20-04-2025, 08:41 PM
(This post was last modified: 20-04-2025, 08:45 PM by yazhiniram. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
The silence inside the lift had turned thick enough to chew.
That slow, unbearable type where even a breath felt too loud, where even the rustling of skin against wet cotton sounded like a scream. The small LED light in the lift had gone out long back, and the only visibility left was that narrow sliver of white glowing between the lift doors—a soft strip of backlight from the corridor, painting our sweat-drenched bodies in quiet shadow.
But my eyes had long adjusted.
And in that shadow, I could see everything.
Prakash was standing in front of me, bare from the waist up, skin slick, ribs moving under each breath, belt and trousers already thrown to one side. He stood with his thumbs curled inside the waistband of that final piece of cloth—his brief. That cheap, faded innerwear that now barely held its shape and even less dignity.
I sat on the floor opposite him, blouse long gone, breasts out in the open, nipples barely dry from the airless heat. My saree was still covering my lower body, but nothing about me was covered anymore—not from his eyes, and not from my own shame.
He glanced at me once.
Our eyes met.
No words.
No questions.
And I didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t nod.
Just waited.
And that’s when his fingers moved.
The way he peeled the elastic band down—slow, like he was scared it would bite him—made it worse. His hips flinched as the waistband dragged over the upper crease of his skin. The cloth, soaked with sweat, clung slightly near the sides, needing that extra tug. I could hear it too—that soft, sticky pull of wet cotton separating from damp thighs.
He bent forward just a little, enough to tilt the elastic over the top of his cock.
Then it happened.
It jumped.
Clean out.
Like it had been coiled inside a trap and the spring had snapped.
It didn’t fall. It rose—hard, full, pointed toward the ceiling in a forward arch that looked way too aggressive for a man who had been pretending to be shy all this time.
My eyes didn’t leave it.
I saw it clearly—even in half-darkness.
That thing wasn’t just big.
It was… off.
Too big for his frame.
Too thick for his legs.
Too… full.
And angry.
His skin was a mess of sweat and dull brown patches, normal build, no shine, no tone. A regular man. A 35+ watchman who eats leftover chapati and smokes near the gate.
But this?
This thick, veiny, wide-rooted cock didn’t belong to someone like him.
It curved slightly upward, not clean, not smooth — but heavy. The head was a darker brown, the shaft covered in thick, lumpy veins that didn’t even try to hide. It pulsed once, lightly. I saw it.
My stomach didn’t twist.
But my pussy did.
And I hated it.
Kartik had never made me feel like this. He was normal. Respectable. Five inches when fully ready, sometimes more—but nothing wild. Enough to finish. Enough to fill. Enough to keep life normal.
But this?
This looked like it could make someone forget their own name.
I didn’t want to think it, but my body was already betraying me.
The dull ache below my navel had returned. A slow, ticklish pressure in the exact centre of my folds, where my petticoat had been pressing for the last half hour. I could feel it now—wet, not from sweat alone, but from arousal.
But I didn’t react.
He bent again—quietly—and pulled one leg free from the inner.
Left first.
Then slowly shifted balance and pulled out the right.
Now he was standing completely naked.
Not even a thread left.
Arms by his side, legs slightly apart, chest heaving, sweat still dripping from the curve of his back.
And between his thighs?
That thing.
Long. Firm. Naked.
His cock stood like a warning, not a request.
He didn’t try to hide it.
But I saw his fingers twitch—like part of him still wanted to cover, even now.
And that’s when I gave him the look.
One single, cold, mocking glare.
He got the message.
Didn’t dare move.
And I smirked — not because I was impressed.
Because I was ready to cut the pride off it.
“What is this now?” I said, voice sharper, still low. “Standing like a temple statue, haan? Arms loose, dick pointing to heaven like it wants to pray?”
He blinked, confused.
I leaned slightly forward, my breasts shifting naturally with the motion, and narrowed my eyes at his cock.
“It's not a sword, Prakash. Don’t stand like it’s about to save the country.”
His breath hitched.
I didn’t let up.
“You look like a man made of sweat and dust. That thing doesn’t make you king. It just makes the heat worse.”
I could see his throat bob once.
And still, his cock stayed.
Stood.
Pointing like it had something to prove.
I exhaled, calm as ever, my chest rising again, nipples lightly brushing air.
And then I muttered, low and flat:
“Big or not… it still stinks.”
I flicked my fingers toward the side.
“Wipe yourself. And don’t even think of standing so close. You’re not a showpiece.”
He didn’t reply.
Didn’t sit.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, cock hard, body steaming, and breath heavy.
Let him stand.
Let him burn.
Because I wasn’t done breaking his pride yet.
And my pussy?
That could wait its turn.
He shifted.
