Agnes Dourville Ch. 01

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At a young and impressionable age...
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Part 1 of the 18 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 04/29/2017
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ValoryG
ValoryG
285 Followers

This begins a new novella with chapters added over time. Although its theme has been commonly used in erotic lit, I hope to make it seem real.

*****

General Dwight David Eisenhower is President and "Tricky Dick" Nixon is vice president. Candy bars are a nickel and two quarters gets me into a movie (with cartoons and newsreel). My dad, when he was with us, filled up his car's gas tank for 27 cents a gallon. Mailing a letter costs only three cents.

The year is 1957, I've just graduated from high school in a rural town and I'm riding solo on a Greyhound bus for the first time in my young and impressionable life. The bus has a chemical smell I'm not familiar with, there are some odd characters aboard, and that makes me nervous.

But I do like seeing new Wisconsin territory pass by: towns I've never visited before, farms growing unfamiliar crops, and so on.

My mother and two older brothers saw me off, she nervous just like me, but my brothers goofing off as usual. The official reason for my leaving was that my Aunt Agnes down in Douglas needed some help for the summer before I went off to trade school. You see, her husband had kicked the bucket a couple years before. They had run a small neighborhood grocery store with the help of their daughter, Clarice. But after the father's untimely death from a heart attack, and with Clarice graduating from high school (and starting a job elsewhere), Agnes was stretched to the limit. She only had the part-time help of a high school student.

That was the official reason for my leaving.

But I detected there was more to my departure than that. My alcoholic dad, a deckhand on Great Lakes ore ships, had abandoned the family for good after fathering five boys and two girls. At least he paid his child support, according to our bank teller mom. During the school year, she managed. But the summers could be chaotic. She needed we three older sons out of her hair, because we talked back too much and sometimes made life difficult for our younger siblings. So my older two brothers (who still lived at home but had no aspirations toward higher education) were spending the summer working on our uncle's farm.

But I was different than these brothers. Whenever I got into a wrestling match with one of them, they'd pin me down every time, and they were never intimidated by toughs. They smoked a little on the side. Me, I was the quieter one, had gotten good grades, and walked away from fights. Maybe that's why I was going to my aunt's rather than to the farm.

I was 18, and I wasn't sexually experienced. Shy is the word. I hadn't even kissed a girl yet, and I'd taken to beating off looking at girly pictures from auto magazines, of all things. All it took was a little cleavage to get me going.

Of course I'd learned about "the act" and how most people have sex, by learning a little here and a little there. My brothers and parents weren't any help.

Once I came across the word "homosexual" in Reader's Digest and had no idea what it meant. I couldn't find it in the family dictionary. So I looked up "homo" which led me to "homo sapiens," which didn't tell me much. And then on milk bottles was the inscription "homo milk" which was hilarious. I then found "hemo," which has something to do with blood. Duh.

So it's interesting that despite the bus I'm riding being only half full, at a restaurant bus stop, a lean man with a partly open shirt comes aboard, smiles a smarmy smile, and asks if he can sit next to me. I mumble yes, then continue to look out the window. He tries to engage me in conversation and I answer but keep looking outside. Soon, he seems to fall asleep but his leg contacts mine, and not just softly. I'm acutely aware of this, and am too embarrassed to pull away. Then he shifts position and his hand slips between our two legs, seemingly by accident. At this I change my position also, to pull my legs away, but his follow mine. I'm flummoxed, and remain with this situation for miles, until the man finally appears to wake up and ambles down the aisle to leave. I'm glad.

As the miles pile on and I grow bored, my memories return to my mother Nancy and her fix after dad left. I recall that before he left, when he'd return home on shore leave he'd demand this or that. He spent very little time with us kids, unless it was to take us to a ball game or watch boxing on TV. As time went on, he accused mom, in front of us, of having an affair. This, fueled with good old Wisconsin beer, led him to rough her up late at night when we were in bed. In the morning, seeing my mother crying and a broken dish or two on the kitchen floor, really turned my dislike of him into a full-bloomed hate. He was one son-of-a-bitch.

Then I think ahead to Aunt Agnes, Aunt Agnes Dourville. My mother, who had the same maiden name, said that their parents had changed the spelling of their name from d'Ourville to Dourville, just to keep things simple. After her husband's death, Agnes changed her last name back from her late husband's name to Dourville, because, as my mother said, Agnes was so proud of her French ancestry.

I last saw Aunt Agnes when her husband was still alive, around three years ago. I can't say I paid her a whole lot of attention, but I recall a rather stout woman who was prone to airs. She wasn't the friendliest sort, but she did play host to our family when we came to see her on a visit-as-many-relatives-as-possible trip. Her daughter, my cousin Clarice, lived with her then, and Clarice seemed like a less-imposing clone of her mom.

I wonder what Agnes has in store for me as the Greyhound pulls into Douglas, a quiet, dusty town about 30 miles outside Madison, the state capitol. Douglas has a nice town square, centered around a dark and dreary county courthouse.

I get off, looking around for Agnes as the uniformed bus driver retrieves my worn, brown suitcase. There are a couple Chevys and Buicks there to pick up other passengers, but no Agnes or Clarice. So I just stand there, trying to look like I belong, as the bus takes off with a roar. I glance at my dad's castaway wrist watch and figure I'll call Agnes if she doesn't show within a half hour, but after 15 minutes I spy her face behind the wheel of an approaching Hudson car.

