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tomdickharry2024 · 16-04-2025, 10:20 PM

Superb update! Thank you

Sage_69 · 17-04-2025, 07:37 AM

I just love the way this story is being written.

yazhiniram

I backed away slowly, almost like my own body didn’t want to let go of that moment.
My hands had just fallen to my sides, but they still felt like they were holding something. My fingers tingled. My arms felt warm. My palms had memorized the curve of his chest. The line of his ribs. The way his sweaty shirt sank into my skin.
And my breasts?
They were still reacting. My blouse still carried the heat of that impact. That sudden, uninvited press. Not gentle. Not slow. Just full.
Two seconds.
Maybe less.
But it left a shape in my chest like a handprint.

He hadn’t moved.
Still holding the box.
Still standing like a statue.
His spine was straight but stiff. Like he didn’t trust his own body anymore.
The back of his shirt was soaked now. Properly wet. Sweat had formed a map down his neck and spine. His arms were tense, pressing the box close like it was hiding him.
But nothing could hide what just happened.
And nothing could hide the way he was breathing.
Short.
Controlled.
Like a man who knew one more deep breath could betray everything he was trying to hold in.

The air inside the lift was still.
Thick.
Fan was dead. Walls were already heating up. The metal handrails were warm to touch.
The box smelled faintly of packaging tape and warehouse dust.
But his smell?
It was right in front of me.
Still.
Even after stepping back, I could smell it.
His body was just a few inches away.
That sweaty cloth scent. Worn shirt. Sun-drenched skin.
Not strong. But present.
Every breath I took had some of it in it.

I rolled my eyes and let out a soft sigh.
Loud enough for him to hear.
“Great. Box-heavy. Man-heavy. And now the lift wants to be useless too.”
He twitched.
I saw his neck shift.
Still not turning.
Still pretending to be invisible.

I wasn’t in the mood for silence.
I wanted him to hear my voice.
Let him feel it behind him.
I leaned one shoulder against the lift wall, just enough to get comfortable. Crossed my arms gently. My fingers rested along the edge of my pallu.
Still no fan.
Still no movement.
Just the two of us inside this metal box with one sweaty memory sitting in the middle like a third person.

“Is this normal?” I asked flatly.
His head shifted slightly, then his voice came—low and rushed.
“N-no madam… sometimes power goes off… but usually lift doesn’t stop like this.”
“Hmm.” I didn’t react. “So only for me it wants to show drama?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why are you quiet now?” I asked, sharper.
“I… I was just thinking…”
“Think faster. Do we stay here all day?”

He tried to explain quickly, still not looking at me.
“Madam, it’s… must be a power cut. Normally they’ll switch to generator. Maybe one minute or two…”
“You said it doesn’t happen usually.”
“Yes, madam… not like this. Maybe fuse problem. Or the panel got stuck. Or transformer outside—”
I cut him off.
“Stop giving me options like I’m writing a complaint letter.”
He went silent again.
Pressed his lips together. Eyes dropped to the box in his hands.

I looked at the panel above the door.
No lights blinking.
Just dead silence.
I could feel my own sweat now dripping under the saree pleats.
Lower back. Inner thighs.
My blouse had a thin patch forming under my arms.
Still, I didn’t move.
Let the discomfort grow.
Let him feel it too.

He suddenly shifted his weight, box slipping slightly.
I stepped forward.
Not to help.
Just out of habit.
The movement pulled me closer to him again.
My nose was barely a few inches from the back of his neck now.
I could see the tiny curls of his hair at the base.
Damp.
Sticky.
His shirt collar was wrinkled.
Half-torn on one side.
My eyes dropped to the small curve of sweat tracing his spine.

I smirked to myself.
He was probably holding his breath now.
And why wouldn’t he?
Even he knew what just happened.
Even he knew what part of my body pressed where.
And even he knew… I hadn’t shouted.
I hadn’t slapped.
I hadn’t pushed him away.

Instead, I spoke.
Calm. Low.
“Box saved you.”
His back stiffened.
I continued.
“If it hadn’t been there, you’d be on the floor now. Or me.”
He didn’t reply.

I waited.
Let the silence fill again.
Then said, even more casually—
“Next time, don’t sweat so much. Or carry a towel.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then tried.
“I… sorry, madam… it’s the heat… I came directly from gate duty…”
“So you came straight into the lift like this?” I asked. “Looking like you ran behind a bus?”
“No choice madam… the parcel… you told me to carry…”

I raised an eyebrow.
He was right.
I had told him to carry it.
Still…
“Then stand properly.” I said.
His knees straightened more.
Poor thing.
Didn’t know what to do with his hands, his voice, or his thoughts.

I stepped back again.
Let him breathe.
But not much.
Still kept the distance just short enough that he couldn’t relax.

I could hear my heartbeat now.
Not from excitement.
But from control.
From how fully I was owning this moment.

The man who rang my bell three times and stared at my soaked chest through a nighty now stood frozen in front of me.
Box in hand.
Back wet.
Throat dry.
And my touch still printed on his spine like hot wax.

Two minutes.
That’s all it had been.
Just two.
But in this heat, in this silence, with my body still catching the aftertaste of that accidental press—those two minutes felt like twenty.
The fan in the lift running for some reason. It was spinning now. Slow, but steady.
The small LED light above the control panel was still glowing.
But the lift hadn’t moved an inch.
The panel didn’t blink.
No sound.
No vibration.
Nothing.
Just us.
Standing there.
Sweating.

My blouse was damp now in two places—the side under my arms, and the middle of my back. The cotton was sticking, making me feel every little movement, every small turn of breath.
The pallu that had slipped during the fall was back in place, but not helping much. It was just one more layer trapping the heat.
My saree pleats clung to my stomach. My thigh skin rubbed slightly each time I shifted.
I’d stopped leaning on the wall.
Now I just stood. One hand on my waist. The other adjusting the blouse string behind my back, which had started itching from sweat.

He hadn’t moved.
Still holding the box.
Still silent.
As if the moment from before had erased every other instruction from his brain.

I looked at him.
Then looked at the phone panel on the side wall of the lift.
Little black plastic cradle.
A single button.
Wire curled like an old landline.
I tilted my head.
“Why are you standing like a pillar? Call and check.”
He turned halfway, unsure.
“But… madam, I’m holding the—”
“Then put it down.” I snapped.
“Box is not going to cry if you drop it for two seconds. Do something useful instead of sweating on it.”
He bent slowly and placed the box gently on the lift floor. Like it was a newborn baby.
I didn’t hide my eye roll.

He reached for the emergency phone.
Lifted it.
Pressed the button.
Waited.
Nothing.
Pressed again.
Waited.
Still nothing.
He looked back nervously.
I folded my arms.
“Wow. Brilliant. You people don’t even maintain the one thing that’s supposed to work in an emergency?”
He scratched his head.
“Sometimes the wire comes loose… I think it’s not working…”
“I can see that,” I said, sharply. “What next? Are we going to shout from inside? Or is this part of your grand plan?”
He blinked. “What plan?”
I raised my eyebrow.
“You tell me. Ring the bell three times that day, now this? You and this box… both trapping me like I owe you something.”
His lips parted. But no words.
He looked lost. Like a kid caught cheating without even knowing how to write the test.

I sighed again.
Heat making my skin stickier.
“Call your people. Don’t you carry a phone?”
He nodded quickly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out one of those old feature phones. Black, scratched. Half the keypad shiny from overuse.
He pressed a number.
Waited.
The call connected.
His voice was soft, respectful.
“Anna… lift stuck. Backup Power is there, fan is running, but lift not moving.”
He paused.
“Okay… okay… check and call back.”
He cut the call and turned toward me slowly.
“They’ll check the line, madam. Said they’ll call me back.”
“Of course. That’s what they always say. Next they’ll say someone’s coming in five minutes and we’ll still be standing like idiots when college kids come home.”
He didn’t answer.
He looked down.
I looked up at the lift ceiling.
The fan moved.
My blouse itched.
Sweat slid down my side again.
And we both just stood.
Waiting.
Not just for the lift to move…
But for the tension between us to go somewhere.
Anywhere.

Another minute passed.
But it felt like I had aged a year.
The fan above spun lazily, like it was mocking us—offering just enough breeze to remind me that my body was sweating. The small LED in the lift glowed steadily. Still no power to the motor. Still no movement.
But my body?
It was moving. Constantly. Inside.
Not outside, not in action. But in sensation.
Everything was sticky. Tight. Wet in places where it shouldn’t be. My blouse had become a second skin—glued under my arms, gripping under my breasts, even the band near the shoulder blade had begun to itch.
The saree was worse.
The pleats were holding sweat like a sponge. The part tucked into my hip felt like it was sinking deeper into my skin.
Every shift of my leg made my inner thigh rub against the other. The friction was… annoying. Hot. Not just temperature-hot.
That other kind of hot.
The one I couldn’t admit.
But couldn’t deny either.

He was still standing like a wall. Box on the floor. Head down. Phone in hand. Eyes lost.
And me?
I was losing patience.
“So this is it?” I snapped, glaring at the back of his head. “You brought me down for this? This your idea of being useful?”
He didn’t reply.
Just stood there, adjusting the phone in his hand, pretending he had something important to do with it.

Then finally, it buzzed.
Call back.
He answered quickly.
“Hello, anna… tell.”
I watched him silently.
His face was sweating. One drop rolled along the side of his cheek and dropped to his collar.
His shirt was soaked. Properly soaked. There was no way that man didn’t stink right now. I could smell it even before he spoke.
That mix of dust, cloth, and stale sweat.
It should’ve made me pull away.
But somehow?
It just… lingered.
Not pleasant.
But not disgusting either.
Just raw.
Just… real.

He cut the call and turned.
“Madam… they said power’s gone. Generator is on, but lift not taking current. They said maybe fuse or control panel. It’s stuck between second and third floor. Manually it can’t open. They’re checking.”

I stared at him.
Then clicked my tongue loudly.
“Fan works. Light works. Only the part that moves us is dead. Perfect.”
He wiped his hand on his pants again. It left a faint damp mark on the fabric.
I couldn’t stop myself.
“Tell them to call that flat electrician. That boy who comes to fix everything. What's his name... Kannan or Ganesh?”
He nodded, redialed a number.
Pressed the phone to his ear. Waited.
No answer.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
He looked up slowly.
“Madam… looks like he’s not available today. Off, maybe.”

I sighed. But not just with my mouth. My whole body exhaled.
“So that’s it? Power off, electrician off, brain off... everything off. Except your sweat.”
His ears turned red. That shade of shame that only gets deeper when the woman in front knows exactly how you’re suffering.
He stood still. Looking helpless.
But even in that helplessness, I knew.
He remembered.
Just like me.

My chest still had the memory of pressing into his back.
It hadn’t faded.
My breasts had flattened across that cheap shirt and soaked themselves in his body heat.
And now… standing there, blouse clinging, thighs wet… my body wasn’t angry anymore.
It was awake.

