Agnes Love Of My Life Pt 01 3

This is a fictional story, and all characters are over the age of legal consent.

The Author's Foreword

I previously published this story here under the title 'Agnes.' It received quite a good reception. The story was the first part of a 4-part, smaller novella. Since then, I have expanded this part, as well as the others, developing them towards a form that belongs more to the romantic fantasy genre rather than pornography. As a result, the message has greatly shifted from the sexual scenes to a deeper emotional content. I am now republishing this expanded version, and I also plan to publish the other parts because the story will only be complete with them. Those who read the first part, if they are curious, should read this one as well; those who have not read that version should start with this one instead. I wish you an enjoyable read.

Preface

Many people consider themselves to be good judges of character and take pride in how well they understand others as a result. However, most of them do not even know themselves. They are not aware of—and perhaps more importantly, do not wish to be aware of—the drives and desires that motivate their lives.

It's no wonder, as this is not a simple matter. The ancient Greeks believed that people's fates were in the hands of the gods, and the most we could do was submit ourselves to our destiny. In the 17th century, Spinoza revised this view with his assertion that humans act out of free will. Then, two centuries later, Freud came along and said, "Come on, please, what kind of free will are we discussing? People are guided by their subconscious, by the repressed desires and passions within, which shape their personalities and their relationships with others, and, generally, their relationship with life." According to Freud's theory, certain contents of our subconscious can emerge through nighttime dreams or accidental slips of the tongue.

Some people, over time, possibly with the help of a psychologist, come to better understand the effects of their subconscious on their lives and may be able to rid themselves of them. There are those who know what kinds of desires they repress within themselves, from which they cannot escape. The reasons for repression almost always stem from the need to conform to societal norms, including moral, religious, and social expectations, prohibitions, and taboos. However, there are those who, despite this, accept themselves, often paying the price of having to live a double life or withdrawing to a certain extent from what society considers a "normal" lifestyle.

Part 1: Sinful Desires

1.1 Forbidden Fruit

...in her translucent nightgown, she moves around the room, closes the book she has been reading, and places it on the shelf. I'm already in bed, seemingly flipping through a motorcar magazine, but I'm watching Agnes out of the corner of my eye...

I don't know if she is aware that, illuminated by the light of the bedside lamp from a certain angle, her body can be seen through the thin, silk nightgown that reaches mid-thigh. Her full breasts are outlined against the thin, silky fabric, and the darker spot below her gently protruding belly hints at further exciting landscapes. As she bends over to pick up a pencil that has fallen on the floor, the shapely curves of her rounded bottom are also revealed to me. In order to place the thick, old book - her latest antiquarian acquisition, Lin Yu-tang's work titled The Importance of Living - on the top shelf of the bookcase, she must stand on tiptoe, causing the garment to slide upward and revealing more of her thighs.

Even if she knows, she doesn't let it bother her. I put down the magazine, turning towards the wall with a suppressed sigh, while I hear Agnes crawling into her bed, and wishing me good night, she turns off the reading lamp on the little bedside table next to her bed.

In the dark, the sights strike me with greater intensity; a warm desire creeps into my groin.

With my inner eyes, I see myself stepping to her bed at the sound of her enticing, beckoning voice, uncovering her, and rolling her nightgown up to her neck. I cover her bare body with kisses and finally position myself between her spread thighs, making love to her while she passionately embraces me.

These are the images I fall asleep with, but in my real dreams, my fantasies never continue, even though, if they do not come true while awake, at least my dreams could bring some fulfillment. But unfortunately, they don't. I suspect there is a single, albeit highly compelling reason for this: the object of my desire, Agnes, is my sister, my flesh and blood! Hence, I know my wild dreams can never come true...

I remember those evenings vividly. She was twenty-one I turned 18 that spring, and just about to graduate. We lived in a small town, but she studied at a university in a larger city far away and lived in a dormitory. We only shared a room when she came home every other week. Our apartment in the four-story apartment building had only two bedrooms, with our parents sleeping in the other room. However, in 1980s Hungary, where the story begins, such circumstances were not unusual.

