"Just keep your cool." I exhaled the words through clenched teeth as I pulled the delicate panties to my snowy hips. Removing my cocktail dress from the hanger hooked over the hinge of the closet door, I stepped into the skirt and tugged the stretchy, formfitting fabric over my hips. As the blue cloth eclipsed the black lace of my skimpy thong, I slipped my arms under the spaghetti straps and straightened the fabric of the front over my breasts.
Turning to the mirror, I assessed my appearance. The hem of the fitted skirt stopped two inches above my knee, flattering the line of my legs. The profile improved as I stepped into a pair of houndstooth pattern, four-inch high heels. My eyes followed the curve of my hips upward across my flat tummy until my gaze settled on the generous cleavage that erupted enthusiastically above the dress's twin scoop cups. The tiny charm that hung between my energetic D-cups on a thin gold chain drew added attention to my breasts. Even without a bra, they stood out boldly from my ribcage despite their size and weight.
I made a half-turn as I smoothed the material over the inviting paired globes of my ass, suspended in shimmering blue fabric. Following the arc of my spine to the pale skin of my exposed back, my look was completed with the loose curls of my rich auburn hair that spilled across my bare shoulders and hung invitingly atop my generous bust. I blushed as I acknowledged that I looked pretty damn hot, then soured as I recalled the occasion for the outfit. "It's just dinner with dad. And mom." I grumbled, grabbing my clutch and turning off the light as I closed the apartment door behind me, repeating "Just keep cool."
After dodging their calls for almost a week, I had finally been cornered into attending dinner to celebrate my parents' anniversary with them and my younger sister, Brandy. I loved my family, but my father was, by any standard, the world's worst restaurant customer. Demanding, impatient, rude, loud, and, to top it off, a terrible tipper, his boorish conduct in restaurants seemed to know no nadir. At my sister's birthday dinner in April, I had covered my face in a napkin as he loudly berated a server for a slight imperfection in the preparation of his steak. As we left the restaurant in our detested, strung-out pack, I stealthily slipped the waiter a fifty, certain without looking that the credit card receipt on the table further reflected my father's incivility.
My cab pulled to the curb just short of the valet stand. Through the windshield, I could see my father giving detailed instructions to the poor college kid tasked with parking his prized Lexus. I sucked in a last calming breath and exchanged a knowing glance with the smirking cabby as I stepped out of the car. My father spotted me as I shut the door and scuttled towards us tapping the face of his watch.
"Sarah! There you are, finally. Hope you didn't tip that guy; he got you here almost ten minutes late..." The driver shot me another glance through his open window as he pulled into traffic. I leaned in and gave my father a polite hug by the shoulders with a peck on the cheek, then repeated the motion with my mother. Standing behind them, Brandy exaggeratedly puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled and rolled her eyes to let me know the evening was already going exactly as I expected. A valet opened the door to the overpriced steakhouse -- it was always an overpriced steakhouse with my father -- as we entered and approached the maître d' stand. The man began to introduce himself as Peter and tried to welcome our party, but my father interrupted him.
"*Doctor* George, for four at eight." My father barked at the patient gentleman. While he refused to give his last name in making reservations, as a psychiatrist, he never forgot to include his title. The maître d' scanned the book, found our name and held up a pleading finger as he peered into the dining room to confirm that our table was ready.
"Oh this is just great! These jokers gave away our damn reservation!" Doctor George growled to our party and any others within earshot. His complaint was not retracted when the man returned a brief moment later with thick bound menus in hand to promptly escort us to our table. I shot a pleading glance at the other diners as we passed, begging an as-yet-undiscovered gift of telepathy to alert these innocent civilians that I too would be among the unwilling victims of my father's behavior. Regrettably, it seemed that my psychic efforts were unsuccessful, as the rest of the dining room continued its buzz without concern for the three women and Doctor George as we were seated in their midst.
Before the maître d' had finished pushing in chairs for my mother, sister, and myself, my father had already slapped his menu shut and decided his order. When the waiter arrived a few moments later to recite his memorized list of specials, his offer to take our drink requests was interrupted as my father spewed out a torrent of appetizers, salads, his and my mother's entrees, and a bottle of wine. While the server, a handsome, tall young black man named Lincoln, struggled to catch up with the list, my sister and I rushed through the menu to make our orders and save the poor guy an extra trip to our forsaken section of the restaurant. I read the look of relief on Lincoln's face as he turned from our table and returned to the safety of the kitchen.
A busboy arrived with glasses of water and a basket of bread. As he moved around the table and tonged rolls onto each of our plates in turn, I watched as his eyes repeatedly stray to Brandy. My younger sister was the prettier of the two of us, blessed with the tall, slim build of a model with long, blonde hair to match. While my plump breasts, hourglass profile, and deep red hair garnered my share of interest, it was almost always my little sister who attracted this sort of attention when we were out together.
My father cleared his throat as he ripped a roll in half and the busboy scurried off, uttering a fleeting "Enjoy your meal." My sister twisted her mouth into a strained, thing smile, as my father broke into his usual line of dinner table questioning and discussion: job (me), school (her), modeling (her), work (him, him, him, him). His self-important monologue lasted through the wine service, during which time he didn't so much as glance in Lincoln's direction. However, I noted Lincoln as his gaze fixed not on Brandy, but me. Or rather, Lincoln fixated on the swell of my chest as he filled my parents' and sister's wine glasses, and as he circled to mine, seemed as though he might tumble into the soft, welcoming chasm of my cleavage. I giggled quietly and blushed, holding up my glass as he poured. Our eyes met and he recognized he'd been caught.
"That's... a lovely necklace, miss." He stammered awkwardly as he wiped the lip of the bottle with a napkin and placed it at the center of the table. As he turned to leave, I noticed a long bulge tracing the inner hem of his thigh. Brandy excitedly got my attention, silently mouthing "He likes you" as she winked. Mercifully our salads arrived, allowing my crimson blush and Brandy's giggling to go unnoticed by our parents.
As dinner went on, my father was shockingly satisfied with his entrée, and was even civil toward Lincoln and the restaurant staff. As a result, the rest of the family -- and, though unbeknownst to them, the other patrons in the dining room -- was able to enjoy our meals and the night seemed like it might end pleasantly.
