The Winsome Widow

"I'm kidding," I winked. "I'm pretty sure it's four."

He pressed number four and rode up with me. Finally at my door, he was still holding my arm and my heart was trip-hammering in my chest; this was the critical moment, I knew if I could get him inside then I could get him into bed.

"Thank you Riley," I turned and held him. "You're my chivalrous knight, tonight."

Even on my heels, I was too short to reach his mouth, so I held his shoulders and pulled myself up to kiss him; a small one on the lips first, and then with an audible drawing of breath I kissed him harder, taking his lower lip between mine and pressing my breasts into his chest.

"No, Alex," he said calmly, lifting his head back out of my reach.

"Riley," I breathed, my eyes shut. "I want you. Kiss me."

"Alex," he said calmly again, pausing long enough for me to open my eyes, wanting to find out how he was resisting me. "I'm gay."

Oh, fuck! This was going to be a problem. How do I sexually blackmail a ... wait a moment ...?

"Huh?" My face probably ranged through a kaleidoscope of emotions; from horniness to surprise, confusion and then dark satisfaction. "But I didn't ... Are you out?"

He just looked at me, his face a mask of concern.

"Riley," I said, stepping back and suddenly sober. "Come inside. We need to talk about The Winsome Widow."

"I told you," he lamented. Riley's hair was a mess from running his fingers through it in frustration. "I told you a hundred times. It's a secret because nobody tells and nobody tells because nobody would believe us. Worst case, we'd be locked up."

"Try me," I said.

"You won't believe me," he threw his arms in the air. "Then you'll just ask again."

"Try me," I sat back, calmly blocking his frustration and letting him know there was only one way for this to progress.

"Magic!" he blurted sarcastically with another wave of his arms. "There! Are you satisfied? The Winsome Widow is magic! That's your explanation."

"In what way is it magic?" I asked, still calm. I don't think he was expecting me to pursue this line of questioning.

"It's ... like a magic aphrodisiac," he said, settling down a little. "But it doesn't just make you horny; it makes you a rock star lover, too."

I was trying to look impassive to go along with the interrogator persona, but the juxtaposition of Riley's grey hair and contemporary slang tickled a smile out of me.

"All guys are horny," I argued. "And some of them have to be decent lovers; it's the law of averages." I was playing devil's advocate, but this was interesting; Evan had gone from a standard level of horniness and bedroom adeptness to off-the-scale in both on club nights. Having this confirmed by Riley was easily my most exciting lead on The Winsome Widow. "Maybe you're always a rock star in the sack." I paused and then added with a smirk: "The offer still stands, you know. You could always show me what you mean."

"You didn't hear me earlier" he said testily. "I'm gay."

"And yet you're married."

"That's my point exactly!" he gestured grandly, hands flying again for emphasis. "Once a month, my wife gets a mind-blowing fucking ..."

"You fancy yourself a bit, don't you?" I smiled.

He ignored me, "... and the rest of the time I'm picking up guys off the street in Darlinghurst. She has no idea, but she's long since stopped trying to get me interested at any other time. SHE ..." he emphasised the word, drawing it out, "... knows when she's on a good thing and doesn't ask questions."

I hadn't told him about Evan yet but perhaps he had already guessed, given my interest. It had occurred to me more than once that I used to be on a very good thing.

"So you're straight on club night; and gay the rest of the time?" I asked with a little edge of sarcasm in my voice.

"God! You don't get it!" he cried. "The Widow does something to you! After a night there, you'd fuck a dog on a chain ... AND THE DOG WOULD THANK YOU! I choose to go home after The Widow because despite everything, I love my wife and I value our marriage. I could go off to a prostitute, but there's no point; it just doesn't matter who you fuck – whether you love them or hate them or just don't care – it's always the most brain-snappingly orgasmic sex you'll ever have. Before menopause, my wife used the pill to schedule her periods around club night, but before she worked out that little trick, I had to take my wagon elsewhere a couple of times a year. I've fucked guys and girls, prostitutes and people I've picked up in bars ... this one time I used an old cum-soaked street whore with missing teeth ... and I still nearly blew the condom off my cock, I came so hard."

