We'd both been working long hours the whole week, so we left the kids at home for a change, and drove a little distance to a nice restaurant, determined to have a nice meal, and some peace and quiet. My husband was a delight to take to dinner, and I was looking forward to a nice evening.

The games started as soon as we had the menus in our hands.

"Not chicken, right Stella?"

"No, not chicken."

"Not chicken," George said, turning to the waiter. "Steak, I'd imagine."

"Steak, Sir?"

"No, not me. My wife."

I smiled innocently at the waiter. "Yes, he means me. He's suggesting I would like some substantial meat."

"That's right, waiter. Meat. She likes meat."

I was still smiling sweetly. "Waiter, is this one of those restaurants where the staff introduce themselves, or is it a snooty place where we never find out your name?"

"My name is Michael, Ma'am."

"Michael. Do you mind if I call you that?"

"Certainly not, Ma'am."

"Michael, how big is your meat?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"She asked you about the steaks, Michael. The steaks."

"Oh, yes, of course. Well, that depends on which steak you would like, Miss."

George didn't give him a chance to breathe. "I think Michael, that my wife would prefer you to tell her what sort of meat you recommend."

To his credit, there was no hesitation. "The mignon, perhaps?"

George stepped back into the breach. "No, no. That's a little girl's steak. Stella is a woman. She needs something with substance. Something a little more solid."

I just grinned, but I could feel the conversation affecting me. I was dressed as I had been at work. A shortish tailored skirt with a nice blouse. The only thing I'd changed before we went out were the lacy bikini panties that were fast becoming damp. I wriggled a little, the tickle more than I could handle. I spoke then, without giving it any thought. "Substance. Not size, so much."

George grinned at me across the table. "Not size?"

"Style, George, is everything."

He turned back. "You heard her, Michael. You have any substantial, sylish, solid meat?"

Michael was a swarthy European looking type. One of those guys who always looks at though he hadn't bothered to shave. I was a little surprised to see his face go bright red, before he ran off toward the kitchen.

"George, now that's quite enough. They don't get paid nearly enough to put up with that."

"Stella, he was enjoying it."

"He was not. He was embarrassed."

"Alright, alright. I'll be good then."

"Good."

"I said!"

"Okay!"

It might have sounded like an argument, but we were both still smiling, and he knew very well the effect the conversation would have had on me. After all, he was the one who had suggested the panties.

Michael returned from his errands with his blush under control, and continued the conversation...

"So Ma'am, did you decide what you'd like to order?"

"You were going to suggest."

"I was?"

"Indeed. George?"

"Substantial meat." He winked at me. "You got that?"

Michael smiled, and waded right on in. "Best quality hereabouts, for sure."

"I would like," George continued, "Some of this Cajun Chicken. Stella likes hot things, but not chicken."

"I like chicken just fine, George. I'm just not in that kind of mood."

"Perhaps," Michael suggested, standing close now, "I thought you might like a New York strip?"

"Oh, fine suggestion," George butted in, unnecessarily. "Big city steak for my girl. Well done."

"Michael," I asked, "Where are you from?"

"As it happens, I am from the Big Apple. How about that?"

His innocent smile was too much for me, and I looked down, hoping to God that I wasn't staining my skirt, or the expensive chair.

George was unrepentant. "Michael, I don't know how things work in your family, especially if you are from the city, but the way it works with us is that Stella is allowed to get her meat any place she pleases. You understand?"

"George!"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but you don't need to tell everyone."

"I only told Michael."

"He's embarrassed again."

"Michael, you embarrassed?"

"No. Surprised."

I spoke up then. "Yeah? You hush, George. Why is that, Michael?"

His eyes almost closed, and he spoke very quietly. "I'm surprised that... George... would allow you to... make your own decisions on this."

"That's all?"

"Yes. That's all..."

"Call me Stella."

"Stella."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, Ma'am."

George spoke up again then. To me. Ignoring the waiter. "He's horny, Stella. That's what he is."

"George, stop it."

"Well, he is. Aren't you, Michael?"

The waiter stood motionless for a while, and then spoke quietly, staring into my eyes. "Yes Stella. I am. Now let me leave while I can still walk."

"Oh, sorry Michael. Go, go."

"Thank you Stella. George, your wife is a very nice woman. Please look after her while I do some work."

"Thank you Michael. I'll do my best."

"Oh, one more thing. Stella, how would you like your meat?"

"Oh, you are good, Michael. I'd like it soon!"

"Rare then?"

"You bet."

"Deal. Chicken, George, wasn't it?"

"Chicken. Yes. Cajun."

"Okay. Thanks folks. Back soon."

He walked briskly off to the kitchen then, pretending the other orders and customers were on his mind. The bulge in his pants made a liar of him. Nonetheless, I felt the need to remonstrate with George. "You didn't need to tell him."

"You weren't about to."

"Why does he need to know?"

"Because, my lovely wife, you want him."

"What nonsense."

"I bet those pretty little panties are struggling to cope."

"They gave up already."

"Told you so."

"That could be you George. You do turn me on, you know."

"Not like that. Not just sitting here."

"Perhaps." I paused. "I'm not going to, you know that."

"Why not?"

"Well, how can I?"

"Is this a moral or logistics question, Stella?"

"Oh, you are impossible!"

"Stella, you know you love me anyway."

"I do. I should be able to at least get angry with you though."

"I'm pleased you can't."

"No doubt. Drink your beer, George."

We fell silent then, for a while, both enjoying people-watching, catching glimpses of our waiter every now and then. Before long, he came back to see us, large plates in his hands, his professional smile back on his face.

He placed George's chicken on the table first, and winked at me before trotting around the table and placing my steak meal in front of me. Dark eyes, set back. The food looked wonderful, and so did he. I said nothing other than mumbling a thank you, and looked down at the food, trying desperately to remove Michael from my immediate thoughts, and concentrate on the steak. It wasn't easy.