Dance Mom Roulette

"We're going to play a game today," my wife told me after we'd finished brunch one hot summer weekend morning, her voice laced with that mischievous edge that always set my pulse racing. "It just so happens that one of the largest dance competitions in the region is downtown."

"And …?" I raised an eyebrow, sipping my coffee, curious where this was headed.

"… and my friend from college, Kristy, is a dance mom!" Her eyes sparkled, daring me to catch up.

"You're going to have to spell this out for me. Are we hanging out or something? What game?"

My wife flashed a wicked smile, then slid something across the table. I glanced down—a room key, sleek and black, from an upscale hotel just down the street from the competition venue. My heart skipped a beat.

"I packed all our swim stuff, a change of clothes, and a few other things," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur. "Consider this an early birthday gift. This is the hotel where all the dance teams stay. They have a roof deck pool that overlooks the skyline. When they're done for the day, they basically attack the pool. Well, the kids do, while the dance moms hang out in their tiny swimsuits and gossip."

I leaned forward, intrigued. "Go on."

"Dance moms are always traveling to these things," she continued, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "A lot of them are divorced or practically never see their husbands. Surely they’re not opposed to having some fun with a guy in a strange city."

"And I'm that guy, huh?" I grinned, heat coiling in my gut.

"Maybe, if you win the game." Her smile turned downright devilish.

"How exactly do I do that?"

"We're going to be at the pool during prime time," she said, leaning closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I told Kristy not to show any sign of knowing me. You'll have ten minutes to get your fill of eye candy. Then, as we're leaving the pool, you tell me which one you think is her. We'll head to the room, you'll shower, and I'll attach you to the bed. After I blindfold you, you'll find out if your guess was right. I might stick around to watch."

My cock twitched at the thought, the ambiguity sending a thrill through me. My wife’s games were always a wild ride. "You’re trouble," I said, pocketing the key.

"You love it," she shot back, her eyes gleaming with promise.

…

The rooftop pool was a chaotic swirl of splashing kids, thumping pop music, and the sharp bite of chlorine thick in the humid air. The city skyline shimmered beyond the glass railing, but my attention was on the dance moms scattered across the deck, their bodies glistening, bikinis barely clinging to sun-warmed skin. My wife lounged beside me on a cushioned chaise, her red two-piece looking downright modest in comparison, her hair in a messy bun. She sipped a cocktail, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but I felt her gaze, watching me play her game.

I scanned the crowd, senses on high alert. The air was heavy with chlorine and the sweet, oily scent of sunscreen, the sun scorching my shoulders. A dozen women could be Kristy. Was it the blonde in a black string bikini, her laugh cutting through the music as she tossed a beach ball? Or the brunette by the bar, hips swaying as she ordered a drink, her teal swimsuit riding low? My eyes lingered on a woman in a deep purple one-piece, her toned legs stretched out on a lounge chair, skin glistening with sweat and pool water. She glanced my way, her gaze bold enough to make my pulse spike.

My wife’s hand grazed my thigh, light but deliberate. "See anyone you like?" she murmured, her voice teasing.

"Plenty," I said, keeping it casual. "But I’m looking for Kristy. Any hints?"

She chuckled, low and throaty. "That’d ruin the fun. Eight minutes left."

I leaned back, eyes roaming. The chlorine stung my nose, blending with sunscreen and the faint, musky hint of sweat from bodies baking in the heat. The woman in purple stood, adjusting her suit, the fabric clinging to her ass, damp from the pool. Was that Kristy? Or the redhead by the pool’s edge, her laughter bright, her bikini top straining against her chest? I cataloged their movements, the sheen of their skin, knowing one might soon be in that room with me. The uncertainty was maddening, fueling my anticipation.

As the ten minutes ended, my wife stood, stretching languidly, her body drawing eyes across the deck. "Time’s up," she said, slipping on her cover-up. "Who’s your guess?"

I hesitated, eyes flicking to the woman in purple. Her confidence felt like it matched my wife’s description of Kristy, but my wife’s games were never that simple. "The one in purple," I said, nodding toward her. "By the lounge chairs."

My wife’s lips curved, giving nothing away. "Interesting choice," she said, leading me to the elevator. "Head to the room and shower. I’ll meet you there to set things up."

…

The hotel room was a cool refuge, the air faintly tinged with the chlorine I’d carried in from the pool. The king-sized bed beckoned under the soft glow of a bedside lamp, its crisp sheets a stark contrast to the rooftop’s heat. I showered quickly, the hot water washing away the pool’s chemical tang, but my anticipation only grew, my cock half-hard at the thought of my wife’s game. When I emerged, towel around my waist, my wife was waiting, her silhouette sharp in the dim light, still in her red bikini and cover-up. She held a black silk blindfold and padded cuffs, her smile wicked as she straddled my hips, securing my wrists to the headboard, the restraints snug but soft. The blindfold plunged me into darkness, sharpening every sound—the creak of the bed, the rustle of her cover-up, the faint hum of the air conditioner.

