"I suppose a diaper would be too much. Hmmm. We could ask for a booster seat, you're almost small enough for one of those. I know! We'll take you a cushion. I have a stadium seat that has a zipper on it so a hot pack can be put inside. The cover is washable and we can stuff a phone book into it instead of the hot pack. It will add about three inches if we use the yellow pages. That should also be enough to get your feet off the floor. Will you be comfortable with your feet dangling? I think it will look perfect."
I said, "Oh, yes! That's great! I certainly won't mind sitting higher at the table. I'm always getting my elbows into things as it is. And if you haven't noticed, for someone my height, most chairs feel like my feet are dangling anyway.
"You know, it's strange. When I was 12, I hated being short because it made me look younger than I was. I always tried to look older. Now, here I am trying to look 12 again!"
"Sam, most women eventually start trying to look younger than their real age. You're just getting a jump on things, honey."
My booster cushion worked great when we tried it out on the breakfast room chairs. It was made to be used on hard wooden bench seats common to school stadiums, so it was very comfortable. The terry-cloth cover would soak up anything that might endanger the fancy upholstery at Chez Whoever's and it added a good three inches to my height at the table. I thought I wouldn't mind using the thing on a regular basis. Having my feet dangling was a small price to pay to be closer to eye-level with everyone else at a table for a change. One of the worst things about being short is that people talk down to you a lot of the time, both literally and figuratively. The really annoying thing is that the former often leads to the latter.
Bud continued to torture me on the ride to the restaurant. I sat on his lap while he stroked my pussy just enough to keep me on the edge of an orgasm. By the time we arrived, I was buzzing with arousal; I had a goofy grin, and I'm sure my eyes had a glassy look. It was a wonderful and familiar feeling. I had reached the same pre-orgasmic plateau before and I liked it almost as much as cumming, because it lasted as long as I wanted it to.
Jim carried my cushion into the restaurant where a seriously cute waitress in her early 20s showed us to our table. He put it on my chair and I crawled up onto it knees first, before turning around and plopping my naked butt down on it. I started swinging my legs and looking around. The waitress was looking at me funny and I knew she had just got a free show when my dress rode up as I climbed onto the chair. When I looked again she was staring at my chest, and her eyebrows had gone up noticeably, so she must have been trying to figure me out. Just to keep her confused, I stuck my tongue out at her and made a face before appearing to be distracted by the candles on the table. It wasn't a hard act to do. I felt high as a kite and I was in a very playful mood.
Jim bent over the back of my chair to grab the arms and scoot it up closer to the table for me. I know what effort that took, to lift 100 pounds at arms length without appearing to strain. He was playing the game, but he was also trying to show me that he wasn't a complete wimp, even if I could bench-press 50 pounds more than he could. Or maybe he was doing it for the waitress' benefit, although she was looking at me, not him. I smiled at him and he smiled back and then quickly moved to hold the chair for his mother.
The waitress introduced herself as Connie and recited the specials for us before taking our drink order for iced-teas all around. When she came back to take our dinner order, she kept glancing at me. I tried to look the part of a child, but I suspected she was wise to me. Still, I tried to keep the Connie guessing until it was my turn to order. She stood close beside me and suggested a choice from the children's menu. I wasn't sure if she was kidding or if I had her bamboozled, but she did not bat an eye when I ordered the nine ounce filet mignon, medium-rare, baked potato, creamed spinach, and a Caesar salad instead of the mac-and-cheese kid's plate that she had pointed to. I would have let her off with that, but I saw her looking down my top as she took my menu, so I ran my hand up the back of her skirt and stroked the inside of her thigh. I expected her to freak, but to my surprise, she gasped but didn't flinch away. Then she stood right next to me while she took everyone else's order. Since I had my back to a dark corner, there was no one to see that I kept my hand on her thigh the whole time. When she was on the last order and still hadn't shown any sign of distress, I stroked her all the way to the top, where it was me who got the big surprise. Our waitress and I shared a lack of undergarments. Not to be outdone, I petted her furry beaver while she ran down the selection of salad dressing for Bud. When she bent over to take his menu, her legs parted enough for me to slip a thumb between her outer lips. It came away quite wet as I dropped my hand back into my lap.