His bare feet moved slightly over the lift floor, still wet in patches from his own sweat. For a second I thought he was going to lean against the wall again, but then I realised—he was planning to sit.
Right there.
Next to me.
Not too close, but still close enough that I could feel the air change.
His knees bent slowly. His arms hovered like he didn’t know where to place them. His eyes?
That’s what gave him away.
They weren’t staying on the floor anymore.
He tried to be clever—head tilted down, but those eyeballs… moving.
First toward my chest. Then a flick toward my lap. Then down my thighs, where the saree still sat high, damp, clinging.
I saw the exact moment it happened.
I was watching his face, his lips slightly parted, and those filthy, hungry eyes started scanning without shame.
That was enough.
“Oye!” I snapped, voice cutting sharp like a slap.
He flinched hard.
“If you roll your eyeballs once more, I swear I’ll pull them out with my fingernails and throw them to the street dogs.”
“Madam… I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t?” I spat. “Then tell me what you were seeing between my legs? My petticoat colour?”
He shut up immediately.
Looked down.
Good.
Still topless, still sweating, I leaned slightly, picked up my crumpled, soaked blouse from beside me. The cloth had dried at the corners but still held that sticky weight of sweat around the chest area. I held it for a second — looked straight at him — and tossed it hard.
It landed exactly where I wanted.
Right on his cock.
The sudden hit made him flinch again.
The soft slap of cotton over skin echoed in the quiet metal box.
He looked down, stunned, then slowly lifted the blouse off — careful, like he was handling some holy cloth.
“Wipe it,” I said, cold.
“Your cock. Your balls. All of it. Clean it properly.”
He blinked. “Madam—”
“What? Need Dettol? You think you’re standing in some beauty parlour? That blouse is already full of sweat — now use it. Clean that proudly standing thing you’re showing off.”
He looked down.
Still hesitant.
But his hand moved.
Blouse in one hand, he brought it to his cock.
Started wiping.
Slow strokes, like he didn’t know how to do it.
It was disgusting.
And I watched every second.
He wiped along the shaft first, the tip folding slightly as the cloth rubbed. Then underneath, near the base. His fingers hesitated every time the cloth touched skin — like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed to feel good or not.
And the cock?
It didn’t go down.
It stood harder.
Like it liked the attention.
Like it wanted to be seen.
I leaned back and let out a dry, sharp laugh.
“What’s this, haan?” I mocked. “You’re rubbing it and it’s still standing like a pole in village bus stop?”
He looked embarrassed.
More than before.
And that’s what I wanted.
“You’re standing here, naked, wiping your dick with a blouse, and it still thinks it’s king?”
He looked away.
“I’ve seen better, Prakash. And I’ve smelled better.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t dare.
Just kept wiping.
And I just sat there — sweaty, half-nude, hungry, and in control.
Watching this naked man clean his cock like it was his first job.
Let it stand.
Let it throb.
Because when it came to this moment?
Only one thing was really standing tall.
Me.
Even after all that wiping, after using the blouse like a rag on his filthy skin, the smell hadn’t gone.
It still hung in the air — thick, sour, trapped in the corners of the lift like old kitchen smoke. Every time I inhaled, it hit me again. And my head, already boiling from the heat, started to pulse with irritation.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Without saying anything, I pushed myself off the floor and stood up.
My legs were stiff. My knees cracked faintly. My pallu was already useless — put limp down the side, hanging halfway from my shoulder. When I stood, it slipped off completely, falling behind me like a curtain peeling off a broken rod.
Now I was fully up.
Bare-breasted.
Sweaty.
Saree still tied at the hip, but loose — so loose it was almost asking to fall next.
Prakash looked up the moment I rose.
His eyes, stupid and slow, went straight to my chest.
He didn’t even pretend this time.
Didn’t do that side-glance trick.
He just stared — open, full.
The same cock that had just been wiped with my blouse gave a slow twitch.
I turned and looked at him.
No smile.
No scold.
Just a cold, annoyed glare.
A fake anger — not real, but just enough to let him know I saw it.
He looked away quickly.
Too late.
I bent slightly, reached behind my waist, and grabbed the folded part of my saree where I had tucked it in earlier. The fabric was wet, sticking to my back. I tugged.
It didn’t come in one pull.
I tugged again, harder.
And that’s when I lost balance.
The cloth slipped from my fingers, slid down, and fell on the floor with a dull, wet slap.
I cursed under my breath.
Bent again, this time lower.
Hair falling forward.
My breasts swung slightly with the motion.
The sweat between them had dried, now it started dripping again.
I grabbed the fallen saree.
Clenched it in my fist.
Stood back up.
Looked at him again.
He was still watching.
Head tilted slightly like a kid waiting for punishment.
Without thinking twice, I flung the saree straight at his face.
It hit his cheek, half-covered his eyes, then slipped down onto his shoulder.
