Chapter 5 - Riley
The months that followed were a misery for me; I loved Evan, and I was sure he loved me, but I couldn’t reconcile that against the secrecy of his God-damned club. There was something going on at that terrace in Potts Point, something sexual, I was sure, and I felt that Evan had in some way been cheating on me, all the while giving me the best sex I would ever experience. I felt jilted and wronged and completely justified in my actions; but I also felt petty and small and ashamed of myself. Secret men’s business; what’s the big fucking deal?

If it was just about what I thought of as cheating, then dumping him should have been the end of it; but of course it wasn’t. Hell, under the right conditions I probably would have considered swinging to spice up our sex life, so I couldn’t afford to get too holy on the idea of cheating; not that I had any evidence anyway.

The problem was a simple one: curiosity. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t know his secret; it was that I wasn’t allowed to know his secret, and that just wasn’t acceptable.

After months of self-recriminations and soul searching, I resolved to continue my pursuit of the mysterious men’s club by engaging a private investigator. I told him everything I knew about the club; its location and the night that it operated being the sum total of my knowledge, and one week and $2000 later he presented to me the following information, some of which I outlined earlier: it is called The Winsome Widow; it is not a registered business, nor does it appear to collect dues from members; bank searches of Evan and other members reveal no payments to a common and suspicious vendor; and the building is owned by something called The Adley Family Trust, although it is not the listed residence of any person.

He took photographs of several members and managed to trace the names of most of them; he surreptitiously interviewed their spouses and friends but came up dry; no new information. And that was it! I thought it was going to be a complete waste of $2000 until he went through the photographs with me; they were all unfamiliar – even with the names supplied – until the second last one: Riley Campbell, a senior partner at my very own firm.

Jackpot!

