Akshara twirled for me, the hem of the chemise riding up a little in the process.
“One suggestion,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Don’t wear your panties.”
Akshara’s mouth opened in surprise. Her hand went to her crotch.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I can tell if you’re not wearing any and that means so can the delivery guy.”
I thought Akshara would decide against this suggestion of mine but she nodded and slid her panties down her legs.
“There,” she said. “I’m ready now.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Let’s go and wait out in the hall.”
I was about to move out when Akshara went to her jewelry cabinet.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The finishing touch,” she replied.
She brought out her mangalsutra, the traditional necklace married women in India wear. As I watched, she wore it, the black beads of the necklace standing out against her brown skin, the diamond pendent at the bottom nestling just above where the chemise ended. My dick went hard just looking at her.
“He should know I’m a married woman,” Akshara said, shimmying up to me and planting a kiss on my lips. “Makes it all the more exciting.”
“You’re really being naughty now!” I said and kissed her back.
We went out into the hall and I sat on the two-seater dining table close to the door. Akshara paced up and down, a bundle of nervous energy.
“Tell me,” I said, trying to distract her, “what kind of a man do you want it to be?”
Akshara thought about this for a minute and then shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Really? A young man, virile and with shameless eyes that ogle you?”
“I’d do it.”
“And what if it’s an older man? Balding and with a paunch?”
“I’d do it with him too.”
“You’d let them see your boobs, touch you too if it comes to that?”
Akshara came to me and pressed against my body. She kept her eyes on me the whole time.
“I would,” she said. “I’d let him do all that and more.”
“More? Like what, kissing and sucking on your boobs?”
“Yes. Oh yes!”
Akshara was close to coming and so I pushed her away.
“Save it for when he arrives,” I said.
Akshara looked flustered. My timing was perfect for less than a minute later, the bell rang. As we had planned, I remained at the table, in full view of the front door. My wife took a deep breath, smiled at me nervously, and then opened the door.
The man carrying the pizza delivery bag was perhaps in his forties. He had thinning hair, slightly greasy looking skin, and a stomach that bulged from his polo shirt. I had described him so well that I almost laughed.
The man certainly didn’t laugh. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open, revealing a purplish tongue and a set of crooked teeth. Akshara held one arm over the door and smiled at him, made confident now by his reaction.
“Oh, there you are,” she exclaimed. “Please, come in.”
The man, without thinking what he was doing, obeyed her. His eyes found me and he blushed.
“Sir,” he stammered. “Pizza, sir.”
“Give that to me,” Akshara said, taking the pizza from him and placing it on the floor next to them.
I could see what she was doing. As she bent, the edge of her chemise slipped forward a little and the delivery man got a wonderful view of her cleavage, the mangalsutra dangling between her breasts. I could see that he was already getting an erection.