Sasha Sinclair looked out at the street in front of her, pedestrians wandering by in the heat of the afternoon summer sun, oblivious to her as she stood in the doorway of the Loaded Parrot. She was only a few feet away now from the footpath. That meant she was only a few feet away from what was about to happen, finally happening. A small red light over the door glared at her, unblinkingly, unresponsive to the thoughts going through her mind.

She sighed to herself, looked over her shoulder, and adjusted the tiny earpiece fitted discretely in her left ear. As she waited, she reflected briefly on the fact that the discreteness of the earpiece probably set it apart from the rest of her ensemble, which she very much doubted was anything other than highly indiscrete. Not that a casual observer would have noticed too much untoward about the clothes she was currently wearing. Sasha certainly made the ordinary-looking sleeveless white top and red shorts look their best. The red wrist bands were a slight throwback to a time that fashion would do best forgetting, but anyone looking at Sasha wouldn’t be worrying about the wristbands. At 23, Sasha was in peak condition, a trim and taut body framed beautifully by flowing shoulder-length brown hair. A University education half-spent on the athletics track had the kind of effect that tended to draw attention. But the ordinary-ness of the white top and red shorts was tempered by the simple fact that they weren't hers, that they had been given to her for a very precise reason, and that reason was a game she was already having second thoughts on.

She glanced over her shoulder again at a nondescript man doing his best to look impassive while nonetheless stealing the occasional glance at Sasha's well-defined legs, and she half-opened her mouth to say something.

“Not having second thoughts are we now, Sasha?” The voice crackled over her earpiece before she'd even formed the first syllable.

Sasha kept looking at the nondescript man, who was seemingly unaware and indifferent to anything being said over the comms channel, and she sighed for the second time in only a minute. Sasha looked back at the door to the street beyond.

“Oh, not at all – it's peachy,” Sasha said to herself, confident that the voice at the other end would hear her. “What's not to love? I'm about to walk out there in clothes you provided, and that – may I say – are far too innocent looking to be all that they appear. I don't suppose you have any hints or warnings in you that are dying to get out?”

“Sorry darling, you know I'm strictly impartial in all of this, and giving you hints and warning would hardly be fair to dear Tara, now would it?”

Sasha snorted. Tara. Tara Tennyson. The cause, reason and motivation for all that was about to unfold. Somewhere out there, Tara Tennyson would be standing in front of a similar door, probably wearing similar clothes, and almost certainly having a similar conversation with a similarly disembodied voice.

“Let's get this started then,” Sasha, a tad more brusquely than she intended.

If it is possible for a voice over an earpiece to smirk, Sasha swore that this one did. “Feeling a little nervous then I take it. Oh well, I suppose at least wishing you good luck isn't entirely out of order.”

Sasha only stared ahead. Then out of the corner of an eye, she noticed the small red light above the door quietly change to green. Sasha stayed staring ahead. Two men walked past the door on the footpath outside. Then a family of five hurried past to destinations unknown. The occasional car drove past on the road, the heat of the afternoon sun dueling with the driver's air conditioning. Sasha stayed staring ahead.

The voice “ahem'ed” in her earpiece.

“You should know,” said the voice, “that 'standing stock still by the door' hasn't been an award-winning strategy for any previous winners of this game. Just saying.”

Sasha twitched her head slightly, focussed herself, breathed in, and decided not to deign to respond. With one last sigh, she stepped through the door, on to the street, and into the game.

*******
Twenty four hours before stepping out on to that street, Sasha would have claimed that the nervousness she'd soon feel walking out of the Loaded Parrot and into the game was actually quiet, steely determination to win, to right wrongs, and to get one back on that damn Tara Tennyson.

That quiet, steely determination had mostly lasted all the way up to the point where she received the package from Decider Enterprises, and the note that had simply informed her that she was to be at the Loaded Parrot at 2:00pm sharp, and that she was to bring the package with her unopened. It was at that point that her imagination had taken over, and she began to envision exactly what that package contained. Not much had been her original assumption. It had been one week since Sasha Sinclair and Tara Tennyson had decided that it was time to settle their differences once and for all. Ordinary people would have found some mundane way of settle their disputes, but Sasha and Tara's feud had long since left the realm of “ordinary.” “Mundane” was not even going to come close to sating the need for revenge.

Sasha and Tara had a relationship borne out of a mutual shared love of athletics, politics and – above all else – winning. The naïve observer might laughably think that such shared interests might indicate that Sasha and Tara were destined to be best friends. They were certainly destined to spend plenty of time in each other's company. In fact, for a while at least, Sasha and Tara seemed to get on just fine. Both had similar political interests and opinions, both were excellent runners, and both were on the fast track to success. Being of the same age and growing up in the same area, Sasha and Tara had met at high school when by the usual cosmic coincidence, they signed up for the school's athletics club and model UN club at exactly the same time. Shared interests morphed into mutual respect, followed by grudging respect, followed by a tingling sense of competitive suspicion, later edged with a sense of barely concealed animosity, before erupting into undisguised warfare. Sasha and Tara had competed for the role of student president, won by Tara armed with what Sasha would forever after call brutally untrue character assassination. Sasha and Tara had then competed for the role of student president at their University, won by Sasha with tactics bluntly described by Tara as “nothing short of voter fraud.” Sasha and Tara had competed for the best grades in their classes, and their dispute wasn't helped by neither gaining a clear enough edge to be able to definitively settle the matter. And finally, and most decisively, Sasha and Tara competed at athletics meets.

