The Michelin Strip

by Roxanne

Tags: Ma/Fa, True Story,

Desc: : Payoff on a lost bet. I must drive home alone, 550 mi, in halter, shorts and heels. No undies; I look like a hooker. I visit a friend on my way outa town. She got revenge for an old dare. I left soaking wet, clothes plastered to me. I had a flat on I-5. My spare sucked. My credit card expired. A grandpa hits on me. For an after hours alignment, I agree to bring beer and condoms. I can't get a motel room. I drove 160 mi topless. I was broke, and ran outa gas. I got home a day late.

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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
>the story.

>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
>and Sunday.

>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.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / True Story /