Short Shorts

 

Dusty Warner was wearing white short shorts and a fine pair of well-worn, red high heels when Madeline first saw her. The shorts were the kind that barely covered her delicious rear cheeks; they were frayed at the edges, raveling a little more each time they were washed.

Dusty was inquiring about the "help wanted" sign in the window of the Black and White Diner. It seemed as good a place as any to earn a few bucks. At twenty-one, she was foot­loose and fancy free, but at the moment, flat broke.

"You want a job in this diner, honey, you're gonna hafta forget those nasty britches and those high heels. I got decent skirts and blouses for my waitresses."

"Sure," Dusty shrugged.

"I'd have half the men in this town in here just to gawk at those legs of yours," Madeline added.

"It's okay with me, I mean about your skirt and blouse. I don't like men much anyway, ma'am." Dusty was doing her best to be agreeable; she needed the job.

"Well, if you're not out to impress men, why do you wear those slutty clothes?" Madeline inquired.

The girl shrugged again. "Why not?"

"Humph!" Madeline tapped the toe of her white oxford against the tile floor; with a hand on her hip, she was a formi­dable sight. "You got an attitude, Dusty Warner, but you got the job. I need someone now. But hear me, you watch your step, 'cause I'll tan that sassy butt of yours if you get out of line."

"What's that suppose to mean?" the girl asked.

"It means I run this place, and I don't particularly like my girls acting like sluts, inside or outside the diner."

Dusty shrugged. "Just want the job, that's all," she replied. Her noncommittal response was the best she could muster. She wished she didn't have to be bothered with an old lady like Madeline, but she didn't have much choice.

Madeline ran the place; she had for ten years. She was not so old at thirty-five, as she was wise. She'd been around the block a time or two, and pretty much had her way with things. There was no getting around that, and Dusty was smart enough to figure that out.

"Can you start this afternoon?" Madeline asked.

"Yeah," Dusty answered.

"That's Ma'am to you, Miss Short Shorts, you can find a skirt and blouse in the back room."

Madeline watched the girl wiggle her ass right past her, her butt cheeks jiggling nicely in the skin-tight shorts. She'd seen Dusty's type before-could be hell on wheels, though she hoped not. Beneath all that devil-may-care attitude, she suspected there was a really sweet girl, one she'd like to get to know in more than just a casual way.

Dusty Warner turned out to be a decent waitress; she almost looked respectable in her diner uniform, except for the bright red lipstick that she refused to give up. Madeline didn't hassle her too much about that; looking at those luscious red lips all day wasn't half-bad.

Unfortunately, Madeline's influence on Dusty's behavior ended in the diner. As soon as her shift was over, the girl was in the back room, pulling her short shorts over her hips and slipping her feet into the red heels. They enhanced the pro­vocative sway of her sassy hips. Initially, she was well behaved at work, but it occurred to Madeline that the girl's good be­havior would be only temporary. When she did mess up, Madeline would be ready for her.

Just as Madeline expected, it didn't take long for Dusty's wilder side to appear. One evening, as the girl walked out of the back room in her shorts and high heels, she bumped into her boss with an unexpected jolt. The unfortunate crash jostled her purse, dumping its content across the diner floor. Most noticeable was a bottle of vodka that broke on impact. The strong smell of alcohol rose from the floor, as if it had just been mopped with disinfectant.

That was not all that met Madeline's eye as she gazed at the mess.

"What's this?" she asked, picking up a bag containing some white powdery substance. "You using drugs?"

Dusty tried to grab it back, but Madeline was too quick. The older women knew what she was looking for and with a quick examination discovered the truth.

"I told you, young lady, you'd better behave yourself," Madeline admonished her, staring her down with impenetra­ble eyes.

"That's none of your business," Dusty retorted.

"Sorry, Miss Short Shorts, I've made it my business," Madeline seethed. She had her by the wrist. "Clean up this mess, will you?" she called to Cassie, her other waitress. As she led Dusty into the back room.

The girl struggled, but Madeline was far more powerful than Dusty and more determined. Though Dusty was not yet sure what her employer had in mind, when she spied the omi­nous wooden spoon in Madeline's hand, it became obvious.

"You Bitch!" the girl yelled.

Madeline slapped the girl across the face.

"You hush your mouth if you know what's good for you."

Shocked into yielding. Dusty watched in horror as Madeline made a place for her to sit.

"My god, not here?" the girl protested. "There are cus­tomer's out there."

"'Fraid they'll hear you?" Madeline taunted-pulling the girl over her lap. She could sense Dusty's mounting di­lemma-the humiliation, the customers within earshot, her own tempestuous anger. But Dusty being Dusty opted to pro­test, forgetting what the outside world would hear or think. She wasn't about to let the old lady punish her without a fight.

"Don't you dare!" she screamed. Her arms and legs kicked furiously as she tried to struggle from Madeline's lap. But the woman had been through these things many times be­fore, and she knew she had the advantage, and of course the wooden spoon, turned paddle, in her hand.

Whack!

"Stop it!" Dusty howled, still trying to wriggle away.

Again, she wiggled her fanny in Madeline's face, "Ouch! Goddammit!

"They're going to hear you, is that what you want?" Madeline said.

Dusty didn't know what she wanted. The slaps of the wooden spoon stung through her white short shorts. It was humiliating, but not the worst thing she'd ever felt. If this was as bad as it was going to be, maybe Madeline was right, she should shut up and take it.