Agnes Love Of My Life Pt 03

Part III - Silver Dreams, Golden Reality

For the Kind Reader:

This story is the third part of a multipart series. To fully understand the story, it is recommended that you read the first and second parts of the series.

A Strange Dream

It feels as if I am awake; yet in my dream, I know I'm sleeping. It's as if I'm watching a movie: events unfold on a film screen, and I perceive everything with full awareness. After a long time, I find myself experiencing that recurring dream again, but this time with more detail:

I am lying on a bed, but not in my own bedroom. Instead, it's the former bedroom of my parents' house, the one I used to share with my sister, Agnes. Of course, since she was already a fully grown woman, I only shared it with her on weekends when she came home from university.

Right now, I am lying on my old bed, yet I still have no idea how I got here, even in my dreams. Besides, after our parents' death, we sold this apartment, so I shouldn't be here. Yet, here I am!

Somewhere, soft music is playing--an old French song: Adamo's "

Tombe la neige

"--echoing from somewhere. Through the window, I can see that it's not just in the song; it is also snowing heavily outside. Of course, Agnes studies French, and these romantic chansons are her favorites. But why is she listening to them in the middle of the night? She isn't even in the room; maybe she didn't come home this weekend. But now the door opens, and Agnes steps in. She is wearing only a short, transparent nightgown that barely reaches her thighs.

The sight stirs not only me but also my previously sleeping sexual arousal.

"Did you just arrive?" I ask.

"Not long ago. I just took a shower."

"It must be cold outside."

"Yep, but it's not warm in here, either."

"Come on, my bed is already warm."

On the single bed, she could only fit next to me by turning sideways, drawing her right thigh up and resting it gently on top of me.

As the nightgown slides up over her, I can feel her bulging pubic mound and her tits pressing against me. I kiss her lips passionately. She wraps her fingers around my manhood, stroking gently up and down. Then, she shifts her thigh on my hips, sits on top of me, and places my penis against her wet vagina then slowly sliding into it.

I grip her breasts hovering in front of me, teasing her hard nipples with my thumbs. Her upper body leans over me as her hips make small circles, her vagina rhythmically squeezing. I pull the blanket over us and wrap my arms around her bare back.

"I'm so glad you're here. I always wait for you when you're gone," I say.

"If you miss me, just call, and I'll come."

The old question arises in my mind--one that I have never been able to ask before because I always woke up before I could say it, and afterward, I didn't remember what I wanted to ask. But now, I finally have it:

"Tell me, when we're making love, have you ever felt embarrassed that we are siblings?"

She stops moving and opens her eyes, which glimmer with a strange, sad light. After a brief silence, she responds to my question with another question:

"And what if I said we're not actually siblings?"

"What?! What do you mean by that?"

"As I said. But do you really want to know?"

"Go on, since you've started."

She sighs, then falls silent for a few moments again.

"Just don't regret it later... The trust is... well, we're not from the same parents, little bro. I was adopted."

This is interesting; sometimes her voice is heard from closer, and sometimes from further away.

"Adopted?! When? Why?"

"It is an old story. Our mother, who is my stepmother, had a very close friend--my biological mother. My parents died in a car accident when I was just one year old. The people I know as my parents adopted me, as my real parents had no relatives who could take care of me. You were born two years later as their only child. I grew up believing that I was also their child."

"And when did you realize that it wasn't like that?" I ask, feeling a tremor begin in my stomach.

"When I was fourteen, I accidentally found the adoption papers deep in a drawer. I've known it ever since. Of course, I created the impression that I was unaware of anything; after all, they raised me, so I considered them my parents. But I searched for and found the grave of my biological parents in the city cemetery."

I can hardly speak. Hesitantly, I ask the obvious question:

"When you first slept with me and knew we weren't siblings, why didn't you tell me?"

"There would have been no point. You grew up believing we were siblings, and I wanted to leave our parents with the same belief--that I didn't know they weren't my real parents. I succeeded in that until the end of their lives. And there was another reason: as I mentioned back then, I was also attracted to you. Perhaps I wanted to test your feelings, to see if you would truly be drawn to me or if it was just a dream for you. I know it was a selfish thing for me to do, but I hope you can forgive me. Do you forgive me?"

