Red Shorts

A young'un, only 18, he worked in a fitness store. He worked in back, doing mechanical work on the equipment they sold. Up front, a number of guys (and two gals) took care of the sales aspect. Eventually, they told him, he'd work up front too. But for now, he'd only hear of the interesting customers, whether difficult, eccentric, pretty, or whatever. Out of sight in back, he felt comfortable in his own little space, his own workbench, his own tools. Well, they really weren't his tools. They were the company's, but they were exclusively for him. It didn't matter that they had been previously used - in fact, he preferred it that way. It only seemed right that the more experienced techies got the nicer tools. After all, they were the teachers; he was a student.

Typically, on slower days, the other guys would come to the back. Multiple work stations allowed a lot of equipment to be worked on at once, and he'd learn a lot from the more experienced employees. But when customers came in, they'd leave him and help the customers. Sometimes, he'd tag along, admiring the smooth way the guys would explain a feature and why it was a benefit. He'd never forget these ideas, and he treasured the opportunity to learn more.

One day, the front bustled with activity. A record day, he thought. He looked down at his hands. Greasy, grimy, they were pretty dirty. As one of the "teachers" pointed out to him, "When you have to wash your hands *before* you go to the bathroom, you know you've been working!" How true it was, he thought.

His mini meditation was interrupted by the manager.

"Come out front, we need your help."

He looked up, a little panicky.

"Um, lemme wash up..."

"There's no time for that. Just come up front and greet people and tell them one of us will be right with them. If you can help them out, great, do it. Okay? Thanks." The manager's head disappeared around the corner.

He got up, wiping his hands as best as he could on a clean rag. Not much improvement, but at least he wouldn't be trailing little bits of grease and such. He walked into the front and stopped. It really was busy, and the floor was crowded enough that he actually had to watch where he was going. He picked out the customers standing alone and timidly asked them if they needed help. Each one thanked him but someone was already helping them out. He made the rounds and ended back at the entry to the rear of the floor.

"Hey, everyone's been helped out," he reported.

"Just hang out here for a sec, okay? We may need you in a bit."

He turned to watch the customers. The best customer service, he thought, was the service that someone provided before the customer can even ask for it. With that in mind, he tried to anticipate if someone was going to turn to ask a question. But they were all deeply involved with the equipment, accessories, and various pamphlets and such. No one looked up and around, a sure sign that they were looking for help.

Then the door opened. The sunlight streaming in accentuated the golden hair of the person walking in, but he couldn't see more than that - the glare washed out anything he could see. He looked around - all his colleagues were busy. So he walked forward, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Oh my god. He paused. This girl is gorgeous, he thought. About an inch taller than his 5'7", her blonde hair framed a delicate, heart shaped face. Her white t-shirt covered a sports bra struggling to hold in her breasts, and her baggy running shorts only accentuated the taut thighs and slim calves. She looked around, then seeing the clothing section, she walked towards it.

He turned around, not believing his fortune. All the guys had taken notice, and everyone hurried to finish whatever they were doing. But in the 15 seconds it took for her to pause in front of a rack of shorts, even the best salespeople couldn't write up an order. And so it was up to him to help her out.

"Um, hi, can I help you?" he asked shyly.

"I'm looking for some of those lycra shorts, bike shorts," she replied.

"Uh, for yourself?"

"Yep, for me."

"Well, we have the women's shorts right here. Those are the large's, those the mediums, that section is the smalls, and then we have the extra smalls there." He mentally thanked whoever made him build this whole rack the week before. It was the only part of the store he actually knew.

She pawed through a few of the small sized shorts.

"How come most of them are black?" she asked.

"Well, it seems to be the most popular color. But we have a couple colored ones too," he offered.

"I like these," she said, pulling out a red pair, size small. "You think these would fit me?" her glance flashed at him. She held them up to her waist, pulling on the short's legs and hips to see if they'd cover her. At best, it would be a struggle. Her slim waist would be fine, but even her slender hips would stretch the material, and he couldn't even think about her legs.

