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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "METRO" (mff, voy, public)
Date: Thu, 18 Jan 2007 23:36:55 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/metro.html
METRO
It was the end of the month of May, a Wednesday,
about 6:30, in the metro. It's extremely uncomfortable to
take the metro then, because of the enormous crowds in all
the cars--pressed against each other, sometimes in direct
contact with people less clean... I had no courses that
afternoon, and I had gone to Paris to shop in the big
stores.
Coming back, I had an adventure which, even in my
imagination, which is sometimes quite lively and a little
crazy, I could never have invented.
I got on at Chaussee d'Antin, direction Levallois; I was
thinking of changing at Saint-Lazare. Terrible crowd,
packed cars, you push as hard as possible in order to get
into the car. Outside it was very hot, and it was hotter
in the metro, so I was wearing a mini-mini-skirt and a
blouse; no underwear, as always, but a bra, very light,
which didn't hide much of my chest.
I was carrying a paper bag in my hand with a sweater I had
bought, and I had my handbag over my shoulder.
I climbed into a car and was pushed toward the back by all
the people who wanted to get on behind me; when the door
closed, we were all packed like herrings in a can. I
thought of a song that I heard one time: "If We Could
Unpack the Sardines."
My arms were trapped against the length of my body. I
could not make the slightest movement, held fast in front,
behind, to the right and the left by other passengers. I
was almost against the back door of the car; there was only
one other person, behind my back, between this door and me.
In my unhappiness, half-asphyxiated, I found that I was in
luck, because the people surrounding me seemed nice, as far
as I could tell by appearances. By chance, after everyone
pushed on, I was left facing, as squashed as I was, a woman
about my age with a face sort of like mine. We exchanged
smiles which seemed to say "We can only suffer in
patience."
The metro moved about a thousand feet or so, when I sensed
very clearly a hand behind me, placed on my buttocks. This
sort of thing had never happened to me on the metro,
although my friends have told me of having such "attacks,"
from which they vehemently recoiled, but I thought they
were lying, because I had never been the subject of such
"adventures," as they say.
But there it was. A hand, firmly pushing against my
buttocks. You should know that it isn't my nature to
protest against a thing like this--au contraire. By
contracting the muscles of my behind, I tried to make
understood to this hand, that I appreciated its audacity.
But whose hand was this? I knew there were three men
behind me: one immediately behind and another at each side.
Which of the three? I didn't dare turn around in fear that
the man would take my movement for a rebuff.
After all, it wasn't important whose hand it was. I was
delighted that this was happening; I forgot the extreme
inconveniences of the metro at 6:30 in seeing, or feeling,
the enormous advantages that came with it.
The hand caressed my behind, constantly. A well put
together hand, moving with gentleness and firmness. I
closed my eyes in order to better taste this caress, and I
don't have to tell you that I began to get rather wet. The
metro would be on time to the next station, so not too many
people would get off. For me, in this mood, there was no
further thought of changing at Saint Lazare, if the hand
continued its work.
I was hoping the hand would dare to go under my skirt. I
was pressing myself more and more backwards, in order to
better make understood my accord. The hand moved more
quickly and firmly on my behind.
The metro entered the next station. When it stopped, the
hand grasped my buttocks, and rested on my behind, without
caressing me.
Happily, at this hour, when 10 people get off, 10 more get
on. The shuffle literally plastered the woman in front of
me against me.
--Excuse me, she said.
--That's OK, I said. There is nothing you can do.
I tried to tell her with my eyes that I did not find this
disagreeable. Her pelvis seemed overly pushed against
mine, with respect the rest of her body. I did not object
to that. That day, the metro seemed to bring me everything
at the same time.
As soon as the metro started up again, the hand went
directly under my skirt; I imagined the man's joy in
finding I had nothing on underneath; the hand didn't have
to go down very far in order to pass under my skirt, of
course.
Between my thighs, the man lost no time, burying his finger
in my vagina, which was all wet; he moved it quickly, right
away. I closed my eyes again, and opening them for a few
seconds, I saw the face of the woman in front of me. She
was observing me curiously, becoming aware that something
was happening.
This finger in me and the excitement it gave me made me
lose all prudence; I moved my pelvis forward and backward,
almost instinctively, imperceptibly, but enough that the
woman felt it. She pressed more strongly against me, and
began a light, oscillating movement. A wonderful pleasure
was born--enhanced by this special situation--I managed to
slip my free hand up against the lower pelvis of the woman
and, outside of her skirt, I felt for her clitoris to rub
it; her eyes were smiling at me.
Fabulous. A finger in my sex from behind, and my finger
caressing a woman in front of me, right in the middle of a
crowd, who might discover everything, and cry out in
scandal!
I was going to climax, I knew this, surrounded by dozens of
blind people. If they could only have guessed...
--end of part 1--
At the next stop, the three of us continued as if nothing
were happening.
I imagined the man and the woman were as excited as I was,
and had also abandoned all prudence. But how could we fear
being noticed in this crowd, if we kept a certain minimum
of apparent calmness and impassiveness?
