I’d been looking for the right girl for a long time but when she finally appeared she was not what I’d expected at all. Her name was Sunny and she came from India. She was a neighbour of Alexander’s and I’d spotted her in the elevator a few times. I knew she was married and her husband was some IT hotshot. She also had a kid around three years old. Anyway, we got to talking standing at the kerb one day and I told her how I was fascinated with India, and how I’d always wanted to go there and how beautiful Indian women were. She had that sing-song Indian accent and a command of the language that was shaky at times, but I found the whole package enchanting.
“How long does it take to wrap on one of them saris?” I asked her the next time we met in a local store.
“It is not taking long once you are having the experience,” she replied.
“They look hellish complicated.”
“No, no, it is a most simple garment. There is only the underskirt, the blouse which is leaving the midriff bare and then the long piece of material which is wrapped around the body and then thrown over the shoulder. Totally very easy. You wish to try? I will dress you in the sari and we will take the photograph for the delight of your husband, Mr Alexander.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, “Could we really do that? Me in a sari, it would drive Mr Alexander nuts!”
“You will come to my house, tomorrow, and I will dress you in the sari.”
“What time?”
“Seven pm would be most suitable. I will have Mr Prasad look after little Ranjit and we will have the girly time.”
She had that exquisite and delicate bone structure which many women from the sub-continent could boast and she literally swayed in the most lithe and sensuous way when she moved. Despite that I didn’t think of her as a potential partner at that point because she was married, and to a man as well. Did they even have lesbians in India? She seemed to be strictly off-limits for a sex-mad American girl, but girly time sounded good.
When I appeared she showed her eastern hospitality to the full. She had tray upon tray of spicy nibbles, all home-made, and wine too which I thought she wouldn’t drink, but it turned out she was a Hindu rather than a Muslim and they were permitted alcohol. But she only sipped at her glass and I got the feeling she was only drinking it out of politeness. The food was wonderful though and much appreciated as I was starving. Once I’d had my fill, while playing with her little boy, she summoned her husband, Mr Prasad, and informed him that we were going through to the bedroom and we were not to be disturbed as what we were about to do was not for masculine eyes. For anybody with a dirty mind (like me!) it sounded highly promising, but I think Mr Prasad knew we were only going to play dress-up.
Once in her bedroom she threw open her wardrobe to display a huge array of dazzling chiffons, cottons, silks and muslins. Sequins flashed and metallic threads threatened to blind me.
“Which would you like to be wearing?” she asked.
It was an impossible choice because they were all just so utterly, stunningly, gorgeous. “You choose.”
She cocked her head to one side as she considered the options. “Your skin it is pale and will not take a strong colour, but if we are to go too weak you will look washed out. So, I am thinking a purple, but not too strong. What about this?”
She pulled a sari from the wardrobe and laid it out on the bed. It was jaw-droppingly beautiful. Thin silver threads shimmered through the material, creating the illusion that it was somehow liquid.
“Wow,” I said, for once stumped for words.
“You like?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good, I am glad you are liking. Remove the outer clothing please.”
She said it with the cold authority of a nurse and I followed her instructions obediently, shrugging off my blouse and pulling down my cargo pants.
As I stood there in my bra and panties I saw her eyes, black with kohl, run over me analytically. “You have the very beautiful underwear,” she said. “I do not wear such alluring garments under my clothes. They seem inappropriate for a married woman.”
“Me? What have I done?”
“We do not have a lot of friends here and a girl needs her sisters.”
I didn’t understand precisely what she meant but it was obvious that she needed something so I was happy that the thought popped into my head. I had to repay her somehow.
“Sexy underwear,” I said, “How would you like to try some on? I have loads.”
She shook her head. “No, no, that is not correct.”
“Of course it is. You have honoured me by allowing me to wear your clothes, to experience eastern culture, and so it is only right that I reciprocate and allow you to see what we of the west wear.”
“You are meaning this?”
“Absolutely, you will come to my apartment tomorrow and we shall see what you look like in a Basque and stockings.”
“The little panties too?”
“Almost invisible,” I promised.
Her big eyes flashed in anticipation. “If you are sure.”
“Totally. Same as today, seven pm.”
I wasn’t wearing anything extra risqué, just my usual half-cup bra and thong, but suddenly felt like a burlesque queen. “Naughty undies keep a marriage alive,” I ventured.
“If Mr Prasad was to see me in panties such as these he would think I had gone mad. He is not the very sexyness man.”
I coughed, unwilling to engage in a discussion about her marital situation and she seemed to get the message. “Now, we dress you in the sari and make you look more beautiful than you already are,” she said, sweeping the sari up and holding the material against me. “You see, it makes your skin look rosier, like the flower.”
“Oh, make me bloom,” I encouraged.
I pulled on the underskirt and the bodice and Sunny showed me how the pleats and folds of the long length of material were arranged around my torso. As she helped me her hands brushed against my skin. They were warm and I wondered if her touch actually did linger just a little longer than absolutely necessary. Once I was dressed she pulled out a digital camera and took several still photographs of me in my finery. “You are the beautiful woman, very sexy, very beautiful.”
I’d though that just donning the eastern garment would make me move like her but there was more to it than that. I felt clumsy and uncoordinated and Sunny took my hands and taught me how to walk without falling on my face.
“There is no rush, take your time, be a lady.”
That was it, it was part of the whole deal, part of the Hindu world-view, a calm acceptance of fate, unhurried, unfazed, and suddenly I was walking like a princess. It was positively magical.
As she undressed me Sunny came close and her breasts brushed mine. It was only the most fleeting of contacts but there was no doubt that it had happened and that she had done it deliberately. To add to her advance she kissed me with her hot lips on my cheek.
“Thank you, Amy, you have been very nice.”
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