I wasn’t immediately sure how this helped; I already knew the identity of one member, Evan, and that was no help to me. What I needed with Riley was some leverage; something I couldn’t get from Evan… a sex scandal with a junior associate perhaps. Most men wouldn’t care, but a powerful man? A married man? Such a man might be prepared to part with one secret to keep another one.

~~~
My chance came barely a month later when the partners funded a celebration for landing a big new client at work. I had arranged several opportunities to bump into Riley in the office, smiling and flirting with him, making sure he knew my name and knew I was single. It wasn’t actually that difficult; I found him attractive for an older man, and he was smart and witty and a good conversationalist. On one of our ‘chance encounters’ in the kitchen, I actually found myself giggling behind my hand and flashing my eyes at him, not because I was trying to seduce him, but because I was genuinely flattered and entertained by his attention.

On the night of the celebration, the partners had booked out the function area of a local venue that served nice beer and wine in quantities that spoke of their intentions to entice their clients in their range of cigars and premium scotches. I was one of the first to arrive and approached the barman on my own.

“A bottle of vodka, please,” I requested.

“Sorry Ma’am,” he smiled, “I can only serve drinks in glasses.”

“I don’t want you to serve it to me,” I parried, flashing my eyes at him flirtatiously and placing a $100 note on the bar. “I want you to pour it down the sink, fill it up with water and then make me Bloody Marys with it.”

A quick study, he understood immediately that I wanted to appear to drink all night without getting drunk. “I could save you some money by filling an empty bottle with water,” he grinned.

“What’s your name?” I leaned forward, smiling and giving him a superior view down my dress.

“Dan,” he responded simply.

“Dan,” I said. “I’m Alex. Come closer; I want to give my new best friend a kiss.”

Dan leaned over the bar and I gave him a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Now, Dan,” I said in conspiratorial tones. “I would like a Bloody Mary, made with your finest vodka, please.”

“Bloody Mary, coming right up, Alex,” he replied in his efficient bar-tenderly voice.

I watched as he retrieved an almost empty bottle of vodka, tipped it out and filled it with water, and then made my Bloody Mary with it.

“My friends will be ordering me the same drink,” I said, “and …”

“And you’d like me to make it with your personal vodka?” he asked.

“Dan,” I smiled, “you are man of astute vision.” I pushed the money towards him.

“You can hold onto that for the price of another kiss,” he said, perhaps not feeling he had earned the money, having poured out only about five dollars worth of vodka.

Knowing a good deal when I see one, I leaned forwards again and gave him a softer, longer kiss; full on the lips with a little “Mmmm” at the end. Dan looked pretty pleased with it and I wasn’t complaining either. I took my Virgin Mary and staked out a nearby cluster of armchairs and sofas around a low table from which I could watch for Riley.

It was easier than I expected; Riley arrived with one of the other partners and saw me sitting alone; I waved and smiled and they both came to sit with me, bringing me another not-so-Bloody Mary. They were possibly just being polite by not leaving a colleague to sit on her own, but I don’t think the combination of the low chair, my short skirt and crossed legs revealing the embroidered tops of my stockings did any harm.

The place soon filled up with people and noise and between my skirt and Riley’s charisma, we had a regular progression of visitors to our table, obviating the need for him to mingle in a more partnery fashion. I took many opportunities to cross and recross my legs, providing little glimpses of my red lace panties to keen observers, while also tugging at my hem in mock outrage at its inexcusable affront to my modesty as it continually rode up over the tops of my stockings.

As the evening wore on, I consumed six or more of my special Bloody Marys; adjusting my perceived level of drunkenness with each one. In one inspired move, I leaned over the table to pick up my glass – providing a long, sexy look down my cleavage and then juggled the glass as I sat back, slopped a little over the edge and cried out as I spread my legs to avoid staining my stockings; holding them open for a few moments with my bare thighs and tiny panties on show while I laughed at myself and licked tomato juice off my fingers. Between the red lace knickers and my red lips licking the red tomato juice from my red-tipped fingers… well if there was any guy there NOT thinking about sinking their purple prick into my pink pussy, then they’re either blind or gay.

Finally at around 11pm, I caught Riley looking at his watch and then he drained his glass in what appeared to be obvious moves preparatory to leaving. Now was the time to make my play. I looked at my own watch and said “Oh goodness, is that the time?” and fished my car keys out of my bag.

“Early start for me tomorrow,” I said, standing up. As I edged past Riley, I pretended to overbalance towards the table and then, over-correcting, I tipped backwards, waving my arms and then fell directly into his lap to the raucous amusement of everyone at the table.

“Oh, my hero,” I laughed, leaning sideways and kissing him on the cheek; making sure he had an excellent view down my top. “I think I’m falling for you, Riley.”

Everyone dutifully giggled at my wit as I struggled out of his lap, allowing my car keys to jingle so that there could be no mistake that I intended to drive in my drunken state.

“You’re not driving home, are you Alex?” Riley asked with a frown.

“I’m fine,” I dismissed him with felt like a carefree, inebriated wave. “You can’t get drunk on Bloody Marys,” I smiled lopsidedly with sage wisdom. “The Worcestershire Sauce neutralizes the alcohol.” I winked at him.

“Well, I don’t think the science on that one is quite final,” Riley smiled. “I was just about to leave anyway; I’ll give you a ride.”

Bingo! “Don’t be ridiculous!” I said with an over-expressive wave, which had me wobbling on my heels again. “I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t an offer, Alex,” he said. “As of now it’s a condition of your employment.”

“Oh, well,” I smiled. “Since you put it that way…” I held out a hand for him and although he took it politely, he didn’t use it to help himself up; probably figuring I would finish up in his lap again. That was wise on his part; I felt a little electric pulse of excitement at his touch and dropping back into his lap felt like a distinct possibility.

“Bye, everyone,” I waved with my free hand. I wondered if I was overdoing it; I didn’t actually want everyone to think I was fucking Riley, I just wanted him to realise that they would believe my story when I blackmailed him into telling me The Winsome Widow’s secrets.

When we got to Riley’s car – something sleek and dark and German – he held the door open for me and I felt a little pang of guilt. He was a wonderful man; I could tell by the way he made me feel that fucking him would actually be my pleasure, but then I would have to use that against him. I didn’t feel very proud of my actions at that moment, but I was still driven by my insatiable curiosity and couldn’t help myself.

I was prepared to go through with my blackmail even if we didn’t fuck by threatening to lie about it; but I kept up the seduction by chatting and laughing as he drove because I wanted the extra insurance and – I was realising more and more – I also wanted his cock. Why do these Winsome Widow men get me so wet?

When we got to my apartment, Riley stopped but didn’t shut off the engine; it looked like he was going to be a gentleman after all. This was going to take some more creativity. I had considered this possibility and planned a few contingencies; a kiss goodbye in the car that gets out of control; or “I’m afraid, walk me to my door”; but the drunken damsel was working for me and I thought I could milk it a bit longer.

As I got out of the car, I leaned back down to flash some cleavage and say goodbye, and then stepped back and tripped on the curb, falling to the concrete on my bottom with a yelp. Instantly the engine was switched off and Riley was running around the front of the car to help me up. I gave him another flash of panties and stockings as he helped me up and then fell into his chest, running my fingertips beneath the lapels of his jacket and checking out his muscles. He was in really great shape for his age and I could feel my nipples tingling with excitement.

“I don’t think that barman was using enough Worcestershire,” I said, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

“Are you okay to get inside on your own?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Um?” I started to release him and looked down at my wobbling heels. “Maybe. I don’t know,” I looked back up sheepishly.

“Come on, then,” he took my arm and beeped his car locked.

We got into the lift lobby without too much tripping. “What floor am I on?” I asked drunkenly.

He raised a speculative eyebrow at me, waiting to see if I would work out what was wrong with that question.

“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 momen…?

“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 emphasized 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.”

Chapter 6 - Johanssen
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 realized 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 fifty 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.

“Alex,” I heard Riley breathe beside me.

I had held the goddess longer than any of the others, but still I felt disinclined to let her go. A powerful machinery inside me had begun to turn over; it had started with the warm flush, but now I could feel my nipples tingling and a wet warmth in my loins. I took one last opportunity to stroke her exposed breast and felt a direct electric connection from her nipple, though my finger, up my arm and down to my sex; I knew that given another thirty seconds with her in my hands that I would come without ever having touched myself.

Reluctantly I passed her to my left; almost prising my hands off her slim form, fighting the desire to keep her for myself until the hot promise that had begun to burn in my loins was fulfilled. When finally I released her, I could still feel the connection; it was fading as she moved away from me but still there and tingling in my fingertips. My heart racing, I could hear my own breath coming in gasps and I caught Riley looking at me from the corner of my eye. I watched the goddess as she completed the circle and was placed in the centre of the table, and then I concentrated on controlling my breathing lest it develop into moans that would betray my gender.