I watched him bend slightly, adjusting the phone again.
His spine bent forward. Shirt rising slightly.
I could see the waistband of his underwear peeking above his pants. Old. Faded blue. Probably loose too.
God.
Was I actually noticing that now?
My eyes went right back up.
But my mind stayed.

My voice was calm. Flat. Cold again.
“Next time if something happens to anyone with you in lift, make sure it’s working. Or at least carry deodorant.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just stood there.
Burning.
And I?
I was no better.
My thighs were wet with sweat.
But my blouse?
That wasn’t just sweat anymore.

Another minute passed.
I didn’t check the time again. I didn’t have to. My body was already counting each second by how much sweat was collecting under my blouse. The heat wasn’t sharp—it was dull, wet, and stubborn, like the kind that doesn’t burn your skin but soaks into your nerves.
The fan above was spinning now, yes—but what use was it when it just recycled the same hot air over and over?
The light was still on. The cabin wasn’t dark.
But it might as well have been.
Because even in this small space, everything felt heavy.

I adjusted my pallu slightly, not because I needed to—just out of habit. It had clung to my skin, the edge of it sticking slightly to the side of my breast. I could feel it shift when I moved my arm, the warm fabric rubbing gently along the damp curve.
I hated that feeling.
But I also didn’t fix it fully.
Let it sit.
Let him guess what part of me was sweating more.

He stood a few feet away, facing the same direction, his back visible to me again.
Box still on the floor. Phone in hand.
Still pretending to stay busy, but his shoulders had given up long back. I could see the sweat on his neck rolling down into the collar. His whole back was wet now. Shirt stuck to him like a second skin.
Cheap cloth, clinging tight.
I didn’t want to look at him.
But my eyes did what they wanted.

And the worst part?
That filthy fall—that one moment when my entire chest had been mashed into his sweaty back—still hadn’t left my body.
I could feel the imprint.
I could feel the tightness of that second, my arms around his waist, his heat pressing into my front.
His smell. His shirt. His cheap sweat.
God.
Why wasn’t it going away?

The phone in his hand buzzed.
He answered.
“Anna, yes… lift still stuck.”
He paused.
“Ah… electrician? Okay…”
He looked at me after cutting the call.
Didn’t meet my eyes.
Just said it quietly.
“Madam… electrician is coming.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Coming when?”
“Maybe 15 to 20 minutes..”
I laughed.
“If they say 20 minutes, they’ll come after 30 mins only. You know that. Don’t stand and act innocent.”
He looked down.
“Sometimes fast also, madam…”
“Yes, yes. And sometimes my mixer works without current.”
I leaned back against the lift wall, crossed my arms.
Sweat had soaked the side of my blouse completely now.
My armpit, the side of my rib, even the crease below my breast—it was all hot and damp. I could smell myself.
Not perfume.
Not powder.
Just heat.
Raw.
Skin soaked inside cotton.

I scowled at him again.
“What’s the point of all this uniform, ID card, phone, staff if you can’t even keep one lift working?”
He didn’t answer.
He bent slightly again, touched the box like it would help him feel useful.
“Tell me the truth. This your plan?”
He looked up, confused.
“Plan?”
“Hmm. You knew I’ll come down. So planned and You malfunctioned this lift, no?”
“Madam, no—why will I—”
“Don’t act too decent. I remember how you stared always at me. Your eyes were sharper.”
He went completely quiet.
Sweat now rolled down the side of his face and disappeared under his collar.
His chest was rising slower, like even his lungs were embarrassed.

I clicked my tongue again.
The lift wasn’t moving.
The fan was useless.
My thighs had started rubbing more now.
Not just from sweat.
Something else.
A sort of weight between my legs. A heat. Not burning. But strong. Creeping into my body, breath by breath.
My nipples itched slightly inside the blouse.
Tight. Awake.
I didn’t touch.
Just let them press into the fabric. Let the heat stay.

I looked at him again.
Now I noticed everything.
How the back of his pants was wet.
How the waist of his shirt had bunched slightly.
How his spine curved a little as he stood.
I imagined my breast pressing into that same spot again.
No blouse.
No accident.
Just contact.
My face against his back.
My hand sliding down that soaked collar—
Shut up.
I looked away sharply.
No.
No.
Not now.
Not here.
Not with him.

But my body?
It wasn’t listening anymore.
And if this electrician didn’t come soon...
I didn’t know whether I’d scream.
Or let something else happen.

I stood in the left corner of the lift.
Back slightly resting against the steel side panel, arm pulled close to avoid touching the box, or worse—him.
He stood at the opposite diagonal corner, a little turned, near the control panel and emergency phone. The box was still between us, sitting uselessly on the floor, now wet in patches from the sweat off his hands and shirt.
Neither of us had spoken in the last thirty seconds.
Nothing new to say.
Just the same damn air, slowly cooking us from inside out.

The fan spun above.
That was the only relief.
Even if the air it pushed was warm, even if it carried both our body smells and recirculated them into our lungs—it was still better than nothing.
The lift light was on. A dim LED glow, flickering slightly.
That tiny bulb was the reason I hadn’t yet pulled off my blouse in desperation.
But God, I wanted to.

My blouse was now fully soaked.
The fabric under my breasts had become heavy with sweat, sagging slightly.
I wasn’t even sure if the side hook was still holding properly—my skin felt too damp to feel anything. The tight edge near the underarm had gone beyond itchy. I kept brushing it with my fingernail, pretending it was a mosquito bite.
But I knew.
It wasn’t.

Even worse was what was happening under my saree.
Between my thighs.
The cotton was wet—not from arousal, at least not fully.
Just heat.
Sweat.
Friction.
But that same friction had begun building something.
Every time I shifted weight from one leg to another, my thighs rubbed. And every rub brought me closer to some place I didn’t want to go—not here. Not now. Not with him inside this small cage with me.

I couldn’t even look at him anymore.
He was standing with his head down, one hand resting on the metal handle, the other near his pocket like he didn’t know what else to do.
His back was turned slightly—enough that I could see the profile of his face in the dim light. His lips were dry. His eyes looked tired. He hadn’t dared meet my gaze since that fall.
Good.
Let him burn quietly.
Let him remember how my chest felt pressed into his sweat-soaked shirt.
Let him hold it like a sin.

And me?
I was holding something too.
A rising pressure.
A kind of slow madness crawling through my body like steam through locked pipes.
I was breathing harder now.
Trying to hide it.
Trying to pretend this was just normal discomfort.
But it wasn’t.
This was heat pressing from the outside and inside.

I took a deep breath.
My chest lifted. Pallu shifted slightly. The edge of my blouse rubbed against my nipple.
Sharp.
Unpleasant.
But also… awakening.

I wanted to unhook the blouse right there.
Pull it loose.
Let my breasts breathe, hang, feel air again.
But I couldn’t.
Not with him here.
Not with this dim light still showing enough to expose every shameful inch of my skin.

I ran a finger along the back of my neck.
Sticky.
My hairline was wet.
Some strands had curled from the dampness, falling along my cheeks.
My face must’ve looked tired.
Or worse—flushed.

Then…
Thud.
A heavy click from above.
A small pop sound.
Then everything—
stopped.

The fan died.
No spinning.
No air.
No sound.
The light blinked once.
Then went out.
Complete darkness.

Pitch black.
No warning.
No time to adjust.
Just black.

I froze.
Eyes wide open but saw nothing.
Lift had become a sealed box now.
No fan.
No light.
No help.
No hope.
Only heat.
Only breath.
Only two bodies.
And a hundred thoughts.

I swallowed hard.
Chest suddenly tight.
My throat went dry.
The silence was loud.
Deafening.
And for the first time, my own confidence trembled.

I didn’t bring my phone.
I hadn’t even thought of it.
It was still on the side table in the hall, probably blinking with unread messages and calls from my kids or Arjun.
And me?
I was trapped here.
With this box.
With this man.
With these thoughts.

“Fucking hell…” I muttered under my breath.
I never said that word out loud.
But it came naturally now.
Because that’s what this was.
Hell.

I couldn’t see him.
But I could feel him.
I could hear the faint shift of his foot.
His breathing.
His shirt rubbing slightly as he moved his arm.
Every sound became loud.
Every breath between us was now part of the space.
Shared.
Soaked.
Unforgiving.

I pressed my back against the wall harder.
Trying not to panic.
But inside, my body had already started betraying me.

My chest felt tight.
Breath warm.
Sweat had started to roll between my breasts again.
Not a drop.
A slow trail.
That ticklish, maddening line that refused to stop halfway.
My blouse had stuck to my nipples now—no gap, no cloth movement.
Every breath made them rub gently against the fabric.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I wanted to tear the blouse off.
I wanted to scratch the inside of my thighs where the saree was clinging like glue.
I wanted air.
Space.
Relief.

But I had none of that.
Just this suffocating darkness.
This sweaty man.
And the memory of pressing my body onto his like it was meant to happen.

Hotyyhard · 18-04-2025, 12:07 PM

no suspense thriller movie come close to this story awesome

Sage_69 · 18-04-2025, 04:39 PM

Hot update! (literally)
Waiting for next part.

yazhiniram · 19-04-2025, 08:35 AM

A faint line of light.
That’s all there was between the lift doors. No fan. No bulb. Just that soft slit of brightness leaking from the hallway crack.
It wasn’t enough to see clearly. Just enough to confirm shapes. A shoulder. The edge of the box. The outline of a head turned away.
He was still in the corner. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was standing there—like a stone.
I could feel him.
Like heat on skin. Like the smell of sweat that doesn’t belong to you. Present. Pressing.

“What the hell is this now…” I muttered.
Not loud.
Not soft either.
More like… a warning.

He shifted.
I heard it. The soft rustle of his sweat-soaked shirt moving.
Then his voice. Low. Scared.
“Don’t know, madam… power cut maybe…”

That’s it?
That’s what he had to offer?
After dragging me into this hellish oven of sweat and silence?
Just that one sentence?

I laughed once—sharp, dry.
“Maybe?” I snapped. “Maybe power cut? Or maybe you cursed this lift just by stepping in?”
No answer.
His silhouette stiffened.
He stayed silent.
Good.
He should.

I wiped my face with the edge of my pallu. Useless. It was already drenched. The cotton clung to my cheek instead of wiping it. My palm did a better job—at least it wasn’t fabric.
My neck was burning. I could feel the heat rising from my back like steam from a cooker. If I bent even slightly, my blouse would probably tear at the shoulder. That’s how tight the sweat had made it.

I turned slightly toward him again.
“You people can’t even maintain one lift in this entire building?”
He answered quickly this time. Almost stammering.
“Lift service is outsourced, madam… generator is on… maybe wiring… they’ll check…”

I rolled my eyes into the darkness.
That voice.
So nervous.
So full of sweat, guilt, and confusion.
It wasn’t fear of the lift.
It was me.
He was afraid of me. Of what I’d say. Of what I might do.
Of what I already looked like.

I could hear his breathing now.
It was uneven.
Shaky.
Probably trying to stay quiet, but failing.
Each inhale sounded heavy. Like his shirt was glued to his chest. I didn’t even want to think how bad he must smell.
But I could smell it anyway.
Not directly.
Just… in the air.
That mix of cheap deodorant, sweat, and something earthy. Dirty.
A normal woman would be disgusted.
But me?
I was many things right now.
Disgusted wasn’t one of them.

