No

I stumbled back toward the main bar, barely keeping my balance on my vinyl heels. With my arms crossed tightly over my chest, I tried to hide the large breasts exposed by the latex, feeling the players' lecherous gazes burning into my back. The cotton tail swayed against my buttocks with every step, and the leotard remained wedged between my cheeks and pressed against my crotch, a constant reminder of the humiliation I had just endured at the blackjack table. Upon reaching a dark corner of the bar, I turned quickly to adjust the leotard’s neckline and tuck my breasts back into the latex.

"Hold it right there. Don't touch a thing," an icy voice ordered from behind me.

It was the casino owner. He had approached stealthily, smoking his cigarette with total indifference to my humiliation. Behind him, the shadow of his armed bodyguard instantly reminded me of the real danger Clara and I were in. The boss raked me with a slow gaze, his eyes lingering on the pale skin of my exposed breasts, where my nipples remained hard from shock and nerves.

"The customers at the main table just tripled their bets thanks to your little... accident," he stated with a crooked smile. "The latex stays exactly as it is. From now on, you’re serving with your chest exposed. And I don't want you covering it up under any circumstances. Understood?"

Panic made my blood run cold, but the sight of the guard’s hand resting casually on the butt of his pistol crushed any thought of protest. I nodded, feeling a flush creep up to my ears.

Left with no other choice, I picked up the silver tray again. Stepping out into the lounge completely naked from the waist up—with my latex leotard slumped around my hips and the sweetheart neckline gaping open to expose my breasts—was psychological torture. The black bunny ears remained pinned in my hair, and the cotton tail swayed against my buttocks with every step.

I made two full circuits of the room, handing out drinks while the men’s murmurs and their eyes—locked onto the sway of my large, exposed breasts—filled the air with stifling lust. Every time I leaned over to set down a glass, the leotard pulled tight across my hips and the center seam dug into my crotch, forcing out gasps that I tried to mask with coughs. The gold chip kept sliding down inside my stocking, grazing my thigh with every step.

Things got even more complicated during my third round. At a high-stakes poker table, the same millionaire in the Italian suit who had made me lean over at the Blackjack table—the one who had slipped the gold chip into my stocking and ordered me not to cover up—spotted me walking by. His dark eyes fixed on the opulence of my bare chest with a hunger I recognized all too well.

"Hey, you! Come here," he commanded with an imperious gesture, grabbing me roughly by the latex-clad arm.

He hauled me to his side, forcing me to drop my tray onto a nearby side table. The man was winning at poker, but he wanted more. He wanted his lucky charm back.

"You’re going to be my lucky streak again, doll," he declared as the dealer readied the cards. "Don't leave my side."

Before I could react, my gaze drifted to the other side of the room. And there was Clara. She was serving a poker table, her black latex leotard gleaming under the golden lights, black bunny ears perched atop her hair—pulled back into a high bun—and a cotton tail swaying with every step. Her sweetheart neckline held firm, perfectly covering her small, firm breasts. The latex clung to her narrow waist and hips with a natural ease I found impossible to replicate.

But what made my blood run cold wasn't her uniform; it was what was happening. A player at the poker table—a middle-aged man in a gray suit—had reached out and cupped her backside with an open palm, squeezing it with a familiarity that turned my stomach. Clara didn't resist. On the contrary: she smiled—a professional, submissive smile I knew all too well—and let the man knead her buttocks through the latex, his fingers sinking into her flesh with every squeeze. The cotton tail was flattened against her lower back by the pressure of his hand, and the leotard pulled taut across her hips, tracing every curve with obscene precision.

The sweetheart neckline didn't give way. The latex held. But the man's hand kept moving upward, sliding along Clara’s waist before slipping beneath the strap of her leotard to seek out the bare skin of her side. Instead of pulling away, Clara tilted her torso slightly to give him easier access, and I watched as the player’s fingers closed over the upper curve of one of her breasts, caressing it with a deliberate slowness.

I felt a pang in my stomach. It wasn't jealousy. It was something darker. It was the realization that Clara was doing exactly the same thing I was, but with one difference: the uniform protected her. It exposed me.

"What are you looking at?" the millionaire growled, tugging at my arm. "I'm right here."

The tension at the table spiked as the man tossed out the cards. While the dealer dealt, he casually yet possessively reached out with his large, ring-laden hand and completely cupped one of my exposed, ample breasts. He began to knead it firmly and toy with my hardened nipple, squeezing it between his dark fingers.

"Lucky tits... don't fail me again," he muttered, his breathing heavy.

I felt the flush rising to my cheeks and my nipple hardening even more beneath his fingers. The millionaire’s hand was rough, and his rings grazed my skin with every movement. I didn't dare move; I didn't dare breathe. The armed guard remained in the shadows, his presence a constant reminder of what would happen if I resisted.