I accept the tip

I clenched my teeth, dying of shame, forced to stay in that position for a second, exposed and subjected to the rules of a clandestine game from which I no longer had any way to escape. The leotard was still wedged into my crotch, and the golden chip brushed against my thigh with every tremble of my legs. The champagne bottle was still in my hand, intact, like an absurd reminder that at least something hadn't broken that night.

From the other side of the room, I caught sight of Clara. She was serving a nearby table, her own bunny leotard gleaming under the golden lights, the black ears atop her tied-back hair. Our gazes crossed for an instant. In her eyes there was something different: it was no longer just fear. It was compassion. And something more. Something I couldn't identify.

The millionaire client watched me as I slowly straightened up, my breasts still out of the leotard and the golden chip shining through the mesh of my stocking. He made no gesture for me to cover myself. On the contrary: his eyes traveled over my exposed body with deliberate slowness, as if he were appraising a work of art.

"Do you know how much that chip is worth?" he asked, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "More than you'd earn in a year serving drinks. And all for a little slip. Next time, maybe you can earn double. You just have to know how to bend over."

I felt my stomach churn. It wasn't just humiliation: it was the awareness that this man was offering me a silent contract, an invitation to turn my body into currency. And the worst part was that a tiny, shameful part of me wanted to know how much it was worth.

"Thank you, sir," I murmured, my voice barely audible, as I tried to adjust the neckline of the leotard to cover myself again with one hand, because the other was still clutching the champagne bottle.

The latex resisted. The heart-shaped neckline had given way too much, and no matter how much I pulled at it, I couldn't fully cover my breasts. My nipples were still peeking over the edge, dark and stiff, and every attempt to adjust only made the material stretch further, creaking under the pressure. The leotard was still wedged into my crotch, and every tug at the neckline intensified the friction against my sex.

"Leave it," ordered the millionaire, in a voice that brooked no reply. "I already told you you look better like that. And I pay for what I see, not for what you hide."

I stood motionless, my arms halfway between my chest and my side, not daring to cover myself completely nor to stop trying. The champagne bottle was still in my right hand, intact, the golden liquid gleaming under the casino lights. The dealer, impassive, kept dealing cards. The other players at the table had returned to their bets, though every now and then they cast furtive glances at my bare chest. The boss's armed associate was still in the shadows, watching. And I was still there, standing, with the bunny leotard fallen, the cotton tail trembling over my buttocks, and a golden chip shining through the mesh of my stocking.

"You can go," the millionaire finally said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But first, finish serving me. I don't want my glass left half-empty."

I bent down slowly, careful not to lose my balance on the stiletto heels, and this time with the bottle firmly gripped in my hand. As I did, the neckline gave way even more, and my breasts were completely exposed, hanging over the table. I felt the cold of the air conditioning on the skin of my nipples, and a shiver ran down my spine. The leotard wedged itself again between my buttocks and against my sex with a violence that drew a gasp from me, and I had to clench my teeth to keep from moaning in front of everyone. I poured the remaining champagne into his glass with a trembling but steady hand, without spilling a single drop, and straightened up again.

The millionaire watched me with a smile that was pure predator.

"Until next time, doll," he said, and raised his glass in a silent toast.

I walked away from the Blackjack table with my legs trembling and my heart racing, still holding the empty bottle. The leotard was still down, and no matter how much I tried to adjust it, the neckline wouldn't return to its place. The latex fabric was still wedged into my crotch, and every step I took intensified the friction against my sex, sending electric shocks straight to my belly. I walked toward the bar with my arms crossed over my chest, feeling the golden chip slowly slide down inside my stocking, brushing against my thigh with every step.

When I reached the bar, I set the empty bottle on the marble counter and leaned against it, closing my eyes for an instant. The murmur of the casino continued around me, indifferent to my humiliation. The smell of tobacco and perfume mingled with the aroma of champagne that still glistened on my skin. And somewhere, deep in my belly, a little voice that didn't want to be silenced whispered that this wasn't over.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the room. Clara was still serving tables, her leotard intact and the black bunny ears atop her hair. Our gazes crossed again. And this time, in her eyes, I saw something that chilled my blood: it wasn't compassion. It was envy.