20-04-2025, 11:58 AM
Still no sound.
Still no power.
Still no fan.
The lift felt tighter now.
Not smaller. Just heavier.
Like every minute added weight to the air.
Weight that landed on my thighs, my hips, my butt, and refused to lift.
I was still topless.
Chest fully bare.
Blouse lying across my lap, soaked, now doubling as a pathetic little hand fan.
I lifted it slowly.
Fanned across my chest.
Then down to my stomach.
Then back again.
It didn’t help much.
But it gave me something to do.
Some movement to distract me from this hell of sweat and stillness.
Across from me, Prakash sat like a statue.
But I knew better.
I could feel his eyes.
He was watching.
Not constantly.
Not directly.
But the moment I looked away?
They moved.
From my chest to my navel.
From my stomach to my hip line.
From the edge of the saree, folded high, to the space between my bent knees.
I could see it.
The way his shoulders stiffened when my hand moved.
The way his breath hitched whenever my saree shifted on my thigh.
Part of me wanted to kick him in the face.
Right then.
Just to break his trance.
Just to remind him that this was not a free show.
But another part of me?
Didn’t care.
He couldn’t do anything.
Even if he wanted to.
He wouldn’t dare.
Let him watch.
Let him burn.
Let him see every inch of this body and then go home to his wife and lie about what happened.
He could soak his underwear for all I cared.
But he wouldn’t touch.
That, I knew.
What I did care about now—
Was the rest of me.
My top was fine.
Breasts free.
Skin breathing.
But the lower half?
It was dying.
The saree had been lifted for over twenty minutes now.
But it had folded into itself.
Petticoat beneath was stuck like second skin.
My thighs were practically steaming.
My butt—flattened against the lift floor—had started itching in places I couldn’t even reach.
Every shift sent waves of damp cotton rubbing into skin folds.
There was no air down there.
No relief.
What do I do now?
Pull the saree up higher?
Take off the petticoat?
Sit open-legged in front of this fool?
No.
Not yet.
Not unless I had no other option.
But I needed space.
I needed air.
I needed… something to change.
I looked at him.
Still down.
Still pretending not to look.
Still watching every inch of me from the corner of his filthy little eye.
“Stand up,” I said.
Firm.
Sharp.
No smile.
No explanation.
He blinked.
Didn’t move.
I repeated.
“Get up.”
He stood up awkwardly, knees stiff, like a man trying not to offend the floor he’d been sitting on too long. His shirtless body was soaked—darker patches staining his chest and the sides of his stomach, the curve of his back glistening under the narrow slit of lift light that made everything feel more exposed than it should.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
Just looked down at the floor, arms limp, feet slightly apart.
But the smell?
The smell was worse now that he was upright.
His shirt had been holding it down. Now it was in the air.
Raw.
Damp.
Male.
Sour.
The lift wasn’t big enough to contain it. This 4-by-3-foot metal trap had turned into a steam pot, and his scent was boiling with it.
“God, Prakash,” I muttered, eyes still on the corner, not even turning to face him properly. “You’re stinking up this entire box.”
He stayed quiet.
“I don’t know what’s worse—the heat or your sweat.”
Still nothing.
I fanned my face slowly with my wet blouse, already half-dry now just from this cursed oven’s heat.
Then I glanced up at him—slowly.
“If you want, remove your pant,” I said flatly. “Wipe yourself. At least save the rest of the air.”
He blinked, finally reacting, his face slightly confused.
“Madam?” he said softly. “That’s not… I mean… I can manage…”
“Oh really?” I turned fully now, lifting my hand from the floor to prop myself against the wall behind me. My bare breasts shifted freely as I moved, no cloth, no shame—just my skin breathing, rising, tired.
“Does it look like you’re managing?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Tried to smile politely, but his face twitched nervously.
He looked like a boy who knew the correct answer but was too scared to write it on the exam paper.
“Look at yourself,” I said sharply. “Your pant is glued to your thighs. You’re sweating through every seam. You smell like a broken pipe in summer. You want to faint here or what?”
“No madam, I just thought… it's not right…”
“Nothing is right here,” I snapped. “We’re locked in a broken lift, half-naked, sweating like animals. You think right and wrong still matter?”
He swallowed.
Eyes low.
Still hesitant.
His fingers went to his waistband but stopped again.
I saw it.
That small fake confusion on his face.
Like he was still waiting for permission.
Still trying to keep the “good man” act alive.
But I wasn’t here for his image.
I didn’t care what he thought this meant.
