For an American to move from the farming country of the mid-West and end in the chocolate box quaintness of Dorset in England’s West Country is a leap of distance, but also a leap of culture and imagination.

To move in the throes of true love and then be widowed in rapid succession was hard, but for Josephine it meant being a fish out of water, the loss of her local guide as tough as the loss of her soulmate. For a while she grieved, and the village folk took pity on her and invited her to their coffee mornings and exercise classes, though her heart was not really in it.  Even dear Sam’s family did not live close by to take her in as one of their own, so for the most part her routine became centred on her charming country cottage and the cat Sam had found abandoned some years before they had met.

Josephine replayed her love story with Sam Buckle many times in that period, blessing him for finding her at the age of 52 in a humdrum job in a humdrum town during his frequent travels, falling in love and taking the massive step of moving to his home town to share his life, then cursing him for not revealing the symptoms of what turned out to be an aggressive cancer.  She barely had time to nurse him through the treatment before it became clear that nothing would stop his body being eaten away.  So, barely 18 months after moving, Josephine was abandoned, and selfishly she struggled forgive him for doing that to her.

After what she considered a respectable period of mourning, Josephine took stock and decided that she had two choices: to return Stateside, or make a new life in her adopted home.  The answer was quite clear: staying was far better than leaving, even if the terms of her visa allowed her to reside as a spouse but did not appear to give her the right to work.

First step was therefore to apply for the right visa to allow her to earn a living here.  While she inherited the cottage and some money, Josephine was not the sort of woman to sit around the house for longer than was absolutely necessary.

The second step was to see how to use her skills and natural American charm to good effect in this quaint new rural environment.  After all, Brits are not the same as Americans; they don’t take kindly to loud, pushy people selling them things, so subtlety was required to win opportunities.

In the past, she had been a PA to a tyrannical boss, an experience she had no desire to repeat.  This time she wanted to do things in a low-key way based on the things that gave her pleasure.  In the first instance, this comprised baking cookies, which had gone down well at the village’s annual fair, so batch after batch of American home-style cookies, brownies and apple-pies-like-mom-used-to-make were manufactured in her kitchen and sold to neighbours and passers-by for a few pounds.  It was a start but neither enough to earn a decent living, nor to sustain her interest.

True, she also had her garden, but that would be no more sufficient in terms of produce than the confections assembled in the kitchen production line.

It was only sometime later that Josephine read about women conducting adult parties for their friends in order to sell sexy outfits and sex toys that it occurred to her that there may be other outlets for her talents, albeit probably not in a way her children or her stern mother would have approved.

While she blushed to think about it now, Sam always told her that their intimacy was the best he’d ever had, and that was saying something. Indeed, there were times when it was so wild and raucous she genuinely feared that she might be in danger of causing him an early death, a thought that sounds appalling with the benefit of hindsight.  It was heart failure that killed him, though thankfully not in mid-coitus.

Josephine did not typically discuss such things with friends, nor anyone for that matter – neither sex nor Sam’s death; it was not done in her family to talk about marital relations, and she was not yet ready to talk about her widowing.

Of sex, such things were vulgar, not spoken of in polite company, or so her mother had suggested in the obligatory woman-to-woman talk before Josephine was married first time around – seven years before she was abandoned by her drunken first husband with two young children.

On the plus side, both her boys grew up into fine citizens, though both stayed near their American roots when she took the plunge and moved, but since they and their families were restricted to annual visits, and she likewise, making her own life was the only way Josephine could continue, and her strong positive attitude was what had seen her through all the tough and testing times.

The first step was to look out Mrs Marsden.  Mrs Marsden was a slight acquaintance from community events, but not the sort of person whose company Josephine would normally seek.  A pub barmaid by profession, Mrs Marsden sported several prominent tattoos, had a raspy voice with Scottish roots, one redolent of booze and smoking, plus a loud barking laugh that grated on Josephine.

