"How about here?"
Simon Laws looked at the building his friend, Stephen Clark, was pointing at. Lurid red and blue neon tubes ran along the fascia of an otherwise innocuous old warehouse building. The same tubes twisted into the shape of a heavy breasted girl twirling around a pole. The name, "SATAN'S HOLE", was emblazoned above a narrow doorway.
Subtle, it wasn't.
"Looks a bit tacky," Laws said. The vodka buzz was fading a little and he wouldn't have objected to heading back to the hotel if the truth be told.
"Let's check it out," Clark said. "We can always fuck off if the girls are minging."
After paying out a small fortune just to get through the door, Laws thought to himself.
It was no use. The conference was over and it was their last night in Moscow. Clark had set his vodka-blurred mind on finding some lithe piece of Russian totty to squirm in his lap and wouldn't go home until mission accomplished.
"Can't be worse than the last place," Stephen Morris said.
The last place was actually located in the basement of the hotel they were staying at. The hotel was a concrete monstrosity with a view of Saint Basil's Cathedral they'd dubbed the Borg cube. The strip club in the basement suited it perfectly — anaemic girls with bad attitudes. The fact they were the only punters in the place should have told them all they needed to know.
They left after one of the girls went batshit psycho on Laws. He'd been patiently trying to explain he wasn't interested in a private dance when she'd gone nuts and started screaming at him. Laws, normally non-confrontational by nature, had been at a loss on how to respond. The others all thought it was hilarious, obviously, but it had at least given them a good enough excuse to get out of that shithole.
Then the four of them — Laws, Clark, Morris and Jones — had headed off on a wild vodka-fuelled goose chase through Moscow in search of a club Clark's crazy Russian friend had recommended. The first taxi-driver had dropped them off at a different club — presumably one that gave him a commission — that was even worse than the last place. The second couldn't understand English and had driven them round in circles for a while. The third had finally got them to the right place and predictably it had been shut.
Since then they'd been aimlessly wandering the back streets of Moscow. It was very late now and they all had flights to catch tomorrow.
"C'mon, last night in Moscow," Clark exhorted, pointing to the entrance.
At least it would get them off the streets, Laws thought. The back streets of Moscow in the early hours of the morning didn't feel like the safest of environments for a small group of IT geeks. They'd probably be able to find someone to get them a taxi back to the hotel as well.
Just through the entrance was a small foyer. At the far end a naked girl on her back was drawn in neon lights across the whole corridor. Stairs led down through her glowing outstretched pussy, illuminated by rings of pink neon. Fake smoke swirled up from below.
Subtle, it most definitely wasn't.
Two large Eastern European men with crew-cuts stood behind a small table just in front of the stairs. Obviously Russian Mafia, Laws thought. He wasn't so sure this was a good idea.
"Twenty dollars," the first said in strongly accented English. "Will get you two drinks inside also."
While the first man took their money the second told them to remove any metal objects and ran a small portable metal detector over their bodies.
"Nothing ventured hey," Clark smiled as they paid the money, passed through and headed down the stairs. Loud music, some sort of goth or electronica Laws couldn't recognise, and smoke awaited them at the bottom.
"Kinky," Clark observed as they entered the interior.
The hellish theme continued inside with the décor. Chains hung from the ceiling and down the walls. The colour scheme was predominantly reds and blacks. There were two iron cages in the corners of the room, each large enough to hold a man. A hidden smoke machine pumped dry ice, tinged red by the lights, across the floor.
The theme extended to the girls themselves. The clothes they wore were tight fitting PVC or shiny leather outfits, also in red and black, and they didn't leave a great deal to the imagination.
And the girls, wow!
"Man, I love Eastern Europe," Clark said.
Laws didn't think he'd ever seen such a collection of fit birds located in the same place before. You expected to find the odd 9 or 10 in the decent clubs, but he'd never been to a place where every single girl was a 9 or 10! Normally he was very picky, maybe finding one girl that piqued his interest, but here his mind was overloaded by choice. He didn't know where to look.