My thighs were wet.
Every shift of weight rubbed more heat into them.
The space between my blouse and skin no longer existed. It had merged. Fused. The itch under my breast line had turned into a full-blown sting.
And still, I couldn’t adjust it.
Not in front of him.
Not while he was standing there, trying to hide and breathe at the same time.

I clicked my tongue.
“How long this generator takes to blink once and turn fan on? What, diesel price too high today?”
He didn’t reply.
Just moved slightly.
I heard his foot shift again.
Probably wishing he could sink into the wall.

I stepped away from the corner, slightly.
Let my back stretch.
Let my hips roll just a little—unintentionally.
My breath was shallow.
Not because of fear.
But because I was heating from places I didn’t want to admit.

My mind whispered things I didn’t want to hear.
My body felt things I didn’t want to feel.
And this silence?
This dim, dirty silence?
It was starting to feel dangerous.

Time wasn’t moving. At least, not in any way I could feel.
The lift hadn’t budged. The fan hadn’t come back. The bulb above us remained dead.
Only that slim line of light, barely a finger’s width, stayed glowing between the closed doors.
That’s all there was.
Everything else? Pure black. No time. No sound. No help.
Just my breath. His breath. Our bodies. And this rising, sticky madness pressing on every inch of my skin.

My pallu was soaked.
It wasn’t a piece of clothing anymore—it was a wet rag clinging to my shoulder and neck, making everything worse.
I’d had enough.
I pulled it off in one slow motion. No drama. Just exhaustion.
Let it drop from my shoulder. I wrapped the end in my palm, started waving it near my face, using whatever little energy I had left to create some air.
Hot air. But it was still something.

My blouse underneath was plastered to my chest.
The fabric had lost all structure. It clung to my skin like oil paper. My nipples were fully visible through the cloth, I knew it. Not clearly—not in this light—but enough to make my chest feel watched.
Still, I didn’t adjust it.
Let it stick. Let it sting.
If he dared to look, that was his punishment.

He was standing still. I could barely make out the top of his silhouette. His head was tilted down, hands near the box again, body language awkward as hell.
His shirt had become part of him. It sagged off his back and stuck at the sides. I saw him wipe his forehead with the back of his arm.
“Hey,” I said, low, sharp. No kindness in it.
He flinched slightly. “Yes, madam…”
“What’s your name?”
A pause. Then, “Prakash, madam.”
“Where are you from?”
“Uttar Pradesh.”
“Hm.”
I fanned myself slowly. Eyes fixed toward the light. I wasn’t looking at him. I didn’t need to. I already had the upper hand.
“You’re married?”
“Yes madam.”
“No kids?”
“No. Just me and wife, madam.”
I nodded once, pretending like I cared. But I didn't.
“Living nearby?”
“Yes… one room behind the next street. Walking distance.”
I smirked slightly. “So you must walk a lot, no? Up and down these apartments, these stairs, these women…”
He didn’t reply.
I didn’t expect him to.

I switched the pallu to my left hand, used the right to wipe under my jaw. Sweat had begun gathering there like water collecting in a gutter.
My blouse was itching at the underarm seam now—sharp, prickling. The heat had made every fold of cloth into a punishment.
I pressed my back against the wall for support. Bad idea. A squelch of wetness hit my skin.
It was so hot.
So sticky.
I could feel drops of sweat roll between my breasts again—thick, slow, shameless.
I hated how aware I was of it. How it made me breathe harder. How even the sound of my own skin rubbing felt louder in this dark box.

I asked without looking: “Your wife works?”
“Yes madam… house cleaning nearby… different flats…”
I didn’t respond.
Didn’t ask further.
Let the weight of silence press on him again.
Let him think I was judging him.

I heard him shift again. One soft pop—his shirt button opening near the top.
Then another.
I didn’t stop him.
He needed it.
His breathing was heavier now. Not from fear.
Just sweat.
Just heat.
Just me.

I brushed my hair back with one hand, lifting it off my neck.
It clung to my fingers. Wet strands. Sticky.
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling I couldn’t see.
“What kind of building has generators but no lift support?” I muttered.
He responded quietly. “Lift line different, madam… electrician called…”
“So they say,” I snapped. “Maybe he’s sleeping on the roof right now. Or maybe you planned all this.”
He shook his head quickly. “No madam! I didn’t—”
“Then shut up,” I interrupted. “Don’t waste your breath. You’ll sweat more.”

He didn’t answer after that.
Good.
He was lucky I hadn’t made him sit on the box like a stool.

I was tired now.
Not from standing.
Not from waiting.
Just from holding in everything that my body wanted to scream about.
The stickiness between my thighs.
The sting under my breasts.
The tightness of the blouse.
The way my skin itched for relief, but my pride refused to give in—especially in front of him.

I kept fanning myself.
Slow. Unbothered.
Let him see what he wanted.
But he wasn’t getting anything.
Not here.
Not now.
Not even a single sound from me that he could misread.

It had to be over ten minutes now.
Inside this lift, that meant something different. Ten minutes wasn’t just time—it was pressure. It was air thick enough to chew. It was sweat turning into a second skin. It was my body surrendering, inch by inch.
The fan had given up. The light bulb too.
Only that narrow strip of glow between the lift doors kept this place from turning into a grave.
Even that felt like a joke now.

I was tired of standing in silence.
Tired of pretending this was fine.
Tired of feeling my thighs stick every time I shifted weight from one leg to the other.
Without a word, I reached down, grabbed the edge of my saree, and lifted it up to my thighs.
No elegance. No smoothness. Just raw, irritated movement.
My inner thighs were too hot. The fabric too clingy. It felt like I was wrapped in boiling cotton.
The air on my legs hit like medicine.
Still warm. Still heavy.
But free.

I heard his breath hitch.
A small sound.
He was still in his corner—far enough not to touch, close enough to see shapes.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t care.
If he was staring, I hoped it burned into his head forever.

“Prakash, right?” I asked, voice casual, low.
He took a second.
“Yes, madam.”
“Hmm.” I shifted again, pulling the pallu off my neck completely and tossing it to the side. It hit the box softly, damp and useless. I didn’t need it anymore.
“You like Chennai?”
He hesitated. “Yes madam… better jobs…”
“Better sweat,” I muttered, wiping the back of my neck again. My blouse was now sticking to the top of my back like it was stitched with glue.
I could feel the curve of my spine soaked through, sweat slowly tracing its way down from my hairline, curling between my shoulder blades.

“You don’t look like you’re used to this,” I added, not even looking at him.
He cleared his throat. “Bit difficult… this much heat in a closed place…”
I smiled to myself. Bitterly.
“You’ve been married for ten years, and still not used to heat? Your wife not cooking for you in hot kitchens?”
His pause was long this time.
“She does… but… not like this…”
I let the silence sit there for a second.
I wasn’t trying to shame him. Just keep him off balance.

The itch near my chest had become unbearable now. Not the skin. The blouse.
It was soaked. Each breath made the fabric tug at my nipple slightly. Uncomfortably. But sharp enough to make me flinch inside.
Without hesitation, I slipped my hand into the front and unhooked two of the blouse hooks.
They clicked open quietly.
The blouse loosened across my chest—not fully open, but the tight hold eased.
I could breathe again.
My breast lifted slightly with the freedom. I didn’t even adjust the fabric. Let it stay where it was.
I wasn't performing.
I was surviving.

“Wife only housecleaning or cooking too?” I asked next, casually, fanning myself with one hand.
“Yes madam… she does all house work, including cooking and housecleaning fo nearby buildings…”
“Good,” I said flatly. “At least one of you is useful.”
He didn’t answer.

The sweat was now rolling down the sides of my waist. Slow. Sticky. Like something crawling under the folds of the saree.
I wiped it. Firmly.
He shifted.
Probably heard it.
Probably imagined more than he saw.
Let him.
Let him guess how much skin was exposed.
Let him wonder what the blouse looked like, half-unhooked, clinging to breasts too tired to stay quiet.

“You people have no emergency plan or what?” I snapped suddenly. “Ten minutes inside, no backup, no electrician?”
“They said he’s coming, madam… flat electrician on leave… manager called outside person…”
I rolled my eyes.
“And that outside person? Coming from Sri Lanka or what?”
He tried to smile. Didn’t succeed.
His shirt was fully open now.
Still tucked, but I could see the dampness in his silhouette. His shoulders shiny with sweat. Chest rising faster than before.

My hair was clinging to my face. I pushed it back, tied it into a loose twist behind my head.
Even my scalp was sweating now.
That tiny space between my breasts had become a channel for moisture.
I wiped it with the edge of my palm.
No shame.
No care.
Just heat.

“Don’t worry,” I said coldly. “Once we’re out, I’ll talk to the association about this joke of a system.”
He nodded quietly.
I didn’t need his agreement.
I needed air.
I needed space.
I needed to step out of this metal box and strip every layer of this saree off my skin and throw it in the washing machine without even checking the stains.
But right now?
I stood tall.
Sweating. Melting. Dominating.
And he?
He stood like a statue.
Barely breathing.
Staring only when he thought I wasn’t.

My knees were trembling.
Not because I was afraid.
Just… exhausted.
Over ten minutes of this heat, and I could feel the tiredness finally reach my bones.
My thighs were sticky. My calves itched. My lower back ached from standing without rest. Even my elbows felt damp.
The lift hadn’t moved an inch.
But my body had gone miles.

I shifted my foot, leaned a bit to the side, and pulled the saree up again to where it already sat — just above my knees.
It wasn’t about teasing.
It was about letting the sweat evaporate, if it even could in this damn steel drum.
My thighs had become slippery — not wet like water, but that heavy, humid kind of sweat that stays on skin like oil.

I looked at the floor, then bent slightly and placed one hand on the warm metal panel beside me.
My other hand reached behind me for balance.
I slowly lowered myself down, not like someone tired… but like someone allowing herself to sit.
Even the movement made my blouse shift.
The two unhooked spots at the top had created a gap just wide enough to feel.
Not to show.
But enough to feel the cloth slide over nipple with the smallest shift.

As I sat, my saree folded up further at my thigh.
I let it.
It stayed at mid-thigh now, skin breathing slightly, fabric crumpled loosely across my legs.
The petticoat beneath had long given up.
It was more like a warm napkin now — soft, damp, clinging to me like skin.

I didn’t adjust the pleats.
Didn’t tug it back down.
There was no point.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.
My palms were damp.
My body was hot.
My head was too full of steam to care anymore.

I rested back slightly, hands behind me, elbows angled to support my posture.
Chest forward.
Blouse still open.
Two top hooks undone.
No pallu anywhere near me.
Let him look.
Let him drink it in.
He had stood like a tree long enough.

