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Chapter 1: A Clothes Call
Stan wrote a little piece for the Discussion Board. As this reply is written, he doesn't know the half of it. What he wrote is marked by a right pointing quote symbol, >. In between his comments, I will tell you The Rest of the Story. Readers who have their own personal penis attached will probably think this is a better event than those of us who don't have them, but who can get one on short notice any time we want the use of it.
>Roxanne has had an unfortunate problem. She will
>probably not be around for a little while. Here is
>She had a meeting in San Francisco. She drove up on
>Thursday, leaving well before dawn. The forecast for
>the Central Valley was in the 110 degree range. I
>didn't feel like taking the ride. And I didn't feel
>like taking the heat.
>Roxanne drove because she needed the car on Saturday
>Her dinner meeting Thursday went fine, but I
>understand she over-indulged in the fruit of the
>vine. She had a meeting on Friday, and met a friend
>for dinner, where I understand she over-indulged in
>the fruit of the vine again. She went to a baby
>shower in Berkeley Saturday afternoon, and drove back
>into the City for a play that evening. So far,
>nothing extra-ordinary happened. Or if it did
>happen, I have not heard about it yet.
The drive up was uneventful. Most of the way, the outside temperature was around 110 degrees. Volvo heaters work much better than Volvo air conditioners. At least that is true in ten year old Volvos. It probably got down to the low 80s inside, except for that six-mile grade going up the Grapevine, where the sign suggests turning off the air conditioner to prevent overheating. The car didn't overheat, but the driver did.
Stan is right about the wine on Thursday night. I didn't drive, so it was OK. We walked to a dark, intimate little restaurant a half block from the Fairmont Hotel. Aside from one aging bottle of rotgut cooking sherry, we don't have any alcohol in our home. Thursday night was the second time I've had any alcohol in 2002. Perhaps I made up for lost time. The wine was so smooooooth, and it went down so easy. The brandy after dinner was good too. Luckily, I didn't walk back to the Fairmont alone.
The Friday meeting went well. My report was accepted, and the project will continue. I was on the winning side of all the votes; not a great surprise, since all but two of the votes were either unanimous, or nearly so.
Friday evening, I walked down the California street hill and on into Chinatown, where I met a friend. We went to this little Chinese restaurant. Stan was wrong about the wine at the restaurant. It was sake. More sake than I should have consumed, but less than my dinner companion. A lot less. Enough less that I took a detour, getting my companion into a cab, safely home, and inside. Then I took a cab back to the Fairmont, where I crashed by ten after eleven.
I slept in Saturday morning, then drove to Berkeley for the baby shower. Since I was driving, I had no alcohol. None whatsoever.
Saturday evening, I took a cab to North Beach, where I met a colleague. We saw a play. Then we went out to dinner, a short walk from the theatre. I only had one glass of white wine with dinner, as hangovers seem to be cumulative with me, and Sunday was going to be a long drive, after a stop to visit my college roommate and her boyfriend for brunch. I was in bed before eleven.
>She planned to drive home today, after visiting with
>her college roommate in Walnut Creek.
>Roxanne and I make wagers now and then. Her record
>has been poor in such wagers lately. So she owes me
>several "naked days." Naked doesn't necessarily mean
>naked. It means the person to whom a naked day is
>owed can control the clothing (or the lack of
>clothing) of the loser for 24 hours. The loser has
>the option of declining to take the naked day, but
>that costs one additional naked day. Sometimes it
>can cost more than one naked day.
Stan is right about my dismal record in our recent bets. I spent several days of our recent auto trip through the American Southwest without underwear, and a few days or parts of days without a lot more than underwear. I can always bail out of a penalty at any time during the day -- as can Stan when he is the loser -- but always at the cost of getting no credit for the time served that day, plus one or more additional day. We had some bets related to the Kentucky Derby, which didn't go well for me, so he had plenty of naked days to assess.
>I phoned Roxanne in her hotel room this morning, and
>called a naked day.
His call came just before eight Sunday morning. I was in the shower, so I let the phone ring, and got the message a few minutes later.
When I got his message to phone home, I called him right back.
The first thing out of his mouth was "Today is a naked day. Put the phone down, get naked immediately, and let me know when you have complied."
Without putting the phone down, I pulled my towel apart, and told him I'd complied, except for the towel on my head, absorbing water from my just washed hair. I asked permission to keep the towel on until I had the time to use the hair drier.