Initially he was worried they'd wandered into an S & M club by mistake, but after looking around he could see the interior was clearly more luxury than dungeon. Take away the chains and other unusual décor and it looked like every other strip club. The ubiquitous poles stood on slightly raised stages. There was a small bar in the corner. Soft leather couches divided the room into intimate spaces and for those that wanted even more intimacy there were small booths with heavy velvet drapes to provide a little extra privacy. And of course there were the mirrors. Lots and lots of mirrors.
Any remaining doubts were removed on seeing the activities taking place around the room. There were other punters, but it was hard to see them past the naked girls writhing on their laps. On the centre stage a girl leaned back against the pole and shuddered in ecstasy as another girl ate her out.
"Wow," Morris said. "Why didn't Sergei send us to this place instead?"
"Sly bugger is probably keeping this as his secret," Clark replied.
The four of them sat down as an elegant waitress took their drinks orders.
It didn't take long for the girls to come.
Clark got the first dance. A tall, well-stacked blonde shed her clothes, a skimpy black leather thong and bra, and sat astride Clark on the couch. She rubbed her large breasts up his body and let her long blonde hair fall across his face.
Clark turned to Laws with a smile on his face. Fucking A, he mouthed.
Then the blonde turned his face back to her so she could bury it in her ample cleavage.
Jones was gone. He'd taken the hand of a slim brunette and slipped off somewhere private. Jones was shy and barely spoke most of the time, it was usual for him to vanish inside these kinds of places. He'd be back before the end of the evening and while he'd never say what he'd been up to it was fairly easy to guess.
There was a rule for nights like this. A mantra uttered by groups of males abroad the world over.
What happens on tour ... stays on tour.
Clark, married for ten years and with three kids, was wrapped in voluptuous blonde. The other Steve, married for three years, was smiling happily as a lithe, dark-haired girl rubbed her boobs against his chest in a circular motion. All around the club it was the same as a naked girl straddled each sitting man and rubbed her upper body against his.
Wrap dances, Laws thought. He wondered if he could get a dance off the blonde after she'd finished with Clark.
As he looked around the room he made eye contact with a stunning redhead. She was currently spinning around a pole on one of the small stages. She was wearing a tight leather bodice with a lace up back that was the same flame red colour as her hair. Short red leather shorts and boots that ran up to her thighs completed her outfit. Her slender flesh was pale, almost white even.
She span around the pole and leant outwards so her long red hair hung down away from her body. A leg rubbed seductively against the pole. She made eye contact with Laws again and smiled before spinning away.
The blonde could wait, Laws thought. This girl was more than fine. His mouth felt a little dry and he felt his tongue nervously dart in and out between his lips.
What did he do now? Did he call her over? Did he need to make a gesture of some kind? Was he supposed to ask the waitress? How had the other guys done it? He wished he'd paid more attention. The girls just seemed to appear next to them.
And that was exactly how it worked.
The girl twirled once, her flame-coloured hair fanning out behind her, and then gracefully stepped off the stage. Still smiling and still holding eye contact, she slowly sashayed towards him.
He didn't need to do anything.
The girl perched on the couch next to him and turned so she faced him.
"I'm Katya. What's your name?" She spoke English with only a slight trace of an accent, just enough to sound sexy.
"Simon," he replied.
"Where are you from, Simon?" A hand stroked his chest with long, blood-red fingernails.
"Manchester, England," he replied.
"Ooh, I like the English," the girl replied, "so very ... focused..."
Laws was currently focused on the swell of her breasts as her bodice struggled to contain them. Suddenly conscious that he was staring, and that she knew he was staring, he looked back at her face, his own face reddening in embarrassment. She only smiled.
"You have ... uh ... very good English." So lame, he thought wincing.
"Would you like a dance?" she asked. Her teasing fingers crawled down to his lap.
And now it was time for the icky business stuff, Laws thought.
"How much?" he asked.
"Ten dollars," she replied.
"Sure," Laws replied. Seemed like a bargain. You always had to keep your wits about you in these kinds of places though, in case of scams.
.... There is more of this story ...