Jules 2.0

 Part 1:https://stumblingfillies.blogspot.com/2024/06/good-night-daddy.html

Part 2 (heavily written with Grok AI, and then edited/inhanced by me):

As her warm lips worked up and down your shaft, you wondered how she knew that. You thought back to dinner, and how she’d gotten drunk in the first place.

The kitchen had smelled like roasted garlic and herbs as you pulled the chicken out of the oven. It was a rare night—no work emergencies, no plans, just you and your stepdaughter, Jules, at home for dinner. She’d been sprawled on the couch all day, scrolling her phone in a pair of sweatpants so old they had holes in the knees. Jules was wearing a faded band tee she’d probably snagged from a thrift store-It was a black Metallica shirt, the logo cracked and peeling from too many washes, the sleeves cut off unevenly like she’d hacked them with kitchen scissors. The hem was likewise hacked, just below her breasts. As it was too small for her, it didn’t leave much to the imagination—especially since Jules wasn’t wearing a bra and there was a small rip near the collar to help her shimmy into it. At 19, she had the energy of a tornado but the attention span of a goldfish.

“Dinner’s ready!” you called, setting the platter on the table. Jules shuffled in, her red hair neatly braided and plopped into a chair.

“Smells amazing,” she said, eyeing the spread—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and a pile of green beans she’d probably ignore. “You’re spoiling me. What’s the occasion?”

Like her mother, your wife, she was no stranger to a drink, having bragged about holding her own at college parties since she turned 18. Tonight, though, you had a plan—a little challenge to spice up an otherwise quiet evening.

“No occasion,” you replied, grabbing a bottle of red wine from the counter. “Just felt like cooking. And maybe having a little fun.”

“Smells like you’re trying to impress me,” Jules said with a grin. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief.

Her eyes widened as you uncorked the bottle with a satisfying pop. “Wait, wine? For real? You’re letting me have some? You sure there's no occasion, Daddy?”

“I'm sure; no occasion,” you replied. “Just thought we’d have a good dinner. You’re always saying you can outdrink anyone, so I grabbed something special.” You held up a bottle of cabernet sauvignon—nothing fancy, but bold enough to match her personality, and strong.

She arched a brow, leaning forward. “Oh, you’re challenging me? You know I’ve taken down frat boys with tequila shots. Wine’s basically juice to me. Don’t tell mom.”

“Prove it,” you said, popping the cork and pouring her a generous glass. “One bottle. All you. I’ll stick to water and watch the master at work.”

Jules grinned like she’d just won the lottery. “Deal. I won’t snitch if you don’t. You’re on. But you’re gonna regret this when I’m still standing and you’re begging me to stop singing sea shanties.”

You slid the bottle across the table, keeping your expression neutral. “We’ll see. Eat something first, though.”

She dug in, sipping the wine between bites like it was a casual accessory. “This is good,” she said, gesturing with her glass. “The food’s almost as strong as me. Almost.”

“Expert analysis,” you said, smirking as you cut into the chicken. 

The first glass went down easy, her chatter about her latest art project—some abstract painting involving too much red paint—flowing as freely as the wine, nibbling a bite of mashed potatoes between sips. You refilled her glass without a word, and she didn’t hesitate. The conversation flowed easily: her latest obsession with some reality show, your terrible attempt at fixing the leaky sink last week. By the third, her freckles seemed to glow against her flushed skin, and her words started to trip over each other.

“This chicken’s so good,” she slurred, waving her fork like a conductor. “You’re, liyke, a shef now.  A shef dad.  Chefssepdad.  That’s a word, ride?”

You chuckled, noticing her cheeks were pink. “Slow down there, sommelier. You’re already buzzing.”

“Am nod,” she protested, then giggled as she nearly tipped her glass and lurched into a story from college to cover. “Sooo, thiss won timme,” she said, waving her fork, “I beed thiss guy ad beeer pong, ann he—he cried.  Liyke, actual tears. Cus liyke ihwuzz alrenny zzzrunk wenn the game starred, ann i liyke juzz ran the table, zzzrinkin' eash cup. I’m a legenn, y’know?” She took a long gulp, smirking. “Thiss wine’s nothin’.

“Halfway there,” you noted, nodding at the bottle. “Legend or not, you’ve got some work to do.”

She narrowed her eyes, accepting the unspoken dare, and poured herself another glass. The food was mostly forgotten now, though she scooped a bite absentmindedly as she rambled on about her professors, her ex-roommate’s weird habits, and how she could “tolly painn thiss whole room red” if you’d let her. By the fifth glass, her irish accent—usually subtle—thickened, and she leaned back with a dramatic sigh.

