A Chance Encounter
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone is purely coincidental. All sexual activity is between consenting adults over the age of eighteen. This story is a slow, long romance…
My appointment with my tax consultant was in fifteen minutes.
I lived nineteen minutes from the front door of the office belonging to my accountant.
I had my car parked and I was sitting in the outer office with four minutes to spare.
I’m a hoon, what can I say, I own a 1982 Commodore, with a worked 327 Chev donk. He goes like shit off a shovel.
Harry Jenkins had been my accountant for the past eight years.
Prior to him, I relied on generic tax consultants.
His secretary was a crusty old cow, going by the name of Edna, she was never nice to anyone that walked into that office.
It amazed me that he was able to hold onto all of his clients with her at the face of the business. She really was a nasty piece of work.
I’d bought flowers for her, praised her beauty, complimented her on her versatile range of outfits she wore to work.
She’d held her age extremely well.
I guessed her to be in her late fifties. I never found out her exact age. In a way, I’m quietly happy I never found out that info.
It also might sound obtuse me calling someone that age ‘old’, considering I’m pushing fifty up hill.
I guess I’d better describe myself, just to put the frame into focus.
I’m Vic Jones, 45, male, a couple of inches north of six foot, dead on twelve stone, slim build, monkey long legs and arms, shaved head.
Average sized donk, tongue pierced, tatts here and there, handle-bar stash, mono-brow. Single. Never married. No baggage.
I’m a writer. Pleased to meet you.
Edna had never smiled the entire time I’d known her, no matter what I did to entertain her. So, in the end, I just gave up.
Today, for the first time, I just said good morning to her and sat down in one of the easy chairs that Harry had put in the outer office.
There were eight chairs in the room.
There was also a large knee high table smack bang in the middle of the chairs, four chairs on either side of the table.
An ornate rose quartz crystal Buddha stood three feet high in the middle of the table. Majestic.
Edna lifted her head the moment my bum touched leather.
I felt her gazing at me. I refused to look at her.
I reclined back in the chair, sipping my Cappuccino.
I continued to feel her gaze on me until the door to Harry’s office opened.
I stood up, walked over towards the door.
I stopped suddenly. A woman stepped out of Harry’s office.
A tall woman, her hair, jet black, smooth, straight and long, touching the tops of her slim hips.
Her eyes, a syrupy chocolate brown. They locked on mine.
I was looking at the female version of me.
I mean, it’s like I was looking in the mirror and seeing a woman instead of me, a bloke. It was surreal.
She was absolutely stunning.
Her face looked exactly like mine, only her face was the entire opposite of masculine. It was the total feminine image, of me.
Her olive complexion was like mine, but, unlike mine, her skin was flawless, no blemishes anywhere on her face.
Our noses were identical in shape and size.
High, feminine soft cheekbones, smooth feminine jawline.
Slim, strong neck, toned.
Minor definition of her shoulders, handful sized boobs, slight belly, shapely arms and legs, she filled her jeans superbly, her hands matching mine for size, her fingers long and slim, like mine.
Her right hand was held out in front of her, an offering to shake hands with me.
I glanced briefly at Edna, she smiled warmly, at me, then, winked at me.
I got the briefest flash of my Mum.
I was gobsmacked. To say the least.
I returned my gaze to the woman standing in front of me.
I reached out with my right hand to grab hers.
Our skin touched, light exploded in front of my eyes.
I blinked rapidly, my whole body vibrated.
The heat coming from this woman’s hand was astonishing.
Once my vision had refocused, I was looking straight into her eyes.
Her mouth opened, her lips parted, the soft, supple flesh separating like peeling apart mandarin segments.
White teeth exposed in a professional smile. Dazzling.
“G’day, I’m Jean, your new CPA. Pleased to meet you. Harry sends his apologies, but, he’s recovering from a fall. His hip gave way as he was climbing into the bathtub a while back. I’m his stand-in. I hope that’s ok?” she said. Her voice like smooth fluid.
We pumped hands once, her grip, strong, firm, female soft.
She even sounded like me, only softer, a subtle, more rounded edge on her consonants. Smooth sounding. Like a gentle liquid.
I was totally entranced with this woman standing in front of me.
I blinked a few more times, I swallowed, my throat dryer than a desert rat’s scrotum, I opened my mouth, ‘brain, engage now, please’…
“G’day, Vic Jones, pleased to meet bakırköy escort you.” I said.
