He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she shifted nervously from one foot to the other, her long, shapely legs accentuated by the red 3-strap high heels, spider-web thigh-highs, and the short, black skirt. He watched the muscles flex and ripple along her calves and thighs, appreciating the sheer animal power and grace they exhibited. A power and grace mirrored in her face, in the wide green eyes, the full lips, the high cheekbones all framed by a wild tangle of curls, a dark and dangerous fresh-from-the-bottle red he'd chosen for her.

He noticed with amusement the discretely covetous way in which the maitre d' was eyeing her ample cleavage above the creamy lace trim of her bra that peeked between the unlaced neckline of the white satin poet's shirt she wore.

The attention embarrassed her. He could feel her agitation without seeing it. She had hesitantly told him earlier that she felt uncomfortable about wearing what he had picked out for her. But, of course, that was the point. The clothes showcased her attributes without being blatant. She, of course, thought the skirt too short and the shirt too showy and the shoes and matching wide leather belt too flamboyant but a quick glance around the dining room confirmed that she was not dressed inappropriately. With a bored expression that belied the appreciation in his eyes, the maitre d' glanced needlessly at his notes. "Yes, reservation for two at eight o'clock. If you would care to wait in the lounge...?" The maitre d's voice was low, barely audible above the subdued buzz of conversation and the tinkling of silver on china.

He noticed the quick flick of her eyes around the elegant dining room, the well-dressed couples and groups seated at tables where, even in the subdued light, the crystal and silver glistened on starched white tablecloths. Her glance took in the richly-upholstered chairs, the lavish carpets and the gleaming hardwood floor, the tasteful, pseudo-classical murals on the walls, and the secluded booths at the back. Her eyes lingered on the booths and he knew that was hoping he'd reserved a booth for this "celebration" of her dreaded 30th birthday.

He guided her smoothly towards the lounge and led her to a stool at the mahogany bar while he, himself, stood beside her, watching the room in the glass mirror behind the bar. The men in the room were staring at her, some discretely, some not so discretely. The lace tops of her stockings peaked beneath the hem of her skirt and the enticing gap of her skirt over her thighs seemed to draw their gaze like a magnet.

"To passion," he said, offering a toast after the bartender delivered their wine, "and a woman's beauty."

She touched his glass nervously with her own. "To passion," she answered, obviously avoiding the second half of the toast.

He lightly touched her wrist, stopping her from sipping her wine. "To passion," he repeated, "and a woman's beauty."

Her eyes dove to the floor and her hand froze in mid-motion. A quiver of fear washed across her face.

He lifted her chin lightly, gazing into her eyes. He could read the fear there clearly, fear that she had earned his disapproval. But more, a sullen rejection of the words and their meaning, an unwillingness to accept them.

He repeated the toast. And waited. This time she answered word-for-word, if more than a little reluctantly.

She shifted nervously on the stool, inadvertently exposing more of her thigh to the scrutiny of those in the bar. She was looking at the women, at their sour expressions, noting their subtle jabs at their escorts and demands for attention.

He watched her in the mirror as they waited for their drinks. She had served him well, and willingly, for over a year. But there was something missing during their intimate moments, a spark that she possessed during their "vanilla" times. It was no lack in her eagerness to comply with his wishes, no hesitation in her acquiescence to his desires, no stint in the pleasure she offered him. Nor was there any lack in her sexual responsiveness, in the genuine shudders of pleasure to which he brought her, noisily, time and again. Rather, the lack was in her own enjoyment, as if she could not accept what was her due, as if it would be somehow dishonest or false for her to do so.

It was for this reason he had orchestrated this evening, knowing that she would feel insecure and unworthy. He had started with roses and praise for her appearance, then a glass of wine over which he reaffirmed his feelings for her and lovingly catalogued each of her virtues. She had hated it, as he knew she would. But that was only the beginning. He wanted her to see what he saw. He wanted her to understand.

"I feel like a whore," she whispered miserably into her glass, risking his displeasure. "Everyone's staring at me like I'm some cheap slut you dragged in off the street."

He casually lit a cigarette while he considered the statement. "If you were one of those women and saw someone dressed the way you are at the bar, is that what you'd think?"

"Of course!"

"Why?"

"Because I look like a whore."

He rubbed his temples as he watched her in the mirror. "And what does a whore look like? And I don't want to hear 'the way I look.' That's circular logic. What is it that makes a woman look like a whore?"

She glared at her glass as if it were somehow to blame for her situation. He could see she was near to tears but he knew she would not dare give in to them...not here...not in front of him.

"She...exhibits...herself."

He waited.

"She dresses so men can ogle her tits and ass, she dresses to entice them, to make them think of her sexually."

He nodded. "And that woman there," he said, still speaking to the mirror "in the corner with the younger man, could she entice men if she were to dress like that?"

