The euphoria of the last hand

The night wore on. The tables gradually emptied. The players left, one by one, with their pockets full or empty, their gazes heavy with alcohol and lust. The millionaire had left hours ago, without saying goodbye, without even looking at me. His lucky streak had ended, and with it his interest.

But the mobster was still there. Sitting at his table, with the chips piled up in front of him, and me at his side, half-naked, trembling, my nipples stiff and my skin burning.

"Last hand," said the dealer.

The mobster nodded. He let go of my breast for an instant, just to pick up his cards. He looked at them. He smiled. And then, at the moment of victory, when the table erupted in cheers and he stood up to celebrate, he reached out toward me.

It wasn't a caress. It wasn't a grope. It was a yank.

His fingers closed around the string of my micro-thong and pulled hard. The elastic gave way with a dry snap, breaking completely. The fabric fell to the floor, and the white pom-pom rolled across the carpet.

I was completely naked. With nothing. Not even the bunny ears covered me anymore, because I had lost them at some point during the night. Only the stiletto heels and the fishnet stockings, which were still sliding down my thighs.

The entire room turned toward me. The remaining players, the dealers, the guards. Everyone. Everyone saw me. My large breasts free, my belly, my hips, my newly exposed sex. Everything. Everything was on display.

Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed my legs together. But the mobster grabbed me by the wrist and pulled my hands away.

"No covering up, bunny," he said, with a twisted smile. "There's nothing left to cover."

The table erupted in laughter and applause. The dealer, impassive, kept dealing cards. And I was still there, standing, completely naked in the middle of the betting hall, with the white pom-pom of my micro-thong rolling across the carpet and the bunny ears lost in some corner.

Clara looked at me from the other side of the table. In her eyes there was no longer fear, nor guilt, nor complicity. There was something darker. Something I couldn't identify.

"Keep serving," ordered the mobster, letting go of my wrist. "And don't cover yourself. I want to see you like this for the rest of the night."

I picked up the tray from the floor with trembling hands. The metal was cold against my bare skin. Walking toward the bar completely naked, with the stiletto heels clicking on the marble and the fishnet stockings sliding down my thighs, was the most humiliating experience of the entire night. More than the Blackjack table. More than the private room. More than the showers. Because this time there was nothing. Not a thread of fabric. Not a satin ear. Nothing.

The men remaining in the room followed me with their eyes. Some whistled. Others applauded. One of them, a bald guy with a cigar in his mouth, reached out and grabbed one of my buttocks as I passed. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I just clenched my teeth and kept walking.

When I reached the bar, I leaned against the marble counter and closed my eyes for an instant. The murmur of the casino continued around me, indifferent to my humiliation. The smell of tobacco and perfume mingled with the aroma of champagne that still glistened on my skin. And somewhere, deep in my belly, a little voice that didn't want to be silenced whispered that this wasn't over.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the room. Clara was still at the mobster's table, her micro-thong still intact, her smaller breasts still covered by nothing, the black satin ears atop her hair. Our gazes crossed.