Lizbette

 

Lizbette Huerta was muy borracha. Two Margaritas, three shots of tequila at the cocina, of course she was very drunk. Lizbette felt muy buena, but it wasn’t very good that she’d got drunk. She had a piano exam at 1:30. At least it wasn't a public recital-she was much too borracha for that. 

No, it was a one on one with her sexy teacher. “Nooo problema, im muy borrasha, ann muy sexssy cuz im borrasha,” she slurred. She paid for her food, unsteadily left the restaurant, stopping first to use la baña.

Before she left, she had the maestro de’ take her photo by the front door for instagram:

Then with a brief kiss and, “gracias,” she stumbled her way to the stairs.

Before she made it up the stairs, she stumbled, and somehow turned and sat on the stairs instead.

“Soy mas zzzrunk 'an i thodded,” Lizbette slurred to herself. Without thinking, she dug into her purse and pulled out a joint and lighter. On autopilot, she lit it, with only some difficulty on account of the fact she was swaying drunkenly. Once lit, she returned the lighter and look a hit.

After a couple of tokes, “Shidt, now im zzrogada y muy borrasha,” the now stoned and very drunk Lizbette realized. Slill, she continued to smoke. A couple more tokes, and the wasted girl decided, “essá bien, el profesor likes desperdiciada girls.” Once she finished the joint, Lizbette noticed she was sitting with her black panties visible. “Ill juzz show el professor mi pannies…” she said, pulling them tight over her pussy.

 

“...He'll nowe im…im  desperdiciada…and córnea,” the now horny Lizbette decided. She stood, unsteadily picked up her purse and headed for class.

Not for the first time, she made her way across the campus, feeling great, stumbling and staggering, but trying her best to hide it so as to not draw too much attention. Though a few noticed the pretty latina, none approached her on the way to the music building.

Not up to another set of stairs, the wasted Lizbette carefully selected the button for the elevator. Inside, once the doors closed, she pulled her big tetas out.

The fact the elevator could stop at any point and someone could see, thrilled her, and ever so slightly sobered her. Alas, none saw her, as she returned her milk makers to the confines of the milky white shirt before the elevator reached her floor.

Checking her phone, despite her blurry vision she still had a little time before her exam, so she decided to visit the restroom. 

She staggered in. In the stall, she lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties and quicker than the setting sun, plopped down on the seat. Slowly, she relieved herself, and then dried herself, which made her even horneyer. 

Finished, she stood and pulled her panties back up, and strainted her shirt. She staggered to the sink, and washed her hands. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she felt tired-in addition to drunk, high and horney. So she reached into her purse, and popped a couple of pills, which she washed down with a nib of vodka.

Tossing the empty in the trash, the trashed beauty made her way to her exam room. 

The door was open, so she squared herself. Trying to act as sober as possible, she entered the room. Closing the door behind her, she greatted her professor, “Hola el professor,” knowing she’d appear less intoxicated by speaking in spanish. 

Her professor looked at her. Briefly, he thought she was sober. Then she stumbled to a seat at the piano. Instantly he knew she was intoxicated. He was disappointed-had been planning on getting her intoxicated (again). Oh well, he’d have to settle for getting her more intoxicated. 

“Hola, Lizbette,” he greeted her. She smiled drunkenly at him, her glassy and bloodshot eyes partially blocked by errant strands of her silky black hair, her shirt sliding off her left shoulder.

He went ahead and poured her a glass of mezcal, as he asked, “How are you Lizbette?”.

She looked at him blankly, finally asking, “Whad?,” only to then finally say, “Soy muy muy, buena,” as he handed her the glass.

“I’ll bet you are,” he said as he handed her the glass. “Here, drink this.”

“Que is?,” she asked.

“Mezcal,” her professor told her, as she was already taking a large sip.

She sat the glass down and digging in her purse asked “Puedo fumar hierba?,” when she pulled out a joint.

Locking the door “Of course you may smoke weed,” her professor told her. He watched in fascination as she struggled to hold still enough to light the joint. He was just about to help her when she finally got it. So instead, he turned and opened a window.

When he turned back to Lizbette, her glass was empty, and she was exhaling a cloud of smoke, her eyes closed. 

If he had to guess, her befuddled brain was somewhere other than preparing for a piano recital. L.A International airport with Susan Raye or somewhere in the Smoky Mountain Rain with Ronnie Millsap, he wondered?

So, he asked her, “Lizbette, are you ready for your piano recital?” as he poured her another glass of Mezcal.

It took a bit for his words to make it through the smoky room and then register with her drug soaked brain. What finally registered was her earlier plan to show him her panties. She answered him, “Si,” and pulled her shirt up and spread her knees.

As her professor enjoyed the view, Lizbette took the Mezcal and drank it. She then bought her knees together, and sat the glass beside her. She pulled her skirt back down, and in her inebriation, pulled too far, exposing the back of her panties and her butt cheeks; At the same time, her tits popped out of her top. She tried to slap out a rhythm with her hand on her butt, as her breasts tickled the ivories, 

or was the ivories tickling her tits? Lizbette was far too wasted to know. Regardless, she was playing the piano.

Her professor was impressed. It was not anything spectacularly musically, but in terms of sexy intoxicated women, his rock hard dick told him it was excellent. 

Concerned the drunken, high, Lizbette would pass out, he told her, “Excellent, you’ve got an A plus,” as he picked up and re-filled her glass.

“A plus?” she asked, her tits occasionally playing a note as she swayed.

“Yep, you’ve fucking earned it,” he told her extending the glass to her.

“Less follar,” she said, rubbing his crotch. 

“I knew youd ask,” he told her as he pulled out his dick.