An Underground Casino

He led us through a hidden door behind the bookshelf, which connected to an iron spiral staircase that descended into a deep basement. At the end of the descent, he opened a heavy soundproofed door, and the real business unfolded before our eyes.

The place was an immense hall, bathed in a dim golden light, steeped in the smell of expensive tobacco and high-end perfume. The murmur of gambling chips and roulette wheels filled the air. It was an ultra-luxury underground casino, packed with betting tables where men in impeccable suits gambled fortunes. Looking around, I noticed that the croupiers at the tables were also wearing sexy, skimpy costumes made of shiny materials, designed to keep the wealthy clients entertained.

—That's the main bar —the boss indicated, pointing to the back of the hall—. Go get the silver trays and start handing out drinks to the players at the tables. Move with grace.

But I didn't move. My legs had turned to lead, and my heart was pounding against my ribs so hard I feared it would burst out of my chest. The hall stretched out before me like a concrete threat: dozens of suited men, gaming tables, smoke, golden lights, and that constant murmur of chips and voices that was deafening to me. All those eyes, all those gazes that at any moment could land on me, on my overflowing neckline, on my fishnet stockings, on the cotton tail that gave me away as part of the show.

I felt a cold sweat running down my back. My breathing became agitated, and the heart-shaped neckline began to open a little more with each gasp. I couldn't do it. I couldn't take a single step toward that hall. My whole life I had avoided being the center of attention, and now I was about to become part of the erotic furniture of an underground casino.

—I... I can't —I whispered, my voice broken, taking a step back. My stiletto heels screeched on the marble floor.

Clara looked at me with concern, but said nothing. She knew there was nothing to say. She was trembling too.

The boss, who had already started walking toward the hall, stopped and spun on his heels. His face, which moments before had shown an icy smile, hardened into a grimace of impatience.

—What's wrong? —he asked, in a voice that had nothing courteous left in it.

—I... I can't go in there —I stammered, feeling tears stinging my eyes—. It's too much... there are too many people... I can't...

The man didn't wait for me to finish. In three strides he was back at my side, and before I could react, I felt his large, rough hand close around my arm with a force that made me let out a stifled cry.

—Listen to me carefully, bunny —he hissed, bringing his face close to mine until I could smell the tobacco and whiskey on his breath—. In there are men who have paid a fortune for a night like this. And you are going to walk in, you are going to smile, and you are going to serve drinks as if this were the only thing you've ever done in your life. Understood?

—Yes... yes, sir —I answered, my voice trembling.

But I didn't move. My legs were still anchored to the floor, and panic had me paralyzed. The man let out a sigh of exasperation, and then I felt his hand on the lower part of my back, right where the cotton tail was attached to the leotard. He pushed me firmly, without roughness but with no margin for resistance, forcing me to take the first step toward the hall.

—Move —he ordered, and this time there was no doubt in his voice.

My stiletto heels clicked on the marble, and the latex creaked with every step I took. The cotton tail swayed over my buttocks, and the heart-shaped neckline opened and closed with each agitated breath. I felt the first eyes landing on me even before I had crossed the threshold, and the heat of shame rose to my cheeks.

Clara walked at my side, her own leotard shining under the golden lights, the black ears on her gathered hair and the cotton tail swaying with each step. For an instant our gazes crossed. There was no guilt in her eyes anymore, nor complicity. There was fear. The same fear I felt. We were both trapped in the same thing, and for the first time since the locker room, I felt that I was not alone. But that didn't comfort me.

But the night was just beginning, and the casino had many tables.

We picked up our first round of crystal glasses and ventured into the dense smoke of the hall. Shyness was gnawing at me inside, but with the memory of the gun from the office and the pressure of that hand on my back engraved in my mind, I forced my legs to move, beginning my first round in a world of gambling, money, and dangerous masculine gazes.

Walking toward the bar while keeping my balance on the vinyl heels and wearing only that tight latex leotard was the most uncomfortable and humiliating experience of my life. With every step I took, the latex creaked subtly and the heart-shaped neckline opened a little more, forcing my breasts to sway in such an obvious way that it drew the attention of anyone who looked in my direction. The cotton tail swayed over my buttocks, and the fishnet stockings marked every muscle of my thighs. The shine of the material reflected the dim light of the casino, making me feel completely helpless and exposed in the middle of that gambling den.

I felt the eyes of the players running over me from top to bottom, lingering on my overflowing neckline, on the curve of my hips under the latex, on the trembling of my thighs wrapped in net. And once again, the same betrayal as always: the heat in my belly, the clandestine moisture, the shame of knowing myself observed and not being able to prevent my body from responding.