“Do you feel like doing something special tonight?” Peter asks.
“What do you have in mind?” I reply.
“We’re invited to a sex party tonight,” he says. “Want to join?”
“Hm, how does it work? What kind of people are going?”
“A few couples, maybe one or two single women. We meet in a nice apartment. There’s plenty of food and drinks. And then, well, you know…”
“Oh, really? Just out in the open?”
“There are two or three bedrooms and a bathroom, but also the living room.”
“And what kind of people are these? Swingers? I looked up some swinger clubs online. It’s usually older couples. Not exactly attractive.”
“No, no, this is different. I’ll send you photos,” he says.
A minute later, I open the email and am surprised at how attractive the women look.
“Alright, I’ll give it a try. When are we meeting?”
That evening, we meet downtown. We walk into a courtyard. It’s dark, and the entrance looks shabby. Peter has bought flowers for two of the women beforehand. “They like that,” he explains. The entry fee is $200 per person. The money isn’t for the women—they do this for fun—but for the organization, the food, and the apartment rental.
Paul opens the door. He’s the party organizer, and his wife is the main attraction. Peter met Paul online. They exchanged a few emails. “Paul’s wife really wants to try being with a German,” Peter tells me.
We hang up our coats, take off our shoes, and head to the living room. Three men sit there, towels wrapped around their waists. They’re drinking beer and chatting. Cheap Russian pop music plays on the radio. Paul introduces us, and we’re eyed suspiciously by the others. “So, the Germans are here.”
I try to stay relaxed, sit down on the couch, and make small talk. In the next room, two women lie on a bed, posing in lingerie for photos. Both are in their late twenties and don’t look bad at all. Not models, but definitely attractive.
Peter has left me alone in the living room and is exploring the apartment. Then he watches the women being photographed. I’m slightly nervous; I’ve never done anything like this before. Over the years, I’ve had plenty of experiences, but group sex? Never. What will it be like with others watching—or even joining in? My glass of wine is empty within five minutes.
Suddenly, a stunning, long-legged woman appears in the doorway. She’s around thirty, wearing high heels, garters, black lace lingerie, and long satin gloves. She smokes a cigarette from a holder. Classy, I think to myself.
“Where are the Germans?” she asks the room. One of the guys next to me silently points in my direction.
She walks toward me elegantly, almost like a model on a runway. Slowly enough to give me plenty of time to take in her full beauty.
“I’m Svetlana, Paul’s wife,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Chris, Peter’s friend.”
“First time doing this?” she asks. I nod.
“I’m a psychologist, you know. I can see you’re nervous, but don’t worry. We’ll take care of that.”
She kneels in front of me and begins to undress me. Once I’m down to just my shorts, she stands, takes my hand, and leads me to one of the bedrooms. She closes the door behind us and pulls me onto the bed. We kiss. She’s passionate, sexy, and tender all at once. By now, I’m feeling more at ease.
We spend about an hour together, enjoying ourselves. Then the door opens, and Paul enters the room, watching us. She whispers to me to keep going. “He likes to watch.”
Alright, I think. Doesn’t bother me. This woman is far too incredible to stop now.
Ten minutes later, Paul moves closer to the bed and begins stroking his wife. At this point, I feel very out of place. I give Svetlana a quick kiss and step back, leaving the two of them to continue alone.
In the next room, Peter is “disciplining” one of the other women. He has plenty of experience with S&M, playing the master role. The woman sits on the floor in front of him, obeying his commands. Another man is watching. Peter is still fully dressed, while Nadia—the woman before him—wears only her high heels and a collar with a leash.
“So, how was it?” he asks me, ignoring Nadia completely.
“Good… better than I expected.”
Nadia tries to stand, but Peter immediately reprimands her with a sharp tone and a firm smack on her rear.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps. “We’re not done with you.”
“Oh, by the way, this is Chris. Sir Chris!” he adds. Nadia obediently nods.
About 30 minutes later, Paul enters and calls me back to the other room. Svetlana is sitting on the floor, blindfolded, surrounded by a group of men. I stand in the doorway, observing the scene. It feels a bit like a game of blind man’s bluff.
Peter brings Nadia into the room on her leash. She, too, has long legs and moves with elegance. He leads her to Svetlana and instructs her to play with her.