“'kay, daddy,” she slurred, holding the nearly empty bottle like a trophy. “I’m… i’m doin’ it.  Butsha godda annmit, i’m impressive.  Ride? shay it.”

“I’d say you're drunk.”

“Am nod, nod zzzrunk” she protested.

“Listen to yourself. You're slurring your words. And the double negative, not not, means a positive, so you're at least a little tipsy.”

“'kay, maybe a lil’ titsy.  Thizz ssuff’s ssrong.  Why’s it sooo ssrong?”

“Because it’s not juice,” you said, sliding a glass of water her way. 

She took the water but kept sipping the wine too, leaning back in her chair. “Y'know what’s funny? i thodded you’d be alll ssrickt, liyke, ‘no fun allowed, jules. ’ bud you’re cool.  Sneaky cool.  Wiss wine.”

“Flattery won’t get you a refill,” you teased, though you were secretly pleased. She wasn’t wrong—you liked keeping things relaxed between you two.

“But maybe slow down before you start redecorating the house.”

She snorted, tipping the bottle back for the last swig. “Done! see? told ya.  I’m fine.  Totally… fine.” She hiccupped, then giggled, her red braids bouncing as she swayed in her chair. “Maybe a lil’ wobbly, though”

You shook your head, standing to clear the plates. “Alright, champ. You win. Now let’s get you to the couch before you paint the walls with dinner.”

“Whuttaboud desert? i ate alll my food ann zzrank alla wine.  Whasha got? somethin’ gooond, ride? i earned it.” She practically begged like a lille kid, though her drunkenness was all adult.

“Well, I think we’ve got some ice cream.”

“Lame, tiddle-liddle kid ssuff. I nowe, how 'bout a mud slide.”

“I don’t know Jules….”

“A cum on, jussa shot uhf voddka, baileys, shocolade sauce ann a scoop uhf ice cream. Yoo mayke 'em fer mom alla timme. I'm azz sober azz shhe is wenn yoo mayke 'em.” She pleaded.

She wasn’t wrong. “Ok. one mudslide.”

You placed her mudslide before her. “How’s this? Figured you’d like something strong and wild, like you.”

She clapped her hands, sitting up with surprising speed for someone who’d just downed a bottle of cabernet. “Gimme! You’re the best, y’know that?”

Mmm,” she mumbled through a mouthful, “thiss is… thiss'zz heaven.  Chocolate’s my weaknezz”

“Glad you approve,” you said, leaning against the doorway as she devoured it. A drip of melted ice cream landed on her shirt, and she giggled, smearing it with her finger before licking it off.

“Oops,” she slurred, grinning. “Guezz i’m a lil’ messy tonight.  Bud this—this is worth it.  Bezz desserd ever.  Yoo shoulda summ!”

“I’m good,” you replied, shaking your head. “Someone’s gotta stay sober to make sure you don’t re paint the house.”

By the time dessert wrapped up, Jules was a giggling mess, her head resting on her arms on the table. “I love thiss night,” she mumbled. “Bezz shefssepdad ever.  Bud i think… i thing i need t' ged ready fer bed now.”

You shook your head, as she stood. She stumbled through the living room, still muttering about how the chicken and her being was “legennary,” and you couldn’t help but laugh. Dinner hadn’t gone quite as planned, but it was a night you would never forget. And now here she was still drunk, drinking more and sucking your cock. She was a legend. Like her mother. Her mother. That explained how she knew you liked drunk girls. Her mother was no alcoholic, able to stay sober when needed, but getting drunk at every opportunity. With that you told her, “Jules, I’m gonna cum.” She just moaned and you cummed in her mouth. You figured she'd toddler off to bed now, but instead she pulled her top up.

Before you said anything she was pulling off her “shorts”, swaying like a sapling in a storm, her slim frame teetering back and forth as the liquor worked its magic, your cock becoming hard once more.

“Oh gooond.  yer genn hard 'gain.” she said as she drank the rest of the liquor. 

“Jules, your so fucking drunk and sexy.” you told her as you stood and began to fuck her.

“Ann wee both love it!”

“Yes, and I love you. We just can’t tell your mom about this.”

“Nooo, wee canned.  Bud sometimes wee c'n ged herr t' join us”

“Yah, probably.”

“Thad'll be sooo mush fun.  Now fffuck me gooond”

And you did.