"Listen to me carefully," he said, leaning forward and looking me straight in the eye. "The Widow does something to you; but it's a good thing. You just have to learn how to include it in your life safely. I don't want to know what it is and neither does anyone else; I just want to enjoy it."

"It's hard to believe," I said frankly.

"And yet ... you DO believe it," he said slowly, realising the truth in real time as it came from his mouth. "You've experienced it ... at least, you've been with someone who has."

"Evan," I admitted. "But not since last year."

"Farrer? You left him?" he smiled. "I wondered why he stopped driving. He's been walking back towards Kings Cross; I thought it was for a bus, but it must be for a hooker."

I thought about some nameless prostitute getting my quadruple orgasms and a bolt of jealousy tore through me, making it hard for me to concentrate on where I was taking this interrogation.

"So," I began, trying a new line of questions. "What is it? A pill? Spiked drink?"

He shook his head. "That's what I thought at first. I tried not drinking the wine, but the effect was the same. I told you before; it's magic, there IS no logical explanation."

"Are you trying to tell me," I asked, "that you just go along, have a drink, spin some shit, and then leave with a porn-star cock that just won't quit? Did I miss anything? No shaman with a shrunken head on a stick? Some kind of ritual?"

He visibly reared at that last sentence, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

"A ritual?" I said, smiling and leaning forward. "What kind of ritual? Pentagrams drawn in blood?"

"Don't be stupid!" he spat.

"Hey, you're the one who said it was magic," I defended myself. "What am I supposed to think?"

"The ritual is a story," he sighed. "One of us has to tell a story."

I thought about what Evan had said: men telling lewd stories about their salad days. I had imagined guys drinking pints and laughing drunkenly about feeling up some girl's tits on the train. It seemed there was more to this. I nodded for him to continue.

"One of us tells a story. Penthouse Forum stuff; happy hookers, girl next door, stranger in the hot tub ... that kind of thing."

"And you get a king-size boner and fuck your wife's brains out." More of a statement than a question.

"Well ... pretty much ... yes," he agreed.

"And that's it?"

"That's it!"

I sensed that he was leaving something out, but I didn't really know how to call him on it or ask the right questions to tease it out. Then, a bolt of inspiration hit me and a carnivorous smile spread across my face.

"I want to go there. You can get me in."

If the transient sexual prowess of its members was a mystery, then the library itself was the enigma wrapped in the riddle wrapped in the mystery that was The Winsome Widow gentlemen's club. I was initially charmed by the high shelves stacked with bound volumes; there were no windows and all four walls were completely covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves and a wheeled ladder attached to each wall. In the centre of the room were two Chesterfield sofas and two sumptuous matching armchairs surrounding a long, low coffee table.

As I looked through the titles, I realised that all or at least most of it was erotica of every kinky fetish the mind could imagine – and many that my mind would have preferred not to imagine. Much of it was obviously recent, but some volumes caught my eye that seemed quite old indeed. Picking some at random, I saw publishing dates as early as the nineteenth century.

I picked out what looked like a first edition of Lady Chatterley's Lover and smiled inwardly; this must have been placed here a great many years ago for it to be considered erotica. At best, these days, it could be considered a little racy to give to school kids. Looking at the dedication page, there was a handwritten note.

"For my dearest Connie, please accept this unexpurgated text as a token of my affection and appreciation for the time we shared. David"

I studied Lady Chatterley at school and could probably have turned unerringly to the consummation scene, although I didn't have to; this volume was so well-thumbed that the book simply fell open at the correct page. I found those old, familiar words so easily:

"Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss."

I knew the next line by heart; it should be "And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body." It had always struck me as strange that without even a paragraph break, he went from kissing her naval (which of course maybe wasn't her navel at all) to fucking her, even though the fucking itself lasted a mere sentence; his only excuse for not giving her a proper tonguing was that he was horny.

But that next sentence was missing. I scanned forwards, my eyes catching on words like "moist", "pink", and "loins". Oh my goodness, he didn't just fuck her for one sentence; he sucked her breasts, he kissed her nipples, traced his tongue down over her fluttering belly to the moist parting between her thighs where he lapped at her heady juices and then entered her first with his tongue until she came and then again with his cock. Holy shit! It went on for four fucking pages!

