With more "lucky" boobs.

Clara and I gripped the metal trays with fingers stiffened by panic. Walking toward the center of the room wearing nothing but satin bunny ears and a micro-thong—little more than dental floss—shattered the last remnants of my shyness. With every step I took in towering vinyl heels, my large, unencumbered breasts swayed wildly and boldly, defying gravity before the hungry eyes of the mobsters. The tiny white pom-pom at my rear bobbed between the opulence of my fully exposed buttocks.

The contrast between public humiliation and the burning heat of uncontrollable lust set my belly on fire; I knew I was the absolute center of attention in a den of criminals, and my body responded by hardening my dark nipples under the golden light. My fishnet stockings kept sliding down my thighs, and I had to clench my legs to keep them from falling down completely. Beside me, Clara walked with her arms crossed over her chest, wearing the same skimpy outfit and the same look of resignation.

The first few tables were relatively quiet. The gamblers stared at us, sure, and some reached out to brush against our arms or hips as we passed, but that was all. We served glasses of champagne, whiskey, and cognac. We smiled. We pretended not to care. And in a way, we started to get used to it. The micro-thong dug into my buttocks with every step, the white pom-pom swayed over my rear, and my breasts bounced with every movement. But it was bearable. Almost mechanical.

Until we reached the table at the back.

At the high-stakes poker table, the millionaire in the Italian suit was gone. In his place, seated at the head of the table, was a burly man with a stern face and hands as big as shovels. The mobster. The same one who had used me as a lucky charm at the craps table. The same one who had groped my breasts in front of everyone. The same one whose hands had left my skin burning and my belly damp.

His bloodshot eyes locked onto me the moment I entered his field of vision. He smiled—a crooked smile, heavy with raw lust and devoid of any refinement.

"Bunny!" he exclaimed, his voice a rasp that cut through the room's murmur. "Come here. And bring your friend."

We approached with our trays held high, feeling cold sweat trickle down our bare sides. The mobster didn't wait for us to reach him. He reached out and grabbed my wrist with a force that nearly made me drop the tray. He pulled me toward him, forcing me to stand beside his chair with my hip pressed against his shoulder.

"That's how I like it," he growled, and without further ado, his free hand clamped over one of my large, bare breasts.

It wasn't a caress. It was a rough, brutal grope, devoid of any gentleness. He squeezed my flesh hard, kneading it like bread dough and pinching my hardened nipple between his calloused fingers until I let out a stifled gasp. Then, he slid his hand down to my hip and grabbed my backside over my micro-thong, digging his fingers into my buttocks with a familiarity that made my stomach turn.

"This is what I needed," he murmured, his breathing heavy. "Real tits. Not like your friend's."

Clara, standing beside me, went pale. But the mobster didn't even look at her. He was too occupied with me. His left hand kept kneading my breast, pinching the nipple, tugging at it until I arched my back. His right hand kept squeezing my rear, kneading my buttocks, digging his fingers into the skin exposed by the high cut of my micro-thong.

"You too," he growled, turning toward Clara. "Come here."

Clara approached slowly, her arms still crossed over her chest. The mobster reached out and grabbed one of her smaller breasts, squeezing it with the same brutality. Clara squeezed her eyes shut but didn't scream. She endured it. She endured every squeeze, every pinch, every tug at her nipple.

"Small, but firm," the mobster said, weighing her breast with disdain. "Not bad. But not like hers."

And he turned his attention back to me.

The dealer dealt the cards. The mobster played with one hand while the other remained clamped onto my breast—kneading, pinching, and toying with my nipple as if it were a lucky chip. I stood beside him, tray in one hand and body trembling, feeling heat rise through my belly and wetness begin to pool between my legs.

He won the first hand. A murmur rippled through the table. The mobster let out a hoarse laugh and, without letting go of my breast, pulled me close to crush my torso against his shoulder.

"You're my lucky charm, doll," he growled, his breath heavy with whiskey. "You aren't leaving my side."

He played again. And he won again. And with every victory, his hands grew bolder, rougher, more possessive. He would pinch my nipples until I moaned. He would knead my buttocks until my skin turned red. He would run his hand over my belly, my thighs, my hips—always over the micro-thong, always stopping just short of touching me where I feared it most and wanted it most.