The
sun shone on the fields and on the grass as Kirsten jumped and swung
and
swirled in the mass of other revellers at the festival. Around her the
sounds
of trance and house bounced and beat and thumped and pumped, as she and
the
others jumped and boogied and grooved and moved. Behind her and on both
sides
was a sea ofdancers, absorbed like herself into the music, letting it
take them
where it wanted, interpreted by many different wavy hand motions and
frantic
feet. Ahead of her and hidden by the heads of other dancers and behind
his
decks was the DJ, Kirsten didn’t know who. Not a superstar DJ, but a
name
DJ nonetheless, caning the old familiar tunes. The swirling sunshine
sounds of
‘Beachball’, an oldie but a goldie, followed (and how did that
happen?) by the hard thump of ‘Doom’s Night’.
Thumping.
Pumping. Kicking. Banging.
Kirsten
was well tooled up. E’d and spiked and sinking into narcotic euphoria.
Already her long hair was damp with sweat, and it splashed against her
bare
shoulders. Then the squelch of the first few beats of ‘Avenue’,
punctuated by ecstatic samples from something quite different. She’d
been
looking forward to this festival forever. Or at least since she and her
friends
had booked tickets on the Net. Somewhere beyond the crowds was their
tent where
they’d spent hours chilling out to the sounds on their CD player,
passing
spliffs between themselves and giggling at the small things that
somehow seemed
so hilarious. Paul’s tee-shirt with the beer stain on it. So fucking
funny! And Sophie’s hair. Where had she got those weird beads? But all
that hanging around, chilling out, getting sorted, that was behind
them. The E
was kicking in, not that Kirsten was really sure with the haze of dope
and
booze. She was fucking having it. And fucking having it large. And
fucking
large it was too.
Banging.
Pumping. Kicking. Moving.
Gurrh!
The E was coming up. She was really rushing. She pressed herself
against Barry,
who as always was a bit anxious when Kirsten was coming on strong. But
fuck
him! She was enjoying herself. She grabbed him around the waist and
they
boogied together as the swirling cathedral sounds of ‘Avenue’ gave
way to some record she recognised but didn’t know, vocal sounds
breaking
in like waves of orgasm through the dense rhythms, in tune with her
body as she
pressed it hard against Barry, feeling his cock stiffen through the
fabric of
his shorts.
Thumping.
Banging. Clanging.
The
sun was gradually sinking in the distance and the shadows were getting
longer.
On the stage the arcing, swaying bright lights became more obvious as a
cloud
passed in front of the sun. And then a cheer as Paul Van Dyk himself
hit the
stage. A few brief words from the podium while Kirsten and her friends
paused
in their dancing, and then at last the decks erupted as the sounds
burst forth
from the speakers, the heavy bass thundering across the fields as
‘Iguana’ erupted. Hard house heaven. Kirsten flung herself onto
Paul, brushing her tits through her tanktop against his shiny bare
chest, his
hands and arms twitching with the familiar beats. Sophie was shaking up
and
down as the rhythms pushed through her, twitching though her from crown
to toe.
An ecstatic smile on her face was the dead give away that her rush was
coming
on stronger than ever.
Grinding.
Throbbing. Pulsating.
And it
was Kirsten. As always. Who was the first to pull off her tanktop and
let her
boobs out into the summer sun, even as it fell beneath the horizon.
Kirsten
gave a whoop as her round breasts with their puffy nipples and
satisfying orbs
came loose and swayed freely with her body as she swayed freely in the
beat.
She could see Paul’s stare. And she laughed. Paul was so fucking
uptight.
What did it fucking matter what he fucking thought? She was up for it,
whatever
he fucking was. Through the sweat that drained off her forehead onto
her eyes
she could just about see other eyes on her coming from the other
dancers, but
they were just the ones who weren’t really getting it on yet. It felt
much better for her tits to bump and wobble and rotate and sway with
the music,
free as the rest of her. And fuck! What’s such a big deal about tits
anyway?
Hopping.
Bopping. Sliding. Gliding.
In
through all the trance and hard house came a clear single note, held
for a
beautiful long moment, gradually building up tension, other rhythms
patterning
themselves within it. And then bit by bit as Kirsten and Sophie and
Paul and
Barry sank to the size of midgets on a small corner of the earth, in a
vortex
of spinning ravers, it built up inexorably and powerfully and ever
greater,
wave upon wave of emotion and power, to finally climax with beats so
heavy and
dense that Kirsten could feel her stomach give way beneath her, her
long hair
swaying onto her breasts and hardening nipples, the ring in her
belly-button
transmitting hard signals of joy. And then crescendo. Passion. Ecstasy.