~~~
“It might amuse you to know,” Johanssen began, “that The Winsome Widow began not as a storytelling club, but as a Bridge foursome. Of course we did not have the club name at the time, but we met in this very house; Waterhouse, Bachman, myself, and the owner of this building at the time, Mr David Adley.

“This was in fact Adley’s primary residence, one that he shared with his lovely bride, Evelyn. You can see her captivating portrait behind me, so I need not spend too much time describing to you the depth of her allure, except to say that it was surpassed only by the beauty of her soul. To meet her, even a blind man would be smitten by her first word before ever he felt the delight of her touch. As a young man in my twenties, I myself admit to a certain crush; a jealousy on the part of my dear friend Adley, and doubtless the same was true for Waterhouse and Bachman.

“It will not surprise you to learn that our Bridge night was the last Thursday of each month. It is customary for a Bridge foursome to comprise two couples; however Evelyn had no love for the game and the rest of us were all bachelors at the time. Evelyn would serve us drinks when we arrived, usually attired in some exquisite gown that clung to her perfect curves, and then she would retire, leaving us men to discuss our day before moving into this very room for the card game.

“Every month we would cycle partners in an unspoken pact to discourage the development of secret signs that would enable cheating during the bidding phase. Waterhouse was by far the most skillful player and would inevitably win when paired with myself or Bachman, however the most closely fought matches came when he was paired with Adley.

“I don’t mean to suggest that Adley was a poor Bridge player; in fact the opposite was true; the man possessed a stunning intellect and a photographic memory that lent him a tremendous advantage in the game. The problem, you see, was in the playful nature of his young wife. We never discussed it but I have no doubt that Waterhouse and Bachman were also aware of Evelyn’s presence in the room, even though to this day I do not know whether Adley thought we remained ignorant.

“You see, after Evelyn had served us drinks, she would retreat to this room and secret herself beneath the tablecloth. With a flair for the dramatic, she would wait until her husband had a hand that compelled him to bid aggressively, and then she would move between his legs and pleasure him, timing her most sensuous stokes with his turn at the bid.

“As distracting as it was to play cards to the wet sounds of Adley’s manhood sliding down the throat of his beautiful wife, not one of us ever challenged him on the matter, such was the erotic allure of the act performed under the innocent veil of a gentlemen’s card game. At the end of the evening we three would leave with painful erections and farcically walk in three different directions to one of the many brothels – illegal in those days, of course – that dotted the Kings Cross and Potts Point landscape.

“The conclusion of this part of the tale is, I’m afraid, as predictable as it is true. The timing of our Bridge night on the last Thursday of the month was quite practical for me as my salary at that time was paid in cash on the first day of the month. Not that we played for money, of course, but my visits to local whore houses after Bridge had become rather habit forming and the poor state of my fiscal liquidity by the end of the month was sometimes the encouragement I needed to abstain from the pleasures offered by Kings Cross’s superior knocking shops, although I hasten to add that sometimes it simply meant that I would darken the door of one of the less reputable establishments instead.

