What Are The Odds 3

Hello dear reader. This story grew. If you want a quick flogger, please try a shorter entry. It is set in Australia, and has 'arses' and Australian colloquialisms. There is some mild fetishism and some fairly vanilla sex. All of the characters are fictional, any resemblance to real persons is incidental.

I reserve all the usual rights. Please enjoy and I'm hoping if you make it through to the end you will leave me a few stars as thanks.

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WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

Perhaps the beauty of the displaced flower

Is in fact, that it grew here.

That pasts composting grant hearts fertility

And here in this unlikely garden

Love grows you and me.

THE NEW GIRL

I hadn't really noticed the new girl until now. Well, that's a lie. Every male in the building has ogled her, me included. She dresses impeccably in business attire that fails miserably at hiding her gorgeous figure. But that's all I had really noticed; her pert arse and the swing of her hips as she high heeled her way about the office. I wouldn't even be able to tell you which department she worked in. Probably the admin pool.

It was her personality that didn't really draw me to her. She was professional, pleasant and genuine but she had that always serious set to her face and when I did see her, she was always walking with a purpose like she had a mission to execute. There were rumours about her as there were about any new employee. Most of them were about her being a lesbian. It wasn't a stretch to imagine and while I'm not averse to sapphic fantasy, I'm smart enough to know that lesbians don't secretly crave a man to fuck them straight, so I never much went out of my way to pursue any physical attraction I felt for her. There are codes of conduct too you know.

This morning though, cornered in the copy room by Matt Simpson, the office sleaze, I study her face and even painted with discomfort it is indelibly etched into my mind. She has the prettiest bow shaped lips pursed in a worried grimace. Her honey gold eyes are wide and frantic as Matt slides a hand up her bare arm raising goose bumps. A pallor creeps across her heart shaped face highlighting further her peaches and cream complexion.

"Matt." I gruffly speak, "Matt. My office please. Bring the Dawson versus Morgan files please."

He turns and looks at me and something like a scowl crosses his face. "Sure boss."

Then turning back to the new girl, he smirks, "Think about drinks sometime though. What you got to lose?"

As he turns and leaves, the new girl and I match disgusted frowns.

"Ew..." She physically shivers. "I feel like I need a shower."

"Yup, that's Matt. Sorry, I can have a chat to HR if you like."

"No. I can handle the likes of him." She finds my eyes with hers and I swim in the sparkling depths of them like a silly teenager. "I was this close to kicking him in the balls." She's tall for a woman, probably five foot ten I estimate and fairly athletic looking, like a swimmer. Her threat carries weight.

"Ha, good onya. Don't know how much luck you would have had finding any though."

"Well, thank you. I best get back with these." She nods at a bundle of copying on the table. Then as an afterthought holds out her hand, "I'm Sasha. Sasha O'Sullivan."

"Ha, what are the odds? James O'Sullivan. Pleasure to meet you."

"James O'Sullivan? Are you kidding?" Her eyes roll in her head. "As in Royce, O'Sullivan and Bourke? Nice one idiot." She leaves shaking her head and I'm not sure how I've offended her, so I settle for simply watching her bum wiggle indignantly down the hall. In a totally professional non-pervy way of course.

The following day was Friday. My favourite day of the week. Each weekend I leave the busy city and travel north with Dad and Mum to our home at Esk. Depending on traffic it takes an hour two after work and with every minute you drive you can feel the oppressive noise and confusion of the busy city fall away like layers of skin. Our property carries cattle enough to pay the rates and make a few dollars for a yearly holiday. Most importantly it gives dad a good tax sink hole.

We back right on to Summerset dam so most weekends I get the working week out of my hair by fishing and swimming or tinkering in the shed. I am really looking forward to this weekend. Its been a tough week and I missed the last two weekends due to social engagements through work. The apartment in the city is lonely on the weekends. Looking out the window at the lights and cars and millions of people busy in their own lives just highlights the emptiness of mine. It's always nice to be home with family.

From my office in the accounting department I can see out over the river and a nearby park. That's the view I'm using now to distract me from the spreadsheet I'm trying to analyse for the Commerce section at the moment. I'm well ahead of schedule anyway and just can't seem to focus when there is a knock at my door.

"Come in." I'm expecting Cecily my receptionist and I'm quite surprised when Sasha "Nice one idiot" pops her pretty face around the door.

