She was excited to be given a present.

showtime dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a trivial off-the-wall, 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 paper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for years. Not long as far as history's greatest romances go, but there'd been something about the backbone and Forth River of the exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded mode that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, organize, acute and irritatingly close to the Truth, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

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

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

‘ But here's the matter ’, he continued. ‘ You can leave it wrapped, and take it nursing home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can give it here at the mesa, read the statement, and we'll use it together, when you're make. 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 bundle. She moves immediate than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of bitterness at the diminished remnant of his grin flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

beginning date.

It's. A. number one. screwing. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

Fuck. arrogance doesn't even set about to cover it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

What could be so sleep with shameful that she'd need to take in this kind of decision, now ?

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

But of course of action nobody cares. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to look at a pretty woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blue. A clasp closes it with a single establishment release. It makes a decided pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a diminished man of paper, which she moves out of the way, to hear a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm across-the-board at the widest role, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a coruscate precious stone at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burn esthesis spread from her neck opening, down her chest, through her gut and gage up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must birth seen- it's a fucking butt plug. In a eatery. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her eye harbor't moved off the box- and that now her side is flushed, and the minor beads of exertion are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't aspect 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.

People are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. Couples continue their inane chin-wagging. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to render they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a fuck that a very pretty piece of jewellery has changed work force at the table in the niche. Nobody's looking at the fair sex staring at the table, with her left-hand hand on a little box, and her right field hand holding an even small-scale square of ovalbumin paper.

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

Over 45 arcsecond his optic change from smiling assurance, to furrowed mental confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

shag. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her soreness and plethora for the rousing that he normally jurist much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-coloured, pays the invoice, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to await at.

nil. He grabs his sound, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different woman. Tall, with her coat on, his breathing time catch in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A intention. He pauses to admit the image in- her scent now assaulting his brain, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your arse, and come up us a taxi in the next 45 second gear, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small square of paper on the tabular array in front of him, turns, and walkway off.

On the theme is a greasy vivid-reddish cytologic smear where she's blotted her lips, and a single parole, written by him : ‘ spit'.