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.
Pancakes answered, "I thought that these were your favorites."
"Yes, they are," I said. "Tell me what rule do I have about those shorts?"
"Only you get to see them," Pancakes answered while starting to chew her lip.
"So why are you wearing them now," I asked.
Pancakes shrugged as her eyes became glassy with tears.
"Down here now" I commanded. I helped her down, sat on the picnic table bench pulling her over my knee. Pancakes looked back in disbelief, no, no, no her eyes said not in public. I delivered four quick, sharp, hard smacks to her ass as she yelped in horror. I waited, she squirmed on my lap, adjusting herself to be more balanced. I lifted her head by her ponytail and looked at her.
She apologized saying "I'm sorry, I was wrong".
I left her head hang, hooked my leg over hers starting again. There was no play. I gave her rapid, hard, swats while scolding her about her disobedience. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I bought other clothes I'll change."
I lowered those shorts to continue. I noticed with some glee that she had somehow found almost innocent-looking white cotton panties that matched the t-shirt. She had thought this out. I continued her spanking until her sobbing turned into wails. She had kicked off both her shoes and one of her socks with her squirming. My favorite shorts hanging off one ankle.
I stopped my punishment and cuddled her in my arms explaining I didn't want to spank her but she had to listen to the few rules we had decided on. I wiped her tears, wiped her nose, held her tight until she had regained some normalcy.
"Other clothes," I asked. She pointed to the one big bag she brought in. Someone helpfully pulled out a sundress with a large-flowered pattern and a full, billowy skirt. I helped her pull it over her head and buttoned it as she stood.
"Sit," I said as she gingerly placed herself on the bench. I went and gathered her sock and both shoes and helped her finish dressing. I asked what she wished to drink and served her. I noticed her eyes were puffy from crying, so I took a folded paper towel, soaked it in ice water, holding it over each eye until the swelling went down.
The party continued into the night as they usually do. Groups of people formed, then separating into other groups. I caught Pancakes showing her still red ass to the woman who said she liked the way her legs came together.
We were sitting around a roaring bonfire when Pancakes called out "Daddy," a word she hardly ever used. I looked her way as she placed both of her heels on the edge of the chair, crossed her arms to form a cradle to place her chin into, slowly lifting the skirt of her sundress.
"Daddy," she repeated as she flashed her bare pussy, "I think I lost my panties."