Their life had been like that of most other upper middle class Indian couples married five years: two children, a mortgaged house, good friends, some good times and some bad times. Their fourth anniversary had been a surprise, planned by him to make it special for her. She blessed it with tears of joy. She had planned and worked for months to make their fifth anniversary special for him.

Her plan demanded physical as well as mental fitness. She was running and lifting weights at the gym. Watching her muscles ripple, she smiled to herself thinking of what his responses would be when she gave him the gift. He had made positive comments on the changes in her appearance. He was always positive and supportive for her, as she was for him.

She designed a new, white evening dress. It covered her from its high collar to the flowing hem around her feet. The Parsi dressmaker had eyed her knowingly when she told her what she wanted. The dress was really six pieces, attached to each other with velcro. Skin tight, both hiding all and hinting at much more, it was designed to be removed piece by piece. Under her dress, she would wear six different items. She purchased matching shoes, higher heels than would be comfortable, but she would not be wearing them for very long.

She rented a small nightclub in Lonavla with an elevated stage and effective lighting for their anniversary night. She arranged a caterer. She hired a young lady named Nisha to assist her. When she told her brother she wanted him to help her interview and hire an exotic dancer, he looked askance, but knew better than to ask too many questions.

About a month before their anniversary, her husband asked if she wanted to go away for a few days and take some time for themselves. She smiled at him, a smile laden with hidden meanings.

"I've planned our anniversary celebration. I want it to be a surprise; so please, don't ask about it."

The hook was set. She knew his curiosity would eat at him, and anticipation is part of the fun.

He tried; she knew he really tried, but as the date got closer, his anxiety about the evening increased. She would only smile, her secretive, womanly smile designed by God and nature to drive men crazy.

"It's not much longer, honey," was all she would say.

A week before the date, as he was hurrying to leave for work, she handed him a white envelope. Eyes twinkling, she told him, "Our anniversary's next Wednesday. Please take off Thursday and Friday. This envelope has your instructions. Don't open it until Wednesday morning."

"You're driving me nuts with all this secretive stuff!" he complained.

She smiled that smile and pressed herself against him. She kissed him hard, deep to his soul, then her fingers slid down his chest to fondle him before she pulled away.

"I know," she whispered. "Isn't it fun!"

She walked away sexily, rolling her hips. She knew he was watching every movement and wondered if he would follow. From the kitchen window, she saw him standing by the car with a look of total confusion on his face. She smiled as she saw him sigh and open the car door.

He opened the envelope as soon as he got to the office. It read: "Jaanu, be home by four. Shower. Put on only the clothes on the bed. Directions to dinner are enclosed. Be there promptly at six. I love you."

In the evenings, he watched her as she did the dishes or read to the children at bed time. She was serene and at peace. She would catch him watching her, and that smile would flit cross her face. Gone in an instant, it became a ghost walking the hallways of his mind.

Tuesday, when he moved in bed to touch her, she said, "No, baby, not tonight. Let's wait one day... please, just this time." Her smile was soft and warm, a genuine signature of love.

"I can't wait one more minute, let alone one more day! Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration.

Her fingers touched his cheeks as she lightly kissed his lips. She smiled like a cat with a canary, as she said, "Yes." She rolled over, turning away from him. "Good night, my love," she whispered. She slept like a child. He knew because he was awake a good part of the night.

He was home at four the next day. The house was empty and as quiet as a tomb. He wondered what she had done with the children. He took the stairs two at a time. When he charged into the bedroom, the only sounds were his breathing and the ticking of the old clock on the bedside table. His tuxedo was on the bed, neatly laid out, shirt freshly ironed and starched. However, she'd forgotten his underwear. Or, had she omitted them on purpose?

He bought flowers. The girl at the florist shop in Marine Drive took his order for one dozen red roses. "Looks like a special evening," she said. She smiled at him, that knowing smile women have at these times when they can feel a man's excitement. He decided to buy two dozen and waited impatiently as she completed the order.

