textfiles/sex/EROTICA/M/metro.txt

                         Adventure on the Metro
             (Believed to be poorly translated from French)


     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, and 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 towards the back by all the 
people who wanted to get on behind me; when the door closed, we were all 
packed in like herrings in a can.  I though of a song that I had 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 it's audacity.
     But whose had was this?  I knew there where 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 by 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 it's 
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, ten 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's nothing you can do."
     I tried to tell her with my eyes that I did not find this overly 
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.
     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 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 anything without being seen; 
more easily perhaps than 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 '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 then 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 possible 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 pant 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 a 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 
discreetly; 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 that 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 inaccessible 
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 was 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 in front 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 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 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.
     No 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 or eroticism and climax.  I go over these unforgettable moments 
in my mind.


                              --The End--