My Confession About Being Groped in Public

My name is Nadia, and although on the outside I give a fairly discreet impression, inside I’ve been wrestling for some time with a part of myself that gets turned on by things I don’t always dare admit out loud. I’m an adult woman, I’ve lived alone ever since I moved to the capital to finish my postgraduate studies, and after I arrived I discovered that the anonymity of a big city awakened a kink I’d barely sensed before.

I’m not the kind of woman who walks into a bar and leaves everyone speechless. I mostly pass as ordinary. Tall, shoulder-length brown hair, long legs, a big ass, and a fairly ordinary way of dressing almost every day. Maybe that’s exactly why it turns me on so much to know that someone can look beneath that normality and think filthy thoughts.

I’ve always been shy about almost everything, except acknowledging certain fantasies to myself when I’m alone. I like masturbating while remembering looks, brushes, suggestive comments. I get turned on by being watched. I get turned on by feeling that a stranger is imagining what my ass looks like under my clothes, how I keep my pussy shaved, or whether I’m wearing a thong. And yes, I’m especially turned on by mature men, the kind who aren’t still pretending to be pretty boys, but who look with a shameless confidence that undresses you much faster than a hand.

I also need to say something important before I continue: I don’t like every brush or every advance. Some situations make me uncomfortable or disgust me. But there were others when, surrounded by people and feeling relatively safe, the kink got the better of me. I’m not telling this as an example for anyone or as an invitation. I’m telling it because it happened to me, and because I still come when I remember it.

The first time I truly let someone do things to me was on the subway, on a hot morning, wearing a light dress and thinking about anything but ending up wet among strangers.

***

It was early and the carriage was packed. I was wearing a short dress, one of those simple ones that aren’t meant to seduce anyone but cling to your body when it’s hot. Underneath, a thin thong. I positioned myself near a pole, looking at my phone, and behind me stood a man in his late fifties, wearing a light-colored shirt, his jacket folded over his arm, a soft office-worker’s belly, and the calm expression of an ordinary guy.

If I had seen him somewhere else, I wouldn’t have thought anything special. But at the first jolt of the train, I felt a strange brush against my thigh. It wasn’t enough to alarm me. It could have been accidental. I kept looking at the screen. Then it happened again when we reached the next station. This time I clearly felt his hand as he moved a briefcase off the floor: it brushed the back of my thigh and barely caressed the base of my ass.

I looked up for a second. He was staring straight ahead with a neutral expression, as if he hadn’t done anything. I could have moved. There was a little space farther down. I didn’t. And as soon as I admitted that to myself, I felt immediate heat between my legs.

He knows. He knows I’m aware of it and that I’m not moving away.

The next few stops became an unmistakable game. Every time he lifted or adjusted the briefcase, his fingers searched for me more boldly. First the edge of my thigh. Then the side of my ass. Then the round flesh of an entire cheek, always over the fabric, always disguised by the movement of the carriage. I kept my phone in my hand, breathing carefully, pretending to be normal when I no longer felt normal at all.

I began to feel my pussy growing wet inside my thong. Not because of the caress itself, which was clumsy and restrained, but because of everything it meant: a stranger taking advantage, me letting him, the people around us unaware of everything, and my body responding like a horny bitch. That combination undid me.

Then he let the briefcase hang and planted his hand fully on my ass. Big, heavy, firm. Not a brush. An open hand squeezing my cheek as if he were checking its size. My breath caught. His palm stayed there for a moment, motionless, and then began moving slowly, roaming over me through the dress.

He went up to the curve of my hip, came down again, followed the crease where my ass met my thigh, and returned to the center. His fingers spread to take in more flesh. He squeezed. Let go. Squeezed again, more confidently, as if he had already read my body and knew I had no intention of stopping him.

I opened my legs a little wider, a tiny, almost invisible gesture. I did it without thinking, and the moment I did, I knew it was a response. My cowardly, aroused way of telling him to continue.