I barely recognised my voice as I spoke, I looked back at Edna.
She was still smiling at me, I frowned.
“Are you ok, Vic, you look worried?” Jean said, instant concern in her voice.
“Umm, no, no, just…never-mind, it was nothing.” I replied as gently as possible.
It was totally fucking with me that I was unable to recognise my own voice and what was with Edna, that was the first time in eight years she smiled that warmly at me, I almost swooned.
The flash image of my Mum, pulsed through me.
I had only ever seen one photo of my mother in my Life, why that shot was flashing in my vision now, was beyond me.
It was beyond me to recollect the last time any woman put out that much energy, then I returned my attention to the tall Amazon in front of me.
I got a double dose of that energy.
My whole body vibrating.
“Please, come in, we can get started,” Jean motioned for me to step into her office.
As I walked passed her, I got a whiff of her scent, our nostrils flaring simultaneously.
I heard the snick of the door clicking shut.
I was glad to be sitting down before she come around to sit behind her desk. My knees were like mushy mud.
I also felt a zap from behind my nut-sack, it vibrated all the way through me, to my toes and fingertips.
It had been a long time since I’d last felt this, in front of a woman.
I continued to look into her eyes. They were gorgeous.
I noticed my heart-rate had accelerated slightly.
Her aroma filled the room.
This was crazy, this was so, unusual. Who was this woman?
I was noticing a lot more about her than what I usually notice with women, there was no trace of makeup on her face, no accentuation whatsoever, her fingernails, were polished to a sheen, but no nail polish, just a bare nail, expertly manicured.
They suited her long slim fingers.
It was getting to be impossible for me to tear my gaze away from her eyes, her face held the balance of my focus in her eyes.
It was truly remarkable how this woman was affecting me.
We transgressed through the meeting with genuine sincerity in our voices, every time her smile lit up her face, she poked her hair around behind her ears. Her cheeks displaying small dimples.
The movement of her hands captivated me.
I noticed that there was no ring on her left ring finger.
Actually, the only jewellery she wore, was a small pinky ring on her left little finger, a sterling silver job, with a small Peridot stone, similar to the ring I wear on my right little finger.
Peridot is my birthstone.
I saw her glance at my left hand, then my right hand.
A discreet passing glance that registered in her brain, her eyes reacting.
By the time she had lifted her gaze back to me, she was blushing slightly. A shy smile appeared on her mouth.
I returned the smile.
Her blush sent a very dangerous signal to a part of my body that had been shut down for a long time.
On quite a few occasions, I witnessed her squirming in her chair.
It was subtle, very lady like, very discreet, yet still noticeable.
About two-thirds of the way through the meeting, I detected her sexual arousal seeping into my nasal sensors.
When my brain finally arrived at the same platform I was on, I began to feel whoozy. Her arousal caressed every one of my six senses.
I felt a clunk, rattle to a stop in my skull.
This was ridiculous, no way was this lady interested in anyone like me, she was waaay beyond my reach, I was feeding off a fantasy.
The longer I sat here, though, in her company, the more I felt like I never wanted to get up.
I convinced myself that I was trippin.
I knew that women like this, were a myth, they simply never appeared in my Life. Their NON-existance held a lot my confidence.
But, I mean, I’m in my mid forties, the remoteness of me settling down with ANY lady at this stage of my Life was what kept me company on the lonely nights.
My success with women was dismally shallow, to say the least.
So, I developed this detachment that allowed me to disengage from society, whenever I wanted to. It was my security blanket.
I was also vary wary of who I let get that close to me.
From my experiences with females, I’d learnt only one thing, there really is nothing to learn about a woman, unless she wants me to know something, then I sit up, take notice, absorb, remember, it’s important, it’s my key to getting anywhere near her muff.
The fuck of it is, most women in my age bracket, refuse to absorb the fact, I am who I am.
They tell me I’m a liar, when I tell them, I’ve never been married. They reckon I’m bullshitting them when I tell them I’ve never had kids.
Most of them, reckon I’m gay, they even had the temerity to tell me to my face, in front of my friends. Those friends all left me.
Behind my back, they spread the rumour I was in denial, I was a ‘closet fag’ one beşiktaş escort of them said to Tammy, my editor.