Emotion. The four of them almost wept as the music carried them up
higher and
higher, wave upon wave of overlaid beats, crashing and bashing, banging
and
clanging. Kirsten danced with her head up, mouth open to the sky, as a
full
moon appeared above her, monstrous and meaningful, the energy pulsing
through
her as it came onto her and crashed into her.
Grooving.
Moving. Kicking. Killing.
DJ
after DJ. Record after record. Mix after mix. Highs. Lows. Bass.
Treble.
Rhythms harder than a hammer. Sharper than a knife. Like the knives
cutting
into her soul. Chemical Heaven. Kirsten pushed herself against Paul
again, his
own top thrown aside, pressing her hot hard breasts against his hot
hard smooth
chest, his pierced nipple occasionally slapping against her hot hard
nipple.
They shimmied and swirled and pirouetted and glided. Flesh against
flesh. And
Kirsten’s hand on his hard cock under his shorts. So long. So thick.
And
such a good fuck. Kirsten smiled as she remembered their fuck last
night. The
four of them. Taking turns as the acid wore off and the E kicked in.
Not like
that shit time with K that time. Paul and Kirsten. Paul and Sophie.
Barry and
Kirsten. Barry and Sophie. And even for a few giggly awkward moments,
while the
boys ogled guiltily, Sophie and Kirsten. Was it fun? Maybe. But what
the fuck!
You’re only young once.
Kicking.
Banging. Thumping. Jumping.
And if
not then, why not now? thought Kirsten, as the sounds got fast and
furious, the
lights flashing over the fields and the stage, dark silhouetted DJs
behind
decks, films synchronised with the beat on the backdrop. A deep
contorted
fucked-up beat squeezed itself through the four to the floor, twisted
around in
her belly, sank into her chest, and released itself as Kirsten pulled
Paul’s shorts down, his prick standing out tall and proud, pink and
purple gloriousness, pride personified. A cock to die for. Paul was too
far
gone to care, but his dancing became reduced to twitching as his
consciousness
gradually took in what Kirsten’s tongue was doing to his prick at that
moment.
Slurping, glurping, gasping, gulping. Saliva and sweat. And such a
fucking big
prick! Would Paul come on her tits? Did she want to waste such goodness?
Thumping.
Pumping. Kicking. Banging.
Kirsten
wasn’t sure what she wanted. But the music made demands on her. All at
once “Horny! Horny!” crashed the vocals from the mix. Cheesy but so
vital. Without any more thought, Kirsten stood up and pulled down her
own
shorts and knickers, past her pierced crotch and its triangle of light
brown
hair that belied the truth of her blonde hair, down, down, eased over
her bony
knees and then kicked off into the grass. She was now naked, except for
her
light green pumps, a slim bare figure in the moonlight, the rhythms
pulsating
through her chemically electric frame. Naked. And not for the first
time at a
festival. Sophie rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop her dancing. Barry
looked nervous. And Paul looked positively terrified. A few other
figures
momentarily paused in their dancing. And one or two exchanged comments,
but not
wanting to look uncool. After all, it was only nudity.
And
Kirsten enjoyed it. The chill air on her burning crotch. The sweat
running free
down her torso, onto her bare thighs without interruption or pause.
Perhaps she
was a naturist at heart. But perhaps she didn’t go for all that shit.
She
wasn’t going to be spending her time playing beachball and
table
tennis. She just liked being bare fucking butt naked, and she didn’t
fucking care what anyone fucking thought. If her parents could see her
now.
They could just get fucked like everyone else.
Scraping.
Grinding. Twisting. Bumping.
And
there was Paul still jumping and bumping opposite her, his prick
slapping from
side to side with the rhythm of his dancing. A shame to waste it,
thought
Kirsten, getting onto the ground, knees in the grass, hands behind his
buttocks
and prick in her mouth. The taste and smell was overwhelming, while
Kirsten’s flesh tingled with chemical tension, the prick driving deep
into her throat. But not for long. All of a sudden, it erupted into a
creamy
trail of come, which as his prick withdrew, splattered onto Kirsten’s
chest and down his legs. Kirsten smiled as more come dribbled out of
her mouth,
and then without pause up with the beat, as it took her higher and
higher and
higher.
Pumping.
Thumping. Hitting hard. Banging on. Relentless. Never ending.
And
then it started to rain. Not for the first fucking time at a festival.
The
music continued uninterrupted. And who was on stage? Kirsten didn’t
know.
