18-04-2025, 11:35 AM
(This post was last modified: 18-04-2025, 11:35 AM by yazhiniram. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
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.
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.
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