There's no smile as she gets out and perfunctorily kisses me on both cheeks. "Welcome, little Michael," she purrs.

Her hair is quite short, with curled bangs in front, and I notice small pearl earrings. Her small lipsticked lips seem perpetually pursed. But what is most impressive is her build: she's a tall, big, bosomy woman, and my brothers probably would've said she was built like a tank.

As for me, I don't exactly like being called little. For some reason, while my brothers stand around six feet tall, I inherited my mother's slender and short stature, and only stand five feet five. But please don't call me little.

Agnes holds both my arms and looks me up and down. "Well, Michael, I'm glad my sister sent me you instead of your rambunctious older brothers. They can be so out of control."

That is true.

"And look at you. You've got your mother's good looks; you've still got a little baby fat in your cheeks, and I can tell you're very well-mannered and nice."

It's time for me to speak up. "Mother actually says I talk back and argue too much."

"Well, that's hard to believe! You won't be that way here, will you?"

And without waiting for an answer, she deftly lifts the suitcase into the Hudson's trunk, motions me into the passenger seat, and off we go. She drives faster than mother.

On the way to her home, which is two doors away from the Dourville Market, she continues to talk me up.

"Michael, you do realize this visit isn't a vacation, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Since my husband died and Clarice took a job elsewhere in town, I've had to work myself to the bone, and I only have the student helping me part-time. Michael, you will be working for me full-time, just to give it to you straight. I'll give you a little spending money and the rest will go to help your mom at home. And of course, I will subtract some money for your room and board."

This is bad news for me, and to have it related so matter-of-factly and so soon is disconcerting. I had figured that after giving her a hand or two, I'd have lots of leisure time to explore the town and play softball and swim. Things are sounding more and more like actual work. Heck, I'm only 18!

"I didn't know I was going to work full-time," I say lamely.

"But that's what your mom and I agreed on," Agnes pronounces. "I assumed that she talked this over with you?"

"Not really. But, well, I can help you out, I guess." It's only for the summer, I figure.

We ride along in silence. Out of my disappointment I need something to look forward to. Suddenly I remember that tucked away in a far corner of my suitcase is my secretly purchased, tight, white swimming suit. Every time I wear it, the stretchy outer nylon fabric and inner supporter cradle my genitals and excite me. Will I be brave enough to wear it at the pool here in Douglas? I feel a small erection forming under my trousers and hope Agnes doesn't notice.

We pull into the driveway of her old-fashioned, two-story Midwestern home. Entering, I'm astounded by all the space and quiet after having shared a home with six siblings and two parents. I'd been in this house briefly before, but don't remember much about it.

Following Agnes' directions, I lug my suitcase upstairs and set it down on the hardwood floor.

"Now Michael, or Mike - which name do you go by?"

"Michael."

She leans against the wall in the hallway, and my eyes wander to her brown-colored nylons with black seams down the backs.

Again, she doesn't waste time with niceties. "Michael, you need to pick which bedroom to sleep in. That's my bedroom over there - the master bedroom. That leaves two. One is that bedroom over there that I've been using as a sewing and storage room. You can see I've got some boxes in there. Then the other bedroom used to be Clarice's. I've kept it nice and neat, and haven't changed it much since she left."

The sewing bedroom isn't very inviting, with dull colors and boxes piled in a corner and on top of part of the bed, along with some of her clothing. On the other hand, Clarice's bedroom has light blue walls, a smaller bed with fluffy bedding and what looks like a half dozen small, decorated pillows. Sitting in several chairs around the edge of the room are teddy bears and large dolls. A pink dresser with books on top stands out, and there's something similar to what my mother calls a vanity, where she sits down to do her hair and makeup back home.

I'm perplexed. Agnes seems to be nudging me toward the girl's bedroom, and I feel that I'd be imposing if I select the sewing room. On the other hand, why would I want to be a in a girl's room, with all the girly things in there? It looks like a museum devoted to Clarice, and is so thoroughly feminine that it seems like a different world. In the house I grew up in, the girls' room was much more mundane and blah.

I obviously need to make a choice.

"I like Clarice's room best," I admit, "but could you take out the teddy bears and dolls?"

"Oh, I guess so," sighs Agnes. "I'll have to find some boxes to put them in. And Clarice won't be happy to see them missing the next time she visits."

So I lift my suitcase onto the fluffy bed, and Agnes tells me where to store my things and where the bathroom is.

She leaves and I proceed to unpack. My socks and jockey shorts go in the top pink drawer. My T-shirts and polo-like shirts go in the second drawer, and my summer shorts, secret swimming suit and a couple trousers go in the third drawer. I open the fourth and last drawer and surprise!, I find neatly folded stacks of panties, both plain and fancy, along with assorted nylons, short slips, bras and a swim suit.

Soon, I also discover (when trying to hang my trousers) that residing nearly out of sight in the closet are some of Clarice's dresses, nightgowns, pants, skirts, and tops. I don't know whether to be stand-offish in the proximity of these feminine accouterments, and push them aside in my mind, or to indulge my curiosity. I do the latter, checking out everything, and also find that the vanity has some remnants of Clarice's makeup products, along with a hairbrush and some jewelry.

I resolve to ask Agnes if she could possibly move those things to make the room less girlish.

That evening, going to sleep in the soft, fluffy bed, I feel like I'm in fairyland. Quite different than when I was back home.

ValoryG
ValoryG
285 Followers
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AnonymousAnonymousalmost 7 years ago
Good beginning

Waiting for 2nd part hon

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