He jumped back slightly, startled.
“Use this,” I said sharply. “Blouse is not enough for your stink. Clean your sweat properly. All of it.”
He caught the saree, looked at it like he didn’t know how to use it.
But I didn’t give him time to pretend.
“Back. Neck. Arms. Cock. Everything. Don’t leave one patch. I’m already dying in this box—you don’t have to make it worse.”
He nodded fast.
Started wiping.
The saree was bigger, heavier, fully soaked in places. It clung to his hands as he ran it across his chest, over his shoulders, down to his arms. He turned slightly, reached behind to clean his back. Then down his thighs, calves.
I watched.
Still standing.
Still bare on top.
Arms folded.
Eyes sharp.
My body was burning—but my control hadn’t melted yet.
Then his hand paused.
A vibration.
His other hand went to the floor near his discarded pant — his old, cracked feature phone lit up in the dark with a harsh green glow.
Someone was calling.
He stared at the screen.
And everything in that moment froze.
He cut the call and held the phone for a second like he didn’t know what to do with it.
I was standing near the left side of the lift, chest exposed, arms loosely crossed under my breasts, petticoat tied tightly around my waist, sweat dripping down my back like a slow, itchy punishment. My body wasn’t screaming anymore — it had moved past that. Now it was just waiting to collapse.
He finally looked at me.
“They said… electrician not yet arrived,” he muttered. “But they’re trying to shift the power line. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe not.”
I didn’t respond.
Just kept my eyes fixed on him.
“They told me…” he hesitated, “if the lift jerks, someone should hold the rail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Someone?”
He nodded.
“Then go. Hold it. Maybe if you grip tight enough, it’ll start flying.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t answer.
He just reached up to his shoulder, slowly peeled the saree off — the same one I had thrown at him, the same one he used to cover himself during the phone call. He folded it slowly, hands still shaky, then bent slightly and placed it on the cardboard box like he was handling something fragile.
Now he was fully nude again.
Skin slick with sweat.
Cock hanging thick, still heavy, not hard, but not soft either.
His back was to the right wall.
He grabbed the metal lift bar with both hands, right corner secured.
And me?
I stood quietly.
My feet were sticking to the lift floor now.
I turned slightly, reached for the left-side rail, and wrapped my fingers around it.
Cool metal. Sweaty palm.
Even that contact felt like relief.
Now we were both holding.
Me, left side.
Him, right side.
Two bodies pressed against hot steel.
Both topless.
Both breathless.
Both trapped in the same square of stale air.
He didn’t look at me anymore.
I didn’t look at him either.
But the box between us held more than just his folded saree.
It held the silence. The smell. The heat. The heavy weight of what hadn’t been said — and what couldn’t be taken back if it ever slipped out.
Let them fix the power.
Let them connect whatever line they want.
Right now?
Nothing was working.
Not the fan.
Not the light.
Not even my control.
Minutes passed.
Real minutes.
Not fast ones.
Not blinking time.
But dragging, burning, minute-by-minute silence.
I was gripping the left-side rail, half my weight leaning on it, while sweat ran down the small of my back like a thin line of hot oil.
Prakash stood opposite — hands on the right bar, legs slightly apart, skin fully exposed, and still pretending he had nothing left to see.
Liar.
His eyes were scanning again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
They started from my face, then lowered, paused at my bare breasts — nipples hardened now not from pleasure but from heat and constant air rubbing — and then drifted downward across my stomach to my thighs.
His cock, hanging loose till now, had started to swell again.
The skin tightened.
The base firmed.
And within seconds, that stupid thing stood fully upright again — as if it had heard some silent drum roll.
I didn’t wait.
I snapped.
“What is this again now?” I spat, my voice louder than before.
His head jerked up.
“You're standing there shamelessly staring like you're the only one with eyes! Why is it standing again, haan? For what?! For whom?!”
He quickly looked down, cheeks red in the dim light.
“Sorry madam… I didn’t mean…”
I scoffed.
“Didn’t mean?” I hissed. “Your cock has its own mind, or what? Even it’s more jobless than you?”
He didn’t reply.
Stared at the floor.
Hands gripping tighter.
But I?
I had already betrayed myself.
My eyes dropped to it.
That hard, angry, throbbing thing that looked like it belonged to someone else.
And I stared.
Not long.
Not openly.
But enough.
Long enough to make my pussy pulse — and worse, leak.
I could feel it now.
Between my thighs.
The stickiness turning into a wet slide, a heat that no longer felt like sweat.
It was coming from inside.
And I hated it.
I took a breath. Shaky. Rough.
“This is useless,” I muttered. “This box. This waiting. Everything. I'm burning. I need water. I'm not made for this heat.”
My hand started to slip off the bar.
I turned my head toward him.