He continued.

He slid a finger along the line of my thong at my back, feeling it through the fabric of the dress. I felt him test the strap, follow it toward my hip, and return to the center. Then he brought his knuckles to the hollow between my buttocks and pressed right there, in that absurd place that drives me crazy even when it’s barely touched. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

The entire carriage seemed to grow smaller. I felt the rattle of the subway in my legs, the smell of someone else’s perfume, the metallic voice announcing stations, and at the same time only that hand existed, rubbing my ass while I pretended not to notice. My face was burning. My nipples were hard. My pussy was already soaked.

His hand continued tracing my body. Once, he ran the tip of his finger all along my crack over the fabric, slowly, from bottom to top, as if he wanted to imagine me naked. Then he applied more pressure to the center of my cheek and gave me a full, possessive, obscene squeeze, the kind that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. He was really groping me. And I was letting him.

When he dared to put his hand beneath the hem of my dress, I reacted. His palm touched my bare thigh now, hot, moving purposefully toward where my underwear began. I let him go a little farther, barely a few inches, enough for my breathing to speed up and for him to feel my skin trembling. But when I realized how close he was to finding my thong—and, worse, to discovering how wet I was—I leaned my body forward.

It was a gentle rejection, not a dramatic one. He understood immediately. He didn’t insist there.

Instead, he pressed himself against my back.

I felt his pelvis against my ass. Not hard at first, just the unmistakable contact of an aroused man pressing against me in the middle of the carriage. Then, with a sway of the train, he drove his hardness between my buttocks. That left me in no doubt. He was hard. I slowly let out my breath and shuddered.

He gave me another thrust. Then another, brief and measured, camouflaged by the movement of the train. His hand remained on my ass, slowly kneading it, while he rubbed his cock against me from behind as if he were fucking me fully clothed and standing in front of everyone. I had to close my legs for a second because the sheer kink sent a direct jolt through my clitoris.

“What a cute little ass...” he murmured so softly that I almost thought I’d imagined it.

That whisper pierced me. The fact that he not only touched me but dared to speak to me as well completely sank me. I lowered my head toward my phone, but I couldn’t see anything anymore. I was focused on not coming right there.

His fingers returned to my crack, pressing more boldly this time. He caressed the center of my ass, squeezed one cheek, then the other, and as he did so continued rubbing his cock against my backside. I no longer thought about moving away. I thought about how long until my stop and whether I’d be able to keep from putting my hand between my legs the moment I got off.

When my stop arrived, I got off on shaky legs. He came out behind me but kept his distance. On the stairs I felt his gaze fixed on my ass, finally seeing what he had been groping. I didn’t bother pulling down my dress when the movement outlined my buttocks. On the contrary. I let him look.

As we crossed the station concourse, we took different exits. I went up to the street with my pussy throbbing. I walked two blocks as best I could, went into the bathroom of a café, and the moment I locked the door I hiked up my dress and shoved two fingers into my pussy.

I was soaked. Truly soaked. I leaned against the sink and buried them deep, moaning silently. With my other hand I grabbed one of my tits through the fabric, squeezing it while remembering his palm rubbing my ass. I moved my fingers quickly, in and out with an obscene squelch that turned me on even more. I imagined that man’s hand replacing mine, finding my wet thong, moving it aside, and finally touching me.

“Fuck...” escaped me through clenched teeth.

I inserted a third finger, arched my back, and began rubbing my clitoris with the heel of my palm. My orgasm rose all at once, as if it had been waiting for me since the carriage. I came leaning against the marble, my legs trembling and my fingers dripping, biting my lip to keep quiet. When I finished, I had to remain bent over for a few seconds, breathing, my pussy contracting around my fingers.

And the worst part—or the best—was that instead of feeling ashamed, I felt hungry for more.

