Midnight Square Dance

MIDNIGHT SQUARE DANCE

by ContinentalPsyOp

Evening over an empty field, naturally fenced by rich, thick windbreaks, the kind built and preserved over generations. The sound of music and barn dancing in the distance.

Midnight is still hours away, even though the moon is already big and high and having its pull on the people below. In the windbreaks, the growth is old and ancient still, and moonlight barely penetrates. Sound is muffled, to those outside the windbreak. Inside the windbreak, the sound of moans.

The sound of a woman liking what she is doing. Liking what is being done to her. Only the moonlight can reveal the couple.

Her blouse is open and he is massaging her left breast through her bra of sheer and lace. From the sound she's making against his deep kisses, that rough kneading he's giving her tit is exactly the kind of touching she's hot for.

He takes her sweet hand and puts it on that uncomfortable bulge he's made in his jeans.

"Oooooh, husband," she coos, like a good Trad Wife, like the good twenty year old Trad Wife she is, hypermaxxing her dialogue skill and winning every skill check. She feels him grow even harder under her warm, squeezing hand and from her warm, squeezing words. Dialogue check passed, experience points received.

"Everyone said, one year married, and still so in love. I been gettin' compliments on us all night long, from the fellas and the ladies," he tells her in the moonlight, breaking their kiss fully to do it. His eyes beam at her. He's twenty-one and never been older.

"Then like a good husband," she says, squeezing him once more, and then taking her sweet hand away, "you know we can't go any further tonight."

"Awww, but honey, we're fine tonight, it ain't that time... yet."

"I know but it's almost time, and you don't want to waste good seed when the field is not ready," his good, traditional wife reminds him, kissing him demurely now, but feeling his hand slowly fade from a grope to merely a feel of her left breast.

"I'll make more," he pleads. "Fast."

"I know, baby."

"I been holdin' it in since day after the last frost--that feel's like months now!" His voice vocalizes the ache he sincerely feels.

"It's only been a few weeks now, sugar," she says, taking his hand off her breast and buttoning her shirt back up. "And all the elders say it's good for us." She's fully buttoned up. "And for our life here."

"Ooooooh, honeywife, I guess. But, gee golly I'm wanting you tonight."

She giggles. "We should be getting back. People will gossip but might think we Broke Vows if we're gone long enough to both get hot and to clean up after."

"I've got to tend to my wife's reputation, after all," her husband says. "But dang it's gonna be hard to walk back across this field with no relief."

"Take it out on the dancefloor, Pilgrim," his giggly wife tells him. "A farmer's life is suffering and hardship." She then lets out a high shocked squeal!

"For that sass, I'm gonna be squeezing your sweet little ass, all the way back to the barn!" her young husband tells her.

"Then, sweet husband, you'll never get that big stiff erection of yours to go down. And don't you go coming in your pants and making me a mess for to clean. You coming in your pants is cheating, and not proper! You know the elders would--not--approve!"

Being scolded felt better when he was squeezing his wife's big ass the entire time she scolded him. And she was right, his erection stayed hard and on edge the entire walk back to the barn together, until they got close enough that it was no longer considered polite for a husband to be squeezing his wife's bottom in public, no matter how much they all would have approved of the practice.

His erection maintained the whole time, thinking wonderful thoughts about the lawfully wedded woman he had in his hand, and feeling like the luckiest man at the entire dance. "I love you, Trisha," he tells her more than once on the walk back. "I love you, Martin," she replies sincerely each time.

II.

Four-time music for four-time dancing. The first sounds the ear recognizes are the bootheels on wood floors. Then the claps in time. Then the fiddle. Then the stand-up fiddle, then the caller. His old, wizened voice sounds more like one of the instruments of the band than a human a voice as old and rosined as the big-barn's dance floor.

From the blackness of the evening turned night, indoors there is just enough light to see and to be sociable. Just as much light as is necessary. Meaning all the right spaces for shadows in the barn outside the dance floor have been preserved.

Yellow real flowers and yellow paper flowers are hung in abundance.

And old banner, trotted out for another decade, has been hung from the rafters again:

"Wishing Everyone A Fine Spring and Planting Season!" Much floral trim abounds and flourish the pre-war typeface.

Happy faces of happy couples of all ages, happy feet in happy motion, as they all together square dance in simple reels across the barn floor.

Square dancing is simple and popular, and when children learn it for school classes in Roseville, they never forget. The adults who stay in Roseville; or those who leave, then learn better and come back; still remember the calls and the formations and the easy one-two-three-four rhythm.

