Foreword
Hello readers. My apologies for delaying the beginning of The Winsome Widow, but I must make a couple of small acknowledgements before we start. These in no way impact on the story, so feel free to scroll down to Chapter 1, safe in the knowledge that you have missed nothing of import.
The title for this story came from @sirhugs who posted that and nothing else in the Story Ideas forum on the Literotica Discussion Boards.
My own inspiration came from two sources: in response to @sirhugs title, @Hypoxia suggested that
"The Winsome Widow is a pub with a lurid sign and regulars telling lascivious tales"
. That was all it took for my mind to connect to a wonderful Stephen King short story: The Breathing Method. In King's story, the characters gather at an unnamed Storytelling Club where the members tell tales of mystery and macabre. It includes two stories: an inner story told by one of the club's members and the outer story of the narrator's arrival at the club as a new member, where he discovers that everything is not entirely as it seems; the club holds a dark secret of mystery and macabre to rival any of those told within its walls.
I don't claim the talent of Mr King, but I wanted to tell an erotic tale that captured the occult essence of his Storytelling Club. I doubt that The Winsome Widow will ever find its way into Stephen King's hands, but if it did I would want him to understand that this story is an act of homage, not one of mockery or plagiarism. In service of that homage, I freely admit that I have borrowed the wonderfully austere Stevens from his club for just one night; as well as a few names from his storytelling club, including Johanssen, which I thought was a perfect fit for the last of The Widow's founding members, as well as Evelyn, David Adley, references to Waterhouse, and one other famous name from the pen of Stephen King that I will allow fans to discover for themselves.
Lastly, this is the first of my works that attempts to tell a real story. My previous writing couches erotica in just enough context to allow the reader to connect with the characters; that is not so much a 'story' as a deliberate attempt to dial up the erotica by appealing to more than just the carnal senses. By telling what I hope is a (more) real story here – albeit one that is derivative of a much finer storyteller – I hope I have brought something new to the table.
Thank you readers; now let's get on with the storytelling.
~~~
"It is the tale, not he who tells it"
Stephen King
Chapter 1 - Barrow
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.