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From: bradley_stoke@hotmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 20 Mar 2002 08:58:31 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {ASSTR} creamfields
Date: Wed, 20 Mar 2002 08:10:04 -0500
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Story: creamfields

Summary: Every summer in the UK, there is a festival known as 
"creamfields". At this festival, top DJs cane the best new 
dance tracks and discerning music lovers gather from all over 
Europe. It is an opportunity for dancing, having it large and 
necking it. And, of course, sex. 


For More Information: http://bradley-stoke.fsn.net

creamfields
===========

Pumping. Thumping. Jumping. 

The sun shone on the fields and on the grass as Kirsten jumped 
and swang and swirled in the mass of all the 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 which 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' 
made 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 its 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 her own shorts and knickers down, 
past her pierced crotch and its triangle of light brown hair which 
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 Jools, 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 other 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 affect 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!" 


For More Information: http://bradley-stoke.fsn.net

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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