No

The millionaire stood up and walked toward us. His erection was more than obvious through his champagne-soaked trousers.

"I’m not going to waste this streak," he declared, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, "but I need someone to take care of this."

He rang a bell on the wall. The door opened briefly, and the boss nodded from the hallway. The millionaire took Clara firmly—though not roughly—by the arm and guided her onto the carpet, right between his legs. Clara’s leotard was still pulled down, leaving her breasts exposed, and the champagne glistened on her skin under the red light.

"Do your job," he ordered, his voice not cruel, but final.

With eyes full of tears of helplessness—yet bound by the mafia’s control—Clara began to unbutton the man’s trousers. I remained leaning back on the leather sofa, my chest damp and pounding, watching the scene unfold with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: deep humiliation at seeing my friend degraded in such a way, mixed with a dark, overwhelming lust that kept me completely aroused and unable to move.

As Clara worked, the millionaire reached out and began to play with my friend’s breasts. He lifted them, weighed them, squeezed them between his fingers, and then slid his thumbs over her pink nipples, twirling them with deliberate slowness. Clara trembled under his touch but didn't stop.

"Look at them," the millionaire said, glancing at me with a crooked smile. "Small, firm, perfect for the hand. Not like yours, doll. Yours are something else. Those are real breasts." Breasts that a man might lose a fortune just to touch.

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks. I didn't know if it was a compliment or a humiliation, but the heat in my belly intensified. The millionaire kept playing with Clara’s breasts while she worked, comparing them to mine and describing every difference—the size, the shape, the texture of the nipples, the way they moved. And I, from the armchair, couldn't look away.

What struck me most was the way Clara moved. Her head bobbed in a steady rhythm, and the black bunny ears still attached to her updo swayed with every thrust. Her breasts, freed from her leotard, bounced with the motion of her body; the millionaire’s hands followed them, catching them in mid-air, kneading them, and tugging at her nipples to make her moan around his cock.

Clara worked in silence, her gaze lost somewhere on the carpet, avoiding eye contact with me. The millionaire, however, was looking at *me*. His eyes never left my bare chest, my nipples still wet with champagne and saliva, or my body exposed against the black leather of the armchair.

"Don't worry, doll," he said with a crooked smile. "Your friend knows what she's doing. And you... you just have to stay right there, beautiful, and let me watch."

I felt the flush rise to my cheeks and the heat in my belly intensify. The humiliation of being there, of being watched, of seeing Clara subjected to that man—it all swirled together into a mix of shame and desire I couldn't control. The leotard remained wedged between my buttocks and against my crotch; every time I shifted slightly in the armchair, the friction of the latex drew a gasp from me that I tried to stifle.

When he finished, the client buttoned his trousers with deliberate slowness and stood up, completely satisfied. Clara remained kneeling on the carpet, her head bowed and shoulders trembling, as the champagne dried on her fallen leotard and her skin.

The millionaire cast one last, possessive glance at me before leaving.

"I expect to find those same lucky breasts waiting for me the next time I return," he declared, walking out of the room and leaving Clara and me trapped in the sticky silence of our own undoing.

The door shut with a sharp click, and the ensuing silence was worse than any noise. Clara remained kneeling on the carpet, her leotard down and breasts exposed, while I lay back in the leather armchair—my chest bare and damp, the leotard pooled around my hips, and my legs trembling atop my stilettos.