20-04-2025, 11:57 AM
Something had changed.
It was still dark.
Still lifeless.
Still hot.
But now… I could see.
Properly.
My eyes had finally adjusted.
That thin shaft of light between the lift doors? It was no longer just a blur.
Now, it was a source.
A guide.
It painted edges.
Revealed movement.
It traced along his shoulders, ran down his chest, curled around the corners of his belt.
I could see the shine of sweat on his stomach.
The way his shirtless body had gone still—not from control, but from helplessness.
And I knew something else.
If I could see him this clearly now?
Then he could see me too.
He hadn’t looked directly.
Not yet.
But he was aware.
He knew my blouse had been open.
He’d seen the loose folds slide over my breast earlier. Seen the gap widen with every breath.
He was waiting.
Not to pounce.
Just to be allowed to notice.
But my body wasn’t thinking about that.
It was thinking about the sweat pooling down my spine.
It had turned into a warm, sticky snake.
Rolling slow.
Settling in the lowest part of my back—right where skin meets saree.
That patch had started itching now.
Not lightly.
Not like a mosquito bite.
But deep.
Inside-the-skin itch.
I pressed my shoulder back.
Didn’t help.
I leaned sideways slightly.
Worse.
The blouse was soaked.
Too soaked.
It clung to my back like glue, like punishment.
I could feel the thread seams dig into my underarm. The collar line had turned stiff from salt and heat.
There was no escape inside it anymore.
I swallowed.
Lifted my hand.
And reached behind me.
My fingers curled into the fabric at my shoulder.
It was wet, warm, and thick.
Not soft anymore.
I pulled it forward.
First over my right arm.
The sleeve peeled down in slow motion, dragging across the inside of my elbow.
Then the left side.
That one stuck slightly before sliding loose.
Now the blouse was just hanging off my forearms.
I took it in both hands, lifted it gently, and dropped it on my lap.
It landed with a quiet, heavy fold.
Like a napkin soaked in tears.
I was now fully topless.
Not “hook open”.
Not “pallu fallen”.
No.
Just… open.
Chest bare.
Nipples free.
Breasts resting on their own.
My skin cooled instantly—but only on the front.
The rest of me still burned.
The sweat rolled under each breast again, outlining the underside like a line drawn by the heat itself.
They settled naturally now.
One slightly to the side. The other slightly forward.
Heavier than they had felt all day.
But finally unburdened.
I leaned forward just a little—to move the blouse from my lap and toss it aside.
And in that motion—
My arm swung wide.
CRACK.
My elbow hit something solid.
I heard a grunt.
I looked.
It was his head.
He flinched, and instinctively looked up.
His neck turned. Eyes rose.
And landed directly on my chest.
For the first second, he froze.
Then blinked.
Then froze again.
My nipples weren’t just out.
They were lit.
Not spotlight. But enough.
The faint glow between the doors had painted just enough lines on my chest to show shape, skin, sweat, and curve.
“Oi!” I snapped.
He jolted.
Head turned away immediately.
“I’ll knock your whole face next time,” I spat.
“No madam! Sorry madam… I didn’t… you hit—”
“I hit you, so you get gift in return? What logic is this?”
He shut up.
Eyes to the floor.
Hands gripped his thighs tightly.
I sat back again.
Didn’t pull cloth.
Didn’t cover.
Just sat.
Breasts out, nipples cooling, skin burning, pride intact.
Let him remember this sight.
Let it haunt him.
Not because it was for him.
But because it was never his to have.
The lift hadn’t moved.
Not a sound. Not a creak. Not even a shudder.
It felt like time had stopped here. Or worse, gotten stuck like us—between two floors, between two breaths, between two limits that were stretching thin.
Another few minutes passed.
Maybe two.
Maybe three.
It didn’t matter anymore.
All I knew was that we were still sitting in the same metal oven—me topless, him shirtless, and both of us too tired to pretend the air wasn’t weighing us down like stones on our chest.
Prakash sat across from me.
Back to the corner, knees bent.
His face was down, like always.
But his eyes?
I knew they weren’t fixed to the floor the whole time.
I let my head rest back.
Let my neck stretch and breathe a little.
My breasts hung freely in front of me now.
Loose.
Heavy.
Sweaty.
One droplet had just slipped across the right nipple and disappeared into the underside. It tickled. I didn’t move.
I glanced at him.
He still hadn’t spoken.
Still hadn’t looked again.
But that only made the silence worse.
