This is a print version of story GROPED by gag9gag from


The brushed steel doors swish open and you try to push into the crowded subway car. No one moves, so you push harder. Refusing to give up their positions on the doors, the two women on the right and left turn their backs on you. A two-toned, warning chime rings. Fortunately, before the doors close, someone shoves you from behind, a palm pressed against your spine, forcing you into the car. The doors snap closed.
The passengers part momentarily to give you room, then gather tightly around you. Soft and firm, bodies press against you from every direction. A mix of fresh soap and perfumes fill your nose. Uncomfortably squished in the middle of the car, you feel like the meat between two rolls of a hero sandwich. You search for something to hold onto. The ceiling rail is a fraction too high. The pole is surrounded and blocked. Nothing. To brace for the train’s start, you shift your weight to your rear leg, pressing backwards. The ache in your thigh muscle from this morning’s 3 mile jog throbs.
Bad morning for a miniskirt, high heels, and no underwear, you think. But how could you expect that your usually reliable Honda would melt down on the expressway.
You survive the train’s first jerk, however the second stutter knocks you off balance. You teeter into a small woman in a business suit. The corner of the woman’s briefcase digs into your calf, snagging your black stockings. You feel air splash against your stocking tops, garter belt, and bare pussy while trying to keep yourself and the woman from falling.
"Sorry!” you say to her.
She nods with a smile then looks away.
Embarrassed, you glance around while tugging your skirt back down. Darting a glance at your high heels, an overweight woman sitting nearby watches you, her brow crinkled with concern. Several large grocery bags filled with stuffing mix, assorted vegetables, and a large turkey lie on her lap and around her ankles. You shuffle your feet back and forth, adjusting for the trains rocking motion like a surfer.
A space opens up near the pole. You sidle into it and grab the pole, snuggling your hand between a dark brown, muscular hand with a gold band encircling the fourth finger, and a slender, red nailed, pale hand with a floral tattoo peeking out beneath shirt cuffs. The slick silver pole feels cool and metallic in your palm. The person across from you yawns and the stench of stale coffee-breath splashes your face.
“God, I hate this!” you mutter.
The eye of your neighbor flinches towards you then resumes skimming a four-folded copy of the New York Times.
Remembering your sales report in your bag, you twist slightly to dig it out. You stop because your elbow jabs into the ribs of the woman beside you. She frowns briefly then resumes reading. Frustrated by not being able to get out the report, you scan the various posters hanging near the ceiling instead. In one, a policeman’s stern face stares out at you. The caption reads: "See something. Say something.” An intricate line drawing of a woman has been sketched across the poster with a black sharpie. Her huge pussy, as big as her head, is gaping and gushing a river that floods the bottom of the poster. The phrase “See this?” is scrawled beside it.
Something brushes gently against your ass. You squeeze yourself in towards the pole, thinking someone needs to pass. No one does. You focus on the woman leaning against the door and tapping her thumbs frenetically on the keypad of her Android.
Probably playing a game, you think.
Something again touches you. This time, however, it lingers for a moment, then moves downward following the curve of your ass. It’s someone’s hand. Angrily, you snap your head left and right to try and glimpse who is near and behind you. All the surrounding faces are blank, their eyes closed, listening to music on mp3 players or phones.
The train stops at 36th Street—the last station before the long tunnel beneath the East River. A few people try to muscle into the car, but when the doors close, most are left standing on the platform to wait for the next train. The car hops forward squealing three atonal tones.
At the other end of the car, a d***k man, his arms crossed, is staring at you with focused but sl**py eyes, a lopsided grin hanging on his face. Unnerved, you lift your gaze back up to the poster.
Not much to look at, you think. Either the d***k or graffiti porn.
The hand returns. Caressing up the back of your right thigh, it stops upon reaching the clip of your garter belt. A single brazen finger pushes between the strap and your bare ass, slithering upwards. You abruptly reach behind to swat it away. You miss.
Who could it be?
You dangle your right hand to ward off any more trespassing touches while your left grips the pole.
Finger tips now rub up the inside of your left leg. A hand grasps your thigh below the curve of your cheek and squeezes.
Just this morning your boyfriend did the same thing as he sneaked up behind you. You giggled and kissed him. Now you are angry.
"Stop that!" you growl under your breath, hoping this warning will allay the m*****ing hand. It doesn't. A couple of people dart angry dismissive glances at you. bl**d rushes to your face.
After a brief pause, the fingers return, exploring your thigh again. If you were lying in bed with a passionate lover, this touch would be heavenly, instead you are driven mad with discomfort and humiliation.
"I said stop that," you say again.
You peer down and behind to try and catch sight of whose hands are touching you, but people are pressed too tightly.