"Are you busy James?" Her voice is like caramel. It's smooth and a little lower pitched than you expect, sort of Nigella Lawson-ish without the pommy accent.

"No come in. What can I do for you?"

"I want to apologise."

"For what? I thought I offended you somehow?"

She blushes the colour of watermelon and looks just as sweet. Where's the ice-maiden gone?

"No. Just a misunderstanding. I have coffee and mudcake muffins, your Dad said they were your favourite." Her voice is still measured and careful though.

"My Dad? What's that old bugger got to do with anything?"

"That old bugger is my boss." She smiles and sits opposite me after arranging a tray of muffins and a couple of awesome looking cappuccino's on my desk. "When you introduced yourself as James O'Sullivan I thought you were just being another Mr Simpson and trying a shitty line on me."

"Oh." Then it dawns on me, "Oh... Well I forget to add 'junior' because well... Just-"

"Shut-up ok? I feel embarrassed enough as it is. Thankyou for saving me from the giant ball of walking sleaze. Have coffee, eat cake, forgive me. Sound like a plan?"

"Sure." I laugh. "What are the odds you working for the old man? What exactly do you do upstairs?"

"Case law research, trial prep, witness prep, police procedures..." she waves a hand dismissively, "Until I finish my studies and can take on my own cases it's legwork mostly."

Dad is a barrister that handles the firms criminal law cases. If he employed this lovely creature it would be for her intelligence, experience and qualifications. She must come with a bunch of things to hang on the wall.

"And what lovely legs they are." It's slipped out before I realise how inappropriate it is. "Sorry. Simpson-esque faux pas."

"Pfft. I have thick enough skin to separate compliments from sleaze. What do you do in accounts? Must be strange working with your father." I mistrust her interest in me and brace for mocking accountant comments.

"Forensic accounting. Didn't want a career in Dad's shadow and was always good with maths."

"Sounds interesting. So, you're like the go-to guy if we're defending fraud, embezzlement etc?"

"I actually do very little work for upstairs, mostly for Commerce and Personal Injuries cases when they need to quantify damages and so on."

"Cool." She smiles at me and I point at her pretty lips.

"Iceing." She wipes at her face. "There. Yup. Got it."

She offers an embarrassed smile that shows two dimples and I decide from this moment forth I will do everything and anything within my power to make her dance those dimples at me again.

"Well," she says standing and straightening her charcoal skirt which just serves to offer me a glimpse of creamy skin in the open top of her blouse. "Have you forgiven me?"

"Haha, nothing to forgive." I stand and offer her my hand. "Was lovely of you to drop by Sasha."

"Hmm, I like cheesecake. You can make it up to me for the sleazy legs compliment next Friday afternoon. I take white and one." Those dimples again, "You'll have to let go of my hand James."

"Oh shit, sorry. Of course. Have a nice weekend." What the fuck is wrong with me?

"I'm certain I will. Your old man has invited me fishing." And she pivots on a high heel and walks out.

"What are the bloody odds?" I mumble to myself as I watch her walk away. Not with quite so much professional interest this time. I put that walk in a box with the dimples for lately attention.

Two hours later I am opening the door to Dad's three hundred series Toyota.

"You've met Sasha then?" Dad asks in his courtroom baritone.

"Ah yes." I'm a little surprised she's travelling with us to the block, I thought perhaps she'd make her own way there tomorrow or something. I smile at her as I take a seat in the back of the Toyota and she rewards me with those magic dimples.

"Yes, well don't bother the girl too much, we've got a trial Monday to prepare for."

"Are you comfortable back there dear? It's not a terrible drive but not everybody enjoys sitting still for two hours."

"Quite comfortable thanks Mrs O'Sullivan."

"Catherine please dear. Catherine away from the office." Mum runs the admin pool. "James tells me that Jimmy saved you from that twerp Simpson. I've lost track of the number of my girls that he's bothered."

"More like saved him from her." Dad chuckles. "Did Sasha tell you she was a copper before she came to the dark side."

I raise an eyebrow across at Sasha and she screws up her nose, "Prosecutions. Hardly G.I. Jane."

"So where are your 'O'Sullivans' from?" Mum asks.

"Out bush mostly. Around St George area, though my father moved to Brisbane as a young man."

