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."