I had never been intimate with a woman, and perhaps that's why that's why her closeness excited me. She was more experienced than I was in this area; I knew she had been in a relationship for quite some time at university. But when I asked her about it, she said that the guy was no longer her boyfriend. "Did you two break up?" I asked. "He's no longer my boyfriend," she replied again, without offering any more details. She didn't seem sad about it, although I knew she always hid it when something bothered her.

Agnes and I understood each other well; ever since I can remember, she has called me "Little Brother," regardless of my age. I remember that when we were kids, we played together a lot. When I was four or five years old, she would read me bedtime stories before I fell asleep. Later, when I started school, she helped me with my studies when necessary. Based on old photographs and my memories, I can say that our childhood can be described as what people refer to as a 'happy childhood". Our parents lived in a harmonious marriage, and they treated us both with equal attention and love while teaching us to care for each other as good siblings. Though they were not wealthy, they tried to provide us with many things, but over time, they also taught us that we couldn't always have everything we wanted.

When we entered our teenage years, we did not drift apart. Of course, she didn't appear before me in scanty attire anymore; yet she didn't become bashful. She saw us both crossing the adolescent threshold as a natural process. I admired how beautiful girl she has become as a teenager. I wasn't certain whether she felt my admiration, and if she did, she didn't let it show. I gradually concluded that she was concealing something unknown behind her pleasant exterior and goal-oriented outlook. She had developed a "snail shell" to shield her delicate intellect from the outside world.

I noticed boys around her when she was sixteen or seventeen, walking her home after school or calling her in the evenings. As a teenage girl, she was a fascinating phenomenon—not only because of her appearance but also because she radiated an inner glow that attracted the opposite sex, much like how lamplight attracts butterflies. She even had the choice among them. On weekends, she dated some of them, but she didn't seem to take them seriously. From time to time, I asked her about her boyfriends. "I haven't found the right one yet, and he hasn't found me. There's no hope; I'll end up a spinster," she would lament. Her sardonic, self-ironic brand of humor appealed to me.

She didn't have a mannequin-like physique; she was a little "strong" in the hips and buttocks, so to speak. But I liked her exactly as she was. She had an hourglass figure, a round face, a pug nose adorned with freckles, warm maroon eyes, wavy dark brown hair, and a thin gap between her upper incisors. As she used to say, this was her sex appeal. I felt proud when I heard the boys on the block complimenting my sister on becoming a "cool chick."

"Have you ever seen her naked?" one of them inquired. "Yes, the last time was when she was ten years old. Recently, for some reason, she doesn't walk around naked in front of me," I replied. "Why don't you just happen to open the bathroom door when she's in?" he continued. I thought his suggestion was inappropriate, but I toyed with the idea even though I knew I wouldn't act on it.

She wasn't the obviously emotional sort, even though I knew she desired affection; instead, she masked her feelings behind a façade of purposefulness and rational thinking. Not many guys could handle it in the long run, either. Her studies consumed her attention, and whereas I was training for a technical job, she was interested in literature and languages. She had already mastered English and French in high school, and since she planned to attend university, she often preferred to spend her evenings among her books, sipping a cup of tea rather than socializing with boys. She also didn't maintain many close friendships with her female classmates.

Today, she is a grown woman, yet our love for each other has not altered. When she returns from college on weekends, I frequently cancel my other commitments to cherish every moment with her.

Although she no longer seemed to view me as an adolescent boy, neither did she see me as a man. It was discouraging because, in my heated thoughts, I imagined that one day she would introduce me to the mysteries of sex. My nature was to be withdrawn and inhibited, so I was afraid of being intimate with unfamiliar girls. I wanted to experience my sister's patient and understanding instruction first. She always cared for me and helped me when she could. Maybe she would allow me to take the first steps toward learning about sex, I thought. But for the time being, I had to make do with longing for her.

1.2 A Crazy Saturday Night

...from the bathroom wearing a white bathrobe. She sits at her dressing table and paints her nails. The acrid smell of polish slowly fills the room, so I crack open the window...