Scanning for other classics, I spotted Dickens' Great Expectations; but knowing how dark it was already with a sadistic school master and young boys, I didn't feel inclined to investigate what unpolished depredations The Winsome Widow may have dug from times that are perhaps best forgotten.

I settled into one of the armchairs with what looked to be a very new collection of short stories about an erotically mischievous Australian girl in a private boarding school. It was wonderfully steamy and before I knew it more than an hour had passed and I felt a lovely tingle in my pussy that I longed to satisfy. I was about to give myself a discreet rub when the door opened; it was Riley, his face beginning to show some of the strain of what I putting him through.

"It's showtime," he said. "Are you ready?"

Ready for what? I wondered. I had only the vaguest idea of what was about to happen; I knew that someone would tell a sexy story – hopefully something as hot as the ones I had been reading – and then a bunch of men would get magically horny and leave in search of some deserving pussy to plunder. But what would happen to me? Would I be immune? Or would I feel the same effect? And if so, how would I satisfy it? Riley was my ride home and a small part of me looked forward to the possibility of luring him into my apartment.

I got up and came over to him, feeling as nervous as he looked. "Will I be okay?"

"If you keep your mouth shut and your jacket on, I think we'll both be okay," he said cryptically.

"You're not going to tell me why I have to wear the tweed jacket, are you?"

"Not now," he shook his head. "Maybe afterwards ... if you promise to leave me alone."

I felt a little hurt. Satisfaction of my curiosity was coming at a great cost; so far I had hurt Evan and myself and now Riley. I hoped it was going to be worth it.

Riley led me back out into the sitting room and towards a door I hadn't noticed earlier that was emblazoned with another relief profile of The Winsome Widow carved into its surface. Inside was the most curious table I had ever seen; it was ostensibly round with twelve seats – as if from some Arthurian legend – but each place at the table was scalloped – or cut out – to create a semi-circular divot into which you could pull your chair, creating a little cocoon between the table and the chair back.

There were only two free spaces for Riley and me; I felt relieved that they were adjacent; somehow having Riley close was comforting, much as he probably hated me. Looking around, I saw Evan as well as a number of other familiar faces from my investigator's photos.

The room was dimly lit, but some sconces over the mantle illuminated a large portrait of a kneeling woman. The artist was behind and to the side so only half of her profile was visible, but it was obvious that she was strikingly beautiful and almost certainly the same woman carved into the door. Her delicate nose, glossy chestnut hair and the edges of her lips were about all we could see of her exposed features, but even in her black widow's weeds it was easy to tell that she had a long, sensuous body with full, high breasts and a slim waist curving into a shapely, rounded bottom. Surrounded by grey shapes in soft focus that were clearly headstones; this was without doubt The Winsome Widow herself.

An old man seated beneath the portrait cleared his throat and, even though nobody had been talking, a deeper hush fell over the gathering as if everybody had stopped breathing. Clearly the oldest in the room, he looked to be at least eighty; Riley himself may have been the next most senior, although he was easily twenty years this man's junior. Looking around, I also noticed that he was the only other one wearing tweed. This must be Johanssen that Evan mentioned earlier.

"Welcome fellow members," his voice was deep and mellifluous, "and a new guest – Mr Barrow," he nodded at me and I raised a few fingers off the table in acknowledgement. "Tonight is a special night; I know that many of you were hoping for one of the old stories and I think you won't be disappointed; in many ways, the tale I will tell tonight is in fact the first story told in The Winsome Widow."

There were dutiful murmurs of approval and some of surprise around the table.

"Our dear friend Mr Waterhouse is now three weeks in the ground. You may not be aware that he and I were two of the founding members of The Winsome Widow over 50 years ago. Now I am the last one. All these years we – and our co-founder, Richard Bachman, sadly taken years before his time – have kept The Widow's secrets, but tonight – my last night," gasps of surprise all around, "I shall share with you all that I know and you eleven will go forward without me as the new founders."

I couldn't believe my luck! I had come for secrets and it appeared I was going to get them; in spades! I knew Riley had been holding back on me a little bit, but it was equally clear that he didn't know everything; there was so much at The Winsome Widow that remained a mystery even to him after thirty or so years of membership.

