Chance

As I collected myself, I looked over at Bleu and was shocked at what I saw. She was so caught up in the whirlwind of excitement, that she was completely unaware that the back of her dress had betrayed her, tucking itself into her underwear.

I'd known that she wore teddy bear panties, but today she was flaunting some very cute panties with a strawberry pattern. I made a mental note to ask if she wore them for good luck.

The crowd was reacting to her wardrobe malfunction with gasps and cheers. But frankly, the view from behind her was even better. I had no idea her ass was so round, or so bouncy. As she shook her ass, panties first, I was overcome with a simply unquenchable urge.

I need to slap that ass.

This is something only a guy could understand.

It was primal.

I imagined my ancestors looking down on me, disappointed at me for not taking this golden opportunity.
At that point, I completely forgot about the competition. I didn't care anymore.
This opportunity, with Bleu shaking her sweet strawberry covered ass to Dragon's hit "Started At The Tutorial Now I'm Here", would never present itself again.

That's when it hit me.

The immortal words from the Top-G Tate Andrews (RIP) himself:

“The best way to assert dominance over a female is to slap her ass. In public, if possible.”

Without missing a beat, I reared back my hand and gave Bleu a huge slap right on her left butt cheek. It shocked me how jiggly her butt actually was. The slap echoed through the room and was perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the song.
And just like that, the screen lit up,
“1 Billion Point Combo!” flashing in bold letters.
The crowd went wild, their cheers and applause reaching a deafening volume.

I had done it. I had won the LAG Freshman Beach Trip Generation Dance! Championship, and I got to slap Bleu’s ass too.

The audience was in awe, I heard a bit of what they were saying from the crowd.

"Did you see that? That was insane!" a guy from the back yelled, his voice filled with amazement.
"No way, man! Chance just owned the dance floor, and Bleu’s butt!" another one chimed in, his tone reflecting pure admiration.

A group of girls near the front were practically squealing, "That butt slap? Absolutely legendary! Only Chance could pull something like that off!"

“I want Chance to slap my butt now!” another girl mentioned.

"I knew he was good, but this? This is next level!" a girl with wide eyes exclaimed, her hands clasped together as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

"Man, if this is what he does at a beach trip dance competition, I can't even imagine what he's gonna pull off back at school!" one of the guys speculated, a smirk playing on his lips.

"He's totally living up to that #1 student title. Chance is just on another level!" another person in the crowd added, nodding in agreement.

The audience was in awe, completely convinced that the entire performance, wardrobe malfunction, and that daring butt tap had all been a part of some grand, well-coordinated routine. Chance and Bleu, the dynamic duo, they must’ve thought. We were more interested in putting on a show than who came out on top. And truth be told, in that moment, it felt pretty damn good.

But before I could soak it all in, Bleu had vanished, running off backstage, her face a mix of shock and awe. I wondered what was going through her mind, what she was feeling after that wild ride of a performance.

Does Bleu hate me now? Is she impressed? I have no clue.

That’s the thing with red pill theory. It sounded good on paper, but didn’t always play out in real life like you expected.

But there wasn't much time to ponder on it because, suddenly, I was the center of attention.

Girls from the audience, their eyes sparkling with admiration, were all trying to talk to me, congratulate me, get a piece of the newly crowned dance champion. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

A few bold girls, wanting to be a part of the viral sensation, approached me me with mischievous grins and phones at the ready.

"Chance, Chance! Can you slap my butt for a selfie? It would be legendary!" one girl giggled, her friends egging her on as she pulled her skirt up above her panties.

The chaperones, quick to spot the commotion, rushed over with raised eyebrows and stern expressions.

"Absolutely not! It’s one thing if it’s part of a Generation Dance! routine, that’s art. But this is inappropriate, and you know it," Ms. Piper scolded, shaking her head in disapproval.

"But he did it to Bleu! And it was so cool!" another girl protested.

"I don't care who he did it to. That kind of behavior is not acceptable, and you should know better," the chaperone responded firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The girls, their plans foiled, pouted and dispersed, throwing me apologetic glances as they left. But before they left, one of them grabbed my phone out of my hand. By the time I got it back, I had more contacts that were random girl’s names than I had in my entire phone before. I’d have to sort them out later.

It was a baffling situation.

The chaperones were now on high alert, their eyes scanning the crowd for any more potential troublemakers. The excitement was still in the air, but now, it was mixed with a hint of mischief and a lot of laughter. It was definitely a night to remember, and I was at the center of it all.

The female attention, the cheers, the pats on the back - it was everything a guy could dream of. And yet, amidst the glory and the fame, a small part of me couldn't help but wonder about Bleu.

What was she thinking? What did this wild performance mean for us?

But for now, those thoughts had to wait. I was basking in the limelight, surrounded by admirers, the King of the Dance Floor. And for a moment, just a brief moment, everything felt absolutely perfect.

That was when I got an ominous text message, and it wasn’t from a hot girl.