"I don't want to know any more!" I thought. I turn her under me and penetrate her again. To distract myself from what I just heard, I start making love to her at a frenetic pace, unlike usual. She seems to feel the same way because she takes over the rhythm, her panting turning to loud moans. Her body writhes lustfully beneath me, but before we climax, I awaken, as usual.

With a rapidly beating heart, I stared into the darkness of my bedroom. The red display of the alarm clock read half past two. My swirling thoughts made it difficult to fall asleep again, and I was tormented by chaotic dream images until morning.

2. In the Library

Some say that dreams never lie; I say that dreams are just dreams. Yet, this matter won't let me rest. Let's think about it for a moment. I remember that our mother really did have a childhood friend whom she mentioned from time to time, but she never revealed what had happened to her. Perhaps she only mentioned that her friend got married and moved abroad, which caused them to drift apart. I don't remember if my mother ever revealed her friend's name, and since she has passed away, there is no one to ask.

It's Saturday morning, and I'm wandering the narrow streets of my hometown. I returned here 0hesitantly, because of that strange dream I had. I don't even know where to start my search, but my legs seem to lead me almost automatically to the city library. In the reading room, I request the archived microfilm copies of the local newspaper that were published during Agnes's birth year and the following year. I sit down in front of a terminal and go through the articles one by one, primarily focusing on past car accidents. Since I'm searching in a daily newspaper, it takes a while before I stumble upon an article reporting on a fatal car accident involving a couple, miraculously survived only by their one-year-old daughter. I read in astonishment that the wife was driving, and it doesn't reassure me that the tragedy wasn't her fault but rather that of a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel and drifted into the opposite lane. As usual, no names are mentioned; however, two issues later, I come across an obituary that reveals the names of the deceased. But what does this prove? It could be a mere coincidence, I tell myself, already outside on the street as I leave the library.

The Peace of the Dead

Once again, I wander aimlessly from street to street, and suddenly I find myself at the gate of the city cemetery. I'm not sure if I want to know more, yet I step through the large wrought-iron gate into the eternal silence of the graveyard. At least I can visit my parents' grave, I tell myself as I justify my presence here. After a brief look around, I realize that the plots are numbered in reverse chronological order; the graves of the victims of the accident I read about in the library must be farther away, well beyond the area that contains my parents' grave. The cemetery caretaker helps me; he can locate a grave's whereabouts in the computer records by name. He finds it, and I head toward the specified site with a sense of tension, which lies at the far end of the cemetery. As I walk, the graves become increasingly older and less well-tended, and the dates engraved on the tombstones reflect much earlier periods as well. Here, they are densely arranged, and the names on them gradually blur before my eyes; perhaps I won't even find what I'm looking for. But here it is! Gray granite, long-faded artificial flowers in the flowerpot. Above the names engraved in the stone, there is an oval, gold-framed, slightly yellowed photograph of a young couple. In the woman's eyes and features, it's as if I am seeing Agnes! The world fades around me; this cannot be true! Yet this is not a dream anymore; this is reality. Through the whirlwind of thoughts overwhelming me, I can barely see the path as I make my way back. I stop by my parents' grave to place the bouquet of flowers I bought at the entrance, and then I move on, almost fleeing the cemetery. Once outside, I sit on a bench and try to calm myself. A little later, after buying another bouquet, I return to the supposed resting place of Agnes' parents and placed the flowers on the grave.

At home, I was under the influence of what I had seen for days. It suddenly became clear to me why Agnes had become withdrawn during her teenage years and why she was somewhat distant from our parents, even though she remained respectful all the while. I remembered that during that time, I often saw a thoughtful, pondering expression on her face, but as was her habit, she did not share her feelings with me or with others.

Now I also know what she was doing one Sunday afternoon in the park in front of the cemetery, where I happened to notice her while passing by, though she didn't see me. I watched from a distance as she bought a bouquet of flowers from the vendor next to the cemetery entrance, and then she disappeared beneath the huge evergreen trees of the graveyard. Although I didn't understand what was happening, I didn't dare to follow her there.