"Uh.." he didn't know where to look. Helpfully, she turned her hips so he could see her rear. This, unfortunately, did nothing to make him more coherent. "Uh, I guess so. Um, I don't know. I don't know how women's sizing works," he admitted.

"Well, maybe I can try them on," she offered.

"Um okay. Can you hang on a second?" he asked.

"Sure!"

He walked over to the manager.

"Do we have a dressing room?" he asked.

"Uh, that curtain over there? It's for the dressing room," the manager replied.

"Oh. I didn't know. Um, if she wants to try on some shorts, do we have to take a credit card or something?"

"Oh, no, just let her try them on." The manager was looking over his shoulder at the girl. "You know, if she needs anything and you're not sure about it, just let me know, okay?"

"Okay, sure."

He trotted back.

"Over there, see that curtain. That's the dressing room. You can try them on there."

She walked over there and pulled the curtain closed. But she tugged midway up the curtain, so the rings didn't quite make it to the edge. When she let go, the curtain dropped back just a bit, a couple inches short of closed. As he looked in astonishment, he could faintly see her form as she bent over and pulled her shorts off. Then she pulled the red shorts on. She pulled back on the curtain and saw him looking at her. She smiled a knowing smile.

"You think these fit?" She asked. She turned her hips again, thrusting her butt out towards him. This time, he could see her firm rear end, the curvaceous butt, the slim hips, the toned legs. The red shorts brought out her tan, and combined with her white t-shirt, she looked like a centerfold come to life.

"Uh. Um." he squirmed uncomfortably.

"You think these are tight enough?" she smiled at him.

"Uh...." He felt hot and warm and all of a sudden the air conditioning was not enough.

"I don't know if these wrinkles should be here," she said, pulled at her butt, smoothing out a single wrinkle.

"Um, I think they fit fine," he finally blurted out.

"Really? You don't think I should try a smaller one?"

"Um, no, the leg band would be too tight them. Um. Like right there." He pointed at her thigh, not daring to touch. "It looks fine they way it is." His voice cracked and he hoped she didn't notice. Her knowing grin said otherwise, but he was so distracted, he never realized.

"Are you sure?" she asked, turning the other way. Her whole body was a slim, slender thing, and whatever she did to try and see the shorts on her just made her all that much more sexy and pretty. He swallowed, his voice threatening to betray him.

"Um, yeah, I'm sure. The shorts look really, really good." He realized what he just said and blushed.

"Okay," she said, watching his reactions, enjoying his obviously nervous and inexperienced attention. "Is it okay if I wear them out?" she asked.

"Well, you have to pay for them first," he pointed out.

"Oh, of course, I just didn't want to change back to my other shorts."

"Okay."

They walked over to the counter, and he wrote up a sales slip. This slip was only his third or fourth one, so he wrote out the shorts information carefully and completely. She stood patiently, but when he accepted her credit card and went to run it through the machine, she started fiddling behind her shirt. She had to arch her back to do so, and he returned to see her thrusting her breasts right at him. He looked down quickly

"Um, can you sign here?" he asked, not daring to raise his eyes. She signed and took her copy.

"You know," she said, still fiddling behind her back, "there's a tag in these shorts. Could you cut them out for me?"

"I'll get some sissors," he said, and turned to go back to the work area. Frantically, he looked for some sissors but couldn't find any. The only thing he could find were some wire cutters, the kind that look like pliers, with a half inch cutting edge.

He ran back to the front where the blonde waited patiently.

"Here," he said, "I think these will work."

He held them out to her. She looked at them blankly. Then she looked at him.

"Can you cut the tag off?" she asked.

"Um, my hands are dirty and I don't want to get your clothes all greasy," he protested.

"It's okay, they can be washed."

"Uh, but I don't want to, um, uh, you know, uh, bother you," he stammered.

"Hey, I don't mind. The tag is just bugging me."

