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There was a time, in England, when you could be arrested for being a Catholic. And it wasn’t hard – in fact it was common – for the authorities to upgrade you from “imprisoned” to “tortured” and then to “executed”. To be fair, this was a long time ago, in the 16th Century, but why did the foremost composer of the time – William Byrd – write not one or two, but three Catholic Masses, plus other pieces in Latin? A quick way to find yourself in a lot of trouble, you would think.

I don’t know why, but what I do know is, his beautiful sung works are my favourite thing to listen to, for calming down, for inspiring me or just for a walk to the shopping centre, as I was doing now. The suburb was a relatively new development: new housing on old farmland. As I walked under ancient, carefully preserved trees I saw the clouds make patterns in shadow floating across the parkland. Byrd’s simple lines of melody were floating and interweaving in complex patterns across my head from one earpiece to the other. It was perfect.

In the mall, we had an amazingly bland cluster of franchise stores. It was usually a completely forgettable experience. Except I saw her again. As usual, in a long flowing dress, this one with a dark red Indian-inspired pattern. Her hair was in a loose gather that had it tumble over one shoulder. She was idly playing with it as she sat and read something on her phone. Calm, relaxed, natural – and out of place in this pretend shopping street of clashing colours and artificial light.

I keep running into her around the place. In the library, or walking past a bus stop, or crossing a road in opposite directions. I don’t know when it started, but we found ourselves nodding and smiling to each other. We somehow seemed to know each other, without even properly meeting, or even speaking.

She was lost in her phone-gazing, so I thought I wouldn’t disturb her. I was headed for a little coffee place nearby, which made the perfect long black – a dying art, now that everyone seemed to want lattes in a glass. But she noticed me out of the corner of her eye, looked up and gave me a beautiful smile. My heart jiggled slightly. It was good to get a greeting like that from anyone, let alone someone as interesting as her.

After that, it felt like a good day for a Florentiner. A glorious big biscuit of nuts and toffee, half-dipped in dark chocolate, it was one of a few German specialties of this coffee shop.

Sitting with my coffee and my biscuit the size of a side plate, I heard it. Just faintly, in the distance. Music. It was William Byrd. One of the masses, I was sure of it. I looked around in surprise…

The girl with the smile and the long hair. She was watching a performance on her phone. The lines of spare, unaccompanied vocal music somehow got past the clatter and noise of the food court. She was nodding her head minutely in time with the music. I couldn’t believe it.

I sat very still and concentrated. If I concentrated on the music I could shut out the noise of the shopping centre. I knew the piece, so that made it easier. My coffee and biscuit the size of a side plate were forgotten as the lines of simple vocal music wove themselves into complex patterns. I closed my eyes. Maybe I nodded slightly with the music.

A sixth sense told me, look up. I opened my eyes. I had turned to face the girl in the long flowing dress, who was staring at me. I don’t know how I knew she was, with my eyes shut, but something told me. I felt a tide of embarrassment rising up, then I noticed her expression. She was smiling broadly. This made it somehow easier. She tilted her head towards an empty seat on her table, as if to say, come over. I felt I owed her an apology, or at least an explanation.

“Hello! I thought maybe you were having a seizure over there, then I realised you were following the music.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you, but the music stood out compared to the rest of the noise. I shouldn’t be listening like that, but did I hear… was that one of Byrd’s Masses? The Four or the Three? I’m quite OK, by the way. And my name’s Christy, Christy Elyazon.” In fact I’m more than OK, I’m enjoying finally speaking to you, a lot. That’s probably why I’m babbling.

“William Byrd: very good, Professor Christy! I’m Agnes Day. The three-part one is my favourite. It’s rare to meet an admirer of classical music, let alone an Early Music fan, and then listening in secretly. You’re my first secret admirer!” She laughed at her own joke, but so warmly it seemed to make it better. I still blushed. Did she know already?

We chatted, for some time. We swapped favourite composers and best works. We both despaired of the excess exposure of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, though I mentioned Patrick Stewart’s version was interesting. She didn’t know that one.

“Captain Picard? Professor Xavier? He’s done one?”

“He reads out the poems that go with Maltepe Escort each piece. I’ll bring it for you if you like.”