But Mrs Marsden also possessed the heart of an angel.  She had been exceptionally kind and thoughtful after Sam died, even bringing shopping round (“…because I knew you wouldn’t want to go out”) and making a pot of tea for her.  Such kindness was never forgotten.

Mrs Marsden’s sideline happened to be boozy sex parties, and it was not difficult to gather an invitation to one.  If selling naughty toys and lingerie was the only obvious way to make a new life and meet people, why not give it a try?  There was nothing to lose, except maybe one’s self-respect – and if that were an issue she could move back near at least one of her sons.  But times change, and her attitudes had to change with them.

“I’m glad you’re ready to get out and meet people again, darling,” she said when Josephine asked, discreetly, if she might find out what this business was all about.  “It’s a great way to make friends and have a good laugh.  You don’t have to buy anything, but I’ll be very glad if you do.  But I’m guessing you don’t have a partner to dress up for, right now, do you?”

“That’s right,” said Josephine.

“That’s a shame.  In the fullness of time, maybe… but for now you might want to buy yourself a little friend, if you know what I mean?”

“Pardon me?” Josephine asked, puzzled.

“You know what I mean,” Mrs Marden said in a hushed, sly voice, digging her elbow uncomfortably in Josephine’s ribs.  “Every girl’s best friend.”

Of course she did know what Mrs M meant, but it was probably as well not to own up to that.  Josephine was always of the view that the real thing was better than vibrating toys, but perhaps it was a good idea to become acquainted if one were to start selling these, these mechanical aids.

“You’ll have to tell me everything, I’m afraid,” said Josephine with the air of an ingenue innocent to the ways of the world.

So it was that Mrs Marsden took her friend under her wing and introduced her to the delights of riotous alcohol-fuelled parties, where shy middle-aged women arrived prim and self-conscious, but finished in a raucous mood buying a stack of naughty products designed to perk up their tired and boring sex lives.

Josephine took careful note of everything Mrs Marsden said and did, and what reaction it elicited among the women in attendance, how much wine and nibbles were consumed, how many dirty jokes were told, how many naughty games played, how many outfits modelled on dumpy bodies – and how much was spent on what to her seemed wildly over-priced commodities.  But then, it was less the products that were being sold and more the vision, the fantasy of romance that persuaded the women to part with money they could ill-afford.

After the evening, Josephine spoke discreetly to Mrs Marsden to ask how one might go about enlisting to host these parties, and whether Mrs M would object if she entered the same business in the same area.  Mrs M laughed heartily at the suggestion.

“Firstly, dearie, you can invite your friends and their friends, and since your friends and mine are not likely to rub shoulders I should think that’s fine.  Secondly, and I’m saying this as a friend honey, I really don’t think you’re cut out for this line.  Get a nice little job running a charity shop, much more your thing.”

Josephine thanked Mrs M politely, but inside she was seething at this sleight on her character.  It was undoubtedly time to show her American resolve and entrepreneurial spirit, and the only means of measuring that was to outperform Mrs M in party sales.

She approached this task with vigour, starting with an approach to the company that marketed its adults-only products through the “pleasure party” concept.  They offered assistance, including a book explaining how best to optimise sales, but the bottom line was clear: she would have to order the products at wholesale prices, then sell them off at retail in order to make a profit.  Doing well in this line meant earning free products, though starting from scratch meant building up a customer base and winning their trust.

Josephine planned a test run of the concept, ordering a few tasteful items and inviting a couple of neighbours, one a feminist and the other prudish and somewhat innocent.

“I’ve never tried anything, well, saucy.  I don’t know my Ian wants me dressing up or using any lotions or anything.  He just likes a few drinks, then five minutes of…. and then he’s asleep,” she said sadly.

“You mean he never takes any account of your needs?” said the feminist?  “He should be seeing to you before he gets his own end away.”

“My needs?” said the prudish neighbour, blushing.

“Yes, he should be spending a minimum of 20 minutes giving you foreplay.”

