Suffering in the elevator

In high school, I often saw elegant women in business suits entering and exiting elevators on TV, which filled me with admiration. I wanted to live that kind of life someday. So, while my classmates were experiencing their first stirrings of love, I focused intently on my studies.

After graduating from university, I looked for a job, but after three or four months of searching, I couldn't find a satisfactory one. The jobs were either typist or clerk, hard work with low pay—far from the life I envisioned. In a fit of pique, I enrolled in a master's program, studying hard for another two years.

I graduated at 27. Finally, I found my dream job, but looking back, I realized that my youth had been devoid of any romantic warmth. I gradually began to crave the company of a member of the opposite sex, even without romantic feelings, just to alleviate my physical loneliness.

Because I had been scalded on the neck with boiling water, I had a long scar. It was somewhat concealed in cooler weather, but in hot weather, the scar was clearly visible to everyone. Many men, upon seeing the scar, would avert their gaze and walk away, and my heart sank. Every day, I worked mechanically, my desires gradually fading into despair.

Our office building was the tallest in the city, and everyone working there was serious and hurried. They were the city's elite. Every day, I'd be in this elevator, going from the first floor to the top, a journey that took about half an hour. Although we could feel each other's breath, we were all so unfamiliar with each other; no one would initiate a greeting.

That day, the elevator was unusually crowded, as usual. I stared at the constantly changing numbers on the screen, utterly bored. Suddenly, I felt a finger tracing small circles on my buttocks outside my skirt. I turned around and saw a refined-looking man, his eyes fixed on the elevator numbers, his face cold and expressionless.
Surrounded by people, I couldn't move, nor dared to make a sound, so I stood frozen in place. That hand slowly and increasingly brazenly roamed the floor, even beginning to caress my buttocks. Gradually, a strange sensation followed that hand, rippled throughout my body, and every pore on my skin opened up in pleasure. Those hands tentatively lifted my skirt, slipped inside my stockings, and rubbed back and forth between my thighs. I immediately found it hard to breathe, my whole body felt like it was on fire. The elevator stopped, and those hands withdrew abruptly. I felt a lingering sense of longing and unsatisfaction.
From then on, I craved elevators, often trying to take them during rush hour, subconsciously hoping to relive that magical, dreamlike feeling. But, for a long, long time, I never encountered a man like that again.

One day, it was raining outside, and I was half-soaked as I climbed into the elevator. The elevator was incredibly crowded; I almost had to stand on tiptoe. All around me were tall, imposing men. I, petite as I was, huddled in a corner, trying to avoid attention. The elevator slowly ascended. The man behind me was very close; his breath brushed against my neck. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming pleasure. I deliberately pressed myself against him.

I knew there was no escaping him in the elevator. I could feel his body gradually changing. He pressed against my back, then his hands quietly encircled me, slipping inside my clothes, cupping my full breasts, gently kneading them. Then, his hands lingered around my waist, finally slipping inside my skirt. My body involuntarily became wet. Suddenly, the elevator stopped, and the lights went out. Amidst gasps of alarm, I knew it was due to a power outage caused by the rain. Someone called the property management, only to learn that it would take an hour or two to fix, and there was no way to restore power. In the darkness, those hands, filled with even greater pleasure, gradually moved towards my private parts, gently circling my nipples. I suppressed my moans, but every pore of my skin screamed, desire engulfing me like a tidal wave. Silence reigned all around, broken only by the heavy breathing of the man…

As the pressure of that hand increased, I finally let out a suppressed moan in the darkness. Suddenly, I realized that the man in front of me had turned around, his large hands opening and closing, his fingers gently caressing my genitals. He was now stroking my breasts, his hands pressing against my nipples, his hands rubbing against my nipples. However, it wasn't over; it seemed another man had appeared
. One after another. Finally, I was no longer enjoying myself, but groaning in agony. But no one stopped. In the gloom, those men became beasts. Tears streamed down my face; I was numb.

When the electricity was turned on again, the lights came on. The men's expressions remained indifferent, sacred and inviolable; only I, in disheveled clothes, clearly indicated my presence. Everything that had just happened. They filed out of the elevator, seemingly indifferent to me, not a single person paying me any attention.

I left and moved to another city because I couldn't face that city, that once rampant elevator.

A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Lying on the cold operating table, as the excruciating pain washed over me, I vowed never to ride an elevator again. Because of that cruel and illusory dream, I had wasted my youthful and beautiful life, and now, besides disillusionment, the physical pain was irreparable.
From then on, because of the elevator's malfunction, I walked up even the higher floors, though it was slower and more tiring, but safer. On each step, I tried my best to forget that unbearable past…
[Last edited by geyeai.com]

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