It is Saturday night; she arrived from the dormitory earlier in the afternoon. She ate, bathed, washed, and dried her hair. Her shiny brown hair, which she usually wears in a ponytail, now cascades down her shoulders. Our parents went to the theater with a married couple who are friends, and afterwards, as usual, they will dine and have long conversations at their favorite small restaurant located on the narrow street next to the theater. Therefore, they are not expected home before midnight.

I am alone with Agnes, and knowing this fills me with a strange, trembling excitement. With my back against the wall, I am seated on my bed. She must have something planned for tonight, and I believe she will leave shortly. I stare blankly ahead, feeling that if I have to stay home alone all evening, I will go crazy from my loneliness.

"Aren't you going anywhere?" I suddenly broke the silence.

"No. I prefer the peace of home tonight. And you... friends? Girlfriend?"

"I am not interested in being with friends, and I don't have a girlfriend."

She finishes painting her nails while soft music plays in the background. Agnes studies French at university, loves French culture, watches many French movies, and listens to music. One of her favorites, the late, legendary, decadent Serge Gainsbourg's LP, plays while she unpacks her travel bag. With her back to me, she stretches and places the empty bag on top of the wardrobe. The bottom edge of her bathrobe slides up, and for a moment, her buttocks are visible, strained against translucent, light blue panties. It's crazy; I'd like to take her here on the spot. She is not going anywhere, yet she colors her eyelids with a pale peach shade and applies gloss to her lips, harmonizing with her eyeshadow.

She usually brings something delectable with her when she gets home; for example, a small bottle of French cognac and a package of macarons, which she adores, are emerging from her bag. I decline the macarons; they are too sweet for me. She pours a drink of cognac for us both.

Glass in hand, she sits in an armchair across from me, chatting about generalities. Later, we move on to personal matters. For the first time, she talks about her former relationship, saying she broke up with her boyfriend because she caught him having sex with her roommate. According to her, the roommate changes partners as often as she changes shirts, and behind her back, she was called a "dorm slut."

Agnes recounts the details of finding her boyfriend and roommate together. On that afternoon, as usual, she intended to study until six in the evening in the university library. However, due to a heating system failure, the library was closed, so Agnes returned to the dormitory early. She entered her room at the most unfortunate moment; the two were in bed. "I'm sorry," she said before walking out. Later, she returned for her toiletries and pajamas, slept in the guest room that night, and moved to another room the next day.

Her boyfriend approached her to explain himself, but Agnes told him their relationship was over. When she says that, she means it seriously; a person gets only one chance with her in a relationship. I have always admired her firm, straightforward character.

She pours us both another drink and puts the bottle away.

"Santé! La vie, c'est si jolly." (Cheers! Life is so beautiful)—she raises her glass. She has a habit of using French words to color her speech, like this one about life, which I am already familiar with; she frequently uses it to allude to the negative aspects of existence.

I feel the alcohol swirling in my head, warm and hazy. It causes me to stare openly at Agnes when she gets up to turn over the record. Agnes sits back in the armchair, and while tasting the macaron dipped in her drink, she looks at me with sidelong glances. I don't know what to make of her sudden interest. She plays with her hair, slips her bare feet in and out of her slippers, and gently strokes the glass stem between her fingers. If I had known more about body language, I probably would recognize the unconscious, nonverbal signs of a woman flirting. A faint tingle begins to stir in my groin.

The song "69 Année Érotique" (69, Year of Erotic) from the album is now playing—a duet performed by Gainsbourg and his love, Jane Birkin. The song celebrates the sexual freedom of that era and—indirectly—the sexual "69 position." "Soixante-neuf, année érotique," Agnes sings along, and I lean back with my eyes closed, savoring the sound of her pleasant voice, which is comparable to that of the singer. I remember when Agnes once showed me a video recording of this song; Gainsbourg is sitting at the piano, while Birkin lies on her stomach on its closed, dusty lid. The camera moves around and zooms in on her shapely buttocks, which are encased in tight black silk pants. Birkin has a look that could activate a man's control center in the brain. I see a similar light in Agnes's eyes as she gazes at me for a long time, her head tilted to one side and a faint smile on her lips.