And for the first time in my life, I notice that there is little resemblance between Agnes's features to either our parents or myself. In three months, I will meet Agnes, this time in Paris. I decided that I would talk to her about these things then.

Days later, I found myself in the cemetery again in my dreams, but this time it was during the evening twilight. Almost every grave had a candle burning, as if it were All Saints' Day. The lantern I held illuminated the narrow dirt path before me only dimly, but the light of the rising moon, filtering through the branches of the tall pines, helped the candle. Once I reached the presumed grave of Agnes's parents, I placed the lantern on it and watched as the flickering flame cast trembling beams of light onto the gravestone, glinting on the picture frame. Suddenly, I heard a faint sound behind me, and something brushed gently against my ankle. I turned around, and a large black cat was staring at me, its green eyes shining. It was a gorgeous feline, surely a resident of the cemetery. As a cat lover, I bent down to pet it, but it hissed and, with an accusatory meow, suddenly disappeared into the thicket of bushes. I stared after it for several seconds before slowly turning back toward the grave.

I flinched in fright. Standing next to the grave was the blurred figure of an elderly woman dressed in white, her long, gray hair falling to her shoulders.

"Are you an acquaintance of the deceased, sir?" she asked in a barely audible, distant voice, not much louder than the gently rustling wind among the leaves above my head.

"Oh, no. I wasn't even born when they had already died..."

"Then why don't you let them rest? Why do you disturb the peace of the dead?"

"I... I just brought a candle for their grave. And... I wanted to tell them that their only daughter is happy with me..."

At that moment, high above among the leaves of the trees, an owl stood out sharply. I involuntarily turned my gaze toward the source of the sound. When I looked back, the ghostly apparition in white had already vanished. Suddenly, I woke up in my bed, and the question echoed in my mind again and again: "Why do you disturb the peace of the dead?"

City of Light

I am lying on my back while Agnes is on all fours above me, her body inverted. Gripping her firm buttocks, I spread her outer labia caressing her rapidly moistening inner slit with my tongue. When I reach her clit, she makes soft circular movements with her hips against the tip of my tongue, letting out a moan. I feel her caress my stiff manhood, and then she takes it softly between her lips. Her moans intensify as I quicken the pace with my tongue. Her lower body trembles more and more, and then suddenly, flooded with pleasure she screams, her juices almost covering my face.

I roll out from under her, kneel behind her, and push my penis into her vagina. Her face buries into the sheets as I move in and out of her writhing body, and every time I penetrate her deeply, she almost screams with pleasure. She rises as high as she can, turns her face towards me, our lips meld together in a wild kiss, as I grip her breasts. Then, she leans forward again, resting one arm on the bed, while reaching back with her other hand and rubbing her clit at an accelerating pace. She tries to muffle the screams of her another orgasm with a pillow as I fill her throbbing vagina with my cum.

We are in Paris, at the location of our current meeting. It has been five years since she visited me while passing through. After being swept away again by the desire we felt for each other--a connection that, according to a strange theory, seemed inevitable--we agreed to meet once a year in distant places where no one knows us. However, we soon reduced this interval to six months...

We arrived at Orly a day ago and rented a small attic apartment near the Saint-Martin Canal. We planned to spend six wonderful nights here. The muffled murmur of the city seeps in through the open window as we lie next to each other in the twilight glow. It is early October, but the weather remains pleasantly sunny. This is my first time in Paris; until now, I have only explored the famous places, districts, streets, squares, and entertainment venues of the city through the pages of my favorite Maigret novels, following the investigations of the diligent Chief Inspector. However, Agnes spent a longer time here during her university years when she received a scholarship as a student of French literature at the Sorbonne. She knows Paris, the City of Light, well from firsthand experience.

