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 her hand on his 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.

END