Watch openly as the spanking continues.

Your eyes stay fixed on the blonde woman's reddened ass, on the silver-haired man's hand rising and falling with methodical precision. Something in you has shifted (maybe it shifted the moment you saw Rosaria strapped to that trolley, or maybe it's been shifting gradually over the last three hours), but you're done pretending this doesn't affect you.

Crack. "Nine! Thank you, Sir!"

The woman's voice breaks on the last word. Her thighs are trembling, pressed tight together, and you can see the strain in her shoulders where her hands clutch at the man's trouser leg. He pauses, his palm resting on her heated skin, and says something too quiet for you to hear. She nods frantically.

"Last one," he announces, loud enough to carry.

His hand comes down harder than before. The crack echoes through the restaurant like a gunshot. The woman screams - raw and guttural - and her whole body convulses. You realize with a jolt that she's coming. Right there, draped over his lap in the middle of the dining room, she's coming from being spanked.

The man catches her as she goes limp, shifting her carefully upright and back onto the cushion beside his chair. Her face is blotchy and tear-streaked, her breathing ragged. He cups her chin and tilts her face up to his.

"Good girl," he says, and kisses her forehead.

She leans into him and he strokes her hair while reaching for his wine glass with his other hand. The whole thing, the violence, the intimacy, the casual return to dinner, sends heat pooling in your groin.

You force yourself to look at Rosaria. She's still staring at the couple, her chest rising and falling rapidly. When she finally meets your eyes, her pupils are blown wide and dark.

"Matteo," she whispers.

"I saw."

"She came from it. From being hit."

"I know."

Rosaria's tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I didn't know that was possible. I didn't know people could- that it could feel-" She breaks off, her hands twisting in her lap.

The waiter reappears, setting down appetizers with the same unflappable professionalism. Seared scallops for you. A delicate soup for Rosaria, served in a shallow bowl with a long flexible straw angled into it so she could even eat without using her hands.

"Enjoy," he says, and vanishes again.

At the next table, the silver-haired man is feeding his companion bites of pasta from his own plate. She's smiling now, radiant and relaxed, like nothing extraordinary just happened.