Like a muscle memory. Like what the body does naturally. Like what the body was intended to do.

It requires no special equipment, but for men or for women, a simple pair of boots with good heels will make the experience one enjoyable for all, not merely one's self.

But when there is a regular square dance, weekly or bi-weekly, in a regular barn turned into a regular dance floor for the regular purpose of social dancing the way their ancestors intended, then it becomes easy for Roseville, already remotely connected to the greater world beyond, to keep to its own healthy, happy traditions.

Look over the square dancers. See happy smiling faces. See happy wedding bands on nearly every left hand.

Roseville is a town of deep, healthy roots.

Hemlines are modest. Smooth calves abound. As do healthy knees. And every so often, there's a swift turn or twirl that flashes some smooth thigh, but some not all and flashes not reveals.

Necklines are modest, too. If a gal has large, pillowy breasts, she needs to secure them tight, if vigorous dancing across the floor is on hand.

But to look at the eyes of the men twirling their partners, they cannot help but catch a glance as such a gal twirls past, making sure to see those large, pillowy breasts are properly secured indeed.

III.

Bob Roscoe, tall and in his late fifties but strong and preserved through life, stands at the open window of his bedroom letting all that evening Roseville air sweep in.

"They're dancing down at the barn tonight," he calls out to his wife in their bathroom. "I can hear them."

Cynthia giggles, turning out the bathroom light and coming back into their bedroom. Late forties but timeless, she is elegant with short hair that is in fashion with the women in her social circle, mostly other comfortably rich farm family wives in Roseville. "They better be dancing," she says, putting the emphasis on better. "It's almost Spring." She goes to their bed, sits on her side of it as she always does after coming out of the bathroom before retiring for the night.

"Warm breeze tonight," Bob says. "Fields might be ready."

As if on cue, one such breeze comes through the curtains Cynthia hung along those windows years ago, and teases the room with its warmth and promise of a rapid Spring.

"Good. Right on time," Cynthia says, applying her face cream like usual.

"Wanna go find out?" Bob says.

"Bob. You cannot be serious."

"I am."

"It's too early."

"I'm in season."

"Oh are you."

"Look at you. Shower fresh. Soft skin. Smell like a slice of heaven."

"Sweet talker, you."

"C'mon, little lady. Fancy a walk in the fields this Spring evening?"

"No. It's too early."

"Can't be more than a few nights at most. They're gonna have to call a Midnight Square Dance soon."

"Then you better save yourself up for that, since it looks like you're fixing on attending this year," Cynthia tells her husband.

"With you as my date," he tells her.

"Oh, I'm sure," she says.

"Then let's go see if these fields are ready."

"I just showered. I'm ready for bed."

"Then it's a double sacrifice already. Your shower-freshness and your sleepiness. You know the Earth Mother loves you when you sacrifice for her."

She giggles. "This is what I get for marrying into an old Roseville family. Adherence to tradition."

"No one blesses these fields like you, Cyndi Lou," he teases her.

"Maybe you could take me out into the fields at midnight to bless your fields, Robert Brynach Roscoe the Third," she says, rising, done with putting her moisturizing lotion on all over her body. "But you have to catch me first!"

Cynthia runs out of their bedroom, down the stairs of the ancient wooden farmhouse, and out their big front door, into the empty fields and their darkness.

Bob is fast behind her, tearing off his clothes as he goes.

IV.

Back at the converted barn where the Square Dance is finishing up for the night, Pete and Martha are shaking hands with the couples and dancing partners whom they are taking their leave of for the night.

Everyone is full of smiles and the flush that comes from staying in step while crossing the barn back and forth.

Martha is one of those gals who has large, pillowy breasts that need to be tied down, but now the barn has gotten so warm from all the dancing, that Martha has one more button open than she should.

But that's okay, she tells herself, a lot of ladies do. Even the older ladies with huge, post-baby chests, and besides, they're all friends and neighbors and kin here anyway. They've all worked up a sweat through some healthy, wholesome Saturday Night Sundown square dancing.

"It's so great you came home to Roseville!"

"We remember you two when you were in the school plays! Now, you're all grown up!"

"That sounds like a great Honeymoon in Tahiti! We hope Roseville isn't too boring for you two after all that!"

Everyone in town had been so welcoming since Pete and Martha had married and moved back to town. All the husbands were inviting Pete to their card nights and hunting lodges and fishing mornings. All of the wives were inviting Martha to their sewing circles and to read to their kids' playgroup, and to join the powerwalking women who blazed right through the middle of downtown main street at dawn each weekday.

