The Lady Godiva Game

One part only

The Lady Godiva Game

By Francine

The hotel ballroom was filling with over four hundred attendees, as the annual
convention of the International Society of Structural Design came to its closing
event.  For ten days attendees had participated in technical and business
sessions, and now they came to the concluding time of their yearly gathering. 
They came from all over the world to this hotel in Northern Europe, to exchange
ideas, to engage in seemingly endless presentations of technical papers, to view
innumerable exhibits, participate in society business, and just enjoy each
other.  It was almost all business, until tonight.  This was the time to relax,
to have fun, to end on a friendly note and carry away those great memories while
looking to what would await them at their next venue a year hence.

They came in numbers, using snatches of numerous languages, though all could
manage the English that was the common vehicle of their business. Perhaps a
third were spouses of delegates, both male and female, while the delegates
themselves were industry professionals or interested observers.  In this
prestigious group, most of the members were thirty or over, though there were a
few younger, and some were much older.  All seemed well educated, well dressed,
and now smiling, looking to an evening of food, wine, and a bit of fun.

Marianne Dexter approached a table, accompanying her husband, Greg, who had been
ten years  a member of the society and several times an attendee at the
convention.  Behind them came Freida Dussenberg, employed by an architectural
firm of Dusseldorf, accompanied by her husband, Hans.  

"Shall we sit here?  This has a good view of the stage", asked Marianne of her
companions. In seeming agreement, all four of them quickly took places at the
table, set for ten.  Behind them quickly came another couple, conversing in
French, until the gentleman politely asked in excellent English if they might
join the group.   Introductions were exchanged.

An older couple then approached the table, asking by exchange of glances if they
might be seated.   Those already there quickly nodded smilingly.   Suddenly Greg
expressed recognition. "Say - aren't you Art Montfort, our Society Vice
President?"

The older man acknowledged the greeting with a nod, and added, "That is my
privilege, but you might say retiring Vice President, as I won't have that title
after tonight.  May I present my wife Sylvia?"  A rather elegant looking, quite
tall gray haired lady at his side beamed at them, and extended her hand in
greeting to those around.  "My third convention -  Art's been coming to them for
at least twenty years, but I've had my own business and that tied me up most of
the time.  However, I did break loose long enough to make it for his last hurrah
as a Society officer. It's been a great week for me.  How about all of you?"

The group exchanged impressions and experiences of the last few days, as they
were joined by two others, a man and a woman, though apparently not together, 
as the tables filled. 

Hans looked at Art intently at one point, and then observed, "Weren't you the
one they honored for distinguished service to the membership at the business
session Wednesday?  I really shouldn't have been there, but I accompanied
Freida; and I just couldn't forget the accolades they heaped on you.  We're
fortunate to be in your company!"

"Yes, that was me", Art answered.  "But they really overdid it.  I think they
were really celebrating the end of my service and the opportunity to see someone
new take the job!"

"Not the way I heard it", Greg chimed in.  "I've seen you at all these I've come
to.  Let's see, it's G. Arthur Montfort, isn't it? You've got quite a record,
which I can envy.  By the way, I always wondered what the 'G' was for?"

Sylvia laughed.  "Guisseppe!  Guisseppe Arthur Montfort!  Can you believe it?  I
think he hates it when I tell on him?"  Her steel gray hair shook a bit with her
laughter as she turned to her husband, who seemed to shy from her response.

"Sylvia told on me.  It's, in a way, an heirloom.  My mother was from an Italian
family, and her parents insisted that their grandson should have an Italian
name.  My parents obliged them and saddled me with it; but they never used it,
and neither do I!"

"It's a perfectly good name. You shouldn't be ashamed of it!" commented
Marianne.

"A great American name", Sylvia added.  "We Americans are mostly a mix of who
knows what.  Art just didn't see it that way.  So we just call him Art!"

The conversation went on for a time, until Helga, the woman who had come alone
to the table, asked about the entertainment for the evening.  "I understand that
after the ceremonial things, we have an exciting evening ahead.  After we stuff
ourselves on this meal, I hear there will be a some specialty acts brought in
for us! "

"Yes", Hans added.  "They always seem to come up with some local color in the
entertainment. I'm not sure what they will be tonight, but always they have been
good.

Marianne was quick to add, "It's not the entertainers they bring in that is
really the most exciting part- usually it's the audience participation thing
they do each time.  That's really wild!  And I don't have a clue what it will be
tonight!"

"Oh?" asked Helga.  "What do they do?"

Greg explained.   "At each banquet, there's a committee that plans some sort of
game or contest, something of an icebreaker.  It's intended to be fun, but, as
Marianne says, it can get a bit wild. But I think everyone has enjoyed it!  One
rule is no one is ever pressured into participation, but everyone gets to watch. 
I have to say, they've been getting wilder and wilder.  Who knows what they'll
come up with tonight!"

Freida broke into a big smile.  "Last year they did a crazy thing!  They had a
contest - remember the underwear event?  It was, as you say, wild.  But it was
fun.  Even for those who participated, it was fun!"

"Did you?" Marianne asked of Freida.

"I'm not telling." Freida answered, a bit shyly.

"What on earth was it?" asked Helga.

"Tell her, Marianne, since you seemed to enjoy it!" Art prompted.

"Well," Marianne began, "they had this contest.  There was a good prize, mind
you, so that made it worth while.  The prize was to go to the first man who
could get up to the stage with two sets of women's underwear - two panties and
two bras!   And you know where he was going to get them from!"

"Yes", Freida went on, "And there was prizes for the runner-up and the second
runner-up!  And then - the funniest thing - they made the winners identify the
women they had got the things from, and made them come up to get prizes, too!"

"Yes", continued Marianne, "but after everyone knew who the women were, and I
think there were about eight or nine of them altogether, they had to leave their
underwear on display on the stage for the rest of evening, and then they could
retrieve the items.  Everyone knew they were minus panties or bras throughout
the evening.  Some of them were blushing red most of the evening!"

"I hear", spoke the gentlemen who had come alone, "that they have a much wilder
event planned for tonight.  It is, in fact, so wild they will require women to
volunteer if they want to participate, and there's a lot of doubt if they will. 
I'm told there's a back-up plan if they don't get enough!"

The French-speaking couple smiled at each other.  The lady spoke.  "Allow me, I
am Michelle Durant, and this is my husband, Paul.   We had heard of the game
last year, and I had asked about this year.  I was told something of the same
thing!  It will be interesting, indeed!"

Sylvia turned to Art.  "Do you know what they're going to do?  You're in on most
things!  I love the fun things, if they just don't go too far.  Give us a hint?"

Greg hesitated.  "Well, yes, I've heard about the game, but I don't know if it's
a go.  If they do what was talked about, it's plenty wild, and they might not
get enough participation.  It has to be voluntary, you know.  It's the kind of
thing they couldn't do in a lot of places, but here they seem to have an OK for
it, as long as it's confined to the guests in the ballroom!"

"Aren't you going to tell us?" asked Helga.   Marianne, too, looked at Greg with
curiosity.

"I'm not really supposed to.

"Just a hint?" Marianne insisted.

"Not supposed to.  But - well, OK, you're all at the table and it will be
announced in a few minutes anyway.  OK -  what they're proposed will be called,
if they go through with it, 'The Lady Godiva Game'  and it will involve a sort
of lottery in which women who volunteer will have their names drawn, for the
honor of playing 'Lady Godiva' for the evening.  That's all I'm going to tell
you!"

"Lady Godiva", Helga mused, "wasn't she the one who rode naked through the town
in some kind of protest?"

"You got it!" Marianne observed.  "Does this mean some female is going to be
drawn for the privilege of riding around with her clothes off?"

Greg shook his head.  "No more comment.  You'll hear if they decide to do it!"

The guests debated the possibilities, as the event was called to order and the
presiding officer gave a welcome to the attendees and invited guests, and went
through a litany of thanks to those who had organized the events and were
otherwise being honored. 

After the opening ceremonies, the presiding officer then introduced an official
as Chairman of the Entertainment Committee. This official then took the chair,
and explained that several events featuring local talent would be performed for
the gathering after dinner and after some preliminary things were done.  Then,
he announced, "Some of you have been expressing interest in what we call 'The
Game', which we do each year.   A number of you look forward to this each year,
and for this year the Committee has organized an event which promises to be
memorable.  Some of you recall the 'game' of last year!  In that one, several of
the ladies relinquished some of their attire to enable a male contestant to win
a prize.  Many of you liked the idea, and while we were surprised at the number
of female attendees who enjoyed the event, some of them said it seemed unfair
because the winners, who were men, weren't the ones who had to give up anything. 
So, tonight, we've arranged something different.  Tonight's event will have a
female prize winner - and just one.  The prize will go to the winner, if she
complies with the rules, and everyone else will have to little but watch.  Yes,
watch!  And it should be quite a show!  That is, if we have enough participants
to allow us to do it!   We will call this one, 'The Lady Godiva Game' ".

Marianne almost burst out laughing. She turned to her table mates.  "See? 
They're really going to do it!  Oh, I can't wait to see this!"  Michelle also
smiled. "Yes, it is as I had heard!"

The speaker went on.   "This event is just for the ladies.  Men, sorry, but you
can't win the prize on this one, so don't even try.  All you can do is encourage
your lady to put her name in the hat, and she wins, maybe she'll share the prize
with you.   The prize, incidentally, is the equivalent of two thousand US
dollars, which we will give to the winner at the end of the evening - if she has
met all the rules.

