My first day went very well. I was happy to be on stand-by the whole day — the money would come in really handy if they called me. So when the phone rang, I jumped into a taxi right away, before the Moscow peak hour traffic could mess things up for me.

The job was simple — essentially I was an extra at an event at a very private Gentleman’s Club. I get to sit for make-up and hair and then dress up in stunning but uncomfortable cocktail dresses and stilettos. My job was to saunter about in viewing distance from the Foyer and Vestibule at various points, looking like I knew where I was going. I was part of the active background. In between, I would change and don a different wig. We always walked in pairs. I would be either walking arm in arm with another extra dressed to kill, or I would be leading a bare-breasted girl by the dog collar she wore. Yes, it was a kinky place. That’s why they pay so well. Sometimes I got the dog collar.

* * *

They offered me the job — regular hours that I can live on, not like the random modeling gigs that pay four months after. They said that I had passed the initial tests with flying colors — that most girls do not progress beyond the background roles. I didn’t thinking wearing a gag for a few hours while going about my work was too difficult.

So now I’m a Novice, and I get to serve the new Members of the Club in the Freshman’s Lounge.

All Lounge girls wear the same “uniform” — a bow tie, a tight corset, a tiny skirt that barely covered anything, a designer Ball Gag (something about being “seen but not heard”), perpetually-erect nipples (the injection would last weeks, they promised) and a fresh, oily sheen. Plus eight-inch heels that helped our breasts bounce about as we walked.

It is hard work carrying a full tray with both hands, while avoiding drooling through the Gag into the drinks, while keeping nipples away from cold bottles, while trying not to trip over heels in full stride, while keeping the sliver of a skirt from slipping any lower.

It is even harder when I reach the lounge tables, bent over at the waist (the required position, of course) serving the drinks, careful not to flinch or utter a sound as Members, mid-conversation, casually pay attention to my full hanging breasts or my bum (fortunately Club rules specifically prohibit anything more than a caress). As they say, membership has its privileges.

* * *

They are happy with my performance and they have promoted me to Adept. It’s funny how the titles remind me of ancient nunneries and secret rituals.

Now I work in the more private parts of the Club, serving regular Members — they appear to be successful businessmen or Party officials of some sort. We wear pretty much the same uniform at the Captain’s Bar and Theater, but the Novice prohibitions do not apply here. Here, we are expected to fawn over the men and let them have their way with us, as we pour their drinks and light their cigars. We are still gagged, as it appears Gentlemen prefer Dumb Blondes.

As usual, we are prohibited from making any sounds, as part of our discipline. If we do, we are punished.

The good news is, the pay couldn’t be better, and we get free daily classes, like make-up, deportment and even dance — where we learn to use every part of our bodies to come alive as a woman.

* * *

I can think of many worse ways of making money than allowing yourself to be pawed at in a Gentleman’s Club. It’s weird, but I am enjoying the attention. I have learnt many practical things, like the proper way to prepare and serve cigars, how to do everything with charm and elegance (sitting, standing, pouring, walking, everything!), how to make the right amount of eye-contact, no more, no less.

After work today, Madame had a chat with me in her private Parlor.

It seems that there is more to the Club (I’ve always thought the sprawling Mansion was way bigger than the few rooms I’ve been to). There is a darker, more private side, whose Elite Members are people who appear in the press from time to time. Being powerful people, they have different tastes. Madame sees talent in me. Would I be interested to serve them? I am warned that the position requires complete commitment, and there is no turning back. Because of the secrecy of it all, life would never be the same again. It’s very much like joining the FSB — one has to make sacrifices to serve the Fatherland.

If I agree, I would be inducted into the next Circle, and I will move into the Mansion for a period of sustained, specialized training.

Even more training? I think to myself. This Club really invests in their girls. Images flit through my mind: gentle pillow talk, man sleeping, me stealing documents from briefcase, man catches me, me being tortured. “What sort of training?” I asked, shaking away the silly thoughts.

“You will receive further training,” Madame said. “Training to be the plaything of the rich and powerful, available to all their fantasies.”

“This next Circle, does it have a name?” I asked, trying to digest Madame’s words.

“It is secret,” came the reply. “You will only know it if you agree. Otherwise we have to kill you.”

I laughed with Madame, but looking at her eyes, I wasn’t exactly sure she was kidding.

So much for Perestroika and Khozraschyot. Some things never change. We, the children of Glasnost, are still serfs to the new Tsars of Russia.

Madame continued. There’s free bed and board, they will feed me and clothe me (I will adore the lingerie, she promised). I would no longer have to take costly taxi rides home to my lonely apartment (how did she know that?) in the cold hours of the morning.

I looked into Madame’s inviting eyes. She was young and beautiful and naïve once, I’m sure.

I am already naked, and I have nothing to lose.

I said yes.

Madame smiled and slid the contract over the table. I could take as much time as I wanted but I had to read it there and I could not take a copy of the contract with me. It was too thick and the words too hard to read, so I signed and handed it back to her.

“Now may I know the name of the Circle?”

“Why, of course,” said Madame.

“It is the Circle of Slaves.”

