Going to a private room

He took a high-value chip and carefully slid it inside the plunging neckline of my leotard—right against my sweaty skin, next to the gold chip I was already carrying in my stocking. Then, he turned toward the casino owner, who was watching from a corner alongside the armed guard.

"I’m going to use one of the private rooms in the back. Have a bottle of the most expensive champagne brought to us right now," he ordered, taking me firmly—but without roughness—by the wrist to guide me along.

Walking toward the private booths wearing nothing but my bunny leotard (slipped down to my hips), fishnet stockings, stilettos, and a completely bare torso made me feel more vulnerable than ever. The black bunny ears were still attached to my hair, and the cotton tail bobbed against my buttocks with every step. The gold chip kept sliding down inside my stocking, and the new chip the millionaire had tucked into my leotard grazed the skin of my belly.

I wasn't comfortable; I didn't know what intentions this man had for me in the privacy of a closed room, and the fear that his guard’s weapon might be used if I resisted forced me to keep my head down and keep moving in my vinyl heels. But unlike the mobster, the millionaire wasn't dragging me. He was guiding me. And that, somehow, scared me even more.

We arrived at a private room bathed in thick, red light, dominated by a massive black leather armchair. The millionaire sat down calmly, spreading his legs, and gestured for me to sit beside him.

"We have to celebrate in style, doll," he said, leaning back with an air of smug confidence. "But no rush. It’s a long night."

Just then, the wooden door opened, and Clara walked in. My friend was still wearing the shiny latex bunny leotard, with black ears atop her pulled-back hair and a cotton tail swaying above her buttocks. The sweetheart neckline remained intact, perfectly framing her smaller, firm breasts. She was carrying the requested bottle of champagne on a silver tray.

We exchanged a quick, panic-stricken glance; I was stripped to the waist, and she was about to step into our worst nightmare.

"You. Put the tray on the table," the millionaire ordered Clara, his tone firm but not cruel. "Now, take the bottle, shake it hard, and open it right in front of us."

Clara went pale, but knowing full well what would happen if she disobeyed, she complied. She shook the bottle, and with a sharp pop, the cork shot out. The icy, foaming liquid sprayed forcefully in all directions.

"That's it!" the millionaire exclaimed with a laugh—softer than the mobster's, almost pleased. "Bathe the two of us. It’s a recommendation from the lucky table."

Clara directed the stream of champagne toward us, drenching the man's suit and completely soaking my bare torso. The cold liquid slid down my shoulders, pooling in the cleavage between my large breasts and drenching my erect nipples before running down the latex at my waist. We were all left completely sticky from the sweet liquor.

The millionaire turned toward Clara with a lecherous smile, though lacking the mobster's brutality. He reached out and, with a slow, deliberate movement, pulled down the neckline of her leotard. The latex gave way with a creak, and Clara’s breasts—smaller than mine, yet firm and round—were left completely exposed, her pink nipples erect from the chill of the champagne dripping onto her skin.

Clara let out a stifled gasp and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, but the millionaire gently moved her hands aside.

"None of that, gorgeous," he said, his voice lower, almost intimate. "Now, come here. I want you to clean your friend up. We can't let the champagne go to waste."

The millionaire leaned back in the armchair and watched. He didn't participate. He simply looked on.

After a moment of hesitation, Clara leaned over my chest. Her tongue, soft and shy at first, began to trace my skin with a delicacy that made me shiver. She licked the champagne from the base of my breasts, gathering the sticky liquid that had pooled in the cleavage. Then, her lips closed over my left nipple, sucking with a gentleness that drew a stifled moan from me.

The millionaire watched from his seat, his eyes gleaming and a satisfied smile on his face.

"That's it," he murmured. "Slowly. No rush."

Clara moved to my other nipple, licking and sucking with the same dedication, and I threw my head back against the leather armchair, unable to hold back the moans echoing through the private room. The terror of the illicit setting mingled with a sense of wild, forbidden pleasure, and the betrayal of my own body filled me with deep shame.

When Clara finished cleaning my chest, the millionaire calmly sat up. Clara remained by my side, her lips glistening and her breasts still exposed, avoiding eye contact with me.