#carterabby

“You can't tell me you've never heard of a kilt before.”

Okay, so maybe Abby's playing it up a bit. She's definitely heard of a kilt, and has definitely seen men wearing them, but it sure is fun to watch Carter prance about in the mirror and make him feel self conscious about it. 

“And then this bit goes around here…” he's saying, referring to the instructions he'd printed off the computer on how to wear it correctly, because of course he did. He's tying the little tassel purse around his cute little waist, and Abby is watching the hem of the thing flap around his knees. He hasn't even put the socks on yet. The socks are going to be good. 

She doesn't want to make him self- conscious, that's not really fair. She just likes prodding him, making him have to justify himself to her the way he rises to so easily, face pink and hands animated. And if he's having to justify himself wearing a skirt? Well, that's just the icing on the cake.

She watches those animated hands adjust the little tassel purse (“Sporran” he reads from the paper, “Not a purse, Abby”) so it sits centrally, his dumb little pinky ring glinting as he does so. She's been ready for a half hour already, nursing a Diet Coke in the hotel armchair.

It's a fancy affair, an old school and family friend (though Abby knows the Carter family use the term tenuously at best) clinging to their Scottish ancestry the way white Americans do. Hence the kilt. Carter's a hanger-on groomsman along with a bunch of other guys from his class, hence the ceremonial getup. Abby does always appreciate when the dress code for guys is more restrictive than for the girls. It makes a change.

“Do you have underwear on under there?” she asks, rolling the ice around her drink. He cuts her a glare.

“Yes,” he says, as he double, triple checks the purse’s positioning, right over where his cock must be. Abby thinks the Scottish are less than subtle. Carter reaches for the socks. Goodie.

He tries to put them on standing, but his balance is kind of whack with his back and everything, so he ends up on the edge of the bed. From where he's sat, Abby can see a flash of his briefs when he lifts his leg.

“All-black,” she notes, “Very classy.”

He blushes furiously, and brings his leg down, rolling over the top of the sock. 

“Stop it.” He says.

“No, no,” she says, 'cause she can't help herself, “Black is recommended to us ladies when wearing revealing outfits. Better to flash that than a hot pink thong.”

“I'm not–  It's not revealing.” He hisses back. He pulls on the other sock, and she sees the soft bulge of his dick again.

“Sure,” she says, and sips her drink.