“Call again,” I ordered. “Check the status. If they don’t—”
Click. Whir. Clunk.
The lift moved.
Without a single warning, the entire metal box jerked upward.
I had just let go.
My feet hadn’t reset.
My legs were shaky.
And in the exact moment it jolted, my balance broke.
I stumbled forward.
Straight across the box.
The cardboard between us pushed aside slightly by my foot.
My body lunged forward, hands flailing—
And my chin slammed directly into his cock.
Soft at first.
Then full contact.
My chin bone hit the underside of it.
My lower lip brushed the shaft.
And by reflex — my face turned slightly, as my chin wrapped under the full thickness of it like a shelf.
I froze.
He froze.
No sound.
No breath.
Just heat.
His cock… pulsing.
My mouth… inches from it.
And my body?
Leaking. Trembling. Burning.
I pulled back.
Slowly.
No scream.
No shout.
Just a quiet, stiff movement of my neck — as I lifted my face off his cock.
His shaft had pressed up against my chin, the base sliding along my lower cheek, and now as I rose, I could still feel a thin layer of his body heat lingering on my skin like shame.
I didn’t look up at him.
Didn’t want to.
Couldn’t.
He hadn’t moved.
Not one inch.
Still standing, both hands gripping the lift rail, fully nude, fully still.
His cock had twitched once, I felt it — but now it just stood there, semi-rigid, pulsing quietly in the warm lift air.
Then the lift started moving.
There was no button pressed.
No beep.
No voice.
Just that sudden upward shift — a motor groaning back to life beneath us.
I flinched again, my knees buckling slightly.
And without even thinking, I reached out.
My right hand landed directly on his thigh.
Not on cloth.
Not on skin behind cloth.
Just bare, damp skin — soft muscle, tight and sticky from sweat, still trembling slightly from whatever the hell we were both going through.
I used his leg for balance.
Fingers pressing into the top of his thigh, just inches away from where I’d just had my jaw.
I pushed up.
Stood.
Stepped back.
And without looking him in the eyes, I snapped:
“Idiot… even standing like a pole, you couldn’t hold me?”
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t even flinch.
He just stood there, arms still stretched, eyes looking straight ahead, like he wasn’t sure this was even real anymore.
Then—
Flick.
A single flash.
The lift light flickered back to life.
Soft LED glow, white and clean.
Fan started spinning again.
Slow. Useless. But there.
And now?
Everything was visible.
I stood near the left wall — chest completely bare, nipples stiff, sweat still shining across the top of my breasts. My petticoat was loose, clinging, nearly undone near the waist.
My body was open.
Shown.
Lit.
And he?
Was standing in front of me — fully naked, cock hanging half-hard, chest damp, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.
His eyes were on me.
Wide.
Frozen.
And mine?
On him.
Neither of us spoke.
Because in that second, words didn’t matter.
The silence was hotter than anything we’d touched.
He was still holding the rail.
Still naked.
Still trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking.
But I saw it.
Again.
That slow roll of his eyes up my body — not even subtle anymore. He had looked at my breasts before. At my thighs. At the sweat dripping between them.
But now?
He was comparing.
His face gave it away.
That distant, absent look men have when they’re not just staring — they’re imagining.
Visualising.
That was it.
I snapped.
“What the hell are you looking at now?”
He flinched.
“What?! Comparing me with your wife or what? Standing here naked, you think I’ll melt for that ugly thing you’re holding between your legs?”
He opened his mouth — maybe to deny, maybe to beg.
I didn’t let him.
“One more look — I swear I’ll pull your eyes out, roll them in atta, and fry them on a tawa!”
He blinked, stepped back slightly, but I stepped forward.
One finger pointed straight at his cock.
“And that? That dirty dong? I’ll cut it, throw it on the road, let the street dogs fight over it!”
He looked like he might faint.
I didn't care.
I exhaled, roughly.
Wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
Then I pointed down.
“Give me the blouse. Now.”
He bent, picked it up from where it lay — still damp, half-folded.
Handed it to me silently, head lowered.
I snatched it from his hand, shoved it under my arm.
Then pointed to the saree lying folded on the box.
“And saree. Fold properly and give.”
He did.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look.
Just folded it neatly, handed it over like a collegeboy returning a punishment note.
I held the saree in one hand, slapped the blouse over it, and turned to the lift panel.
Pressed 7.
The button glowed.
The lift jolted slightly.
Then slowly — finally — it started moving upward.
I didn’t wear the blouse.
Didn’t have energy.
Didn’t care.
I put the saree over my shoulder, loosely covering my chest — half stuck to my skin, half sliding off.
The blouse stayed under my arm.
I stood near the panel.
He stood opposite, pulling up his brief, then pants.
Still not meeting my eyes.
We said nothing.
Not one word.
But the air between us?