Later, Nadia kneels on the floor before us, and Peter delivers a few more firm smacks to her already red backside. Honestly, I don’t understand the whole S&M thing. It’s not really my taste. Sometimes I’m not sure if I should laugh. Other times, I’m simply bored.
Nadia lets out the occasional scream. I can’t tell if it’s from pain, pleasure, or just part of the performance. Apparently, I’m not the only one unsure of what to make of it. One of the men—a small, timid guy—stands nearby in shorts and flip-flops. Eventually, he walks over to Nadia and asks if she’s alright, if Peter isn’t being too rough, as Peter lands yet another slap on her rear. Nadia snaps at the timid man, sending him away. Then she turns to Peter, looking at him submissively. “Yes, my master,” she says.
I find the whole thing a bit bizarre and retreat to the living room. The S&M stuff is not my thing, and frankly, it bores me. Time for another drink.
In the hallway, the shy guy is getting dressed. Apparently, it was all too much for him. He leaves. In the living room, a few men and two women sit chatting. Their eyes scan me as I mix myself a vodka Red Bull at the bar.
Paul joins me, and we chat for a while. He’s a nice guy—open, calm, and with a gentle demeanor. He seems to like me.
“What kind of people are these?” I ask curiously.
“Some are friends we regularly host these evenings with. Others we met online. My wife runs a blog on one of the Russian swinger sites. She’s got a big fan base—thousands of readers. Occasionally, we invite one of them to join us.”
“How many people applied for this evening?” I ask.
“For this one? Over 520.”
“What? That many?” I ask, astonished.
“Yeah, she’s a star,” Paul says proudly, grinning.
“Wow. I guess it’s an honor you invited us.”
“She’s always wanted to be with a German,” Paul explains. “It’s her fantasy. We liked Peter—he seemed experienced in the scene. We weren’t sure about you, but Peter vouched for you, and Svetlana thought two Germans would be better than one. It turned out well. She likes you, I can tell.”
I’m speechless. How can he talk so casually about his wife being attracted to another man?
On the couch, one of the women starts moaning. She’s being entertained by two men as Nadia walks into the room. She’s no longer wearing her collar; the game appears to be over. She comes over to the bar, and we strike up a conversation. At first, it’s small talk, but soon, I’m asking more in-depth questions. The psychology and motivations behind all of this intrigue me.
“I’ve been divorced for a year and alone,” she tells me. “You know, I love sex. Here, it’s carefree. I can live out my fantasies and be free.”
“Do you want to?” she asks flirtatiously. She’s so different from Svetlana—softer, more tender. On the couch, the moaning grows louder as four men now tend to the woman.
I close my eyes and let Nadia spoil me. Eventually, I stop caring about the oddity of it all. Okay, live porn—why not? It’s not something you see every day. I’m here, so I might as well turn off my brain and go with the flow.
The night continues like this for hours. Svetlana pulls me back into the bedroom, but this time, it’s to give me a massage. She’s good at it, and later I learn it’s one of her hobbies. She spends an hour kneading my body, and I even drift off at times. She seems to genuinely enjoy pampering me. Paul occasionally peeks in to check on us but quickly leaves again.
After the massage, we talk. I’m curious to hear her perspective.
“Paul introduced me to all this. I used to be quite uptight,” she admits.
“Really? I can hardly believe that.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “But now I enjoy it. I need it—the sex, the admiration, the knowledge that I’m desired.”
“And Paul?” I ask.
“He loves having a desirable wife. It turns him on.”
“I noticed Paul doesn’t do anything with the other women here—only with you.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m terribly jealous. He’s not allowed to. It even bothers me when he’s on a business trip, and I think he might masturbate to a porn video in his hotel room.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
At 4 a.m., I finally head home.
“You can stay here if you want,” Svetlana offers, but I prefer my own bed. Peter had left hours earlier.
The air outside is freezing. Moscow’s winter is in full force. I grin as I reflect on the night. Somehow, the whole experience was utterly bizarre.
The next day, I check Svetlana’s blog to see the photos and ensure my tattoos were edited out as promised. Her latest entry catches my eye:
“Last night, I was with a German for the first time in my life. It was good—better than I ever expected. It’s strange. Seventy years ago, the Germans invaded our country. They burned down my grandmother’s village and violated her. Yet I’ve always had this fantasy of being taken by a German. But it turned out so different—filled with emotion and passion. I hope it happens again soon, and maybe we’ll even become friends.”
I lean back and ponder. Friends? Well, only time will tell.
