Written by Geron

Fiction
26 Jul 2015


I am a hobby novelist. This is a few pages from one of the books I had written. Its fiction, I may not be to you liking. Lets see where this goes. This story is set in Joburg and its about a guy called Henry that uncovered a massive acid mine water ecological cover up.

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Henry crashed next to Agnes, and his mind wandered back to the flood victims, the refugees in their own backyard, as he thought of them. He was resting on his back, and Agnes was talking. Her hand moved to his stomach, then slipped effortlessly under his elastic band. Her fingers twirled and scratched his pubic hair, and it was never an unpleasant sensation for him. There was no reaction from his penis though, it was sagged as the shoulders of the flood victims he witnessed that afternoon.

She moved down to his penis, gently stroking it, “Where are you my baby?”

“I don’t know my angel, the fatigue of the day got the better of me.”

She turned to her side and faced him, “I will make you feel better.”

She lifted the duvet and went down between his legs, cajoling, kissing and talking to his penis as if it was her most beloved pet. The blood shot up his penis head, it swelled to perfect erection.

“And what have we here?” Agnes whispered with pleasure, her breathing staccato. She pulled his boxers off and he had no idea what happened to her panties. She climbed on top of him, lowered herself down, and her forehead furrowed as she exhaled. Her mouth opened and closed like a gold fish, and her tiny hibiscus tattoo heaved forward and backwards.

Henry could not get into the mood, so he faked it. “Oh yea baby, yea!”

He was not remotely thinking of Agnes on top of him, instead his thoughts were with Ilse, and how she cared for people, how unspoiled, yet effective, she was. He drove behind her all the way to her tiny flat in Auckland Park, she waved him good-bye as he drove off. He wondered how she would make love? She had a thin strip of eye brows, which was a dead give-away of her deeper femininity, despite her rugged denim and boots appearance. She was a natural blond blond, judging by the yellow hues in her eye brows, and he felt an obsession growing. Her pubic hair would be the same colour. He could not remember the colour of her eyes. Aqua-marine? Perhaps.

He wondered if she would also climb on top of him as Agnes just did, he would rise up, embrace her, kissed her breasts, her neck and lost himself in her perfume. What perfume would she wear? Maybe she was just a simple deodorant girl, he thought, which was just as good, her body would smell right to him, no matter what.

He could feel Agnes thrusting harder, her clitoris swollen on his pelvis. She was sweating on top of him, “Oh baby, oh baby, I am going to come!”

Her body contracted, then jerked, then she squeezed him with her thighs like a horse rider controlling his animal, and she slumped. She rolled off him like you get off a bicycle after a long ride, and she unfolded next to him.

“Oh baby, that was so so good,” she said.

“Yea it was, was it not.” Henry kept on faking, even though he could hardly argue it was bad.

Sex with Agnes was always good, it just wasn’t great, and again he did not ejaculate that night. He wondered if it would have been different with Ilse?

On her back, Agnes gave Henry a pseudo-kiss in the air, they turned away from each other, then went to sleep.


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