It felt so welcoming, so wholesome, so much like home.

"Also, don't forget," a wife would whisper to Martha in a quiet voice, or a husband would say to Pete, as an aside, "Midnight Square Dance is coming up. Spring is almost Sprung."

V.

Cynthia is tearing across the recently aerated dirt. It feels good and soft under her feet and between her toes. She is a farm wife, she loves this feeling under her tread.

It is like sandy beach but better, it is soft and soothing and life-giving. Their life will rise from their dirt. All of their lives. And they enrich the dirt in turn, giving the dirt what it wants and what it needs.

The moon is high but she knows her way. She knows how to run while her man is chasing her.

Her diaphanous gown caught in the breeze, making her look like a spirit in the night.

She runs with the joy of running across a safe field in the moonlight, an ancient join transmitted down her X chromosomes for hundreds of generations. For thousands.

She runs until she is almost out of breath, and she knows, that is when Bob usually catches her.

As he does now, wrapping her body in his arms and tumbling her safely to the soft dirt with practiced ease.

"Bless my fields, woman!" he orders her, then pulls her hips towards his face and rolls her over to where she is on all fours, facing away from him, so he can pull her hips towards him and plant his face on the gaping, aroused lips of her cunt, and then on the shower-fresh wrinkles of her anal rosebud, licking her holy chakras and bringing them into balance, all to the chimes of her cries and moans of pleasure.

Her ass in the air, her ass and cunt being licked and sucked and orally loved, Cynthia speaks no longer in English. Her shoulders and cheeks to the soft field dirt, Cynthia speaks in ancient and secret languages, the half-words and sigals and prayers more ancient than the monuments and standing longer than the standing stones.

Her sounds unintelligible to men but known to the Earth. Known to the dirt who keeps the ancient secrets. Her prayers of pleasure, prayed into the dirt as her orgasm builds and comes and comes again and comes again, prayers of pleasure from time immemorial.

Bob licks her cunt and sucks her ass and opens her secret doors and her secret places with his True Lover's Kiss, and she says and screams and comes her secret silent words into the fields. Her prayer to: Come. Come. Cross the boundary between worlds.

On her husband's mouth and tongue, she comes indeed, deep and long and heavy. She comes in waves like ripples in a pool and those invisible but real ripples radiate all across Bob Roscoe the Third's prepared fields.

Then all is still. Cynthia returns to her senses.

Her breathing is heavy and deep in her long, descending afterglow. Bob is tumescent. In full flower.

"No, baby," she rejects. 


"But, honey," he protests. "You just came."

"That was your field blessing. Like you asked for it, I gave to you."

"Well... let's keep that magic going." His cock against her full and thick and ready. "I've been saving up."

"Sit your bare bottom on this dirt like you said you were going to do. There," she says, seeing him do it. "Warm isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"That means field's ready for planting. That means your Midnight Square Dance is coming up this week for sure."

"Yeah?"

"That means you better be saving up for then! You're my stickler for tradition aren't you? Wouldn't want one of the finest families of Roseville bringing down a curse for taking to the fields out of season, even only a few days, would we?"

"Aww, but, honey..."

"You can wait a few more days. Those balls ain't gonna turn blue and it ain't gonna fall off meanwhile."

"But, Cyndi dear, what if they do turn blue?"

"Well, then you bring them right to me and I'll stick a pin in them and let some of that pesky backed up blood out!"

"Ouch! Okay, fun time with you is over!"

Cynthia giggles. She kisses her husband softly on her lips. "That was fun, sweetie. Look, you were right," she says, taking his arm and walking her slowly softening husband back to the farmhouse. "This was a good night to see if the fields were ready. And I'm glad to sacrifice my shower-fresh body and get dirt in my toenails, since you put your tongue up my asshole so good!"

Cynthia giggles will glee while Bob blushes with pride all the way back to their house, their bed, and peaceful sleep.

VI.

As a young couple, Trish and Martin get a ride home in the back seats of their neighbor's crew-cab Hemi. The MacBeltanes are one of the oldest families in the County, both white on top, but both can still cut a rug on a Saturday night at the Square Dance.

"I hope you don't mind an off-road experience, but this here's a Hemi," Skip MacBeltane announces to the young couple in the backseat every time they start their trip home from one of these dances and the engine is revved and put into gear. "And a Hemi knows that the fastest way between two points is a straight line," the old man says with glee, and proceeds to bounce over the hills and back fields and back pastures, his wife of decades by his side in the front bench seat, snuggled up to him and giggling like she's on a roller coaster, riding these lands at night without the comfort and certainty of pavement or road.

