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.


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