It was the last such meet that was to spark the need for the game. It was the last such meet that forever etched in Sasha's mind the need to inflict such revenge that would be talked about in hushed whispers for decades down the track. Sasha and Tara, to incredibly fit, gifted runners, one brunette, one blonde, one in white and red running gear, the other in white and yellow running gear. Both rounding the fourth corner of the 400m women's final. Sasha had the slight lead, and in her mind, deserved nothing less. Tara was behind her, the finish line was in front of her. Glory, a medal, and the satisfying thought of Tara seething about it, was all for Sasha's to seize. And then she'd felt the tap on her back foot. It was a momentary thing, just a light tap on her back foot as she brought in forward in her stride, but it was enough to cause her to stumble just ever so slightly. And that small stumble turned into a larger stagger, followed ungraciously by a tumble that would send Sasha out of the medals reckoning and would consign her to seeing Tara's backside streak across the finish line, while Sasha laid sprawled on the ground some 100 meters back.

Not two days after that fateful race, and after countless unsuccessful appeals, Sasha Sinclair had walked up to a still smirking Tara Tennyson, stared her in the face, and said three simple words to her nemesis. “This. Ends. Now.”

But how? It wouldn't surprise anyone that Sasha and Tara couldn't even decide on the appropriate, apocalyptic means of ending their feud. That had been when a mutual acquaintance of Sasha and Tara had discretely mentioned the services of Decider Enterprises. The mutual acquaintance was somewhat vague about her own dealings with Decider Enterprises, preferring merely to describe it as something in the past and best left there. Decider Enterprises, she said, would find a way to end Sasha and Tara's feud in a manner that would be definitive and suitably irreversible. It was, she said, and with a slight blush to add, “Their speciality.”

The day their acquaintance mentioned Decider Enterprises, Sasha and Tara did something they hadn't done in years. They agreed on something.

*******

 Five days later, Sasha and Tara were sitting at a desk in a hotel room, in front of a laptop, steadfastly ignoring the other's existence. After several uncomfortable minutes of this, the laptop suddenly perked into life, and an incoming video call announced itself. Sasha clicked the mouse button next to her, and after a few more seconds, the audio kicked in.

“Sasha Sinclair and Tara Tennyson. Gender: Female. Age: 23. Soundness of mind: we'll assume okay. So, I take it you two aren't each others' greatest fans?” The face at the other end of the video call was suitably hidden in shadow, but the voice didn't make any effort to hide it's amusement.

“We were told you have a certain way of settling differences that leave no room for argument.” Sasha was in no mood to play around, having been forced to already spend five minutes next to her nemesis.

“Yes, that we do. Revenge is it? Settlement of a feud?”

“Let's just say that this city isn't big enough for the both of us,” chimed in Tara. “I want Sasha gone because, well, frankly she's a bitch. Sasha wants me gone because, well, frankly she's a bitch.”

Sasha was about to retort when the voice kicked in again.

“Okay, so, we have two ladies, both rather attractive if you don't mind me saying, both athletic, smart and capable, and both with a single desire to see the other get the hell out of town. The good news for you both is that our mutual acquaintance has pointed you in the right direction.”

Neither Sasha and Tara responded, and instead grimly waited for the voice to continue.

“As I see it,” the voice went on, “without doubt the best way of dealing with you situation is for your both to play a simple game we've devised over the years.”

“I've had enough of her games over the years to last me a lifetime,” Sasha said.

“The feeling's mutual sweetie,” Tara retorted.

“And one of you,” the voice interrupted, “will have had more than enough of our game to last a lifetime as well, of that I can assure you. You see, the game is very simple. You both play, there are a few modest rules, a little bit of specialised equipment we happily provide, we take up a few scant hours of your afternoon a week or so from now, and there is a winner and a loser. The winner wins all the sweet revenge and closure they could ask for, and the loser wins all the motivation they could ever need to find some other city to live in, and some other life to lead.”

Sasha and Tara looked at each other again now, and the first sense of trepidation and nervousness briefly overcame the mutual loathing.

“So, ahh, how exactly does this work?” asked Tara.

“As I said, you give us a few hours of one afternoon, and we play a little game. You're both fine athletes, and I'm sure you're familiar with what goes into games. As with any self-respecting sport, there is of course a uniform, and some rules transgressions against which we'll be taking seriously.”

Sasha was feeling a mixture of anticipation, tension and nervousness as she leant forward to ask her next question, but already the chance of victory was stirring something inside of her. “And, umm, just exactly where is this game of yours to be played?” Sasha had the suspicion she might not like the answer, and the hope that Tara would soon like it a whole lot less.

“Well,” the voice said, airily, “since what is at stake is the right to stay in the city, so to say, it seems only fair that the city itself is the field of play.”

Sasha and Tara both simultaneously got a sense for what the answer to Tara's next question was going to be. “Would I be right in assuming then that these playing uniforms you'll be providing us with won't exactly be something prim and proper then?”

“I take it then that neither one of you would like to see your opponent humiliated in such a tawdry fashion then?” the voice enquired, with more than a hint of amusement.

“I'd like the bitch to have to walk through the city stark naked!” yelled Sasha, somewhat surprising even herself.

