The Winsome Widow – Part 2

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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 escort avcılar 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 escort bahcesehir 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 beylikdüzü escort 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.

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