The Passion of Agnes Part 1 - Sex Stories

The Passion of Agnes Part 1

I was brought up in the small village of S only a few leagues from Rouen. The people there are quiet peaceful and devout. My mother died when I was very young. I remember milking the cows with her, sweeping the sheds, gathering wild mushrooms in the forest and clinging to her skirts as she cast grain amidst frightening hordes of poultry. My father was a modest trader and farmer. He raised me with tenderness and love and imparted to me the tenets of the most holy faith. He taught me to read and we would spend edifying nights by the fireside, our great tom cat Pierre dozing in my lap, pondering the scriptures and the lives of the saints. I learned also with my heart. I felt a strong affinity for my namesake St Agnes. I gasped in awe as my father read of her who preferred martyrdom to the loss of her consecrated virginity. This devotion made me feel destined for a life of marriage with God and the Paraclete. Even as I grew older I did not strongly feel the sins and temptations of the flesh. My father would tell me that my heart was pure as running water. But I began to notice, through the burgeoning of my own physical charms, that boys and men admired me while women treated me with spiteful envy. Boys I had known since childhood who once threw rocks at me or pulled my hair in church would now shyly walk at my side, faces blushed, anxious to pluck any passing flower for me, praising the fairness of my skin, the brilliance of my eyes, the exquisite charms of the lineaments of my ...

... young form. They were always wishing to help with my chores, to tell me stories, to take me to favorite secret places in the deep wood and many a time I suffered one to hold my hand although I knew it was unmaidenly. The coarser boys of course simply stared long and hard and made filthy allusions as I passed. Things which even my innocent mind could comprehend. Older men, friends of my fathers and various villagers would cease their conversations if I stepped into view. Exchanging winks and low whispers followed by boisterous if slightly muffled laughter. My figure became more supple and bountiful by the day. My father said that great physical beauty was at once a blessing and a test sent by God. Many a maiden before me had failed this test and suffered perdition for it. Examples abound in our local lore. As I blossomed into marriagable age I still did my best for us cooking, cleaning, tending the animals. All of the humble industry that I was taught pleases our Creator as it diminishes our worldly vanity. Yet I knew my days under my fathers’ roof were numbered. And then one day we received a strange and unexpected visitor. M. Beautoix was a very short man, square built and paunched. At least fifty years old with sparse greasy greyish hair that lay flattened over his pointed skull in long waxed mats like the viscous trails of black worms. His teeth were small, irregular and quite black. An odor equally sepulchral and cloacic wafted from his mouth when he spoke. His eyes were ...