Still hot.
Still filthy.
Still full of things that didn’t happen — but almost did.
That slow, unbearable type where even a breath felt too loud, where even the rustling of skin against wet cotton sounded like a scream. The small LED light in the lift had gone out long back, and the only visibility left was that narrow sliver of white glowing between the lift doors—a soft strip of backlight from the corridor, painting our sweat-drenched bodies in quiet shadow.
But my eyes had long adjusted.
And in that shadow, I could see everything.
Prakash was standing in front of me, bare from the waist up, skin slick, ribs moving under each breath, belt and trousers already thrown to one side. He stood with his thumbs curled inside the waistband of that final piece of cloth—his brief. That cheap, faded innerwear that now barely held its shape and even less dignity.
I sat on the floor opposite him, blouse long gone, breasts out in the open, nipples barely dry from the airless heat. My saree was still covering my lower body, but nothing about me was covered anymore—not from his eyes, and not from my own shame.
He glanced at me once.
Our eyes met.
No words.
No questions.
And I didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t nod.
Just waited.
And that’s when his fingers moved.
The way he peeled the elastic band down—slow, like he was scared it would bite him—made it worse. His hips flinched as the waistband dragged over the upper crease of his skin. The cloth, soaked with sweat, clung slightly near the sides, needing that extra tug. I could hear it too—that soft, sticky pull of wet cotton separating from damp thighs.
He bent forward just a little, enough to tilt the elastic over the top of his cock.
Then it happened.
It jumped.
Clean out.
Like it had been coiled inside a trap and the spring had snapped.
It didn’t fall. It rose—hard, full, pointed toward the ceiling in a forward arch that looked way too aggressive for a man who had been pretending to be shy all this time.
My eyes didn’t leave it.
I saw it clearly—even in half-darkness.
That thing wasn’t just big.
It was… off.
Too big for his frame.
Too thick for his legs.
Too… full.
And angry.
His skin was a mess of sweat and dull brown patches, normal build, no shine, no tone. A regular man. A 35+ watchman who eats leftover chapati and smokes near the gate.
But this?
This thick, veiny, wide-rooted cock didn’t belong to someone like him.
It curved slightly upward, not clean, not smooth — but heavy. The head was a darker brown, the shaft covered in thick, lumpy veins that didn’t even try to hide. It pulsed once, lightly. I saw it.
My stomach didn’t twist.
But my pussy did.
And I hated it.
Kartik had never made me feel like this. He was normal. Respectable. Five inches when fully ready, sometimes more—but nothing wild. Enough to finish. Enough to fill. Enough to keep life normal.
But this?
This looked like it could make someone forget their own name.
I didn’t want to think it, but my body was already betraying me.
The dull ache below my navel had returned. A slow, ticklish pressure in the exact centre of my folds, where my petticoat had been pressing for the last half hour. I could feel it now—wet, not from sweat alone, but from arousal.
But I didn’t react.
He bent again—quietly—and pulled one leg free from the inner.
Left first.
Then slowly shifted balance and pulled out the right.
Now he was standing completely naked.
Not even a thread left.
Arms by his side, legs slightly apart, chest heaving, sweat still dripping from the curve of his back.
And between his thighs?
That thing.
Long. Firm. Naked.
His cock stood like a warning, not a request.
He didn’t try to hide it.
But I saw his fingers twitch—like part of him still wanted to cover, even now.
And that’s when I gave him the look.
One single, cold, mocking glare.
He got the message.
Didn’t dare move.
And I smirked — not because I was impressed.
Because I was ready to cut the pride off it.
“What is this now?” I said, voice sharper, still low. “Standing like a temple statue, haan? Arms loose, dick pointing to heaven like it wants to pray?”
He blinked, confused.
I leaned slightly forward, my breasts shifting naturally with the motion, and narrowed my eyes at his cock.
“It's not a sword, Prakash. Don’t stand like it’s about to save the country.”
His breath hitched.
I didn’t let up.
“You look like a man made of sweat and dust. That thing doesn’t make you king. It just makes the heat worse.”
I could see his throat bob once.
And still, his cock stayed.
Stood.
Pointing like it had something to prove.
I exhaled, calm as ever, my chest rising again, nipples lightly brushing air.
And then I muttered, low and flat:
“Big or not… it still stinks.”
I flicked my fingers toward the side.
“Wipe yourself. And don’t even think of standing so close. You’re not a showpiece.”
He didn’t reply.
Didn’t sit.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, cock hard, body steaming, and breath heavy.
Let him stand.
Let him burn.
Because I wasn’t done breaking his pride yet.
And my pussy?
That could wait its turn.
He shifted.
His bare feet moved slightly over the lift floor, still wet in patches from his own sweat. For a second I thought he was going to lean against the wall again, but then I realised—he was planning to sit.