She glanced casually around, noticing that the woman was very large and relatively unattractive. "No," she said.

"But you just said...."

"She would look pathetic."

He toyed with his glass. "So there's something more to looking like a whore than just showing your tits and ass."

She clenched her teeth. "She has to look...sexy. Sexual. Easy."

"So," he observed, stubbing out his cigarette, "she has to somehow fuel their sexual fantasies, appeal to their prurient nature...their base, animal lusts."

She nodded. "Something like that. I'm not a man, I don't know how men react."

His eyes raked over her. "No, you're not a man...not at all." His brazen stare made her shy again. "But you do know how men react," he added, smiling, moving himself against her stockinged leg.

She blushed. "Yes, in that way...but...."

"But?"

"What about her," she asked abruptly, "the blonde in the red dress?"

He knew immediately who she meant. A young woman, probably just 21, wearing her hair up and dressed in a snug, red dress with spaghetti straps and matching lace-up heels that showed off her body to marvelous effect. She was chatting gaily with a number of young men who seemed oblivious to what she was saying.

"What about her?" he asked. "Are you saying she's dressed like a whore?"

"No...she's...beautiful."

He considered the statement. "Do the men with her seem interested in her sexually?"

"Well, yes, of course...after all...."

"Does she seem to somehow reflect their sexual fantasies? Does her appearance somehow appeal to their baser instincts?"

"Yes," she answered slowly.

"So what makes you a whore and her not?"

"Because she's beautiful," she answered finally, quietly.

"I see," he said, a coldness creeping into his voice that made her head snap up. "And you're saying that I have poor taste in women?"

"No..." she stammered.

"But you're saying I should want her and not you."

She looked back at the floor. "Yes."

"Because she's...what? Beautiful?"

"Yes."

"And you're not."

"I'm not...not like she is."

"What is it you're not?"

Her reserve finally broke and she looked at him sadly, knowing she was risking everything in talking back to him. "I'm not young and firm and built like she is. I'm..." she searched for words, failed to find any, and finished miserably, "I'm just not."

He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "So you think sexuality - desirability - is all about how tight your cunt is?"

She cringed at his choice of words, her eyes darting frantically around to see if anyone had heard.

"Do you think that girl," he emphasized the word, "has begun to explore her own sexuality the way you have? Do you think she is capable of pleasing a man the way you are? Do you think she can excite and inflame and entice a man simply by looking at him so completely, the way you do? Do you think those men are interested in her outside of bed? Could she challenge them, amuse them, astonish them, intrigue them they way you can?"

She swallowed, embarrassed and thrilled by his words.

"Those men know," he said, indicating the majority of the men in the bar. "Yes, they looked at the blonde but they're looking at you again. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Her blush deepened, indicating that she had.

"Do you know why that is?"

She shook her head.

"She is sex. You are sexuality. She is bright, glittery promise but you are dark, dangerous passion...you have something she cannot have. You are true passion. She is only desire."

She twisted her head to try to look away from him but he held her chin tenderly but firmly.

"Yes," he said, smiling, "by your definition you do look like a whore...you excite men, you make them want you, you make them believe that their fantasies could come true. You make them feel you could take them beyond their fantasies."

He released her and stepped back slightly. "And that is what makes me so proud to be with you...to see the naked lust in their eyes, to see them wanting you, to see in their eyes the knowledge that they can't have you but that I can. To see their jealousy."

The gaggle of young men around the blond had thinned and she was clearly pouting.

"Why would I want that girl," he asked, "when I can have a woman who not only excited me with her body but with her mind? A woman who truly understands what it is to please and be pleased? A woman is just now beginning to enter her sexual peak? A woman who makes the whole room light up when she smiles. A woman," he finished quietly "who is my world?"

Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes. He plucked them off with the tip of his finger and delicately touched it to the tip of his tongue and then hers.

"Your table is ready madam, sir," the maitre d' said, slipping up on them quietly.

She slid off the stool and straightened her skirt. She slipped her arm through his as they left the bar.

"Thank you," she whispered to him as they walked through the bar. He could feel the men's eyes on her as they passed, knew that she was aware of them as well. He watched her as she became aware of each man's eyes on her as she sat, the glow in each of their faces adding to hers till she blazed with confidence. She stood a little straighter then, prouder, more radiant.

And he could also feel the blonde's eyes boring angry holes in her back.

"This was...the best...present you could ever have given me," she said as they were seated at a table in the center of the room. She glanced around, aware that she was the centerpiece of the evening and reveling in her new-found pride. Then, with a touch of guilt, she said, "I just wish I could somehow make you feel as good as you've made me feel."

He leaned across the table and took her hands in his. "You always have," he said smiling slowly, "and now, I believe you will do so even more."

She looked back at him, a wild passion in her eyes that had not been there before. She smiled ever so demurely and lowered her eyes, giving him his answer.