Sexy Stories from Rhyull's Groperville Fantasies

Gropervill Stories

Making It Real

There she was again. But this time she had a jacket on over her dress and was coming out of the door instead of just looking out of the window. She got into her car and I set out to follow at an inconspicuous distance.

When fate had arranged for me to have to visit the city where she lived, I hadn't told her. We had agreed we couldn't meet since we were both married and I didn't intend to create temptation to change that. But once I was there, only a few miles away from the address I had found out, and with business finished early, my resolution wavered. I would just go and look, I told myself, setting the GPS on the hire car. And up to that moment, there had been little opportunity for more than that since she didn't go out much. But today she was heading off somewhere; maybe shopping, and I had the chance to … stalk her? It sounded rather sinister to phrase it that way. All I really wanted was a better image to paste onto my imaginary fantasies. Of course if I could catch sight of her trying on clothes in a shop, well that would be a bonus.

A couple of miles down the road and her car pulled into the station parking lot. So either she was meeting someone or she was going to take the metro into the city. Thinking about the metro recalled the chats we had had about fantasies and groping by strangers. A vivid image flashed into my mind. In it I was watching, unknown, as an older man felt her up, just as she had described it. Wouldn't that be something! I drove into the parking lot and got out of the car, keeping a distance.

I got a decent view of her as she stood on the platform waiting for the train. Long straight red hair down to her breasts, a nice looking figure dressed in what seemed to be s silky white dress with pastel design on it and a crossover bodice, which came to mid-thigh. Over that was a sort of suit type jacket and she was either wearing tights or stockings of a medium brown colour. I didn't really notice much beyond that. I suppose she had shoes, some sort of bag but I was too busy mentally undressing her to add complications to that fantasy.

Really I could have left at that point. I had got what I came for after all. But that mental image of her being groped by a stranger jostled in my mind with another image of catching sight of her through a carelessly closed curtain in a dress shop changing room. I couldn't leave while those had even a remote chance of happening. So when the train came, I found myself boarding the same carriage but through a different door.

Luckily it was rather full, since I don't blend into crowds too well. But that also made it hard to see her too. So over the next few stops I used the ebb and flow of the crowd to work my way until I was quite close behind her. There was little chance of her turning round in that crush and it would be safe enough to follow when she got off at her destination. Looking around as best I could, no one seemed like a potential groper. But then, what did one look like anyway? They didn't wear signs or a special uniform to identify them.

Had there been any around, they could hardly have avoided noticing her. Perhaps it was unintentional or perhaps she was having her own private groper fantasy, but she seemed to have adopted the perfect position to become a target. For some reason she was holding the pole with both hands at about head height, body leaning forwards slightly so her butt stuck out, surrounded by people none of whom would naturally be looking at her much unless they stood right behind. But so far my fellow travellers were all blissfully ignorant of the potential. Or else they didn't have a groper amongst them.

A few moments later, the reason for the extra hand on the pole became evident when the metro train went over a particularly rough set of points. As a stranger, I wasn't expecting it and almost lost the casual grip I had on the ceiling hanger. My thigh bumped into her bottom as a bit of fast footwork helped me avoid taking a fall and as the motion settled down to a more restrained rocking again I couldn't think of a compelling reason to move away. Neither could she, apparently, so I found myself nudging the soft pad in time to the motion of the train.

It was a far from unpleasant experience, one that also confirmed the silky texture of her dress, since my hand brushed against it occasionally. That felt nice too and I rubbed the back of my hand against it more firmly. Probably I was trying to fool myself but I couldn't remain in denial much longer. As my hand slid against the soft drape of silk that covered her bottom I knew that was all it was. I had boarded the train with every intention of trying to fondle her body but I had bluffed myself into pretending otherwise to make sure I didn't get an attack of conscience along the way.

Perhaps I had been looking for an opportunity like this from the moment I had decided to go looking for her. Certainly I had played various scenarios in imagination often enough and the picture she had shared, of her naked breasts, had provided the basis of even more fantasies. Well, impulse or subconscious plotting against my own morality, I was here now and I knew I was going to see how it panned out. I was already hard just from a brief contact and that tended to override any pretentions towards spiritual purity.

With that decided, everything became simpler and more complex. Simpler in that there were no confusions about intentions; more complex in that the objective had to be achieved against unknown resistance and without her knowing who it was. She wasn't moving away so far, which was a good sign. But up to that point all the contact had been apparently random metro bumping. So that seemed the way to continue.

With my hip pressing against her ass no one was likely to see anything even if they looked; a cover I subtly increased by turning more into shielding my hand between our two bodies. Then timing it with the rocking of the train, I began to press the back of my fist against random parts of her bottom and thigh. I figured if she got used to that, the contact would get zoned out and it would take a while before she noticed it had gained a definite purpose.

I probably needn't have bothered being so careful. For whatever reason, whether because it coincided with her desire to play out a fantasy with a stranger or because she was over-horny due to her husband never giving her any, she began her own little backwards pushes to match the rhythm. That was all the encouragement I needed. Turning my hand so the palm was flat against her ass I started to explore those twin hillocks of flesh in a way that could never pass as accidental. I wasn't disappointed. The bottom felt softly resilient and not too big, trace shifts of muscle under the skin varying its tautness as legs shifted to the train's movement. And more importantly no face slapping or screams for help ensued. Instead there was a definite wiggle of appreciation.

Encouraged by that, it appeared the only remaining questions were what could be achieved and what she would allow. So I set to work to find out. Her bottom was still the obvious target and I continued to massage it, but combined that with some trips lower down to fondle the rear of her thighs and gradually work the shiny silk up higher until my fingertips could edge under the hem.