He arrived early, but waited, knocking on the heavy wooden doors at exactly six. His wife was stunning, so beautiful and radiant that his breath caught when she opened the door. She took his flowers and smiled at him, a sensual take-me-now-or-regret-it-all-your-life smile, and slowly turned so he could see her. She was dressed in her white masterpiece, her coal black hair piled high on her head, emerald ear rings matching her emerald eyes. He watched her sway beneath the dress as he followed her to the table. She had always turned him on, it was a major reason he married her, but tonight he could not remember ever wanting her more.

The caterers had laid out the feast: warm spinach salad, lobster steamed in white wine and served with drawn butter, angel hair pasta with red plum sauce and fresh asparagus. Desert was his favourite: vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries served over homemade pound cake which she had lovingly made earlier that day. All served in small portions as to not dull their other appetites, and wine with each course, naturally.

A beautiful young woman with long black hair, dressed in a sexy French maid's costume with its low, square bodice and short, stiff petticoats, was standing by the table. His wife said, "This is Nisha. She'll be our waitress." As Nisha curtsied, he glimpsed the bounty behind the bodice.

His wife put the roses in two separate vases on the table. They sat opposite each other, enjoying the outstanding food, the fine wine, as Nisha provided impeccable service. His darling wife was a scintillating and stimulating dinner companion, tonight more than usual as he sensed her anticipation and exhilaration. As always, he was enchanted by her as he floated in her corona.

After dinner, as Nisha cleared the dishes, his wife rolled in a large, comfortable recliner and faced it towards the stage. She handed him a glass of port and extended the foot rest. She gave him a fine cigar and held the lighter as he stoked it to life. She sat on the chair arm, making small talk, her fingers idly stroking his arm.

The house lights dimmed and lights flooded the stage. The music started. Nisha entered stage left dressed in a flowing evening gown with a cape.

"Relax and enjoy," his wife whispered in his ear.

She knelt at the foot of the recliner, removed his shoes and socks and began massaging his feet. She watched his face. She could not see Nisha; she did not want or need to. She knew Nisha's dance would last eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds. She knew it would begin very slowly and build to a crescendo. She could listen to the music and tell what clothing Nisha wore and each step Nisha took. She knew because she had choreographed Nisha's dance.

Nisha had warned her. "No one does a dance this... well, this sexy. He'll go wild."

"Good," his wife had replied, "let him go wild."

She sat at his feet because she wanted to watch him. She wanted to see how he reacted when Nisha removed her clothing, particularly at the ten minute fifteen-second point when the music changed to a hard, fast rock'n roll beat and the last of Nisha's garments hit the stage. Nisha was hot; she loved to dance and pushed the limits. His wife knew he would enjoy Nisha and his tension would increase. After five years, she knew exactly how far she could stretch him.

She watched her man as she knelt at his feet. She could see his discomfort as Nisha's routine moved into its fifth minute. He would glance at her furtively, tearing his eyes from Nisha to see if she minded his reactions. She would smile at him reassuringly, to let him know he was welcome to enjoy. She felt the tension in his feet as she massaged. She felt him move, once, then again, to hide his erection. She looked away and smiled to herself. She'd expected this and it was funny when he tried to hide it from her. After all, she had selected her position to see him.

The music and Nisha were approaching climax. He was paralyzed, barely breathing. She rose when the music stopped, looked at Nisha and was startled. His wife looked at him. He was dazed. She knew it was a hot number but it must have been something special when Nisha unleashed her sexuality in the actual performance. She vowed to tip her for the extra effort.

She stood behind him, rubbing his temples in a slow, circular motion. She felt his blood throbbing beneath her fingers as he decelerated. She refilled his glass and resumed her massage. As she caressed his cheeks and scalp, his tension eased from her ministrations. He leaned back, eyes closed. She let Nisha out and locked the door. They were alone in the club.

The spotlights covered only part of the stage allowing her to move in and out of the brightness, using the shadows to her design. He sat up when she started her music.

She let her hair down as she slowly walked to the edge of the stage and said to him, "We're alone. My dance is only for you. You're my man and I'm your woman. I love you." She blew him a kiss and began, gently swaying to the slow and easy rhythm.