Stan told me I could keep the towel on as long as I was naked in the hotel room. He also instructed me to open all curtains or other window coverings, and to unlock any and all locks or latches, which kept the maids out of the room. I could keep anything locked, which the maids could unlock from the outside.
Opening the curtains was easy. They'd been open since my first time in the room. It was virtually impossible for anyone to see inside my room. Allowing the maid into the room unfettered bothered me a lot, but I followed directions and took off the security latch.
Chapter 2: The Bellman Arrives
>Just before she left on Thursday, I stuck a pair of
>yellow basketball shorts and a fairly sturdy but low
>cut halter in the bottom of her suitcase, along with
>two unlocked combination luggage locks just like the
>ones she uses, inside a padded mailing envelope with
>postage attached. On short trips, she usually lives
>out of her suitcase, rather than hanging up her
>stuff. I figured she was unlikely to see my
>additions. Either she is a very good actress or she
>didn't find them.
Again, Stan was right about my not noticing his little addition to my wardrobe. I really do pretty much live out of my suitcase on short trips.
>I told her she was to wear the basketball shorts and
>the halter, and the black dressy shoes she wore to
>the Thursday dinner meeting. She appeared to agree
>too easily, so I lowered the boom. No underwear!
>She could wear her stay up hose if she wore a pair on
>Thursday night, if she wished to, but she could not
>wear anything else on the trip home.
I complained at first, since I was sure Stan expected me to, but I did agree to his terms. Even though I knew the halter top hung rather low, and bending over just a little bit would afford anyone who looked a good view of my breasts, I didn't expect to be giving too many views to strangers. As long as I sat carefully, the lack of panties would not matter one iota. Besides, I knew I could wear panties, and stop at Von's market -- a half mile from home -- put them into my luggage and lock it up. I wasn't sure I had a bra that would work under the halter, but I could buy one pretty fast.
>She still was too quick to agree, so I really lowered
>the boom. I told her she could wear a blouse over
>her clothing while she got her car from the valet.
>When the valet came with the car, she had to put the
>blouse into her luggage, lock both bags with MY locks
>(which were new so she does not know the
>combination). Then she was to put her locks into the
>padded envelope, and mail them to me today, so the
>envelope would have a bay area postmark dated
>Roxanne tried to talk me out of the penalty, but in
>the end, she agreed to the terms.
Holy shit! It sounded like he had thought this through.
I used the Fairmont's blow drier, and fixed my hair. I packed the suitcases, putting the traveling clothing I'd planned to wear on top. I selected my longest blouse, then I closed the suitcases and put Stan's locks on the zippers, but was careful to not lock either one.
There was a knock on the door. A man's voice said, "Checking the mini-bar."
I was naked. I yelled, "Come back later."
The door didn't open. I took a deep breath.
I put the basketball shorts and halter on. The shorts were very baggy, and not as long as I remembered. The halter was one I didn't wear very often. When I put it on, I remembered why not. It was older, purchased when I was still in college, and weighed fifteen pounds more than I do now. Those fifteen pounds were the difference between my almost C cup in 1987 and my current B cup. I was going to have to be very careful.
I locked my own locks, put them in the mailer, and sealed it. I put the mailer in my purse.
I stepped into my black one-inch heels. While not as slutty as four-inch heels would have been, it did look like I was trolling for something in that outfit.
I phoned the front desk, had them check me out, and leave the charges on my Visa card. I asked them to send my folio up with a bellman, who would take my luggage down, and I asked for my car to be brought up from the garage.
I put on the blouse on. At the last minute, I took a pair of panties out of my suitcase and put them in the pocket of my blouse. I took some one-dollar bills from my purse and put them in the same pocket.
A knock on the door was followed by the words, "Bellman, Ms. Green."
Chapter 3: Naked Within Two Minutes
I opened the door, and he wheeled his cart in. He put my bags on the cart, and said, "Your locks are not locked," as he pushed the first one shut.
"Stop," I cried out a little too loudly. "Don't lock the other one."
I gave him four bucks, and we walked to the elevator.
As we walked out of the lobby, my car was just coming up. The valet popped the trunk, and the bellman put my bags in. I told him not to shut the trunk. I gave the valet a couple of bucks, left the driver's door open, and walked to the back of the car. I took off my blouse, and put it in the one unlocked suitcase. Then I locked the suitcase. I'd accidentally locked my "emergency panties" in the suitcase. I didn't have the combination. Oh well, I had cash, so I could buy underwear if I felt I needed to.
