Be Careful What You Order...

I love having kinky dreams.

If it were up to me, I would dream kinkily every night! Unfortunately, however, my subconscious usually feels otherwise...

Except a few nights ago, when something in my subconscious was telling me that I, desperately, needed a spanking.

I don't brat, dear readers. :) Those of you who know me, either through reading here, or in person, can attest, I am sure, to my purely angelic nature :D But somehow, something let loose inside me that night when my guard was least vigilant, and I got what I'd been hoping for: a kinky dream. Only, perhaps not quite what I originally had in mind...!

Sometime after our botched dream-land hiking trip (as described in this post about the first half of this dream), my bratty friends and I went out to dinner together -- a much more familiar experience for all three of us and our multimillion-dollar ($dream$) backgrounds.

Dream-me knew there would be trouble as soon as we arrived at the over-packed restaurant.

'Ugh, all these people,' I thought to myself in the dream. 'Can't we go somewhere more private...?'

But, grudgingly, I communicated none of this to my friends. Instead, I let the sneer on my face do all the talking about how dissatisfied I was with the lack of exclusivity in our restaurant choice.

When we entered, the host --
an obsequious gentleman, dressed to the nines -- spotted us through the crowd, and immediately disengaged from whichever customer he was dealing with at that moment, in order to approach us: a trio of frequenters he knew, and dreaded, quite well.

"Young Lady, wipe that sour look off your face this instant." --unfortunately, was not what the poor man decided to say.

Instead, he greeted us heartily and we were promptly shown past the long line of all the other waiting guests and straight into the restaurant. My friends and I didn't have to wait, apparently -- and dream-me felt slightly more satisfied that at least this hadn't changed about one of our favorite dining establishments...

As we were led through the restaurant, I kept my hawk-eyes peeled for the perfect place to sit, peering around as if I owned the place. Almost instantly my eyes fell upon a lovely little table, tucked away in a corner near a window. Of course, it was occupied -- but that didn't matter to me: I pointed out the table to our host and fully expected his cooperation in seating us there.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and just barely managed to keep the "here-we-go-again" look from showing on his face.


To my disdain, and my friends' shock, he apologized profusely about not being able to move those people in order to seat us at that particular table, and tried to distract our attention by spouting on and on about what a beautiful table he already had waiting for us and how much he knew we would love it...

"Excah-use, me?" I thought, as we reluctantly set off again after our host, "Do you realize, waiter, that I could buy this restaurant and have you fired tomorrow?"



It seems, however, that my dream-self knew how to keep her brattiest thoughts to herself.


Otherwise one of the surrounding customers, a diligently old-fashioned gentleman, perhaps, may have felt compelled to step in and provide all four of us with some much-needed disciplinary instruction...


So disgruntled was I with this series of disappointments, that when we reached the very back of the restaurant, where a specially private little alcove existed just for us (literally, around a corner at the back of this dream-restaurant was a tiny little room all by itself), I was not happy.

It didn't matter that our seats were golden, and upholstered with crimson velvet (and armless). The lush carpeting and ornate oak table, complete with decadent chandelier hanging over us, did nothing to soften my mounting temper.



When a trembling waiter came to take our drink orders, I expressed my dissatisfaction with a stoic silent treatment, expecting my friends to follow suit.


Obviously, a swift, sound spanking would have helped to loosen my tongue -- but alas, this logical procedure was far from our gentle waiter's mind.

Unfortunately for her, one of my girlfriends had been unduly swept-up by the apparent luxury of our special seating arrangements, and as such had failed to notice my mood. She cheerfully ordered an orange juice, and then turned stark-white as the waiter walked away and she glimpsed the enraged look on my face.


And when my friend's drink finally came to our table, she stared uncertainly at it, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, not wishing to incense me any further by making any attempts at consuming the offending order.


The waiter, specially assigned to wait on only our table, could obviously sense the tension rippling through this tiny little space, and stood rather awkwardly nearby, caught between wanting to get away and his duty to take our dinner orders.

And now, dear readers, we reach the height of my dream-land brattishness. I am sure my face while I slept must have reflected the shock with which I witnessed my own audacity during this next scene in my dream...!


In all my silent rage, I reached slowly out across the table, cupped my manicured hand around the glass of orange juice, and, inch by inch, swept it calmly to the side of the table.


I pushed the entire glass right off the edge of the table, dear readers, and sent it crashing to the expensively carpeted floor. The juice spilt everywhere.


Almost as soon as the liquid made contact with the carpet, even my dream-self felt slightly bad about behaving that way. But I covered up my disappointment in myself by projecting it onto the waiter, at whom I simply glared and raised my eyebrows in defiant challenge.

Dear readers, let me show you exactly what should have happened as a result of this outrageous behavior:



Now that, ladies and gentlewaiters, would have been exactly what I'd ordered, both when I decided to push that glass clean off the table, and when I went to sleep that night, wishing for a kinky dream... :D