Tara looked directly at Sasha, and then turned back to the laptop and flicked her hair haughtily. “Oh, but I wouldn't want poor Sasha to have nothing on in the city,” Tara responded, “not when a good pair of handcuffs and nipple clamps would so beautifully bring out the slutiness within.” Tara smiled at Sasha sweetly.

The voice waited a few moments for each others' words to settle in, and then proceeded on.

“Well, we certainly don't want to disappoint our clients, although to be fair we should at least give one of you the chance to emerge from all this victorious and with dignity largely intact. That said, our playing outfit is something that I believe you'll both find fitting to the occasion, if you get my drift, and you'll find it plays a rather integral role in the game. The rules won't be a problem for two ladies of such capable intellects as your own. You will both start somewhere in the city. You will both be given a clue. You both need to use that clue to find the next clue. You will both need to keep walking, or running should the occasion call for it, around the city. Every time you find a clue, that clue will also be given to your opponent so that they have a chance as well. However, since every chance comes with a cost, your opponent's playing outfit will also suffer what we shall call a 'wardrobe malfunction' of sorts as well. The first player to find four clues wins. The other player, well, gets a helpful pamphlet from us on how to start a new life and career in a new city, amongst other things. Win, win. Sort of.” The voice audibly grinned widely. “There are only three penalty offenses, and that's getting external help to solve the clues, interfering with your outfits and their behaviour in a manner we think is against the spirit of the game, and lastly, hiding out of sight or not walking or running out in public. The first penalty you receive is just a warning. After that, well, we'll just pretend your opponent found a clue and you can live with the consequences.”

The voice paused for effect, while Sasha and Tara soaked in the details of the game. “Other than that, well, needless to say that forfeiting the game once it has started will have the same effect as playing it through to completion and losing, and there's the small matter of the legal documents.”

“And the cost,” Sasha suddenly chimed in. “How much exactly are your services going to cost?”

“We're a charitable organisation Sasha Sinclair, and we hate to see such animosity spoil the community spirit in this fair city. Let's just say that the cost to you is to simply to play the game, and to surrender your feud so that it becomes a historical footnote. Let us worry about recouping our costs, and you both worry about moving on. On my word as a gentleman, for whatever that's worth, I promise I won't be asking for money from either of you. And now as I said, the contract.”

An envelope suddenly slid under the hotel room door. Both jumped to their feet, and Sasha ran to the door, flinging it open to reveal a completely empty corridor.

Tara lent down, picked up the envelope, and cautiously tore the seal, extracting a legal-looking contract from within.

“The contract you have just received,” the voice said, “covers the basics. Decider Enterprises are of course not liable for any harm that may come to your reputations, career, income opportunities, or anything else quite frankly. There's a clause in there somewhere regarding media rights on the game, standard IP boilerplate really, and lastly a clause that simply states that the loser, or whoever quits first, will forever leave this city, acknowledge their opponent as the victor with all the graciousness they can muster, and drive the last nail into this feud's coffin. That, I believe, is what you're both after, is it not?”

Sasha and Tara looked at each other for a good long time. Two pens fell out of the envelope that had contained the legal contracts, and Sasha and Tara looked down at the pens for what felt like an eternity. The voice in the shadow at the other end of the video conference call quietly waited, seemingly lost in it's own thoughts and happily oblivious to the scene of Sasha and Tara's uncertainty.

Tara broke the stand off first, quickly stooping down, seizing a pen, and – with only a moment's hesitation and shudder – signing her name on the dotted line. She looked up at Sasha, and for a moment Sasha saw apprehension and fear in Tara's eyes. That was quickly hidden though by a triumphant smile that Tara threw at Sasha. “First again, I see,” Tara said.

At that taunt, Sasha leaned down, picked up the remaining pen, and signed her own name on the contract. “I'll probably won't miss you when you've left Tara,” Sasha said, “but I'm sure I'll have at least one fond memory to remember you by. Looking forward to it.”

“Good, good. Excellent and generally wonderful in fact.” The voice on the laptop happily chirped in. “Leave the contract and the laptop in this room. We'll be in touch shortly. Welcome to The Game, ladies, although if you want you can refer to it using our in-house name: 'Dress Off'”.

*******

'Dress Off'. That had been the name on the otherwise anonymous package that Tara Tennyson had received. Tara had taken the package to The Fiddler's Bow, a shop that Tara had never heard of prior to all of this, and had taken the package unopened. Tara's arrival at the The Fiddler's Bow was greeted by a nondescript man who didn't appear to be in the mood for conversation. That suited Tara just fine. The man welcomed Tara to the Fiddler's Bow by unceremoniously removing the package from her possession, and then proceeding to check to make sure it hadn't been tampered with. Seemingly happy enough that it was as she'd first received it, the man handed it back to Tara, and with an exaggerated and mock sweep of his arm, indicated that she was now welcome to open it.

This was the point that Tara had both been dreading and excited about. Dreading, because she had a feeling what was within wouldn't protect much in the way of modesty, and she knew she had a fair amount of public walking ahead of her. Excited, because she also knew that somewhere else in this city, Sasha Sinclair would be opening her package, and Tara was only hours away from permanently settling the score with that stuck-up, holier-than-thou bitch.

