My trolly weakness has always been women's fashion. I liked something different, so a pair of jeans or khakis, even stretchy yoga pants did nothing for me. Women who wore some "look at me" clothing, whether a nice June Cleaver dress, some boho-chic fashion, a fancy scarf, or big dangling earrings, caught my attention. And those shorts; shorts my friend Pancakes wore.
Those shorts. They made the ones Daisy Duke wore look like proper going to Sunday meeting clothes. What word means smaller than minuscule? Cut so short in the leg that the front pockets always hung down below the fringe. Exposing, the soft curves where her ass met her legs in the back. Just enough material left over to cover her delicate, sweet pussy. And each time she poured herself into them she purposefully pulled up the seam giving herself major camel toe. She usually wore them with a thin wife-beater t-shirt that allowed her nipples to show through.
I'm not the jealous type the opposite is quite true. But those shorts from the spring Trailer Swift slut collection were the exception to the rule. One of my few hard and fast rules was that I was the only one to see those shorts; that outfit.
It was to be a warm spring day; it turned into a hot spring day. We were going to a little private munch/event/picnic/play party to chase away the winter blues. She was to meet me there as I had promised to help the host set up. Folks were arriving in little boisterous packets. Then she came around the corner, strutting like a peacock, two big bags over her shoulders, hair held back in a high ponytail, red Chuck Taylor All-Stars, frilly ankle socks, and those shorts.
I walked up the pathway away from the others, crossed my arms across my chest, and waited. Her strut turned into a shuffle. She cast her eyes downward, and her fists clenched tightly on the straps of the bags. She stopped when she reached me, I lifted her chin with a crooked index finger, looked at her momentarily saying, "nice outfit."
She snuggled into my chest and whispered: "I'm not in trouble?"
"Oh," I said, "you're in so much trouble."
I walked her to the party and introduced her to the folks she did not know yet. I walked over to the hosts, explained the shorts rules, and asked if it was okay to rectify the situation. They agreed. I walked to my date, took her hand, guiding her first to the picnic table bench, then to the top of the picnic table.
"Go ahead, pirouette, you want folks to look, don't you?" I asked. The color drained from her face. "Spin," I barked. Slowly, she spun on the ball of one foot. "Again," I ordered. She slowly spun again.
I started asking the party-goers questions about her appearance. I asked the person standing behind her if he liked the way her legs came together and made an ass out of themselves. He answered yes; "So do I." yelled his date, causing the crowd to snicker.
I ask the person next to me if he liked the way the seam of her shorts pulled into her slit. He asked "what seam?"
"Pancakes, Squat and spread your knees, show him the seam." She shook her head no. "Pancakes, now," I said as I took a step towards the table.
She reluctantly listened, exposed herself, then quickly placed her hand between her legs hiding her treasure.
"Stand," I instructed. Tell us about those shorts.