Didn’t care. After all those weeks comparing DJs. Was Carl Cox on? Was
Judge Jules, Paul Oakenfold, Ferry Corsten, Armand Van Helden? Was it
going to
be blinding? Or cheesy? Or hard? Or trancey? Who fucking cared? The
rain beat
down gently, softer than the music, barely noticed on the sweat that
already
had her hair sodden and damp and lank and sticking to her bare skin.
But not
for long. Just a shower. Thank fucking Christ for that!
Bumping.
Thumping. Kicking. Heavier. Harder. Darker. Throbbing. Banging.
How it
happened, Kirsten didn’t know, but soon there were others like her,
naked
and boogying, clothes flung aside, more pills appearing and shared and
still no
break in the dancing. Kirsten bounced off Sophie, whose eyes were
rolling no
longer, her perky pointed nipples as free as Kirsten’s fuller rounder
boobs. Barry, too, had pulled down his pants, his thin prick not as
proud as
Paul’s even now, shrivelled into nothing, but shaking madly from side
to
side. The music pounding and pulling and pushing.
Perhaps
it was Barry. Perhaps it was Sophie. Perhaps it was Kirsten herself.
But
someone had changed the tempo in their dancing, even though the music
was
beating to an altogether heavier, faster beat, and they were on the
grass,
slightly damp after the shower, all three of them, rolling about,
kissing and
licking each other. And when Barry put his prick in Sophie’s cunt, in
came Paul, his prick recovering its hardness and straight into Kirsten,
as she
wrapped her legs around him, and he thrust in and out, with a rhythm
totally
out of step with the music. Kirsten didn’t care. The music was now just
in the background. The sounds and rhythms in her skull were red and
warm and
liquid and tingled with narcotic energy. What the fuck had they been
taking? Or
was it just how the fancy took them?
And
soon there were others. Kirsten didn’t know who they were. She
didn’t care. Boys. Girls. As long as they had tongues and fingers and
lips and pricks where pricks counted. Above them were the shadows of
others
dancing and twitching energetically in the moonlight, lit up
occasionally by
the vast strobes of light flashing from the stage. Kirsten occasionally
caught
snatches of tunes as they thundered by. Was that fucking Fatboy Slim?
And later
she was sure she heard the distinct beat and vocals of ‘Age of
Love’. Occasionally, she looked into the faces and not just the bodies
of
the people gathered around her in this impromptu orgy of theirs. Would
she
normally have allowed such a fat arsed bloke with his long hair still
inside
his floppy hat take her up the arse like that? But who fucking cared?
It was up
there. Pushing up and pushing up, while below Paul (at least she
thought it was
Paul) was fucking her cunt. And a girl with really short hair was
licking her
face and eyebrows and cheeks. Kirsten grabbed the girl’s face with her
hands and tugged it straight into her mouth and tongue fought against
tongue.
Sophie
and Barry were also hard at it interlocked by other naked bodies,
sometimes
flashing purple, blue, yellow or red as the massive strobes passed by.
And then
back to shadows in the pale moonlight. And then the hard beats of Mauro
Piccotto joined the gasps and grunts and slurps and cries of the mass
of
bodies, building up to a climax of action, as Kirsten herself climaxed
again
and again and again.
And
then more easy ambient noises from the stage. Bodies sagged and swayed.
Exhausted by the dancing, the sex, the sweat. Sampled beats from the
orient,
interspersed with low ambient vocal cries, and long low hums of sound
underlaying the slower rhythm. And bit by bit, person by person, the
mass of
naked flesh peeled off, Kirsten writhing beneath them.
Until
there was only her. Lying on the grass, as people were making their way
home.
Her hair was splayed about her, face on one side, breasts on the
ground, and
legs crossed scissor-fashion behind her. Above her stood Sophie, while
Barry
and Paul stood off to one side chatting and passing a joint back and
forth.
“Come
on, girlfriend,” smiled Sophie. “Get your kit on.”
Kirsten
stood up shakily, her memory of events already fragmented and
incomplete.
“Did we really…?”
“Here,
Kirsten, have a toke,” insisted Paul, handing her the joint. “You
were really way out there.”
Kirsten
put the joint to her lips and breathed in deeply. Too deeply really, as
she
coughed up most of what she’d taken, but not so much that the effect of
the skank was wasted on her.
“We
really got it on there, didn’t we? We had a real fucking time,
didn’t we? It was really banging!” she said with a smile as she
looked up with her clothes in a bundle in her arms.
“Yeah,
babe,” said Barry with an ironic smile. “That’s the word for
it. Banging!”
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