Tammy just laughed in this snotty little rag’s face and told her that I was the best fuck she’d ever had, even though Tammy and I knew that was a lie.
But, the point I’m making is that my editor, as much as she knew who I was, she was possibly the only friend I had in the World.
She defended me against all the haters and tore strips off the critics that gave me a caning or a hard time in the press.
She was also a full blown lipstick lesbian.
Picture a blonde Geena Davis, only shorter, waaay shorter, bolt on’s, muscular and more Aussie than me. Dangerously gorgeous.
Cynthia Rothrock, on acid, with PMS.
She was a total contrast to the woman sitting in front of me.
Tammy was a pocket rocket of destruction. Blonde, buff, built.
She was a solid foot shorter than me.
She also never took any shit from me, or any bloke for that fact.
The first time I met her, she got straight in my face to tell me that she was gay and that I had no hope of climbing into the sack with her.
That was six years ago, after my third book took off.
We ended up in the same bed one night after a tuxedo function in Melbourne.
She was plastered. I had to carry her up to the room over my shoulder.
I stripped her and myself naked, I showered her, then put her bed.
We woke up the next morning, both naked, in the same bed.
I’ve managed to retain her reputation, even though it took me a month to convince her that nothing happened between us.
From that night however, we had a healthy respect for each other.
We shared a bed on many an occasion these last six years.
Although, these last twelve months, since Yvonne walked into Tammy’s Life, those discreet little episodes had stopped.
I was ok with that, ya know. Tammy had finally found Love.
There was even a marriage in the pipeline.
I occasionally dropped the hint that a free show from the two them might be some compensation.
It took them a while to jerry that I was only jerking their chain.
They handcuffed me to my clothes line, for three days.
Spoon feeding me porridge. I hate porridge.
During the course of my meeting with Jean, I visually paired her up against Tammy, Tammy was literally my gauge.
She was the only woman I had in my Life, to gauge any woman I dated, with and she was usually spot on about the women I dated.
I found myself shifting discreetly in my chair opposite Jean.
It was a good thing that only from my stomach up was visible to her.
What was kinda strange, was when Jean had finally started filling out the paperwork of my BAS, she got to my date of birth.
“We have the same birthday,” She said, nonchalantly.
“Bullshit!” I blurted at her. I felt myself blushing.
“No bullshit.” She replied, her smile smashed into me.
She reached down to her left to open a desk drawer.
She had grabbed her purse, extracted her licence, handed it to me.
I looked at the date, sure as shit, there it was, identical to mine.
I was suitably impressed. It also explained the Peridot ring.
“Where abouts were you born?” She asked me casually.
“Melbourne, the King Edward hospital.” I replied, just as casually, handing back her licence.
As soon as she heard the name of the hospital I was born at, she froze.
Her gaze penetrating every defence I had up.
My blood started pumping through me at a rapid rate.
“That’s the same hospital I was born at.” she said, quietly.
My pulse quickened.
“What ward?” I asked her.
“C7, maternity ward, fourth floor.” she replied.
I felt my face drain of colour.
“You have gotta be kidding me.” I stated, staring at her.
“How rare is that?” She said softly.
I was stuck for words.
I was in a world of twisting nether.
I reached into my briefcase to extract my birth certificate.
I looked at the the vacant space that was supposed to have my fathers name. I suddenly felt empty.
Jean must have noticed the change in me, she had this innocent expectancy on her face, searching my face.
I handed the certificate to her, I pointed out the vacant space where my fathers name was meant to be.
She visibly shivered.
She handed the certificate back to me, then again reaching down to her left into the drawer, she produced a bit of paper that looked remotely similar to what I held in my left hand. A birth certificate.
She studied it for a few seconds before handing it to me.
Her name is Jean Ellen Davis.
I looked straight away at where the parents names were.
The place where her mothers name was supposed to be, was vacant.
The name of her father, Roland Fredrick Davis, thundered into me.
There was something about that name that shifted around inside me like a pinball ball.
My Mum’s name was Evelyn Elizabeth Jones.
I had never known my father. Never met him.
“Do beylikdüzü escort you know who your mother was?” I asked Jean.
She shook her head. Her mane of sleek black hair shimmered.
“No, I never met her. I was told that she had died during childbirth.” She replied.
I sat there, gobsmacked.
Before I knew what I was saying,
“My mother passed away, three minutes after I was born. I was put up for adoption.” I offered.