He stood just to her left and timidly pulled at the waistband of her shorts. Like many lycra shorts, the waist was high, and the shorts were actually multiple panels sewn together. Helpfully, she put her hands on the counter and slightly arched her back, thrusting her butt outwards. Glancing down for a moment, he noticed a faint panty line. But it was just a moment - he felt like he could only sneak a peek, not blatantly stare. He could actually feel the heat of her body she was so close. She smelled fresh, feminine - he'd never been this close to a girl before. He had to step back to avoid touching her, and his hands trembled as he pulled her waistband back, looking for the tag. He peered down her shorts then he realized something.

"Um, the tag isn't on the waistband. It's like 6 inches down from the waistband on a little tag down there." He tilted a bit to look at her and continued, "Um, I really think you should do it. I'd have to reach too far down to cut it. These cutters have a short cutting edge so they have to be right next to the tag to cut it."

"No, really, I don't mind." She thrust her butt out just a bit more. "Just cut the tag, it's okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Really, it's okay," she said, turning over her left shoulder and smiling at him.

He grinned weakly back. "Okay, if you insist."

He pulled the waistband back a few inches and peered down. There it was, the price tag with the little white thingy holding it to the "care on reverse" label. Her panties were visible too, white cotton ones with some hearts or teddy bears or something roundish and small printed all over. He gulped. Not only was the first girl he'd been so close to, this was his first panty he saw on a girl.

He reached down with the pliers and tried not to touch her back. Her spine was there, and he really didn't want to tap her spine with the hard plier handle. So he pulled a little more on the shorts to give himself room. Of course, this only gave him visibility.

"Okay, I got it, I'm going to cut the tag," he said.

Snip.

Oh shit.

The tag fell.

"Um," he said.

"What, did you cut the tag?" she asked.

"Um, I did."

"So just take it out,"she suggested.

"Uh, I can't. The tag fell."

"Oh. Well, I can't walk around with a tag in my shorts. Can you just grab it?" she asked.

"Uh, maybe you should do it. I really think it might be better if you do it," he stammered. "It kinda fell."

"No, you can do it. At least you can see it, just grab it." she answered.

"Um, okay."

He reached down towards the tag. A typical clothing tag, it measured about 1" x 1 1/2" with the remenants of the little white thing that attaches to the clothing. First, he got the white nib left in the "care on reverse label", tossing it on the floor. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), this particular tag chose to fall till the leading edge hit the line that separated the shorts from the girl. As he reached down, the shorts pulled away from the girl, and the tag, free to drop further, followed the curve of the shorts.

"Um. It keeps falling further," he reported.

"It's okay, really."

He didn't reply, instead focusing on the task at hand. He kept reaching and the tag kept falling, until it leveled off, sitting in the crotch of her shorts.

He couldn't grab the tag, it sat perfectly flat on the crotch of her shorts. So he did the next best thing, he tried to push down on it with his index and middle finger. Then he could slide it towards his hand so that he could grab it between those fingers and his palm. It worked, except that he made some unexpected contact while doing so, with the knuckles of his fingers. They grazed the cotton panties that formed the only barrier between his fingers and her sex. She felt surprisingly hot and he could feel the sensation of soft, warm cotton.

Then he had the tag and extricated it.

"I got it!" he declared triumphantly.

"I knew you could do it," she answered, smiling. "Thanks!"

He looked at her sheepishly. The customer service side of him surfaced.

"You need to keep the tag?" he asked her.

"Oh, no, you can throw it away, thanks." she responded.

She straightened up, turned and walked out the door. He watched her push open the door and walk out. He squinted and could see that she got in a car out there, a sporty little car. She backed out of her spot and pulled away.

He turned and walked in back to throw out the tag.

"Hey!" someone called.

He turned. A thought crossed his mind. Maybe he did something wrong.

"What?" he replied tentatively.

It was the manager, writing up a large order for some customers out front. Without looking up, the manager kept talking.

"You get her phone number?" the manager asked.

"Phone number?"

"You know, on the receipt there's a section for phone number and stuff."

"There is?"

"Hey, look. If a girl asks you to stick your hands down her shorts, you ask for her phone number, okay?"

He mulled over the words. It did make sense, now that he thought of it.

"Okay, next time, I will."

Of course, it never, ever, happened again.