Festival Field Fling

Reading Festival, day two. Caked in mud, three hours of sleep, already half-cut at 2 PM.

Living the dream.

She found me at the bar tent, waiting for overpriced cider. Covered in glitter, flower crown slightly askew, the kind of festival outfit that was probably cute yesterday but was now war-zone chic.

"You're tall," she announced. "Can you see how long the queue is?"

"About ten people."

"Fuck." She slumped against the barrier next to me. "I'll die of thirst before then."

"Bit dramatic."

"I'm a dramatic person." She stuck out a glittery hand. "I'm Poppy."

"Liam."

"Liam. Good name." She looked me over. "You're fit. For a muddy mess."

"Back at you."

"Charmer." The queue moved forward. "You camping here?"

"In the South field. With mates. Though I've lost them."

"Same. Well—" She grinned. "Shall we be lost together?"

Being lost together involved drinks, dancing, more drinks, watching a band neither of us could identify, and ending up in her tent while the sun set over the main stage.

"It's cozy," she said, zipping up the door. "Ignore the mess."

The tent was chaos—sleeping bags, fairy lights, spilled glitter, the detritus of festival life. She pushed aside some clothes and made space.

"So," she said, sitting cross-legged. "Here we are."

"Here we are."

"I don't usually do this." She was picking glitter off her arms. "Pull strangers into my tent. But you're fit and it's a festival and my mate's shagging some DJ so I've got the tent to myself."

"Is this going where I think it's going?"

"Depends what you think." She crawled toward me. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm very okay with wherever this goes."

"Good answer."

She kissed me, tasting like cider and adventure. Glitter transferred from her skin to mine, but I didn't care.

"You're sparkly," I murmured.

"You will be too. By the time I'm done with you."

She pulled off her crop top, revealing a bikini top underneath. Then that came off too—small tits with glitter literally everywhere.

"Festival commitment," she explained.

"Impressive."

"I know." She was working at my shorts. "Your turn. Full sparkle experience."

I stripped while she watched, then she pushed me back onto the sleeping bags and climbed on top.

"Tent sex is an art," she said, positioning herself. "Low ceilings. Weird angles. You've got to be creative."

"I'm feeling creative."

"Good."

She sank down onto me, and we both moaned. Outside, I could hear the distant thump of bass, crowds cheering, the chaos of festival life.

In here, it was just us.

"Fuck—move—"

We found a rhythm, the tent swaying around us. She rode me while the sunset cast orange light through the canvas.

"Close—already close—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while she bounced. She came with a glitter-scattered cry.

"Keep going—don't stop—"

I flipped us—carefully, tent logistics—and fucked her properly. She came again, nails in my back, leaving scratches under the glitter.

I finished with her moaning my name.

We lay there, completely covered in glitter, listening to the festival outside.

"Well," Poppy said. "That's what I call a headline act."

"Main stage performance."

"Exactly." She kissed me. "Same tent tomorrow?"

"After the headliner?"

"During." She grinned. "Who needs Foo Fighters when you've got this?"

I stayed in her tent for the rest of the weekend.

Best festival of my life.