Agnes

Even just her name said 'not for me'.

Who calls their daughter Agnes these days? It is way too old fashioned to make any girl grow up with it. You can have an Aunt Agnes, in their seventies, who offers tea and cake each time you visit, and who reeks of lavender from the perfume that she wears. But a girl-friend? Or a wife? Named Agnes? Not for me!

Even twenty-five years before I met her, the name, Agnes, would have been wrong. Madonna was around. It may be a quarter of a century, but actually it is just the amount of time it takes for a girl to grow into a woman, and the twenty-five year old I met should not have been an Agnes. Brooklyn, or Sky, or anything but Agnes. But that was their daughter's name. And it seemed to suit her, which was sad.

It was an awkward dinner, arranged precisely for the purpose of introducing me to Agnes. It was time, my parents said, for me to find a nice girl and settle down. At thirty, I should have begun a family, like my two brothers and my sister. The Deans were a nice family, and their daughter was just the right age.

Of course they were a nice family. They went to the same church. Mr Dean and my father were two of the elders. Mrs Dean and my mother ran the Sunday School, and served the tea and cakes after service, and at the mid-week bible class, where Mr Dean would dissect a verse or two, interminably, to nods and 'amens' from all those present, before my father said a prayer.

Dinner was nice. Nothing amazing. Just nice. No wine was served, of course. Nothing to lubricate the conversation, which was mostly between the two sets of parents, other than the 'how are you getting on in London' questions, which each of us would answer, as briefly as we could.

I held back on most things. There was no need to mention pubs or clubs or raves or house-parties, or casual sex, or online dating, or anything that made life worthwhile. My job was going well, thank-you, and Hyde Park was lovely to walk in, especially now that it was summer, and there were some good concerts in the Royal Albert Hall, which of course meant Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or another of the greats.

Agnes was enjoying her work in the Natural History Museum, and loved visiting Regents park, and the zoo. She had been placed opposite me, so that we could get to know each other, and throughout the meal we certainly exchanged some awkward looks.

She looked like a museum assistant, or a librarian, long blonde hair that had a wave to it, was worn loose and reached the hollow of her back. Large glasses, with amber frames, that did nothing for her sky-blue eyes, and said intelligent, but boring. Attractive enough, but no make up, no eye-liner, no lip-gloss, no nothing.

Even just her name said 'not for me'.

Who calls their daughter Agnes these days? It is way too old fashioned to make any girl grow up with it. You can have an Aunt Agnes, in their seventies, who offers tea and cake each time you visit, and who reeks of lavender from the perfume that she wears. But a girl-friend? Or a wife? Named Agnes? Not for me!

Even twenty-five years before I met her, the name, Agnes, would have been wrong. Madonna was around then. It may be a quarter of a century, but actually it is just the amount of time it takes for a girl to grow into a woman, and the twenty-five year old I met should not have been an Agnes. Brooklyn, or Sky, or anything but Agnes. But that was their daughter's name. And it seemed to suit her, which was sad.

It was an awkward dinner, arranged precisely for the purpose of introducing me to Agnes. It was time, my parents said, for me to find a nice girl and settle down. At thirty, I should have begun a family, like my two brothers and my sister. The Deans were a nice family, and their daughter was just the right age.

Of course they were a nice family. They went to the same church. Mr Dean and my father were two of the elders. Mrs Dean and my mother ran the Sunday School, and served the tea and cakes after service, and at the mid-week bible class, where Mr Dean would dissect a verse or two, interminably, to nods and 'amens' from all those present, before my father said a prayer.

Dinner was nice. Nothing amazing. Just nice. No wine was served, of course. Nothing to lubricate the conversation, which was mostly between the two sets of parents, other than the 'how are you getting on in London' questions, which each of us would answer, as briefly as we could.

I held back on most things. There was no need to mention pubs or clubs or raves or house-parties, or casual sex, or online dating, or anything that made life worthwhile. My job was going well, thank-you, and Hyde Park was lovely to walk in, especially now that it was summer, and there were some good concerts in the Royal Albert Hall, which of course meant Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or another of the greats.

Agnes was enjoying her work in the Natural History Museum, and loved visiting Regents park, and the zoo. She had been placed opposite me, so that we could get to know each other, and throughout the meal we certainly exchanged some awkward looks.

