Simple Twists of Fate
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Chapter 9: The Buffalo goes Transatlantic
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 9: The Buffalo goes Transatlantic - 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
“Mr and Mrs Dodds should be embarking any time now,” suggested Arthur Kemp, casually. He squinted across the lawn as another golf ball arced towards the sand-filled bath.
“Damn! That was close!” exclaimed Samuel Fitzgerald.
Arthur Kemp laughed, “It’s still four-three to me.”
The two men were competing to see who would be the first to chip ten golf balls into a tin bath, filled with sand, placed thirty feet away. The prize was that the winner would get to drink a vial of Granny Woodbine’s Elixir.
Between them and the bath and a fraction to the left, Agnes Fitzgerald was bent over gripping the handles of a heavy old wooden wheelbarrow. Her flowery summer skirt was up over her back and her knickers rested on one sandal. Agnes’ flame red hair dangled down into the wheelbarrow. Behind her Old Paddy, the eighty-two year old man who tended the grounds of the Broad Oaks Retirement Village, was pumping her with a metronomic rhythm. He only changed pace occasionally to ejaculate. By now, his old gnarled and knotty penis was gliding along silkily. It naturally tried to maintain an upright position so the back of Agnes’ vagina felt more of the contours than the front. Two empty vials lay on the ground.
“Remember, Paddy is to keep rumping Mrs Fitzgerald until one of us gets ten balls in the bath,” Kemp reminded Samuel. “She has orgasmed more times than you’ve hit the sand so far.”
He went on, “and don’t forget, if I win and I have to fuck your wife for you, you will owe me ten quid for doing it, so you need to try harder.”
This did nothing to improve Samuel’s aim.
Old Paddy exclaimed, “That was bloody close!”
“Oh! FuuuuuuucK! I’m coming again!” screamed Agnes Fitzgerald.
“It is so lovely to see you again,” enthused Eloise. The two of them sat together in the sun-kissed garden of the Bishop’s Palace, a large jug of Pimm’s No .1 Cup on the table before them.
Fern Starkapple felt a strong affinity for the Bishop’s forty-eight year old wife. Eloise and her husband had spent their whole professional life within the Church of England but at heart they were both Pagans. A simple twist of fate had led the two women to meet. At first, Fern had done a few Tarot readings and sold Eloise a few crystals. This later led to a dinner invitation and finally to four like-minded souls sharing some of Granny Woodbine’s Elixir in its undiluted form.
The clergyman’s spouse said, “It’s so strange, when you have imbibed in the elixir a couple of times, it leaves a sort of permanent naughtiness in your vagina.”
“Don’t tell me your problems!” laughed Fern, “I’ve drunk it dozens of times.”
Eloise chuckled, “It’s not just me, Kingsley is always coming up with kinky new ideas.”
“Like what?” asked Mrs Starkapple, in that mock tone of interrogation that women use when they are trying to extract gossip.
“Well, he’s built a little pub in the cellar of the Bishop’s Palace with beer barrels and everything. That’s where he and Adam are now, I suspect.”
“That’s not news, he was talking about that when we were last here.”
“I know, but as well as a bar he has installed a small pommel horse. You know, like we had in the gymnasium at school.”
Fern couldn’t recall having a gymnasium at her village school but she asked, “So, he’s taken up gymnastics?”
“No!”
“You have then?”
“Not really,” answered Eloise. “Every so often, Kingsley has me strip down to just my girdle, stockings and shoes. I have to lay across the pommel horse while he fastens a leather belt between the pommels. He then places a large velvet offering bag over my head, you know the ones with the two wooden handles sticking out from the sides.”
“Sounds fun so far,” interjected Fern.
“He disappears for a while, only to return with a group of strange men. I can hear them playing dominoes, drinking beer and generally having a good time. Every so often one of them will slap me on the posterior or pull on my nipples.”
“Well, you do have lovely big ones, I recall.”
“During the evening they all take a turn at shagging me.
“Mind you, it is delicious when I wander about the town, every time a man smiles at me it makes me moist wondering if they have been through me or not.”
“I can imagine it would,” smiled Fern Starkapple.
The Bishop’s wife went on, “The other day I was queuing in the Post Office. The woman in front of me enquired how my husband was. I reassured her that the Bishop was in the best of health.
“Suddenly, a voice whispered in my ear from behind, ‘You came on my cock last night’. I half turned to discover that it was a very young looking labourer. A gang of them are resurfacing the main road to the north of the town.”
“My goodness, what did you say?” enquired Fern.
“What could I say? I just thanked him politely and told him that we must do it again sometime.”
Beryl Dodds looked herself up and down in the full-length mirror. Even in her early sixties she was an attractive woman. For years she had hidden her attributes under loose unflattering clothing. Since she had won a fortune on the Treble Chance, she only bought women’s wear that made the most of what she had.
She was thinking to herself that the deep burgundy corset, matching brassiere, fine denier nylons and black strappy shoes that she was wearing cost more than she had earned in a month at her old job with the Insurance Company in Chelmsford. Still, as she straightened the left bra strap and smoothed down both of the long suspenders, she thought that it was worth every penny.
Her husband, Stanley, agreed as he watched her from the comfort of an armchair in their suite aboard the Cunard Cruise Ship QE2. This advantageous position gave him an excellent view of her back as well as her front, reflected in the mirror.
“Help me into my evening dress, Stan, will you please?”