The next morning, Jules stumbled into the kitchen, her red hair a tangled mess and her eyes squinting against the sunlight. She was in an old robe that she’d not bothered to tie. “Ugh, daddy,” she groaned, clutching a mug of coffee you’d handed her. “Thad wine kicked my assss.  Bud i’m alive. Barely”

“You’ll live,” you said, smirking. “And since you’re upright, we’re going shopping today. You need clothes that aren’t falling apart.”

She perked up, sipping the coffee that had a liberal amount of whiskey mixed in. “Shopping? Like, new stuff? Fine, but I’m not wearing anything lame. Let’s go.”

Hang on, take a shower and dress first. 

She came down a bit later, a ratty denim shirt and wholly jeans with no bra, because why start now?

By noon, you were steering her into a bustling mall, her hangover mostly shaken off. Her energy was back, bouncing from store to store. At a trendy boutique, she grabbed a pile of clothes: ripped jeans, a cropped hoodie, and a plaid skirt she swore she’d “make punk.” You nodded approval, handing over your card with a warning: “No more sweatpants with holes.”

“Deal,” she said, grinning. “But we gotta celebrate. Look, there’s a food court and a bar right over there.” She pointed to a sleek little spot called “Sip & Snack,” wedged between a pretzel stand and a sushi counter.

You raised an eyebrow. “Jules, you were a mess last night. You sure?”

“I’m a pro,” she scoffed, already strutting toward it. “One drink. I’ll be fine.”

Famous last words. The bar had a special—mimosas for five bucks—and Jules, with her knack for charming anyone, convinced the bartender to “make it strong.” You stuck to a soda, watching as she downed the first mimosa like it was orange juice. “See?” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Lightweight stuff. I’m good.”

But one turned into two, then three, because the bartender—clearly amused by her stories about outdrinking frat boys—kept sliding them her way. By the time you’d finished your meal, Jules was swaying like a sapling in a storm again, her denim jacket slipping off one shoulder. “Daddy,” she slurred, holding up her shopping bags like trophies, “theeze jeemzz arr gonna look sick.  Ann thiss mimosa… it’s, liyke, breakfazz, ride?”

“It’s two p.m.,” you said, steering her toward the exit before she could order a fourth. “You’re cut off. Let’s get you home.”

With Jules buzzing from her trio of mimosas, her shopping bags swinging like pendulums, you decided to make one last stop before calling it a day. Victoria’s Secret loomed ahead in the mall, all pink stripes and glittering displays, and Jules’ bleary eyes lit up when she spotted it.

“Omigod, daddy,” she slurred, grabbing your arm with surprising strength for someone swaying like a sapling in a storm. “We’re goin’ in therre.  I need somethin’ fancy.  Liyke, fancy fancy”

“You sure you can handle it?” you asked, half-amused, half-worried she’d topple into a rack of bras, but fully knowing you would go in. “You’re three mimosas deep.”

“I’m a pro, barely tipsy” she insisted, stumbling forward with the confidence of a runway model—if that model were drunk and wearing a holey jeans-denim shirt combo. “C’mon, it’ll be sooo fun.”

Inside, the store was a maze of lace and satin, the air thick with floral perfume. Jules beelined for a display of bright red lingerie, holding up a skimpy bra like it was a prize. “Lookat thiss!” she crowed, loud enough that the sales people turned to stare. “Thiss'zz, liyke, spy-level hod.  I coud seduce a secress agenn in thiss”

You smirked, keeping your distance as she swayed, the bra dangling from her finger. “Maybe tone it down, 007. You’re scaring the staff.”

A saleswoman approached, her smile tight but professional. “Can I help you find anything?”

Jules spun around, nearly knocking over a mannequin in a silk robe. “Yeah! i need somethin’ sexssy bud, liyke, comfy.  ‘cause i’m nod wearin’ a bra ride now, see?” She tugged at her denim shirt for emphasis, and you pinched the bridge of your nose, praying the floor would swallow you both.

The saleswoman blinked, then recovered with a nod. “Let’s sry summ wireless options. Over here.” As she unsteadily guided Jules to a rack of bralettes you realized she didn’t care Jules was drunk-the saleswoman was too. Jules dove in, pulling out a black lace one with a triumphant grin.

“Thiss! thiss'zz it!” she declared, holding it up like a flag. “It’s punk ann preee.  I’m buyin’ it” She stumbled toward the counter, fishing crumpled bills from her pocket—apparently her “emergency cash”—forgetting you were buying.

