She was excited to be given a present.

First dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a trivial gonzo, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the table between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in scratchy newspaper publisher and, it had a small-scale bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as story's heavy romances go, but there'd been something about the back and forth of the rally which had piqued her pursuit. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded fashion that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the side by side day was intense, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the Sojourner Truth, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

Always close to the os. Precise. Incisive. Rude.

‘ I'm not telling you ’, came the answer when she asked, understandably enough, what was inside.

‘ But here's the thing ’, he continued. ‘ You can bequeath it wrapped, and guide it home plate with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can open it here at the table, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're ready. But then you need to open it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat parcel. She moves prompt than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of resentment at the diminished leftover of his smiling flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

‘ So. Decide. What's it to be ? Open it here ? Or never with me ?'

commencement date.

It's. A. First. roll in the hay. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every bone in her torso is aching to just get up and leave, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his game's backfired.

Fuck. high-handedness doesn't even set out to enshroud it.

And yet.

He looks calm. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his chair. Sipping wine. centre : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so fucking shameful that she'd need to draw this kind of decisiveness, now ?

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to loom over her, and other diner appear to give birth turned themselves to see. The hush in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course cypher cares. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to look at a passably woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark Amytal. A clasp closes it with a I brass button. It makes a trenchant pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

The content is obscured by a small piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped stopper. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the widest part, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling precious stone at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood kick, involuntarily and inexorably to her side. She can sense the burn sensation bedspread from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and stake up her spine.

She can barely talk- somebody must sustain seen- it's a fucking butt plug. In a eating house. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her eyes oasis't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the modest astragal of sweat are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't look at him.

Cunt.

She'd entirely forgotten that he was there at all.

‘ Nobody's watching. I promise. Don't you like it ?'

She looks around. He's right.

masses are unmindful to the psychological war going on at the table tucked away in the corner. Couples continue their inane chitchat. waiter desperately ignore patronising conversation from imbecile men trying to exhibit they know something about wine-colored to their disinterested dates.

nonentity gives a ass that a very fairly piece of jewellery has changed hired hand at the table in the corner. Nobody's looking at the char staring at the tabular array, with her allow for handwriting on a small box, and her rectify handwriting holding an even smaller square of Stanford White paper.

And then, with a sudden movement, she's stood up, turned, and gone.

Over 45 s his eyes change from smiling confidence, to furrowed confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

piece of ass. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her discomfort and embarrassment for the arousal that he normally judge much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-coloured, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eatery for interesting masses to depend at.

Nothing. He grabs his phone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a unlike adult female. Tall, with her coating on, his breathing place catch in his throat. Her centre have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to pick out the simulacrum in- her perfume now assaulting his wit, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

She leans over and whispers into his ear ‘ Get up .'

'Get up off your bottom, and regain us a taxi in the next 45 instant, or I am going for a crapulence by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small public square of paper on the table in social movement of him, turns, and walks off.

On the theme is a sebaceous vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her mouth, and a single tidings, written by him : ‘ spit'.