"Time to see if you guessed right," she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. "I might stay, or I might slip out. You’ll never know." The door opened and closed softly, leaving me in silence, my heart pounding, every nerve on edge. Minutes passed before the door clicked open and the sound of footsteps returned.

A new presence shifted the air, sending a jolt through me. Was it my wife, or Kristy, fresh from the pool? Soft hands grazed my chest, nails dragging lightly, sending shivers across my skin. A low chuckle—feminine, teasing—filled the air, too soft to identify. The scent of sunscreen intensified as she leaned closer, her hair brushing my thigh, damp and cool, likely from the pool. My wife’s hair was long, but Kristy’s could be too. I strained to hear her breathing, to catch any clue, but the darkness locked me in sensation.

Her hands slid lower, fingers tracing my abs, then dipping to my hips, unwrapping the towel, and brushing the base of my cock. I groaned, my body tensing as she wrapped her hand around me, stroking slowly, her grip firm and slick with my precum. The air was thick with the musky scent of her arousal mingling with the pool smells, intoxicating in the dark. The bed shifted as she straddled my thighs, her skin warm and smooth, her weight settling just above my hips. I couldn’t tell if it was my wife’s familiar curves or Kristy’s unknown ones, and the uncertainty drove me wild, my cock throbbing as her fingers teased me, spreading the slickness down my shaft.

A soft moan escaped her as she shifted forward, guiding my cock to her entrance. She was dripping wet, her pussy tight and hot as she sank down, taking me deep with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. New sensations filled my senses as she moved, her rhythm steady but hungry. Her hands braced on my chest, nails digging in, and I caught the faint sound of her breath hitching, sharp and urgent, but no words—just gasps that could belong to either woman.

I thrust up to meet her, the cuffs biting into my wrists, the blindfold forcing me to focus on the slick heat enveloping me, the way her walls clenched with each movement. The air was heavy with the wet sounds of our bodies, the creak of the bed, the faint chlorine tang lingering on her skin. Her moans grew louder, her pace quickening, her pussy pulsing around me. I smelled her sweat, felt the tremble in her thighs, heard the soft slap of skin against skin.

“Fuck,” I groaned, my voice rough, the only word I could manage as she rode me harder, her walls tightening, gripping me like a vice. Her nails raked my chest, a sharp sting that pushed me closer to the edge. Her breath came in desperate gasps, and I felt her shudder, her orgasm rippling through her, her pussy clenching so tightly I nearly came. The scent of her arousal was overwhelming, raw and heady, pushing everything else away.

She slowed, leaning forward, her hair brushing my face, damp with pool water and carrying that chlorine tang. Her hands slid to my cock, stroking me as she lifted off, her touch slick with her own wetness. She moved lower, her breath hot against my thigh, then the tip of my cock, before her tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive head. I groaned, hips bucking, as her mouth closed around me, warm and wet, sucking with a hunger that felt both familiar and foreign. I lost myself in the sensation—her tongue swirling, her hand pumping, the soft hum of her moan vibrating against me.

I came hard, my body jerking as I spilled into her mouth, her lips working to take every drop, the wet sounds of her swallowing filling the darkness. She lingered, her tongue teasing one last time before she pulled away, the bed shifting as she stood. Footsteps faded, the door opening and closing, leaving me in silence, my chest heaving, my senses reeling. Was it my wife? Kristy? Both? The ambiguity was as intoxicating as the act itself.

A moment later, I heard the door open again, followed by the soft hum of the shower starting in the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the room, a steady rush that lasted several minutes. When it stopped, footsteps approached, and my wife’s voice broke the quiet, playful and teasing. “Did you have fun?” she asked, removing the blindfold. I blinked, adjusting to the light, and saw her standing there, hair damp but neatly combed, wrapped in a hotel towel, her skin free of chlorine or sweat, her smile giving nothing away. Had she been in the shower to wash away the evidence of the encounter, or just freshening up after waiting elsewhere? I couldn’t tell.

“Who was it?” I asked, my voice hoarse, searching her for any sign—flushed skin, mussed hair, the scent of arousal—but her freshly showered body offered no clues.

She uncuffed me, her laugh soft and wicked. “That’s the game. You’ll never know.”

Then she leaned down and kissed me—slow, deep, possessive. Her tongue slipped into my mouth, teasing mine, and I searched desperately for any trace of myself, any salty hint of what had just happened. But there was only the sharp, cool burn of mint mouthwash, clean and merciless. She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her smile sharper than ever, the secret still perfectly intact.