The Lady Godiva Game

"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.