“Oh my,” said the innocent, trying hard not to appear shocked.

“Mind you, I don’t get any,” said the feminist. “My bloke has given up on all that, so lingerie is wasted on him.  I’ll take one of those twiddly egg things though…”

By the end of the evening, Josephine had a banging headache from the downbeat conversation, and had earned a grand total of £20 on goods sold, but spent £25 on wine, food and prizes for games that never took place, quite apart from £200 on unsold stock.

In short, earning a living this way would take time and effort.  Just breaking even would be tough going.  If the alternative was moving back to the Mid-West, she would give it her all, but that required being smarter than the competition.  After all, there was nothing subtle about Mrs M’s parties, and didn’t she need a – what was the phrase? – Unique Selling Proposition to attract the buyers?

The idea started as a joke in her mind.  Wouldn’t it be funny if…. no, surely not.  She couldn’t, could she?    Oh yes… the idea of sending the naive innocent to the feminist’s husband, where he would not feel so henpecked and undermined and therefore able to…. express himself, yet that would work well.  And sending the assertive feminist to see the prude’s husband and making sure he gave her what she needed.  What a perfect fit!!

But that was not the done thing in these conservative rural areas, was it?  Worth a try though.  Josephine invited her two neighbours back in the very next evening on the promise of a much better time, offered plenty of her best wine and waited until the third glass was drunk before suggesting the idea.

“You are joking, aren’t you?” said the feminist.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that,” said the prude.  “I mean, there’s marriage vows and… and anyway, he might not fancy me.”

“Here, let me top up your glass,” said Josephine with a warm mid-Western smile.

Before the end of the evening, both women had sent text messages to their other halves, bought sexy outfits and much more besides, and went on to impromptu gatherings at each other’s houses.  Josephine counted her profits and found, to her surprise and delight, that she had earned almost £100, despite there being only two guests at the party.  She went to bed, alone but happy that the concept seemed such a roaring success.  She did not know the half of it.

The following morning, Josephine had two visitors in turn.  The prude was the first, though prudish was not how she appeared.  The evening had definitely brought some colour back to her cheeks.

“I just wanted to say… thank you.  Thank you so much.  I feel… alive, for the first time in years,” she said before practically skipping on her way to the shops.

Later, the feminist appeared at her door, sporting a big grin.

“You quiet ones are the worst,” she said.  “That was the best idea ever.  Will you, er, will you be holding more parties with, er, more people?  I wouldn’t be averse to a bit more husband-swapping, if you know what I mean.”

Josephine did know.  Doubtless word would be getting around the village about her parties, but Josephine decided to be cautious and to build upon this successful format by inviting the same ladies, plus another two, who, it turned out, were also less than impressed by the performance of their husbands and were also keen to try a different model.

The husbands did not object, and Josephine’s sales soared as each woman paid good money for new bras, knickers, negligees, strawberry lube and more besides to make herself feel sexy.  Better still, the temporary exchange of partners revitalised their love lives with their own partners, such that before long the village was a seething hotbed of middle-aged sexual vitality.

Soon every woman in the village was clamouring to join weekly parties at Josephine’s place, and one or two actually brought their husbands along too.  Soon it became a couples event, such that Josephine’s living room was packed with people.  Numbers had to be limited to fit the number of chairs available, but also to allow conversation.  The games became raunchier, with Truth or Dare the favourite, often involving one woman choosing a man to spend five minutes with in the downstairs toilet while the audience listened through the door.

Not too long ago Josephine would have thought this outrageous and certainly  not acceptable in the plains of Kansas, but she learned that morals have wiggle-room when the effect is beneficial on the people concerned.

Here, it was liberating and had transformed the happiness of middle-aged couples, and eventually spread to the singleton community.  Divorcees and widows began to enjoy the fun, though Josephine chose to avoid participation herself.  The host must, after all, remain neutral.  She was the businesswoman whose sales were booming.