"Now, here are the rules.  On each table is a set of cards. No woman is required
to participate, remember.  You can each choose to enter or not to.  There are
about four hundred and forty of us here, including almost two hundred women, so
we've decided that the event will go on only if we have at least one hundred
female entrants.  That guarantees that no one will have a chance of more than
one in one hundred of being chosen.  The chosen one will be known as 'Lady
Godiva' for the evening.  Some of you can guess why, already.

"Next, we will have the committee members pass around the room with baskets, and
any female person present may write her name and table number on a card and drop
it in the basket.  Before dropping it in, you must show it to others at your
table so they will know you are submitting you own name, and not someone else's. 
We will collect all of the cards and thoroughly mix them in a large glass bowl.  
Before dessert is served, one name will be drawn.  The lady selected will be
asked to stand and identify herself, then return to her place for dessert and
coffee.

"After coffee is served, we will call forward our Lady Godiva who will come up
to the stage, where she will be introduced to all of you, and will have an
opportunity to speak to you.  Then, she will be asked to remove all of her
clothes, whatever she has on, and leave them hanging on the coat tree at the
side of the stage.  Then, she descend and move to the tables in the room.  For
the remainder of the evening, she will circulate among the tables, and at each
table she will turn around, display herself, and stay at the table long enough
to have a drink of something with those seated there.  Someone will use a pen
and sign his or her name and the table number on her stomach, or , er, seat. 
She will then go to the next table.   We will proceed with the evening's
entertainment while she circulates.  If she manages to get through all the
tables, and there are 45 of them, before the evening ends, which will give her
about two to three hours, and doesn't leave the room , she gets the full prize. 
I think she will have earned it! 

"Ladies, you can decide whether to enter!  We will be collecting the cards in
about half an hour, so you have some time to decide.  Remember, if we don't get
at least a hundred, we will not go on with it!"

The room immediately erupted into a cacophony of conversation as excited
attendees began to discuss the game.

Marianne was ecstatic.  "I think it's great!  It's really wild!  But I'm not
going to enter - I couldn't do anything like that.  I just want to watch!"

Helga was lukewarm.  "I know it's all in fun.  But, to put yourself on exhibit
like that - naked, no less!  Maybe I'll take a chance.  But I sure hope I'm not
the winner.  Not even for two thousand dollars!"

Paul looked at Michelle.  "And, will you enter your name?  It was you who told
me this would happen!"

Michelle nodded.  "But of course!  The chance of being chosen is so small!  But
we must see who it will be.  It would be a pity if there were not enough to
enter!"

"But not for me!  I just couldn't!" Marianne insisted.  Freida nodded in seeming
agreement.

Art tried to intervene.  "No one has to participate.  I really don't think they
will get enough women to offer their names.  I can't imagine that many women
would want to do this!"

His wife was unenthusiastic.  "I think it's in very bad taste. In fact, it's
just awful. The underwear game last time was fun, in a way, but this!  Anyway,
I'm sure no one would want me to be a winner, anyway, at my age!"

"Which is?" Marianne inquired.  Greg tried to cut her off  "Marianne, you don't
ask that!"

"Sixty three", Sylvia responded without hesitation.

"And she's not ashamed of it, Greg!" Marianne responded.  "I'm forty three, and
I hope I look like you when I'm sixty three!" she looked smilingly at Sylvia.

"Thank you", Sylvia countered.  "Still, I'm hardly the age for this sort of
game."

The conversation went on for a time.  All of them looked at the group of cards
on the table, as the waiters brought appetizers and salads.

"Well, who's going to be the first?" asked Helga, eyeing the cards after the
discussion died down.

"Looks like no one" Marianne observed, "unless Michelle wants to start!"  She
looked at Michelle.

"Oh, I will enter my name - with a prayer that it won't be drawn!  But, I fear
you are right.  There will not be enough volunteers.  Yes, I will do it; but
only because I feel sure I won't be chosen.  Really, I don't think there will be
enough to enter their names."

"Then the game is off", commented Greg, with a shrug.  "Wonder what they've got
for a back up?"

"Pity", said Freida "I think a lot of us wanted to see it go on, we just didn't
want to be chosen!"

After a bit of silence, Sylvia reached forward, took a card, and began to write
on it.

Her husband stared at her.  "What are you doing - volunteering me?  You won't
get away with it!"

"No", Sylvia answered in a matter of fact way, "I'm offering my name.  Even
though everyone, especially me, will be sorry if I'm drawn."

"In heaven's name why?" her husband asked, his intonation rising.

"You don't need to do that", Marianne implored her.

"Of course I don't.  And I still think the game is in terrible taste. They
should never do anything like this, and I feel sorry for whoever is chosen.  But
this is the event they've come up with, and a lot of people look forward to this
as a fun time.  There are over four hundred people here just expecting a good
time.  No one is planning to make it difficult for whoever is drawn, and the
chance of being drawn is slight, anyway.  But I came here as a guest, Art is an
officer of this body, and we need to support the committee who planned this,
even if we think their idea is not terribly good.  I would absolutely hate to be
chosen, but we're going to ruin an evening for a lot of people if we don't give
it a chance.  After all, most of us are going to leave tomorrow, and the people
here, for the most part, aren't ones you're going to see for another year, if
ever, so it's not going to ruin you in front of all your friends.  Art, how
would it look if your own wife wouldn't participate, after all the recognition
they've heaped on you?  We're supposed to support this organization, and that
includes the Entertainment Committee, even when they have distasteful ideas.
Frankly, I think it's disgusting, but, yes, I'll offer my name!"

The others looked at each other, as  Sylvia completed the card.   She wrote her
name on it in a large feminine script, and showed it to the others.  Michelle
displayed the card on which her own name had been inscribed.

"No - not for me" Freida commented, clearly not writing anything.

"Nor me -  but, in a way, I think Sylvia's right.  I just don't have the nerve
to do it!" Helga joined in.

Marianne hesitated, her face strained.  She looked at the cards, then at Sylvia. 
Nervously, she reached for a card. "Sylvia's right -  we've all participated in
the events this week, and we need to take a chance on this, even if we don't
like the idea. We shouldn't spoil the party. The odds are pretty heavy against
being chosen - I'm going to put in my name.  If Sylvia can do it, I can." She
took her card and began writing, looking at her husband for his response.

"For your sake, not everybody else's, I have to admit, I hope you're not the
choice.  But it's for you to decide!"

Art grasped for something to say after his wife's declared intention, but for
once seemed at a loss for words.  He sat in silence, gently shaking his head.

Shortly, the baskets began to circulate, carried by committee members.  As a
basket approached, the women who had completed cards held them up for
collection.  Marianne dropped hers in, with a long sigh.  "See?" she said to
Greg, "I did do it!  Now you can hope they pick someone else!"

The meal went on, with only occasional references to the impending drawing.  The
conversation shifted to other matters as the courses were served.  Each table
was supplied with both wine and water, and the guests were clearly enjoying
both.  By the end of the main course, the effects on several of  the wine
drinkers was evident.  The atmosphere was relaxed as the main course dishes were
removed.

At this point, attention was drawn to the stage, where a large glass bowl had
been positioned on a small table covered with a white cloth.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcement began, "we now come to the event we had
explained earlier.  We have counted the cards offered by the ladies who were
willing to volunteer.  As you will recall, there must be a minimum of one
hundred women entering, or we will not go ahead with the drawing."    He turned
to two people, a man and a woman, standing at the side of the stage.  "Has the
counting committee done it's task?" he asked of them.

"Yes, indeed!" the woman responded.  "We have counted the cards twice, in fact."

"And there are?"

"Exactly one hundred and two names."  she responded, slowly and clearly.

A cheer went up from the tables, reflecting the news that the number was
sufficient to proceed.  Marianne put her hands to her face.  "Oh no! " she said,
in mock terror, "Someone's going to be drawn!"

A murmur arose in the room as the impact of the number was assimilated.  There
would indeed be a Lady Godiva.  Now, everyone was concerned, who would she be? 

The Master of Ceremonies continued.  "It seems, ladies and gentlemen, that we
can proceed with the drawing!  Does everyone understand the implications?  The
lady drawn will be our Lady Godiva for the evening - she will come up here,
discard her clothing, and then circulate among the tables for the rest of the
evening.  If she gets through all the tables, showing herself and sharing a
drink at each, and doesn't leave the room until the end of the evening, she gets
the cash prize.  Any questions?"

He looked about the room.  No hands were raised, no one stood up.  The murmurs
ceased.  Attention was about to be focused on the drawing.

"Then, ladies and gentlemen", he continued,  shall we proceed to drawn the name
of the lucky winner?  Shall we see which lovely lady will be invited to display
her charms in the most complete way?"    He motioned to to a man who was seated
at a nearby table.

"The number will be drawn by Peter Vandemeer, our esteemed Past President.  But- 
" he went on, "to assure that Peter shows no prejudice in his selection, and
that the choice will be completely by chance",  he motioned to the two members
of the counting committee, "He will be blindfolded!"

The two approached him as he entered the stage. The lady placed a large black
blindfold was  over his eyes and tied it in place.  Meanwhile, the man stirred
the cards in the glass dish with a long stick. 