"Many years hence," Johanssen continued, "only one of you will remain – perhaps it will be you, Mr Barrow, or you, Mr Farrer; young men both with your lives ahead of you – and on that day you shall repeat tonight's story for the third founding. It is for this reason that you must all experience tonight's meeting equally, so Mr Barrow, I am afraid I must ask you to remove your jacket."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from Riley next to me. I had no idea what this tweed jacket business was about; I knew that Riley wanted me to wear it, and I was coming to the opinion that his purpose was to conceal one of The Widow's secrets from me. Whatever the jacket did, it somehow altered the experience of this storytelling ritual.

Nervous nonetheless, my eyes flicked to Johanssen's own tweed jacket. "I myself shall remain in tweed," he answered my unspoken question. "Tonight I shall remain a passive conduit for the tale, and besides," he chuckled in deep and amused tones, "with my blood pressure, my doctor would ..." he paused for a moment and smiled wryly, deep lines of age creasing his face, "... 'pitch a fit,' is the term I believe my grand-daughter would use."

I felt a presence behind and to my side; Stevens had silently appeared there for my jacket. God, the man moved like a cat; I hadn't even heard him come in. I stood and allowed him to take my jacket, leaving me just my padded waistcoat over the shirt and tie. I was more conscious than ever of my breasts, swelling and strapped painfully tight under my shirt.

"I think the tweed waistcoat is a first for The Widow, Mr Barrow. It looks tremendous by the way; I applaud your avant-garde sense of style. What do you think Stevens? Will it matter?"

I felt a surge of adrenaline and my breath caught in my throat; if I removed the waistcoat and its concealing padding then it would be impossible not to notice the slim curves of my hips and narrow waist. I was so close to discovering secrets kept for over fifty years; to be thwarted now would be to shatter me.

"I think not, Mr Johanssen," Stevens replied.

"Very well then," Johanssen said. "I'm sure you are the expert on these matters." Observing my nervousness he addressed me directly again: "You needn't be concerned, Mr Barrow. The experience is at worst unsettling, but it is by no means unpleasant."

A very quiet "Hear, hear" came from across the table, followed by a muted chorus or laughter.

"Very well; let us begin, for I have several tales to tell. Stevens?"

The butler appeared silently once again behind Johanssen's shoulder; he wore a pair of white gloves and was holding a small statue of a woman; or perhaps I should say a goddess, because even in the gloom and from across the table I could feel the raw sexuality of the carved stone.

Johanssen held up his hands in a warding off gesture. "Not tonight, thank you Stevens," he said. "Just having her on the table will be more than enough for my old heart."

Stevens offered the statue to the man on Johanssen's left; he cradled it in both hands, facing him as he stroked a thumb across the hair. Passing it on, the next man repeated the ritual, and so on around the table; some handing it on quickly, some gazing at it for a few extra moments. One man who looked about Riley's age – though not in nearly as good condition – simply allowed the statue to be passed by his seat, grazing the hair with a finger on the way through.

Riley was not a lingerer; he quickly held, stoked and then passed the statue to me. As it touched my hands, I felt a flood of warmth course though my body, like walking into a shopping centre from the cold and feeling those hot blowers over the door wash away all the shivers of the freezing outdoors. Mechanically, I repeated the ritual I had watched the others perform, but at the same time I was spellbound by the goddess in my hands. Had I said the images of The Winsome Widow were beautiful? Well she paled in comparison to this carving. The goddess was completely naked; her legs were together, so only the faintest suggestion of her sex could be seen between her thighs. I could feel the tiny cleft of her buttocks in the palm of my hand, and my eyes followed the sensuous curves of her hips past the perfection of her flat stomach and into the swell of her breasts; one concealed behind the flowing locks of hair cascading over one shoulder, and the other full and round and topped with a small, upturned nipple.

As perfect as the goddess's body seemed, it was in her face that the master carver had presented his finest work. Each tiny, delicate feature: her lips, nostrils, dimples; they were perfect in every regard, but the true magic was captured in her expression, for there could be no doubt that the sculptor had rendered her in the throes of a powerful orgasm. With eyes shut, her lips were parted and mouthing some vocalisation of her passion; her head was laid back with the cords of her slim neck standing taut; and although there was no colour, it was almost possible to detect a flush in the exotic texture of her stone cheeks.