The MacBeltanes have one of the largest plots in the County, too, of which Trish and Martin's plot was but a small piece, sold off or given away a century before Trish or Martin ever stumbled on life in Roseville. The MacBeltanes always took their neighbor couple to the Square Dance and brought them back each time, too; a friendly, neighborly thing to do.

But that night, they were barely started on their off-road excursion directly over the hill behind the barn and then down into the valley leading directly to the MacBeltanes' current house (they had several across the property over the years, often giving one to a returning child, while moving out to another house they would build new for themselves. MacBeltanes loved their modern, contemporary comforts, no matter how old the family was).

The barn was still behind them, when Trisha just happened to turn her head and look out her window at just the right angle to look towards the windbreak, which they were fast approaching in the vehicle. The Hemi truck bumped at just the right angle over a small hillock to throw the edge of its headlights on the edges of the windbreak, right where Trisha was looking. Her vantage put her perspective behind the driver and his wife, who were looking forward anyway. Trisha was looking as into their blindspot, and far away from her husband, who was on the other side of the truck, holding her hand but being otherwise not clingy in the backseat of their neighbor's truck.

Thus, only Trisha could see it, but oh, Trisha saw it.

Not one but two couples coming out of the windbreak. Both about ten yards away from her, both still partly obscured by the overgrowth. But not so obscured that Trisha was not instantly sure of whom she saw. Sure, because she knew them so well.

There was Jeff Peabody and Ellen Peabody, husband and wife in their forties, who operated the diner-cafe downtown, at the intersection of the two state roads, and both Peabodys with the hips and bellies of happy chefs who loved their own cooking. And with them were Freddie and Missy Dukes, he was an investment advisor and she ran the best running and jogging store in downtown Roseville. Both were tall and fit, with Missy having the long thin body of a lifetime runner.

In an instant, Trisha could tell that those tops on those ladies had just been quickly buttoned back up, just like hers had been an hour or so before. Trisha felt a sense of pride, thinking that these couples had seen saw her and Martin sneaking back in to the dance, and wanted to have some of their own hot fun, kissing and touching in the moonlight.

Trisha felt like she had inspired them with her passion and care-free attitude.

But what was odd to Trisha, as the couples were emerging from the overgrown windbreak, chubby Jeff Peabody was standing next to tall Mrs. Missy Dukes, whose top was no longer tucked into her skirt. And fit Freddie Dukes, was standing about twenty yards away from his wife, and was standing so close to busty Ellen Peabody, that he seemed to have his hand on her shoulder.

Trisha could not be sure, she thought she saw the glint of Freddie's wedding ring catch the light, right there atop Ellen's shoulder--and then the truck hit another bounce and they were taking the cut through the windbreak trees themselves, squeezing through the narrow semi-often-used off-road pass through this old windbreak that made Skip Beltane's drive of fury possible, week after week.

"This is my favorite part of Saturday night!" Skip called out from the front seat, his window rolled down and his head half-out the window the entire time. His wife cuddled next to him, placidly and saying nothing.

Trisha would not agree. This bumpy ride was not her favorite part of Saturday night, not at all. Never was.

An hour later, when Trisha was laying on her back in bed, she was still thinking about what her favorite part of that Saturday night had been. She, listening to Martin's quick, sweet snores, was thinking about Jeff Peabody and Missy Dukes, who was a foot taller than him at least, but then Freddie Dukes was a foot taller than Ellen Peabody, and she was thinking about all sorts of combinations between those four creative players, and she was thinking for the first time that evening about regret.

Regret that she stopped her husband Martin from going further during their time in the makeout grove.

Because she knew if he had her there now, with his big thick husbandly hard-on, Trisha knew now after seeing those four other married people who were themselves four different couples, she knew that she would not be able to keep her husband's obedient cock in his jeans in the moonlight.

Her cunt was just too wet, too needy for it.

She thought of how she ached, she thought of why she ached, and in thinking about all the things she wished had happened that night that could have relieved her aching, she drifted off to sleep and to the most explicit and embarrassing sex dreams she had yet experienced since becoming a married woman.

VII.

In the car ride home, Pete told Martha that he was "so glad we decided to move back home after going to college."

"Me, too, Peter Pan," Martha said, using her nickname for her twenty-two year old husband. "I was kinda feeling it at college, but it didn't go away when we were in Tahiti, and now we're back, it feels really strong."

