Good Service Appetizers

As it were, Carlie would have rather hung a "Will Work For Food" sign around her neck and walked out than serve one more table full of snobby East-end diners at Serra's. She disgustedly shoved her two-dollar tip into the pocket of her apron, mumbling under her breath that it should have been twenty dollars for all the trouble that couple had cost her. ("Excuse me, we ordered the quarter chicken, not the half" -- "Actually ma'am, you did order the half." -- "Now look here, Missy --")

"Carlie? Table three for you."

Carlie gave the hostess a glare that sent the timid girl scurrying back to her post. Then she took a deep breath, straightened out her chestnut ponytail in her reflection in the cash register screen, and stomped out to greet the two men who sat at number three.

"Hello, how are we all tonight? Wonderful. My name is Carlie, and I'll be -"

"Yes, yes, skip all that." A square-jawed, muscular 40-something with a British accent cut her off. "We don't much give a damn either. Now be a good little waitress and fetch us two scotch on the rocks, Glenfiddich, mind you, and be snappy about it."

Carlie stared at him, stunned. His soft-bellied but equally muscular companion leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and regarded her sweetly.

"You do speak English, miss, don't you?"

Carlie looked incredulously from one to the other, opened her mouth to retaliate, then thought better of it and pivoted on her heels to go place the order. As she rounded the corner she could hear the two men snicker, and one murmur "What a sense of humor, eh?"

"Since when did we start serving donkeys?!" Carlie fumed as soon as she was safely out of earshot in the servers' station. The nostrils of her pert little nose flared in rhythm with the heaving of her modest but buoyant chest as her lithe, 5'2" figure stomped about. Her coworker, Mark, snickered and shot her a mock warning glare.

"Don't be impudent," he cooed, "they're just having some fun at your expense."

Carlie grumbled some more and punched in the order on the touch screen with a bit too much force. "I think they should go and have their fun somewhere else." She said acidly.

"And I think you sound like you need to get laid." Mark grinned. "Don't let them get to you."

"Sod off. Dammit!" In her annoyance Carlie had punched too many buttons and frozen the outdated computer which she then smacked soundly with her open palm. The machine retaliated by releasing the cash tray, which shot open with a chime and whacked Carlie soundly in the gut.

"Owww!" Carlie moaned, more out of annoyance than pain. Mark paused and looked back at her, his arms laden with plates.

"All right?" he asked with genuine concern.

"F-fine." Carlie stuttered, clutching herself. Despite her anger, a noticeable blush coloured her cheeks. Mark grinned knowingly, and slipped around the corner.

As annoyed as Carlie was, it wasn't enough to make her forget her slight crush on her cheeky coworker, eight years her senior, whose ash brown hair and twinkling chocolate eyes put even the boyish handsomeness of Brad Pitt to shame. Nor could she forget the short and scandalous fling they'd shared at the company Christmas party only a few months ago, brought on in part by shared sexual frustration and Carlie's frequent teasing of his ever so slight French accent. ("How do you say, 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi'?") That said, she had decided that, despite her feelings, it wasn't the best idea to start a relationship at work.

Somewhat placated by the exchange, Carlie went to tend to her other tables before picking up the two scotches at the bar from Eric, the bartender, who told her they were out of Glenfiddich and he had substituted another scotch whiskey instead. Carlie shrugged and brought them to number three. She had just set them down when the British man caught her by he wrist.

"Don't move an inch." He ordered, and picked up his scotch. He sniffed at it delicately, swirled it around in the glass, and took a tentative sip, all the while without releasing her wrist. Then he swallowed, put on an exasperated expression, set the glass on the table, and looked Carlie seriously in the eye.

"Miss," he spoke slowly, "tell me how long you've been working here."

Carlie stared at him with a wide-eyed gaze, captured by the force of his eyes and unable to fathom what he was getting at. "Uh... Two years?"

The man and his companion snickered. "Two years? Is that a question?"

Carlie grew suddenly wary. "Sir, please let go of my hand."

He was suddenly serious. "Miss, when I ask you a question, you will answer me quickly and firmly, without hesitation. Now, tell me, if you have been working here for 'two years?'" - his intonation inclined in question form, mocking her - "Then why do you seem unable to order me the correct scotch?"

Carlie glared, angry now. "We were out of Glenfiddich, sir, now please let go of my wrist."

The British man shook his head sadly, ignorant to Carlie's feeble attempts to escape his grasp. "What do you think, Roy? Have we ever had such an impudent little miss for a waitress?"

The man called Roy looked thoughtful. "I don't think we have, Greg. Perhaps we should make a point of it."

"Sir." Carlie's attempt at raising her voice was undermined by a sudden ripple of fear coursing down her spine. The men did not seem drunk, but she did not like their behavior or the ominous feeling it inspired in her gut. "If you do not let me go I shall have to ask someone to remove you."

"Will you now?" Greg half-smiled at her, with all the confidence of a rhino who has been told he will be shooed off by a mouse. Without further warning, the hand that held Carlie's wrist yanked it firmly, sending her tumbling forward into Greg's lap. Carlie gave a cry of surprise as her feet were lifted off the floor and she was balanced over his knee, the skirt of her short uniform flipping up to reveal lace panties.

"This is the treatment impudent little misses like you get!" His strong hand smacked her soundly on her upturned butt.

"Excuse me!" Carlie exclaimed, at a loss for further words. The scuffle had caught the attention of the entire restaurant, which besides Carlie's protests was now completely silent. Patrons as well as coworkers stood frozen in surprise, staring at Carlie's predicament. To her speechless horror, as more stinging smacks began to rain down on her butt, a few onlookers' expressions went from shock to amusement.

