket that didn't look expensive but was warm. Toiletries in travel sizes. The small amount of cash she had saved from household allowances over the years, folded flat in a zippered compartment. Her passport, expired but still valid identification. The notebook. A phone charger—though she had no phone now, she would need it later.

She stood in the dim light in nothing but her slip, bare skin prickling as the reality of the bargain settled in. Twenty-four hours. Her pulse quickened, but her hands moved steadily as she laid out the arsenal of her other life across the coffee table: A collection of passports, each with a different name and smile. Phones, prepaid and untraceable. Wigs tucked neatly in silk bags, ready to become new women. Lipstick tubes hollowed out to hold blades, flash drives, and powder. And, of course, the little black notebook where she sketched lies as though they were blueprints.

The weight of our situation pressed down, heavy and suffocating. It was then, amidst the debris of a collapsed building, that Kelly unearthed it – a small, tarnished silver locket. It lay half-buried in the dust, its surface scratched and worn, yet somehow managing to retain a faint, almost ethereal glow. We gathered around it, the faint glimmer a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Inside, nestled amongst the faded velvet lining, was a single, faded photograph.

She held it up to show it off. “Uh.” Shaw frowned, confused, and scratched his dark hair. “That’s actually supposed to be a basket.” The woman merely shrugged. “Whatever. Purses are just glorified baskets anyway, right?” She carried it toward the front desk. “This one is so cute; I have to have it.” “Um…” Shaw glanced at me as if unsure how to answer before he carefully said, “Okay. Sure.” The woman plunked the basket purse on the counter next to the cash register and then opened the small beaded coin purse she had strapped over her shoulder before pulling out a wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

she continued eagerly, “something you could use for a quick getaway, or just to run errands when you don’t want to carry the whole thing.” She practically beamed with excitement, probably imagining her commission. But I didn’t mind. I had a man who insisted I spend his money, and damn it—I was doing my best to obey. “Let me see that,” I said, nodding. “Also, I’d love to look at a new wallet—something elegant, timeless, something that goes with everything.” “Perfect,” she said, already moving away to fulfill my requests. I leaned in closer to the bag, peeking inside the spacious compartment. It had side pockets for smaller things—keys, lip balm, anything you didn’t want rattling around. It wa

Just a guy casually buying a street hotdog with literal pocket lint and a woman haggling over a designer purse like it was a bag of rice. Was I the only one freaking out?

The women in the crowd went nuts. “It has three speeds, even reverse. It’s waterproof. And this little do-hickey on the front? It vibrates in all the right places. I guarantee it won’t move on you at the moment of truth. It stays exactly where you want it. For as long as you want it. This here is a girl’s best friend because it can go all night without complaint…or until the batteries run out. And you don’t need a man with this bad boy around.” Half the women cheered; half booed.

She never got that type of thing as a young woman, so I was making up for lost time. Isabel knows the day is coming when her pregnancy will make penetration an issue, so for now she is a little needy for it. I have nothing to complain about, she is a wonderful lover who is up for just about anything she ever read in her Penthouse collections. For a Christmas present I am getting her a collection of books written by Lonnie Barback, Emma Holly, Cecilia Tan plus some Suzie Bright Audibles. -

Bella Pov Karen's book hit number one on the bestseller list three weeks after it published. I saw it displayed in the window of every bookstore I passed. "The Other Woman: A Love Story" in big letters with Karen's photo on the back cover. She was smiling in that photo. Looking innocent and sympathetic. Nothing like the woman who tried to poison me.

And right now, she’s showing me more than she probably realizes. Her bag slips onto the table, soft fabric bending under the weight, and that’s when I see it. Not a phone. Not a tablet. A book. The cover’s weathered, edges softened from too many hands, too many days stuffed into the same bag. She slides a thin strip of paper free and opens to her page without hesitation.