So I broke it.
Voice flat.
“Where do you work before this?”
He blinked.
Then looked up slightly.
“Same job, madam… in Andheri, before coming here.”
“Wife?”
“Yes… she was also.”
“Then why No kids?”
“Married for ten years, madam… no kids. God is not showing us mercy”
I nodded slowly.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t respond.
He was trying to look at my face.
I noticed that.
Every time he replied, he looked only at my face.
But now and then…
His eyes flickered.
Just a glance.
Just one slide down—toward my neck, my chest, my stomach, maybe my thighs.
Then back up again.
He wasn’t bold.
He was just… human.
And me?
I wasn’t surprised.
I was aroused.
Not by him.
Not by this moment.
But by the way my own body felt.
I had been sitting like this for too long.
Topless.
Thighs bare.
Saree still high.
Back itching.
Nipples now fully awake.
Breasts swinging slightly with every breath.
The stale lift air, warm as it was, kept hitting all the open patches of my skin.
Every few seconds, it passed under my chest and across my stomach like an unwanted sigh.
And it was doing something.
Inside.
Below.
Behind the sweat.
Behind the irritation.
Behind the frustration.
A kind of pulse.
A kind of ache.
It wasn’t for Raj.
Not for Arjun.
Definitely not for Prakash.
It was just…
Me.
My own body.
My own skin.
My own blood boiling in its own steam.
And now?
It had started remembering.
Not love.
Not men.
Just need.
A need that had nothing to do with emotion.
No romance.
No poetry.
No memories.
Just flesh. Friction. Silence.
Just this horrible, sticky box filled with everything I hated.
And everything I couldn’t ignore anymore.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Took a slow breath.
Not deep. Not shallow.
Just enough to make my chest rise.
Enough to feel my breasts lift slightly, nipples tighten more.
Enough to let that stupid man in front of me notice it, whether he meant to or not.
But love?
No.
Never.
Kartik was my husband.
The only man I cared about.
The only one whose words stayed with me after the room went silent.
The only one whose absence mattered.
The only one my kids called Dad.
Everything else?
These eyes?
This wetness?
This ache?
Just body.
Just breath.
Just the most filthy, basic part of being alive.
And it had found me again. Here. Now.
With nothing on.
And no escape.
It was still dark.
Still lifeless.
Still hot.
But now… I could see.
Properly.
My eyes had finally adjusted.
That thin shaft of light between the lift doors? It was no longer just a blur.
Now, it was a source.
A guide.
It painted edges.
Revealed movement.
It traced along his shoulders, ran down his chest, curled around the corners of his belt.
I could see the shine of sweat on his stomach.
The way his shirtless body had gone still—not from control, but from helplessness.
And I knew something else.
If I could see him this clearly now?
Then he could see me too.
He hadn’t looked directly.
Not yet.
But he was aware.
He knew my blouse had been open.
He’d seen the loose folds slide over my breast earlier. Seen the gap widen with every breath.
He was waiting.
Not to pounce.
Just to be allowed to notice.
But my body wasn’t thinking about that.
It was thinking about the sweat pooling down my spine.
It had turned into a warm, sticky snake.
Rolling slow.
Settling in the lowest part of my back—right where skin meets saree.
That patch had started itching now.
Not lightly.
Not like a mosquito bite.
But deep.
Inside-the-skin itch.
I pressed my shoulder back.
Didn’t help.
I leaned sideways slightly.
Worse.
The blouse was soaked.
Too soaked.
It clung to my back like glue, like punishment.
I could feel the thread seams dig into my underarm. The collar line had turned stiff from salt and heat.
There was no escape inside it anymore.
I swallowed.
Lifted my hand.
And reached behind me.
My fingers curled into the fabric at my shoulder.
It was wet, warm, and thick.
Not soft anymore.
I pulled it forward.
First over my right arm.
The sleeve peeled down in slow motion, dragging across the inside of my elbow.
Then the left side.
That one stuck slightly before sliding loose.
Now the blouse was just hanging off my forearms.
I took it in both hands, lifted it gently, and dropped it on my lap.
It landed with a quiet, heavy fold.
Like a napkin soaked in tears.
I was now fully topless.
Not “hook open”.
Not “pallu fallen”.
No.
Just… open.
Chest bare.
Nipples free.
Breasts resting on their own.
My skin cooled instantly—but only on the front.
The rest of me still burned.
The sweat rolled under each breast again, outlining the underside like a line drawn by the heat itself.
