Agnes Dourville Ch. 04

As Sharon and I walk to the theater, we're both nervous, so our conversation is really limited and stilted. This lets my overactive mind wonder a bit, and I can't help but dredge up the memory of Agnes and I marching into my room together the day after her nightgown ultimatum.

I was prepared to be embarrassed then, because when the panty thing came up, it didn't require her looking at undies with me. So yes, I was embarrassed when Agnes went into my closet and emerged with four of Clarice's nightgowns on hangers, and lay them side by side on my fluffy bed.

When watching her considerable bulk enter the closet, I wondered if she was wearing one of her stretchy corsets under her workaday dress.

"So now, little Michael," she said somewhat imperiously, "pick one of these to wear after your showers. You can consider it yours; I don't think Clarice wants these anymore; we would've donated them to the thrift shop."

Two of the girly creations were subdued white things - a long and sleeved flannel one which looked to be warm for the winter months and had an attractive tiny bird pattern and pink trim. Number two was of thin cotton, with nearly invisible embroidery and tiny beads all along its bodice, and was shorter, with two wide shoulder straps.

Then came several that were definitely less demure. A red one was long, slim and satin-like, with lots of lacework around the top and bodice, and with three thin straps across each shoulder. Finally, and I was afraid to look at it very long - though it immediately grabbed my attention - was a short blue babydoll creation with opaque bra cups and all sexy lace below that, down to mid-thigh. Along with it on the hanger was a skimpy blue panty.

"So, which will it be, Michael?" Agnes demanded, arms akimbo. "Knowing boys, I doubt you'd want to be seen in the babydoll."

Right, I thought, but it's still rather arousing. I laughed a little laugh.

In short order I pointed to the second one, the white sleeveless nightie. Agnes held it up to me and clicked her tongue in approval.

"Luckily, Clarice and you are about the same height and size," she said. "So here you are. Now you can be proper, and oh yes, you will start wearing it to bed. That way, you'll keep the sheets clean, too."

Was she referring to my beating off in bed?

Just as I was returning the remaining three creations to the closet, with extra loving attention given to the babydoll, she remembered I was going to pick one to buy. So she found her Sears mail order catalog and instructed me to pick out another nightie before going to bed. So after dinner, I began to scan the lingerie pages while sitting in Agnes' living room (such catalogs had never been around the house when I was growing up - my mother must've kept them hidden).

I feigned being clinically dispassionate, but eyeing the endless images of curvy, beautiful women in panties, nylons and garter belts, bras, girdles, corsets, and slips was quite arousing to the point where I had to cross my legs to keep my erection from showing. I really had to force myself to move over to the nightgown section, but my appetite for lingerie had been irrevocably whetted.

So, this was to be a nightgown I could live with ... But, how did I ever get to this point? I decided I wasn't going to feel down on myself or like a homo, because she had ordered me to do this. She'd put me in a position where I didn't have a choice.

I ended up choosing a rather ordinary one, white like the other one I chose, and sleeveless too, with pleats coming down from an embroidered bodice, and three lines stitched around the bottom, which I calculated should come nearly to my ankles. Agnes approved of my choice, saying, "You like a particular style. That's good, Michael; it shows you're not fighting this."

So, before Sharon and my movie date, I'd worn Clarice's nightie just once, from the shower to my room. Agnes hadn't been upstairs to see this inaugural trip, so I just ... wore it, so loose and unfamiliar around my slim body, like I was partly a girl. Of course I had to look at myself in Clarice's vanity mirror. Interesting. Was I now a pretty man in Agnes' eyes?

On the other hand, I cheated by wearing the baby doll nightie to bed, where seeing the bra cups against my chest, and my cock under the blue stretch lace, was mightily exciting. And at my pubescent age, there's no doubt where that led to, under the covers and with a small towel. Afterwards, there was the inevitable feeling that pleasuring myself, so powerful and overwhelming, was somehow sinful and forbidden.

As Sharon and I walk along Douglas' sidewalks peppered with weeds and sometimes knocked askew by bulging tree roots, I compare her to Clarice, who's only a few years older. I've had the chance to observe Clarice up close during the summer because she drops her old home for a visit and dinner every couple weeks. I learn she has a regular boyfriend, and hopes to start college for a business or accounting degree, to follow in her mother's footsteps.

