Chapter 1: Barrow

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Mind Control, Magic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Science Fiction, Mystery, Paranormal, Light Bond, Oral Sex, Cream Pie, Slow, sci-fi adult story,sci-fi sex story,science-fiction sex story.

Desc: Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 1: Barrow - The Winsome Widow: a gentleman's club of such secrecy that it has no business registration or certificate of incorporation, no advertising, no web site, no membership roll or club dues. Men come and go of an evening and when they get home, they deliver to their partners a series of orgasms of such paralyzing intensity that no-one dares question how or why for fear of losing The Winsome Widow's magic. But Alex is different and all of that is about to change.

In one of the secluded laneways off Macleay St in Potts Point, Sydney, sits a set of five handsome two-story Victorian brick terraces; each with a brass plaque beside the door identifying the surgeon or barrister who practices within. The westernmost of the group has no name on its plaque; just a relief impression of a woman in profile, not unlike the obverse side of a coin; one from a realm blessed with a most beautiful and elegant monarch.

This building is The Winsome Widow; a gentleman's club of such secrecy that it has no business registration or certificate of incorporation, no advertising, no web site and as near as I could tell, no membership roll or club dues. Men come and go of an evening, but there is no evidence of debauchery, such as deliveries of alcohol or exotic dancers; no loud music, no drunken, stumbling patrons leaving at late hours and never a hint of trouble that has involved law enforcement.

Surprisingly, no disenfranchised or loose-lipped member has ever revealed the secret of what happens within its walls; but perhaps most surprising of all is that the club allows members to admit guests, and to the best of my investigations, every guest has thence become a member and maintained the secrecy of the club. Every single one; no exceptions.

It was not without some trepidation that I stood inside the gate, looking up at the barred and curtained windows as I prepared to enter what members simply called The Widow; my sole intent being to discover her secrets. Curiosity killed the cat? Ah yes, but information revived it!

"We'll be met at the door by Stevens," Riley explained, my reluctant co-conspirator for the evening. "He's the butler; try not to say anything, but if you must then keep it brief."

"Stevens?" I smirked. "How butlery. Not Mr Stevens? No first name?"

"If he has one then I don't know what it is," Riley said without any humour in his voice. "It would be a mistake to underestimate him. He is the most singularly enigmatic man I have ever met; I believe that very little escapes his notice."

"Well, are we going in?" I asked ironically. "Or waiting for him to come outside and get us?"

"You might be surprised," he answered enigmatically. Perhaps it was rubbing off from Stevens.

We walked to the wide oaken door and I looked for either a bell or a knocker but there was none. I glanced at Riley, but he made no move to announce our presence so I reached out to knock.

"Give it a moment," he murmured.

I turned to look at him, my hand poised in mid-knock, when the door was opened by a tall, austere man of about thirty wearing a plain black suit and grey necktie. I half expected tails and a bow tie with a white linen napkin draped over one wrist, but even in his conservative modern dress, Stevens' bearing and manner still screamed English butler.

"Welcome back, Mr Campbell," said Stevens, his neutral accent not exactly English but not exactly Australian either.

"Thank you, Stevens," Riley replied in neutral tones of his own. "This is Alex Barrow, a colleague."

Colleague? I was a junior associate and Riley had his name on the door, but I suppose he could hardly introduce me as his extortionist or his blackmailer.

"Welcome to The Winsome Widow, Mr Barrow," Stevens said dryly, managing to line up all those Ws without sounding comic.

I held out my hand but he chose that moment to step backwards and open the door fully, thereby ignoring my offer of greeting without appearing to do so. It was probably a butler thing; no fraternisation, no contact.

Riley allowed him to take his coat but Stevens made no attempt to remove my tweed jacket, something that Riley insisted I wear; his only condition before acceding to my threatening demand to be brought to the club. I had tried to get an explanation for this insistence, but even upon threat of exposure, he still refused and I had no further gambit to play. In the end I wanted The Widow more than I wanted to know why I had to wear a jacket that went out of fashion fifty years ago. I managed to spare myself the indignity of leather elbow patches and I was actually surprised at how stylish and quirky I looked with a matching waistcoat and a pair of designer, rectangular-framed eyeglasses. Riley only shook his head when he saw my attempt to 'pull off' the tweed look, telling me I had missed the point, but conveniently forgetting that he refused to explain the point in the first place.