That’s when I noticed him.
He was fidgeting.
Shifting from side to side.
Arms moving.
I looked up — not fully — just enough to see his shape.
And there he was.
Unbuttoning his shirt completely.
One button.
Two.
Then three. Four. Five.
The whole front peeled open now, sweat darkening the undershirt.
If he wore one.
I couldn’t tell.
But I could see the outline of his chest now. Dark. Shiny. Rising and falling fast.

I let out a small laugh.
Not sweet.
Sharp.
Dry.
“Oh. Nice. Undressing now?”
He startled.
“No madam… just… it’s too hot…”
“Really?” I said, voice flat. “I thought you were showing off.”
He didn’t reply.
Just turned slightly away.
Still holding the box with one hand. The other awkwardly wiping his chest.
I shook my head.
Weak man.
Drenched in sweat.
Standing in front of me like a boy caught peeking into the wrong room.

I leaned back more now.
Let my body relax a little.
One leg folded at the knee.
The other stretched half forward.
I used the edge of my saree to fan my face, slow, lazy strokes.
It didn’t do much.
But it gave my hand something to do.
Every wave of air moved the blouse slightly, brushing across my breasts.
The open hooks had given it space.
Now it floated more.
And stuck more.
Both at once.

His eyes kept darting down.
I noticed.
Not every second. Not boldly.
But when he thought I wasn’t watching?
He was watching.
My legs.
My chest.
My arms.
My face.
Anything the light allowed.

Let him.
I wasn’t hiding.
I wasn’t performing.
This was me.
Sweaty. Half-open. Unbothered.

He shifted again.
Looked like he was debating whether to sit.
Poor fellow.
Ten minutes ago, he probably thought entering this lift was just another routine.
Now, here he was, shirt open, scared to sit down in front of me, unsure whether to breathe too loud or blink too long.

I didn’t speak.
I just kept fanning.
Looking ahead.
My legs out. My blouse loose. My body boiling.
But my control?
Still sharp.
Still mine.

The corner of the box had already been touching my leg since I sat down.
It wasn’t sharp—just there. Pressing softly into the side of my right knee like a reminder that even the objects in this lift were clinging to me.
But I ignored it.
I was too tired.
Too soaked.
My whole lower half felt like it had been dipped in warm starch.

Then he moved.
I didn’t look up at first.
But I could feel it—the faint tremble of the floor panel as he took a step.
A soft rustle of his trouser fabric.
The slight scbang of his heel against the metal.
He bent down a little, one foot sliding back behind the box, the other planted carefully near the corner.
And then—the box jolted.
Just a few inches.
But enough.
The edge knocked into my shin, then slipped further down and nudged the top of my foot.
Not hard. But sharp. Sudden. Unforgivable.

“Hey!” I barked.
My voice came out louder than I meant.
Maybe because I was sitting.
Maybe because my skin was already stretched too thin.
“Watch what the hell you’re doing, idiot!”
He froze immediately.
His head snapped up. Eyes wide. Arms still halfway holding the box.
“I—I’m sorry, madam—”
“You want to crush my leg next?” I snapped. “Or just dump the box on my lap and call it an accident?”
“No, no! I didn’t mean—”
“Obviously you didn’t mean,” I spat. “You don’t mean to breathe either, I think. Just doing it by habit.”

He stepped back awkwardly, box still in hand, and stood half-bent like a boy caught breaking something.
I could see his silhouette clearer now.
The way his shirt was open, clinging to the sides of his torso.
The chest hair dark against his pale, sweat-glossed skin.
He didn’t dare look at me directly.
Just held the box like it was a shield.

“Move that thing,” I said sharply, nodding toward the front of the lift. “There’s space near the door.”
He nodded quickly.
Didn’t even speak this time.
Just turned slightly and dragged the box forward, sliding it across the lift floor with both hands.
It made a low scbanging noise—grating against the steel, then pausing as he regripped it.
He turned it sideways once, then pushed it into the corner near the doors.
That left only the back side of the lift—my corner, and his.

I was sitting on the left, my back against the cold metal wall.
Legs bent. One thigh folded under, the other half-extended, dbangd loosely in my lifted saree.
The blouse clung to my chest in patches now. Loose from the hooks, but not open.
Just damp enough to sag.
Heavy enough to remind me of its presence with every small shift of breath.

He looked down at the space on the right side of the lift.
It was narrow.
Cramped.
Tight.
If he sat there, our knees would touch. Or nearly touch.
He knew it.
I knew it.
Even the walls knew it.

I watched him through half-closed eyes.
He stepped forward slowly.
Placed one foot, then hesitated.
He bent slightly—tentative. Testing.
Like sitting next to me was a request he hadn’t submitted yet.

I didn’t say a word.
Didn’t gesture.
Didn’t move.
Just stared.
Let him do the math in his head.
Let him calculate how to sit without brushing me.
Let him suffer the decision of how close was too close, and whether I’d bite his head off for choosing wrong.

He shifted again.
Squatted slightly.
Paused.
Tried to turn sideways.
Then turned back.
His knees were already pointing toward mine.
The space between us? Maybe a foot. Maybe less.

And still, he hovered.
Half down. Half up.
Breath stuck somewhere between guilt and gravity.
Waiting.
Maybe hoping I’d tell him what to do.
But I wouldn’t.
Not now.
Not when the lift was silent, hot, dim… and mine.

He finally lowered himself.
I watched from the corner of my eye as his knees bent, his hands gently touched the floor, and he began sliding his body into that narrow, cramped corner across from me.
He moved like a man walking on glass—every inch cautious.
Not for his own comfort.
For mine.
He knew where he was sitting.
He knew how little space was left.
He knew what would happen.

His left foot settled first. Then the right.
One knee folded. Then the other.
He was almost down.
And then—it happened.
Just as he adjusted the fold of his legs and brought his knees in, the edge of his pant brushed directly against my skin.
My bare thigh.

The touch was soft.
But the heat made it sharp.
His pant leg was warm.
Damp.
It dragged lightly across my skin as he shifted—and even that brief moment made me feel like my thigh had been branded.
I didn’t care if it was intentional or not.
That wasn’t the point.

I turned my head fast.
Looked directly at him.
Eyes sharp. Voice sharper.
“Oh wow,” I snapped. “Now you’ve grown this much courage?”
He froze.
Mid-squat.
Didn’t dare sit further. Didn’t dare move back.
I didn’t give him a chance to answer.
I tilted my head, eyebrows raised.
“What’s next, Prakash? You’ll lie down here? Or straight sit on my lap? Is that where this was going?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Then a stammer. “Madam… no madam… sorry… I didn’t mean to—”
“You people never mean anything,” I spat, rolling my eyes. “It just happens, no?”
He immediately pulled his leg back, twisted his torso awkwardly, scooting to the side until there was barely a gap between his back and the wall.
His knees folded up tighter now. Feet crossed. Arms pulled in.
He looked like a child caught chewing something he stole.

I didn’t look at him after that.
Didn’t need to.
I leaned my head back against the lift wall and closed my eyes briefly.
My chest was heaving.
Not with anger anymore.
Just with heat.

That final brush on my skin had broken something.
Not because it was his fault.
But because it reminded me—I couldn’t take this anymore.
My skin was cooked.
The blouse, soaked all the way to its seams, was holding on by the last two hooks at the base.
It had become a trap.
A hot, wet, suffocating trap pressing down on my chest like punishment.
My underbust line was itching now. Sharp, irritated from being rubbed raw against wet cotton.
Even the slight gap from the open upper hooks wasn’t enough anymore.
My breasts were heavy.
Sweaty.
Tired of being pushed.

I reached in slowly.
One hand.
Two fingers.
No rush.
No hesitation.
I touched the fourth hook.
It popped.
The fabric loosened immediately across the lower curve.
Then the fifth.
The last one.

And just like that—
It was open.
All of it.
My entire blouse now hung loose.
The fabric lay on my shoulders and arms.
But the front?
Free.
Nothing held me in.
My breasts dropped forward, no longer tied up by cotton and hooks and sweat.

They didn’t fall dramatically.
They didn’t bounce.
They settled.
Heavily.
Softly.
Naturally.
Gravity did what it was always meant to do, and my body breathed for the first time in what felt like hours.

I didn’t adjust the cloth.
Didn’t cover.
Didn’t lift the pallu.
It wasn’t even near me anymore.
I just sat there.
Still. Silent. Unbothered.
The blouse hung open across my front.
The skin underneath glistened. Damp. Raw. Real.
My breasts touched skin.
Touched air.
Touched freedom.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
I could feel his eyes.
They didn’t rise suddenly.
They rose slowly.
Carefully.
He was looking.
Not like a man ready to pounce.
But like someone who had just seen something he never imagined he’d witness in real life.

And me?
I didn’t care.
Let him see.
Let him memorize every shape the darkness allowed.
This wasn’t his reward.
It was my survival.

I leaned back, resting one palm flat on the floor, the other still fanning my chest with the edge of my saree.
I didn’t fan lower.
Didn’t fan my face.
Just my chest.
Slow waves.
Up and down.
Letting the air hit my nipples now—open, free, unhidden.

His breath had changed.
I could hear it.
Not louder.
Just heavier.
Heavier than before.
But he didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
Smart man.

I closed my eyes again.
Took a deep breath.
Let the fan of cloth move across my breasts again.
Not to tease.
Not to test him.
Just to breathe.

Hotyyhard · 19-04-2025, 10:40 AM

wow dude ur are killing it can wait for another update

Sage_69 · 19-04-2025, 12:12 PM

Haha. This woman is sick. And very interesting.

Ajay Kailash · 19-04-2025, 12:36 PM

super update

Gitaranjan · 19-04-2025, 01:18 PM

Nice updates

hotandluking · 19-04-2025, 08:20 PM

just read the story,great,new way to write an erotic story.
please continue with the great work.

yazhiniram · 20-04-2025, 10:05 AM

My back was starting to sweat now.
Not just small drops.
Lines.
Hot, ticklish lines of sweat trickling from my spine, curling around my bra strap, and pooling near the base.
Only—there was no bra strap.
There was nothing.
Because my blouse was open. Completely.

Every hook undone.
The cloth parted at the front like a curtain someone forgot to close.
It still hung over me. Yes.
But it wasn’t holding me.
It was resting there. Like decoration.
My breasts were fully free now, hanging under the open fold.
Damp.
Heavy.
Breathing.
Alive.

He was sitting right across from me.
Still in that same squat posture—but his eyes weren’t quiet anymore.
No, they weren’t bold.
He wasn’t staring like a man who wanted to pounce.
But he was watching.
Slow.
Fixed.
Frozen.

If he sharpened his eyes… if he just tilted his head a little…
He could see my nipples.
I knew it.
The light wasn’t strong. But not weak either.
It was that kind of ambient glow that made shapes more dangerous than shadows.
And the blouse had shifted just enough.
The sweat had pulled it lower on one side.
And I?
I didn’t care.

I sat there.
Blouse open.
Chest glistening.
Back soaked.
Hair stuck to the nape.
One leg folded, other stretched. Saree lifted past mid-thigh.
And this bugger?
Sitting like a statue.
Face calm.
Eyes active.
Breathing shallow.
Enjoying.
Completely.

