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 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.

"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 skilful 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.