Agnes Dourville Ch. 02

Agnes, grumbling a little, packs away the teddy bears and dolls (with the exception of one doll, which she says she loves too much, and it remains, looking at me from a chair).

Then I ask her about Clarice's other things possibly going somewhere else too and she's instantly annoyed and glares at me: "Michael, you seem to think you own the place! I gave you a lot of space for your things - too much, probably. Clarice keeps things here because she doesn't have enough storage at her place. Why does having her things here seem to bother you?"

I back off. "I don't know ... I guess you're right."

In the evening, I continue my daily routine of doing 20 push-ups and 50 sit-ups as I did when playing high school volleyball. But exercising seems a little odd alongside that doll with the styled blond hair and heavy, fluttering eyelashes.

The next day, Agnes takes a little time out from the store during the lunch hour to show me around Douglas a little. I ask about the swimming pool, so she drives over there, saying I might use it when the store's closed on Sunday. Then she treats me to a nice restaurant meal. This is the last time we'd eat out while I stay with her.

We stop by to visit Clarice who has a job operating the Linotype machine at the local weekly newspaper and printing shop. It's a machine that noisily generates, from hot lead, lines of metal type used for printing. It takes skill to operate, with all its whirring gadgets and levers and connecting parts. I'm impressed as I watch her svelte figure finessing the machine. I love her long blonde ponytail - and see the impression her bra straps make under her top.

She's a year older than me; she doesn't have much time to talk.

Afterwards Agnes and I return to open the store again. Waiting is her other help, Sharon, a high school junior. She's a little taller than me with braces and eyeglasses and a couple moles on her face. She has a nice smile, but seems rather nervous and I wonder if it's just me or if she's this way all the time. She's wearing a loose, plain white dress that only hints at hips and breasts and her dark brown hair reaches just to her shoulders. She doesn't wear makeup or jewelry.

In time, I learn she lives on a farm just outside town, and that yes, she's perpetually nervous. This skittishness makes me a little more confident when around her.

As time permits during the remainder of the day, Agnes tries to explain how the store works and what I'll be doing along alongside Sharon, who tags along quietly. But a lot of it goes over my head because I get distracted so easily.

So on the next day, as I get into the harness, so to speak, Agnes is exasperated when she has to explain some things all over again. But I try hard to please her and end up accomplishing a lot. Along with Sharon, I prep vegetables and fruit, throw away the bad produce, and price-label the bins. We unpack boxes of cans, label them, and I learn where they go on the shelves. Meanwhile, Agnes keeps an eye on the store and does the checkout.

I guess being from a farm, Sharon is used to working hard, because she never complains. She says she's ever so grateful to Agnes for the job, which is helping her save money toward going to college and becoming a nurse. Yes, I can picture her in that sort of job.

In every way, Sharon is plain. She's not a tease or flirt like some of the girls back home. Her shoes are purely practical. She teaches me what she knows without acting superior or sluffing off the worst work on me.

Six days a week I work nine hours a day in the store, while Sharon works three. I have never worked so physically hard before, but I try to remain positive and tell myself it's a learning experience. At night I sleep like a log. I do have to give Agnes credit for having the fortitude to run a small grocery store by herself.

Every once in a while, instead of my jockey underwear, I slip into my sexy and tight swimming suit and wear it under my trousers for the entire day. I love wearing tight underthings, and I'll admit to sometimes being aroused by wearing it secretly.

One day, after Sharon has already departed for the day, I'm squatting down putting some bars of soap on a low shelf and Agnes walks up behind me.

"How's it going, little Michael? Working hard today?"

"Just trying to finish your list of things to do."

"Ummm, I noticed you're wearing an odd sort of underwear; I can see it above your belt. What is that?"

I freeze and resort to some fast thinking. "My swimming suit ... "

"For the life of me, why would you be wearing your swimming suit in here? Show me."

I stand up, embarrassed, hesitate, then reveal it in a flash. "Well, I didn't have enough regular shorts, so I thought this could take their place."

"Oh, that. I should've told you that I ruined a couple of your shorts running them through the wringer of the washing machine, and had to throw them out. But you still have a couple hanging out on the clothesline."

After work, she has me retrieve all those items outside, held up by clothespins just those like my mom uses. Along with my stuff, I retrieve her dresses, big panties and big bras, and - I've never seen these before - several full-length corsets or girdles. They're a mysterious design of stretchy fabric and seams, and touching them - especially the bra cups - is arousing despite their extra-large size. But of course I can't admit this to anyone, and I dutifully bring all these things inside.

After the store closes each day, Agnes cooks for both of us, and my job is to prepare veggies and wash dishes afterward. For these tasks, she has me wearing one of her aprons, which I initially resisted, but what good is meek resistance to a clever woman like her?

So there I am, wearing one of her frilly, feminine aprons, with "Madame Chef" embroidered along the top, carrying an overall rose-print motif. Agnes had authoritatively secured it with a big bow in back. Wearing it embarrasses me and I don't want anyone else to see me this way, but I suppose aprons do have their practical applications, so I put up with it.

We don't carry on much of a conversation during the meal. It's mostly her talking about the store, about goings on in Douglas, about her pet parakeet Phoebe (which often sits on her shoulder), and the good and the bad about her departed husband. The details about him are more than I need to know.