The M. C. continued.  "Now, Peter, you have the honor of selecting the lucky
lady who will be our Lady Godiva of the evening.  Once you have drawn a card, we
will read the name, and ask the chosen lady to stand.  Then, we will ask no more
of her until after dessert and coffee are served - and then, then only, will we
invite her to come to the stage, where, we can assure her, she will be the
center of all attention!  Are you ready?"

Peter nodded.  He was led to the bowl, and his hand was steered into its mass of
cards.  "Reach deep, Peter; you don't need to choose from the top!  But be sure
you take only one card!"

He reached deeply and moved his hard around through the more than a hundred
cards.  After fumbling with them for a moment, he grasped one, and slowly,
carefully, brought it to the surface.  Unable to see, he drew it from the bowl
and extended his hand, grasping one card, toward the M. C.

The card was taken from his hand.  The M. C. looked at it carefully.  He drew
himself up, as though about to speak, the seemed confused.  "One moment, ladies
and gentlemen-" he hesitated, looking at the committee members seated at the
front of the room.  One of them quickly came forward.  The M. C. spoke quickly
to him.

Calls went out.  "Who is it?" someone yelled.  "Tell us the name" another
called.

"Just one moment, ladies and gentlemen; we need to be sure we have done this
correctly!  Just one moment!"

The audience couldn't hear the whispered conversation going on at the edge of
the stage.  "It can't be -   she wouldn't have!" "No, she did - but we can't let
it - can't we find a way to draw another?" "Maybe we can have a runner-up!" 
Clearly there was some kind of confusion.  More calls were made.

Finally the M. C. could stall no longer.   "We're not sure we had everything in
the correct order.  There's perhaps a need for a redraw-" he was stammering,
grasping for words.

A woman stood up and called out, "Tell us the name!  We were told one chance in
at least a hundred!  Only one draw!"

Flustered officials saw they had no choice.

Nervously, the M. C. looked at the card.  "The name drawn, ladies and gentlemen,
is..." he drew a long breath, looking around nervously,  "....Sylvia Montfort!" 

A gasp went around the room.  The M. C. hastily added, "we were just checking to
be sure we had done it right - we feared there might be an irregularity.  We
must be sure the name was properly entered."

A murmur arose.  'Lady Godiva' was to be the sixty-three year old statuesque
wife of one of the society's most senior and honored officers!  The committee
was looking quickly for a way out - this was not supposed to happen.

Marianne stared, open mouthed, at Sylvia across the table.  The others sat
there, stunned.  She seemed the most unlikely prospect.  Art started to stand up
to speak.  His wife restrained him.  She rose to her feet.

Silence settled on the room as Sylvia stood.  This tall, slender, well dressed
older woman with the steel gray hair and the bearing of a queen - it was
inconceivable that she was the chosen one for the spectacle they had set up. 
Sylvia beckoned for a microphone, which was quickly brought to her.

"When I put my name on that card, I did not expect to be the one drawn.  I would
never have volunteered for this!  But I knew my chances, and I entered my name -
now I've won - or lost - take your pick!  But if I've lost, many of you lost,
too, because a lot of you were hoping for someone half my age, and what you got
was me!  Now my husband didn't talk me into this, and he may be unhappy I even
entered; but he has served this society a long time and you have honored him
well.  Now, it seems, it's my turn in the limelight.  You don't need to do a
redraw, or try to find a way to excuse me; because all the other women who
entered are now off  the hook, so to speak, and it's not fair to ask any of them
to take another chance at being chosen.  Like it or not, what you got is me; and
I will do what the rules of the game require.  I don't relish making a spectacle
of myself, but I've been chosen, and I am going to do it.  And if you don't look
at me as you would if I were someone else, then I will feel insulted as well as
embarrassed!  Ladies and gentlemen - fair is fair! I'm the choice, and I will go
through with it!"

Sylvia surrendered the microphone and sat down.  Suddenly the silence was broken
by a crescendo of applause as everyone began to realize that this woman,
seemingly the most unlikely of prospects for this event, was really going to do
what was required.

There was little more to be said from the stage.  The M. C. acknowledged Sylvia
as the choice for "lady Godiva", and advised her to relax and enjoy her dessert
and coffee.  "Then", he added, "your moment will come, and we will invite to
come forward!"

As the dessert was served, everyone at the table looked at Sylvia.  "You were
great!" Helga commented, "but I don't see how you can do it!"

"Nor do I" responded Freida.  "I just couldn't. And, knowing how you felt about
the game - I think you called it 'disgusting'?  I can't believe you just said
that!"

"You know, Sylvia", Greg added, "you didn't have to do this.  They were trying
to find a way out for you.  You could have just let them!"

"Let them put another woman through it?  No.  I took my chance, and I was
chosen.  Now I have to live with it, and they have to live with me.  Maybe
they'll be sorry they didn't put an age limit on the entrants!  I've never been
an exhibitionist - but I won't be a coward!  They don't have to find a way to
get someone to take my place!"

Art shrugged.  "She has a mind of her own.  The game wasn't my idea, and her
volunteering to enter wasn't my idea either.  She does her own thing!"

Nervously, Sylvia finished her dessert.  Marianne tried to be helpful.  "Want to
slip out to the powder room before you time comes?  You're going to be doing a
lot of drinking if you have to share a drink at each table.  It's going to be a
long evening!"

"No - not now.  They'd think I was trying to sneak out.  I'll just have to get
through it.  You're right, though - I'm going to be taking in a lot of drinks!"  
Sylvia stubbornly held her seat.

Coffee was served.  After much of it had been consumed, the Master of Ceremonies 
again appeared on the stage.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen.  The moment has come.  I now call for our chosen
lady, Sylvia Montfort, to come forward.  Are you ready, Sylvia?"

Sylvia rose at her table, and began her way to the stage.  She moved steadily,
but not too fast. She carried nothing, having left her handbag and program
papers at her table.  She was a stately figure, five feet ten inches tall, gray
hair falling to shoulder length.  She wore a dark blue dress, trimmed with a
just a bit of gold, and a narrow gold belt at her waist.  Her make-up was light,
with just a touch of lipstick evident.  She held her head high, and her bustline
seemed firm, though not large.  She wore a bracelet and earrings, a wrist watch
and a small pin at her shoulder.  She had barely visible eyeglasses.  She seemed
well groomed, every hair in place, her face unmarred by wrinkles or blemishes,
her posture erect and confidant, belying the pounding heartbeat she felt as she
nervously contemplated what she was about to do.

Gracefully she stepped up to the stage.  The M. C. offered her the center
position.  The table, which had held the bowl for the cards, was still in place,
though the bowl had been removed.  A coat tree had been positioned at the side
of the stage, obviously to receive her clothing.

"Are you ready?" she was asked.  "You know what you are to do, according to the
rules of the game?"

She took the microphone.  "I do, indeed.  You need have no fear that I shall
fully comply.  But I must warn you - I did not come tonight prepared for this. 
The show I am going to give you is just me - all me.  I was not prepared and
therefore will not be responsible for your reaction to what you see.  I know
most of you would have wanted a younger woman for this.  Well, I was younger,
once; and I've not forgotten what it was like.  But I'm not dead yet, either; so
I don't know whether you are going to be shocked or pleasantly surprised.  But I
was chosen, and I'm going to play the game the way the rules were set up; and,
as I told you, if you look at me I'm going to be terribly embarrassed, but if
you look away, I'm going to be insulted!  So - let's get started!  May I have a
chair?"

The M. C. signaled, and someone brought a chair and set it beside her.

Sylvia handed back the microphone.  She bent her left knee, raising her foot,
and took off her left shoe, She placed it beside the table, the repeated with
her right shoe.  She reached to her ears, and removed each earring, in turn,
placing them on the table.  She started to take off her watch and bracelet, when
the M. C. cut in.

"You really can keep on your shoes and jewelry if you want, Sylvia- I don't
think anyone would mind!"

"Sorry!" Sylvia retorted.  "I understood I was to take everything off.  I'm not
going to be accused of cheating -  you're going to get me in bare feet, bare
arms, bare ears - everything off means everything!"

The M. C. retired in defeat.

Sylvia reached up under her dress, then sat on the chair.  She pulled down her
pantyhose, carefully removing them from both legs, then placing the garment on
the table. Then she rose to her feet, and, stepping briefly to the microphone,
she addressed the audience. "I am allowed some modesty.  Nothing in rules says
you get to see me in my underwear!"  She unfastened her gold belt, slipped it
off and placed it on the table.

Reaching under her skirt, she pulled down a pale blue half slip, dropping it to
her bare feet, then stepping out of it.  She stepped to the clothes tree and
hung her pantyhose and slip.

Returning to center stage, she reached behind her, starting to unzip her blue
dress, which had a zipper up the back.  Sliding the zipper down a few inches,
she reached behind her, and fumbled a bit.  Having achieved her aim, she then
pushed a bra strap down her left arm.  Wriggling just a bit, she managed to
maneuver her arm out of the strap.  She repeated the process with the right arm,
meanwhile bending forward a bit.  Finally, with both arms out of the straps, in
a slightly bent posture, she slipped the bra out of her dress.  She held it
aloft as she carried it to the coat tree.

She dropped her arms and stood facing her audience, offering a full front view. 
She again stepped to the microphone.  "I hope you're ready for this - there's
just the one piece left!  This is not easy- but I'm going to do it!  Try not to
laugh!"

Taking a deep breath, she suddenly slipped the dress from her shoulders, dropped
it, and stepped out of it.  She laid it briefly on the table, then turned to
confront her audience.