Right there.
Next to me.
Not too close, but still close enough that I could feel the air change.
His knees bent slowly. His arms hovered like he didn’t know where to place them. His eyes?
That’s what gave him away.
They weren’t staying on the floor anymore.
He tried to be clever—head tilted down, but those eyeballs… moving.
First toward my chest. Then a flick toward my lap. Then down my thighs, where the saree still sat high, damp, clinging.
I saw the exact moment it happened.
I was watching his face, his lips slightly parted, and those filthy, hungry eyes started scanning without shame.
That was enough.
“Oye!” I snapped, voice cutting sharp like a slap.
He flinched hard.
“If you roll your eyeballs once more, I swear I’ll pull them out with my fingernails and throw them to the street dogs.”
“Madam… I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t?” I spat. “Then tell me what you were seeing between my legs? My petticoat colour?”
He shut up immediately.
Looked down.
Good.
Still topless, still sweating, I leaned slightly, picked up my crumpled, soaked blouse from beside me. The cloth had dried at the corners but still held that sticky weight of sweat around the chest area. I held it for a second — looked straight at him — and tossed it hard.
It landed exactly where I wanted.
Right on his cock.
The sudden hit made him flinch again.
The soft slap of cotton over skin echoed in the quiet metal box.
He looked down, stunned, then slowly lifted the blouse off — careful, like he was handling some holy cloth.
“Wipe it,” I said, cold.
“Your cock. Your balls. All of it. Clean it properly.”
He blinked. “Madam—”
“What? Need Dettol? You think you’re standing in some beauty parlour? That blouse is already full of sweat — now use it. Clean that proudly standing thing you’re showing off.”
He looked down.
Still hesitant.
But his hand moved.
Blouse in one hand, he brought it to his cock.
Started wiping.
Slow strokes, like he didn’t know how to do it.
It was disgusting.
And I watched every second.
He wiped along the shaft first, the tip folding slightly as the cloth rubbed. Then underneath, near the base. His fingers hesitated every time the cloth touched skin — like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed to feel good or not.
And the cock?
It didn’t go down.
It stood harder.
Like it liked the attention.
Like it wanted to be seen.
I leaned back and let out a dry, sharp laugh.
“What’s this, haan?” I mocked. “You’re rubbing it and it’s still standing like a pole in village bus stop?”
He looked embarrassed.
More than before.
And that’s what I wanted.
“You’re standing here, naked, wiping your dick with a blouse, and it still thinks it’s king?”
He looked away.
“I’ve seen better, Prakash. And I’ve smelled better.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t dare.
Just kept wiping.
And I just sat there — sweaty, half-nude, hungry, and in control.
Watching this naked man clean his cock like it was his first job.
Let it stand.
Let it throb.
Because when it came to this moment?
Only one thing was really standing tall.
Me.
Even after all that wiping, after using the blouse like a rag on his filthy skin, the smell hadn’t gone.
It still hung in the air — thick, sour, trapped in the corners of the lift like old kitchen smoke. Every time I inhaled, it hit me again. And my head, already boiling from the heat, started to pulse with irritation.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Without saying anything, I pushed myself off the floor and stood up.
My legs were stiff. My knees cracked faintly. My pallu was already useless — put limp down the side, hanging halfway from my shoulder. When I stood, it slipped off completely, falling behind me like a curtain peeling off a broken rod.
Now I was fully up.
Bare-breasted.
Sweaty.
Saree still tied at the hip, but loose — so loose it was almost asking to fall next.
Prakash looked up the moment I rose.
His eyes, stupid and slow, went straight to my chest.
He didn’t even pretend this time.
Didn’t do that side-glance trick.
He just stared — open, full.
The same cock that had just been wiped with my blouse gave a slow twitch.
I turned and looked at him.
No smile.
No scold.
Just a cold, annoyed glare.
A fake anger — not real, but just enough to let him know I saw it.
He looked away quickly.
Too late.
I bent slightly, reached behind my waist, and grabbed the folded part of my saree where I had tucked it in earlier. The fabric was wet, sticking to my back. I tugged.
It didn’t come in one pull.
I tugged again, harder.
And that’s when I lost balance.
The cloth slipped from my fingers, slid down, and fell on the floor with a dull, wet slap.
I cursed under my breath.
Bent again, this time lower.
Hair falling forward.
My breasts swung slightly with the motion.
The sweat between them had dried, now it started dripping again.
I grabbed the fallen saree.
Clenched it in my fist.
Stood back up.
Looked at him again.
He was still watching.
Head tilted slightly like a kid waiting for punishment.
Without thinking twice, I flung the saree straight at his face.
It hit his cheek, half-covered his eyes, then slipped down onto his shoulder.
He jumped back slightly, startled.
