I need to see the manager

You find Valerie near the Atrium entrance, standing beside a cascading water wall and looking impossibly chic with a clipboard pressed to her chest. You stumble up to her, your posture rigid as you hold the edges of the robe together perfectly straight, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while keeping the magnetic clasps aligned by sheer force.

"Valerie," you pant, your knuckles white. "The robe. It's broken. It won't hold."

Valerie turns, her eyes sweeping over your panicked, stiff posture. She offers a deeply sympathetic smile. "Oh, John. I am so sorry to hear that. Let's see if I can fix it."

"It keeps popping open," you explain, your voice dropping to a frantic whisper as a guest walks by. "I—I think I flashed a few people. And then the attendant, Suki, she tried to fix it, and it just made it worse, and—"

"Oh, dear," Valerie sighs, her perfectly glossed lips parting in a small, knowing smile. "I do apologize for that. Suki is a little... wild. We're still working on her boundaries. But let me look at this clasp."

She steps into your personal space, her perfume wrapping around you, and kneels slightly to examine the seam you're clutching together.

"Ah," Valerie murmurs, her manicured nail tracing the edge of the fabric right above your knuckles. "I see the problem. You're wearing it inside out. The magnetic polarity is reversed."

She stands back up, her eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, hooded warmth. "And for what it's worth, John... several guests have already come to the desk to give *very* positive feedback about what happened in the Atrium. It sounds like you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."

Before you can even process the compliment, Valerie grabs the lapels right out of your grip and whips the robe entirely off your shoulders.

The air hits you like a physical blow. You are standing completely, undeniably naked in the middle of the open corridor.

"Wait—!" you choke out, instantly slapping both hands over your groin, your heavy, semi-erect anatomy jutting awkwardly against your palms.

Valerie doesn't panic. With maddening, unhurried patience, she holds the robe up in front of you, reversing the sleeves. She presses the magnets together to test them. They repel each other, slipping apart. She tries again. The magnets refuse to catch.

"Hmm," Valerie muses, tilting her head as she inspects the fabric, completely ignoring your panicked shivering. "It seems it's defective after all. This is our first time trying these specific robes on men. I suppose something must have... strained the clasps too much." Her eyes drop deliberately to your hands, a wicked little gleam in her eye. "I'll need to fetch you a replacement."

"Valerie, please, just give it back—"

"I can't let you wear defective resort property, John," she says firmly, her authoritative tone freezing you in place. "House policy. I'll be right back."

She turns and walks away, taking your only cover with her.

You are left standing in the open hallway. You squeeze your thighs together, your hands clamped desperately over your genitals, your face burning so hot you feel dizzy.

A group of four women wearing matching 'Bride Tribe' sashes over their swimsuits rounds the corner. They freeze, a collective gasp echoing in the hall, followed instantly by delighted giggles.

"Oh my god, did the resort order us a stripper?" the bride squeals, covering her mouth.

"If he is, he's being awfully shy about it," the maid of honor teases, walking a slow circle around you. "Come on, honey! Your hands are way too small to hide all that anyway. We can see it pointing straight up at your belly button."

"Drop the hands!" the bride cheers, clapping her hands together. "It's my bachelorette weekend! You can't tease a bride like this. Just lower them for two seconds. Let us see the full package!"

They crowd around you, their perfume and expectant, hungry smiles boxing you in completely. To your absolute horror, one of the bridesmaids lifts her phone.

*Click-flash.*

The bright burst of the camera bulb makes you flinch, your hips jerking in a humiliating, involuntary spasm of exposure.

Finally, Valerie returns. She unfolds a fresh, thicker white robe and steps close, wrapping it around your shoulders herself. She pulls the lapels together and fastens a heavy, traditional cloth tie around your waist, sealing you in.

"There," Valerie murmurs, her hands smoothing the lapels over your chest, her knuckles lingering on your racing heart. "Secure."

---------

Chloe dashes down the stage steps, her stilettos clicking sharply, and thrusts her microphone into the face of a screaming woman in the front row.

"Sarah from Chicago!" Chloe shouts over the roaring crowd. "If you were the one standing in that hallway right now with our blushing accountant, what would you do?"

"I wouldn't just stand there taking pictures!" Sarah screams into the mic, fanning her flushed face. "I'd walk right up, pry those hands apart myself, and tell him to stand up straight!"

The audience erupts into hysterics, but Chloe isn't done. She pivots, shoving the mic toward an older, elegantly dressed woman two seats down. "And what about you, Brenda? You've been watching his hands slip for two minutes now. What's your professional assessment?"

"He's fighting a losing battle, Chloe!" Brenda laughs, pointing up at the massive screen. "He's got two hands over it, and we can still see the head poking out the top and the balls hanging out the bottom! He just needs to drop his arms and surrender!"

"You heard them, John!" Chloe cackles, strutting back up the stairs as the camera zooms in mercilessly on the sweat beading at your temples. "The jury has reached a verdict! Your knuckles are white, you're dripping sweat, and those hands are doing absolutely nothing but framing the main event! Drop 'em!"