The rest of the trip was swallowed in pleasant conversation, punctuated by muttered swearing at traffic until we arrived at the gates to "Lothlorien".

"Who's the Tolkein fan?" asked Sasha. "Mr O'Sullivan or James?"

"Oh darling please, James for the old grumpy one and Jim for the younger grumpy one." Mum offers. "The name was my idea though. Fell in love with the block the first time we saw it. Seemed like the most beautiful place on earth."

Mum has us all organised by the time Dad pulls up out front on the circular drive.

"Ok, now I'll get the house aired and something on for dinner. You all go put the pots in. You might even get a fish in before it's too dark."

"I would Mum, but I need to get the cattle into the yards for tomorrow."

"Looks like it's just us then Sasha." Dad stretches as he gets of the vehicle, "This way love. The tub is just down by the jetty."

The 'tub' is actually a fifty thousand dollar aluminium fishing boat with more electronics than the Millennium Falcon.

Dinner that night is a casserole of beef. We eat on the screened verandah in a solemn sort of quiet, interrupted only by manners. "Pass the butter please." That sort of thing. Afterwards Dad and Sasha bring boxes from the car to his study while Mum and I wash up.

"She's a nice young lady."

"Don't start Mum."

"What?" She flicks me on the bum with her dishcloth. "I'm just making an observation. Besides, she seems to fancy you."

I roll my eyes loudly in her general direction. "Mother dearest, please don't go down this dusty old road with me this evening. I'm tired and have a big day tomorrow. Besides, I'm capable of organising my own romantic life."

"Pfft... What sex-life."

"I date."

"Really?" She asks stacking dishes into a cupboard, "When was your last date?"

"Saturday just gone." It's a stretch, but technically a female person had accompanied me to a social function.

"Oh bullshit Jimmy. Taking Cecily to a networking dinner is not a date. It's only a date if there's a slim chance you may end up fucking." We're finished the dishes now, so she has her hands on her hips and is eyeing me with a "you WILL give me grandchildren before I die" look.

"Ok then, lets see... August. I went out to dinner with a woman called Audrey from ah..." I don't think mum's ready to learn about Tinder, "from a clients office."

"That's four months ago you clown. Step up your game sonny. When your Dad and I were your age-"

"Hold that right there Mum, I'm not in the mood for one of your overshares." We laugh together. She has an amazing capacity to share too much personal, albeit historic information with me.

"Alright, well give your old Mum a hug. I just worry about you. I want you to feel loved that's why I nag you."

I hug her briefly then kiss her cheek and tell her goodnight.

My bedroom and the guest room are at the other end of the house. The oldies have a retreat upstairs. I shower a weeks' worth of city life off my too white skin and dress in a pair of boxers for bed. I have pretty much forgotten we have a house guest and startle when I almost walk into her coming out of the bathroom in my boxers.

"Oh sorry." I apologise.

"Don't be. I haven't seen a man half naked in ages. Your Mum said I have the room on the right?"

"Yeah, that one." I point just down the hall a way.

There's an awkward pause. I'm not sure what she's smiling up at me and waiting for.

"Well I'm off to bed. Big day in the yards tomorrow. See you in the morning Sasha."

"Night Jim."

Though I'm dead tired, sleep eludes me. I lie listening to the sounds of the bush. Cicadas ring loudly outside and a gentle wind stirs the gum trees. One of the things I love about the block is that I can sleep with the window open and enjoy the fresh air without having to worry about someone breaking in. Just on the edge of sleep eventually, a noise in the hall startles me.

Realising quickly that it's probably Sasha moving about I listen to see if I can fathom her actions. I hear a door click then shuffling briefly and running water confirms she is having a shower. Mentally I picture her and wonder what I'd see if I looked through the keyhole. Imagination will have to do as I'm not that much of a creeper.

I'm imagining her soapy hands cupping her breasts and travelling lower over her slight tummy when I realise my own hands have crept inside my boxers and taken hold of my now erect cock. Oh well, sometimes a good wank is a good way to get to sleep. Wondering what Sasha is washing and how thoroughly I grunt in orgasm just as the shower ceases and hope that she didn't hear me. When I've heard her walk down the hall and her door shut, I give it a few minutes then go for my customary post wank pipe clearing piss.