"Oww! Oww! Sir, stop!" Carlie kicked her feet to no avail - Greg's strong arm on her back prevented her from wiggling off his lap, subjecting her exposed bottom to his brutal palm. Her flailing limbs did nothing to affect his hold of her, and yet Carlie would not consider giving in. Being turned over and spanked like a child was beyond humiliating, and she could feel a bright blush warming both sets of cheeks. Carlie kicked and yelled some more, yet no one made a move to help her. Suddenly it seemed that most of the audience were finding the situation rather entertaining. Roy still sat across the table, calmly watching his friend administer Carlie's punishment and sipping his incorrectly ordered scotch. Mark, who stood but a few tables away, wore an expression that clearly stated just how amused he was by her display.

Carlie turned her eyes on Mark, intending to stare daggers at him for not helping her, but suddenly found herself disarmed by what she found in his expression. The look on her crush's face was not simply mocking, but calculating. Mark regarded her situation with a thoughtful air, and Carlie realized he was looking for her own reaction. That simple realization suddenly made butterflies appear in Carlie's stomach, and she realized with a new blush of shame that she liked to see him watching her be humiliated this way.

Finally Greg picked Carlie up and set her back on her feet with ridiculous ease, as if she were as easy to handle as a doll. Too embarrassed to look at him or anyone else, Carlie set her eyes on the floor and kept them there.

"Now, we'll try that again." Greg pulled his chair back in to the table and calmly pushed the scotch glass towards her, along with his companion's now empty one. "Please take this crap away, and find us some Glenfiddich."

Without a word, Carlie picked up the glasses and fled to the servers' station. Behind her, the room dissolved into stifled giggles and murmured shocked conversation.

Carlie chucked the glasses into the busser's bin and leaned against the wall in the corner of the small room, fighting the urge to cry or shout and wondering why she was even considering such childish thoughts anyway. After all, she was a full grown woman - she should immediately go and find her manager and have those ridiculous men kicked out. But thinking of the faces of the customers and her coworkers as they watched her - she shuddered to think the words - get spanked, her resolve diffused and vanished in a cloud of confused shame.

"Are you all right?" A man's voice asked her from the door of the station. Carlie looked up to see not whom she expected - not Mark - but the bartender, Eric, staring at her as if he were horrifically afraid to approach. "Did that guy... uh... hurt you?" Eric seemed rather strained for words.

Carlie just stared at him, considering whether or not to bite his head off and storm out or not. Finally she sighed and accepted that she was going to be the joke of the year anyway, and decided not to make it worse. "I'm fine." She said dismissively. And then, surprising herself, "Where's Mark?"

Eric blinked, not seeing the connection to her question, but answered her anyway. "He left for the day. His shift's over."

"Oh." Carlie's brow furrowed. After the way he'd been watching her, she would have expected a snide parting comment or two. Though she didn't dare admit it to herself, she felt disappointed.

"Uhm, I think I found some more Glenfiddich." Eric mumbled, shirking back as if he were waiting for her to blow.

Ironically, Carlie felt dissolved of her anger. "Can you bring it out to table three, Eric?" That was the least he could do. "I think I'm going home. My shift's almost over anyway. Ask Alyssa to close my bills for me, would you?"

"Sure!" Eric jumped and practically ran to do as he'd been asked, grateful to avoid the wrath he'd been expecting. Carlie changed out of her uniform and slipped out the back door, feeling numb.

* * *

The next day, Carlie showed up for work with the full knowledge that she would be hearing about yesterday's incident for some weeks to come, at least, and had arrived at a state of grudging acceptance. She didn't have to wait long for the onslaught of jibes when she stepped in the back door - even her boss, Tracy, had evidently been informed of the whole story.

"Ah, Carlie, you're here. There's a couple at table five that you can take, they've already asked for coffees. And you'd better be quick about it - the man looks like he's got a good arm!"

Snickers erupted from the serving staff as Carlie passed through, sighing. "Thanks, Tracy."

The rest of the morning was more of the same, and Carlie found herself constantly fighting a blush whenever she passed through the kitchen and servers' station. It didn't help matters much when she slipped around the corner, bright red from a fresh comment, and nearly collided with Mark.

"Morning, Carlie." He smiled warmly, mischievously. "That colour becomes you."

"H-hey." Carlie sidestepped him, stammering like a child, and ducked into the kitchen. The butterflies that appeared whenever she was around Mark had only worsened since yesterday, and now they hammered at her ribs, making her stomach do backflips.

Mark followed her casually, adjusting his uniform. "How's the floor today? Any more annoying customers?"

Carlie ignored the implied tease, hoping she seemed aloof. "You sure took off fast yesterday." She hesitated, then ventured, "you didn't like the show?"

Mark's eyes positively twinkled. "On the contrary." He grinned. "I had some errands to run." He picked up a spatula and twirled it casually in his palm. "How about you, hmm? Did you like the show?"

Carlie stopped fussing with the plates she was stacking and stared at Mark in shock. "Excuse me! I most certainly did n-"

Mark stopped her short by taking her by the shoulder, whirling her forcefully around and smacking her soundly on her bruised ass with the spatula.

Carlie froze, her stomach somersaulting now. She looked back at Mark uncertainly. His one eyebrow was raised in question, waiting for her reaction. Carlie felt her cheeks redden and rubbed gingerly at her buttocks. She swallowed thickly, on one hand furious with Mark for discovering her, and on the other, too excited for words.

Mark appraised her, then grinned widely, and replaced the spatula. "I thought as much." He said quietly, and then whisked himself and his brilliant smile from the room.

Carlie looked around quickly. There was no one in the kitchen - no one to witness the scarlet blush that Mark's new discovery had brought upon her. It seemed that, for better or worse, her new secret was safe with him.