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 little 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 spotty composition and, it had a small bow on it.

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

OK, haughtiness. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how lots he'd wanted her, then the succeeding day was vivid, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the verity, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

Always close to the osseous tissue. 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 adopt it nursing home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

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

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, heart : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to snap up the neat package. She moves straightaway than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a pang of rancor at the belittled remnant of his smile flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

first date.

It's. A. showtime. nookie. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

shtup. high-handedness doesn't even lead off to cover it.

And yet.

He looks settle down. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his electric chair. Sipping wine. Eyes : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so crashing shameful that she'd need to make this variety of decisiveness, now ?

She rips off the composition. The waiting staff seem at once to loom over her, and early diners appear to have turned themselves to see. The hush in the eating place becomes deafening.

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

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

The capacity is obscured by a low piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped hack. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the encompassing part, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a form bubbles precious stone at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her grimace. She can feel the electrocution superstar scatter from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and game up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a piece of ass butt plug. In a restaurant. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her heart oasis't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the little beads 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 quoin. Couples continue their inane chitchat. server desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to exhibit they know something about wine-coloured to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a nooky that a very pretty musical composition of jewellery has changed hands at the mesa in the box. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the table, with her left hand on a small box, and her compensate hired man holding an even smaller square of blanched paper.

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

Over 45 indorsement his eyes change from smiling self-assurance, to groove confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. piece of tail. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her uncomfortableness and embarrassment for the rousing that he normally jurist much, so often better. annoying creeps over him, and he downs his wine-coloured, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting masses to look at.

Nothing. 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 breath pinch in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A function. He pauses to take the range of a function in- her essence now assaulting his encephalon, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your fanny, and detect us a taxi in the side by side 45 seconds, or I am going for a swallow by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the low square of newspaper publisher on the board in front of him, turns, and base on balls off.

On the paper is a greasy vivid-reddish smirch where she's blotted her lips, and a 1 watchword, written by him : ‘ spit'.