She stood beside the table, naked.  Her inside-out approach had delayed the
inevitable as long as possible, but now she had displayed herself all at once. 
Her slightly tanned arms and face contrasted with the whiteness of her body.  As
she stood still and erect, her breasts hung on her, drooping noticeably from the
high bustline which had been evident when she was in her dress. An erect nipple
protruded noticeably from each breast.  A couple of small moles were evident on
her chest, and a small scar below her waist evidenced surgery of many years ago.
Those near to her could see light stretch marks on her belly and noticeable, but
not bulging, blue veins in her legs.     

The front of her abdominal area bulged just a bit below her navel.  Her dark
brown pubic hair, obviously untrimmed or otherwise prepared for display, stuck
out in a thick curly patch, at the bottom of which her genital area clearly
showed its slit.  She made no effort to cover herself with her hands or posture,
just briefly standing there, completely bare.

Suddenly applause broke from one part of the room, and quickly spread.  She
showed no reaction, but just stood a  few seconds, before taking her dress and
carrying it to hang up.  She did this quickly, then turned once more to the
audience, and started her descent down the steps from the stage.  Only those
closest to the stage noticed that she was sweating slightly, even in the cool
room, and actually trembling a bit as she came down the steps.

She shook hands with the M. C. and then the Entertainment Committee, and
proceeded to the first table.  As she approached, she greeted those seated
there. "I'm supposed to visit with all of you, aren't I?  And do I understand
I'm to share a drink at each table?"  She extended her hand in greeting to those
seated, as she stood at their table.  Some took her hand nervously, others with
enthusiasm.  The women at the first table were noticeably reserved, but cordial
in their greetings.  The men were more animated.

Someone produced a small wine glass, and filled it with a small amount of wine. 
She found out, as she moved about, that each table had been provided with a
small glass at the center of the table, intended to be offered to her.  The
glass was offered to her by one of the men.

"I won't be able to take much of this", Sylvia said to her table hosts, "There
are forty five tables, and if I have wine at each one I probably won't be able
to find the last twenty!"   Sylvia felt the eyes of those at the table fixed
upon her, several sets of eyes clearly staring at her breasts and genital area. 
She had an immediate urge to cover herself with her hands, something she knew
would be useless as well as not in the spirit of the event.

She stayed at the first table only a few minutes, just long enough to exchange
greetings with all present and to down the proffered glass of wine.

One of the men took out a felt-tipped pen, and informed her "We're supposed to
mark our table numbers and sign in on you, somewhere -  was it on your stomach?"  
"I think they said stomach or backside -  which do you prefer?"

The man began to write on her stomach.  The pen was painless and took little
pressure, but she felt the activity, like a slight tickle, so close to her
genital region, which was so clearly exposed just below.  As he wrote, she
became aware of her bladder, now receiving the results of the several glasses of
wine and water and cups of coffee she had consumed at dinner.  She remembered
Marianne's suggestion that she avail herself of relief before undertaking her
performance. In her mind, she contemplated the volume of liquid she was expected
to consume, and the rule that she could not leave the room. 

As she left the first table, a male occupant of the table turned to his female
companion.  "Could you imagine a woman her age doing this?  I'm amazed she
volunteered - but, really, she doesn't look all that bad, does she? Do you think
she just wanted to show off?"

"You were looking at the wrong places, Fred," the lady answered him.  "Show off?
Did you see how pale she was?  That lady was perspiring and actually shaking! 
She was so nervous she could hardly stand there!  And as for looking bad, well,
are you going to look at me when I'm her age?"
 
Meanwhile, the evening's program went on.  Several ceremonial events were
scheduled, along with some theatrical performances, and Sylvia was no longer the
center of attention.  Perhaps, she realized, not the center, but certainly a
very visible and attention-getting side show.  Eyes were upon her from all over,
and at each table she visited she would definitely be the prime object of
interest.  For the performances of stage,the house lights were dimmed, and a
spotlight used to illuminate the performers.

Back at the table she had left, Marianne turned to Art.  "How do you feel? I
don't see how a man could let his wife do this - and, of all of us here, I would
have thought she was the one who absolutely would never do it!  But look at her
- she looks so calm and collected!"   Art waited a moment, thoughtfully, then
replied.  "I've lived with her a long time.  She ran her own business for many
years.  She's made her own decisions.  She wasn't pleased with this game - you
know she called it 'disgusting' !  But she wanted to be a good sport about it,
and no one's going to talk her out of it!  She's going to do exactly what she
thinks the game requires, even if she thinks it's in terrible taste.  I don't
control her - and woe to the man who tries to!"

Helga nodded.  "I wish I could be like her.  I didn't really think she would do
it.  But look at her - making a point of taking off even her jewelry!"

As the act on the stage ended, the spotlight moved from the stage about the
room. Suddenly it shone directly on Sylvia.  In the glare of the spotlight her
white skin stood out brilliantly, and the attention of everyone in the room was
directed at her.  Sylvia felt not only naked, which she surely was, but exposed
as she had never been before, somehow teribly vulnerable.  She glanced about the
room, her body shaking slightly, her hanging breasts quivering visibly. 

The exposure lasted only a minute or to, after which the spotlight returned to
the stage for the next event.

By the time Sylvia reached her fourth table, she decided to decline further
offers of wine, and insist on water, or at least something nonalcoholic for her
obligatory drink at each table.  She was already feeling the effects of the
wine, and she felt a bit more sure of herself exchanging toasts when water was
in her glass.  To be sure, the small glasses provided for her typically held
only two or three ounces; but Sylvia's still sharp mind could calculate the
cumulative effect of forty five such portions, which would come to over a gallon
of liquid.  By avoiding the wine, she thought she could avoid getting obviously
drunk, but she was nervously contemplating how she could possibly hold a gallon
of liquid in her body, in addition to the quantity she had already consumed at
dinner.

Sylvia kept up her pace, moving to new tables.  Now her stomach bore a
collection of inscriptions done by writers at the points she had visited.  No
longer was she shaking, though only those closest to her had observed it
earlier.  She tried to act with dignity, speaking directly to those at the
tables she approached.  At each stop, she was careful to turn herself around
completely, assuring those present of a close-up view of her body from all
sides.  In bare feet, she seemed a bit shorter than when she had ascended the
stage, and in some respects she seemed more vulnerable than majestic.  She tried
to keep up a smile, though it was becoming more difficult as her internal
discomfort grew with each new glass of liquid.  Yet she continued to accept the
glasses at each table, always emptying the glass, though often insisting on
something other than wine. To the people at the tables she visited, she had
nothing of the discomfort caused by her distended bladder, now well beyond the
point at which she would liked to have emptied it.

She approached the fifth table, occupied by seven men and three women.  A man
had already prepared a glass of wine for her, and extended it to her as she
approached.  "No, please - I don't think I can handle the wine, thanks!  Could
it just be water or something else?"

The man emptied the wine into his own glass, then refilled the wine glass from
an ice water pitcher. He extended it to her.  "Welcome to our table!  I must
say, you put on a great show! Won't you sit down for a moment?" He made a
gesture of rising, to offer her his chair.  

"No, thank you," Sylvia replied, her nervousness still showing in her voice. 
"The rules say I'm supposed to show myself off to you - whether or not you want
to look!  And I've had more than enough wine - I have to be able to keep my
composure through the rest of the evening!"

She sipped the water.  One of the women spoke up. "I don't see how you can drink
so much - I'd have been running for the ladies' long ago!  Anyway - tell us, why
did you offer your name?  Everyone was so surprised when you were chosen!"

Sylvia finished the water.  "I didn't like this game - I thought the idea was
terrible!  But it was done with the intent of just being fun.  It would have
spoiled the evening if enough women didn't volunteer!  So I did - and, well, all
of you lost - you got me!"

"I wouldn't exactly say we lost," another man replied.  "you were very good
about it; and, if I might say so, you look rather, well- " he hesitated, groping
for the right words.  "Attractive! Isn't that what you mean?" another man chimed
in.

"I think he was starting to say old!" Sylvia answered.  "But I don't feel that
old!"

"How do you feel?" a lady inquired of her.

"I would love a trip to the ladies room - like one of you said!  All of this
wine and water! But otherwise; oh, I am really just feeling so exposed -  I
could never have even imagined doing this!  Never, never, did I do anything like
this!"

"Are you getting used to it?" a woman asked.    "Would you?" Sylvia answered,
with raised eyebrows.  "No, I'm not," she answered her own question.  "And if my
husband is unhappy with me doing this, I'll remind him he was Vice President
when the Entertainment Committee thought this up, and it would have looked awful
if his own wife wouldn't participate!"

A man picked up the felt pen, to inscribe a notation on her body. "Where do we
sign in?" he asked her with a smile.  "Looks like everyone's been writing on
your stomach-  here, I'll use the space just down a little!"  He started to
write below her navel, just above her pubic hair.

"If you write there, please don't press hard", Sylvia cautioned.  "You can
write, but I'm getting really sensitive down there!"

"That's where all the drinks have gone!" another male commented, to his female
companion.

"She's going to have to hold a lot more!" the lady observed.

As Sylvia moved to the next table, those she had just left followed her with
their eyes.  "Do you really think she looks old?" one man asked of another. 
"She's no young chick, for sure!  Look at how her bustline's drooping-  she
can't hold those things up!  But all in all, she's not bad - she's all female!"

