An unexpected spanking session at the neighbouring table interrupts you.

You open your mouth to answer the waiter when a sharp crack splits the air.

Your head snaps toward the sound. The silver-haired man at the next table has pushed his chair back. The blonde woman is draped across his lap now, her corset-clad torso bent over his thighs, her ass raised and bare. Her skirt has been flipped up, revealing she's wearing nothing underneath - just pale skin and the curve of her buttocks.

His hand comes down again. Crack. The sound echoes. She yelps - high and breathy - and her fingers clutch at his trouser leg.

"Count," he says calmly.

"Two," she gasps. "Thank you, Sir."

You're frozen, staring. Another crack. Her whole body jolts. A pink handprint blooms across her left cheek.

"Three! Thank you, Sir!"

The waiter beside your table hasn't moved. He's waiting patiently, pen hovering over his notepad, as if a woman being spanked three meters away is no more remarkable than background music.

You tear your eyes away and look at Rosaria. She's watching too, her face flushed, her lips parted. The leash is taut against her collar - she's leaning forward slightly, transfixed. When you catch her eye, she doesn't look away fast enough and you see it there: arousal, sharp and undeniable.

Crack. "Four! Thank you, Sir!"

The blonde's voice is getting breathier. Her hips are shifting, grinding slightly against the man's lap between strikes. He pauses, runs his palm over the reddened skin, and she whimpers.

"You've been careless with your posture today," he tells her conversationally. "Slouching at breakfast. Leaning against the wall in the elevator. I can't have my girl looking sloppy."

"I'm sorry, Sir," she pants. "I'll do better."

"I know you will." He raises his hand again.

Crack. "Five! Thank you, Sir!"

Your cock is hard. You shift in your seat, trying to adjust discreetly, but the movement draws the waiter's attention back to you.

"More time needed, sir?" he asks pleasantly.

At the next table, the blonde is sobbing now - not from pain, you realize, but from something else entirely. Her thighs are trembling. The man's hand comes down again - six - and she screams his name.

Rosaria makes a small sound. When you look at her, her hands are clenched white-knuckled in her lap and the leash is shaking.

"We'll have the tasting menu," you hear yourself say. Your voice comes out rougher than intended. "Both of us."

"Excellent choice, sir." The waiter makes a note and vanishes.