I followed Riley down the corridor into a large sitting room with high Victorian ceilings and decorated in timeless gentleman's club chic: timber panelling, burgundy patterned wallpaper, leather wing-back armchairs and an open fire with a good bed of coals and a low flame. I looked around for Stevens, but he was gone so I joined Riley at the liquor cart just inside the door; it was stocked with labelled decanters of red wine, sherry, port, cognac and scotch whiskey. No ice, no mixers, and certainly no beer; I wondered if Stevens would fetch me a Bloody Mary, but I was disinclined to ask.

Riley poured himself a red wine and I nodded when he gestured towards me with the decanter. I sipped as we walked to a vacant pair of armchairs and found it to be exquisite. Riley saw the question on my face and answered it before I could ask.

"They're all from The Widow's cellar," he explained. "Nobody except Stevens has ever seen the bottle, and the most he has ever offered is that it's a special vintage from a local vineyard. Davis is a bit of a wine snob," he flicked his eyes at a forty-ish man reading a newspaper, "and he can't even identify the grape."

He watched as I swirled and sniffed and tasted the sublime flavours of berry and liquorice and black current. "The Widow has many mysteries," he said. "You soon learn to accept and not to question." I smiled inwardly; I planned to answer at least a few of those mysteries before the evening was over.

I heard a familiar voice at the front door and flashed my eyes at Riley.

"It's Evan," I hissed. "Where can we go? I don't want him to recognise me."

"The last time he saw you, you had tits and no beard," Riley said in a low voice, making no indication that he was matching my movements to leave. "Relax. I don't even recognise you."

I watched the door in a dull panic, trying to control my breathing as I mentally practiced my man's voice in my head. Evan walked through the door and I felt a familiar surge of wanting; he looked characteristically hot in a tailored gunmetal grey suit, stylish eyeglasses and square-toed Oxfords polished to a mirror shine.

He poured himself a scotch and – looking around – caught Riley's eye with practiced ease and came over.

"Farrer," Riley greeted him, making no attempt to stand up. "This is Alex Barrow." I wasn't used to this all-male informality of surnames and casual introductions; I didn't know whether to stand and shake hands or to smile and nod.

"Evan Farrer," he said, stepping close enough to obviate the need for me to stand, clearly he didn't expect me to get up.

Making sure I got a good grip, I tried to squeeze in an un-womanly manner and misdirect his attention from my small hand. I felt a spark of lust as we touched, silently reproaching myself at the same time; I dumped him, for fuck's sake; it frustrated me no end that I couldn't just forget about him.

"Evening," I said, deliberately using a one-word greeting so that I could mask my voice with a croak and a cough to clear my throat. I was suddenly very conscious of my disguise; I was accustomed to men running a slow gaze down to my thighs and then haltingly back up over my hips and breasts, currently strapped painfully flat while padding in the lining of my waistcoat straightened out the curves of my waist. I was almost disappointed; Evan didn't check out my tits or my legs; he just smiled and looked at my eyes as we shook hands, two quick pumps and then he let me go.

"I see you're in tweed tonight, Mr Barrow," he smiled with an ironic nod to my jacket. "That's probably sensible for your debut at The Widow."

I just smiled and nodded, raising an ironic eyebrow of acknowledgement indicating a shared understanding that I didn't actually share.

"Yes, that was my recommendation," Riley interjected. "I myself wore a navy blazer on my first visit and I don't mind admitting that I left that night a tad shaken."

"I bet!" Evan laughed quietly. "I bet you did! Oh, I would pay a high price to have seen the look on your face."

"Well you can ask Johanssen then," Riley smiled disarmingly. "He was the one who invited me. He can wax loquacious after a couple of ports, so you should get a pretty vivid description even now, twenty-eight years after the event."

"I know," Evan returned enthusiastically. "I'm told he has the chair tonight? We should hear a fine tale with a long, slow burn."

"Indeed, indeed!" Riley nodded knowingly. "With Waterhouse gone, Johanssen is the last of the old men. If we're lucky he might treat us to one of the old tales; I bet he has a few from the early days that none of us have heard before."

"We can only hope." And then changing the subject, "Actually, I'm glad you're here, Campbell," I was unaccustomed to anyone using Riley's surname without 'Mr' in front of it. "I wanted to pick your brain about a commercial property in the city."

"Well," Riley smiled. "Sit down. I just finished telling Barrow about the library and he was keen to abandon me for a quiet read." This was news to me, but I was more than happy to be out of the way of any conversation; I would just have to trust that my hold over Riley was strong enough that he wouldn't reveal me to Evan.

I took my cue and stood up; even with the lifts in my shoes I was still six inches shorter than Evan and had to stifle an urge to stand on my toes and kiss him. I followed Riley's gaze towards a door and walked off with a smirk as I thought about the quid-pro-quo of giving Evan a beard-burn with my fake facial hair.

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