Where Sharon is quiet and plain, Clarice is quite talkative and forward. She wears brief summer tops (with bra straps not quite hidden away) and tight white jeans that definitely display her bodily assets. Simply, her ample boobs and curvy buns are near perfect, in my eyes - and she doesn't have the big-boned body of her mother. She's also one to kid around a little, in contrast to her mom's more serious demeanor. Evidently Agnes has told her about my wearing her panties, because Clarice lays down more than one hint about it, with a sly look. I can only blush.

This memory reminds me that as I accompany Sharon, I'm wearing a pair of Clarice's panties - my favorite pair in fact - and it provides a little spark of arousal.

Sharon and I arrive at the theater just before the sun sets. Fortunately, I don't run into any of the town thugs. I buy popcorn and Cokes, and don't draw her attention to the show bill advertising the other movie there - "Peyton Place" - but I know she sees it. We find seats in the half-filled theater for "Boy on a Dolphin." While I chaw away on the popcorn, she hardly touches it.

As the newsreel, cartoons and previews end, and the movie proper begins I catch a glance of Sharon sitting next to me. Lit by the flickering movie screen, she looks quite cute, and my "farmgirl" conception of her begins to dissipate. I put my elbow on the armrest next to her and wonder if she'll reciprocate, but no.

I catch the faintest whiff of perfume, but aren't sure if it's hers or from another nearby woman.

The movie's mildly interesting with one exception: the lead actress is Sophia Loren. When I picked the movie, I thought it'd be about a boy who becomes friends with a dolphin, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Loren, that sultry Italian actress with the sexy lips, instead plays a sponge diver in the waters near Greece. Her wet shirt reveals perfect boobs - and even nipples - underneath. So now my attention is drifting from the farm girl next to me to Ms. Loren on the screen. When I see her kiss one of the men vying for her attention, my hopes for Sharon rise and rise.

When we leave the theater in the darkness, I ask Sharon about the film.

"Oh, it was pretty good, I guess. I liked seeing those scenes of Greece, and the ocean there."

I want to tell her that it wasn't the ocean, but the Mediterranean Sea, actually, but I hold that back.

"I thought Sophia Loren was very pretty," she adds, "and I remember the male actor from some cowboy movies. I was surprised to see him in this kind of movie."

We're headed back to her parents' car, parked back behind the Dourville Grocery. The town is quiet, with just a few moths and bugs swirling around streetlights. Once in a while a car drives languorously by, and I'm wondering just what I should say and how I should make my move to kiss Sharon. I know that if I fail to act, I'll hate myself for being a wuss.

But I keep putting everything off until we're only a block from the grocery, and then sometime clicks inside me and what little courage I have comes to the fore and I stop and face her. Because I have so little experience with girls, I don't have the ability to read her face and body English. I just step up to her, reach around her waist, and say, "Sharon, I really like you," and start the move to kiss her.

But like losing a slippery fish from my grip, she quickly breaks away, shocked, and begins running down the street. I yell out, "I'm sorry, Sharon, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry. You don't have to run away."

She looks back at me briefly, and I can't really see if she's angry or crying, or whatever. She does stop running and slows to a quick walk, and it's apparent she wants to keep distance between us. I see her get into her car and drive away.

So, I figure I'm either the world's biggest cad or I chose an icicle for a date. Maybe both!

At any rate, I begin to mightily worry about what her parents will do if she tells them, or ... what Agnes will do if Sharon tells her. Sharon could say I attacked her.

That night, I wear my demure nightgown to bed. No babydoll with panties.

During the next few days at work, I don't hear anything from anyone about an attack, or taking advantage of a daughter, or whatever, but Sharon hardly looks at me, keeps as much distance as possible between us, and if I ask a question, answers with just a word or two. I'm too shy and guilt-ridden to broach our incident.

But of course, the always-inquisitive Agnes asks me how the date had gone, and I answer, "Fine. It was fun." But several days after that, she asks me why Sharon has been so quiet recently, and why her usual sunny disposition seems diminished. I say I haven't noticed; I've just been working hard.

Finally, several days after that, Agnes brings up the subject again over dinner at our place. Tonight's menu: Swiss steak, baked potatoes and salad. Her usual easygoing mood is taking a serious turn, and my worst fear is that my indiscretion is finally coming to light. She's drinking more red wine than usual, and I detect an ever-so-slight slurring of her words:

"Michael, I finally got to the bottom ... of what was bothering Sharon."