So it was stockings rather than tights I discovered. That didn't surprise me. Somehow she was a natural for stockings, at least in my imagination, and tights would have been a let-down. The slinky material draped about my wrist hiding most of what was happening as I began to grope her thighs above the stocking tops and an ass that was in no way protected by the thong she was wearing.

Yes, groping! Not just writing about it or making art about it or fantasising about it. I was right there in the middle of a mass of people, none of whom had the least idea that my hand was busy exploring the naked ass of a woman to whom I was a complete stranger. I had become a groper myself and it felt so exciting my cock was like an iron bar pressing against her flank.

That excitement seemed to be shared too. I could feel the heat every time my fingers slipped between slightly parted legs to massage soft thigh flesh. I felt it even more definitely when the blade of my hand pressed upwards against her sex, meeting no resistance, no attempt to push it away.  It would have been easy to edge the narrow strip of silk aside and gain access to her core but I perversely wanted more. Instead of hooking a finger in and dragging to the side, I dragged down, working first one side of the minimal garment over the swell of her bottom, then the other, until it hung loosely around her thighs. Then sent it on its way to the floor where she had to step out of it and presumably a carriage cleaner would sweep it up later. There was no way she would be able to retrieve the garment gracefully, so she would be naked under the dress until she got home.

The movements necessary to disentangle a foot from a wayward thong created a moment when her legs were even wider apart and I took advantage like a pro, using the access to cup my whole hand over her undefended quim and giving it a squeeze, while my fingers rubbed the area around her clitoris. This was greeted with a stifled moan of arousal and an ass thrust back for more. She wasn't getting it that easy though.

Almost since the start, I had been intrigued by her assertion that her nipples were so sensitive she could climax just by having them played with. I intended to test that claim and not under laboratory conditions. I didn't want to lose ground I had gained so I just withdrew from direct contact with her cunt despite an impatient wiggle which I ignored. My other hand went around her waist, trusting to providence and the railroad company not to test my balance too much when I let go of the hanging strap.

She was still holding onto the pole with both hands; holding, almost hanging from it, it seemed. There was no impediment to progress as I felt my way up her front until I finally had my hand on the breasts I had often imagined. They felt about right, through the thin material when the unbuttoned jacket was edged aside; about the right size and about the right shape and about the right tensile combination of swelled arousal and maternal softness. I could feel the nipples fairly clearly too, harder dots studding the shapes they crowned.

The crossover style didn't really present any impediment. It was quite possible to follow the fabric in one direction where it crossed underneath and find yourself inside the dress, as my hand confirmed quite quickly. That led to the interesting discovery that she wasn't wearing a bra. Correction, she was wearing a shelf or quarter-cup bra that only supported without covering the breast. Almost as though she had dressed for me, I thought, as she knew how I liked the style. It provided a nice, soft, naked tit pushed up into a convenient position for manipulating. Which I did.

There seemed to be quite a bit of freedom to move inside the dress. Not enough to pull the tits out into the open or add a second hand, but plenty to explore the one to which I had gained access. So I amused myself by fondling, squeezing, twisting and generally moulding the flesh like putty in my fingers. She appeared to like that, trying to grind down onto my other hand and panting quietly. I still wanted to test out the orgasmic nipple effect though, so it wasn't too long before my fingers were concentrating on that hard bud.

It still seemed fairly incredible that I could have one hand in her dress on a naked tit, the other under the hem of that same dress hovering close to a naked cunt, and no one around any the wiser. I had to wonder how often it might have happened to others while I was riding the metro in ignorance. But those were just idle thoughts of the type I tended to have even while most of my attention was on the stiff nipple. It had been brought to easy prominence by the bra, though of course it wouldn't have been difficult to locate anyway. But that did give me a better opportunity to cup the flesh below it while my thumb and forefingers worked over the teat itself.

I'm not sure what she was biting to keep quiet but it mostly worked. The squirming of her body was unrestrained but only muffled yelps and moans were audible to me. And only then, I think, because I was listening to them. They did get dangerously loud a few minutes later though, when her whole body shook and spasmed but luckily we were crossing another noisy set of points at that moment.

Or perhaps it was that extra vibration and the way my fingers automatically clamped her breast tighter at that moment, which led her to orgasm. Anyway I figured that counted as a nipple event and while she was still shaking, I jammed my other hand up against her cunt, squeezing and massaging it firmly while driving a finger deep inside and continuing to twist her teat. The result was a very satisfactory series of spasmodic jerks and shudders along with the rather tortured sound of someone apparently biting their own lip off to keep quiet.

No more fooling myself, I knew that was why I had taken the trouble to find her address, and taken the opportunity when I had to visit her city. And the results were very satisfactory. By the time we were slowing for the terminus a few minutes later I had mentally counted eight probable orgasms and she was hanging onto the rail giving a much more realistic impression of someone who needed that support.

I didn't feel guilty, as I suppose I should. After all, we still hadn't technically had sex. And she wouldn't know it was me anyway. Or would she? I thought back to the way she was dressed, the way she had stood, the way she had offered no resistance… her very presence on the metro instead of driving into the city. Just then the train came to a halt and the crowd stirred as they got ready to depart. A swirl amongst our fellow travellers created a gap and just for that moment our eyes met in reflection in the tinted window and she winked. Then the doors hissed open and carried her off in the crowd, leaving nothing behind but a scrap of lacy grey fabric on the floor; one that would no doubt bear the imprint of her cunt.

She didn't look back and I made no attempt to follow. Nor did I try and collect her thong as a souvenir. Neither of us would ever speak of it, I was sure. But we would both know and remember a fantasy made real.


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