* * *

The sky is just slowly turning blue outside the barred windows, and we are already standing at attention by our beds, gagged, naked with full lips-nips-tips (matching lipstick, nips and nails). Our new Madame will be coming any time now for inspection — a coin will be dropped on every bed and if it doesn’t bounce off the sheets, we will be punished. If our teeth or hair or grooming or pedicure or manicure are not up to standard, we are punished.

Punishment usually means Madame sprinkling chili powder on the floor and getting the girl do push ups (imagine skinny arms, spread to the side, straining downwards) — till all the powder is picked up by lipsticked nipples. The neighboring two girls, for failing to watch over the offending girl, are then required to lick said nipples clean, and yes, biting is permitted.

They take discipline very seriously here. It’s like boot camp, only we run with heels, not boots, we carry trays, not guns, and now, our uniform is our Collar, Gag, and our oiled bodies. Like Krasnaya Army boys, we are tagged and numbered, but at least we get to keep the hair on our heads (shaven downstairs instead).

After inspection, we will be doing calisthenics in the Courtyard (in heels!), then cleaning and dusting our dormitory, then to a quick breakfast (small meals, carefully calibrated, and is one of the few moments our Gags come off — even then, should a girl speak, her gag would almost immediately pop back into her mouth; her meal is over, and she would be punished).

The rest of the day is spent training — at gym, yoga, pilates, pole dancing, burlesque, serving etiquette, deportment, make-up, tanning, basically shaping and stretching our bodies for the enjoyment of Members. There are no rest times, no time to ourselves.

Did I mention that we are subjected to regular medical exams? We quickly get used to the cold intrusions into our orifices. I suspect the injections are part of the mental and emotional conditioning, or maybe they are mainly hormonal. I’m practically horny all the time (we are not allowed any release without permission) and sometimes I just want to cry for no reason.

In the evenings, the training gets more risqué. On easy nights, we practise on one another; on other nights, we get van-loads of visitors — we think they are FSB agents in training or something, we’re not sure — the men lose their enthusiasm fairly quickly — we need to use all our skills to help each one of them go through all 19 of us in one night (there were originally 20 in our Batch, but a girl was taken away last week after she was caught with a mobile phone — all phones, cameras and social media are strictly prohibited).

We also play with different types of whips and restraints. We are gradually building our endurance and we are learning to enjoy the sting.

We end the night with a timed communal shower (under camera, as always, the pervs), we apply salve on each other, and exhausted, fall asleep quickly. Then the morning alarm goes off and we’re at it again. There are no off-days — this is an intensive immersion course.

A couple of times, we are woken up in the middle of the night, groggy and nude, and whisked away in an old Army truck to jungle survival training — whatever for, I have no clue, it’s not like we are pilots who might one day be shot out of the sky and need to learn how to survive being hunted. I think some Red Army general designed the course for us. Sadist.

* * *

I am so excited. I can’t wait to complete the final training and be admitted to the final Circle. My body looks a lot different in the mirror now, more tanned and toned, as if it had acquired a new language. I feel sexier, more alive… a real object of desire. I’m surprised I made it through the course. The pretty Romanian twins and the Chechnyan girl didn’t make it (didn’t like the bitch anyway, and we made sure she knew it). I’m not sure what happens to them now.

We never get to see the First Slaves, just like we never get to see the top-tier Elite Members of the Club — only the First Slaves get to see them, only they are trained to cater to the whims and fancies of Russia’s most rich and powerful. I’m sure it’s not easy to entertain people who have seen everything and own everything.

Rumor has it that the Club’s Elite Members are senior Party Members, FSB chiefs, Generals, Magistrates, Mafia bosses, Archbishops, billionaire tycoons — the Club is their secret place of business and pleasure, of solidarity and alliance in keeping each other in wealth and power, and we girls are part of the pleasure that they bond over, part of their collective shared experience. We are their trophies, their feast, their plunder of the land, regularly added to their collection of objet d’art in the Mansion — except the Fabergé eggs are timeless, and we have an expiry date.

The Club is collectively owned by all Elite Members, so there is no fear of blackmail — here, there are no rules — every Elite Member can essentially do what they want.

But, rumors are just rumors, just like the rumor that First Slaves are branded with a special mark. Girls, like Kalmyk cattle. Who knows?

I don’t even know what the privileges of First Slaves are — maybe we will be competing to become the next mistress of some very powerful person. That would be enough, to be draped in haute couture and eat at their table, on yachts, private jets and Michellin restaurants. A girl can dream. More likely, we’ll be part of the naked crew at sea or in the air. And if we actually get to accompany them to dinner, we’d be lucky if they don’t require us to strip down at the table, for the pleasure of everyone. Worse still, they could make us work under the table, for scraps. Or maybe, we will be kept in dog cages as real sex slaves, to be traded for international favors, disposed of when they tire of us. Anything for the Fatherland, right?

My mind is spinning, I’m going crazy. My heart is beating faster. I feel something on my chest, I look down and see my dribble. I try to suck in my saliva through the Gag and swallow.

I hear my timer… it is getting louder, and louder, then it stops. I hear a click. It is done.

Madame congratulates me, and leads me, naked except for the Ball Gag and heels, up the stairs to the Top Floor.

* * *

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