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.
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.
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