She looked like a museum assistant, or a librarian, long blonde hair that had a wave to it, was worn loose and reached the hollow of her back. Large glasses, with amber frames, that did nothing for her sky-blue eyes, and said intelligent, but boring. Attractive enough, but no make up, no eye-liner, no lip-gloss, no nothing.

A mustard coloured, woollen jumper, that admittedly said she might have reasonable breasts, but nothing else. No jewellery. Long, slender fingers, no polish on her well-shaped nails. She could have looked quite good, but she presented as plain-Jane.

Back at my parents' house that evening, I was quizzed about her. I was non-committal. Saying I would not touch her with a barge pole might have been the truth, but the truth is not always the most diplomatic thing to say. When you visit for your monthly weekend, you just fit in, and, in fairness, I realised later, I might have come across as just as boring at that dinner, as Agnes so obviously was.

Back in London, I could breathe again. Until the envelope arrived. Two tickets. The Royal Albert Hall. Mahler and Brahms. My parents hoped we would enjoy it. They had posted the details to Agnes separately, and given me her mobile number, which Mrs Dean had given to my mother, so that I could call her to arrange when and where to meet.

I made the call, reluctantly. Agnes sounded hesitant. I suggested the foyer, ten minutes before the concert started. There was no point in meeting sooner, or risking a nearby restaurant to eat before the concert. That could even more awkward and boring that the dinner at her parents' house had been. Just do your duty, meet her, sit beside her, walk her to the tube, and say good-bye.

Except I could not do it. I could not keep up the pretence, and just be my parent's son, the way they thought I was. I broke. The first half of the concert, all I could think about was the interval, and getting to the bar, and knowing that Agnes would want a fruit juice, while what I needed was a beer.

We joined the mass of concert-goers, edging closer to the bar itself. I had decided. I was having the beer. I ordered it while Agnes was still hesitating. She looked shocked. Then she decided.

"Could I get a Bacardi and diet Coke," Agnes said.

I looked at her.

"You're sure?"

Agnes looked at me through her amber framed glasses with oh-so-innocent, sky-blue eyes.

"Yes, please," she said. "Can you get me a double, and no ice?"

I placed the order, and I could not help myself from asking.

"I thought you didn't drink?" I said.

"Not at my parents," she said, a slightly impish smile risking being seen.

"Okay," I said. "I get that. I guess I don't drink with mine. But I wouldn't have put you down as a Bacardi girl."

"So what would you put me down as?"

"Fruit juice, I thought," I said. "Or, at most, white wine."

"Well, I thought you'd get some sparkling water. Thank God, you went for beer!"

"So what else don't you do at your parents?"

Agnes at least laughed at that.

"Plenty," she said.

"Tell me," I invited.

"Not yet," she said.

The drinks were set in front of us, and I touched my watch to the device. I gave Agnes the Bacardi and picked up my beer. We touched glasses.

"Cheers," I said. "So can I ask you a question?"

I had decided to stop playing games. To find out who she really was. To risk it.

"Ask," she said.

"Are you a virgin?"

The shock on her face was beautiful to see. Her mouth opened. Still no lip-gloss, but actually she had perfect lips. They pouted beautifully. She stayed like that, open mouthed in shock at what I had just asked.

"No," Agnes finally said, her tone saying that that had been both intrusive, and a stupid thing to ask.

One word, making clear that no one in their right mind would think that a twenty-five year-old in London would still be a virgin.

I pushed it.

"Okay then, what's your number?"

"I thought you have it, don't you? I mean you called me to arrange where we'd meet."

I laughed.

"No, your number," I repeated. "How many have there been?"

Agnes did that beautiful open mouthed thing again.

"Enough," she said.

I pushed it further.

"More or less than ten?"

Agnes shook her head in disbelief that I was actually asking her how many men she had fucked.

"I'm not telling you!" she laughed.

"Five!" I said. "Less than five?"

"No," she laughed. "I mean, I'm not saying. Why would I?"

"Two!" I said. "Who were they? Both at uni? Students? One of the lecturers?"

"Fuck you!" she was still laughing.

That in itself was a result. Agnes had actually said 'fuck'. Not the kind of thing a well brought up young lady would say. Her parents would be ashamed.