The package opened easily, and revealed a simple container within. The container, in turn, opened to reveal the outfit Tara would need for the game, and what looked like a small earpiece that she quickly fitted into one ear. As she lifted the outfit out of the container, a sharp intake of breath gave away her surprise. A white, fairly ordinary looking, sleeveless top. A pair of yellow, relatively baggy sports shorts. Tara recognised the colour choice. It was the colour of her running gear the day she'd rightfully beaten Sasha at the athletics meet, and left her where she belonged – face down in the dirt. She laid the white sleeveless top and the yellow sports shorts to one side, and inspected the rest of the contents. A pair of mid-range running shoes that no professional athlete would seriously consider, but that would do for today at least. A yellow sports bra, and tight, black lycra running shorts that she surmised were supposed to be worn under the yellow baggy shorts. Two colorful wrist bands that seemingly served no purpose than to act as an unnecessary reminder of the 1980s, a bulk-standard white hat, and yellow anklet socks to round off the ensemble. Nothing too risqué, Tara had to admit, and effectively a copy of what she wore at the athletics meet (albeit with the addition of the wrist bands). Tara at least knew now what Sasha would be wearing.

The earpiece sprang to life. “Hello Tara. Welcome to The Game. We'll be staring proceedings in ten minutes, so why don't you ditch everything you came in, and try on the outfit we've provided.”

Tara looked up at the man beside her, who paused for a moment, and then waved vaguely at what looked like a rudimentary changing room.

Tara made her way over to the changing room and, after a little mental pep-talk about the embarrassment about to be handed to Sasha Sinclair, plunged in and started quickly removing her own clothes. Tara's body was a work of art. A 23 year old in peak physical condition and with a natural beauty that had worked on the boys at school even before she'd taken up sports. As Tara stripped off the light blue blouse she'd worn to The Fiddler's Bow, her pert, firm breasts sat beautifully framed in her lacy white bra. Tara knew she was beautiful, always had known it in fact, and she'd learned how to tease the boys just enough to always get what she wanted. Even stripping here in The Fiddler's Bow, with what was on the line and what was soon to come, she subconsciously put on a show for no-one in particular. She eased her jeans over her hips and lowered them to her feet with one graceful bend at the waist. The same move, all those years ago, that had pretty much guaranteed the assistance of the computer geeks at high school. The same computer geeks who had so ably hacked into Sasha's social media accounts during the student body presidency race, and had helped her spread the truth (albeit perhaps liberally edited and conveniently missing some unnecessary context) about little Miss Perfect. The blouse and jeans were dropped on to the floor, and momentarily Tara thought whether she'd seen them again. It was a strange though, and it mildly worried her as she hurriedly undid her bra, and let her small but beautifully formed breasts loiter unrestricted. Her panties were soon down by her ankles, and the worried thoughts led her to unconsciously, and only for a moment, touch herself between her legs and wonder what it meant that last week, she'd decided to shave between her legs for the first time in a fair while. Tara snapped out of is as she realised she was standing stark naked in the changing room of a strange shop, with who knew how many cameras probably hidden around to capture every angle. Tara mentally reprimanded herself for letting her mind wander, and told herself she needed to be on her game for the next few hours if rightful justice was to be delivered.

Tara grabbed the outfit provided, and slipped on the black tight lycra running pants, the baggy yellow running shorts, and the yellow bra. The sleeveless white shirt she at least assumed would be tight and uncomfortable, just to add to the game, but she was surprised when she put it on to find it was baggy like the shorts. Tara still looked gorgeous of course. She could have worn a sack and made it look fetching, but she was oddly disappointed to think that right now, Sasha Sinclair wasn't facing intense embarrassment stepping out into public, even if meant that Tara would at least temporarily share the same fate.

The wrist bands and shoes went on last, and Tara Tennyson emerged from the changing room looking all the world like a woman about to go on a casual jog.

The nondescript man raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained impassive, and simply stood back and seemed to wait for some signal. Tara noticed a red light over the door she'd come in from off the street, and the earpiece once again crackled into life.

“Looking good Tara. I supposed it would be insulting to remind a woman of your intellect of such basic rules, but just remember that we'll be watching you at all times, and I'll be in your ear to keep you up to speed with the state of the game. Good luck, I suppose, for what it's worth. We'll give you your first clue once you're walking the streets of the city.”

Tara closed her eyes, and visualised winning. She tried to visualise what that would mean, what consequence of her victory that Sasha would have to endure. She also tried – unsuccessfully – to block out what it would mean if Sasha beat her to five clues.

The red light changed to green. Tara's eyes opened. She stepped forward, and the city streets and The Game consumed her.

*******

Sasha's pace picked up as she walked towards the central business district. The Loaded Parrot was several blocks behind her now, back on the edge of one of the inner city suburbs. Several thoughts were competing in her head for attention, and right now she'd take the false feeling of making progress by getting to pretty much anywhere, over the very real concern that she'd made absolutely no progress on the first clue at all. Sasha fingered the earpiece nervously, and needlessly adjusted her red t-shirt. There was still nothing untoward about it, and the looks she was getting passers-by were the same innocent-enough looks that the beautiful Sasha Sinclair had received her entire life.

But the earpiece was playing on her mind.

The voice in the earpiece had given her the first clue only minutes after leaving The Loaded Parrot. “There is sporting enterprise in the original sin. Go to where you might fit in.”

