49M - A Story of When I was Young and Groped by a Middle Aged Lady

I have written two posts about groping before and in one I mentioned that I was also groped by a lady in night bus. So, few of you had asked me to detail that incident, here it is.

I was travelling from Chandigarh to somewhere in Haryana; a 5 hour journey way back in 1996, I was all of 19 years old. It was a night bus but not like today's sleeper coaches. Old dingy, diesel bus. Haryana Roadwats

It was half empty and I was sleepy. I vaguely remember someone sitting right next to me on the narrow bus seat. Our thighs were already touching—there was no space not to.

At first, I told myself it was just the usual cramped ride. Haryana Roadways didn’t allow for personal boundaries.

Then a hand rested on my leg. Not accidentally. Not briefly. It stayed.

I felt it immediately—like a signal my body didn’t know how to interpret. I glanced sideways. It was a woman. She was looking ahead, whatever I could read in the dark, expression neutral, almost bored. As if nothing unusual was happening.

Her fingers moved slightly. Slow. Testing. A strange mix hit me all at once—confusion, alertness… and something else I wasn’t ready to admit - erection.

I shifted a little, unsure whether to move away or stay still. But instead of withdrawing, she adjusted with me. Her hand followed. That’s when it stopped feeling accidental.

My heart started beating faster. Not just from fear—but from the situation itself. I was 19. No experience that prepared me for this in a moving bus. No script in my head for how a man is supposed to react when this comes from a woman.

And my body… reacted, my dick was revolting in my pants.

That was the part that trapped me even more. Because now it wasn’t just something being done to me—it felt like something I was somehow participating in, even though I hadn’t chosen it.

She leaned slightly closer, her voice low, almost lost in the noise of the engine. "Chup chap betha rah" (Sit quietly.)

I didn’t respond. She moved her hand on the complete length of my dick, which was erect. 

“Nikaal isko,” (Get it out) she added, her tone calm but firm. That sentence locked everything in place.

In that moment, it didn’t matter what I felt. It didn’t matter what was actually happening What mattered was what could be believed. I opened the zip of my pant and adjusted my underwear and brought out my dick. She grabbed it. The hands were not very soft but they were not rough either. The hand started moving up and down. She adjusted my foreskin and moved her thumb on my glance.

I already knew the answer, I moved my hand on her boobs. It was covered under a coarse cloth, but I pressed them.

Her pace on my dick quickened. Suddenly she stopped, shifted and I realized she pulled up her blouse or small kurti, whatever it is called, up and giving me access to her very sagging and very soft boobs. Now her nipples were in my hands and I was twisting them

Her confidence didn’t waver—not for a second. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her hand came back at my dick and in few more strokes I left a stream of jets. I had cummed. Some of it obviously fell on my pant itself.

At 19, I didn’t have the language for it. I never knew that women can be like that also.  There was confusion… and yes, there was arousal. And that made it harder to reject, harder to understand, harder to talk about—even to myself. But ever after I had cummed she kept on moving her hands on my dick and after sometime I shot another jet of streams though less forceful this time.

My dick had gone limp now. She played with it for sometime, though life was coming back to my dick, but she adjusted herself again and pushed her blouse or kurti down. After few minutes she got up and got down on 

The game was over in half an hour. It wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t curiosity.

It was a grown woman using a young boy. And that realization came much later.