Piss splashes quietly against the porcelain and my mind is for the most part blissfully blank. Then I notice them. Bunched up in the corner near the door is a pair of knickers. Now I'm no detective but there are only two women in the house and these do not look like something Mum would wear. Well, perhaps but I refuse to go there in my head and logically Sasha was just using the bathroom. What precisely is protocol for knicker location?

Do I leave them there for her to find in the morning? That would be wisest. Do I pick them up, knock on her door and hand them to her? Not if I've got any brains. Do I put them in the laundry basket with my own clothes and wash them? That would probably be okay. Shaking my dick, I flush the toilet. It sounds so noisy in the quiet house and doesn't help me with the knickers conundrum. A smart man, I decide would just leave them there.

But I've never been really smart at this sort of thing and if I have ever erred on the side of fetishism it's with knickers. When I was engaged to Tracey, I loved the smell of her worn knickers. I was constantly fishing them out of the washing basket for a good long sniff before throwing them in the machine when I did the laundry. For the most part it was victimless; I loved the smell of her when I went down on her and the smell of her underpants reminded me of her. I never wanked with them or wore them, so I didn't feel anywhere near as much shame about sniffing them as I feel in this moment as my hands reach down to the small bundle of lace and satin.

They are bright red satin with a lace 'v' at the front and a cotton gusset that I see has the slightest wet spot still. My hands move of their own accord, bringing the gusset to my nose and I slake my desires with a nervously drawn breath. There is a hint of her perfume, a subtle spice and rose aroma and I almost growl aloud at the heady feminine musk of her sex. God she smells angelic. My freshly wanked cock hardens, tenting my boxers. Then the door opens.

Sasha gasps. I gasp and turn crimson. We're frozen in a horrible moment of embarrassed clumsiness then she raises a finger to her lips as I begin to stammer some sort of excuse about putting them in the laundry basket for her and holds out her hand. Silently I place the evidence of my debauchery in her outstretched hand and the unthinkable happens.

She makes those dimples at me, the ones I swore I'd launch jihad for.

"Not a word."

I nod, and she leans up to kiss me on the cheek. "Goodnight Jim."

And that appeared to be that. She turned on the spot wiggled her shapely pyjama clad bum down the hall and into her room without looking back at my now ashen face and still tented boxers. With nothing else for it I pick up my shame and self-loathing and take us all to bed where I toss and turn until morning thinking once more, "What are the fucking odds?".

At five a.m. my phone starts insulting me with a stupid alarm tone that I just have been too lazy to change. I rise begrudgingly and struggle into a pair of jeans and a long sleeved cotton shirt. In the kitchen I drink coffee and eat some vegemite on toast before making my way to the verandah where I pull on my boots, slather myself in fifty plus sunscreen and take my battered hat from the hook.

The cattle are nervous and a pain in the arse. Because we're only here weekends they don't get worked nearly well enough to settle them down. By lunch I've got through drenching and have an afternoon of inoculating weaners with a pro-biotic that really gives them a good start. A car horn sounds behind me and I turn in the very same instant that one of heifers startles. Now if you've ever seen a cow double barrel someone in the movies and laughed, you can get fucked. There is not a single funny thing about the way I flew about six foot backwards into the wooden rails then fell face first into the biggest cow shit patty you've ever seen. Not a single fucking funny thing at all.

It would be really nice if someone would tell that to Mum and Sasha who are standing behind the old paddock basher ute, doubled up in fits of laughter as I remove my shirt to wipe the shit from my mouth and nose. A purple stain is spreading on my numb left bicep as it quickly bruises and I press my ribs checking for breaks.

"Here love, quickly now." Mum manages between chuckles, "Wash your face honey and let me see the damage."

Sasha is putting ice from the esky that holds lunch into a plastic bag, "Here Jim, put this on your arm."

"Thanks." I manage.

"Anything feel broken?" Sasha asks, "Let me see."

I suck in the word, "Fuck" as she probes strongly along each of my ribs.

"Nope, you just need ice," She announces.

"And a fucking shower," I find the grace to see the humour in it.

There's a hose on the trough tap so I use that, some soap and my shirt to wash my face and hands until I'm satisfied I smell reasonably human. Lunch is spread out on the tray of the ute by the time I return.

"Help yourself honey." Mum says between mouthfuls of the sandwiches she's made.

"How's trial prep going?" I ask.

"Your father's very thorough. It's taking a lot longer than I thought. We just can't risk missing a single detail. It's fairly complex."