"Maybe, later," I said, referring to the word 'fuck', "but only if you tell me your number."

"You're pretty full of yourself, aren't you!" Agnes came back at me. "Is this how you usually get to know someone? Or are you just being a prick because it's me?"

A second result. A well brought up young lady does not use the word 'prick', or not unless they have hurt themselves on a rose.

"I'm just curious, that's all," I said. "I mean, you do come across as pretty conservative. I just wondered if you had actually done the deed, or if you are still following your parents' 'not before you're married' principles."

"You know I'm only dressed like this because I had to meet my parent's friends' nerdy son!"

I laughed. So that was how Agnes saw me.

As for how she was dressed, it was a long-sleeved yellow blouse, and a mustard coloured skirt that reached an inch below the knee, yellow tights, with mustard kitten heels.

"Do you actually on anything that isn't either yellow or mustard?" I asked her.

"My mother bought me these," Agnes said. "She says the colours suit my hair."

"Any colour would suit your hair," I told her. "Natural blonde, cute wave, that long, you'd get away with anything."

Something softened in her face, her eyes relaxing.

"More than two," Agnes said.

Which took me by surprise. Both that she had gone back to answering the question I should never have really asked her, and that in the process, she was telling me that she had sex. But I pushed the game a little further.

"But not more than five?"

"I'm twenty-five," she said, confirming her age, not the other number, "I've been to uni, I've lived in London in a flat share for the past four years. What do you think my number is?"

Agnes brushed her hair away from her face as she looked at me.

More than five, then. How many more remained unanswered. Maybe a lot more. There are guys who like nerdy girls. I had lived in London for nine years after graduating, and I lost track of my number a long while back. Some of them had been nerdy, but in general they were not my type.

I looked her up and down, appraising her. Actually, she had quite a decent figure, for an Agnes. Pleasantly slim, but she did have breasts. They pushed out against her blouse, which was some kind of light satin. I tried to imagine what she would look like naked. She could look good, maybe. Probably wild and unkempt, down there, but I could deal with that.

"Start again?" I asked.

"I need the bathroom, before the Brahms," she said. "I'll find my own way to our seats."

Agnes handed me her glass. Empty, of course. She turned and headed out the side door of the bar to find the ladies' bathroom. I finished off my beer, thinking, while still picturing what she could look like, naked, without all the yellow and the mustard. Just the blonde hair, and her softly pink complexion, the kind complexion English blondes tend to have.

Agnes timed it to the second. She had to excuse her way past three other couples to get back to our seats, where I was already sitting, wondering if she would make it back before the second section of the concert started.

The difference was not obvious, until she sat down. Her skirt should have been reaching her knees, at it had before. It was now mid-way up her thighs. Bare thighs. Soft skin. White, but with that slight rose hue that said that she was flesh and blood and not made of marble.

It was the same mustard coloured skirt, but magically shorter than before. I remembered my school days, when the girls would flout the rules, and roll the waist bands of their skirts as soon as they were out the gates, to bring the hem as high as they would dare, and bare their legs for the walk home. You can still do that, I guessed, even at the age of twenty-five. And her yellow tights were gone as well.

"Can you put this in your pocket?" Agnes whispered at the lights began to dim, handing me something she was clutching in her hand.

I took it. Yellow fabric. It opened just enough to tell me what it was, or rather, they. One item, but always described as plural. Her panties, conservatively cut, full butt, deep sides, frills around the leg holes, elasticated waist. Too bulky for my pocket. Instead of doing as she had asked, I dropped them on the floor.

Agnes flashed me a look.

"Bastard!" she said, but a smile was on her lips.

For whatever reason, that was when I registered that Agnes no longer had her glasses. Maybe I had been too focused on her legs to notice that as she had resumed her seat.

Her eyes were now beautifully open and undisguised, the blue irises deep pools in which any man would drown. Maybe she had decided that she did not need her glasses for the concert. It was music after all. Or maybe she had switched to contacts. In which case, her glasses were just to convey an image, to look intelligent, or even geeky, for her museum role, and for her parents and their friends. Her lips were glossed now, too, a soft pink. She actually looked pretty good. Maybe, even, stunning.