As Jules swayed at the counter with her black lace bralette, the saleswoman who’d been helping her—whose name tag read “Tessa”—wobbled slightly behind the register. Tessa was a petite woman in her mid twenties, with a choppy blonde bob and smudged eyeliner that suggested she’d had a long day—or a wild one. She was wearing the store’s standard uniform: a fitted black blazer over a pink satin camisole, paired with a tight, short black skirt and scuffed ankle boots. The blazer was slightly askew, one sleeve pushed up past her elbow, and the camisole had a faint stain near the hem—maybe champagne, maybe something stronger.

Tessa grinned at Jules, her eyes glassy and her words slurring just enough to notice. “you’re, liyke, my favorite cussomer today,” she said, fumbling with the scanner. Looking around you saw you were the only customers at the moment. “Thad braledde’s hod.  You’re hod we’re alll hod in here, ride?” She giggled, then hiccupped, steadying herself against the counter.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing between Jules and Tessa. “Rough shift?” you asked, keeping your tone light and winked at her.

Tessa waved a hand, nearly knocking over a display of perfume samples. “Oh, yoo havve nooo idea.  Wee had a ssaff pardy lazz night—lade, liyke, lade lade.  Champagne, shoss, the works.  I didn’t eeven gow home, juzz crashed inna break room ann clocked in ad ten, Still feelin’ it.” She tapped her temple, then winked at Jules. “Hair uhf the dog, y’know? snuck a lil’ voddka in my coffee thermos thiss mornin'.  Keeps me goin’.”

Jules, three mimosas deep herself, pulled out a flask, and took a drink. “Tessa, you’re my hero! zzzrunk ad work? that’s badazz. I've been seekin' sips alll day.  We’re twinsies!” She leaned across the counter, her red hair brushing the register, and kissed Tessa with a loud smack.

“Twinsies!” Tessa echoed, laughing as she finally scanned the bralette. “You’re gonna rock thiss.  Seduce somebody, yeah? orr juzz wear it ‘cause you’re awesome.” Her fingers slipped on the keys, and she muttered, “Oops, almose sharged yoo fer, liyke, ten uhf ‘em.  My bad.”

You stepped in, sliding your card across the counter before the transaction went fully off the rails.

With the black lace bralette bagged, Jules wasn’t ready to leave Victoria’s Secret just yet-she suddenly remembered she needed new pjs. She spun around, her red hair bouncing like a jump rope, and grabbed a pair of silky red pajama shorts and a matching camisole from a nearby rack. “Daddy i need theeze t',” she slurred, holding them up. “Godda sry ‘em on.  Tessa, helb me!”

Tessa, still swaying from her vodka-coffee concoction, clapped her hands unevenly. “Yes! pj pardy!” She joked. “let’s gow, girl” She snatched the set from Jules and wobbled toward the changing rooms, beckoning with a crooked finger. “C’mon, i’m yer ssylizz now.”

You smiled, leaning against a display of thongs with Jules’ other bags in hand. “Make it quick, you two. I’m not bailing you out if you break something.” You wished you could join them.

“Pfft, we’re pros,” Jules shot back, stumbling after Tessa. The changing room door swung shut behind them, muffling their giggles. Inside the cramped, mirrored space, Tessa hung the pajamas on a hook with exaggerated care, nearly tipping over in the process. “'kay, red,” she said, slurring as she steadied herself against the wall. “Strip down. Let’s see these on ya.”

Jules, three mimosas deep plus a flask, kicked off her holey jeans and tugged off her denim shirt, buttons popping off, standing there bare-chested and unbothered. “Ihwuzz too hongover thiss mornin' furra bra, Tessa,” she declared, grinning. 

“Respeckt,” Tessa replied, giving a sloppy salute. She helped Jules shimmy into the silky red shorts, the fabric sliding over her freckled and tattooed legs, then handed her the camisole. “Ooh, sexssy sleep vibes.  You’re a vishun.”

Jules twirled, the shorts swishing, and nearly crashed into the mirror. “I love ‘em! sooo soft.  Wait—what’s thad?” She pointed to a corner of the changing room, where a green bottle peeked out from behind a pile of items and a stray hanger.

Tessa squinted, then gasped. “Nooo way.  That’s… that’s shampagne!” She lunged for it, pulling out a full bottle of cheap bubbly, the label peeling at the edges. “Muss’ve been frum the ssaff pardy lazz night.  Someone ssashed it.  Finners keepers!”

“Open it!” Jules cheered, clapping like a kid on Christmas. Tessa hesitated. She was already kinda drunk. But the redhead was too, and she was just doing what the customer asked. And the customer is always right. Tessa popped the cork with a *thwock* that echoed through the stall, fizz spilling onto her black blazer. She took a swig straight from the bottle, then passed it to Jules.

