They took the stage along with Lauren and three of the other girls who acted as the puppeteers. It was slapstick and sexy and so damn hot. The puppeteers pretended to pull the strings and make the dolls dance sensually, in a range of what seemed to be ballet movements interlaced with classic burlesque. It should have looked completely out of place, and not utter perfection—it was mesmerizing. The dolls stayed in a fairly modest state of dress throughout the entire performance until the very last moment when the puppeteers dropped the strings, and the dolls corsets dropped too, leaving them in awkward and unnatural positions, much like a real puppet would land. They were wearing only tutus and nipple pasties. The whole performance was nothing short of magical. When I’d looked around the room, everyone’s eyes were trained on the stage—even the staff had stopped to watch. They had the whole room in a frenzy of sexual tension and awe.

I’m beyond hard as I close my hand around myself and begin to pump harder, remembering her languid graceful moments. I can feel every ridge and swollen vein as I stroke. My head falls back, the heat blossoming from the base of my spine, through my pelvis and traveling the length of my cock. I drop my head forward and look down at my hand jerking myself in intense, deep thrusts. I picture her long delicate fingers closed tightly around me, wanting it so badly to be her here doing this right now I don’t know if I want to come or punch a hole through the shower wall. My muscles tighten as my pace quickens, and I’m furiously plunging my fist back and forth at a punishing rate. I keep the image of Robyn’s ass and full firm tits in my mind as I let go, and jerk myself with wild abandonment at the thought of her. My whole body spasms as I watch cum spurt fiercely from my tip, coating me in my release and washing away as quickly as it appeared, the water concealing the evidence of my weakness for Tweet. I continue a slow stroke, milking every last drop of tension and wanting this feeling of replete and all-consuming satisfaction to stay while I sink into the wall and my orgasm slowly ebbs.

Robyn Spears will be the death of me, I’m sure of it.

IN EIGHTH GRADE I got my first real involuntary hard-on at a school swim meet of all places. Megan Colletti, the only girl in my class to have developed breasts, jumped into the pool, with all the boys’ eyes following her chest, which was packed into a tiny piece of bright blue spandex. She broke the surface with her two-piece shifted and exposing everything. While everybody was laughing and pointing, I was doing a piss poor job of trying not to drown as I tread water and splashed about, frantically trying to distort the view of my erection in my speedos. It wasn’t my finest hour, and one that I was almost certain I would never let happen again. But so help me, God, Robyn just walked through the iron gates and down to my table and fuck if I can’t stand up to greet her because of the instant swell in my slacks.

She takes the seat next to me and leans in to kiss my cheek in a greeting at the same time I attempt to take her hand. There’s an awkward few seconds as we engage in a strange dance of trying to greet each other. It ends with me attempting to kiss her cheek and instead crashing into her lips as she moves her head slightly before my lips meet their intended target. We pull apart like we’ve both just been doused in freezing cold water—then burst into fits of muffled laughter at our own embarrassing ineptness.

“Hi,” I finally say, wishing I’d led with that in the first place.

“Hey.”

“Let me get you a drink, I feel like it might take the edge off the embarrassment, although I’m two drinks in and it’s done nothing for mine.”

Her laughter rings in my ears, sweet and light and I wave the waitress over, not daring to stand and go to the bar myself.

“You look beautiful, by the way. How have you been?”

The smallest hint of a blush appears on her neck as she leans closer, telling me that she’s been well, although busy. We make small talk over dirty martinis, and I should be listening to what she’s saying, but I’m too preoccupied with watching her too-full lips to pay enough attention to what they’re actually saying. Somewhere in the back of my mind I register that we’ve been here a while, and she needs to leave for work. I want to tell her to call in sick, spend the rest of the evening with me. Not because I want to do anything more sinister than what we’re doing right now; her company alone is a refreshing break from my usual routine. I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of the evening right here, talking easily about subjects of no real substance: musical tastes, the first concert we saw, the score of the last Giants’ game and how she loves sports, but her sister always thought she pretended to like them in a devious ploy to impress boys. I enjoy that fact that there’s no mention of our work. I spend my whole life at the office these days, eating, sleeping and drinking the Michaels’ merger case, and if she were to ask me about it now I think it would dull her sparkle, and lessen her appeal.

We haven’t consumed an abundance of alcohol by anyone’s standards, but Robyn’s eyes are begging to take on that buzzed vacant haze of someone bordering on being too inebriated to turn up to work, and I’d hate to be the reason she found herself in trouble with her employers.

“Let’s walk off some of these drinks,” I tell her, pointing out toward the park. “We’ll grab some water and hopefully douse the effects before you have to work.”

“That actually sounds like a really good plan. This Martini has pretty much gone straight to my head. I guess I should have eaten before I came here.”

I look down at my watch. It’s 6:15 and I’m betting that she’s skipped out on eating lunch as well as dinner, given how quickly the alcohol has taken effect. She’s a tiny little thing anyway; she could certainly afford to carry a few extra pounds and maintain her stunning form.

“That does it,” I grin. “We’re heading through the park and I’ll buy you dinner before you have to leave.”

“That’s really sweet, Cole, but I don’t have time—” I cut her off as I take her hand and pull her up from the table.

“Sure you do, follow me.”

She looks down at her cell in contemplation.

“I’m not dragging you off to murder you, don’t look so pensive. I promise I won’t make you late…unless you want me to, of course.” I wink and she slaps my arm playfully before yielding to my request. I drop enough cash to cover our check and leave a healthy tip for our server before we turn to walk up the stairs and through the ornate iron gates out into the park.

I take her hand, lacing our fingers together before I realize what I’m doing. She looks down at our joined hands and I stiffen a little, feeling far too presumptuous assuming this would be okay. It wasn’t a conscious decision to hold her hand, but the prospect of having to let it go now is more than a little depressing.

Her huge, chocolate doe eyes flick up to meet mine, and I prepare to apologize and loosen my grip, but instead of breaking our connection, she smiles wistfully and looks ahead, her hand still firmly in mine.

“It’s nice walking through the park; I don’t do it enough,” I admit and she seems surprised by my admission.

“I love the park. I run in here most days, although I haven’t for a while. It’s best early in the morning before it’s taken over by tourists and the hustle and bustle of people wanting to enjoy a little sanctuary from the concrete jungle,” she tells me, gently swinging our hands back and forth as we walk.