The man had already thrust a map of the city into her hand as she'd left, and now she was searching the map for anything that might offer an answer. It hadn't just been the clue that the earpiece had left her to ponder though. As the voice had signed off, it had finished with a simple warning. Unless she'd won the entire game, then the next time Sasha heard from the voice, it would mean that she'd been penalised, or Tara had found a clue. Either way, that wouldn't be good for Sasha. It had been then that the enormity of just what she was part of finally struck home. Sasha was out on the streets of her city, in an outfit that was – for lack of a better phrase – booby trapped. Right now, her nemesis was out there, maybe already with the first clue figured out, heading towards wherever the next clue was hidden. Maybe Sasha was only moments away from hearing a voice in her ear, a voice that would mean that Sasha was about to suffer some unknown, unwanted embarrassment. Losing was not an option. Not. An. Option.

What did the clue mean? Where was she supposed to go? As Sasha walked past the pedestrians on the street, and the idle afternoon conversations of her fellow city dwellers continued around her, she began to get rather twitchy.

Tara Tennyson looked around her as she crossed the street. Even in baggy yellow shorts and a baggy sleeveless white t-shirt, she was attracting a few looks. She didn't have to use too much imagination to know that those looks were going to get a whole lot more frequent and rewarding for the men around her if she didn't get to the sports shop on Eden Street ahead of Sasha.

At least the first clue had been fairly easy, although it worried Tara that Sasha may have started closer to Eden St than her and might already be on the shop’s doorstep.

As Tara rounded the corner on Eden St, she could see the sports shop ahead of her, full of people not dressed too dissimilarly to herself, at least for the time being. She quickly strained her eyes, glancing around at the surrounding side streets, ahead to the concrete pavement outside the shop entrance. No sign of Sasha yet. Did that mean she hadn't figured out the clue? Did it mean she was already inside? What, in fact, was Tara even looking for? She knew the clue had told her to go to the shop, and that the next clue was probably in or around the shop, but surely it wasn't hidden away somewhere in such a large building? Tara broke out into a jog again, dodging pedestrians in the increasingly crowded footpaths, and occasionally cursing the odd bike courier who zoomed past her a little too close for comfort. As Tara came to the wide sliding double doors, something in her periphery caught her attention. An advertisement attached to the glass wall beside the doors, for a shop she’d never heard off: “DE Fashions: 50% of all dresses”. Odd for a sports shop to be advertising a clothing shop. A grin broke out over Tara’s face for the first time today, as she reached forward and tore the advert off the wall.

*******

“Hello Miss Sinclair.” The pleasant greeting from the voice in the earpiece immediately sent a cold shiver down Sasha's spine. “We trust you're enjoying our game. I've got some good news for you.”

An impossible hope suddenly shot through Sasha, had Tara really forfeited already? Had her nerve given out this soon?

“The good news is that Tara Tennyson is most definitely still in the game.”.

“How the hell is that good news?!” demanded Sasha quietly, throwing a weak smile to a couple of passers-by who looked at her oddly, seemingly talking to herself.

“Well, we know that a competitive woman such as yourself would want a final victory to be earned, and not merely from somebody else's weak-minded capitulation. Think of the satisfaction when, well, if you win, and you know that you did what happened to Miss Tennyson. Something to look forward to I'm sure, and perhaps a thought you should hold on to for a moment longer, because there is a slight bit of bad news. You see, here's your next clue Sasha Sinclair, courtesy of Tara who so ably found it. Which brings us of course to...” the voice trailed off for a moment, and Sasha shut her eyes tightly but still couldn't help envision someone at the end of the comms channel savouring what they were about to say.

“Which brings us of course to the small matter of a penalty, a fee for the next clue as it were.”

Sasha screwed her eyes shut even more, and noticed she was holding her breath.

“Here's the next clue Sasha Sinclair, and best wishes on evening the ledger. `A far away land filled with romantic power, three floors and few doors to a famous old tower. Before you go there, a chat may be due, and rest assured you’ll find your next clue.’”

With that, Sasha opened one eye, looked around her, and quickly checked the essentials. Top, still on, check. Shorts, still on, check. Sasha opened her other eye and noticed she was getting strange looks from those around her, but gradually realised that might have more to do with her standing stock still on the footpath, arms rigidly by her side, her face scrunched up almost waiting for a slap. As she relaxed, the voice idly said, “Oh, and Sasha, start moving dear. Standing still is a penalisable offense, and I'm afraid you just picked up your first penalty for the game. I wouldn't recommend transgressing again.”

Sasha experimentally put one foot out in front of her, and then the other, and then picked up the pace as she realised her shoes weren't about to explode on her. So, umm, that was it? Had that been a simple warning shot across her bows, did she get one “get out of jail free” card to warm her into the game? The second clue, Sasha told herself, focus on that.

“A far away land filled with romantic power, three floors and few doors to a famous old tower. Before you go there, a chat may be due, and rest assured you’ll find your next clue.”