"Without a doubt! No doubt at all - you can see the evidence - all the
evidence!" a woman observed.

Another woman, older, possibly even Sylvia's age, was not impressed.  "It's
awful!  Absolutely disgusting!  I can't see how she could have offered herself
for this.  No decent woman could do this!" She wriggled her nose in obvious
distaste.

By the time Sylvia reached her tenth table, her smile had faded.  She was
bravely trying to show herself as the rules required, but the discomfort of her
overdistended bladder had now turned to real pain.   Her condition was
noticeable to those she approached. To make matters worse, at that very moment
the group on stage completed their activity, and the spotlight flitted about the
room for a moment, then focusing again on Sylvia.  Somehow, she felt everyone in
the room was aware of her intense discomfort and somehow enjoying it.

A woman addressed her "Mrs. Montfort, I don't see how you can go through this.
All that staff you've been drinking - don't you need a bathroom stop?"

"The rules say I cannot leave the room," Sylvia replied, with obvious distress. 
"I need a bathroom stop -  it probably shows!  No, it really hurts -" her voice
trailed off.

"You can't leave the room?" a man asked of her.

"That's right!" Sylvia replied. 

"But they didn't say you couldn't have some relief if you stayed in the room,
now did they?"

"Don't tease me," Sylvia responded,  "It hurts something awful- I don't know how
to get through this!" The distress and discomfort was showing.

The man was holding a large plastic cup which had held a soft drink.  "I brought
this in - it's empty, now.  I'd let you fill it, if you want to, right here! 
It's big enough to help you at least a little, and I could empty it outside. 
It's white so no one would know what's in it!"

Sylvia looked at him at first with apprehension, then disdain.  "Thank you, sir,
but I don't think I could do something like that!"   Her attitude was cool and a
bit formal. 

"Sorry, I meant no harm.  Just wanted to help!" he commented as she moved away.

"How could you offer her something like that?  You didn't expect her to accept
that offer, did you?  That was an awful thing to say!  She's embarrassed enough
at what she's having to do!"

"I just thought she might welcome a chance for relief -  I don't see how she can
keep going!" he shrugged.

She got through the next two tables with a minimum of conversation.  It was
evident that she was suffering considerable physical distress.  She drank the
obligatory drinks with formality, received the markings on her body, and moved
on.

At the fourteenth table, Sylvia tried to keep up her composure, but she was
rapidly losing it.  Her mind was  on her bladder, visibly swollen.  As people
wrote on her stomach, several had commented on the swelling or the hardness they
could feel.  The pain was getting to be intense, and she wondered how long she
could restrain her need to urinate.  Her internal torment was getting
unbearable.

Suddenly she shifted direction.  Instead of going to the next table in order,
she retreated down the route she had come, her eyes searching out for someone
she had passed earlier.  A number of people spoke to her, but she ignored most
of them.

Finally she found what she was looking for.  She was back at the table where the
man was sitting with the plastic cup.   She stood beside him, greeting the
others briefly, then turned to him.  "You offered me the chance to -  to use
that cup, if I'd do it here?"  she asked, in a rather low voice.

Every eye at the table now focused on her.    "Yes, I did, but it didn't seem
like a good idea. No one else here thought I should have done it.  I'm sorry - I
didn't mean to annoy you!"

"Is the offer still available?" she asked, averting the eyes of the others.

"If you want to,  but I'm really sorry, I don't think it was a good idea!"

"Right now, it's the best idea that's come to me - really, I've got to do
something - I'm sorry, too-"

She hardly knew how to continue.

He held out the cup.   "Would you hold it in place - under me?  And tell me when
it's getting full, because I could probably fill it several times!  Please?"

She felt her face flush, as those at the table stared/  The man, flustered, held 
the cup under her as she spread her legs slightly.  "Please watch -  I may be
messy!  I haven't done it like this before!"

A number of people around were staring, now, aware of what was about to happen. 
The man held the cup just under her genitals, with a gap of only an inch or so. 
She looked straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of all those staring at her.  She
tried to relax.

After a bit a stream began to pour into the cup.  People stretched their necks,
trying to see the action.  The man holding the cup kept it steady, trying to see
the filling contents.     After a few seconds he told her, rather loudly, "It's
getting full - can you stop?"    She tried.  It was difficult, even harder to
stop the stream than to restrain her bladder earlier.  She managed, however, and
stopped before the cup was full - barely.  She had let out perhaps a pint;
nowhere near all that she contained, but enough to afford her a lessening of the
pain. 

Minimizing her eye contact, she said quietly to the man who had offered the cup,
"Thank you - I don't know how I could go on without something like that -  I
hate to leave you with that, though-"

He held the cop, filled with her warm urine, a bit foamy.  "Never mind - I'll
take it out and empty it.  Glad I could help you.  Come back if you need more!"

"I've got to go on," she said, to no one in particular.

Relieved somewhat, she returned to her table visits.  The entertainment program
went on, as a folkloric group present a dancing and music exhibition.  Still,
many eyes focused on Sylvia wherever she moved.  She knew that whatever was on
stage, she remained a major attraction, and, every time the stage event halted,
even for a few seconds, the spotlight was inevitably trained on her.

Her stomach was filled up with writing, and now people were writing the table
numbers and signatures on other places.  Her buttocks were beginning to
accumulate some inscriptions, and at least one man had pointedly chosen to write
his table's inscription on her breast, holding it gently while the writing was
done.  Sylvia had thought of objecting to this liberty being taken, but decided
not to make an issue of it.  At the table following, she motioned to the other
breast when the pen was produced, suggesting "maybe I need some balance - why
don't you put it here?"

At  the table where she had eaten, her spouse and the other guests watchfully
monitored her progress.  Several had noticed the incident with the cup.  After
it, Helga had observed, "I don't see how she could do that!  In front of
everyone!" She shook her hook in amazement.

Freida was at least sympathetic. "After you drink so much, you're going to be so
uncomfortable - well, you have to do something!"

Hans observed, "I think most women would just have headed for a toilet"

"Not Sylvia!" Marianne responded.  "That lady's not going to give up - she's
determined to do everything the game requires!  But I know I couldn't have done
it"

Art shook his head, just a bit.  "That's my wife," he said with resignation.

After a number of additional table visits, Sylvia was observed to again depart
from her route. Her eyes searched for the table of the man who had offered her
the cup.  Slowly, by a circuitous route, she moved toward the place where he had
sat.

He saw her coming.  There was eye contact.  As if to offer aid, he held up, just
slightly, the cup she had used before, now emptied.  He nodded to her.  She
approached him.

"I don't know who you are, but no one else has offered to help me -  would you
do it again?  I need it desperately - I'm so full, and it hurts so bad-"  her
voice was low, but shaking, and her distress was visible and real.   The ritual
of the cup was repeated, this time with many more watchers.

As the cup was about a third full, applause broke among the audience for the on
stage performer. As he departed the stage, the spitlight was turned directly on
Sylvia, standing and urinating into the cup.  It took a moment for even those
nearby to grasp what they were watching. A gasp went up from several, mild
applause from a few others.   The humiliation of it struck her; her muscles
froze. Her stream stopped, her bladder still painfully full.

The man started to remove the cup.  "Don't!" she protested, "I'm not finished -
please hold it!" The cup was returned, the holder now clearly illuminated in the
spotlight.  She finished filling the cup.

"Thank you - I may be back -" she said, in parting, as he rose with the full
cup, preparing to leave the room.  Only at this point did the spotlight leave
her.

A woman seated near the man stared at him.  "How could you do that - right at
our table! With that spoitlight on us!  This was an awful spectacle without
everyone seeing that here!  I can't take any more.  I'm leaving!"  Fury was in
her voice, as she and the man accompanying her arose and left the room.  Others
at the table followed suit, including, finally, the man who had come to Sylvia's
aid.

Sylivia continued her required circulation.

She approached her own table.  Art looked at her, "How are you holding up?" he
asked her.

"All right at the moment, but it's been rough.  Here, you an write on me -
everyone has been doing it!" She presented her body.  The guests looked at each
other, wondering who she do the writing.  They were looking at Art.  "One of you
do it -  not me!" he requested.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Sylvia asked, plaintively.

"Never!" Art exclaimed, breaking into a smile.  He took the pen, and started to
write on his wife's stomach. He commented "Hard to find a place - look's like
you're getting used up!"

She pointed to her breast, bearing only one inscription on each.  "Here - might
as well be you as someone else!"  He accepted the invitation, and complied.

"We saw the guy with the cup - I don't see how you do that!" Helga observed,
half in admiration, half in disgust.  

"Well," Sylvia replied, after a moment's hesitation, "Let's say, a lady has to
do what a lady has to do.  I didn't think I could do it either, but the pain was
killing me.  I had to do something!"

Art just nodded.  She accepted her required drink from them, then moved on.

After she had left, Art excused himself briefly.  He located one of the hotel's
serving staff.  Explaining his identity, he offered his room key.  "My wife's
clothes and belongings are on stage, behind the edge of the curtain.  I want you
to collect her things and take them to our room.  Bring me back the key!" He
accompanied the man to the stage stairs, where he explained to the committee
chairman the errand.

A few minutes later, after Art returned to the table, the man appeared, bearing
the room key. The errand was completed, he reported.  Art acknowledged the
service with a suitable gratuity.