I could see it in his shoulders.
In the tiny rise and fall of his chest.
He wasn’t blinking much.
He was memorising.
Burning every glimpse into his head like a thief in a museum.

What the hell am I doing?
I asked myself for the third time in the last two minutes.
Arjun told me he'd bring the parcel upstairs.
I didn’t even have to come down.
But no—my curiosity dragged me here.
My stupid urge to check.
To walk. To scold. To see.
And now I was sitting half-naked in a broken lift with a cheap-looking watchman staring at my body like it was some item on sale.

It was my fault.
No one forced me to unhook my blouse.
No one asked me to lift my saree this high.
He didn’t touch me.
He didn’t even speak.
But here I was.
Open.
Exposed.
Breathing through fabric that wasn’t doing its job anymore.
And this idiot?
He was having a free show without moving an inch.

I wiped the side of my neck again.
A long roll of sweat had just traced a slow line from behind my ear down to my collarbone.
Even the fanless silence inside this box felt loud now.
Just breath.
Skin.
And… that awful awareness that I was being watched.

That’s when he spoke.
His voice, quiet.
Polite.
But too soft for my state of mind.
“Madam… it’s very hot… shall I call again… check…?”
I snapped.
Not screaming.
But sharp.
I turned slightly, looking directly at him.
“You should’ve done that ten minutes ago,” I hissed. “Call and ask properly. Ask where the hell they are. Or I’ll call and shout at all of them myself.”
He nodded quickly, already pulling his old phone from his pocket, fumbling slightly.

I didn’t even wait for him to answer.
I leaned back again.
Let the blouse part further.
Let the air hit more skin.
Let the sweat continue to trace slow, filthy patterns down my stomach.
Let him stare.
Let him realise this wasn’t for him.
This was my damn survival.

He ended the call.
His thumb clicked the red button.
Then he looked up.
Same nervous face. Same soft voice.
“Madam… they said… electrician is on the way… 15 to 20 minutes more…”
I blinked once.
Then stared.
Then let out a slow, bitter laugh.
The kind that doesn’t have joy in it.
Just frustration that’s finally run out of places to hide.

“Wow,” I muttered.
I looked directly at him.
“You said exactly the same thing twenty minutes ago.”
“No madam… he is already on his way mam, and he is coming…”
“Of course,” I snapped. “First one must’ve died on the way, right? Or got stuck in another lift?”
He kept quiet.
Eyes down.

I shook my head.
Then held out my palm.
“Give me your phone.”
He blinked. “Madam—?”
“I said give.”
He handed it over.
Old model. Half-sweaty. Buttons half-faded.
Didn’t matter.
I was too angry to care.
I gripped it, turned it over in my hand.
Thumb hovered over the contacts button.

Should I?
Should I really call Kartik?
Tell him I’m stuck in a lift?
That I came down when I wasn’t supposed to?
That I’ve been sitting for thirty minutes with this low-class watchman while my blouse is wide open and I’m sweating like a roasted vegetable?

I stared at the phone.
Blank screen.
No words coming to me.
No explanation that would make this situation sound even remotely sane.
My pride paused me.
My logic slapped me.
My blouse hung loose on my chest, breasts fully out beneath it, sweat trickling between them like silent proof.

I sighed.
And handed the phone back.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t meet his eyes.
Just pressed it into his hand and sat back again.
Leaning against the lift wall.
Letting my head fall lightly behind me.

Maybe this was written.
Maybe this was meant to happen.
This sweaty accident.
This silence.
This filthy half-exposure in front of a man I would never even look at in normal circumstances.

The heat still pressed down on my chest.
My stomach had started sweating again.
Even my waist, under the folds of the tucked saree, had begun to feel raw.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t retie anything.
Didn’t speak.

Let them come.
Let the electrician arrive or not.
Let this lift open to air or open to fire.
I didn’t care anymore.
I just sat there—blouse open, chest heaving, nipples tingling in the breeze of my own hand-fan, waiting.
Not for rescue.
But for release from this moment.

He had been quiet for a while.
But his body wasn’t.
I could see the way he sat—shoulders forward, arms tense, sweat dripping down his chest like it had somewhere to go.
His shirt was already open.
Clinging at the sides.
It was doing nothing now. Just sticking to him like a second skin that wanted to be peeled off.

Then he spoke.
Low.
Soft.
But it cut through the silence anyway.
“Madam…” he said, voice cautious, “can I… remove the shirt? It’s… very hot…”

I turned my head.
Looked straight at him.
No emotion.
Just irritation.
Just tiredness that had turned into sharp-edged sarcasm.
“Why not?” I snapped. “Remove the shirt. Remove the pant also. Remove your inner too.”
I leaned my head back slightly.
One eyebrow up.
“Be nude. Enjoy.”

He blinked.
Eyes wide.
Frozen.
Didn’t even move a finger after that.
I could see it.
The nervous twitch in his cheek.
The way his fingers gripped the fabric tighter—like I might actually mean it.
He was scared.
Not of me physically.
But of the line I had just thrown at him.

I sighed.
Long. Slow.
Not dramatic. Just tired of myself now.
That came out harsher than I meant.
He wasn’t trying to strip for pleasure.
He was burning too.
Just like me.

I turned my eyes away.
Stared toward the lift doors, where that thin line of light still glowed.
“Do what you want,” I muttered. “But if something brushes me while you move, I swear I’ll kill you.”
My tone wasn’t soft.
But it was honest.
Let him cool down.
Let him breathe.
Just don’t touch me.

He didn’t answer.
But a few seconds later, I heard it.
The quiet rustle of fabric.
Then the sound of a wet shirt being peeled off skin.
Slow.
Sticky.
Real.
He moved slowly—arms lifting, back curving as he pulled it up and off.
The shirt came free.
Dropped onto the floor near his feet.

He adjusted his trousers next.
Not removing them.
Just loosening the belt.
A faint metal clink.
Followed by the sound of elastic shifting under his waistband.
He sat back again.
Now fully topless.
Chest exposed.
Ribs moving.
Stomach rising with each breath.

I didn’t look.
But I saw.
From the corner of my eye.
From the space between us that had now become something more than tight.
Two bodies.
Almost bare.
One blouse hanging open.
One shirt tossed aside.
Sweat glistening.
Breath warming the same stale air.

But the rules were clear.
I didn’t care if he stripped down to nothing.
But he knew.
If anything touched me, it would be the last thing he touched today.

I sat back.
Breasts still bare under the parted blouse.
Legs still stretched, saree lifted.
My palm still fanning softly.
And now, across from me, he sat too—silent, topless, belt loose, eyes low.
Waiting.
Just like me

His phone rang.
That old, pathetic ringtone—the kind that sounded like it belonged in a house with plastic flowers and broken window latches.
He fumbled for it from his folded pants, still sitting shirtless, still sweating like a leaking pipe.
“Hello?” he said quickly.
He listened.
Nodded a couple of times.
“Ji… okay… yes… I’ll inform…”
He cut the call and turned toward me.
Face more serious now.
“Madam… they said transformer blast happened nearby…”

I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just waited.

He continued, softly.
“Because of that, the main cable for lift might be damaged… electrician will come… then only they will check.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
He swallowed.
“If lift stopped fully on one floor, they can open safely… but we’re stuck between second and third… so if they open by force… it’s risky…”
He paused.
His voice dropped even more.
“They said any wrong move can… maybe… hurt…”

I stared at him.
Not wide-eyed.
Not shocked.
Just still.
Silent.
For the first time, this wasn’t about embarrassment or heat.
It was about risk.
Real risk.
Stuck between two floors. Cable maybe damaged. Forceful rescue possibly dangerous.
Perfect.
Just perfect.

I leaned my head back slowly, eyes up toward the dead ceiling light, lips pressing tight.

So this is where I end up?
Half-naked in a metal box with a cheap security guard and no plan?

I didn’t say anything.
Not to him.
But deep inside, something shifted.
For just one second… I felt sorry for him.
Not sympathy.
Just a tiny, quiet regret.
He had taken every insult I threw at him.
Every sarcastic stab. Every rude word. Every “you fool, you waste”—everything.
He didn’t talk back.
He didn’t misbehave.
He didn’t even blink wrong.
And now, here we were.

Both of us sweating.
Both of us stripped down.
Both of us waiting for some unseen man to decide whether we live, die, or just rot in this sweatbox a little longer.

But I didn’t show anything on my face.
No softness.
No sorry.
Nothing.
I kept the same cold, dominant stare.
Same slightly raised chin.
Same relaxed body.

But inside?
Inside I was boiling.
Not just from heat.
But from a feeling I couldn’t name.
Something between shame and helplessness and filthy survival.

This lift… this stupid fucking lift…
Has turned into an oven.
An oven meant to cook me slowly… soften my skin… melt my blouse… steam my pride…
And finally… mix me with this sweaty fool.

I adjusted my elbow slightly.
Sweat had gathered in the crease again.
It slipped down, tracing the side of my bare breast like a drop of oil rolling off steel.
He didn’t speak again.
Just sat there.
Same spot.
Same silence.
Eyes not daring to rise.
Breath not daring to speed.
Smart.

Let him stay quiet.
Let him stew.
Let the lift become a pressure cooker.
And let it keep both of us trapped in this absurd, sticky, half-naked disaster of a scene.
Until someone decides to open it…
Or we both evaporate inside.

yazhiniram · 20-04-2025, 11:57 AM

Something had changed.
It was still dark.
Still lifeless.
Still hot.
But now… I could see.
Properly.
My eyes had finally adjusted.
That thin shaft of light between the lift doors? It was no longer just a blur.
Now, it was a source.
A guide.
It painted edges.
Revealed movement.
It traced along his shoulders, ran down his chest, curled around the corners of his belt.
I could see the shine of sweat on his stomach.
The way his shirtless body had gone still—not from control, but from helplessness.

And I knew something else.
If I could see him this clearly now?
Then he could see me too.

He hadn’t looked directly.
Not yet.
But he was aware.
He knew my blouse had been open.
He’d seen the loose folds slide over my breast earlier. Seen the gap widen with every breath.
He was waiting.
Not to pounce.
Just to be allowed to notice.

But my body wasn’t thinking about that.
It was thinking about the sweat pooling down my spine.
It had turned into a warm, sticky snake.
Rolling slow.
Settling in the lowest part of my back—right where skin meets saree.
That patch had started itching now.
Not lightly.
Not like a mosquito bite.
But deep.
Inside-the-skin itch.

I pressed my shoulder back.
Didn’t help.
I leaned sideways slightly.
Worse.
The blouse was soaked.
Too soaked.
It clung to my back like glue, like punishment.
I could feel the thread seams dig into my underarm. The collar line had turned stiff from salt and heat.
There was no escape inside it anymore.

I swallowed.
Lifted my hand.
And reached behind me.

My fingers curled into the fabric at my shoulder.
It was wet, warm, and thick.
Not soft anymore.
I pulled it forward.
First over my right arm.
The sleeve peeled down in slow motion, dragging across the inside of my elbow.
Then the left side.
That one stuck slightly before sliding loose.

