About 470 Words
Welcome in the Hillsides
It's Gwyneth, she is. Chubby, cuddly, soft and squeezable Gwyneth with her puppy fat rolls and vacant doe's eyes. It's Gwyneth-up-the-Chapel in her clean starched blouse and long navy skirt; singing in the choir and following the readings, lips moving. Fat lips, red and full and thick and ripe: no lipstick mind or Evans the Gospel would have the hard words to say. But she's Gwyneth, Gwyneth-at-the-Technical in a crisp little white coat, all of a buttoning as she learns the painting of the nails and the plucking of the eyebrows, but most of all she learns the lips, the fat, ripe and wet lips.
But she's also Gwyneth-in-the-cinema, Gwyneth-in-the-dark: dark and soft and moist, hot in the octopus tangle of arms and lips and damp, damp touches in the dark of the back row, safe from the glare of the rattle-tattle projector piercing the thick fog of the smokes and the hot, sighing breath, curdling in the cloying blanket of Brut and own-brand perfume enveloping us all. And after, it's Gwyneth-down-the-chip shop, good enough to eat, hot and nourishing, thick and juicy but watch for that touch of vinegar... "You watch yourself, Barry Bragan: it's respectable I am. You think you can do as you want for a cinema ticket and six penn'oth..." And the pert shake of the head and the tilting of the nose, and it's "Oh hello, Mrs Jones, how is it that you are? " as Chapel-Gwyneth passes a neighbour. But my Gwyneth, salty, savoury Gwyneth is never far away.
So it's Saturday: sunny, holiday no-work Saturday and we are up in the hills, breadwrapper sandwich packed and thermosed freedom to walk from the grimy streets and the shiny, shiny Technical with its dull, dull scholars. But my Gwyneth carries her lessons all along with her, in her painted nails and her beehive hair and her fat, red, juicy lips.
Is she shy, my Gwyneth?...coyly unbuttoning her blouse, slipping down her skirts. And such underwear, such lacy things as her Mam never saw to put through the washtub. She cups her breasts, pale and milky, soft as pillows, each as juicy a mouthful, waiting to slipe in over your tongue, as a fine full bay oyster.
And a bottom..such a bottom: wobbles and jiggles and I can bury my fingers in it, squeeze and roll and knead and slap. Such a sound it makes: a symphony of the smacking, a corporal concerto. And my Gwyneth she sings: not the chapel melodies, mind. Something earthier, deeper is our song, and I'm on top then she's on top then squeeze and slap and push and smack and all over me she is, and I'm in heaven, on a hillside, drowning in my Gwyneth....
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