“Use this,” I said sharply. “Blouse is not enough for your stink. Clean your sweat properly. All of it.”
He caught the saree, looked at it like he didn’t know how to use it.
But I didn’t give him time to pretend.
“Back. Neck. Arms. Cock. Everything. Don’t leave one patch. I’m already dying in this box—you don’t have to make it worse.”
He nodded fast.
Started wiping.
The saree was bigger, heavier, fully soaked in places. It clung to his hands as he ran it across his chest, over his shoulders, down to his arms. He turned slightly, reached behind to clean his back. Then down his thighs, calves.
I watched.
Still standing.
Still bare on top.
Arms folded.
Eyes sharp.
My body was burning—but my control hadn’t melted yet.
Then his hand paused.
A vibration.
His other hand went to the floor near his discarded pant — his old, cracked feature phone lit up in the dark with a harsh green glow.
Someone was calling.
He stared at the screen.
And everything in that moment froze.
He cut the call and held the phone for a second like he didn’t know what to do with it.
I was standing near the left side of the lift, chest exposed, arms loosely crossed under my breasts, petticoat tied tightly around my waist, sweat dripping down my back like a slow, itchy punishment. My body wasn’t screaming anymore — it had moved past that. Now it was just waiting to collapse.
He finally looked at me.
“They said… electrician not yet arrived,” he muttered. “But they’re trying to shift the power line. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe not.”
I didn’t respond.
Just kept my eyes fixed on him.
“They told me…” he hesitated, “if the lift jerks, someone should hold the rail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Someone?”
He nodded.
“Then go. Hold it. Maybe if you grip tight enough, it’ll start flying.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t answer.
He just reached up to his shoulder, slowly peeled the saree off — the same one I had thrown at him, the same one he used to cover himself during the phone call. He folded it slowly, hands still shaky, then bent slightly and placed it on the cardboard box like he was handling something fragile.
Now he was fully nude again.
Skin slick with sweat.
Cock hanging thick, still heavy, not hard, but not soft either.
His back was to the right wall.
He grabbed the metal lift bar with both hands, right corner secured.
And me?
I stood quietly.
My feet were sticking to the lift floor now.
I turned slightly, reached for the left-side rail, and wrapped my fingers around it.
Cool metal. Sweaty palm.
Even that contact felt like relief.
Now we were both holding.
Me, left side.
Him, right side.
Two bodies pressed against hot steel.
Both topless.
Both breathless.
Both trapped in the same square of stale air.
He didn’t look at me anymore.
I didn’t look at him either.
But the box between us held more than just his folded saree.
It held the silence. The smell. The heat. The heavy weight of what hadn’t been said — and what couldn’t be taken back if it ever slipped out.
Let them fix the power.
Let them connect whatever line they want.
Right now?
Nothing was working.
Not the fan.
Not the light.
Not even my control.
Minutes passed.
Real minutes.
Not fast ones.
Not blinking time.
But dragging, burning, minute-by-minute silence.
I was gripping the left-side rail, half my weight leaning on it, while sweat ran down the small of my back like a thin line of hot oil.
Prakash stood opposite — hands on the right bar, legs slightly apart, skin fully exposed, and still pretending he had nothing left to see.
Liar.
His eyes were scanning again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
They started from my face, then lowered, paused at my bare breasts — nipples hardened now not from pleasure but from heat and constant air rubbing — and then drifted downward across my stomach to my thighs.
His cock, hanging loose till now, had started to swell again.
The skin tightened.
The base firmed.
And within seconds, that stupid thing stood fully upright again — as if it had heard some silent drum roll.
I didn’t wait.
I snapped.
“What is this again now?” I spat, my voice louder than before.
His head jerked up.
“You're standing there shamelessly staring like you're the only one with eyes! Why is it standing again, haan? For what?! For whom?!”
He quickly looked down, cheeks red in the dim light.
“Sorry madam… I didn’t mean…”
I scoffed.
“Didn’t mean?” I hissed. “Your cock has its own mind, or what? Even it’s more jobless than you?”
He didn’t reply.
Stared at the floor.
Hands gripping tighter.
But I?
I had already betrayed myself.
My eyes dropped to it.
That hard, angry, throbbing thing that looked like it belonged to someone else.
And I stared.
Not long.
Not openly.
But enough.
Long enough to make my pussy pulse — and worse, leak.
I could feel it now.
Between my thighs.
The stickiness turning into a wet slide, a heat that no longer felt like sweat.
It was coming from inside.
And I hated it.
I took a breath. Shaky. Rough.
“This is useless,” I muttered. “This box. This waiting. Everything. I'm burning. I need water. I'm not made for this heat.”
My hand started to slip off the bar.
I turned my head toward him.
“Call again,” I ordered. “Check the status. If they don’t—”
Click. Whir. Clunk.
