aggressor not victim

I see there is some interest in how they do it in india. well, i am an indian and used to go by bus to school and college some years back and although my first frotteur encounter was a bit of a surprise, i took to the practice with enthusiasm -- i was a curious teenager just very very horny and eager and really thrilled that all those men thought they were getting a bit of a grope whereas, i was the one who would put myself in the way of these men, press my breasts against their backs, seemingly accidentally brushing my pubis against their buttocks and then quickly turning sideways so they could `find' their way to groping my breasts which is what i still like the most, next to the ramrod stiffness of their erections against the back of my hand or my behind! i know this sounds unlikely -- a teenaged girl enjoying, even maneouvering to be groped and still enjoying it as an adult is about as far away from the encounters I see described here as any!! but it is precisely this unlikelihood that has stood me in good stead all these years , when even now, the men who get to grope think they have achieved it all by themselves! What got me off the most -- and still does -- is the slow hesitating hands that advance across my body resting every now and then punctuated by breathless moments of tension as they wait to see if I will complain and then delicately advance again through innocous touches, using the movement of the bus as an excuse to get closer (I too will be using the same excuses to hasten the process, becasue only I know when I will get off). but what I dont like is that they try to make eye contact, without realising that I will be willing (even eager) provided they dont try to talk or make me acknowledge them and their acts.
My first encounter was when I was 13, tall for my age, had breasts but no bra yet, so I was still in the puffy nipple stage and clearly this 35-yr old teacher on the bus going to his school was very excited by the sight of me in the white blouse with slip inside and blue skirt we wore as uniform. and you will have to see a crowded rural Indian bus to believe it. there was simply no place to even stand on two feet, let alone place for us schoolchildren and our very bulky schoolbags. So, although I could have used by schoolbag as a defensive weapon, i would take care not to. The teacher, as I say, was tall, heavy featured and had a bristly moustache and none too good breath. The first time -- I say first because he got into the habit of travelling by the same bus and groping me for almost a year, before i broke the connection, but that is another story -- the first time, therefore, I was seated on the aisle side of a two-seater seat and the man was standing next to me on my left. The first I was aware of him was when his right hip insistently pushed my left shoulder back, bringing my chest forward and accessible to his right hand which he contrived to hang loose. The conditions were so crowded, nobody could see what he was doing, not even the person on my right! Then his hand slowly moved across my shoulders till he tried playing with my breasts to see if I would protest. I did try initially to block access but it never occurred to me to protest loudly. for that you must realise that the shock of such a thing was too much for me, a young girl only just in possession of the facts of life in the early 1980s in rural India. With practised ease, he moved his right hand to cup and squeeze my breasts and nipples unconfined by a bra and with only a slip and white school blouse between his hands and my body -- even today, when I think about it, I get off just at the point when he gives a quick squeeze before drawing his hand away in sudden fear at his own boldness. For the rest of that 1 hour journey, I endured his caresses, as he rolled and squeezed my breast and nipples and pinched me insistently even as I could see the bulge in the front of his trousers get larger and the fabric draw tighter. i dont remember him coming that day but he certainly did climax many times after.
maybe the act and its potential touched some chord in me but i remember, i was curious, not afraid, to see if it would happen again the next time. and it did. again and again. with me sitting, him standing, with him working his way to the middle or forward of the bus to stand behind or beside me. with him seated next to me on the last seat of the bus, when i was wedged between him and the window in an island of privacy and silence in a roaring clamourous bus. but i never let him think i was enjoying it. that was private. every time he had to fight my `resistance' to get his way with me. it was quiet. it was without words. i have never looked him full inthe face, though i have been touched in the most intimate of ways and places by the teacher.

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