So, I’m looking at him.

Handsome, with smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, like thirty-something men tend to sport. Always makes a man, a confident man, look even sexier. Of course, he knows that. What he doesn’t know is that I am thinking about how long it will take to break him. Because that is what I do, after all.  He doesn’t know that yet. But he will.

He’s sent the waitress over with a martini and now sits at the bar awaiting my invitation. A smile in his direction would be his cue to saunter over, then do his little mating ritual. Be charming, sweep this little damsel off her feet, bed her, fuck her. That is how it usually goes for him and so he expects it.

Instead, I push aside the martini and have the waitress bring me what he is drinking. His eyebrow lifts as he watches her place the gibson in front of me. He thinks it flirtatious and cute, his cocked grin says.

I move my chair out a bit, turning towards him. He watches as I open my legs slightly and slide my hand up under the hem of my black dress. The look on his face says that, while this isn’t in his well-worn playbook, he likes it. He likes it a lot.

I let my legs fall open and slide my hand under my panties. I watch him watching me as I begin masturbating. Even from this distance I can see his prick pressing against the fly of his gabardine trousers. I can see his adam’s apple move as he swallows, the slight flair of his nostrils. He thinks he imagines my scent. But it is real, because I want it to be.

I take the gibson and bring it down to my crotch. He watches intently as I glide my fingers out from under my panties and hold them over the drink. Milky dew slips from my fingertips and into the gin and vermouth mixture, causing the two pearl onions to slightly shift.

He is mine. The rules have changed. He knows it. I always knew it. This is a new script and I am the one writing it.