Meanwhile, oblivious to her husband's activity, Sylvia continued.  Twenty
minutes or so after leaving his table, her bladder was again very full, the
result of her continued liquid intake.  This time she sought relief before the
situation became painful, as she knew it would.  She ceased to move along the
obvious route, and headed back to the table of the one who had twice assisted
her with relief.  Eyes all around the room followed her movements, anticipating
her intention.

She reach the table where she had received the blessed relief before.  No one
was there - the table was empty.  She glanced about quickly for a sign of the
cup, or the man who had offered it.  It was obvious he had departed, the cup
accompanying him, perhaps to become a treasured souvenir.

Relief had obviously eluded her.  She beganto wonder if she could make it
through the remainder of the evening.  The tension in her pelvic area was
increasing as her bladder continued to distend. She would have to get by without
any way to relieve herself.

Sylvia returned to her route and continued her movement.  She reached the last
table just as the final act came on stage. She finished her duties in short
order, downing the last drink required of her - this time she accepted the wine. 
After collecting the signature, she moved to the table with the Committee
Chairman.   She approached him.

"I've run out of tables", she reported.  "And every one in the room has stared
at me!  Is there anything left?"  Her voice was impatient, reflecting her
internal distress.  She quickly got her response, as two committee members rose
and approached her.

"We need to check the signatures and table numbers - did everyone sign in?" The
first committee man smiled at her, looking at thge writing scrawled all over her
body.   "Looks like everyone did!" commented the second, viewing the
accumulation of writing.  "But we have to check!"

The two began going over her body, one calling out the tables which were
recorded on her skin, as the second marked them off on a list.  It was a
laborious process, taking several minutes, and drawing the attention  of all
around.   As the man looking her over read off the inscriptions, he reviewed her
stomach carefully, then worked up her body.  At one point he realized that some
of the writing was obscured by her drooping breasts.  Embarassed himself., he
hesitatingly asked her, "Mrs. Montfort, I can't read some of the writing here - 
could you raise, er, lift your --?"  Words failed him, as he could not think of
a discreet word for her breasts.  Sylvia understood, however, and raised her
breasts with her hands, as he inspected the area under them.  The review done,
she lowered them. 

After a few minutes, the officials conferred.  "Mrs. Montfort, I think we can
confirm that you have been recorded at all tables. I think you can return to
your own seat until the closing event, which should be in just a few minutes!" 
Gratefully, she retired to her own table, where Art and the others awaited her.

"Is Lady Godiva allowed to return here?  I think I've made it through all the
tables!"  Sylvia greeted them.  Her expression and nervous demeanor belied her
physical distress as well as her lost modesty.

She received congratulations from her table mates, but cut them short.  "All I'm
waiting for is the end of this thing - so I can get my clothes on and head for
the Ladies' -  all those drinks - you can't imagine how I need to go--"

"You had that cup a couple of times!" Marianne interjected.

"I could have it used it again and again - I never was able to empty myself - 
come on, let's get this over!"  The urgency in her voice was apparent.  She
wasn't interested in further conversation.  After a couple of minutes, she
stood, in obvious discomfort, and began to nervously pace about at the side of
the room.

As the last act moved from the stage, the Master of Ceremonies took his place to
announce the end of the festivities and close the evening.   After a thank you
to the performers, the Entertainment Committee and some others, he then issued a
call.  "Sylvia Montfort - Our Lady Godiva!  Please come to the stage!"

Sylvia, now standing at the side of the room, struggling to last through the
last minutes of her ordeal, came rapidly forward.  Unlike her earlier feigned
nonchalance, she now held her body tightly with both hands - her right
positioned just under her breasts, obviously to minimize the motion of those
parts as she almost ran to the stage; her left tightly pressed to her pubic
area.  Some might have thought she was trying to preserve her modesty, though
Sylvia herself had abandoned any hope of that.  She only hoped she could keep
her painful bladder from leaking through the last few moments.

She stepped up to the stage. As she moved to the center, her eyes searched for
the clothes tree on which her dress and underwear had been hung.  It was nowhere
to be seen.

"Sylvia," the M. C. addressed her, "We never expected you to volunteer for this
game, and, if you did, we never thought you would be chosen.  We've known your
husband for years, but until now we haven't seen much of you. Tonight we made up
for that!" Laughter erupted from the audience as they contemplated the double
meaning.

"Sylvia Montfort, you did everything the game required, and - I think we all
share in this - you were magnificent!"   He motioned with his hand to the naked
woman standing beside him, as a round of applause broke out, turning to a
standing ovation.

Sylvia accepted the applause, trying to smile as she endured yet another pang of
pain from her swollen abdomen.  Her hand pressed to the source of the
discomfort, not unnoticed by those watching.

"Sylvia, I know this has not been easy for you; and, even now we can see how
uncomfortable you are.  You were great, and since you did everything the rules
require, it is my privilege to present to you the prize money - you earned it
well!" He held out to her an envelope holding the prize award.

"Anything you 'd like to say?"

Sylvia grasped the microphone, still holding her other hand pressed to her pubic
area while she held her legs pressed together.

"I thank you - it was never my idea to do this when I came here tonight; but you
chose me in the drawing, and I have tried to do what was expected. But - I could
have done with about forty less drinks!  All I want now is my clothes, and will
everyone please clear a path for me to the ladies' room?"

A loud round of laughter and applause arose. "Sylvia",  the M. C. continued.
"your distinguished spouse arranged to have your clothes, jewelry, and other
things taken to your room upstairs.  And now, with our thanks and appreciation
for you both, I'm calling for him to come forward and escort you there himself!"

Sylvia looked dumfounded.  "He's going to take me out of here naked?" she asked,
shocked.

Art rushed forward, taking off his coat as he came.  He strode up the steps, and
placed the coat over his wife's bare shoulders.  The M. C. shook hands with each
of them, as Sylvia, dressed only in her husband's jacket, a bewildered
expression on her face and one hand still trying to hold her bottom, joined him
and walked toward the door.

"Art - what is this?  I can't go out there - not into the lobby?  My whole
bottom is bare!" she complained to him as she half walked, half ran, to the
exit.

"Looks like you're covering the important part with your hand!  Come on - it'll
only be a few seconds! By the way, you were absolutely magnificent!  I've got
the best looking wife in the room!"

"You mean the most looked at! Absolutely everyone has seen every inch of me! 
Now look - you've got to let me stop at the ladies-  oh, I never had to go so
bad in my life!"

"Not a chance!  The only stop you're making is our room!  And, incidentally, I
think I've got the sexiest wife in the group, too!  I'm not letting this go
without the right way to end it!" He ushered her through the crowd, out the main
door, and quickly to a lift someone was holding open for them.

The door closed.  They shared the lift with several others from the banquet. 
Sylvia was showered with praise for her performance from the other occupants. 
She nodded politely, not relaxing her grip on her pubic region.

They got out at their floor, and Art quickly led her to their room.  He fumbled
just  a bit with the key.  "Hurry!  Or I'm going to water the floor!  I never
had to hold so much or so long!  Hurry!"

He got the door open. As they entered, he removed the jacket from her shoulders. 
He took his naked wife by the hand and turned her to face him.  "You were
absolutely the greatest!" he told her, as he kissed her with enthusiasm.  She
tried to push him away, but gently.  "I've got to get some relief! Quickly!" she
tried to tell him.

"Just a moment", he pleaded.  "You've been parading around naked in front of
four hundred people! Don't I get a good look at you, too?"

"Look quick!" she replied, turning full front to him, a hand still holding her
pubic area. "And, whose idea was it, anyway? You didn't warn me about this - I
wasn't ready- look at me! I didn't trim my hair down there, I didn't pick
clothes to take off easily! I would never have done this if your committee
hadn't thought up this idea of a game! Why couldn't you have told me?" Her voice
reflected not only her physical anguish, but more than a touch of anger.

"It wasn't my idea, either!  The committee came up with it on their own!  I
never thought you would have volunteered for it!  But - you did look great-" 
His voice stopped as he moved toward her.

His hands went to her breasts, holding her by the nipples.  He kissed her.  She
protested. "Later - I've got to pee!  Oh, my bladder hurts so bad!  I told you -
I've got to get some relief!"

"Let's both get some" he replied, releasing his grip on one breast only to
enable him to unfasten his own clothing.  She found her other breast held in his
lips.   Still she pressed her hand on her vulva, trying to keep her bladder from
emptying.  "Let me go" she protested, just a bit more feebly, "You don't know
how full my bladder is!"

"Yes, I do," Art replied.  "Mine is, too.  I haven't been since dinner, either.
But right now there's a more important need!"

"Your bladder isn't holding forty glasses worth!"

"Yours isn't either!  I saw you urinate into those cups!  That was the sexiest
thing I saw you do! How could you?"

"When your bladder's swollen to twice its size, you can let it out anywhere you
can!  Look - I'm a lot fuller than you are!  It hurts - worse than it's ever
hurt!"

At this point they were both naked.  He put his hand on her abdomen, saying
"Feel me. Don't I feel full?"

His hand found her pubic area.  He palpated her swollen, hardened bladder.  "You
know," he commented, "You've got the sexiest bladder I've ever felt!"

"How many have you felt?" she responded.  Her hand slipped just a bit and
touched his firm, erect penis.  She gripped it just slightly.

Suddenly she let go her grasp, and ran into the bathroom.  "Oh, it's never been
this bad!" she complained, heading for the toilet.  She seated herself, moaning
softly, her eyes closed. She tried to relax her sphincters.  She tried to no
avail.  Nothing happened. 

