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 lilliputian gonzo, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the board between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in spotted paper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as history's nifty romances go, but there'd been something about the spinal column and forth of the exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, haughtiness. A form of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the next day was vivid, point, piercing and irritatingly close to the the true, when he'd asked her interrogation about herself.

Always close to the off-white. Precise. Incisive. Rude.

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

‘ But here's the affair ’, he continued. ‘ You can leave 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 open it here at the table, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're make. But then you need to open up it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to seize the neat piece of ground. She moves agile than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of rancor at the small 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 ?'

start date.

It's. A. First. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every osseous tissue in her body 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. Arrogance doesn't even set out to cover it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the composition. The waiting stave seem at once to bulk large over her, and other diners appear to have turned themselves to see. The hush in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of class nobody cares. They're all wrapped up in their own animation to look at a moderately woman, opening a box.

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

The content is obscured by a small small-arm of paper, which she moves out of the way, to unwrap a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the widest component, and shaped like a tear, extending to a fizz jewel at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood bang, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning whizz scatter from her neck, down her thorax, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a fucking butt plug. In a restaurant. He's got no shag shame. She realises her optic haven't moved off the box- and that now her expression is flushed, and the smallest beadwork 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.

‘ nonentity'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 niche. Couples continue their inane chitchat. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to demonstrate they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a fuck that a very jolly piece of jewellery has changed hands at the tabular array in the recess. cipher's looking at the char staring at the table, with her left wing deal on a small box, and her right hand holding an even belittled lame of white paper.

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

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

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

fucking. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her discomfort and embarrassment for the arousal that he normally jurist much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his vino, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people 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 coat on, his intimation haul in his throat. Her eye have a sharpness to them. A design. He pauses to take the figure in- her perfume now assaulting his nous, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your arse, and find us a hack in the succeeding 45 seconds, or I am going for a deglutition by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the pocket-sized lame of theme on the table in front of him, turns, and walks off.

On the paper is a sebaceous vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her lips, and a ace word, written by him : ‘ tongue'.