The Widow of Winslow


I looked around, startled from my study of the Ouija board by the voice—a female voice, whispering my name, soft, sweet, and enticing.

“Trina. Come to me.”

Breathy and sexy, it seemed directionless. All I knew for sure was that it wasn’t any of the others around the table calling me. They couldn’t even hear it. Judging by their response—or lack of it—they heard only the medium, droning on about crossing the spiritual divide, or some shit I’d tuned out a while earlier.

“Let go, Trina. Come to me.”

That disembodied voice should have been terrifying, given the setting—a séance in a supposedly haunted house—but to me it felt calming. More than calming, actually. It felt alluring. It reverberated in my chest and my tummy, making me tingle there—making me tingle below there. Mysterious, I was prepared for. Confronting, scary—they were both within the realms of possibility. I’d kept an open mind coming in, but I’d never guessed my first response to the supernatural—the real supernatural—would feel sexy. I was getting wet, for fuck’s sake, and I wanted more.

Let go, the voice had said. I closed my eyes and opened my senses, not really searching, but following my instincts and letting her find me. My fingertips tingled where they rested on the tablecloth, and an erotic warmth crept up my arms, spreading molten lust through my body. Oh, I so did not expect this. I tipped my head back, nostrils flared, revelling in the ecstasy that lit up my nerve endings.

An irresistible force drew me towards the table. It became insubstantial beneath me and with a weightless, roller-coaster lurch, I … slipped … that’s the only way I can think to describe it. I slipped into the table, its oaken surface cutting through my stomach, painless and bloodless. I threw out my hands to arrest the slide, but they both passed through as if through smoke. With nothing to hold me up, I spilled forwards on to the floor with a sickening sense of vertigo, the table passing harmlessly through my head.

“Hello Trina.”

Disoriented and gasping with surprise, I cast about wildly to find a young woman with chestnut hair kneeling next to me in a long evening gown. Her full, ripe breasts, the slim curve of her waist, her tiny, round bottom perched on her heels; they were all lovingly outlined in sleek, clinging, black satin. With delicate features and glowing, flawless skin, she was every bit as beautiful as the grainy black and white photos in the brochure. They were taken by an unknown photographer at one of her lavish Roaring 20’s parties to pair up returned servicemen with war-widows, and it was hard to believe the famous beauty of The Widow of Winslow wasn’t airbrushed. Until now.

“Hello Evelyn.” I made the instant connection and sounded far more casually accepting than I felt. After all, this was the woman I’d come to speak with; I just never imagined our meeting would be so intimate.

I expected some kind of response from the others around the table, if not to my dramatic fall, then at least to the sound of my voice. Staring into Evelyn’s dancing eyes, I listened to the medium’s deep, sonorous tones as he relayed scandalous rumours, like working with the widows she took in to coach them in the conjugal arts.

In the darkness, the legs of those seated around us were all colourless shadows, but Evelyn was vibrant with soft, milky skin and red, painted lips. She simply shone. The table legs and the pattern in the carpet beneath her were shrouded in gloom, but Evelyn was just—I don’t know how better to describe it—visible.

Looking around at the unbroken circle of chairs and legs, some important piece of information pecked at the edges of my consciousness. It was like a word on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t remember. I cast about again, trying to orient myself. Which seat was mine?

There are no empty seats. One of those sets of legs is me.

I turned back to Evelyn with panic constricting my chest. “Am I dead?”

By way of an answer, Evelyn reached past to touch the figure seated behind my left shoulder. As she did, I felt a hand close around my own calf and squeeze the muscle there. I jerked in fright, but the sensation persisted even though I could see that there was nobody touching me.

That’s my chair. That’s me!

The me beneath the table was just my consciousness, but I could still feel everything that happened to my inert body. Studying myself more closely, I saw that I glowed with the same inner light as Evelyn. I watched as she stroked higher on the motionless form at the table, and I shivered to feel her touch creep invisibly past my knee and under my skirt. I had only ever been mildly curious about the idea of intimacy with another woman, but my arousal from her siren’s call washed away any reluctance I might have felt. She paused and looked into my eyes, as if asking whether I wanted this. I licked my dry lips, and with a breathless nod parted my legs. The ghostly eroticism was captivating. Evelyn touched the stranger in the chair—I couldn’t yet think of that person as me—but I felt her every caress acting invisibly on my own thighs. It left me dizzy with passion and mounting desire.

I held my breath as she moved her thumb to the junction between seated-Trina’s thighs, and then gasped with mingled disbelief and passion when her ghostly fingers passed straight through the panties to touch the wet entrance of her (my?) womanhood. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but I could feel the effects. Avoiding direct contact with my clitoris for the moment, she stroked the tip of her thumb through my steaming slit and teased apart my soft inner folds.

Evelyn radiated a magnetic eroticism that made me want to draw closer, made me want to touch her. I wanted to make myself—my astral self—part of this impossible ritual. Feeling adventurous, I reached to touch real-Trina’s knee and watched agog as my ghostly hand passed straight through her real flesh.

“Concentrate,” Evelyn whispered in my ear, taking my hand in hers. “You can do it.” She interlocked fingers and placed our joined palms over the top of real-Trina’s skirt, stroking softly so that I could feel that ghostly touch, even though it was only her hand I could feel and not my own.