"Oh", she groaned again, moving her legs apart, again trying to relax her
muscles.  Another light moan escaped her lips, but her bladder refused to empty,
despite its obvious bulge.

"I can't let it out!" she groaned, in some desperation.  "Art, try to help me!
Try to massage me a  bit - maybe it'll help me let go "

Art came to her.  He pressed on her bladder, just below her navel.  She made a
pained expression, but there were no results.  He slipped his hand down, to her
genital area, and fondled her there just a bit.  Her pained expression eased
just a bit.  "A little more", she asked slowly. 

His hand moved around in her genital area.  He toyed with her hair, then slipped
a finger inside her. His other hand seized a nipple.  She gasped slightly.  
"Not yet - I need to pee so badly - aren't you going to let me?  My bladder was
never this full before!"

She felt his hand pull her nipple, as another moved in her genitals. He began to
nudge her from her seat.  "Aren't you going to let me?" she asked, now rather
weakly, "my bladder's so full, and it's so hard-   or are you wanting to feel it
from the inside?"

His answer was applied to her breasts in silence.  She sensed her own arousal.  
"It doesn't hurt quite as bad as it did - but I couldn't take any pressure on
it-  "  Her protests were diminishing.

He quickly moved her from the toilet,. He dropped a bath towel on the floor,
falling onto it, then pulling her on top of him.  "Oh, but it hurts!"  she
protested again, as she was drawn into position straddling him.  Suddenly she
felt his organ enter her, somehow passing through her vaginal opening with its
tightly clenched muscles.  There was just a bit of motion.  Then he stopped.

"Does it really hurt?" he asked her. She nodded, then moved up and down a bit. 
Then a bit more.  Suddenly she, too, stopped.  "It feels so strange..." she
said.   He began movement, slowly, then increasing.  She felt the feeling change
from pain to a kind of strange fullness.  She somehow didn't want it to end. 
She held her muscles clamped tight. 	He seized her erect nipples, pulling
them wide apart and stretching her breasts.  Her whole body seemed wracked with
tension; her genital muscles tightly clenched to restrain herself from
urinating, her pelvic region distended with her overfilled bladder, her nipples
and breasts pulled and stretched.   Her arms tried to grasp Art's, to ease the
tension on her breasts, but then she dropped them as the strains throughout her
body rose.  Her mouth opened as if to cry, but emitted no sound.   Suddenly she
felt her body seem to explode as though an electric flash had passed through her
nerves- she tensed, then felt her muscles gradually loose the tension as she
felt his explode in a second crescendo of energy. 

They collapsed slowly to the hard floor.  Suddenly she again became aware of the
pain caused by her swollen bladder. She tried to release it, but her body still
wouldn't cooperate. She spoke to her spouse, all but unconscious under her. 
"I've got to pee - and it won't come out!"

She lay for a moment, then scrambled off of him.  She half knelt, half squatted
in the nearby shower stall.  She was still trying to release her bladder, to no
effect.  "Help me, Art!  It won't come out!  Oh, there's so much in there!"    
He moved to her, still drained from his own release.  He put his hand on her
abdomen, feeling its hardness.

"Push on it!" she demanded, as she spread her legs a bit.  He pressed, gently.  
Her distress was very real, as the pain within her intensified.     Art looked
at her, watching for some sign of results.  After a bit, there was a trickle
from her.  She said nothing, just held her legs widely apart and assumed a
squatting position.   The trickle became a stream, and then the stream grew in
strength.

She raised herself slowly to a standing position in the shower stall, her spouse
in front of her.  His hands slipped up from pressing on her bladder to gripping
her breasts.  She tilted her head back, tossing her gray hair behind her,
relishing the relief as her bladder forcefully emptied.  Her hand moved forward
a bit, touching his stomach.  He looked down at the stream of almost clear
liquid pouring forcefully from her, the results of all those drinks she had
consumed through the evening.  Her hand found his largely flaccid penis, and
pointed it at her own streaming genital area. "Don't you need some relief, too?"
she asked suggestively, while holding his organ.

He tried to relax, trying to allow allowing his own urine stream to release.
Sylvia looked down, observing his  penis, gently gripped in her hand.  Her own
stream continued to pour out of her. Though he would have scarcely thought it
possible, his erection returned rapidly as he watched her urination pour down
over the legs of them both. Despite his own need, his erection prevented his
urination. "Can't you let go?" Sylvia asked, "I know you need to!"

He tried to release; but now it was he who couldn't let go.  He shook his head
to answer her question.  "I can't let go - it just doesn't work - I'm too---" he
fumbled for the right word.

"Worked up?" she said, looking down at his erect organ, as her own urination
finally came to and end.  "You  poor guy!  What can we do about that?"

Almost without thinking, he was squeezing and spreading her breasts.  Her eyes
opened and she smiled at him, the pain of her bladder now ended.   "You couldn't
have done that twenty years ago - they wouldn't have stretched that far!" she
said to him slowly, as her hand tightened around his erect member. 

Her urine stream ended, Sylvia reached for the shower faucet. "We're a mess!"
she observed, turning on the warm water, which cascaded on them both. He
continued to hold her breasts, and she his erect penis.  In a few seconds she
turned the water off, and reached for a towel.  She quickly wiped herself off,
then toweled down her husband, as they momentarily released their grips on each
other.  Grasping him by his erect penis, she led him from the bathroom to the
bed, where she fell on her back, her legs spread slightly, his member still in
her grasp.  "There must have been four hundred people who got to see me this
way", she observed, "and I was wondering if looking at me can still do things
for you.  Guess I got my answer!" Her hand again again grasped his erect penis.

"You're holding the evidence" was all he could think to say, looking at his nude
wife spread across the bed, her hand still grasping him.

"I think it's time to fix this-" she said, indicating with a tug what she meant,
"We need to get you some bladder relief!" He got the hint.

A few minutes later, both of them felt drained of energy.  Two such experiences
in succession was more than they had had in many years.  Sylvia watched, lying
naked on her back on the bed, as her spouse rose.  "Going to get that relief,
now?" she asked, a bit weakly.  He nodded, rising to move to the bathroom.

Mustering all of her remaining energy, Sylvia struggled to follow him.  "You
watched me - something you haven't done in a long time!  Now it's my turn!"

She steered him into the shower.  Her hand took his penis.  "I'll take care of
this - you need your hands for other things!" she instructed him.   His hand
rose to grasp her nipple.

He was now relaxed.  Even with her hand on his organ, it was  flaccid.  Slowly
his urine stream began, directed by her to the shower wall.  She moved him
around a bit, just playing with the stream.  It took him a long time to empty
himself.  Her hand did not release its gentle grip.  When the stream ended, she
tugged him back to the bed.  Extinguishing the light, they fell unclad to the
sheets, both them exhausted and soon fast asleep.

The sunlight woke her up, coming through the slight opening in the drawn
curtains. She lay there a moment, considering the intensity of the light,
suggesting that it was no longer early.  She quickly became aware of an urgent
feeling in her bladder, demanding to be emptied of the residue of last night's
liquid intake.  She looked about her.  The sheet had almost completely slipped
off both of them, and they lay side by side, she on her back, he somewhat on his
side, both of them naked. She looked at her sleeping husband for a few seconds,
then sat up on the side of the bed.  With a hand she reached and pulled open the
curtains, allowing the sunlight to pour into their room and over their bed,
which the window overlooked.

She stood up and peered out the window.  It was brilliant sunlight.  Another
wing of the hotel extended at right angles to their own, and the windows of the
rooms could be easily seen.  As she looked out, she considered that anyone in
those rooms could also look into her own room.  She wondered if anyone was
looking, as she stood in front of window, nude.  Yesterday, she reflected, she
could not have done this.  Her modesty would  have recoiled at the thought of
having a curtain open when either of them were undressed, let alone standing
naked in front of an unshaded window.  She smiled to herself.  Last night over
four hundred people had seen her naked, most of them close up.  What would a few
more matter?

As she looked, she saw a man in a room of the other wing come to the window.  He
stopped and stared.  Sylvia didn't move from her spot. She didn't return the
stare, but she made no move to cover her nudity.  After a minute or so, she
turned and looked at her sleeping spouse, whose naked form could also have been
seen through the window.

She felt a bit messy.  Her hair was uncombed and tousled.  Across her stomach,
her abdomen, and even on parts of her breasts and buttocks were the remains of
inked inscriptions from last night's table visits. Now they were smudged,
largely unreadable.  She looked at the sheet on which she had lain; smudges of
ink were evident there, too.  She hadn't had a real shower since the afternoon
of the previous day.  Quite a change, she reflected, from her usual tidy, almost
immaculate appearance.  Normally she slept in a nightgown; now, she considered
that there hadn't been a stitch of clothing on her body since  last night's
dinner event.  She smiled and shrugged.  She squeezed her legs together, trying
to force further martyrdom on her distended bladder.  It was beginning to hurt.  
She started to rise from the bed to go to relieve herself.  She glanced out the
window. Her male viewer was still in place, apparently still looking in her
direction.

She looked back at her naked and sleeping spouse, who had now rolled mostly on
his back.  She reached toward him, wondering whether to press on his abdominal
area to test the hardness of his bladder.  No, she decided; that might wake him. 
She had another inspiration. She wondered to what extent he might have recovered
from last night's lovemaking.