“Thanks. If its a CD I can play it on my…” She reached down into her bag and brought out a Discman! I hadn’t seen one for years. It was a genuine Sony, too. I showed my admiration.

So we made another time to meet. She said she’d also try a Florentiner, but she might have to let me finish it. I found she often made simple, almost domestic remarks that to a relative stranger would seem quite revealing, almost intimate.

The next time came and went, and another time after that. We obviously both enjoyed our nerdy classical music conversation, but we covered other topics as well. She couldn’t finish the Florentiner.

Then she brought in her “favourite favourite” CD, David Munrow on a recorder. You are all thinking, listen to recorder music, I’d rather drop a brick on my fingers, but real wooden ones, not the school-plastic torture instruments, have a very sweet sound, if you’ve acquired the taste.

I was listening to it and enjoying it, when I noticed Agnes frowning slightly. I took out one earpiece.

“Can I listen too? I haven’t heard it in a while, and I want to enjoy it with you.”

We sat side by side with an earpiece each. David Munrow played his best, but now I was distracted by Agnes’s closeness. Her soft curves, the smell of her hair, tiny movements in time with the music; my senses were quietly roaring. Then she stopped abruptly.

“This isn’t working. But I know what will.”

She took my hand in her familiar way and led me out of the shopping centre. Outside it was warm, but expectant. There was a sense of rain on its way. She led me towards the back of the car park, to a big, dusty, Land Rover, a true off-road vehicle. It had wide tyres that had sprayed mud onto the door panels, which were flat and showed their rivets and hinges. The windscreen was flat and riveted. The side windows were sliders; so no need for winders or electrics.

“Jump in!” she said. It nearly was a jump, the door was so high. Inside, the seats were just as utilitarian as the bodywork, but surprisingly comfortable. The seats in the back were two benches facing each other.

“Welcome to my beloved troopie. Also called the Landie, or Land Rover Troop Carrier when I pay the registration. I should wash it more often, but whenever I do I seem to go off-roading the next weekend and dirty it again. But listen to this…”

She put the CD into the fancy after-market player and David Munrow’s treble recorder floated out of the speakers. Agnes sat back, eyes closed, and smiled as she listened. This unusual girl, the ancient music, the paramilitary car, all went together in a strange way. Then the rain came.

It started as a few drops on the flat windscreen, then simply got heavier and heavier. Trees and other details outside faded away. The water drops danced on the car panels, the noise amplified by the simple panel design and lack of linings.

We sat in the car while the rain drummed on the roof. We tried to listen to the music still serenely playing, but when the wind brought waves of rain against the bodywork and the roof, Agnes gave one if her big smiles and turned the CD player off. She looked across at me.

“OK, plan B. you did bring the Scrabble set with you, didn’t you?” She smiled, then laughed at her own joke, which made me laugh. It also made me look at her more closely.

Her long brown hair had hints of red in it. Her eyebrows were exactly the same colour, to match darker brown eyes. Below were soft pink lips, a slightly pointed chin and a smooth neck, with not a hint of an Adam’s Apple. She had a thoughtful face – I’m not sure what that means, but it seemed to fit her. Sometimes she would flash her big smile, which felt like a precious gift when she did it for you. She was an average build, with the womanly curves that make me think of fine artworks. She had the sensuousness of an artwork, in her looks and her actions. I kept thinking of Nigella Lawson.

The rain eased. A moment had passed. “Well, I may as well drop you home. Which way is it?” Agnes calmly drove over the kerb of the parking space and headed straight for the exit.

A few days later she called me. She was excited. “I’m coming to pick you up. I’ve got something special!” No clues, just a simple requirement to be ready. There’s a directness about Agnes that’s very attractive.

She picked me up in the troopie. It had a coat of red dust from the wheel arches down: Agnes said not a word about it. I was just grateful she stayed on the road and didnt cross anyone’s garden when she came. She was smiling like a child at a carnival.

At the car park she stopped, then reached around behind the seats to get her back pack. She dumped it between our seats and rummaged through it. “Have I got something to show you! Now where is it? It’s somewhere in this bag…”

As she bent over, she did show me something. From her top i could Anadolu Yakası Escort see down. A subtle cleavage showed a dark triangle between two small, pale mounds. It completely startled me.