I blushed when I looked up and saw people watching me. The valet was still holding the driver's door open. He got a good view, if he was looking. Who am I kidding; I knew he was looking.
I made a couple of left turns, drove a few blocks, hung a right on Geary and a left on Van Ness. That is not the fastest way to the Bay Bridge, but I figured there would be a mailbox at the curb there. I didn't see a mailbox. Except for a few blocks on the San Francisco side of the bridge, traffic was light. I made better time than the law allowed. Interstate 580 was empty, and state route 24 through the tunnel moved smoothly. As I got close to Interstate 680, I had to stop thinking about my predicament and try to remember how to get to Deb's house. I'd only been there once. Deb was a good housekeeper. When her husband took off with his secretary, Deb kept the house.
I found a mailbox. I parked, and got out of the car. While not really scantily dressed, I felt as if I was naked, and everybody was looking at me. Not everybody was, but a man walking by did whistle. I blushed. As I turned into Deb's subdivision, I glanced down at my gas gauge, and made a mental note to find a gas station before I hit the road.
> I tried to take care of every eventuality.
Five minutes later, I was ringing Deb's doorbell. I was thinking to myself how well Stan had set this up, when Deb opened the door. She was wet, and wearing a short beach wrap. It was obvious she was not wearing a bra. We hugged, and she took my hand and pulled me through the house to the patio. There was a naked man in the hot tub. She introduced him as "her boyfriend, Jess." Jess stood up and waved; he was a big man. He was tall too.
Deb tossed her wrap on the table. She was naked too. "Put your clothes on this chair and join us." It had been several years since the last time I was naked within two minutes of meeting a man. Deb did not seem surprised that I was not wearing a bra or panties, but Jess seemed to take note of it.
Chapter 4: A Long Forgotten Dare
Deb got out of the tub, and came back with some juice, crackers, chunks of cheese and veggies. She and I talked about college, college friends, and college adventures. Some of them were pretty wild. She dated Stan for a while too.
Deb asked if I remembered a particular party we'd both attended, in our freshman year. I didn't, until she refreshed my memory. It was a pretty big party. We had two hats, one with everyone's name on cards, and one with a few cards reading "truth," a few reading "dare," and several blank ones. After someone did their truth or dare, they drew a card from each hat. They had to assign a truth or a dare to whoever's name came up. If the other card didn't specify which one, the victim decided whether he or she would do a truth, or a dare. Deb didn't like the dare I assigned her, nor did she like me insisting she didn't do the dare as assigned. I didn't know she had such a long memory.
>I phoned her roommate, and explained what I'd done.
>She loved it! I asked her to try and confirm that
>Roxanne was truly dressed as I required. She
>promised to try and get a photo of Roxanne naked,
>with her clothing in the photo. She also promised
>not to show her face or any "naughty bits."
>Here is what I know, so far. The roommate and her
>boyfriend were naked in the hot tub when Roxanne
>arrived for brunch. She opened the door in a robe,
>and took Roxanne out to the back yard. Dropping her
>robe, she told Roxanne to get out for those clothes,
>put them on this chair, and get in the tub. Which is
>exactly what she did. I know, because I've seen the
>digital photo already. It doesn't show anything it
>shouldn't. It will never qualify for voyeur web. It
>does show Roxanne's naked back in the tub (I'd
>recognize that hair anywhere) and the clothing I
>required. The accompanying e-mail said they also
>checked Roxanne's car. The locks were locked and
>there was nothing to wear in the trunk or the
>Roxanne phoned me a few minutes after noon, telling
>me she was leaving, and would be home about ten
A few minutes before one, I began to wrap up my visit with Deb and Jess. I had to get out of the water and get to their phone on the table against the house. Jess paid more attention to me than I was comfortable with. I phoned Stan to tell him I was leaving soon, and that I expected to be home about ten o'clock. He asked about what I'd been doing, what I was wearing, and finished by telling me I had to follow Deb's orders.
After the call, I walked back to Deb and told her what Stan said about following her orders.
She smiled, and told me to get dressed immediately, but to leave my shoes off.
I told her I wasn't dry yet.
She said it didn't matter.