Which made me look a little closer, not just at her face, but at all of her. It was like one of those spot the difference puzzles in the magazines. Two drawings, side by side, identical, except for ten slight changes. See if you can spot them all.

Shorter skirt, no stockings, no panties either, which might or might not count, since you could not actually see them in the before, or see her bare pubis in the after, but you still knew. No glasses. Lip-gloss. That was five so far. Five more to go.

Her sleeves were rolled up, or maybe folded neatly would describe it better, baring her slender forearms. Two sleeves. Did that count as two differences or just one? Three buttons of the blouse were open, her cleavage, or the first two inches of that soft, pink hued flesh at least, now bared, the view enticing.

The front of her blouse, where her breasts had pushed out against the silk, had been nicely rounded. Not any more. There were two points. Did they count as two differences between before and after, since she had two nipple stubs beneath that silk? Or was it just one bra removed, and obviously left in the bathroom, because she had not offered it to me to put in my pocket, and was not carrying it.

Two sleeves rolled up, one cleavage bared, two nipples forming interesting cones of the thin covering of silk. That was five. I had spotted all ten differences. This was a very different Agnes to the timid girl at dinner just a week before.

Brahms started. Her hand went to my thigh. I was in my business suit, not having had a chance to change since work. It was her hand on flannel, but it felt good, and while Agnes rested it, first, just at my knee, she moved it further up, and in between my legs, until her fingers were nudging gently at my privates, which, understandably, began to stir.

Her own thigh felt good, as I placed my palm on it, the flesh silky smooth, soft, and warm. I took my time. She had wasted none, going fairly directly to my groin. I gradually inched my way, enjoying the malleable flesh, the inner surface of her thigh feeling even softer, smoother, warmer, until my fingers reached her cunt.

I could feel her pubic mound. No wild curls there. Baby smooth. As hairless as her inner thigh. No hint of having shaved there. Not just a slit. Protruding lips. Fleshy. And something else as well.

You do not expect a timid, conservative, church-going museum assistant, who wore no jewellery of any kind, to have a ring, right at the apex of her cunt lips, but that what I felt. My cock spasmed while I explored. Just my little finger, which is what it is called, although it is big enough. No question. A clit piercing. Or clit-hood, more likely. It is the quiet ones who can surprise you most.

Just as my finger found the ring, and while my brain was still processing the find, she turned her hand. Her fingers went between my legs, and down, and cupped my balls. Through my suit trousers, obviously, but just as directly intimate as my hand exploring the cunt she had exposed beneath her skirt, by taking off those knickers, which were now lying somewhere on the floor.

Except I was directly touching flesh. Not just flesh. Steel that had been set though her tender flesh, a needle puncturing the soft skin of her clit hood, passing through, then puncturing the skin again, as it emerged, to make the hole through which the ring was set.

I was not just touching the ring. I was playing with it. Strumming it. Following the rhythm of the Brahms concerto being performed, Number 2, for the piano. Harmonic vibrations that she would feel, clitoral cadence, as steel played on that so compactly sensitive primal nub of flesh.

Someone coughed. Gently. On the other side of Agnes. I glanced past her. Agnes was sitting, facing front, focused on the concert, while her hand was at my groin. My own hand had pushed her skirt up, baring even more of her right leg, which, even though the lights were down, was still noticeably revealed, the edge of some kind of dimly discernable band around her thigh.

It was the woman sitting next to Agnes who had made the sound, middle aged, grey hair, permed, a closed hand to her mouth, as if suppressing an unwanted cough, but her eyes were where my hand was, between Agnes' perfect legs.

The woman looked at me. The expression on her face was disapproval, bordering on disgust. I guess no one had ever fingered her cunt while she was at a concert. Two options. Take my hand away, or just continue. How many times can someone cough during a classical concert, anyway? I kept my hand exactly where it was. She tutted audibly, but then gave up, and looked away.

Throughout this little charade, Agnes had been unmoved, her eyes fixed on the pianist, her focus on the exquisite music, and on my groin. Time to reciprocate. I turned my wrist enough to get the angle, and separated her protruding lips. Between them, she was moist, as was her entrance. Slick with her own secretions, and beautiful to slide inside. Just my ring finger, which gently nudged her ring, the one set through her clit hood, and my finger made her squirm.