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.