I will admit, I like the shape of women’s bodies. Their soft curves are attractive, and the roll of their hips as they walk is nearly always a pleasant experience to see. If they have a level of grace and poise it makes it that much better. I admire that they take care with their appearance (something I just can’t seem to manage). They’re all different shapes and sizes. They have some sort of magnetic pull on me. Women can be cruel to themselves and each other about their appearance (and many other things), but I find most of them very easy to look at.

But the sight of Agnes stirred me. I was suddenly, surprisingly aroused, and this didn’t seem right as a guest in her car, listening to her music. I looked away, flustered. Agnes looked up quizzically, but didn’t seem to notice much.

“Ha! What do you think of this?”

She brought out a recorder. Quite old, it had a simple red wood body, with fine inlays around the mouthpiece. It was a far cry from the plastic school ones. I ran my hands over the holes and felt my fingers find the familiar positions. It had a pleasing weight to it as well. I gave it back, admiring its lines and the quality of the wood.

Agnes put it to her lips and gracefully played. It was from Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto; her lips on the mouthpiece, above her fingers fluttering over the holes, the swing of her head as she played… it was like heavenly light shining down. Mind you, it could have sounded like an angle grinder and I would have liked it. And the playing ability was another surprise about Agnes. She had many surprises.

She finished the tune. I must have been staring because she looked at me oddly, then gave me a coy look. With a cheeky smile she reached out her finger to my mouth. Gently she closed my jaw for me. It caught me completely unawares. I was still recalling her look of concentration, the rise of her collarbone as she breathed, the movement of her eyebrows in time with the music; I wasn’t ready for this. Her finger paused on my chin, then went up to my mouth and traced my lips. It paused again, then traced up my cheek and away. Agnes laughed.

“I thought you’d like that!”

She didn’t make clear exactly what “that” was, but certainly I thought about the whole episode, from her leaning over, to her playing, to her touch, many, many times.

It changed her slightly too. When we met next time she gave me a quick hug. For her it was an easy intimacy, but I found it disconcerting (though very nice). It was a new level of friendship, one I liked.

We met again by chance – this seemed to happen less, now we arranged things, usually in the awful shopping mall, sometimes in the Library nearby. I literally bumped into her coming round a corner. We were both looking the other way as it happened, so it wasn’t until we touched that we actually noticed each other. I was very pleased to see her, but there was something in her look… surprise, delight, then a softening, a closeness. It was hard to describe. I couldn’t work out if I had imagined it as I went over the event.

Another startling meeting happened shortly after. We both came late to our cafe, so it was very hurried. In fact we decided to give it up and make another time. What I did notice were the tiny buttons on her Indian-style dress. She fiddled with them constantly, doing them up when they came open of their own accord. This kept happening as they seemed to be too small for the buttonholes.

She offered me a lift, since we were both in a hurry, so we found ourselves getting into the big dusty Land Rover again.

As she reached for her seat belt, the flexing of her shoulder undid the tiny buttons again, but this time she didn’t notice. One small, perfect, round breast appeared, with a pale pink nipple at the peak of the curve. It peeped below the seat belt sash, which held the dress open as if to show off this beautiful sight. I was transfixed.

I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to look away, but my eyes seemed out of my control. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear what she might be saying. I made myself look away by turning my head.

Agnes frowned briefly, then noticed the wardrobe malfunction when she glanced down. She laughed.

“Oh. How long has that been out? Ha, that’s a bit awkward,” said without a trace of awkwardness. “Funny, I never even noticed it!” Oh Agnes, I noticed it.

She pulled the fabric back into shape and smiled a naughty smile at me, putting her hand demurely over her bust. I laughed weakly. In my minds eye the beautiful curve, the delicate pucker of nipple on smooth skin played over and over. It later joined the memory of playing Bach in the car, as something special we shared.

Did things pick up speed? I couldn’t be sure, maybe I just lost track of the time. It seemed not long after that I İstanbul Escort found a special recording of a composer I had been trying to show to Agnes.

“John Dunstable? How can I take a name like that seriously!?”

“Wait till you hear it! A friend described his work once as like a cat lying on its back in the sun. He did muck it up later when he was chatting up a girl in a party, though. He said ‘Ah Dunstable, he’s like a cat lying on his son in the back’.”

