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.
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.
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