“Focus on your hand, Trina,” she breathed in my ear, then she softly brushed her lips against mine, both of us gasping at the moment of contact.

Like a fluorescent light flickering on, I felt the fabric beneath my hand gain substance while a new sensation materialised on my knee. To say it felt surreal is a huge understatement—like touching yourself with a hand that has gone to sleep, except much, much weirder. My mind was still reeling but now I was connected to the seated woman; she really was me!

I was surprised at the arousal my own foreign touch provoked. It was intimate and mystical, and it was staggeringly erotic. I felt Evelyn toying at my entrance again with her free hand and I untwined our fingers, moving up my seated self’s thigh to meet her, only to be thwarted by my own panties, which Evelyn’s hand was able to magically pass through.

Our cheeks were almost touching. “Show me how.”

Placing her free hand over mine once again, she drew it back down seated-Trina’s thigh and then with her fingers slightly ahead of mine, she slid slowly forwards again, and I felt the delicious skin-on-skin touch slide up my kneeling leg towards my pussy.

“Let yourself go,” she whispered in my ear, and then as she took the lobe between her lips in a soft kiss, I watched my own fingers pass through the thin nylon and felt the electric contact at my entrance. The sensation was beyond any earthly experience, certainly beyond masturbation, to have another body so utterly at your mercy, but to have your every touch reflected back at you. The erotic possibilities were beyond my power to resist.

Why do dogs lick their privates? The old joke goes. Because they CAN! Har, har, har! It was years after I first heard that one as a child before I finally understood it, but now I saw the deeper truth. We masturbate with our hands because that’s all we can use. Another image entered my mind: a pornographic picture I saw on the internet of a gymnast—a contortionist, I suppose—naked and balanced on her hands with her body curled over her head so that she could pleasure herself with her tongue. I remember looking at that photo jealously, wondering how it would feel to lick my own pussy.

Evelyn sensed my need and backed away, allowing me to move closer and kneel between seated-Trina’s open legs. Disconcerted by the sight of my eerily lit, ghostly hands passing through the fabric of her panties, I closed my eyes and went by feel alone. The mental vision was complete. I imagined this as a threesome, with me pleasuring the seated-Trina while a third person lay between my open legs, copying my actions stroke for stroke.

Beyond foreplay now, I made my hand into a gun and slid first one and then two fingers into the tight embrace of my pussy, stretching my opening with a delicious ripple of parting muscles and pushing all the way in to the webbing. Oh, this is the way masturbation was supposed to be. As much as I love touching myself, it’s all but impossible to get the angle necessary for deep penetration without uncomfortably twisting your wrist. But this? I plunged effortlessly in and out of my soaking hole with long, confident strokes, building up a rhythm and fucking myself harder and faster as my arousal grew. Adding a third finger I pushed hard, roughly stretching my cunt, flicking the hard nub of my clitoris with my thumb tip as each stroke bottomed out on my engorged, swollen pussy lips.

The feeling of that ghostly hand between my crouching legs, mercilessly stretching my poor pussy open beneath the sheer nylon of my panties, was bringing me ever closer to climax. I didn’t want to finish until I had experienced everything on offer, so with an animal cry of passion, I pulled out my dripping fingers and dived back in with my tongue, tasting my naked essence at its source for the first time.

That heady, womanly taste in my mouth and the wild, exploring ghost tongue in my pussy brought me right to the brink. Teetering at the edge—ah, ah, ah—like a sneeze that just won’t come, I strained forwards, trying to lick deeper and feeling a pang of guilt for lovers past whom I had silently condemned for similar shortcomings.

“Free yourself, Trina.” The voice came with another hot kiss to my earlobe, and as before, her touch gave me the power to manipulate my astral state. I strained forward again and my tongue simply … grew!

Oh, good lord, it felt like a giraffe tongue—long and thick and prehensile, sliding into my silky canal, probing and searching every corner, stretching and licking and filling me up with its thick heat until I was sure I would burst. And then I did. Stretched to the limit, my orgasm finally erupted—an explosive release that pounded out from my pussy and set my nerve endings ringing with the shock wave.

Oh, the ecstasy. I squeezed down with my secret muscles and crushed my own tongue. Fighting back and thickening that powerful muscle, I stretched and delved; I teased all the places that set me afire and allowed my climax to take wing, hopping from peak to peak in breathless, spiralling flights of release.

Slowly I wound down, thighs quivering and breath coming in gasps. I fell back from seated-Trina’s open thighs, spent, but deeply satisfied. I found Evelyn’s luminous figure kneeling beside me still, and we smiled.

“Why?” I asked. “Why me? Why this?”

“Why not?” she replied with a flash of her bright eyes. “Life is short. Consider it a gift.”

She cupped my chin and kissed me, this time on the lips. I closed my eyes to savour the contact, but I felt her slipping away, becoming less substantial. When I opened them, I was back in my seat.

“I apologise, ladies and gentlemen.” It was the medium. He had been speaking the whole time, but I had tuned him out. “It seems the Widow of Winslow has more pressing matters. It happens with some groups. Let us take a break and then try again, hopefully to a more satisfying conclusion.”

More satisfying? Sure, I’ll be in that.

© 2016 Belinda LaPage. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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