The lift moved.
Without a single warning, the entire metal box jerked upward.
I had just let go.
My feet hadn’t reset.
My legs were shaky.
And in the exact moment it jolted, my balance broke.
I stumbled forward.
Straight across the box.
The cardboard between us pushed aside slightly by my foot.
My body lunged forward, hands flailing—
And my chin slammed directly into his cock.
Soft at first.
Then full contact.
My chin bone hit the underside of it.
My lower lip brushed the shaft.
And by reflex — my face turned slightly, as my chin wrapped under the full thickness of it like a shelf.
I froze.
He froze.
No sound.
No breath.
Just heat.
His cock… pulsing.
My mouth… inches from it.
And my body?
Leaking. Trembling. Burning.
I pulled back.
Slowly.
No scream.
No shout.
Just a quiet, stiff movement of my neck — as I lifted my face off his cock.
His shaft had pressed up against my chin, the base sliding along my lower cheek, and now as I rose, I could still feel a thin layer of his body heat lingering on my skin like shame.
I didn’t look up at him.
Didn’t want to.
Couldn’t.
He hadn’t moved.
Not one inch.
Still standing, both hands gripping the lift rail, fully nude, fully still.
His cock had twitched once, I felt it — but now it just stood there, semi-rigid, pulsing quietly in the warm lift air.
Then the lift started moving.
There was no button pressed.
No beep.
No voice.
Just that sudden upward shift — a motor groaning back to life beneath us.
I flinched again, my knees buckling slightly.
And without even thinking, I reached out.
My right hand landed directly on his thigh.
Not on cloth.
Not on skin behind cloth.
Just bare, damp skin — soft muscle, tight and sticky from sweat, still trembling slightly from whatever the hell we were both going through.
I used his leg for balance.
Fingers pressing into the top of his thigh, just inches away from where I’d just had my jaw.
I pushed up.
Stood.
Stepped back.
And without looking him in the eyes, I snapped:
“Idiot… even standing like a pole, you couldn’t hold me?”
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t even flinch.
He just stood there, arms still stretched, eyes looking straight ahead, like he wasn’t sure this was even real anymore.
Then—
Flick.
A single flash.
The lift light flickered back to life.
Soft LED glow, white and clean.
Fan started spinning again.
Slow. Useless. But there.
And now?
Everything was visible.
I stood near the left wall — chest completely bare, nipples stiff, sweat still shining across the top of my breasts. My petticoat was loose, clinging, nearly undone near the waist.
My body was open.
Shown.
Lit.
And he?
Was standing in front of me — fully naked, cock hanging half-hard, chest damp, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.
His eyes were on me.
Wide.
Frozen.
And mine?
On him.
Neither of us spoke.
Because in that second, words didn’t matter.
The silence was hotter than anything we’d touched.
He was still holding the rail.
Still naked.
Still trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking.
But I saw it.
Again.
That slow roll of his eyes up my body — not even subtle anymore. He had looked at my breasts before. At my thighs. At the sweat dripping between them.
But now?
He was comparing.
His face gave it away.
That distant, absent look men have when they’re not just staring — they’re imagining.
Visualising.
That was it.
I snapped.
“What the hell are you looking at now?”
He flinched.
“What?! Comparing me with your wife or what? Standing here naked, you think I’ll melt for that ugly thing you’re holding between your legs?”
He opened his mouth — maybe to deny, maybe to beg.
I didn’t let him.
“One more look — I swear I’ll pull your eyes out, roll them in atta, and fry them on a tawa!”
He blinked, stepped back slightly, but I stepped forward.
One finger pointed straight at his cock.
“And that? That dirty dong? I’ll cut it, throw it on the road, let the street dogs fight over it!”
He looked like he might faint.
I didn't care.
I exhaled, roughly.
Wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
Then I pointed down.
“Give me the blouse. Now.”
He bent, picked it up from where it lay — still damp, half-folded.
Handed it to me silently, head lowered.
I snatched it from his hand, shoved it under my arm.
Then pointed to the saree lying folded on the box.
“And saree. Fold properly and give.”
He did.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look.
Just folded it neatly, handed it over like a collegeboy returning a punishment note.
I held the saree in one hand, slapped the blouse over it, and turned to the lift panel.
Pressed 7.
The button glowed.
The lift jolted slightly.
Then slowly — finally — it started moving upward.
I didn’t wear the blouse.
Didn’t have energy.
Didn’t care.
I put the saree over my shoulder, loosely covering my chest — half stuck to my skin, half sliding off.
The blouse stayed under my arm.
I stood near the panel.
He stood opposite, pulling up his brief, then pants.
Still not meeting my eyes.
We said nothing.
Not one word.
But the air between us?
Still hot.
Still filthy.
Still full of things that didn’t happen — but almost did.
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