The Metro Ride

This story is purportedly from a female college student
who lives just outside Paris. She has shared a story
with us, whether true or not is unimportant. It's the
thought that counts.

One other thing, just to help in visualization.
Michelle and I talked a little via the computer and
she was kind enough to describe herself, then we
exchanged pictures. Michelle could be Sandra Bullock's
sister. She has the same smile, and dark hair.
Enjoy. H.M.S.

-=*=-

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 always liked to show my
stuff. It's funny how a young woman can twist French
men around their little finger just by what they wear.
It is glorious to be young, French and a *woman* in
France.

So anyway, 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 probably
wouldn't wear a bra, but I don't have a choice, I'm
just a little too top heavy not too.)

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 me, be-
tween the 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 female 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 before, although my friends had told me
of having suffering such "attacks," from which they
vehemently recoiled, but I thought they were kidding
me, because I had never been the subject of such a
thing myself.

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 con-
tracting 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 want to 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 and
concentrated of how excited I was by this turn of
events.

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, 11 more
get on. The shuffle literally plastered the woman in
front of me against me.

...Excuse me, she said.

...That's Okay, 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 to the rest of her body.
I did not object to that. That day, the metro seemed
to bring me everything at the same time and I was
enjoying the sensations.

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 me; I was all wet and he moved it quickly,
in and out. I closed my eyes again, and opening them
for a few seconds, I saw the face of the French woman
in front of me. She was observing me curiously, be-
coming 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 scandalous shock!

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 stood there as if
nothing was 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 several in front of her crotch --
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
pussy. I wet my finger there and started to caress her
clitoris with circular motions of my finger, 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 a crowd. Liberty to do anything without
being seen; more easily perhaps than in an 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 decided to go to the last
stop.

In me, this finger is moving, always; pleasure builds
little by little within me; a new pleasure, unknown
until this moment, coming as much from the finger of
the man and the sex of the woman as from the place
where we are doing it.

The finger excites me terribly. My climax comes in
seconds, brusquely. I am able to hold back a scream
with great difficulty and bite my lower lip hard.

I have rarely come so quickly. Normally, the pleasure
grows in me gradually, gently, arriving at the paroxysm
more slowly; but here, everything came in three or four
seconds. Incredible!

I opened my eyes to see my playmate looking intensely
into mine. She knew what had just happened to me. I
could see her shift her gaze to one side looking past
me to my "attacker" behind me.

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 closed; I begin to take back my
hand when she reopened her eyes, extremely gently, and
said, "Again please?"

Incredible. Her words just pronounced galvanizes me,
and I begin to caress her again. I regretted that she
could return my attentions.

Then 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, this time 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 some-
times 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 a 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 could 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!

My heart pounded in my chest as I continued to caress
the woman in front of me, having decided to make her
come at least as strongly as before, if possible.

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 him.

The man's hands clung strongly my waist, 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 it 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, four got on. Perfect, we were still delicious-
ly crowded. The metro left.

I jumped involuntarily when 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 within
me, scarcely discretely; in front of me I caressed the
woman, who in turn, passed a hand under my skirt and
caressed my clitoris -- her eyes flew open when she
felt the man's penis thrust into me.

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 fantas-
tically.

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 made love to me savagely. I feel a hand
against my bare bottom caressing a cheek. Is it his or
one of the other men's hand? 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 take me.

And I caress the woman: still masturbating her
clitoris, I bury two fingers in her sex and she comes
intensely again. She bites her lip, and under my skirt,
her frenetic finger translates these sensations.

A 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. I couldn't budge, not even a half-inch,
as he came in me in long hot spurting jets, leading me
to inaccessible summits.

We, all three where breathing like bellows. I was ex-
hausted, 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.

...Yes.

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 remem-
ber the circumstances!)

Truly incredible! He could have looked at me. Looked
for my face. To see who he fucked. But no! He went by
quickly.

Incredible.

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