***

Months later, another night finally convinced me that this kink wasn’t a coincidence. It was at an outdoor party, the kind with a giant screen, music, alcohol, and people packed tightly everywhere. I had gone with some friends, an easygoing plan, nothing particularly sexual. I was wearing light-colored pants and a tight top. Comfortable, ordinary clothes. Underneath, another thong.

We met a group of men older than us, well into their forties, very talkative. They weren’t magazine handsome or pretending to be refined seducers. They were the kind of men who pressed close to you with the confidence of a bar, looked at your hips while they talked, and paid compliments that were far too direct. One of them noticed me from the start.

When the game began, the crowd compressed us together. My friends ended up to one side, the guys in front, and that man positioned himself right behind me. At first I only felt his belly against my lower back. Then a fleeting hand on my waist. Then, unmistakably, his entire palm on my ass.

I tensed for a second. I looked around. No one was paying attention. The music, shouting, and crush of people concealed everything. He left his hand still, perhaps waiting for my reaction. He didn’t get one. So he began to caress me.

He did it with a proprietor’s shamelessness, without getting nervous. He rubbed one cheek in slow circles, squeezed it, dropped down to my thigh, and came back up. When he leaned in to speak into my ear, he took the opportunity to dig his fingers deeper into my flesh.

“You’ve got an incredible ass,” he told me. “Makes a man want never to let go.”

I felt a spark between my legs. Not because the compliment was brilliant, but because of the situation: his hand grabbing me and his voice telling me filthy things while I continued facing forward as if I were watching the game. I answered with a half-smile and a shrug. That was enough for him.

“Your boyfriend must go crazy over you,” he continued, and as he said it he gave me such a full squeeze that I felt every finger through the fabric of my pants.

I didn’t have a boyfriend, but I didn’t correct him. I was turned on by letting him fantasize about another man having what he could only grope among the crowd. His hand didn’t stop. Sometimes he caressed the whole roundness of my ass; other times he lingered right at the lower crease, as if he liked confirming how soft and firm it was at the same time. I was beginning to move just slightly against him, more than I would have wanted to admit.

During the break we mixed back in with the group. One of my friends gave me a strange look when he tried to take my waist. I moved away to disguise what was happening, and that interrupted us for a few minutes. But as soon as the crowd closed in again for the second half, he returned to my back as if he were picking up a conversation left unfinished.

This time I was the one who offered him the angle, turning slightly so my friends wouldn’t see anything and he could have me from the side. His hand immediately fell onto my ass. Then he grabbed my hip with the other and pressed closer, slipping one leg between mine enough for me to feel the heat of his body and his breath against my ear.

“If I get you out of here, I’ll wreck that ass with kisses,” he murmured.

A wave of wetness hit me so hard that I had to squeeze my thighs together. I wasn’t going to leave with him. I knew that. But it turned me on tremendously to let him talk to me that way while he continued caressing me. He asked whether I liked being touched. I didn’t answer. I only leaned back a little. That was more than enough of an answer.

Then his hand stopped being a hand and became a vise. He grabbed an entire cheek, crushed it without care, and then slid his fingers to the center, searching again for the line between the two. The thin pants left little to the imagination. I felt him mark the separation of my ass and feel around the place where my pussy began from behind. I was burning.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he whispered.

“Don’t talk so much,” I told him, almost without a voice.

He laughed in my ear and squeezed me harder. The laugh made me even worse. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He moved one hand beneath my top, not to lift it, but to grab my bare waist and hold me still while he continued rubbing me with the other. Then he began to grind against me. At first it was slight pressure. Then it wasn’t: he drove his hard cock into me through our clothes, directly against one cheek.

I had to open my mouth to breathe.

The noise around us became a distant mass. My whole body focused on my ass and pussy. He was dry-fucking me in the crowd, pushing his hips against me with a short, filthy rhythm, while his hand continued marking me, moving down, moving up, squeezing the center of my backside as if it belonged to him.

I was moving with him. Very little, but I was doing it. Each clothed thrust brushed my clitoris from within through sheer muscular tension. My thong had already stuck completely to my pussy from how wet I was. I wanted to cross my legs, but I couldn’t because he kept one of his between mine.