Mr Dodds rose and removed the gown, which was exactly the same colour as Beryl’s underwear, from its hanger. He lifted it up high, his wife slipped under the back hem and he lowered it over her until her head appeared.
Once she was sure that all of her was where she wanted it to be, Beryl turned to allow Stanley to zip the dress up.
When he was certain that she was happy with her appearance, he put on his black dinner jacket; his Bond Street Tailor had instructed him to never call it a Tuxedo as this was crass in the extreme. When Stanley inquired about a white dinner jacket, the man shook his head and said, “Oh no, not for crossing the Atlantic. They are only worn between the Tropic of Capricorn and the Tropic of Cancer or occasionally in other similarly hot climates.”
Mr Simons, the tailor, said the two golden rules were, “When in doubt, ask yourself ‘what would Prince Philip wear?’ and the other was ‘just because you are rich it doesn’t make you sartorially correct’.” He said that Stanley would appreciate the second rule as soon as he got aboard ship.
Stanley slipped on his ceremonial ring just in case he bumped into a fellow Buff. For many years he had been a member of the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes but just lately he hadn’t attended the lodge. Stan made sure that he kept up his subscription for times like this. He had a deep-rooted loyalty to the Order and would have been delighted to share Beryl with a fellow Buffalo.
Beryl picked up her small clutch handbag and asked, “Ready?”
“Ready,” replied her husband.
It was the third evening of their cruise and so far it wasn’t quite living up to Mrs Dodds’ expectations. As the ship had set sail, the couple had shared a bottle of Champagne to celebrate. Beryl had suggested that on this trip “anything goes.”
Stanley had agreed, “Absolutely anything goes, anything at all”.
So far, not much had actually gone.
They had hoped that they might meet a few couples with whom they could share a vial of Granny’s Elixir. While they found most of the rich British people approachable, as soon as they had got into conversation, they rather drifted away. Mr and Mrs Dodds put this down to them not having the right accents. The Americans tended to keep themselves to themselves.
By the previous afternoon, Beryl had started to get a bit twitchy. Stanley resorted to paying their steward, a likely lad from Liverpool who did his best to suppress his Scouse accent, to give her one while Stan watched from the comfort of the armchair. He rather got the impression that this was a service that the young man was accustomed to providing for a lot of guests. Still Stanley got to do his favourite thing; he fucked Beryl second. He liked being rich.
One high point was their reacquaintance with cocktails. Each evening they enjoyed one or two before dinner.
Tonight, Beryl had selected a Piña Colada while Stanley had gone for a Martini.
As they sat there enjoying their drinks and the tinkling of the piano player, three people stood awkwardly scanning the crowded ‘Chart Room’ cocktail lounge. The mature couple and a younger man approached them. Stanley instantly spotted that the gentlemen were both sporting dark blue dinner jackets. Earlier, he had seen a first-class passenger in a tartan dinner jacket as well as a Stetson Hat and Cowboy Boots. Mr Simons would not have approved of any of them.
“Are these seats occupied?” asked the woman. She was American, blonde, curvy, and in her late forties.
Beryl looked at the chairs a bit puzzled before cottoning on and saying, “Oh, no they aren’t taken.”
As the lady eased herself into a chair, Stanley instantly stood up and offered the older man his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Stanley Dodds and this is my wife Beryl.”
“Arnold K Gruphoff, my wife’s name is Winona. Pleased to meet you,” said the sixty-five year old man.
Stanley thought that the man’s handshake was a little limp.
“Warren Kline,” said the much younger man, as he shook hands in a similar manner. The gentleman shook hands with the seated ladies before all three sat down.
Gruphoff put up his hand to attract the attention of a cocktail waiter.
“What part of London are you folks from?” asked Mr Gruphoff. He prided himself on his ability to spot a genuine cockney accent having seen Dick Van Dyke in ‘Mary Poppins’.
“Essex, but now we live in Dorset,” responded Stan.
“Is that a city or a town?” asked Mrs Gruphoff.
Beryl answered, “Neither, it’s a county.”
“I thought that English counties all ended in -shire,” said the lady, pronouncing it to rhyme with -higher.
“Many do, but not all. Both Dorset and Devon occasionally have -sher added to their names.
“When we lived in Chelmsford, there was a family called Gruphoff living nearby. The husband had been a POW but he refused to go back to Germany after the war, do you know them?” said Beryl, going off on a complete tangent, as she was prone to do.
Arnold spotted an opportunity to move away from small talk and to speak about himself. “Not really, but my grandfather moved to New York from Dresden in Germany in the eighteen hundreds. He went into real estate in a big way.
“My father was in real estate in a massive way and now I am in real estate in an astronomical way. Lately, I have tried to diversify a little. That’s why I purchased the Fuzzicola Corporation last year. Warren here runs it for me.”
“I am the CEO,” chipped in Warren, proudly.
“I think I’ve seen the advert on the telly,” said Beryl. She broke into a gentle little song, ‘I’d like to teach the world to sing.”
Warren interrupted, “That’s another brand of cola.
“That is one for our main rivals. We have a massive production facility in East Texas and we are poised to blow the competition out of the water.”
“Isn’t that where poor President Kennedy was killed?” asked the Englishwoman.
Arnold Gruphoff corrected her, “That was Dallas Texas. East Texas in Pennsylvania, not far from Allentown.”
Both Stan and Beryl nodded as if they had the slightest inkling where any of these places were.
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