Clean up and prepare for dinner at the hotel restaurant.

You remove the clamps gently, one at a time. Rosaria hisses at the first, then whimpers at the second as blood rushes back. The chain clinks as you set them aside. She's still sprawled on the bed, breathing hard, the belt humming relentlessly between her thighs.

"We need to get ready," you say, checking your watch. "Dinner's at six."

She laughs - that slightly unhinged sound again. "Dinner. Right. Normal people things."

You help her to the bathroom. She showers while you wait outside, listening to the water run and her occasional soft gasps. When she emerges, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and curling, she looks calmer. Tired, but calmer.

"What do I wear?" she asks, gesturing at the wardrobe. "Over... this?" She touches the belt.

You pull out a simple black dress, sleeveless, with a full skirt. It'll hide the belt completely. The collar will show, but you've seen collars in every public space so far. You decide to take the rope harness off, your fingers working the knots while Rosaria stands patient and docile.

She dresses in silence. You change into clean trousers and a linen shirt. When you turn back, she's studying herself in the full-length mirror - black dress, leather collar, the slight bulge of the belt barely visible if you know to look.

"I look..." she starts, then stops. "I don't know what I look like."

"Beautiful," you say firmly.

The walk to the restaurant is surreal. The brochure said public spaces require visible collars and secure attachment to the owner. You clip a leather leash to Rosaria's collar - there were several in the wardrobe and two right next to the door - and she follows two steps behind you through the carpeted hallways. You pass other couples. A blonde woman in a latex catsuit on all fours, her husband holding her leash casually. A brunette in an elegant gown, arms bound behind her back in a leather sleeve, being guided by her partner's hand on her shoulder.

No one stares. No one cares.

The restaurant is warm and softly lit, jazz playing from hidden speakers. A hostess in a crisp white blouse greets you with a professional smile. "Good evening, sir. Table for you and your companion?"

"Please."

She leads you to a small table near the window. You notice immediately: an iron ring bolted to the floor beside one of the chairs. The hostess notices your hesitation.

"First time on Patruda, sir?"

"Yes."

"The ring is for securing your companion's leash while you dine. Standard practice. I'll send someone to explain the menu options."

She leaves. You look at the ring. At Rosaria. At the leash in your hand. Your wife meets your eyes and you see everything there - exhaustion, lingering arousal, confusion, and beneath it all, trust.

"Well," she says quietly. "When in Rome."