“I really want to put my hand inside your pants,” he told me. “You must be dripping.”

That went straight through me. Because it was true. Because if he dared, he would have found my pussy soaked. And because a part of me wanted exactly that.

Without stopping his grinding, he slipped two fingers beneath the edge of my waistband, searching for skin. He didn’t reach my thong yet, but moved slowly toward my belly. I didn’t pull away. He went lower. He encountered the tight fabric of my pants and traced the front of my pelvis with his fingertips, right above my pubic mound. I moaned very softly, drowned out by a shout from the crowd.

He heard it. Of course he heard it.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “You like getting groped in public, huh?”

That phrase heated me so much I almost collapsed. I wanted to contradict him, wanted to tell him not to get carried away, but all I did was push my ass backward and feel his hardness against me again. That admitted it better than any words could have.

At last his hand descended to the front of my pants and rubbed me through the fabric. Not directly on my pussy, not yet. First my mound. Then the edge where the thong showed beneath. Then a more centered brush, wet with my own heat, which drew a clear gasp from me.

I went rigid, not in rejection but from the sheer impact. He continued for another second, two, three, just long enough to feel that I was truly wet through my clothes. Then he pressed his whole palm against my pussy, hard and obscene, and rubbed me in a short movement that made me see white.

I had a small but brutal orgasm right there, standing up, with the crowd jumping and singing around us. It wasn’t a long climax, but a tight, ferocious discharge that clenched my pussy and made my knees buckle slightly. He held me by the waist while I pretended to watch the screen, my face burning and my breathing broken.

“Fuck,” he murmured, noticing me tremble. “That’s how I like it.”

I couldn’t even answer. I just moved his hand away from the front and returned it to my ass, setting a late, confused, hypocritical limit. Nothing in front. Behind, yes. He understood and settled for continuing to squeeze my buttocks and drive his cock against me through my pants until everything was over.

When the game ended, the group began to move. I separated from him, straightened my clothes, and acted normal. He looked at me with a dirty smile, the satisfied smile of a man who had gotten what he wanted, and still had the nerve to brush my lower back one last time before disappearing into the crowd.

That night I got home with my pussy sensitive and an almost rabid need. I didn’t even take all my clothes off. I shut the door, threw my bag on the floor, and went straight to the bedroom. I pulled my pants and thong down together to my thighs and sat on the edge of the bed with my legs spread.

I ran two fingers over my pussy and they came away glistening. “Look at you,” I repeated, imitating his voice, and that alone turned me on all over again. I spat on my fingers, more out of habit than necessity, and began masturbating hard, without delicacy, rubbing my clitoris in circles while grabbing my ass with the other hand and spreading it as if I could still feel a stranger’s hand there.

I imagined the man behind me, pressing his belly and cock against me, speaking into my ear, sliding his hand into my pants until he found me soaked. I inserted two fingers, then three, and fucked myself with my hips lifting to receive them. The wet sound filled the room. I told myself filthy things in a low voice, wrecked with arousal: that I was a shitty exhibitionist, that I loved being touched, that I would come again thinking about other people’s hands rubbing my ass.

And I came. Hard. With my back arched and my palm striking the mattress. I felt the orgasm climb through my belly, close my legs, and leave me panting with my fingers buried deep inside. Then I stayed like that for a while, open, wet, dirty with myself, and fully aware of something I could no longer deny.

I’m tremendously turned on by feeling desired by strangers. I’m turned on by being watched, imagined, touched when I choose not to move away. Not always. Not by just anyone. Not anywhere. But when the exact conditions come together, when risk and kink mix with that feeling of anonymity, my body responds without mercy.

This is my confession. Not the prettiest one, nor the cleanest, but one of the most honest I can make: even today, when I ride the subway or when people press too close at a party, there’s a part of me that remembers those hands and gets wet before I can pretend otherwise.