True to her French lineage, she drinks wine with supper every night, always red wine, and eventually she urges me to try some. I've never drank any beer or wine and am in no hurry to try it, so I decline. Obviously, I wasn't a party animal in high school! But Agnes, in a gleeful way, induces me to overcome my inhibitions, and I drink just a small glassful, and then another. For the first time in my young life, I feel the heady effects of alcohol. I wonder if this is part of becoming a man - getting a little drunk.

My mother never drank. Well, maybe a little at a party, but never at our home.

The underwear issue comes up again when it seems I only have one pair of jockey shorts and the swimming suit remaining. Actually I usually wash the suit myself because I've taken to masturbating in it once in a while at night, despite my inevitable guilt (if people never talk about beating off, it must be something to hide, right?). When I wear it and touch myself there under the covers, I just can't stop myself from going the distance. What if Agnes should walk in when I'm playing?

Agnes notices my wearing the swimsuit more often under my trousers and admits she had to throw a couple more pairs of my underwear out because she accidentally put them in the washing machine with some colored clothing that bled color onto them, "And we can't have that," she says. "Tell me your size, and the next time I go to the store I'll get some more."

"Just for now," she says, "if you don't mind - I know how boys think - please feel free to wear some of Clarice's underwear. No one will know except you and me. Or, I suppose you could wear nothing at all underneath, right?"

Really? I thought I'd drawn the line on wearing the apron. She takes this so casually, like maybe, oh maybe, I'd like to wear a dress to a prom, too.

"I don't think so. I don't want to."

"But Michael, I can't help but notice that your swimming suit's tight like the bottom of a woman's swimming suit - not like those loose baggy swimming suits the boys and men wear around here. So, wearing a panty wouldn't be much of a change, now would it? It would definitely be more comfortable."

She makes anything seem reasonable and fine.

"Please just get me some more men's underwear," I persist.

Despite her promises to do so, I don't see any new men's underwear showing up. I think about shopping for some at the old department store in downtown Douglas, but to be honest, I'm embarrassed buying that stuff (I bought my sexy swimming suit by mail and intercepted the package before it was delivered to our house).

One day before breakfast, I'm caught without a jockey short or swimming suit to wear (surprise! - the swimming suit needs washing). I'm truly in a jam, and I just wouldn't be comfortable without underwear. Should a young man wear girls' panties? Well, maybe if the panties are really plain and not frilly. I look through that last pink drawer, pawing through maybe ten panties, and find several plain cotton, high-waisted ones - one white and one red. I suppose I can think of them as a different kind of men's underwear ... so I choose the white one and quickly slip into it, and frankly, my penis likes the contact. There's also the fact that Clarice has worn it. That lends a little something extra to it.

Now I have to make absolutely sure no one figures out I'm wearing it.

But after breakfast, when Agnes opens the store and I get to work, she says, "You're wearing the panty today, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah." I blush.

"I could just tell. I have a sixth sense about things. I can see you're a little embarrassed."

She walks over and sneaks a peak down the back of my trousers, making me feel like she's a nurse checking out my balls.

"Oh, good. You'll be happy with the way they feel, you know. Your jockey shorts just seem so industrial, with that funny fly in front."

"I still want to wear those, though."

Again she promises to buy some. However - and this tells me everything - she does buy me a half dozen stretchy, satin-or-rayon-like panties with lace trim, in white, flesh color and black, saying, "There was a great sale, and you needed something. But I'm still going to get you some regular underwear."

Right.

After a couple weeks, I'm wearing panties all the time. It's a secret between Agnes and me, and I swear she treats me better knowing I'm wearing them, like we're sharing some feminine camaraderie.

One night in bed I change from wearing my swim suit to one of Clarice's lacy, stretchy maroon panties and masturbate with them on, playing back my memories of her body and bra straps and ponytail. Afterward, I figure I must be the world's biggest pervert, getting off this way. I wash and dry this panty privately.

Working alongside Sharon, I start wondering what sort of underwear she's wearing and one time when she's on a stepladder, I catch a glimpse of not-very-tight white cotton undies trimmed with lace. Yes! Wearing panties myself raises my libido somewhat and I start fantasizing about having some sort of boyfriend/girlfriend thing with her. I suppose that's because she's the nearest available, decent-looking female in my age range.

After a few weeks of not hearing anything from home, I write a longish letter to my mom because Agnes doesn't want to pay for long-distance calls. Agnes insists upon reading it before taking it to the post office. I'm working long hours, but I do want a letter from home. After a month, one hasn't arrived so I'm feeling further and further removed from my family.

And, funny as it seems, I'm getting used to Clarice's bedroom. I'm now used to the pretty doll, the colors, and I even start reading - for lack of anything else - the Nancy Drew mystery books on top her dresser. I read "The Secret of Shadow Ranch" and "The Mystery of Lilac Inn" and am drawn to Drew's deft sleuthing and girlish enthusiasm.

I'm still doing my push-ups and sit-ups and other exercises I devise; but my slender body seems incapable of developing much muscle. From time to time Agnes still calls me Little Michael, and that doesn't help my becoming a man at all. I always remember seeing comic book ads where a skinny guy's on the beach when another guy kicks sand in his face and makes off with his girl. The skinny guy then buys a bunch of barbells and weights, bulks up, and returns to take his girl back. That skinny guy is me.

In the ads, both he and the interloper wear tight swimming suits like mine. I don't think they masturbate in them, though. Didn't Superman wear tight briefs?