Simple Twists of Fate
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Chapter 6: You Can Take the Girl Out of Dorset...
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6: You Can Take the Girl Out of Dorset... - The discovery of Granny Woodbine's Elixir for curing a limp pizzle changes everything at Broad Oaks Retirement Village. It gives ordinary people extraordinary sexual prowess and appetites. Bristol - Bruges- Chelmsford - Cincinnati - Dorchester - Gaborone - New York - San Francisco - Zurich. Their journeys to a quiet part of Dorset, England, in the early 1970s are exotic and diverse. Each one of them eventually surrenders to the control of Arthur Kemp and to the allure of the elixir.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Historical Rags To Riches Cuckold Sharing Wife Watching Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Swinging Interracial Anal Sex Exhibitionism Voyeurism Porn Theatre
In a fraction of a second things can change your world and in 1970 my world changed again.
The policewoman was very diplomatic. She said that neighbours had heard a screaming argument. Talk of ending the relationship. The police believed that the young man had shot Richard dead and then put a gun to his own head.
The Hamilton County Coroner told me privately that the truth wouldn’t help anyone so on the balance of probability both deaths were the result of a business dispute. As he shook my hand he expressed the hope that we wouldn’t meet again.
I was upset, but not distraught. I didn’t even dress in black.
What did I know about the property business? Richard’s people said that they could carry on the enterprise on my behalf but I didn’t want that. They didn’t like it when I told them to sell all of the apartment blocks, including the one I lived in.
They liked it even less when I gave each of the tenement buildings to various housing charities across Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky. The charities wanted to tell the world but, I wanted it to stay confidential. Evidently, rich people only usually gave their money away so that they could tell the world about it.
I went to live at The Fairmont in San Francisco. Somehow I thought that maybe I’d walk down a street and bump into Tess. I liked San Francisco, but I hated the hotel even though the Concierge made it very clear that he could get me anything I wanted, anything at all.
Sometimes, when you can have anything, you crave the little things from your youth, the simple things that meant nothing back then.
Suddenly, I missed England, I missed Dorset. I missed the green leafy lanes. I missed Cadbury’s chocolate and real cider that made you wince on the first mouthful but got better the more you drank. I missed the politeness of people who had nothing to gain from being polite. I missed home.
Nothing had altered but everything had changed.
When I restocked the Pick and Mix, I swore that one day I would stay at the King’s Arms in High East Street. I liked it far more than the Fairmont, at least no-one told me what sort of day to have. The staff were obliging, I could have what I liked just as long as they had it and it was legal (although they weren’t actually that specific). They appeared slightly embarrassed when I tipped them as if I felt that it would make them do a better job next time.
In the twenty-five years that I had been away, Woolies had gone from having at least one helpful shop assistant in every department to ‘help yourself and pay at the checkout’. I didn’t know anyone who worked there.
Troytown looked the same and felt the same but Granny was gone and Mother was gone. I went to visit them in St Mary’s Churchyard in Puddletown. I told them that I was sorry but I don’t think that they heard me. I said sorry to Father too while I was there even though I had barely known him.
Every place that I went to hardly anyone knew me. Those that did, were polite but a little reserved like they were afraid that I would think that they wanted something from me.
Seeing my father’s grave reminded me of childhood Summer days spent with his parents up the road in Sturminster Newton. So I visited Stur.
I’d forgotten what a nice town it was. Plenty of shops and the like. Alive but never busy or crowded.
I got a room at The Swan Inn.
The saleswoman in the clothes shop spoke in a hushed voice when she sold me some knickers. I bought a toothbrush and other essentials from the Chemist. It felt nice to use real money with the portrait of a living person on it.
I asked the receptionist to phone the King’s Head to reassure them that I was safe, that I would return, and that I would pay whatever was necessary for my room.
My grandparents’ cottage was still there on the edge of town, right next to the pub. The woman who lived there now said that I could come in and have a look around once I told her my story. The place hadn’t changed much, although I was glad to see that it had an updated kitchen. There was even a twin-tub washing machine, Granny would have been in raptures.
Two small children now played in the long back garden, with woodland on one side and open fields on the other, where I had spent my Summers so long ago.
At first their mother looked offended but then reluctantly accepted a few coins with which to buy the kids some sweets.
My heart leapt when I caught sight of the long bench outside the pub. We had sat and played there on warm evenings while the adults drank and sang the old songs inside, the sound of them and an out of tune piano drifting through the open windows. Our reward for our patience was a bottle of fizzy pop (with two paper straws) and a bag of Smiths Potato Crisps which always contained a small blue paper twist of salt. To salt or not to salt that was the option. If we were really good, or really lucky, a small dish of vinegary cockles would be sent our way with a sharp wooden stick to eat them with.
For the first time ever, I crossed the threshold into that previously forbidden world. The familiar bitter smell of stale beer hit me and transported me.
I peered around in the gloom and finally picked out the shape of an ancient old man seated in a corner.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Arternoon to ee,” he replied in the old way. I nearly peed my drawers with joy.
As I approached the counter the old man bellowed, “Customer!”
“I got eyes, I can see, can’t I?” said the landlady as she came out of the back room wiping her hands.
“What can I get you?” she asked, like she didn’t give a rat’s arse what sort of day I was having. It wasn’t rude but it wasn’t that put on cheerfulness that you got back in the States.
“A small cider and a packet of crisps, please,” I said.
“What flavour?”
“Pardon?”
“What flavour crisps would you like?” she answered, obviously making some allowance for my strange accent. I never thought that I had an accent but when I was in Cincinnati everyone thought that I was an Australian and since I’d been in Dorset most people thought that I was a Canadian.
“Smith’s crisp, you know, with the little blue salt twists,” I explained.
“Haven’t had them for donkeys’ years. Golden Wonder Ready Salted do you?”
“Fine”, I answered a little deflated, “and whatever he’s having.” I nodded towards the old man.
“He’ll have a pint.”
It all came flooding back to me. You could just say ‘a pint’ and everyone knew what it meant. Of course, what drink you got depended on where abouts in the country you were.
I knew that I definitely shouldn’t tip a barmaid so I said, “And have one yourself.”
This gave her the option to say that she would have it later, charge me a bit extra and put the money in a pot under the counter.
Her second rarely adopted option, generally only used when the customer had overstepped the mark, was to say, “No, thank you.”
The landlady — I presumed that she was the landlady because she was extremely good looking for her age — took the, seldom resulted to, third option and said, “As it’s a warm day, I’ll take a small bitter shandy with you, thanks.”
Once the drinks were lined up, I handed her a pound note and received in return a fistful of wet, mixed old and decimal, coins. I put them in the church restoration charity box.
I tucked the crisp packet under my arm and made my way over to the old man’s table. The traditional etiquette hadn’t left me even after all this time, I had bought him a drink which gave me the God-given right to sit and talk to him.
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