The parties became the buzz of the village, and word had even spread to outlying villages.  Requests for party invites were coming in thick and fast, such that Josephine had to double her orders and hold two parties a week.  The whole village was in a state of ready anticipation for the next party.  It occurred to Josephine that she had single-handedly reawakened the dormant sexual passion of her village, lost after the couples had finished having children and never recaptured since.

It was not too long before Josephine answered the door to find Mrs Marsden there.  Expecting hostility from her competitor, Josephine fumbled for an excuse, but instead found contrition.

“Would you mind if I came along to one of your parties, and brought my husband along?” said Mrs M in a quiet voice, perhaps ashamed to admit that the products she was so keen to sell had not done the business for her own sex life.

“Well, I’m fully booked this week, but you could come along a week on Saturday,” said Josephine cautiously.

“Thank you,” said Mrs M, but then stopped.

“Was there anything else?” asked Josephine.

“I was wondering,” said Mrs M, “whether you would mind if I started doing something similar at my parties?  Just in a small way.  I mean, I know you are making good profits here, but I’d be willing to pay you for the idea.”

Josephine beamed back.  “Why, of course, you should have said so.  In fact, I think it’s time we started charging for people to attend these parties, don’t you think?  They do seem very popular.”

“Aye, that’s a splendid idea.  How much would people pay?”

“Not too much, or they might start holding their own parties,” said Mrs M wisely.  This was true – must not kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.  In fact, this was a time-limited concept that would eventually explode into neighbours visiting neighbours spontaneously to swap husbands, so it was important to keep the parties fun and worth the money.

Accordingly, Josephine introduced further novelties to keep her customers happy.  New games were introduced, new products bought, different themes for different nights, including a wine-tasting evening for the wealthier end of village life, the possibilities were endless.  Even a few S&M products were added to spice up the proceedings, causing blushes among ladies of a certain age who had never encountered latex underwear and minidresses, whips or paddles, let alone the use of handcuffs in the bedroom.

The first signs of trouble emerged in the form of Millicent Crowley.  Somehow Josephine had expected something would go wrong, and Mrs Crowley had all the hallmarks of a bulwark against immorality.  Her late husband was the pastor at a local chapel, and Mrs Crowley had taken on many of his duties in a selfless tirade against the scourge of sexual liberation, alcohol, fast driving on country lanes, in fact anything that she deemed worthy of being unchristian and/or shameful.

Things took a turn for the worse when a neighbour who had enjoyed a particularly spectacular multiple orgasm at the hands of the local butcher asked Mrs Crowley with a giggle if she was going to let her hair down and join in the fun.

“Fun?” asked Mrs Crowley with her jaw set sternly.  “This village should be doing the lord’s work, not engaging in ‘fun’.  What sort of fun are you talking about, woman?”

And so the neighbour told Mrs Crowley about the parties, and Mrs Crowly’s face turned a vivid shade of purple to hear of such abominations in the village she had called home her whole life.

“This,” said Mrs Crowley resolutely, “is the work of the devil!  Excuse me…”

With that, she strode towards the police station bearing all the determination her plump five feet frame could muster, flung open the door and accosted the village bobby, Arthur Trimble, who was checking his lottery results while sipping on a cup of tea at the time.

“This, constable, is an outrage!  What are you going to do about it?”

“Eh?” said Trimble, unused to outrages in a village where crime was almost non-existent.

Millicent explained about the parties. Trimble scratched his head and wondered why his missus had not invited him to join in the fun.

“So then, what criminal charges will you bring?” asked Millicent triumphantly.

This was a tricky situation for the PC, since defying Mrs Crowley was never advisable.  It had a tendency to rebound on him.

“Well, we could charge her with running a brothel, except I’m not sure she is actually doing that.”

“She is importuning, by charging for people to attend her parties, where they pick up sexual partners, to whom they are not married, I might add.”

“In that case, I might have to caution her….”

“Caution her?” said Mrs Crowley indignantly.  “She should be incarcerated in your police cell and charged with corrupting the morals of a Dorset village, that’s what should be done.”

