We have to clean ourselves up.

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

Neither of us spoke for a long minute. The champagne was drying on our skin, leaving a sticky film that glistened in the red light. The black bunny ears were still attached to my hair, and the cotton tail was still pressed against my lower back.

Finally, Clara lifted her head. Her eyes were red but dry. There were no tears left. There was only a kind of dark resignation I had never seen in her before.

"Lola... forgive me," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Forgive me for dragging you into this. For not knowing what it was. For everything."

Before I could answer, she rose from the carpet and walked toward the armchair. She sat beside me and hugged me tightly. Her damp, sticky body pressed against mine, and I felt her tremors running through my skin. I hugged her back, not knowing what to say or do.

"It wasn't your fault," I finally murmured, my voice hoarse. "You didn't know either. No one warned us."

Clara nodded against my shoulder but said nothing. She was still trembling. And I kept holding her—leotard slumped around my hips, bare chest pressed against hers—no longer caring about anything that might happen next. We stayed like that, clinging to each other on the leather sofa, with the champagne drying on our skin and the private room’s red light bathing us in an unreal, shadowy glow.

The sound of footsteps snapped us back to reality—firm, metallic steps echoing in the hallway outside. We instinctively pulled apart, but it was too late. The door to the private room flew open, and the guard appeared in the doorway.

He found us sitting on the sofa, embracing, our faces flushed and eyes puffy. The man didn't flinch; on the contrary, a crooked smile spread across his rough features as he sized up the scene.

"Well, well... So, the little friends are pretty close," he said, his gaze traveling over our half-naked bodies with brazen slowness. "This is valuable material for future reference. The boss is going to love knowing just how willing you two are to cooperate with each other."

Instinctively, we stepped further apart, a fierce blush burning from our necks up to our faces. The implicit threat of blackmail hung in the air, a reminder that they owned our bodies in this basement.

The casino owner appeared behind the guard, wearing his calculating smile and holding his ever-present cigarette. He looked us up and down, his eyes lingering on the dampness of my torso, Clara’s fallen leotard, and our flushed faces.

"Excellent work, ladies. I’m glad to see you knew how to treat one of my most valuable clients properly," he said, offering a calculating smile. However, he furrowed his brow when he noticed our disheveled state. "Though you’re a total mess with all that champagne."

He turned to his guard.

"Take them to the staff showers and get them new uniforms. They can't wait tables smelling like cheap booze." The guard nodded and, with an abrupt gesture, signaled for us to follow him.

We walked behind him through a maze of concrete corridors to a small shower room lined with worn tiles. Before closing the door and leaving us alone, the guard leaned against the frame, fixing us with an intimidating stare.

"Clean yourselves up—thoroughly and quickly—so we can get on with the night," he warned in a gravelly voice. "I’m going to the lockers to get you a fresh change of clothes. Don't take too long."

As soon as the heavy wooden door clicked shut, silence settled between Clara and me. We locked eyes in the reflection of the fogged-up mirror. Our faces betrayed absolute panic over the criminal network we were trapped in, but also—inevitably—the dark glint of excitement born of the forbidden, of the boundary we had just crossed in the private room.

Without a word, we turned on the taps and let the hot water fill the space with thick steam.

We stripped off our clinging costumes. Peeling the latex from my skin was a relief, yet it left me completely naked and exposed. The gold token fell from my stocking and clattered against the tiled floor, while the other token—the one from the leotard—lay forgotten on the wooden bench. We stepped under the spray in adjoining showers, grabbing bars of soap to scrub ourselves urgently, trying to wash away the sticky residue, the scent of champagne, and the grime of a night that was changing us forever.

As the water ran over my large breasts and hips, washing away the traces of the millionaire’s hands, I sought Clara’s gaze through the shower screen. She, too, was under the water—her hair pulled up into a high bun that was coming undone—and her smaller, firmer breasts glistened beneath the spray. It was a look of shared understanding, heavy with a suppressed desire we could no longer hide.

Closing the distance, Clara walked toward my stall. Without warning, she lunged at me, wrapping her arms around my waist in a tight embrace and pressing her wet skin against my massive curves. Her lips sought mine in a desperate, hungry kiss charged with a forbidden lust—one I immediately returned, pinning her against the tiles as the water drenched us.

*Click!*

The sharp sound of the lock made our blood run cold. The shower door flew open, and the guard stepped inside. He found us frozen in the middle of the stall—naked, embracing, our lips still brushing against each other. The man didn't flinch; instead, a crooked smile spread across his rough face as he took in the scene.

"Looks like you two can't keep your hands off each other," he said, his tone mocking. "The boss is going to be very pleased when I tell him just how close you are."

Instinctively, we pulled apart, a fierce blush burning our faces and spreading down to our chests. The implicit threat of blackmail hung in the air, a reminder that they owned our bodies in this basement.

The guard tossed a small plastic bag onto the wooden bench and spoke about the uniforms with total indifference.

"The latex leotards got ruined by the champagne. This is the only thing I could find in storage to keep the bunny theme going," he said, pointing to the bag. "Put them on and get out here—now."