So I got dressed while still wet. My clothing stuck to my wet body.
Deb asked if I remembered any more about the truth or dare game we spoke of earlier.
When I said "nothing specific," she told me about the dare I'd assigned to her. It was to go outside, jump into the pool dressed, and then come back in. She said she was just wearing a T-shirt, without a bra, and gym shorts. She said the water was cold, she was embarrassed to stand and drip on the linoleum, and that her clothing was plastered to her body the rest of the evening. Now, Deb said, she was going to give me my dare. She said I had to jump into the pool. I had a choice; I could jump in dressed, or naked.
Now I've been blind sided before in that game, so I didn't say anything immediately, waiting for Deb to finish the dare. When she didn't say anything more, I asked her for ALL the details. She said however I exited the pool, that was how I was going to leave. I waited a few moments, then asked if that was all.
Deb said, "not quite. If you leave naked, you leave your clothing here."
"Oh, no," I said. Without another word, I walked around to the deep end of the pool, and I jumped in. I swam to the shallow end of the pool and climbed out. I picked up my shoes and purse, and walked through her house and out to my car. On the way in, I saw my reflection in the sliding glass door. My clothing was plastered to my body like a second skin.
When I got to the car, Deb said, "Open the trunk."
"Because Stan said you were to follow my orders."
Deb picked up my luggage, looked under it, and behind the spare. She opened the outside zippered compartments, which contained nothing I could wear. She checked to make sure the locks were locked. She looked inside the car, even looked in the glove compartment and under the seat. "I'll report to Stan that nothing is hidden. Have a safe trip."
"Yes, Stan phoned. He asked me to make sure you wore what he ordered."
"Stan got me good this time."
Chapter 5: The Rubber Meets the Road
I pulled into the Arco station just before Interstate 680. All I had was a five dollar bill, and some fifties and hundreds. I was not about to go inside -- still wet -- to get my change, so I put the five into the slot, and pumped about 3 1⁄2 gallons. The tank wasn't empty, so I knew I could drive for at least an hour or two. Interstate 680 and Interstate 580 were both smooth and uneventful rides. I held pretty much to no more than ten miles an hour over the speed limit.
A few miles after Interstate 580 ran into Interstate 5 and disappeared, I heard a strange sound; followed by a rapid thump, thump, thump. Actually, two sets of thump, thump, thumps, one from somewhere under the car, and one in the middle of my chest. I pulled over fifty feet beyond one of the solar powered call boxes. We have them about every mile on major highways throughout the state. They connect to the California Highway Patrol.
I sat in the car by the side of the road for a long time. I was thinking illegal thoughts about my husband. His Naked Day call had been exciting until now. Suddenly, I was not a happy camper.
I took a deep breath, looked in the mirror, opened the door and stepped out on the shoulder. My left rear tire was clearly beyond salvation. I pulled out the tiny temporary spare, the jack, and the combined wrench and jack handle. I looked for my four-headed lug wrench, but it wasn't there. The jack sucks, and it is an effort to use the jack handle as a wrench. Without a change of clothing, or even a towel, I decided to call the CHP for road service. It was at least 110º, but the wind was really ripping, and my almost dry clothes dried before I finished the phone call. Thinking about my clothes made me worry. With the black heels and the obvious lack of underwear, I feared unwanted attention.
My tires were pretty good -- for old tires -- when I left home, but now the left front showed an alignment problem. It was going to be a four tire replacement. I was about twenty miles from Modesto. I was sure there was a Sears, Pep Boys, Costco or Sam's Club there. Did they do alignments, or just sell tires? How long would it take to get the tire changed, drive to Modesto, find and buy new tires, have them aligned, and... and... I didn't think I was going to make it home tonight. That meant a couple of meals in restaurants, checking in to a hotel while looking like a hooker, and I didn't know what else. Almost exactly thirty minutes after I called, the tow truck pulled up behind me. For the time being, that narrowed what I had to worry about, but this worry was much more intense.
The driver got out of his truck and looked at my sorry tire. "Got a spare?"
I pointed at the small temporary, and handed him my Driver License and my membership card.
He went back to his truck, and wrote down my information. I signed the paper, he went to the side compartment and took out a real jack and lug wrench. The change didn't take long. He put my jack and the blown tire in my trunk. I signed the ticket, and thanked the man.
"I'd put some clothes on, if I were you."