The woman's dress was a maxi with buttons in front; I
easily unbuttoned the one above her sex--because I wanted
to touch her skin--and passed my hand through the opening
and placed it on her panties.
They didn't cling. I moved my finger between the cloth and
her skin, and my finger reached her sex; a lot of hair, but
I quickly found her clitoris and her very wet vagina. I
wet my finger there and started to caress her seriously.
Now, she closed her eyes.
I looked nonchalently around me, and saw people who seemed
to be ignorant of everything that was happening, each with
eyes fixed in front, lost in thought, no doubt.
Solitude in the crowd. Liberty to do everything without
being seen; more easily perhaps than in open countryside
where one never knows if, some distance away, behind a tree
or a window, a man or an old woman is busy watching. (I am
not against exhibitionism, but I like to choose my
voyeurs.)
Three stations already. I decide to go to the last stop.
In me, this finger is moving, always; pleasure builds
little by little within me; a new pleasure, unknown till
this moment, coming as much from the finger of the man and
the sex of the woman as from the place where we are.
The finger excites me terribly fast. My climax comes in
three seconds, brusquely. I hold back a scream with great
difficulty and bite my lips hard. I have rarely come so
quickly. Normally, this pleasure grows in me gradually,
gently, arriving at the paroxysm more slowly; but here,
everything came in three or four seconds. Incredible!
I began to caress the woman in front of me furiously, and I
sensed her about to come too, under my finger. A sexy one,
for sure. But no more than me! Her eyes flutter, then
totally close; I begin to take back my hand when she
reopens her eyes, extremely gently, and stares at me:
--Again.
Incredible. This word she has just pronounced galvanizes
me, and I begin to caress her more beautifully. I regret
she cannot return this. I took the risk of making us
noticed, because I never knew whose hand was in me, but I
hoped it would continue to caress me.
But the man took back his hand when he felt, by the
pressure of my buttocks, that I had climaxed. It was
finished, I sensed.
Once more the metro stopped, at Malesherbes, nearly the
last stop. The car would stay full. So much the better.
Why did the man stop caressing me? Was he satisfied? Did
he only want to make me climax? I knew that sometimes men
could come this way too, by simple intellectual excitation,
and that after this, men lost, for a certain time, all
their erotic ideas...
But I was wrong to make this of it. The man hadn't
climaxed. Not yet. Then he did something that was
difficult for me to believe, at first. I sensed between my
thighs, no longer the man's hand, but his penis. I was
sure that it was that, but for two seconds, I told myself
that this was impossible. He would not possibly dare to do
this! He could not have done this in such a crowd! Or
else, he was completely crazy. But what a marvelous fool!
I continued to caress the woman, having decided to make her
come at least as strongly as before.
I knew now it could only be the man directly behind me who
could take his penis out of his pants and lift up my skirt
and put it between my thighs. I tried to spread myself
more to make the task easier.
The man clung strongly to the lower part of my skirt, and
he pressed himself as straight as possible against me. He
only let me move very lightly forward and backward, which
gave me a chance to caress his penis, rubbing between my
legs.
In front of me, the woman swooned, her eyes happily closed.
Except for that, our neighbors would certainly have noticed
her condition.
The metro entered Wagram station. Few people on the
platform. Few people would get off here. Three people got
off, two got on. Perfect, we were still deliciously
crowded. The metro left.
Immediately, the man put his penis in my vagina.
Marvelous! It was of normal length, but with an rather
imposing diameter, it seemed to me, from what I could feel
inside me. It seemed impossible to me, now, that the men
on either side of me sensed nothing. I glanced to the
right and the left behind me, and I saw the eyes of one man
fixed on my buttocks. They were seeing everything. And
they said nothing. Metro, Liberty is thy name!
--end of part 2--
Secure in all these complicities, the man moved in me,
scarcely discretely; in front of me I caressed the woman,
who in turn, passed a hand under my skirt and caressed my
clitoris, while introducing her finger in my vagina, with
the man's penis. No one could come more strongly than I
did. I came continuously between the Wagram and Pereire
stations. I came like a crazy person. At this hour, the
metro moves in slow pauses, because ahead, the track is not
totally free. It sometimes even stops between stations. I
came for about 3 minutes, continuously, and fantastically.
I no longer knew where I was, and I didn't know how--a sort
of instinctive desire kept me from screaming--but in part
because of this, I moved my hips as much as possible.
Behind, the man makes love to me savagely. At one moment,
a finger in my anus. Is it his or one of the other men? I
do not know. And that isn't important. I want all of the
people in the car to touch me, to fuck me, to kiss me, to
lick me, to crush me, to caress me, to rape me.
And I caress the woman: still masturbating her clitoris, I
bury two fingers in her sex and she comes intensely, too.
She bites her lips, and under my skirt, her frenetic finger
translates these sensations.
The finger in my anus enters me deeply and marvelously, but
this big penis in me gives me an inexpressible pleasure.