“I’m not sure what charge to bring,” said Frampton reluctantly.

“Then think of one,” yelled Mrs Crowley, “that’s what you’re here for!”

Frampton donned his helmet, and with vigour renewed strode off in the direction of Josephine’s cottage, Mrs Crowley trailing in his wake.  He still had no idea what charge he should bring, but felt sure something would come to mind.  After all, houses of ill repute were generally found in cities, not in rural Dorset.

The constable arrived at Josephine’s front door, painted tastefully in dark green, and applied the knocker three times.  Josephine, who had been watching his and Mrs Crowley’s arrival discreetly from an upstairs window, caught her breath and wondered what to do.  Was denial even an option?  Being an honest citizen, she could not tell a lie, but neither would she volunteer information not requested.

She opened the door with dignity and stood, waiting.

“Ar, good morning Mrs…ar…”

“Buckle. Good morning, constable.  Good morning, Mrs Crowley.  Good to see you looking quite well.”

Millicent nodded but stayed tight-lipped.

“It’s come to my attention that…” began the constable.

“Yes?” asked Josephine.

“That you have been causing a disturbance of the peace, if not pandemonium on the streets.  We can’t be doing with that kind of behaviour,” he said uncomfortably, much as he would feel were he talking to the sceptical parents of a teenage tearaway.

“Have I?  I promise I have not been playing music loud at night, though I do sometimes have my radio on when I fall asleep…”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” said the constable tactfully.  “I mean you have been inviting people, villagers, to your house and charging them for sexual favours.”

“With respect, constable, I am a respectable widowed lady, and do not offer sexual favours to anyone.”  This was becoming rather good fun, seeing the PC thoroughly embarrassed, and Mrs Crowley increasingly irate.

“You have been running a bordello!” barked Mrs Crowley from behind the constable.  “A bawdy-house, a knocking shop. You are nothing but a shameless brothel-keeper, a madam bringing this village into disrepute.  What say you to that?”

Josephine drew herself up to her full height, well above Mrs Crowley, and began her defence.

“I am no such thing, Mrs Crowley, and I would not have the bad taste to hurl ill-founded accusations where every gossip in the village can hear.  I merely hold parties, I charge only for my costs in providing food and drink, and offering other goods for which people can pay. I make no money from anything else, and it is not my business what the good people of this village get up to in their own homes.  I can assure you I do not run a – what did you call it? – knocking shop, so kindly withdraw that remark.”

OK, perhaps best not to mention the downstairs loo, but that was probably not common knowledge anyway.

Mrs Crowley’s demeanour revealed no intention to withdraw the remark.

“Arrest that woman!” she ordered the constable.

“Now look,” said Trimble, “this kind of behaviour is not in-keeping with the decorum of this village, so please desist from holding these parties forthwith.”

“Or what?” said Josephine.  “What are you going to do about it?”

Arthur Trimble trembled in his boots.  He hated being put on the spot, but he could not think of any sensible reason to arrest Mrs Buckle, and furthermore resented any attempts by a citizen to tell him how to do his job.

“Let this be a warning to you,” he said quietly, “This is not welcome behaviour here.  We don’t want our lovely village acquiring a reputation, now do we?”

With that, he strode off towards the police station, leaving Mrs Crowley looking daggers at Josephine.

“I guess you’d better write your Sunday sermon on the wickedness of pleasure, Mrs Crowley,” said Josephine with a warm smile, “Good day to you.”

And with that she closed her door and went back to changing the beds.  After all, who knew what the next party might bring?   Her mission had become a simple one: to less loose the frustrated desires of the residents, and if some people didn’t like it, that was their problem.  People losing inhibitions once in a while was surely no bad thing, maybe even good for their health?  And happiness was surely better than the misery peddled by that Millicent Crowley?

Josephine had no control over how her fellow villagers took advantage of the opportunities she offered, but at least her bank account was looking healthy.