As Sasha walked along the streets, mulling over the possibilities, she began to notice a sensation against her stomach. Her white sleeveless shirt was beginning to ride up a little, and wasn't hanging so loose any more. Sasha eyed it suspiciously as she tried to keep up the pace while not colliding with anything or anyone. The shirt still hung there, seemingly giving her ample coverage, but as she looked it, she had to convince herself that the stitching wasn't moving under it's own power. Sasha's pace picked up, and tried to refocus herself on the second clue. No way in hell was she going to go down 2-0 to Tara Tennyson. A few minutes of wandering later, Sasha's train of thought was interrupted again by the feeling of rubbing under her armpits, and a breeze against her skin. She looked down again, and gasped in surprise. The baggy white shirt was now baggy no longer. The bottom of the shirt, which previously had sat comfortable halfway down her beautiful posterior, now rested at her navel, and the shirt was now noticeably tightening around her sides, arms, breasts and back. In fact, her gasp of surprise had caused her to breathe in sharply again, and with that the shirt contracted even more and suddenly Sasha found herself wearing a skin tight top that hid none of the curves of her athletic chest.

Sasha instinctively threw up her hands to cover her chest, only for the earpiece to quickly interject with “now, now, Sasha, no interfering with the good folks' view. I would hate to have to award a second penalty so soon.” Sasha forced her hands back down by her side, and stared steadfastly ahead, trying to ignore the fact that several guys who had just walked past were now straining their necks to check her out. Truth be told, even as skin tight as the white sleeveless shirt now was, it wasn't a radical departure from what Sasha had worn in the past when trying to attract attention. But this was different. This was just the start of something much worse, and she was having a hard time stopping the thought of that turning her nipples rock hard. Sasha kept forcing herself to move forward, reminding herself that if she acted like everything was normal, then no-one else around her need know any differently.

It was at that point that she began to also notice a tingling sensation across her breasts. At first she put it down to the short, but a quick inspection revealed that the shirt had now stopped contracting and seemed perfectly happy in it's current shape and form, exposing the perfection of her breasts and cleavage for the world's inspection. The tingling sensation continued though, and Sasha soon realised that her shirt wasn't the only thing getting in on the act. Her red, form-hugging bra, clearly outlined beneath her shirt, was vibrating quietly away, and Sasha watched with slowly dawning horror. She suddenly realised that any hope of at least keeping her nipples from being rock hard, any hope of making sure they didn't stand out like beacons in her skin-tight shirt, were well and truly dashed. Commanded by her bra, Sasha let out an involuntary, barely audible moan, as her nipples went as hard and as large as she'd ever seen them, and pressed prominently through the material of her shirt.

Sasha closed her eyes again, shut out the noise around her, opened her eyes, fixed them straight ahead, and swore on all that was sacred to her that she'd see Tara Tennyson naked, red-faced and defeated on these city streets before too long.

*******

Tara Tennyson was a woman on a mission. She held on to the advert in her left hand, the second clue carefully written on the back. She broke into jog again, as she racked her mind as to where the French consulate could be. The damn map neglected to mention where the consulates were, a fact she’d already bitterly cursed after the initial euphoria of guessing that the clue was referring to the Eiffel Tower and the need to talk to the French government about any visa requirements. Tara had never really thought about visiting France before, and her sole knowledge of the French consulate was that it existed somewhere, leaving her a mere four square miles of likely ground to cover. Tara at least had the satisfaction that Sasha would be somewhere out there, suffering her first wardrobe malfunction. However, Tara also knew Sasha would have the clue by now, and the bitch had played the French government in the Model UN some years back. It would be just like her to be undeservedly lucky and remember where the consulate is based.

As Tara raced down one street and then the next, she realised she was looking for a needle in a haystack. The consulate wouldn’t be that large, and her only hope was to spot the French flag down some side-street as she hastened along. Equally likely though, would be the scenario where she looked in the wrong direction at the wrong time and raced right past it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Tara slowed down to a walking pace, realising that she was now only seeing half of what she passed, and that she’d have to be a bit more methodical than this. It was at exactly that point, as she looked down yet another side-street, that she inadvertently walked into a tourist gazing forlornly at their own map. Tara went to let out a curse and berate the tourist for standing still on a busy side-walk, when she noticed that the map the tourist had was different to her own. Different, and far more detailed. Tara went from mid-frown to welcoming-smile in a split second, and looked straight into the tourist’s eyes. The tourist was male, perhaps early 30s, and – Tara noted with interest – was now staring at her in a line that would be fairer to describe as chest-height than eye-height.

“Excuse me sir, can I help?” Tara was all sweetness and kindness, and she’d also chosen only moments before - by sheer coincidence of course – to take a big breath in, with the entirely unintended consequence of inflating her chest out even further.

The tourist gulped, and hesitantly used broken english to stammer a request as to where “Hotel Cyrian” might possibly be located. Tara knew the answer already, but took the tourist’s map out of his hands and stepped closer in. Making a great pretense of looking for the hotel, she quickly scanned the map for the French consulate, and felt a surge of triumph as she spotted it just off Mercury Boulevard. She indulged the tourist with another smile, leant in far closer than would be considered decent, and gently pushed the tourist off in the direction of the hotel, a mere two blocks from here.

Tara then set off again. She was at least seven blocks away, and an interminable number of pedestrian crossings to negotiate before she reached her destination. She hadn’t even reached the first of these though, before her ear-piece crackled into life.

“Miss Tennyson, interesting encounter you had there, good to see you helping visitors to our fair city. I’m sure the tourism board would love to have you front their campaigns, what with you having such a welcoming and charitable demeanour.”

Tara remained silent, not wanting to tempt fate by acknowledging the compliment.