Now the blouse was just hanging off my forearms.
I took it in both hands, lifted it gently, and dropped it on my lap.
It landed with a quiet, heavy fold.
Like a napkin soaked in tears.

I was now fully topless.
Not “hook open”.
Not “pallu fallen”.
No.
Just… open.
Chest bare.
Nipples free.
Breasts resting on their own.
My skin cooled instantly—but only on the front.
The rest of me still burned.

The sweat rolled under each breast again, outlining the underside like a line drawn by the heat itself.
They settled naturally now.
One slightly to the side. The other slightly forward.
Heavier than they had felt all day.
But finally unburdened.

I leaned forward just a little—to move the blouse from my lap and toss it aside.
And in that motion—
My arm swung wide.
CRACK.
My elbow hit something solid.
I heard a grunt.
I looked.
It was his head.

He flinched, and instinctively looked up.
His neck turned. Eyes rose.
And landed directly on my chest.

For the first second, he froze.
Then blinked.
Then froze again.

My nipples weren’t just out.
They were lit.
Not spotlight. But enough.
The faint glow between the doors had painted just enough lines on my chest to show shape, skin, sweat, and curve.

“Oi!” I snapped.
He jolted.
Head turned away immediately.
“I’ll knock your whole face next time,” I spat.
“No madam! Sorry madam… I didn’t… you hit—”
“I hit you, so you get gift in return? What logic is this?”
He shut up.
Eyes to the floor.
Hands gripped his thighs tightly.

I sat back again.
Didn’t pull cloth.
Didn’t cover.
Just sat.
Breasts out, nipples cooling, skin burning, pride intact.

Let him remember this sight.
Let it haunt him.
Not because it was for him.
But because it was never his to have.

The lift hadn’t moved.
Not a sound. Not a creak. Not even a shudder.
It felt like time had stopped here. Or worse, gotten stuck like us—between two floors, between two breaths, between two limits that were stretching thin.

Another few minutes passed.
Maybe two.
Maybe three.
It didn’t matter anymore.
All I knew was that we were still sitting in the same metal oven—me topless, him shirtless, and both of us too tired to pretend the air wasn’t weighing us down like stones on our chest.

Prakash sat across from me.
Back to the corner, knees bent.
His face was down, like always.
But his eyes?
I knew they weren’t fixed to the floor the whole time.

I let my head rest back.
Let my neck stretch and breathe a little.
My breasts hung freely in front of me now.
Loose.
Heavy.
Sweaty.
One droplet had just slipped across the right nipple and disappeared into the underside. It tickled. I didn’t move.

I glanced at him.
He still hadn’t spoken.
Still hadn’t looked again.
But that only made the silence worse.
So I broke it.
Voice flat.
“Where do you work before this?”
He blinked.
Then looked up slightly.
“Same job, madam… in Andheri, before coming here.”
“Wife?”
“Yes… she was also.”
“Then why No kids?”
“Married for ten years, madam… no kids. God is not showing us mercy”

I nodded slowly.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t respond.

He was trying to look at my face.
I noticed that.
Every time he replied, he looked only at my face.
But now and then…
His eyes flickered.
Just a glance.
Just one slide down—toward my neck, my chest, my stomach, maybe my thighs.
Then back up again.
He wasn’t bold.
He was just… human.

And me?
I wasn’t surprised.
I was aroused.
Not by him.
Not by this moment.
But by the way my own body felt.

I had been sitting like this for too long.
Topless.
Thighs bare.
Saree still high.
Back itching.
Nipples now fully awake.
Breasts swinging slightly with every breath.
The stale lift air, warm as it was, kept hitting all the open patches of my skin.
Every few seconds, it passed under my chest and across my stomach like an unwanted sigh.

And it was doing something.
Inside.
Below.
Behind the sweat.
Behind the irritation.
Behind the frustration.

A kind of pulse.
A kind of ache.

It wasn’t for Raj.
Not for Arjun.
Definitely not for Prakash.

It was just…
Me.
My own body.
My own skin.
My own blood boiling in its own steam.
And now?
It had started remembering.
Not love.
Not men.
Just need.

A need that had nothing to do with emotion.
No romance.
No poetry.
No memories.

Just flesh. Friction. Silence.
Just this horrible, sticky box filled with everything I hated.
And everything I couldn’t ignore anymore.

I closed my eyes for a second.
Took a slow breath.
Not deep. Not shallow.
Just enough to make my chest rise.
Enough to feel my breasts lift slightly, nipples tighten more.
Enough to let that stupid man in front of me notice it, whether he meant to or not.

But love?
No.
Never.

Kartik was my husband.
The only man I cared about.
The only one whose words stayed with me after the room went silent.
The only one whose absence mattered.
The only one my kids called Dad.

Everything else?
These eyes?
This wetness?
This ache?
Just body.
Just breath.
Just the most filthy, basic part of being alive.
And it had found me again. Here. Now.

With nothing on.
And no escape.

yazhiniram · 20-04-2025, 11:58 AM

Still no sound.
Still no power.
Still no fan.
The lift felt tighter now.
Not smaller. Just heavier.
Like every minute added weight to the air.
Weight that landed on my thighs, my hips, my butt, and refused to lift.

I was still topless.
Chest fully bare.
Blouse lying across my lap, soaked, now doubling as a pathetic little hand fan.
I lifted it slowly.
Fanned across my chest.
Then down to my stomach.
Then back again.
It didn’t help much.
But it gave me something to do.
Some movement to distract me from this hell of sweat and stillness.

Across from me, Prakash sat like a statue.
But I knew better.
I could feel his eyes.

He was watching.
Not constantly.
Not directly.
But the moment I looked away?
They moved.
From my chest to my navel.
From my stomach to my hip line.
From the edge of the saree, folded high, to the space between my bent knees.

I could see it.
The way his shoulders stiffened when my hand moved.
The way his breath hitched whenever my saree shifted on my thigh.

Part of me wanted to kick him in the face.
Right then.
Just to break his trance.
Just to remind him that this was not a free show.

But another part of me?
Didn’t care.
He couldn’t do anything.
Even if he wanted to.
He wouldn’t dare.

Let him watch.
Let him burn.
Let him see every inch of this body and then go home to his wife and lie about what happened.
He could soak his underwear for all I cared.
But he wouldn’t touch.
That, I knew.

What I did care about now—
Was the rest of me.

My top was fine.
Breasts free.
Skin breathing.
But the lower half?
It was dying.

The saree had been lifted for over twenty minutes now.
But it had folded into itself.
Petticoat beneath was stuck like second skin.
My thighs were practically steaming.
My butt—flattened against the lift floor—had started itching in places I couldn’t even reach.
Every shift sent waves of damp cotton rubbing into skin folds.
There was no air down there.
No relief.

What do I do now?
Pull the saree up higher?
Take off the petticoat?
Sit open-legged in front of this fool?

No.
Not yet.
Not unless I had no other option.

But I needed space.
I needed air.
I needed… something to change.

I looked at him.
Still down.
Still pretending not to look.
Still watching every inch of me from the corner of his filthy little eye.

“Stand up,” I said.
Firm.
Sharp.
No smile.
No explanation.

He blinked.
Didn’t move.
I repeated.
“Get up.”

He stood up awkwardly, knees stiff, like a man trying not to offend the floor he’d been sitting on too long. His shirtless body was soaked—darker patches staining his chest and the sides of his stomach, the curve of his back glistening under the narrow slit of lift light that made everything feel more exposed than it should.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
Just looked down at the floor, arms limp, feet slightly apart.
But the smell?
The smell was worse now that he was upright.
His shirt had been holding it down. Now it was in the air.
Raw.
Damp.
Male.
Sour.
The lift wasn’t big enough to contain it. This 4-by-3-foot metal trap had turned into a steam pot, and his scent was boiling with it.

“God, Prakash,” I muttered, eyes still on the corner, not even turning to face him properly. “You’re stinking up this entire box.”
He stayed quiet.
“I don’t know what’s worse—the heat or your sweat.”
Still nothing.
I fanned my face slowly with my wet blouse, already half-dry now just from this cursed oven’s heat.
Then I glanced up at him—slowly.

“If you want, remove your pant,” I said flatly. “Wipe yourself. At least save the rest of the air.”
He blinked, finally reacting, his face slightly confused.
“Madam?” he said softly. “That’s not… I mean… I can manage…”
“Oh really?” I turned fully now, lifting my hand from the floor to prop myself against the wall behind me. My bare breasts shifted freely as I moved, no cloth, no shame—just my skin breathing, rising, tired.
“Does it look like you’re managing?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Tried to smile politely, but his face twitched nervously.
He looked like a boy who knew the correct answer but was too scared to write it on the exam paper.

“Look at yourself,” I said sharply. “Your pant is glued to your thighs. You’re sweating through every seam. You smell like a broken pipe in summer. You want to faint here or what?”
“No madam, I just thought… it's not right…”
“Nothing is right here,” I snapped. “We’re locked in a broken lift, half-naked, sweating like animals. You think right and wrong still matter?”
He swallowed.
Eyes low.
Still hesitant.
His fingers went to his waistband but stopped again.
I saw it.
That small fake confusion on his face.
Like he was still waiting for permission.
Still trying to keep the “good man” act alive.
But I wasn’t here for his image.
I didn’t care what he thought this meant.

“This is not for fun,” I said, voice calmer now, but firmer. “I’m not playing games with you. You’re standing here, reeking in front of me, and I’m the one who has to breathe it in.”
He finally nodded once.
Not like he agreed.
Just like he accepted there was no escape.

His hands moved slowly to his belt.
The soft clink of the buckle echoed louder than it should have in the tight space.
He unhooked the clasp, then slowly drew down the zip.
The teeth separated with a quiet hiss.
The waistband loosened instantly.
He held it there for a second, still not pulling.
Still pretending to be unsure.
But the trousers were already sagging slightly, exposing the inner lining, the waist of his dull, cheap brief underneath.

I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
I watched.
Not with lust.
Not even with curiosity.
Just to make sure he did exactly what I told him.

Let him sweat.
Let him strip.
Let him try to act shy.
Because at the end of the day, he was just one more thing inside this hot, sticky box that I needed out of my way.

He finally did it.
His fingers fumbled for just a second at his belt buckle, and then the dull metal clinked open with a soft jangle. The sound was nothing — barely loud enough to hear — but in the tight silence of that suffocating lift, it landed like a switch had been flipped.
I didn’t look away.
Not because I was curious.
Not because I was aroused.
Just because I wanted him to know — if he was going to do this, I’d see every inch of it.

He unhooked the front clasp of the pant, then pinched the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, dragging it down slowly. The zip opened with that familiar gritty sound, soft but sharp — a sound every woman recognises when it’s done in front of her. His pants sagged at the waist almost immediately, but still hung on because his thighs were stiff and still.
His hands hesitated.
Just for a second.
But I saw it.
He looked down, pretending to check something — maybe his footing, maybe acting like he was still unsure.
But he wasn’t.
I knew what he was doing.
He was soaking in the moment.
Pretending to be innocent, humble, shy — all while fully aware that he was stripping down in front of a woman who wasn’t stopping him.