“On the night in question, Adley caught me counting my billfold and – asking me if I was planning a purchase – I found I was unable to lie and settled for the lesser sin of omission; I told him that I was planning to go out afterwards and was checking that I had sufficient funds, which of course was all entirely true. The Adleys were quite wealthy and for a moment I was afraid that David would embarrass me by offering a loan; I still blush at the thought, not because of the state of my own affairs, but because I thought so lowly of my friend to believe he would do such a thing in the company of others.

“’Well,’ he said cryptically, ‘perhaps we can save you some of your money.’ At the time I had no idea what he meant, although in the context of my story I suppose that you all have my advantage. Adley seemed inclined not to pursue the conversation and I was more than happy to avoid further discussion regarding my plans after I left his house, so we spoke of other things until it was time to play.

“Adley always sat in the same place for cards and the rest of us would change positions to make up the pairs; but on this occasion as we entered the drawing room he took the seat opposite, claiming that a change of perspective might bring him a change of luck. As I was to be his partner for the evening, I took his place here beneath the mantle and from opposite me, Adley smiled winningly and tipped me a wink, which of course I did not understand at the time, although I soon would.

~~~
Johanssen paused and looked around the table. “I feel as though the rest of this story is redundant in its predictability, but for the sake of tradition I will continue. There is much more to come afterwards and perhaps you will find those parts of the tale more interesting.” He coughed twice into his hand and Stevens materialised as if from nowhere with a glass of water.

“Thank you, Stevens,” Johanssen spent a few moments visibly regathering his thoughts as eleven pairs of eyes watched him patiently; predictable as the story may be, his oratory skills were exceptional and I for one wanted for nothing more than to listen to him reveal the secret of the beautiful wife beneath the table and her subsequent pleasuring of the wrong man.

The anticipation alone was making me tingle and I wasn’t the only one; a couple of men took the opportunity to lean forward and touch the stone idol in the middle of the table. With a thrill of excitement, I copied them and once again felt that surge of warmth flood through my body and then contract like a hot sun to a point deep in the core of my womanhood where it burned with erotic heat.

~~~
“Waterhouse won the contract for the first hand; however Adley and I made the best of our inferior cards and managed to thwart him by a trick. In the hand that followed, Adley opened with a bid of One Club and I was delighted to note that I held the King and Ten in that suit as well as two more spot cards and some high ranking cards in other suits.

“Bachman raised us to One Heart and I had no hesitation calling Two Clubs in support of Adley’s opening bid. In my excitement at winning the opening hand and receiving such promising cards for the second, I had completely forgotten Evelyn’s delightfully playful habit of hiding beneath the table; but it came back to me in a forceful rush when I felt a light touch on the inside of each knee, gently forcing my legs apart.

“Well, gentlemen, here was a conundrum; what to do? I flatter myself to believe that I was thinking clearly at the time – even though it is likely that my reptile brain took over at the instant of Evelyn’s first touch – but the choices as they presented themselves to me were these: I could expose Evelyn and thereby embarrass her and Adley both, thus jeopardizing our friendship (remember gentlemen, this was circa 1960; free love and sex parties were still several years in the future); or I could attempt to silently alert Evelyn to the fact that I was not her husband, which I suppose is what I should have done; or I could savour the moment and allow her to continue and discover for herself, for it seemed probable that she would do exactly that at any moment.

“Did I make a choice? Really, what choice could I make? This woman had been the subject of so many of my private fantasies and now one of them was playing out as if it was directly fed from my own imagination. Gentlemen, if you think you may have done differently, then I put it to you that you have never had the woman of your dreams kneeling between your legs and slipping her delicate hand into your fly.

“And this is precisely the situation in which I found myself; to this day, and I have replayed these moments in my head many times. I do not have any recollection of Evelyn even unzipping me, nor of her freeing me from my underwear. To my memory, there seems to be no space of time between the moment she opened my legs and the next when she closed her small hand around my shaft.

“Somehow the bidding continued; I believe that I may have raised one more time, but that was instinct; I was virtually incapable of even seeing the cards in my own hand, let alone counting potential winners or intuiting the likely strength of Adley’s hand. With each new bid Evelyn squeezed me, flooding my cock with fresh supplies of blood and bringing me to a degree of hardness that I scarcely believed possible. I slid down in my chair to give her better access and she instantly took it, sliding her fist all the way to the base of my shaft and massaging me with an action more befitting a milking maid than the urban lady that she was.