Back then, she lived in the Quartier Latin, where Sorbonne University is located. Now, she shows me the vibrant little streets filled with cafés bustling with students, including her former student residence on a small side street off rue Saint-Jacques, where her roommate was a Ghanaian medical student named Kumba. However, her classmates jokingly referred to her as 'Makumba,' inspired by the black female character in the Luis de Funès comedy film

The Gendarme and the Gendarmettes

. We walked along Boulevard Saint-Michel and reached the neighboring Jardin du Luxembourg, near the Odéon. We entered the park, the place where Agnes often sat in the afternoons, flipping through her school notes or listening to the muffled, distant sounds of the pulsating metropolis.

She recalls that it was here, in the park, where she met a French boy named Pierre, who was also a university student, majoring in art history. One afternoon, as twilight approached, he happened to be passing by just when Agnes was about to head back to her student residence. She still vividly remembers everything since then. Pierre, with his French assertiveness approached her, and Agnes was impressed by his confident demeanor and good looks. They were talking for a while when Pierre unexpectedly asked: "Aren't you hungry? How about some quick bites? I know a little Vietnamese bistro nearby where they cook well." Agnes only now felt how hungry she was. She had last eaten at the university cafeteria that day at noon. Nevertheless, her good manners prompted her to decline the invitation. However, Pierre encouraged her with such sincere kindness that she eventually accepted it.

As it turned out, Agnes was familiar with that bistro; she had previously ordered food for herself there a few times, but only for takeout in a paper box so she could eat it in the dormitory.

Now, in the nearly empty room, dimly illuminated by colorful lanterns, they settled into a cozy corner table and ordered stir-fried noodles with pork and vegetables. While the chef skillfully handled the

wok

behind the counter, preparing their meal, they chatted in a good mood about various topics. Pierre, with his great sense of humor, was easily able to make Agnes laugh.

After the quick supper, they crossed the pedestrian bridge

Pont des Arts

, adorned with thousands of 'love locks,' and strolled hand in hand along the brightly lit banks of the Seine in the evening. Pierre kept talking and talking, explaining the sights around them, and the 'secrets' of Parisian life. Returning to the Latin Quarter, they sat down in a small night bar where, apart from them, there was only a cheerful group of Africans; based on their lively conversations in Portuguese, they must have been Angolan or Mozambican students.

The colorful lights, the reggae music, Pierre's attentive kindness, and the two Caribbean rum-based cocktails enchanted Agnes. She felt that after so much studying, she could allow herself to relax a little. So might be forgivable that she ultimately spent the night in Pierre's small, rented attic apartment. When she got home in the morning, Kumba was already seriously worried about her, as Agnes had never stayed out all night before. She thought on her way to the university that what had happened was just a one-night stand. However, Pierre was waiting for her in front of the

Panthéon

in the afternoon, after the lectures were over. From then on, he waited for her there many times. I remember that back then, she sent a photo of a handsome, black-haired guy posing in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and aviation sunglasses on a palm-lined beach promenade somewhere down on the Riviera.

Now she shared more about him. Pierre was from Nice, the capital of the Côte d'Azur, and accordingly had a passionate Southern French temperament: easy going but sophisticated, sensual but not sentimental, and on top of all that, an attentive and experienced lover. He took Agnes to such small, secluded student clubs, the existence of which she had not even suspected before. Where the scent of cannabis lingered in the air, indicating that the guests smoked a joint now and then. Pierre was no exception, who on such occasions felt the urge to race along the banks of the Seine on his Yamaha motorbike.

Life was vibrant in these clubs, with rock and roll constantly playing and playful laughter ringing out among groups of university students gathering here and there, sipping red wine, debating the present, and planning an optimistic future. The boys, with long hair, wearing jeans and colorful shirts, had textbooks under one arm and a current, dreamy-eyed girlfriend, usually from the humanities department, under the other. For Agnes, studying vocabulary not necessarily found in French dictionaries was more valuable than any course she had taken before.

Besides the clubs, Pierre often took her to museums, especially to avant-garde exhibitions. They also went to the movies, where the films provided further opportunities for useful language learning. Agnes's biggest acting idol was Alain Delon; I believe it is no wonder why. After the movies, they regularly visited the small Arabian bistros of the city, where Agnes could taste dishes from the French colonies, such as the couscous and the tagine. From the restaurants, their way usually led to Pierre's small attic apartment, which served them as an intimate hiding place.