Edited by Mirabeau

Pumping. Thumping. Jumping.

The sun shone on the fields and on the grass as Kirsten jumped and swung 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' 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 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?