“All thoughts of calling some kind of halt to her game were forgotten; either she couldn’t tell the difference between cocks in the darkness beneath the table, or – and at the time I preferred this idea; she discovered that she was milking the wrong cock too late to do anything about it and good manners forced her to continue to the logical conclusion.

“Anyway, Adley won the contract for us, something insane like Four No Trumps, and play began. It was a mercy that I was the dummy for the hand; I found new respect for my friend that he was capable of playing cards in this condition, because I certainly was not; with my hand face up, I simply played out the cards that Adley called, but I was caught on at least three occasions playing the wrong one.

As the game progressed, Evelyn introduced her other hand, warmly cupping my balls and gently squeezing them while she massaged that sensitive place behind, all the while stroking with painstaking slowness up and down my shaft, squeezing with alternate fingers until I reflexively strained my cock whereby she would hold it in a death grip at the base, trapping the excess blood flow and making it throb with the painful need for release.

“With two tricks to play, Adley had the lead but we had already lost the few tricks that we could afford. As he led his second to last card – the King of Diamonds – Evelyn picked up her pace, stoking me faster and longer, gripping my balls tighter and rubbing the pre-cum around the tip of my cock with each upstroke. I could feel the gathering climax in my balls and I felt a moment of panic at the mess that I knew I must create. I was entirely at her mercy, either she would make me ejaculate over my trousers, which would make for an embarrassing exit at the close of the evening; or she would allow me to cum all over her; and gentlemen, I don’t mind telling you that the mental image of the exquisite Mrs Adley crouched beneath the table in her evening gown with my cock in her hands while she sprayed my seed over her beautiful face tipped me over the edge.

“Adley collected the penultimate trick and played the Jack of Diamonds, which Bachman could not follow and nor could I; but as I played my card, my balls swelled massively, causing me crab forwards in my chair and shoot my card across the table. As Adley retrieved it and placed it on the trick, I felt Evelyn’s soft, painted lips close around the head of my cock, and as she sucked me smoothly and deeply in the warm, heavenly recesses of her mouth, my balls released and I pumped what felt like one long continuous stream of cum into her throat. I groaned with the release in chorus with Adley right as Waterhouse played the winning Queen, thereby depriving us of the contract, and then I sat back reeling with the ecstasy of Evelyn’s fingers and tongue milking the last few drops of spunk from my wilting member.

~~~
The story was so wonderfully vivid; as a woman I was relating to the actions of Evelyn rather than those of the young Johanssen, but even so, as he told the tale I felt my legs open involuntarily as if unseen hands forced them apart and felt my clitoris burn with imagined contact of my own secret lover beneath the table.

Johanssen paused for another sip of water, and I took the opportunity to reach for the idol once again. I was fully aroused by this time and felt my own secretions freely lubricating my pussy lips and they rubbed together deliciously as I moved in my seat. Grasping the goddess tightly in one hand, I pressed the perfect curve of her buttocks into my palm and stroked my thumb over her flat stomach, up and down, touching the underside of her exposed breast as rivers of fire coursed up my arm and directly down into my sex, sending fresh floods of juices welling from my opening.

The burning in my pussy was building to an unbearable level, and I almost dropped the idol, causing it to wobble on the table as I sat back, my back arching as I writhed against my chair, loving the gentle abrasion of my wet panties against the engorged, open folds of my pussy.

My mind was spinning; after the extraordinary sex with Evan and then Riley’s assertions of magic at work in The Winsome Widow, I was already half convinced that there was some supernatural power at work even before I arrived at the club. Any residual doubts I may have harboured were fully dispelled when I first touched the idol, and by this point in Johanssen’s tale I was a complete convert. It was plain to me that some unearthly force was acting through the idol, but exactly what was it doing? It was as though it was amplifying the story and beaming it directly into my brain, bypassing my ears. In a strange way, it seemed that I was feeling what Johanssen felt, but as a woman I had no frame of reference for the sensations he described in his cock, and as a result they were imperfectly translated.

Johanssen continued with the story.