"It's a long story. I lost a bet."
"Bad bet," he said as he turned and walked towards his truck.
Chapter 6: Immodest in Modesto
It was almost three o'clock. On Sunday, the folks who sold tires closed early. I was afraid to drive more than forty MPH on the temporary. I drove into Modesto (somehow an appropriate name, based on how I was dressed) and looked for a pay phone. With all the cell phones, there are not as many pay phones as there used to be. I couldn't find one. I didn't want to do it, but I pulled into a grocery store lot. As soon as walked into the store, the air conditioner hit my nipples. It was at least 35º cooler inside than it was outside. The manager was standing at his kiosk, on a riser a couple of feet above the floor. I walked up to his counter, and saw his eyes bug out. I think I gave him a very good view. He never did look me in the eyes.
The directions were easy. Three left turns, get on State Route 99, get off on the third ramp, exit, turn right, go back on the frontage road, and there it was on the left. I parked behind the tire shop, and walked into the sales room. Nobody was there. There was nothing on the wall about alignments. I walked to the back of the shop, looking for a sales person. The door to the men's room opened.
"Whoa, hello THERE!" It was a college age kid. His eyes were as big as saucers. "Can I help you?"
I must have blushed nine shades of red. "I need tires."
I'll send him in," the kid said, as he backed out the door into the shop.
"Can I help you?" He was gorgeous. Six foot two inches tall, broad shoulders, big hands, neat wavy hair.
When I caught my breath, I managed to get out "I need four tires for a 1992 Volvo DL. Do you do alignments here?"
He shook his head no.
Based on the tread wear I'd observed on the Interstate, I gave up any hope of an all night drive.
I followed him to the computer, where he punched some keys, and said I had two choices. One was Michelins, with an eighty thousand mile road hazard guaranty. The other choice was Bridgestones, with a sixty thousand mile guaranty. The difference was about twelve bucks a tire.
"I'll take the Michelins."
He looked at his watch. "I can do them first thing tomorrow morning."
"Oh, no. I really need them this afternoon."
"I'm sorry, we're all booked. I can't authorize any overtime."
I invented an emergency on the spot. I had to be at work in San Diego at 4 tomorrow afternoon. I'd missed too much work, and I was afraid the boss would fire me if I missed any more. I couldn't be sure I'd get through Los Angeles and make it all the way to San Diego if I waited until tomorrow for the alignment, and "if you look at my tires, you'll see I have a real problem, which was not there a few hundred miles ago." Then I took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes, and leaned forward. "Can I pay for the overtime?"
He grinned, and said he'd be able to get it finished right around closing time.
I thanked him. He entered the data into the computer, and I handed over the cash.
The next thing I did was phone home. I was angry, and I wasn't too nice, or too informative.
> Unfortunately, Roxanne's drive home did not go as well as it could have. She had a tire blow on > Interstate 5. She phoned the operator from a roadside call box. The service came out and changed her > tire. She only has the tiny temporary spare. It was never intended to take her five hundred miles through > 110-degree heat, so she had driven into Modesto. Her tires are getting old. She elected to replace them > all. I know that much, because she phoned me a few minutes ago. The tires are not on yet, and she can't > get an alignment today. She told me not to expect her home tonight. She didn't know if she was going to > stay in Modesto, or go down Highway 99 a little way.
> She did not appear to be too happy with her outfit.
> I don't know if she will try and find a Costco or a shopping center and buy a dress or a long shirt. If > she'd asked for my permission to do that, I'd have told her she could. But it would cancel today's > penalty, and add an additional two Naked Days. If I discover she bought a cover-up without asking > permission, it will cost her three additional Naked Days. It will be four more days if I discover she > did it any way but her telling me as soon as she comes home.
> So that is the story of Roxanne's Sunday as of 3:30 this afternoon.
I was hungry. I got in line, and ordered a slice of pepperoni and a drink. I did my best to ignore my state of dress. Other people didn't ignore it. As I filled my cup with a Coke, a woman walked by me and said "slut."
I ignored her. I took my food and sat down.
A man old enough to be my grandfather sat down across from me. "Hi, baby. What's up?"
I glared at him, picked up my food, and went to another table. I couldn't believe it. Some old codger tried to pick me up at a snack bar! That wasn't an ego boost at all; that was just disgusting. It was the fastest I'd ever eaten a pizza slice.