I looked at the time I was born on my certificate: 11.23 am.
I looked at the time on Jean’s certificate: 11.09 am.
Mum was pronounced dead at 11.26 am.
My head was thumping hard, I was finding it difficult to focus my vision.
I leaned forward, handed Jean her birth-certificate back.
I took a sip of my coffee, totally ignorant of how cold it was.
I took a few more sips, I needed the caffeine hit.
We put our certificates back where we got them from, finished up the BAS in silence.
I paid cash for the visit, Jean disappeared out of the office.
I felt like I wanted to follow her, she was magnetic.
She reappeared holding my receipt, holding it out to me, I took it.
I stood to face her, she looked me square in the eyes, never having to tilt her head up, we stuck out our hands towards each other simultaneously, we gripped each others hands, pumped once and we held it for a long five seconds before we both let go together.
Her aroma invading my senses again, a shimmering orange light appeared in her pupils.
“Thank you for today, Jean. It’s been a pleasure to meet you” I said.
“Likewise, Vic. Your more than welcome.” Her voice slithering all over me.
We both turned to walk out of her office, she opened the door, I stepped close to her to walk through the doorway, we both leaned our heads towards each other as I passed her.
I heard us both inhale though our noses, we were barely six inches away from each other.
I felt my knees starting to mush again.
I walked passed Edna’s desk, I gave her a quick smile, she returned it.
I was glad to step out into the crisp arvo air.
I took some rapid deep breaths, I rubbed my fingers over my noggin, massaging my scalp with both hands.
Two hours and twenty-six minutes later, I was pulling into my drive way.
I had made a few stops on the way home, Dan Murphy’s, Coles, the tobacconist and finally the servo.
Halfway down the drive, Herby, my Doberman x Boxer, bounded onto the bonnet.
He laid down, curled up facing the front of the car.
I slowed the car down to walking speed until I pulled up in the garage.
Herby bounded off bonnet, took off up the hallway into the loungeroom, I ducked into my bedroom to dump my layers, then carting my gear back out to the loungeroom, when I got there, Herby was standing in front of the fireplace.
I dropped off the gear in the kitchen, restocked both bars, lit two sticks of incense, Nag Champa, my favourite, brings out the hippy in me.
I grabbed Herby’s dinner from the fridge, then walked over to him, give his big head a rough up. Told him to sit, he complied.
I praise him on a good job, I toss a small treat to him, he catches it.
Instantly he’s alert, he knows this, it’s our routine.
His bum hits the floor, I drop his dinner into his bowl.
“Ok, eat.” I say to him, the obscene slurping enriching the air.
I headed back into the lounge, walking over to the fireplace.
Within three minutes, Herby was standing beside me, we stood there watching the flames expand, once they were at a reasonable level,
I threw three logs on, we waited for them to set alight before we stepped back.
I gave Herby a scratch behind his ears, he dropped onto his rug in front of the fire.
Within three minutes, he was snoring, then he farted.
I walked out onto my back deck, leaving the deck door open.
It was gunna take at least ten minutes before I dared venture back inside, a Herby fart was diabolical.
I grabbed my mix bowl and my billy from the cupboard next to my barby.
I sat on the deck sofa, pack a cone, pulled it, repacked it, put it down on the deck table.
I waited until the smoko took hold before I got and walked over to the deck bar to make a drink.
A double Jack Daniels on the Rocks, four rocks.
Both my fridges had the ice maker in the freezer door, the best invention since sliced bread.
I was about to put my bum back down on the cushion of the deck sofa when I heard George Thorogood’s ‘Bad To The Bone’, my ring-tone.
I almost spilt my drink grabbing the billy and the mix bowl, I walked into the house, sniffing the air as I went.
I deemed that it was ‘Herby’ safe and closed the deck door.
By the time I had got to my phone, it had stopped ringing.
I looked at the number on the screen, it was a number that I failed to recognise.
I hit the call-back button, it started to ring.
A female voice answered after the third ring, “Jean Davis?”
“Oh, hey, Jean, it’s Vic Jones, I just missed your call.” I spluttered.
“Hey, Vic, yeah, I was, ah, wondering, do you wanna catch up for a drink, sometime, you know, maybe…”
“Yeah sure,” I cut her off before she finished what she was saying.
Was I that unconsciously eager to get into this woman’s pants?
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