"What does?"

"The feeling that I should be here. That we should be here. That this is the perfect place to do what we need to do."

She looked at him behind the wheel, and he turned to meet her eyes. Her face was mostly in darkness but the sparse light of the headlamps reflected off a passing roadsign caught something in her eyes and shone against her retinas, ethereally.

"What's that?" Pete asked his twenty-two year old wife.

"Get me knocked up," Martha said, matter-of-factly.

VIII.

The grunting of women. The sound of their breathing. Deep, painful inhales. Fast, pushing exhales. Sweat soaking the space-age fabrics of their athleisurewear.

"Remember, inhale, exhale," then she demonstrates these concepts, "like the Gospel of John says, ladies, the Lord breathed into Adam's nostrils and that is how the Holy Spirit is entering our bodies all of the time, ladies, through our breath. And not only once but all of the time! So breathe deep in the Holy Spirit, sisters!" She demonstrates this now, big smile on her face, feeling the ethereal Spirit of the Creator of the Universe entering her body.

"And now, rise off your mat and find your warrior pose. I know you all want to be fierce warriors for God! Let's all praise Him real quick!" She has her hands in front of her, palms pressing in prayer, in front of her heart center. She has short dark hair, barely there breasts under two t-shirts that only accentuate her modest chest, narrow hips and a tiny butt from years of yoga.

Lydia Collins turned this abandoned 1890s bungalow off the center of town into her Christian Yoga practice, which she brought from that big city four hours east of Roseville.

She wore Crystals all the time, more than her Cross, though she had plenty of pretty ones, but probably wore her Icthys Fish as much as her Crystals. She changed the crystals for her mood, which is to say her mood changed her crystals.

But then she changed her outfits to match her crystal.

But with a body like Lydia's, even at thirty, nothing was too tight for her narrow hips, nothing too small for her small top. Lydia was a merry pixie, a bright ray of sunshine to come to their happy valley and their happy town. She was popular and well received by everyone, from the MacBeltanes to all of the other best families in town.

Yoga was very popular, too, and yoga with a decidedly spiritual bent was very popular indeed.

In the short time she had been in Roseville, Lydia probably had come to know every woman and most of the men by name on sight.

By way of example, in her class that early morning, was Martha, Pete's wife; and Trisha, Martin's wife; and Cynthia Roscoe, among many others, including even the tall and glamorous Missy Dukes herself.

But one thing Lydia did not know, was what Trisha had seen that night, and so Lydia had no idea why Trisha seemed so interested in Missy Dukes this morning. But Lydia did not worry too much about the lives of her classmates and neighbors. She focused more on the big energy lines laying across the valley, and she knew her students and her neighbors loved her for that.

She brought the class into their final poses this morning a little earlier than usual.

"The planting may be happening this morning, surely this week," Lydia told her class. "That means we must be ready, especially us ladies. The steps are more complex for us, but not too complex. And of course, nature will take over. Come now, class, let us form a circle. You should know the rhythm by now you don't need any music. We move as the moon does, ladies, counterclockwise, left under right, right over left, simple grapevine, ladies, and then turn, you know how, and grapevine, two three four...

As the women joined hands and practiced their ancient steps, their was a palpable energy in the old converted bungalow's former living room turned yoga studio.

Lydia was so involved feeling the energy flow, she did not even notice that Trisha was next to Missy Dukes in their circle, holding hands and going counterclockwise like the moon, together.

IX.

At Stone's Cobbler in downtown Roseville, the bell kept jingling all day long. "Howdy, Herb," called out the older farm wives, and "Hello, Mister Stone," called out the younger farm wives, one after the other, in staggered order, as they all seemed to deluge his simple shoe repair store that day and the next, morning, afternoon, and, frustratingly, right before closing.

He had felt the warm breeze in the night. He knew they would be coming.

"Any chance you can go a rush order on these?" they all wanted to know.

Each lady had hair that seemed freshly or at least recently coiffed or coiffured, and they had brought indoors the scent of Spring itself in each of her unique flavors every time they entered his shop those days. Their scents lingered in the air long after they left, only to be replaced a quarter or a half hour later, by another lady, scented differently but no less divinely.

Some needed a heel replaced, most just wanted a super-shine polish, but all said they needed it quick. "These are my dancing boots, Herb."

But of course Herb Stone agreed to shine up all their high western boots, overnight if he had to. Herb was a pillar of his community, and he knew what it meant to be part of one, and how much sacrifice brought the community in return.

X.

The day finally dawned like a big Aaron Copeland fanfare.