“This is not for fun,” I said, voice calmer now, but firmer. “I’m not playing games with you. You’re standing here, reeking in front of me, and I’m the one who has to breathe it in.”
He finally nodded once.
Not like he agreed.
Just like he accepted there was no escape.
His hands moved slowly to his belt.
The soft clink of the buckle echoed louder than it should have in the tight space.
He unhooked the clasp, then slowly drew down the zip.
The teeth separated with a quiet hiss.
The waistband loosened instantly.
He held it there for a second, still not pulling.
Still pretending to be unsure.
But the trousers were already sagging slightly, exposing the inner lining, the waist of his dull, cheap brief underneath.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
I watched.
Not with lust.
Not even with curiosity.
Just to make sure he did exactly what I told him.
Let him sweat.
Let him strip.
Let him try to act shy.
Because at the end of the day, he was just one more thing inside this hot, sticky box that I needed out of my way.
He finally did it.
His fingers fumbled for just a second at his belt buckle, and then the dull metal clinked open with a soft jangle. The sound was nothing — barely loud enough to hear — but in the tight silence of that suffocating lift, it landed like a switch had been flipped.
I didn’t look away.
Not because I was curious.
Not because I was aroused.
Just because I wanted him to know — if he was going to do this, I’d see every inch of it.
He unhooked the front clasp of the pant, then pinched the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, dragging it down slowly. The zip opened with that familiar gritty sound, soft but sharp — a sound every woman recognises when it’s done in front of her. His pants sagged at the waist almost immediately, but still hung on because his thighs were stiff and still.
His hands hesitated.
Just for a second.
But I saw it.
He looked down, pretending to check something — maybe his footing, maybe acting like he was still unsure.
But he wasn’t.
I knew what he was doing.
He was soaking in the moment.
Pretending to be innocent, humble, shy — all while fully aware that he was stripping down in front of a woman who wasn’t stopping him.
I watched the fabric start to fall, the dull olive-grey pants slowly sliding down over his hips, revealing more of his brief waistband. The elastic had faded and curled slightly, like it had been worn too many times without enough care. Once the pant slipped past his thighs, it collapsed fast, bunching at his ankles, gathering around his worn chappals.
But he didn’t remove it yet.
He stood there, pants pooled around his feet, just waiting — as if I was supposed to react, say something, stop him, flinch.
I didn’t.
I just sat there, topless, breasts out, blouse tossed to the corner, fanning my chest with my palm, staring straight at him like I was looking through him.
Finally, he bent down.
His back curved, fingers reached for the pant cuffs.
He stepped out — right leg first, slowly, carefully, like he was trying not to fall.
Then left leg — lifted it a little, pulled the pant off fully, and tossed it aside without meeting my eyes.
Now he was just in his underwear.
And that too — barely holding him in.
The bulge was obvious.
Full.
Heavy.
Clearly pressed forward against the front of his brief, enough that the outline had made its own shape — stretched fabric in the front, seams pulled tight along the base, the cotton clinging wet from sweat and pressure.
He immediately placed his right hand over it — like he could hide it after all that.
I looked at him.
Then at the bulge.
Then back up again.
And spoke without blinking:
“Ah, there it is.”
He flinched slightly.
“Now I know what kind of drama you were playing all this while.”
He stayed quiet.
Pretending to be embarrassed.
But the curve of his lips gave him away.
A micro-smile.
Almost nothing.
But I saw it.
“You’re standing there pretending like I asked you to strip at gunpoint,” I muttered. “But you’ve been waiting for this since the lift stopped.”
He opened his mouth — maybe to defend, maybe to apologise — but nothing came out.
Just shallow breath.
Still holding that stupid bulge like a collegeboy.
“That brief is too small,” I said. “And I can still smell you.”
He blinked again.
“Remove it,” I said. “Throw it aside. Wipe yourself.”
“Madam… I can clean over it,” he replied, voice small, like he was offering a compromise.
“Don’t act,” I shot back. “Do it.”
He hesitated again.
But his hand moved.
Left hand resting at the waistband.
Then the right.
He curled his fingers under the elastic, looking up at me — eyes not begging, but asking.
As if he wanted me to give him that one last word to make it real.
“You really want me to… remove this too?” he asked, voice low.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe deep.
Didn’t adjust.
I just said:
“Yes. Remove it.”
And he stood there, still holding the brief at the sides, not pulling yet.
Just standing there.
Inner half-down.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Watching me.
Like a man who knew he’d never forget this moment — because he was finally getting stripped by order, not invitation.
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