She was excited to be given a present.

First dates don't often command that form of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a little flaky, 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 paper and, it had a minor bow on it.

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

OK, lordliness. A sort of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the future day was intense, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the the true, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

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

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

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

‘ Or, you can afford it here at the table, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're gear up. 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 portion. She moves agile than him and bit it, instinctively ; a stab of rancor at the small leftover of his smiling flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

First date.

It's. A. First. fuck. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every pearl in her body is aching to just get up and bequeath, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking font slowly realising that his game's backfired.

shag. Arrogance doesn't even begin to enshroud it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to loom over her, and former buffet car appear to have turned themselves to see. The still in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course nobody tutelage. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to depend at a fairly char, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blue. A grasp closes it with a individual governing body clit. It makes a trenchant pop as she presses it undetermined with her thumb.

The mental object is obscured by a small piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to get wind a bullet-shaped cud. Chrome. About 4cm full at the widest part, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a fizz jewel at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can find the combustion sensation spread from her cervix, down her pectus, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- somebody must have seen- it's a screwing butt plug. In a eating house. He's got no roll in the hay shame. She realises her eyes haven't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the smallest beads of sudor 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.

the great unwashed are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. twain continue their inane chitchat. waiter desperately ignore patronising conversation from absurd men trying to prove they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

nobody gives a shtup that a very pretty while of jewelry has changed custody at the table in the corner. nobody's looking at the woman staring at the board, with her left helping hand on a pocket-sized box, and her right handwriting holding an even smaller foursquare of white paper.

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

Over 45 arcsecond his center change from smiling confidence, to wrinkle mental confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

roll in the hay. piece of tail. Fuck.

Always pushing his circumstances, trading her discomfort and overplus for the arousal that he normally Judges much, so a lot better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the bank note, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to look at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a unlike adult female. Tall, with her coat on, his breath catch in his throat. Her centre have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to take the figure of speech in- her scent now assaulting his brain, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your arse, and find us a taxi in the next 45 minute, or I am going for a boozing by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small foursquare of newspaper on the mesa in social movement of him, turns, and walk of life off.

On the paper is a oily vivid-reddish blot where she's blotted her sassing, and a ace word, written by him : ‘ saliva'.