She moved closer to Art, wondering if the man across the way was still watching.  
She bent over him, then allowed a hanging breast to brush his face.  She
repeated, with the other breast.  His eyes flickered.  He stirred just a bit.  
Her hand reached down, pinching the tip of his penis.  She pinched again, the
breast again brushing his face.

His eyes opened.  "It's morning", she said cheerily, his penis feeling her pinch
and responding with a bit of hardening.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  He glanced at the window.  "Hey - the curtains
are open - and it's daylight!"

"Yes", she answered.  "And there's a guy looking at us through the window from
the other wing!"  Her pinch was repeated, as his organ became firm.

"And you're letting him?   With the window open - the curtains open - and all?"
he could hardly believe his gray haired wife.

"Hundreds of people looked at me last night.  Are you worried about one more? 
Or don't you want him to see you?" she replied.  As she spoke, she moved herself
atop him, sitting astride his thighs.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, then quickly added.    "I gotta pee!
Please-"

"Like I had to last night?" She was almost laughing.  Her hand found his
abdomen, just below his navel, and pressed gently.  The hardness beneath was
evident.

"Guess you do!" she commented, then added,  "Later!  Just now you have something
else to do!"

He had winced beneath her pressing hand.  Now he was wide awake.  His erection
was firm, and she introduced it into herself, as she leaned forward.

"I really have to go, Sylvia -  I need to.."     She just smiled at him.   "Just
now, no.  Like you told me last night.  And, if it's any consolation, I need to
go, too!"

"Is the guy looking?" Art asked, changing the topic.

"Probably.  Do you want me to stop what I'm doing and go look?" she asked.  She
was moving slowly, atop him.

He glanced at window, but his field of vision couldn't pick up the opposing
window where the supposed viewer was.  Suddenly he winced noticeably as her
weight bounced on his bladder.

"Sylvia - really, I need to pee!"

She just smiled, her pace picking up.   "You have to earn that privilege.  How
about some cooperation?"  He started to move slightly within her.

"What have you got hands for?" she teased him, "I've got no bra to hold me up!
These things need support", she commented, shaking her bosom slightly.  His
hands grasped her breasts, slipping to the nipples, which he pulled slightly.

"They do stretch" she said, her pace quickening.  He pulled them a bit harder,
separating them.

"Still need to pee?" she asked, now a bit weakly.

"Not now!" he answered emphatically.  Suddenly she felt herself erupt in a
seismic class explosion, her mind flashing, her body quivering as her sensations
peaked, then slowly subsided.  His release came a moment later.  She collapsed
in a heap on him, his hands still grasping her breasts.

A few moments passed.  "Let's pee!" she said, slowly rolling off him.

Weakly, still a bit groggy from the physiological explosion within them both,
they moved to the bathroom.  She tugged him into the shower, then grasped him in
an enthusiastic embrace.  "Just let go!" she instructed him.  They both stood,
relaxing, as their bladders emptied together, the streams pouring down over
their legs, mingling.  Again she reflected that only a day earlier, she would
never have considered doing anything like this.

Sylvia turned to her mate and mused slowly, "After being Lady Godiva, it's going
to seem strange to walk around with clothes on!  Wonder what kind of disgusting
game they will have for next year?"   She turned on the shower to wash off the
accumulation of dirt, ink, sweat, and the accumulated residue of the activities
of last hours.  Her body might be cleaned as it was yesterday, but she would not
be the same again.


AN EPILOGUE:

A WATCHER:

We attended the conference.  A lot of the usual boring talk about the latest
trends in structural design and computer assisted techniques.  But then came
what I consider the unforgettable moment of the night.   The "game" committee
had come up with a real dilly.  Last year, there was a prize for the fellow who
showed up with two sets of lady's underwear.  The sexy thing was that the guys
had to identify the donors. Oh, they got a prize, too, but they had to collect
it at the stage, and everyone knew they were bra-less or panty-less for the rest
of the evening.  Now, the committee had to come up with something better.

And they did!  At least 100 of the women present had to volunteer to play in
what they called "The Lady Godiva Game."  The chosen lady was expected to
circulate through all the tables and interact with the guests for the rest of
the evening, including having a drink at each table.  While in the nude!  All
for a two thousand dollar prize. Fortunately, this contest was held here in
Scandinavia, where the naked body is seen as something natural.  Back home we'd
have the vice squad thrown at us!
Only volunteers were accepted.  And can you imagine the surprise?  The chosen
woman was Sylvia Montfort.  A sixty-three year old lady who is the wife of Art
Montfort, the outgoing vice-president of the International Society of Structural
Design.  I must admit that I, as most other people, I suppose, had a moment of
dismay when she was chosen.  Who's going to be interested in that old
grandmother? 

At least, that was what everybody thought until the lady walked on stage. 
Sylvia Montfort looked like an empress, with her iron-gray shoulder length hair
all in place and her regal stride up to the podium.  She did undress down to her
skin.  Literally.  She even took off all her jewelry and then descended to the
floor just like she'd been born.  The thing was that she did have a beautiful
body.  The droop of her breasts was just two or three inches.  With those darker
nipples standing out (it was either the cold or the emotion of standing there
naked),   who cared if her breasts drooped at all?  The veins that showed under
her skin only seemed as so many adornments.  So, who cared?  She was a truly
beautiful mature woman, and a lot of the younger wives were feeling pangs of
envy at not being "chosen."

Sylvia Montfort went from table to table with the dignity of royalty, complying
with all the requirements of greeting everybody at the tables and partaking of
some refreshment.  I was sure she'd need some sort of relief from the liquid
intake and at least twice she stopped at the same table and relieved herself in
a cup offered by one of the gentlemen.  The second time, she was thoroughly
illuminated by a spotlight.  I hope she did not feel shamed at this, as her
figure was nothing less than exquisitely sensuous.  At each table, she was
signed off on her naked body to verify her attendance.  I did it at my table,
where she only had a sip of water.  She was so poised and regal that I was the
one feeling nervous as I wrote on her bare skin.  Although I was sure she was in
agony from all the liquid she'd consumed, exacerbated by the air conditioning
cooling the room.  Here was a woman consciously going through what many would
consider shameful.  And for what?  A sense of honor and commitment?  The feeling
of choosing her own destiny?  Whatever it was, it made her the most attractive
and sensuous woman in the room, and all knew it.  By the end of the spectacle,
she definitely needed to relieve herself of all her liquid intake.  Her husband
had her clothing spirited out of the room and escorted her out clad in only his
jacket.  My guess was they were off to a rekindled romantic fire. 

My own spouse was not a little jealous of Sylvia Montfort.  Maybe she secretly
wished she'd have been chosen instead.  That night, we complied with the
Biblical dictum.  "Go Thou and do Likewise."

In the morning, I stepped to the window, while my love still slept, exhausted
from the previous night.   I was treated to the spectacle of a mature woman,
still quite beautiful, stretching and showing herself in front of her hotel
room's window.   Was it Sylvia, from last night?  She sure looked the same in
the distance!  In the background, an older man slept, also nude in the bed.
Under most circumstances, I'd have retreated into the room and let them have
their privacy.  Not today.  The shapely mature woman exhibited herself at the
window.  It seemed like she was aware I watched her.  She straddled the man on
the bed and brought him up to consciousness.  Then she made love to him
oblivious to the fact that they were giving me a show.  When they retreated into
their bathroom, I turned to my wife just as she awoke.  Again, we spent the rest
of the day trying out what I'd seen. 

I don't know if it was Sylvia and Art Montfort I'd seen.  And I don't care. 
Because they inspired the best loving my wife and I had in years.

  -The watcher.


ART:

 She's my wife.  But her own woman.  Always did what she thought right and I
think she always will.  She didn't know the Lady Godiva game had not been my
idea, and I think she volunteered just to teach me a lesson. It sort of
backfired when she was chosen, but she'd made a commitment and went through with
it. She did not do a "strip tease" on stage, but undressed as modestly as the
rules allowed.  Then although I'm sure she was trembling with shame, she
fulfilled what she'd agreed to.  She went to each table and carried out the
required function of accepting a toast and greeting everyone.  She even put up
with being signed off all over her body to show she'd been at each table.

Angry?  Jealous?  Yes.  I felt it.  Not a cheated husband's jealousy.  But that
of a very selfish lover who wants this woman all to himself.  She really put me
to the test when she had me, of everybody  else, sign on her naked skin when she
visited our table.   I could have made love to her there and then.

I played a trick on her.  I had all her clothes removed to our room.  So she had
to leave clad in my jacket.  It was that or go naked.  She needed to relieve
herself at this point, but I wouldn't let her.  Not until we made love. 
Afterwards, we did it in the shower, and she had her satisfaction of evening the
score when it was I who needed to go and she insisted on making love again.

This was like a rebirth.  I was again blessed with inaugurating her breasts that
were so pliable to my hands and that would stretch effortlessly to where I took
them.  Her womanhood was still as tight and caressing as when we'd first made
love, and her skin felt like silk in my hands.

The next day, I woke up to find her on top of me, looking and acting like the
young girl I'd married so long ago.  I had a start at the open curtain, but
after we began to make love, I did not care for anything anymore than sharing in
love and sex with my wife and lover.  Was the young man from the other tower
looking at us being man and wife?  Good.  He might learn something. 

 -Art       

END

Note:   Story by Francine; Epilogue by EJ, used with the writer's permission.