I watched the fabric start to fall, the dull olive-grey pants slowly sliding down over his hips, revealing more of his brief waistband. The elastic had faded and curled slightly, like it had been worn too many times without enough care. Once the pant slipped past his thighs, it collapsed fast, bunching at his ankles, gathering around his worn chappals.
But he didn’t remove it yet.
He stood there, pants pooled around his feet, just waiting — as if I was supposed to react, say something, stop him, flinch.
I didn’t.
I just sat there, topless, breasts out, blouse tossed to the corner, fanning my chest with my palm, staring straight at him like I was looking through him.

Finally, he bent down.
His back curved, fingers reached for the pant cuffs.
He stepped out — right leg first, slowly, carefully, like he was trying not to fall.
Then left leg — lifted it a little, pulled the pant off fully, and tossed it aside without meeting my eyes.
Now he was just in his underwear.
And that too — barely holding him in.

The bulge was obvious.
Full.
Heavy.
Clearly pressed forward against the front of his brief, enough that the outline had made its own shape — stretched fabric in the front, seams pulled tight along the base, the cotton clinging wet from sweat and pressure.
He immediately placed his right hand over it — like he could hide it after all that.

I looked at him.
Then at the bulge.
Then back up again.
And spoke without blinking:
“Ah, there it is.”
He flinched slightly.
“Now I know what kind of drama you were playing all this while.”
He stayed quiet.
Pretending to be embarrassed.
But the curve of his lips gave him away.
A micro-smile.
Almost nothing.
But I saw it.

“You’re standing there pretending like I asked you to strip at gunpoint,” I muttered. “But you’ve been waiting for this since the lift stopped.”
He opened his mouth — maybe to defend, maybe to apologise — but nothing came out.
Just shallow breath.
Still holding that stupid bulge like a collegeboy.

“That brief is too small,” I said. “And I can still smell you.”
He blinked again.
“Remove it,” I said. “Throw it aside. Wipe yourself.”
“Madam… I can clean over it,” he replied, voice small, like he was offering a compromise.
“Don’t act,” I shot back. “Do it.”

He hesitated again.
But his hand moved.
Left hand resting at the waistband.
Then the right.
He curled his fingers under the elastic, looking up at me — eyes not begging, but asking.
As if he wanted me to give him that one last word to make it real.

“You really want me to… remove this too?” he asked, voice low.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe deep.
Didn’t adjust.
I just said:
“Yes. Remove it.”

And he stood there, still holding the brief at the sides, not pulling yet.
Just standing there.
Inner half-down.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Watching me.
Like a man who knew he’d never forget this moment — because he was finally getting stripped by order, not invitation.

Hotyyhard · 20-04-2025, 01:16 PM

dude ur really making readers sit at edge of their seats

sexypreeti · 20-04-2025, 02:06 PM

Very Erotic narration clp); clp); clp);

Keep it up :)

Sage_69 · 20-04-2025, 04:15 PM

The story is keeping it on the edge from the first chapter. I feel the need of some action.

hotandluking · 20-04-2025, 06:11 PM

Let this story be one between my boy Prakash and the woman.
Dump that neighbour "Anna" fuckface,his character is boring.

Hotyyhard · 20-04-2025, 06:48 PM

no bro writer is slowly building up with 3 characters she will enjoy with all of them

yazhiniram

The silence inside the lift had turned thick enough to chew.
That slow, unbearable type where even a breath felt too loud, where even the rustling of skin against wet cotton sounded like a scream. The small LED light in the lift had gone out long back, and the only visibility left was that narrow sliver of white glowing between the lift doors—a soft strip of backlight from the corridor, painting our sweat-drenched bodies in quiet shadow.
But my eyes had long adjusted.
And in that shadow, I could see everything.

Prakash was standing in front of me, bare from the waist up, skin slick, ribs moving under each breath, belt and trousers already thrown to one side. He stood with his thumbs curled inside the waistband of that final piece of cloth—his brief. That cheap, faded innerwear that now barely held its shape and even less dignity.
I sat on the floor opposite him, blouse long gone, breasts out in the open, nipples barely dry from the airless heat. My saree was still covering my lower body, but nothing about me was covered anymore—not from his eyes, and not from my own shame.
He glanced at me once.
Our eyes met.
No words.
No questions.
And I didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t nod.
Just waited.

And that’s when his fingers moved.

The way he peeled the elastic band down—slow, like he was scared it would bite him—made it worse. His hips flinched as the waistband dragged over the upper crease of his skin. The cloth, soaked with sweat, clung slightly near the sides, needing that extra tug. I could hear it too—that soft, sticky pull of wet cotton separating from damp thighs.
He bent forward just a little, enough to tilt the elastic over the top of his cock.
Then it happened.

It jumped.
Clean out.
Like it had been coiled inside a trap and the spring had snapped.
It didn’t fall. It rose—hard, full, pointed toward the ceiling in a forward arch that looked way too aggressive for a man who had been pretending to be shy all this time.

My eyes didn’t leave it.
I saw it clearly—even in half-darkness.
That thing wasn’t just big.
It was… off.
Too big for his frame.
Too thick for his legs.
Too… full.
And angry.

His skin was a mess of sweat and dull brown patches, normal build, no shine, no tone. A regular man. A 35+ watchman who eats leftover chapati and smokes near the gate.
But this?
This thick, veiny, wide-rooted cock didn’t belong to someone like him.
It curved slightly upward, not clean, not smooth — but heavy. The head was a darker brown, the shaft covered in thick, lumpy veins that didn’t even try to hide. It pulsed once, lightly. I saw it.
My stomach didn’t twist.
But my pussy did.

And I hated it.

Kartik had never made me feel like this. He was normal. Respectable. Five inches when fully ready, sometimes more—but nothing wild. Enough to finish. Enough to fill. Enough to keep life normal.
But this?
This looked like it could make someone forget their own name.
I didn’t want to think it, but my body was already betraying me.
The dull ache below my navel had returned. A slow, ticklish pressure in the exact centre of my folds, where my petticoat had been pressing for the last half hour. I could feel it now—wet, not from sweat alone, but from arousal.
But I didn’t react.

He bent again—quietly—and pulled one leg free from the inner.
Left first.
Then slowly shifted balance and pulled out the right.
Now he was standing completely naked.
Not even a thread left.
Arms by his side, legs slightly apart, chest heaving, sweat still dripping from the curve of his back.
And between his thighs?
That thing.
Long. Firm. Naked.
His cock stood like a warning, not a request.

He didn’t try to hide it.
But I saw his fingers twitch—like part of him still wanted to cover, even now.
And that’s when I gave him the look.
One single, cold, mocking glare.
He got the message.
Didn’t dare move.

And I smirked — not because I was impressed.
Because I was ready to cut the pride off it.

“What is this now?” I said, voice sharper, still low. “Standing like a temple statue, haan? Arms loose, dick pointing to heaven like it wants to pray?”
He blinked, confused.
I leaned slightly forward, my breasts shifting naturally with the motion, and narrowed my eyes at his cock.
“It's not a sword, Prakash. Don’t stand like it’s about to save the country.”
His breath hitched.
I didn’t let up.
“You look like a man made of sweat and dust. That thing doesn’t make you king. It just makes the heat worse.”

I could see his throat bob once.
And still, his cock stayed.
Stood.
Pointing like it had something to prove.

I exhaled, calm as ever, my chest rising again, nipples lightly brushing air.
And then I muttered, low and flat:
“Big or not… it still stinks.”
I flicked my fingers toward the side.
“Wipe yourself. And don’t even think of standing so close. You’re not a showpiece.”

He didn’t reply.
Didn’t sit.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, cock hard, body steaming, and breath heavy.

Let him stand.
Let him burn.
Because I wasn’t done breaking his pride yet.
And my pussy?
That could wait its turn.

He shifted.
His bare feet moved slightly over the lift floor, still wet in patches from his own sweat. For a second I thought he was going to lean against the wall again, but then I realised—he was planning to sit.
Right there.
Next to me.
Not too close, but still close enough that I could feel the air change.
His knees bent slowly. His arms hovered like he didn’t know where to place them. His eyes?
That’s what gave him away.

They weren’t staying on the floor anymore.
He tried to be clever—head tilted down, but those eyeballs… moving.
First toward my chest. Then a flick toward my lap. Then down my thighs, where the saree still sat high, damp, clinging.
I saw the exact moment it happened.
I was watching his face, his lips slightly parted, and those filthy, hungry eyes started scanning without shame.

That was enough.

“Oye!” I snapped, voice cutting sharp like a slap.
He flinched hard.
“If you roll your eyeballs once more, I swear I’ll pull them out with my fingernails and throw them to the street dogs.”
“Madam… I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t?” I spat. “Then tell me what you were seeing between my legs? My petticoat colour?”
He shut up immediately.
Looked down.
Good.

Still topless, still sweating, I leaned slightly, picked up my crumpled, soaked blouse from beside me. The cloth had dried at the corners but still held that sticky weight of sweat around the chest area. I held it for a second — looked straight at him — and tossed it hard.
It landed exactly where I wanted.
Right on his cock.

The sudden hit made him flinch again.
The soft slap of cotton over skin echoed in the quiet metal box.
He looked down, stunned, then slowly lifted the blouse off — careful, like he was handling some holy cloth.

“Wipe it,” I said, cold.
“Your cock. Your balls. All of it. Clean it properly.”
He blinked. “Madam—”
“What? Need Dettol? You think you’re standing in some beauty parlour? That blouse is already full of sweat — now use it. Clean that proudly standing thing you’re showing off.”
He looked down.
Still hesitant.
But his hand moved.
Blouse in one hand, he brought it to his cock.
Started wiping.
Slow strokes, like he didn’t know how to do it.

It was disgusting.
And I watched every second.

He wiped along the shaft first, the tip folding slightly as the cloth rubbed. Then underneath, near the base. His fingers hesitated every time the cloth touched skin — like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed to feel good or not.
And the cock?
It didn’t go down.
It stood harder.
Like it liked the attention.
Like it wanted to be seen.

I leaned back and let out a dry, sharp laugh.
“What’s this, haan?” I mocked. “You’re rubbing it and it’s still standing like a pole in village bus stop?”
He looked embarrassed.
More than before.
And that’s what I wanted.

“You’re standing here, naked, wiping your dick with a blouse, and it still thinks it’s king?”
He looked away.
“I’ve seen better, Prakash. And I’ve smelled better.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t dare.
Just kept wiping.
And I just sat there — sweaty, half-nude, hungry, and in control.
Watching this naked man clean his cock like it was his first job.

Let it stand.
Let it throb.
Because when it came to this moment?
Only one thing was really standing tall.
Me.

Even after all that wiping, after using the blouse like a rag on his filthy skin, the smell hadn’t gone.
It still hung in the air — thick, sour, trapped in the corners of the lift like old kitchen smoke. Every time I inhaled, it hit me again. And my head, already boiling from the heat, started to pulse with irritation.
I couldn’t take it anymore.