“Of course,” the voice continued, “I couldn’t help but notice that helping your fellow man seems to have provided you an insight as to your next clue - an insight that a less charitable mind might say was caused by your looking at his map. That could be construed as external help Miss Tennyson, and that is mostly certainly your first penalty offense.”

Tara gulped inwardly, and pressed on towards the consulate. One free penalty, that’s what she remembered of the rules. One free penalty, and then after that, the wardrobe malfunctions start to role in. Tara was now only four blocks from the consulate now, and picking up speed as the foot traffic around her slowly dwindled away. Three blocks away. Two blocks away. One block away. In the distance, she could see a French flag fluttering in the light wind that whipped through the streets. And underneath that flag, stood Sasha Sinclair.

*******

Sasha Sinclair looked on with grim satisfaction as she saw Tara in the distance, across a street and several buildings away, wear an expression of shock on her face. Even from this distance, Sasha could tell from Tara’s body language that Tara’s t-shirt and bra were now betraying her, just as Sasha’s already had an entire clue ago. Luckily, Sasha had remembered enough from her Model UN days to know just where to go, once she’d belatedly remembered that the Eiffel Tower only had three floors. The next clue had been on a notice outside the consulate, and she was already walking towards the central business district again as she tried to decipher it.

“Clue number 3 will take you where, either a 1 or a 2 would have had you quite bare. You won’t talk about this at dinner or lunch, but go to the center to follow your hunch.”

Sasha tried breaking into a jog in an effort to get to the center of the city faster, however every time she bounced along in her stride, she was acutely aware of the tightness of her shirt and the ceaseless, low vibrations of her bra. Sasha gritted her teeth and powered on, regretting her choice of beverage at lunch time as the start of a familiar feeling in her bladder gave her yet another new problem to handle. A new problem and, Sasha realised with a sudden start, an unexpected solution.

Two streets ahead, Tara Tennyson was also running towards the center of the city, although with less of an idea as to her final destination. Tara was furiously trying to stop blushing, as she became used to her new attire, and the prominence of her nipples poking through the now skin-tight white shirt. The tight white shirt and baggy yellow shorts seemed slightly at odds with each other, and she was all too sure that the latter would be fixed in ways she wouldn’t enjoy if Sasha was to take a 2-1 lead in the clues. As Tara continued to hurry along, she stole a glance behind her and was re-assured to see Sasha some two streets back, and heading in roughly the same direction. The fact that Sasha’s top was in a familiar state to Tara’s only made Tara realise just how exposed they both were. Even two streets away, Tara could see Sasha’s breasts on display in a skin-tight white top, and Tara fully knew how she would look to passers-by when up-close. As Tara turned back to the task at hand, she had to half-stop as she almost ran into another man. Tara half-mumbled an apology and was about to continue on her journey when a jolt of recognition again stopped her in her tracks. The man she almost ran into was one of Sasha’s friends – Robert Mackinlay – and he’d gone to the same University as Tara and Sasha. Robert also seemed to recognise Tara, but was temporarily struggling to remember her name, distracted as he was by other matters regarding the woman in front of him. Even in her current desperate state, an idea formed in Tara’s mind with snake-like speed.

“Robert! What a coincidence! I was just talking to Sasha and she said she was hoping to talk to you. She seemed frightfully upset, could certainly do with a friend, and well, you know how things have been between us. I thought it best to leave her be, but she’s right over there about a street back, and I’m sure she’d love to chat!” Tara flashed the closest thing to an innocent, encouraging smile that she could manage at the moment, and then almost as quickly said her goodbyes and was off again before Robert could even frame a reply.

Robert stared at Tara’s retreating backside for several seconds, and then had started to struggle to remember why he was here in the first place, when Sasha suddenly came bounding along we well.

“Sasha! Hey, how are you!” Robert had always had a not-so-secret crush on Sasha, and Tara’s seemingly friendly warning about Sasha being upset suddenly appeared to him as an ideal chance to appear as a knight in shining armour.

‘Sasha, I just saw Tara... who was... in almost exactly the same outfit you’re wearing... and... uhh... well, she said, ...” Robert’s voice trailed off as he tried to figure out a compelling reason why Tara and /Sasha would be dressed practically identically in the same part of the city at the same time. He knew the two had a feud, but this was something altogether new.

Sasha came to a grudging halt as she looked past Robert and saw Tara pulling ahead of her. Sasha looked quickly at Robert and tried to wave him away in the friendliest possible way.

“Robert, hi, can’t stop, I’ve...”

Robert interrupted her with a finger to the lips, and brought himself to what he hoped was a impressive pose.

“Sasha, I know things have been rough on you of late, and...”

“Robert, please, I have to go!” Sasha went to start running, and Robert gently grabbed her arm to hold her back.

“...and I just want you to know that...”

Sasha extracted her arm from Robert’s grasp and gave him an exasperated look. “Robert, this is important, I have to go!”

“...I will always be here for you and that...”

Sasha gave up on trying to end the conversation in conventional ways, and decided that sprinting-down-the-street was as good a means as any to bringing this distraction to it’s overdue conclusion. Unfortunately, as Sasha started to run again, Robert had reached out to grab her hand in a friendly way, and was too busy dreamily staring at her perky breasts to notice Sasha’s increasing agitation. Sasha was a fair bit stronger than Robert, and her running start easily pulled him off his feet. The resulting graceless stumble into a near-by lamp-post happened before he could rouse himself from his daydreams.