~~~
“If I ever believed the fantasy of mistaken identity then Evelyn quickly dispelled it by continuing her game just as Bachman shuffled the cards and continued ours. Releasing my limp cock from her mouth, she moved backwards and untied my right shoe, removing both it and my sock to leave me barefoot. Guiding me with a firm hand, she crossed my legs at the knee and then with a whisper of satin I felt her mount my raised right foot and press the wet warmth of her womanhood into my instep. She raised my trouser leg and, closing her arms around my calf, she hugged me close, and I felt the swell of her naked breasts first open around my knee and then envelop me in their soft warmth as she squeezed them between her arms. Slowly pumping her hips, she rubbed her steaming slit up and down the length of my foot, grinding and writhing and forcing her outer labia to peel open against the hard knob of bone on the top of my foot.

“Flexing my leg, I kicked up, lifting her knees off the floor as she buried her face in the meat of my thigh to stifle a scream. I bounced her like this, eight, ten, a dozen times, and felt her copious juices running down my foot and coating my toes, and so I wiggled them just to feel the erotic essence of her sex sliding between them. Although not my intention, I felt my great toe slide frictionlessly between the cheeks of her ass and she stiffened and froze in her wanton fucking of my foot. Thinking that I had overstepped the parameters of this encounter, I removed my toe only to have Evelyn buck angrily against my leg, squeezing my calf in frustration.

“Experimentally, I slid my toe back between her firm cheeks and sat in stunned wonder, playing random cards on random tricks while she ground on the tip of my toe (the nail trimmed mercifully short) until she brought me to the opening of her asshole. Before I knew what she was doing, she slipped me effortlessly into her back passage and then, incredibly, gave me the ‘giddy up’ gesture by pumping her hips and squeezing her thighs around my foot.

“I resumed bouncing her and lifting her off the floor until I felt her stiffening against my leg, arching and straining and pushing my toe deeper into her tight ass as she ground her soaking pussy against my foot. A moment later and Evelyn clenched her sphincter and her thighs and bucked against my knee in the throes of orgasm as I felt her ejaculate in a warm flood over my foot. Sliding me gently out of her ass, she opened my thighs again and slowly and lovingly, she kissed and sucked my cock back to life.

~~~
I related more closely to the story of Evelyn pleasuring herself, and I found that as Johanssen described each part of the story, I was able to follow along in my imagination, channelling the power of the idol so that I actually felt my own pussy lips peeling back and the instep of an unseen stranger’s foot gliding effortlessly up and down my steaming slit.

I recoiled as he came to the part about the anal toe-fucking – I have never felt an attraction for anal sex – but it was as though I could feel Evelyn’s pleasure and experience her need, and as she brought his toe to her tight rear entrance, the moment overcame me; I relaxed my muscles and felt a delicious fullness enter my virgin ass.

With that wriggling digit tickling my sensitive little back door and the hard saddle of an imaginary foot opening my aching lips, I allowed Evelyn’s spirit to take me completely; I felt her orgasm building in my own core and as she climaxed, so did I; my own come gushing from my hot, open cunt and running down my thighs.

It was all I could do not to scream; holding my breath and pinching my eyes closed; I just held on and waited for the fiery eruptions in my core to subside until I could draw a shaky breath again with some measure of control.

Opening my eyes, I carefully scanned around to check who had seen me come, but everyone was listening in rapt attention as Johanssen described Evelyn’s second round of cock-sucking. With some trepidation, I reached beneath the table to see how much of a mess I had made of my trousers, and I could scarcely believe what I found, nothing! Just some wetness from my earlier secretions on my panties, but no ejaculation, even though I had felt it gushing down my thighs in a flood.

The other thing I noticed as I touched myself was that I was still insatiably horny; my orgasm hadn’t quelled any of my need; if anything it had made me more desperate. The truth dawned on me with stunning clarity; I hadn’t come at all, perhaps through the power of the idol I had actually experienced Evelyn’s orgasm rather than my own.

I began putting together what little I knew of the idol’s power. Firstly, it made you indescribably horny and oversexed; undoubtedly it was this effect that explained Evan’s and Riley’s post-club sexual energy. Secondly, it channelled sexual sensation, or at least the recollection of that sensation, from one person to another; this explained how I was able to feel some of Johanssen’s recalled feelings. I likened the sensation to picking up a radio signal, and in my case, the signal I picked up from Johanssen was filled with static because I was a woman.

The real mystery is how I felt Evelyn’s orgasm. It could have been my own imagination building an orgasm from Johanssen’s description, and maybe I was mistaken about the ejaculation that I felt, but that didn’t feel right; as real as the climax felt, it just didn’t feel like mine. But if not mine, then whose? In a room full of men, where was the woman whose orgasm I tuned in to?