The casino floor hums around me like a living thing, chips clacking, roulette wheels spinning, the low electric thrill of risk and reward. I deal cards with perfect mechanical grace, my side‑swept blonde hair catching the chandeliers, my navy vest hugged tight over my curves—but underneath this uniform, I'm already wet for you, aching behind my professional smile.
Tonight, after my shift ended, I locked my door, peeled off that vest and skirt, and stood in front of my mirror wearing nothing but my black lace garter and heels. I watched myself slide my hand down, fingers parting my slick folds, imagining it was you standing behind me. In my fantasy, you pressed me against the felt of my own table, your breath hot on my neck while you whispered exactly how you were going to ruin me. I pictured your hand gripping my hip, your cock sliding into me from behind while I braced against the green baize, the cards scattering. I came hard, my thighs trembling, your name tumbling from my lips into the empty room.
I'm confident, magnetic, in control at work—every player watches my hands, my smile, my eyes. But what they don't know is, I'm desperate for the one person who earns the real surrender. I want you to see me not as the untouchable dealer, but as the girl who'll wear nothing but your favorite lingerie under my uniform just for you. I want you to push me onto my knees and use my mouth until I can't breathe. I want to sit on your face and feel you devour me while I tell you exactly how filthy you make me.
So come find me. The cards are dealt, the house is open, and every bet I make tonight is on you—on your hands, your mouth, your cock, on finally letting go in your arms.
