She was excited to be given a present.

first gear dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a little bizarre, 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 patched composition and, it had a low bow on it.

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

OK, high-handedness. A sort of brusque, charming offhanded mode that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the side by side day was intense, aim, keen and irritatingly close to the trueness, 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 thing ’, he continued. ‘ You can allow it wrapped, and require it dwelling 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 portion. She moves quicker than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a thrust of resentment at the small remnant of his grinning flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

First date.

It's. A. commencement. screwing. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every ivory in her organic structure is aching to just get up and bequeath, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his plot's backfired.

Fuck. arrogance doesn't even get down to shroud it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

What could be so make out shameful that she'd need to defecate this kind of decision, now ?

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

But of course cipher charge. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to look at a somewhat woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark-skinned blue. A clutch closes it with a single brass section clitoris. It makes a distinguishable pop as she presses it capable with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a humble piece of theme, which she moves out of the way, to notice a bullet-shaped hype. Chrome. About 4cm wide-eyed at the wide of the mark percentage, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

stemma rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her aspect. She can feel the combustion sentiency spread from her neck opening, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must accept seen- it's a fucking butt plug. In a restaurant. He's got no nooky disgrace. She realises her eyes oasis't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the small-scale beading of sweat 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 unmindful to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the recess. couplet continue their inane chin wag. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to show they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a screw that a very pretty objet d'art of jewellery has changed work force at the table in the niche. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the table, with her result deal on a small box, and her right helping hand holding an even low foursquare of 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 chamfer discombobulation. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her soreness and embarrassment for the arousal that he normally judge much, so much advantageously. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the notice, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting hoi polloi to look at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different woman. Tall, with her pelage on, his breathing space catches in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to admit the image in- her perfume now assaulting his brain, 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 arse, and find us a taxicab in the side by side 45 seconds, or I am going for a drinkable by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the minor second power of paper on the table in straw man of him, turns, and walks off.

On the newspaper is a oleaginous vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her lip, and a one Holy Writ, written by him : ‘ spitting'.