Big sun and bright skies and no breeze but warm, fair weather. A day of sun and a land warm and ready for it. Some might even say, blessed.

And as if to Aaron Copeland music, out came the farmers and out came the seed laying machines. Most of the fields of Roseville were organic heirloom vegetables. Bob Roscoe that fateful planing morning, went to his fields of organic heirloom maize, grown specifically from seed for the finest restaurants in the world whose clientele expected only the best and hardest to source ingredients.

He thought of that evening a few days prior with Cynthia, and planted his corn seed with extreme arousal. Each day, his lust had only grown greater, but he knew he owed it to his crops to control that energy so he could divert it towards them. So they in turn could give that energy back a thousandfold to the pure people in the world. To those worthy of this care and all this energy expended on but one tiny kernel of corn.

The whole valley was full of busy planters, out in their fields, tending to their crops with joy and with relief.

In the houses, so many wives stretching their legs and stretching their lips and moisturizing their skin.

The seeds in the ground, the fields could receive their proper blessing. Time for the Midnight Square Dance.

XI.

The first sign that it is coming is the announcement of the secret, super-cool lock-in for all the school-age students. When the parents hear that the school is going to have a supervised lock-in for all the students to build community, that is when everyone knows the Midnight Square Dance is accounted for.

After all, who was the Midnight Square Dance made for, if not parents?

Roseville School every year makes it seem like the Secret Senior Spring SlumberParty Overnight Lock-In is part of some tradition and the coolest seniors spring it on the entire school community. But it's all myth and fantasy. The cool seniors who influence the other students are told when to spring the surprise by the adults, and with responsible adults watching over them all night, with healthy and safe and fun activities that actually do build community, the elders of Roseville insure good attendance at the most important Spiritual Night of the Spring Calendar: the annual Resurrection.

Roseville wants adults of parenting age to attend. Roseville definitely wants those adults with fertile wombs and fertile sacks to attend.

The first secret, and perhaps the biggest secret, of Midnight Square Dance is that it does not take place at Midnight.

One hour after the sun has set, they come to the Dance Barn as usual, with their boots on.

Mrs. MacBeltane had her boots on, that was for sure, when Trisha and Martin drove over to their place for their car-pool. But other than her boots, Mrs. MacBeltane only wore a diaphanous white shift that showed she had nothing else on other than the white garment, and her boots.

"This was my aunt's originally, and she gave it to me when I got married, it was made from family heirloom linen originally, and I've had it ever since! Can you believe, married fifty years and it still fits!"

Mrs. MacBeltane was seldom chatty, this was the chattiest she had ever been with the neighbor couple, Mr. MacBeltane usually did the talking. The libation in her glass might have been the reason.

There was no doubt to Trisha and Martin that the sheer shift fit Mrs. MacBeltane perfectly well, and it seemed quite obvious to them that she certainly was old enough to have been married for over half a century. Yet, her slenderness and her sensuality was not diminished by her wrinkles and her sags. There was an energy and a vitality to her and her body that was hypnotic to watch.

Trisha had made her own white chemise as she had been recommended to, but hers was much thicker and not sheer at all. Martin, in the homemade loincloth that Trisha had been told to cut into a long rectangle and then fold around her husband's loins, like an elegant, linen diaper, pinned against him, had complained about being so exposed, but Trisha liked seeing his nipples hardening from the chill night air for a change.

And Trisha liked seeing the half-naked Mrs. MacBeltane look at Martin, looking at him up and down and admiring his young chest and his taut thighs. Trisha even thought she caught the old woman biting her lip looking at her husband! She couldn't blame her, Trisha knew she had a sexy husband, she was proud of him and his body.

But when Mr. MacBeltane came out, only in boots and his small loincloth, Trisha knew this night was not going to just be an adult toga party.

XII.

The music begins before the couples arrive.

It is as if the rhythm calls them in. The band tonight is only the old, ancient caller, and an elder who drums an old and ancient, handmade drum that only plays at the Midnight Square Dance.

But tonight the old caller's voice is young again, and he calls the dance as he called it, many, many, many years ago.

The words he speaks are not Modern English, but no one has any difficult understanding him. In fact, it is as if everyone dances perfectly at the Midnight Square Dance.

The dancing begins as the first couples file in. Whether it is two or four or six or eight, they hear the drum and respond to the caller and begin to make their patterns across the floor.

Boots stomp and loinclothed men and chemised women, all in white, all in natural homemade fibers, circle and promenade and sashay and swing their partners to and fro, box the gnat and wrong way grand.

