Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/M/METRO.TXT

Text File | 1991-11-11 | 17.6 KB | 369 lines

                                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...

    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 nonchalantly 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!

    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.