She suddenly stands and settles next to me on the bed, pulls her legs up, and folds them in front of her. She tries to pull her robe together at the top to hide her breasts, but it opens at the bottom, revealing her thighs.

"So, you say you don't have a girlfriend?" Agnes asks. "Have you ever had sex with a girl? You can tell me."

I feel a tingling in my groin again when she touches my upper arm and looks at me curiously. A rush of nervousness washes over me as her gaze lingers, and my heart races at the intimate closeness.

"I've only gotten as far as petting a girl, but I haven't slept with anyone yet," I reply with great difficulty.

I am almost enchanted by her closeness as I feel the scent of her freshly washed hair and body. I'm very perplexed and don't know what to do. I'm curious about what she expects from me: initiative? What if I'm just misinterpreting her? However, seeing that peculiar light in her eyes...

Suddenly, I grab her hand and press it to my face, leaning my head on her shoulder. My heart is pounding as the confession bursts out of me: "I constantly dream about you. Don't be angry!"

"About me?! We are siblings! You shouldn't think about it, not even in your dreams."

"I can't help it! You are the Woman, with a capital 'W,' for me," I say in a hushed voice.

She looks at me for a few seconds, astonished, and I instantly regret what I said. I think she misunderstood me, but she says, "It's okay, don't start crying, my little bro," stroking my hair. She continues, "We really shouldn't be doing this, but the way you touched me gave me a strangely pleasant feeling that I didn't expect. You were honest, and I will be too. I wouldn't be truthful if I said I didn't notice your attention. Sometimes I also fantasize about you. I've been trying to get rid of these images in my mind, but they keep coming back. It's probably because I broke up with my boyfriend two months ago and haven't had sex with anyone."

It's as if my secret wishes have come true! However, uncertainty still haunts me. Can I do something to satisfy an experienced woman's pleasure? Undoubtedly, she is not new to the hands of a man. It was one thing to dream about her, but now she is present in the flesh. Can I give her something special, something new that will genuinely satisfy her? Moreover, we are even related. Is it truly best to stop at this point before there's no turning back? I may never have another opportunity like this again. These doubts flashed through my mind in a split second, and today, looking back, no one can blame me for choosing to continue.

"Oh, Agnes, I never would have believed it!" I sigh with relief as I put my arms around her and timidly kiss her half-exposed shoulder. She trembles for a moment but does not push me away. Her breath quickens when I kiss her earlobe and caress the back of her head. She doesn't speak but looks at me expectantly. I kiss her slightly parted lips, and she returns the kiss, gently touching my lips with the tip of her tongue.

I reach beneath her robe and grip her breast from behind her bra. She pulls her arms from the robe, letting the fabric drape at her hips. She's wearing a purple bra, which piques my interest even more.

"Do you like it?" she inquires.

"I'm crazy about its color."

"I thought you were crazy about what was underneath it," she jokes.

I grab the lacy sheer bra and push it under her breasts in one swift motion; her bare breasts pop up from beneath it. She closes her eyes and sighs lustfully, and her not-too-big, not-too-small breasts are now on display for me. I caress and grasp them—they barely fit in my palms—while she unbuttons the bra from her back, takes it off, and drops it to the floor.

She runs her fingers through my hair and touches my head. I untie her belt and fully open her robe, tasting her rapidly stiffening nipples. She removes my t-shirt and strokes my chest. She holds my buttock with one hand and takes my emerging, rigid penis in the other, pulling my camping trousers down to my thighs. She touches my manhood with seductive up-and-down movements as our lips meet for another lengthy, intense kiss. I roam down her undulating body, licking and kissing her tummy and thighs as she sighs and leans back on the bed. Her hips writhe as I hold her round, supple buttocks.

"Pull my panties off," she says in a trembling voice, lifting her hips and buttocks. As she moans deeply, I grip the narrow straps of her enticing purple lacy panties and peel them away. Now that she's entirely naked in front of me, I can hardly believe it's happening.