The energy on the floor is hot and palpable. Many of the calls isolate partners across the barn from each other. The dance goes on and many of the calls keep partners dancing in the arms of others, where a wife might only be able to catch a glimpse of her husband through all the rough white flaxen linen, should she care to look for him at all.

Cynthia Roscoe was not looking to see where her husband Bob was dancing. She was too interested in the chest with just the right amount of muscles and just the right amount of hair, belonging to this young man she thought was named Pete who kept ending up in her dancing circles, who kept ending up on her arm, and who kept looking into her eyes as they danced close together.

Cynthia's full, heavy breasts swung naturally and seductively in her shift, her nipples big and hard and unignorable through the cotton chemise that was more demure than Mrs. MacBeltane's, but not as chaste as poor Trisha's.

Cynthia would concede that Martha's husband, this younger man Pete, whom she thought she once had seen in a school play years ago playing Peter Pan, looked and smelled wonderful. She estimated he was only thirty years younger than she was. He kept making eye contact with her, and she kept looking at him.

The music kept getting louder and the time kept getting faster, as the dancers built up into a frenzy.

The call was for a promenade, and as Cynthia formed up, she saw that new Yoga teacher, that little pixie Miss Lydia, at the front of the promenade. She had been a wonderful dancer to watch over the evening, but now it seemed like she was suddenly naked, totally naked, even her boots were gone, and she was indeed, Cynthia saw, as flat-chested as she had always seemed in Yoga class.

Flat-chested but with not an ounce of body fat on her, or a hair below her eyelashes, Cynthia saw. Great big smile on her face, narrow hips twisting perfectly in time, leading the dance and leading the promenade, all the way out the barn door, out into the fields and the darkness.

Trisha and Martin were together in that promenade, their hearts beating a mile a minute, to finally be part of the Midnight Square Dance. They could not help noticing how many men were releasing their loincloths, and as Trisha danced along, she was treated to a reveal of penis after penis, men of all ages, taking off their loincloths and joining in the rhythm, showing their penises of all ages to all, including to the curious Trisha's ever-hungry eyes.

There was even Mister MacBeltane. Trisha had to admit, his wasn't bad for an old guy.

Trisha knew what she had to do. She reached over to her husband, and in one deft motion she undid the loincloth she had tied around his cock and balls that evening at sunset.

"Hey! What's the--" Martin protested, but was stopped by Trisha grabbing his hard-on once, then letting do. "Get ready, honey," she said, "you're finally gonna get some relief," and barely broke rhythm as she wiggled out of her white gown and danced her way out of the barn, as naked as her husband.

XIII.

To the fields near the barn they went, the fields owned by the town which were thickly planted with this year's high-value heirloom produce.

To the bonfire they went, lit in the center of the field, blazing high and hot.

Warming the naked revelers, who came to the fields, now drawn to the fire, keeping in time and in step to the drum that travelled with them.

Two circles formed. The women made a circle facing out, and the men formed a circle around them, facing in.

The women danced their step, to the left, to the left, to the left, then back to the right again, then to the left, then running out at the men, who retreat as the women advance.

But then the men take a step to the right, and then run at the women, who retreat, and the circular pattern resumes again, all in time to the drum, all back-lit by the fire, so these women's bodies become dark and mysterious, indistinguishable from the flames.

As Martin dances, he cannot believe that he knows all these steps, that he can do them all in time with the others, but he does not think about that. He does not think about how big and hard his cock is, how it aches sticking out in front of him and shaking as his hips move and twirl. He does not think about all the other stiff but floppy cocks to the right and to the left of him, and what that must look like to Trisha, wherever she is.

All Martin sees are breasts and hips and bellies and lust, like these are no longer wives and lovers but nymphs and nereids and dryads. Nipples to suck and labia to part and skin to kiss and wombs to flood.

So many wombs, dancing in the firelight, just out of reach of his cock.

The women turn in their dance, showing their backs and posteriors, then turn back again, showing their breasts and bellies, then circle more, then turn their backs to the men again. Then more running at the men, then more men chasing them back to their tight circle near the fire.

Working all that energy into those hips. Working all that blood into their pelvises.

Getting them warmed and stretched and ready to perform the miracle in these fields. To bless the planting for another season.

Finally the women chase the men to the edge again, and this time make the men fall to their knees, fall to all fours. Then the women run away again, back to the fire, dropping to all fours themselves, facing the fire but writhing their hips.