Rush hour traffic has slowed the train down. Pausing for a few moments, it jerks to a stuttering crawl. A fingernail runs down from the top of your thigh to the back of your knee. It both causes your pussy to quiver and makes you furious.
How could this be happening?
The train stops abruptly. You snatch the pole to rescue your balance. Two hands grab both your ass cheeks, squeeze and spread them. Your pussy gapes. Gulping, you press your thighs together as tight as you can. A finger slowly worms through the flesh of your inner thighs.
"No!" you snarl through clenched teeth.
Eventually your thigh muscles give out and the finger tip lands on your clit as precisely as a pilot landing a helicopter on a mountain top. It diddles your clit and you shudder in spite of your repulsion. This person must be right behind you but you can't see them. Chewing on your lower lip, you glance furtively at all the seemingly oblivious faces surrounding you. The d***k man across the car is nodding asl**p.
Confined by all the bodies, you try to squirm away from the finger between your legs, shifting and twisting here and there, but it seems attached to your pussy lips. Another shudder rises from your groin and you mutter: "If you don't stop, I'll scream . . . I will."
A glob of juice spurts out of your pussy and dribbles down your thigh. Your knees buckle. The fingers slowly stroke the moisture up and down your pussy lips while continuing to flick your clit. Stunned by the wave of heat rising from your pussy, you are speechless, horrified. You try to will your pussy to stop gushing but the flow just increases. Your inner thighs and stocking tops are now slippery and soaked. Feeling lightheaded and gasping gently, you hold onto the pole with both hands to steady yourself. You can’t help but spread your legs a little wider.
Two fingers pinch and pull your pussy lips, stretching them wide apart. Chills flutter up your spine. First one finger pushes up into you, then two. In and out, in and out. Then three. All the while your clit is being relentlessly fingered. It is a deft maneuver that amazes you in spite of your faltering resistance.
An "Oo!" escapes your lips, then an “Ahh!“ Your eyes snap open, looking. No one even seems to notice.
The man across the car is peering at you again, his arms crossed, smiling mysteriously.
Can he see? Does he know? Who cares?
"You slut," you grumble and slide your feet further apart. The fingers heed the invitation and go deeper. Biting your lip, you glance down. A d****d knuckle bobs up and down beneath the cotton fabric of your skirt. Soft slurping sounds rise up as the fingers fuck your pussy. People must hear. You could push it away and stop it. Instead, you press your thighs tightly together to increase the shivers. A moan is stillborn on your lips. Your eyelids droop with pleasure. You throw your head back, but straighten it quickly like someone trying not to fall asl**p.
You steady yourself by strangling the pole with your right hand while reaching back with your left, fingers outstretched, flexing, straining.
A slippery soft tube is d****d across your palm. You know what it is. Your immediate disgust and hesitance is replaced by eagerness and lust. Wrapping your fingers around it, you stroke slowly. You lather the copious oozes of precum from its head down the shaft with your finger tip making it more slippery. It becomes firmer. Your fingers barely encircle it now.
The waves of heat start slowly, moving upward, exploding in your head. You can barely restrain yourself from moaning. You close your eyes.
Are you really in a crowded train?
You pump the stranger’s cock while wobbling unsteadily, trying not to collapse on the floor, your legs jelly fronds. You feel as if you are thrashing back and forth, writhing, screaming. You open your eyes with a start upon hearing a muffled guttural sigh. A sharp spurt splatters against your left thigh. Then another, and another. The fourth catches you on the right calf right beside the run. The gobs dribble down your legs.
The train stops. The doors slide open. A tide of people rush out of the train, carrying you with them like a piece of driftwood. On the platform you step out of the flow and pause away from everyone heading onto the escalator. You examine the backs of your legs. Creamy wet splotches dot the shiny black fabric of your stockings. You look around, trying to catch sight of the person who just did this to you.
Who was it? Not a clue.
The train pulls out of the station, whining three atonal tones.
A woman approaches you and says: “That man wanted me to give you this.”
She offers you a folded piece of paper and nods over her shoulder. You look where she’s indicating.
“What man?“ you ask.
Another train whooshes into the station on the opposite side, splashing your face with air.
The girl looks back. “Wha . . . He’s gone.”
“What did he look like?”
“Uh . . . Business suit. Brown eyes. Short, about the height of your shoulders. Curly dark hair.”
You open the paper and read: “That was hot! Thanks!”
You scan the platform.
“Excuse me, Miss,” the woman says, pointing at your legs. “You got something splattered on your stockings.”
“Oh yeah,” you say. “Thanks. It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it. Later.”
The woman leaves and you step onto the escalator.
At the door to the bathroom you pause.
“That was hot,” you admit with a smirk.
You pivot on your heels, walk away from the bathroom, and head to your office.

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