They settled naturally now.
One slightly to the side. The other slightly forward.
Heavier than they had felt all day.
But finally unburdened.
I leaned forward just a little—to move the blouse from my lap and toss it aside.
And in that motion—
My arm swung wide.
CRACK.
My elbow hit something solid.
I heard a grunt.
I looked.
It was his head.
He flinched, and instinctively looked up.
His neck turned. Eyes rose.
And landed directly on my chest.
For the first second, he froze.
Then blinked.
Then froze again.
My nipples weren’t just out.
They were lit.
Not spotlight. But enough.
The faint glow between the doors had painted just enough lines on my chest to show shape, skin, sweat, and curve.
“Oi!” I snapped.
He jolted.
Head turned away immediately.
“I’ll knock your whole face next time,” I spat.
“No madam! Sorry madam… I didn’t… you hit—”
“I hit you, so you get gift in return? What logic is this?”
He shut up.
Eyes to the floor.
Hands gripped his thighs tightly.
I sat back again.
Didn’t pull cloth.
Didn’t cover.
Just sat.
Breasts out, nipples cooling, skin burning, pride intact.
Let him remember this sight.
Let it haunt him.
Not because it was for him.
But because it was never his to have.
The lift hadn’t moved.
Not a sound. Not a creak. Not even a shudder.
It felt like time had stopped here. Or worse, gotten stuck like us—between two floors, between two breaths, between two limits that were stretching thin.
Another few minutes passed.
Maybe two.
Maybe three.
It didn’t matter anymore.
All I knew was that we were still sitting in the same metal oven—me topless, him shirtless, and both of us too tired to pretend the air wasn’t weighing us down like stones on our chest.
Prakash sat across from me.
Back to the corner, knees bent.
His face was down, like always.
But his eyes?
I knew they weren’t fixed to the floor the whole time.
I let my head rest back.
Let my neck stretch and breathe a little.
My breasts hung freely in front of me now.
Loose.
Heavy.
Sweaty.
One droplet had just slipped across the right nipple and disappeared into the underside. It tickled. I didn’t move.
I glanced at him.
He still hadn’t spoken.
Still hadn’t looked again.
But that only made the silence worse.
So I broke it.
Voice flat.
“Where do you work before this?”
He blinked.
Then looked up slightly.
“Same job, madam… in Andheri, before coming here.”
“Wife?”
“Yes… she was also.”
“Then why No kids?”
“Married for ten years, madam… no kids. God is not showing us mercy”
I nodded slowly.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t respond.
He was trying to look at my face.
I noticed that.
Every time he replied, he looked only at my face.
But now and then…
His eyes flickered.
Just a glance.
Just one slide down—toward my neck, my chest, my stomach, maybe my thighs.
Then back up again.
He wasn’t bold.
He was just… human.
And me?
I wasn’t surprised.
I was aroused.
Not by him.
Not by this moment.
But by the way my own body felt.
I had been sitting like this for too long.
Topless.
Thighs bare.
Saree still high.
Back itching.
Nipples now fully awake.
Breasts swinging slightly with every breath.
The stale lift air, warm as it was, kept hitting all the open patches of my skin.
Every few seconds, it passed under my chest and across my stomach like an unwanted sigh.
And it was doing something.
Inside.
Below.
Behind the sweat.
Behind the irritation.
Behind the frustration.
A kind of pulse.
A kind of ache.
It wasn’t for Raj.
Not for Arjun.
Definitely not for Prakash.
It was just…
Me.
My own body.
My own skin.
My own blood boiling in its own steam.
And now?
It had started remembering.
Not love.
Not men.
Just need.
A need that had nothing to do with emotion.
No romance.
No poetry.
No memories.
Just flesh. Friction. Silence.
Just this horrible, sticky box filled with everything I hated.
And everything I couldn’t ignore anymore.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Took a slow breath.
Not deep. Not shallow.
Just enough to make my chest rise.
Enough to feel my breasts lift slightly, nipples tighten more.
Enough to let that stupid man in front of me notice it, whether he meant to or not.
But love?
No.
Never.
Kartik was my husband.
The only man I cared about.
The only one whose words stayed with me after the room went silent.
The only one whose absence mattered.
The only one my kids called Dad.
Everything else?
These eyes?
This wetness?
This ache?
Just body.
Just breath.
Just the most filthy, basic part of being alive.
And it had found me again. Here. Now.
With nothing on.
And no escape.
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