“Hmmm. That was you wasn’t it, not a friend!”

I reddened. “That may be true. But at least listen to the first track. Quam pulchra es, et quam decora. How beautiful you are, and how graceful.”

There was a pause. We both considered what I had just said to her. Agnes smiled to herself.

“Anyway, we should hear this on the troopie’s mighty music machine! Let’s go.”

We went out to the car park, just in time to get rained on. Agnes squealed and we made a dash for it.

We sat in the car, breathless at first. The rain suddenly became a roar on the steelwork of the car. We looked at each other, damp, breathing heavily, smiling at each other. Agnes turned on the engine and warm air started to fill the cabin. The fabric of her skirt and top clung slightly with the wetness, accentuating the curves of her chest as it rose and fell. My thoughts rushed to the sight of her breast exposed so lightly and easily that day, and I felt the flood of arousal I get (daily, whenever I think of it). Agnes looked me up and down and smiled even more.

“Well, THAT’S interesting!” she grinned while staring at my lap.

I’d forgotten the zip of my pants. I had no memory at all of how that would’ve happened – maybe a bit hasty in the men’s room before meeting her in the shopping centre, who knows. But the open pants, the heavy breathing, thinking about those beautiful breasts… my half-aroused cock was poking right out. This was my turn for a wardrobe malfunction.

But Agnes was more forward than me. She reached out a hand and touched the bent-over shaft, stretching my cotton jocks.. “A real penis. I’ve never seen a real one.” She ran a finger down the length and it responded to her touch. This encouraged her and she probed down to the head and up to the curls of hair at the top of my jocks. My hips rolled involuntarily. She somehow pulled the fabric of the jocks down. My cock sprang out, upright but constrained by my clothing. I think I moaned very softly. Agnes made small approving noises.

She seemed to pause, then go onward. She undid my belt and the button of my pants. I lifted my hips slightly and my clothing was looser. My cock rose more with the release, then more still when she worked the jocks down. She handled the fine skin lightly.

“A penis. A phallus. A cock. Wow. It’s warm!” She pulled the skin around, then gave a little “Oh!” when she pulled down and the head popped out. It had been expanding all this time and now stood proud. Agnes couldn’t take her eyes off it. I looked over at her as she leant forward and I drank in the view of pale mounds and the darker triangle of her cleavage.

She played gently with my balls, she rustled the hairs around, she ran a finger up to find my belly button, she moved the shaft around as she stroked it. She seemed very at ease with it all.

“Such soft skin, on a hard shaft, and so big. How ever is that going to fit inside me?”

She may have said more than she meant to then.

As she leant over, her hair fell over one shoulder and released its scent. I reached out and stroked it, running my hand to her shoulders as well. She looked up at me with a cheeky grin. She pulled the skin up and down while watching me to see my reaction.

I didn’t disappoint her. My eyes opened wide as she worked me. My mouth dropped open as I felt my orgasm building too fast. Agnes’s smile got bigger, then changed slightly. She put her other up to my neck.

She drew herself up to my face and kissed me. Repeatedly, urgently, without thought, kissing and tasting lips, cheeks, eyebrows, whatever she touched with her own soft lips. We were both leaning into each other so our arms and hands could roam through each others hair, over necks, rubbing and scratching shoulders and backs… her eyes were half-closed, there were flushes on her cheeks, her lips shone with our mixed saliva. With the touching and tasting came the scents of her hair and skin, even her clothing and the characteristic smell of old car.

We seemed to be passionately kissing for ages. My mind was spinning as I held her and felt her holding me. It was late afternoon and street lights were coming on. Her eyes twinkled like the lights shining in through the flat windscreen of the Landie. She broke away, smiled with heavy eyelids then came into me again. Each kiss set off a little spark in me.

She broke off again. “Oh, I want more of this. I want more. But we’re in a shopping centre car park…” Her voice was deeper, breather.

“I know a better place; we can go there if you like.”

For an answer, she turned the ignition key.

We drove in silence, with just a few directions from me. I started to pull my pants back up, but Agnes stopped me. She gave an occasional tweak of my cock, which somehow stayed hard despite Agnes’s fairly robust driving style.

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