Creamfields
===========


Pumping. Thumping. Jumping.

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 of  dancers, 
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!?