Without saying anything, I pushed myself off the floor and stood up.
My legs were stiff. My knees cracked faintly. My pallu was already useless — put limp down the side, hanging halfway from my shoulder. When I stood, it slipped off completely, falling behind me like a curtain peeling off a broken rod.
Now I was fully up.
Bare-breasted.
Sweaty.
Saree still tied at the hip, but loose — so loose it was almost asking to fall next.

Prakash looked up the moment I rose.
His eyes, stupid and slow, went straight to my chest.
He didn’t even pretend this time.
Didn’t do that side-glance trick.
He just stared — open, full.
The same cock that had just been wiped with my blouse gave a slow twitch.

I turned and looked at him.
No smile.
No scold.
Just a cold, annoyed glare.
A fake anger — not real, but just enough to let him know I saw it.
He looked away quickly.
Too late.

I bent slightly, reached behind my waist, and grabbed the folded part of my saree where I had tucked it in earlier. The fabric was wet, sticking to my back. I tugged.
It didn’t come in one pull.
I tugged again, harder.
And that’s when I lost balance.
The cloth slipped from my fingers, slid down, and fell on the floor with a dull, wet slap.

I cursed under my breath.
Bent again, this time lower.
Hair falling forward.
My breasts swung slightly with the motion.
The sweat between them had dried, now it started dripping again.

I grabbed the fallen saree.
Clenched it in my fist.
Stood back up.
Looked at him again.
He was still watching.
Head tilted slightly like a kid waiting for punishment.

Without thinking twice, I flung the saree straight at his face.
It hit his cheek, half-covered his eyes, then slipped down onto his shoulder.
He jumped back slightly, startled.

“Use this,” I said sharply. “Blouse is not enough for your stink. Clean your sweat properly. All of it.”
He caught the saree, looked at it like he didn’t know how to use it.
But I didn’t give him time to pretend.
“Back. Neck. Arms. Cock. Everything. Don’t leave one patch. I’m already dying in this box—you don’t have to make it worse.”

He nodded fast.
Started wiping.
The saree was bigger, heavier, fully soaked in places. It clung to his hands as he ran it across his chest, over his shoulders, down to his arms. He turned slightly, reached behind to clean his back. Then down his thighs, calves.
I watched.
Still standing.
Still bare on top.
Arms folded.
Eyes sharp.
My body was burning—but my control hadn’t melted yet.

Then his hand paused.
A vibration.
His other hand went to the floor near his discarded pant — his old, cracked feature phone lit up in the dark with a harsh green glow.
Someone was calling.
He stared at the screen.
And everything in that moment froze.

He cut the call and held the phone for a second like he didn’t know what to do with it.
I was standing near the left side of the lift, chest exposed, arms loosely crossed under my breasts, petticoat tied tightly around my waist, sweat dripping down my back like a slow, itchy punishment. My body wasn’t screaming anymore — it had moved past that. Now it was just waiting to collapse.

He finally looked at me.
“They said… electrician not yet arrived,” he muttered. “But they’re trying to shift the power line. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe not.”
I didn’t respond.
Just kept my eyes fixed on him.
“They told me…” he hesitated, “if the lift jerks, someone should hold the rail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Someone?”
He nodded.
“Then go. Hold it. Maybe if you grip tight enough, it’ll start flying.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t answer.
He just reached up to his shoulder, slowly peeled the saree off — the same one I had thrown at him, the same one he used to cover himself during the phone call. He folded it slowly, hands still shaky, then bent slightly and placed it on the cardboard box like he was handling something fragile.
Now he was fully nude again.
Skin slick with sweat.
Cock hanging thick, still heavy, not hard, but not soft either.
His back was to the right wall.
He grabbed the metal lift bar with both hands, right corner secured.

And me?
I stood quietly.
My feet were sticking to the lift floor now.
I turned slightly, reached for the left-side rail, and wrapped my fingers around it.
Cool metal. Sweaty palm.
Even that contact felt like relief.

Now we were both holding.
Me, left side.
Him, right side.
Two bodies pressed against hot steel.
Both topless.
Both breathless.
Both trapped in the same square of stale air.

He didn’t look at me anymore.
I didn’t look at him either.
But the box between us held more than just his folded saree.
It held the silence. The smell. The heat. The heavy weight of what hadn’t been said — and what couldn’t be taken back if it ever slipped out.

Let them fix the power.
Let them connect whatever line they want.
Right now?
Nothing was working.
Not the fan.
Not the light.
Not even my control.

Minutes passed.
Real minutes.
Not fast ones.
Not blinking time.
But dragging, burning, minute-by-minute silence.
I was gripping the left-side rail, half my weight leaning on it, while sweat ran down the small of my back like a thin line of hot oil.
Prakash stood opposite — hands on the right bar, legs slightly apart, skin fully exposed, and still pretending he had nothing left to see.
Liar.

His eyes were scanning again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
They started from my face, then lowered, paused at my bare breasts — nipples hardened now not from pleasure but from heat and constant air rubbing — and then drifted downward across my stomach to my thighs.
His cock, hanging loose till now, had started to swell again.
The skin tightened.
The base firmed.
And within seconds, that stupid thing stood fully upright again — as if it had heard some silent drum roll.

I didn’t wait.
I snapped.

“What is this again now?” I spat, my voice louder than before.
His head jerked up.
“You're standing there shamelessly staring like you're the only one with eyes! Why is it standing again, haan? For what?! For whom?!”
He quickly looked down, cheeks red in the dim light.
“Sorry madam… I didn’t mean…”
I scoffed.
“Didn’t mean?” I hissed. “Your cock has its own mind, or what? Even it’s more jobless than you?”
He didn’t reply.
Stared at the floor.
Hands gripping tighter.
But I?
I had already betrayed myself.

My eyes dropped to it.
That hard, angry, throbbing thing that looked like it belonged to someone else.
And I stared.
Not long.
Not openly.
But enough.
Long enough to make my pussy pulse — and worse, leak.
I could feel it now.
Between my thighs.
The stickiness turning into a wet slide, a heat that no longer felt like sweat.
It was coming from inside.
And I hated it.

I took a breath. Shaky. Rough.
“This is useless,” I muttered. “This box. This waiting. Everything. I'm burning. I need water. I'm not made for this heat.”
My hand started to slip off the bar.
I turned my head toward him.
“Call again,” I ordered. “Check the status. If they don’t—”

Click. Whir. Clunk.
The lift moved.

Without a single warning, the entire metal box jerked upward.
I had just let go.
My feet hadn’t reset.
My legs were shaky.
And in the exact moment it jolted, my balance broke.

I stumbled forward.
Straight across the box.
The cardboard between us pushed aside slightly by my foot.
My body lunged forward, hands flailing—
And my chin slammed directly into his cock.

Soft at first.
Then full contact.
My chin bone hit the underside of it.
My lower lip brushed the shaft.
And by reflex — my face turned slightly, as my chin wrapped under the full thickness of it like a shelf.
I froze.
He froze.
No sound.
No breath.
Just heat.
His cock… pulsing.
My mouth… inches from it.
And my body?
Leaking. Trembling. Burning.

I pulled back.
Slowly.
No scream.
No shout.
Just a quiet, stiff movement of my neck — as I lifted my face off his cock.
His shaft had pressed up against my chin, the base sliding along my lower cheek, and now as I rose, I could still feel a thin layer of his body heat lingering on my skin like shame.
I didn’t look up at him.
Didn’t want to.
Couldn’t.

He hadn’t moved.
Not one inch.
Still standing, both hands gripping the lift rail, fully nude, fully still.
His cock had twitched once, I felt it — but now it just stood there, semi-rigid, pulsing quietly in the warm lift air.

Then the lift started moving.
There was no button pressed.
No beep.
No voice.
Just that sudden upward shift — a motor groaning back to life beneath us.
I flinched again, my knees buckling slightly.
And without even thinking, I reached out.
My right hand landed directly on his thigh.

Not on cloth.
Not on skin behind cloth.
Just bare, damp skin — soft muscle, tight and sticky from sweat, still trembling slightly from whatever the hell we were both going through.
I used his leg for balance.
Fingers pressing into the top of his thigh, just inches away from where I’d just had my jaw.
I pushed up.
Stood.
Stepped back.
And without looking him in the eyes, I snapped:
“Idiot… even standing like a pole, you couldn’t hold me?”

He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t even flinch.
He just stood there, arms still stretched, eyes looking straight ahead, like he wasn’t sure this was even real anymore.

Then—
Flick.
A single flash.
The lift light flickered back to life.
Soft LED glow, white and clean.
Fan started spinning again.
Slow. Useless. But there.
And now?
Everything was visible.

I stood near the left wall — chest completely bare, nipples stiff, sweat still shining across the top of my breasts. My petticoat was loose, clinging, nearly undone near the waist.
My body was open.
Shown.
Lit.
And he?
Was standing in front of me — fully naked, cock hanging half-hard, chest damp, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.
His eyes were on me.
Wide.
Frozen.

And mine?
On him.
Neither of us spoke.
Because in that second, words didn’t matter.
The silence was hotter than anything we’d touched.

He was still holding the rail.
Still naked.
Still trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking.
But I saw it.
Again.
That slow roll of his eyes up my body — not even subtle anymore. He had looked at my breasts before. At my thighs. At the sweat dripping between them.
But now?
He was comparing.
His face gave it away.
That distant, absent look men have when they’re not just staring — they’re imagining.
Visualising.

That was it.
I snapped.

“What the hell are you looking at now?”
He flinched.
“What?! Comparing me with your wife or what? Standing here naked, you think I’ll melt for that ugly thing you’re holding between your legs?”
He opened his mouth — maybe to deny, maybe to beg.
I didn’t let him.
“One more look — I swear I’ll pull your eyes out, roll them in atta, and fry them on a tawa!”
He blinked, stepped back slightly, but I stepped forward.
One finger pointed straight at his cock.
“And that? That dirty dong? I’ll cut it, throw it on the road, let the street dogs fight over it!”
He looked like he might faint.
I didn't care.

I exhaled, roughly.
Wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
Then I pointed down.
“Give me the blouse. Now.”
He bent, picked it up from where it lay — still damp, half-folded.
Handed it to me silently, head lowered.
I snatched it from his hand, shoved it under my arm.
Then pointed to the saree lying folded on the box.
“And saree. Fold properly and give.”
He did.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look.
Just folded it neatly, handed it over like a collegeboy returning a punishment note.
I held the saree in one hand, slapped the blouse over it, and turned to the lift panel.
Pressed 7.
The button glowed.
The lift jolted slightly.
Then slowly — finally — it started moving upward.

I didn’t wear the blouse.
Didn’t have energy.
Didn’t care.
I put the saree over my shoulder, loosely covering my chest — half stuck to my skin, half sliding off.
The blouse stayed under my arm.
I stood near the panel.
He stood opposite, pulling up his brief, then pants.
Still not meeting my eyes.

We said nothing.
Not one word.
But the air between us?
Still hot.
Still filthy.
Still full of things that didn’t happen — but almost did.

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