Then men then crawl on all fours across the dirt, in time with the drum beat still, and crawl their animal way to the woman in front of him, whomever she may be.

To Bob, the dirt on his knees, on his hands, felt like youth again. Like he was reborn. His body felt strong, full of life, ready to fuck all night. He thought he had that hot little yoga teacher in front of him, and he hurried like never before to get up to those twisting, turning hips he saw just ahead of him. But as he reached her, he saw she was not the dark-haired yoga pixie at all.

Instead, she was someone's slim-hipped young wife, one of those who had recently wed and moved here, and Bob only realized the difference after he swiftly took those slim-hips in his hands and right before the head of his cock slipped inside her sweet young wifely cunt.

"Oh, you're not my wife's new yoga teacher," Bob thought, but the feeling of hot and wet and tight that he was feeling through his dick in this girl's cunt overrode any capacity for thought, and he did not think anything conscious or complex after that. He only took this perfect young pussy on his dick for what it was worth, and fucked that little pussy for all he was worth, just like she wanted it.

To Martin, it felt totally wild, but totally right to be crawling across this dirty field all full of planted seeds. Totally right to be crawling like an animal to all their wives.

He was surprised, maybe even shocked, to see slender thighs like Trisha's, and a pert little butt like Trisha's awaiting him, but those wrinkles and those age lines meant she was much, much older than Trisha, but he did not question it. Martin did what his body was begging for and he penetrated the cunt in front of him, thrilled to finally be able to get relief for his aching, cum-filled balls.

And there before the fire the ritual was begun yet again.

The women knelt in prayer before the Fire Goddess only they knew, and were mounted by the men. In those sacred first penetrations of the season, so many holy couplings were made possible. The Universe matched them all according to her reason and rhyme.

Bob Roscoe penetrated young Trisha, loving every stroke into the young filly and every twist of her hips trying to take that old wise cock deeper, deeper, deeper.

On the other side of the bonfire, his wife Cynthia begged young Pete for a child, begged through her cunt and her kegels, begged Pete for a healthy fresh young ooops child to warm her older years and let her hang with the young mommies again. When her cunt pleaded hard enough, Pete flooded her with his cum, like she asked for so nicely.

Pete's wife Martha was being deep-rooted by an aristocratic son of one of Roseville's oldest families, getting fucked hard and good and made most welcome home in these dirty fields.

Trisha's husband, Martin, had mounted old Mrs. MacBeltane, and the young man was fucking the old vixen more than three times his age with all the vigor his youth and his needy balls could muster. The saucy old wench was thrilled being stuffed and rutted by a young stud, reminding her of how her husband Skip MacBeltane had mounted Mrs. MacBeltane's grandmother all those years ago at one of the first Midnight Square Dances they ever went to. On that magical night ages ago, Mrs. MacBeltane never exactly knew who was the first one to ride her that night, who was the one who mounted her first in ritual by the sacred fire, but she was sure she got her lovely firstborn from him, whomever he was.

From these first penetrations leading to the first climaxes of the Season, fucking these wives and lovers until she shouted cries of pleasure across the field, these men fucked these women in front of them into bliss, and then drained their balls into them, irrigating their cunts and seeding them with their most sacred fluid.

Perhaps it is something in the water in Roseville, but the men regain their stamina shortly, and the dance begins again, with the inner and outer wheels of men and women circling around each other again, until it is time for the Second Penetration, in the same ways as the first.

It is equally orgasmic, and these couples fuck the Sacred Blessing that way across all the fields that night.

From there, the couples find each other again, and in the ecstasy that remains, often chase each other home through the dark. No house is more than an hour's stroll from the Dance Barn, one of the many reasons why it was sited where it was.

That means, as Bob Roscoe lays his wife Cynthia only her back in his fields that night, it is almost Midnight for real, and she is creamy as he enters her, giving his wife his last seed of the night, here in his own maize fields which their loving will bless. She does not think about the lubrication on her husband's cock from the channels of other women, Cynthia only feels love and receives love and thinks not about Pete's big cock and how good it felt filling her on her first penetration that night.

That means, though Pete and Martha have no fields of their own, they reunite in their marital bed that Midnight, as Pete gives Martha the last of what he's been saving for her. She is beaming and glowing. She already feels pregnant.

That means, even Mister MacBeltane takes his wild Mrs. onto her back in their new flower garden, and even after hours of vigorously fucking others, Trisha opens up for her husband Martin in the fields around their house, fields that love the young couple and will do anything for them and for the child already growing in Trisha's belly.

THE END. Written for a Reader who Gets It.