Sasha groaned as she realised what had happened, and she momentarily considered just leaving him there. However, Robert was clearly now injured – a mildly concussed look on his face only barely discernible from his usual state of amiable confusion – and the irritating fool was still a friend all said and done. Blood was now streaming out of his now banged-up nose, and Sasha spent a precious few moments fuming as she desperately tried to attract a fellow bystander to help him. Thankfully, a beautiful woman in a skin-tight top tends to attract help effortlessly, and after an agonising minute or two of trying to explain to two men with attention deficit disorder what had happened, Sasha was off again.

Damn it Tara. That slut had clearly used Robert to delay her further, she was still blocks away from the public toilets in the center of the city, and now her erect nipples had competition for her attention from her overly-excited bladder. Sasha also couldn’t see Tara in front of her any more, and she was helplessly wondering whether Tara knew where she was going, when she passed a small shopping mall on her right. The call of nature had finally built up to an overwhelming crescendo, and she realised she wouldn’t make it to the main public toilets before she lost complete control. Well, she thought, if Tara knows where she’s going, then there is no way I’m going to overtake her. And if she doesn’t know where she’s going, a quick pit-stop hopefully won’t make any difference.

Sasha quickly hobbled into the shopping mall, and located the women’s toilets on the mall map. One minute and one disgruntled female patron later (who had foolishly thought she – and not Sasha – was next in line for the stall), Sasha let out her first contented sigh of the day. Within seconds the pressure in her bladder steadily relieved itself. Sasha wasn’t in any mood to hang around though, and was in the act of flushing the toilet when the dreaded voice in the earpiece sang out once more.

*******

“Hello Miss Sinclair. I hope you’re feeling better now. I supposed I could have mentioned the need to go to the toilet before the big game, but I’m slightly surprised an athlete of your talent wouldn’t already know that.” The voice sounded like it was looking forward to something and was savouring the build-up. Had Tara already found the next clue? Was she that far ahead?

“Miss Sinclair, as I’m sure a highly intelligent woman such as yourself will agree, rules are important in any game. Sadly, one such rule is that our contestants must stay walking or running in public and not hide away during the game itself.”

“Oh come on!” Sasha objected, “I’m in the public toilets, and I would only have been here for a minute if you hadn't interrupted me!”

“Well, that’s certainly one way of looking at it.” The voice commented, giving no room for doubt from their tone that there were other, far more compelling ways of looking at it that they were greatly in favour of, “However, a stall in a public toilet isn’t public enough I fear, and the tragedy of all of this is that you’ve already had a penalty warning.”

“What?! That makes no sense! I want to lodge a protest!” Sasha cried indignantly, forgetting all about Tara for a moment as the injustice of this latest hurdle hit her like a kick in the teeth.

“Of course, of course, that is your right and we here at Decider Enterprises do pride ourselves on our fair and just process of disputes resolution,” the voice continued smoothly, and far too glibly for Sasha’s liking, “so please rest assured that after the conclusion of our game your protest will be dealt with through the appropriate channels, etc etc.”

“After?!” Sasha chipped in, “How’s that going to help me now?”

“Well,” said the voice slowly, “it would be a little bit difficult to do anything about it now, seeing as how I triggered the penalty about three whines ago. Besides,” the voice brightened up, “surely you don’t want to be waylaid any longer by talking about this now, when Tara moves further ahead of you with every minute you waste debating this with me.”

Sasha’s mind was suddenly brought back to the more immediate threat, and she felt a shiver of fear run down her spine as she wondered if Tara had figured out the third clue yet. She silently cursed the voice in the earpiece one more time for good measure, and then reached down to pull up her black lycra running shorts and the baggy red shorts. It was at that point that her panicky thoughts about Tara were rudely interrupted by the sudden shock of her hands encountering something wet and soggy. She looked down in despair, wondering if the toilet had overflown, only to be greeted by the even worse sight of her baggy red shorts seemingly disintegrate in front of her eyes.

“What the hell?!” Sasha exclaimed, as the once solid clothing broke away and covered the stall floor in a soggy red mess.

“You’d be warned Miss Sinclair, and can I suggest that you not loiter around to ponder the matter further, as I strongly suspect Miss Tennyson is en route to the next clue.”

Sasha grimaced, grabbed the body-hugging – and far too small for her preference – black lycra running shorts, and burst out of the stall as she yanked them up. A very confused older lady was still waiting outside for her turn, unable to make her mind up whether she should be irate or just very confused over the 20-odd year old in revealing, skintight clothing, who had barged past her earlier and who had then proceeded to hold a very strange one-sided conversation indeed.

Sasha raced out of the mall and turned onto the street towards the larger public toilets in the CBD.

She was fully aware now of just how the tight running shorts, that barely came down over her bottom, framed and presented her well-defined ass. The men she ran past had the headache of having to decide whether to stare slack-jawed at her ass or at her breasts. The constant humming of the bra had kept her nipples perfectly erect under her skin-tight white shirt, and the constant running was now making the shirt rub on them as well, causing even more distraction for her. She had made it all the way to the first pedestrian crossing when the voice in the earpiece chirped up once again.

“Miss Sinclair, my apologies, I seem to have misled you before. I told you Miss Tennyson is en route to the next clue. Not strictly speaking correct, I’m afraid. In actuality, Miss Tennyson is very much at the next clue...”