A little before the Pereire station, while the metro was
slowing down, the man held me plastered against him,
strongly, and pulled violently on my skirt. I couldn't
budge, not even a half-inch, and he came in me in long hot
spurting jets, leading me to inacessible summits. I had
believed in this before that-- in the great climax.
I was exhausted, and surely would have fallen over if the
crowd around me had not held me up. The woman under my
fingers came again, wetting herself insensibly. My
fingers, my hand were entirely engulfed in her liquid of
love, which flowed down the length of my arm. I withdrew
my hand and dried it a bit against her skirt. Her eyes
said "Merci," with excessive sincerity, and I wanted well
to believe this. (I believe I caress in a more than
excellent manner, and I take pains to caress other people
particularly well.)
The finger withdrew from my behind and the penis left my
sex, my warm sex, almost as soon as the man came.
It is over, and I have just known an unforgettable
sensation.
--You get off here? a voice behind me asked.
--No.
I spread my legs out. In front of me, the woman gave me a
small glance of complicity and turned around to get off,
while the man who was behind me passed in front of me,
giving me the very slightest attention.
Incredible! (I repeat this adjective often, but remember
the circumstances!)
Truly incredible! He could have looked at me. Looked for
my face. To see who he fucked. No. He went by quickly.
Incredible.
"Are you getting off here?" he asked another person ahead
of him.
I hadn't even seen his face. I only saw the back of his
neck. The long hair on his neck. He had blue jeans and a
brown leather shirt, under which I saw the collar of a
colored shirt. He wasn't very tall, about my size, no
more. That had made it easy for him to fuck me standing
up, from behind, without gathering too much attention
around us. I had nothing more of him, than his hands and
his penis and the sound of his voice when he asked "Are you
getting off here?"
No, I'm not getting off here, and what good would it do to
follow him? His attitude invited nothing, and what would
we say to each other?
The train stopped. The door opened: Pereire. Five or six
people got off in less than a minute, among them the woman
that I caressed and the man that fucked me.
And incredible! I tell you that is the only word that
fits. I see the two of them join hands and walk off the
platform talking and smiling. The man kissing the woman on
the neck.
The metro leaves. I see the face of the man. Blond,
gentle features. I find him beautiful. He is no more than
23 years old, I guess.
She and he, two little gentle lovers, one would say. The
people who have met them, the people whom they are meeting
and the people whom they will meet, would take them for two
little young adorable people who simply love each other.
And in fact, that seems to be the case. She and he,
conniving together, made love with me in the middle of the
metro. The two of them seem like little angels.
What is behind the face of each one? And the people hiding
behind the wise faces of this man and this woman, are they
exceptional? Isn't it the same thing for the rest of the
world? And for the next man who passes? What of the dream
of the next woman to cross your path, a little farther on?
What will you think of and what have you done, you who seem
shameful? What do all couples hope for? What do their
faces hide?
Open yourselves, faces. Speak to me. Tell the truth,
impassive eyes. With whom do you like to make love, all of
you? And how? And where?
We have only illusions about people, and if we do not read,
we guess past the faces.
I think again of the two men who are still behind me and
who "witnessed" this. I dare not turn around. But I do
not wish to dissimulate. I want to be youth who dares, who
has no shame of her body, who considers that making love is
marvelous at any moment, who wants to live all lives in one
only, and who wants to do all that she wants without
blocking and repressing in her, later having thoughts which
she would not dare explain.
I turn around and look at the two men to the right and
left. They were each about 40, suit and tie over a white
shirt. They could be brothers. I see other men, suit and
tie and white shirt, the uniform of city life.
The two men avoid my look. One reads a paperback book.
The other pretends to be interested in the headlines of a
paper being read by a woman six feet away. Look at me.
Have the courage to look at me. I know that you saw. This
evening, if they are married, they will make love to their
wives and think of me, I am sure. But here, they pretend
they saw nothing. Poor men. When I get off the train,
they will make out my silhouette on the platform,
undressing me through the windows of the train.
So, get off. There is nothing to do with them. None have
the courage to do what the man just did, even if they often
imagine that. And if they reprove, then they should have
protested. Capable of nothing, I tell you.
What a marvel, this little metro trip. I feel a little
sperm sliding gently between my legs. Incomparable
memories of the extraordinary climax that I had. I go near
the door. The metro stops. I am going to get off.
Between my thighs, wet with sperm and my own juices, I
still feel the man's penis and the woman's hand. I put the
hand that caressed this woman to my lips, and the wild odor
of her sex assures me that I was not dreaming. A certain
aphrodisiac.
Now I am on the platform. This is not a transfer station,
Porte Champerret, it only remains for me to leave again by
the opposite platform. This I do in an other worldly
state, lost in the memory of what just happened, my body
annihilated by happy fatigue. Going the other way, the
metro is almost empty. Going back, I think over my voyage
of eroticism and climax. I go over these unforgettable
moments in my mind.
--the end--
Wanna more hot porn stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/metro.html