With nothing.

I leaned against the marble bar counter, one hand crossed over my chest and the other over my crotch, a futile attempt to cover what was already beyond saving. The chill from the air conditioning made my nipples harden until they ached, and my fishnet stockings kept sliding down my thighs, forcing me to squeeze my legs together to keep them from falling off completely. The white pom-pom from my micro-thong was lying somewhere on the carpet, and the black satin ears had been lost hours ago. All that remained were the vinyl stilettos—which were already killing my feet—and the memory of the mobster’s hands all over my body.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, trying not to think, trying not to feel.

"Last round, Bunny."

My eyes snapped open. The casino owner was standing beside me with his icy smile and his ever-present cigarette. Behind him stood the armed guard, his hand resting casually on the butt of his pistol. The boss raked me with a slow gaze, his eyes lingering on the hand still trying to cover my crotch, before he looked out across the room.

"The casino is about to close. Just one more round," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "But I don't want you doing it alone."

He jerked his chin toward the other side of the room. Clara was still at the mobster's table; her micro-thong was intact, the black satin ears were still on her head, and her smaller breasts were exposed. The boss snapped his fingers, and the guard went to fetch her.

Clara arrived at the bar carrying the trays, her face pale. Upon seeing me completely naked—one hand over my chest, the other over my crotch—her eyes went wide, but she said nothing. The boss looked at both of us, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"So you don't feel alone," he said, looking at me. "You’re both going to do the final round together. And you’re both going to match."

Before Clara could react, the boss reached out and, with a sharp tug, ripped off her micro-thong. The elastic snapped, and the fabric fell to the floor, leaving the white pom-pom next to mine in a corner of the carpet. Clara let out a stifled gasp and crossed her arms over her chest, but the boss wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at both of us.

"Much better," he said. "Now you match."

He stepped toward us and, without warning, gave each of us a smack on the buttocks. The boss’s hand was large and heavy, and the blow echoed in the silence of the bar. I felt the flesh of my buttock vibrate from the slap and the sting spread across my skin. Clara let out a muffled cry and clapped a hand to her backside, but the boss had already turned away.

"Go on. One more round. And then you go home."

Clara and I picked up the silver trays with trembling hands. Walking toward the lounge completely naked, with nothing to cover us, was an experience that surpassed everything that had come before. Because before, at least, we’d had the satin bunny ears. Before, we’d had the micro-thong. Before, we’d had something—however minimal. Now, we had nothing. Just our stilettos, fishnet stockings sliding down our thighs, and bare skin exposed to the gazes of the last few gamblers remaining in the casino.

The first customer we approached was an older man in a gray suit, his fingers heavy with rings. He looked us up and down without bothering to hide it, then reached out toward the tray. "Serve me," he ordered.

We both bent over at the same time, and the man took the opportunity to slide his hands over our breasts—first mine, then Clara’s—comparing their weight and shape with obscene familiarity. He said nothing. He just smiled. And we moved on.

The rounds were a slow torture. Each table brought a new humiliation. At one, a group of men made us bend over to serve them, taking the chance to caress our backs, waists, and buttocks. One of them—a burly fellow with an unkempt beard—reached out and gave me a loud smack on the backside that echoed through the room. Another man, standing beside me, did the same to Clara. Laughter erupted all around.

"These bunnies are on sale," one of them joked, and the others laughed.

We moved on. At another table, a lone gambler grabbed me by the hip and forced me to sit on his lap while I served, claiming it was so I "wouldn't drop the tray." As I poured the champagne with a trembling hand, he slid his other hand up my stomach and grabbed my rear, kneading my buttocks with rough fingers. With his free hand, he pinched my nipple hard enough to make me moan.

"Good girl," he murmured, giving me another smack before letting me go.

At another table, it was Clara who had to endure the hands of a bald man; he kneaded her breasts for a full minute while she tried to keep smiling. He smacked her backside so hard she let out a cry, then released her with a loud laugh.

"Small but firm," he said, and the others laughed.

Meanwhile, I was serving at the next table, my cheeks burning and my belly aflame. Every hand, every forced caress, every pinch reminded me that we weren't people; we were part of the casino’s furnishings, as natural a fixture as the poker tables or the golden lights.

And worst of all: my body kept responding. My nipples remained hard, my belly stayed hot, and the moisture between my legs kept pooling—betraying me time and again.

It happened at the last table, the one closest to the bar. A young man in a dark suit and with slender hands beckoned me over. I approached with my tray held high, and he signaled for me to lean down to serve him. I did. And as I poured the whiskey into his glass, I felt his hand slide up my thigh, beneath my fishnet stocking, until it reached my sex.

It wasn't just a brush of the hand. It was a finger. A finger that slid between my hot, wet lips and sank into me without warning. A finger that penetrated me with deliberate slowness, while its owner looked me in the eye with a calm smile.

"A fine vintage," he said, withdrawing the finger and bringing it to his nose. "You smell like you're enjoying this."

I felt the flush rise all the way to my ears. I said nothing. I couldn't say a word. I simply straightened up, my legs trembling, and continued toward the bar with my tray empty and the trace of that finger still inside me.

When we finished our rounds, the boss was waiting for us in the center of the room. The casino was practically empty. The last gamblers were leaving, and the croupiers were gathering up the chips and cards. The armed guard remained in his corner, his gaze fixed on us.

"Excellent," the boss said, his eyes sweeping over our naked bodies with satisfaction. They’ve done an impeccable job. The casino is closing. Come with me.