“T' epic pjs!” Jules toasted, tipping it back. The champagne was warm but she drank like it was nectar, bubbles dribbling down her chin. “Omigod, tessa, we’re geniuses.  Zzzrunk shopping’s the bezz”

They passed the bottle back and forth, giggling as Jules posed in the pajamas—arms up, then a dramatic lean against the wall that almost sent her tumbling. Tessa joined in, shedding her blazer to reveal the stained pink camisole underneath, and tried to twirl, only to catch her boot on the hem of Jules’ discarded jeans.

“Shit!” Tessa yelped, grabbing Jules for balance. They collapsed into a heap on the bench, laughing so hard the walls shook. The bottle clinked to the floor, nearly empty now.

You knocked from outside, “You alive in there? Sounds like a circus.”

“We’re fine!” Jules called her words a jumbled mess. “Founn shampagne! tessa’s my soulmade now!”

“Jesus,” you muttered, peering under the door. Both Jules and Tessa's boobs had slipped out of their camisoles, and Tessa’s skirt was but a black strip above her waist.

“Ihwuzz too hungover t' fine unnerware,” Tessa explained. 

Mimicking her earlier gesture, Jules saluted her, and mumbled, “r'speckt,” 

Tessa tried to haul Jules to her feet, but couldn’t, both of them flushed and disheveled. So she called out softly, “Sir, crawl unner the door ann helb me wiss yer daughter.” You did as asked. As you crawled in, Julles began to make small circles on Tesses bare pussy. She moaned, her eyes closing. Jules winked at you and with her other hand, tried to open your jeans. Tessa moaned, “Fffuck me,” so you pulled out your cock. 

Jules quickly sucked you, and then told Tessa, “Daddy likes zzzrunk girls.  Fer yer esscellenn helb led himm tip yoo ann fffuck yoo”.

“Yes, sssang yoo,” Tessa moaned, and you slid your cock into her wet pussy. As you fucked first Tessa and then your stepdaughter Jules, you wondered when security would cum. That made you hurry up and cum on their tits.

“I’m wearin’ these home,” Jules declared, which was good since her denim shirt would no longer button. Thus she kept the red pjs on. You helped Tessa look as presentable as possible in a cum and champagne soaked camisole, and then led the two out, not before Jules snatched the near-empty champagne bottle and drank half before giving Tessa the rest. “Bezz day ever.”

Tessa slung an arm around her, you. “Cum back soon, pj queen.  We’ll raid the break room nesst timme.  I'm the manager.” That explained why no security was called.

At the register, another, less drunk sales lady had to ring the pjs up. You quickly swiped your card, and you ushered Jules out, her swaying worse than ever, the silky red set barely containing her drunken glee. Tessa waved, leaning against the sales counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright-it was. Another chapter in the Jules-and-chaos saga, now with a champagne-soaked accomplice. “Cum back anytime.  We’ll… we’ll zzrink togezzer orr somethin’” Tessa hollered.

“Luv herr,” Jules slurred, clutching her Victoria’s Secret bag as you steered her out. “She’s a mezz.  Ower kinna mezz.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, glancing back at Tessa, who was now humming to herself and as the other salesgirl led her to the breakroom. “You two are a match made in chaos.”

You shook your head, starting the engine.

She was snoring before you hit the highway, her new clothes piled in her lap—another day, another Jules adventure.

—

The next evening, the living room was Jules’ runway. She’d recovered from the mall escapade—mostly—and was buzzing with excitement to show off her haul. The coffee table was cluttered with a bottle of tequila you’d pulled from the cabinet, a shot glass, a lime wedge, and a salt shaker she’d insisted on for “authenticity.” Her red hair was loose and wild, and she’d already cranked up some punk rock playlist that thumped through the room. 

“Ready, Daddy?” she called, darting behind the couch to change. “I’m gonna blow your mind with these. And we’re makin’ it fun—one shot per outfit. House rules!”

You sank into the armchair, arms crossed. “You’re gonna be plastered by outfit three. Pace yourself.”

“Pfft, I’m a pro,” she shot back, popping out in her first look: the ripped jeans and cropped hoodie from the boutique. The jeans hugged her legs, frayed patches showing off freckled skin and tatooos, and the hoodie stopped just above her navel, black and bold with a skull graphic. She struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip, then grinned. “Ta-da! Punk chic. Whaddya think?”

“Looks good,” you said, nodding. “You’re pulling it off.”

“Shot time!” She pranced to the table, licked salt off her hand, tossed back a shot of tequila, and bit the lime with a wince. “Woo! Burns so good. Next!”

She ducked behind the couch again, emerging in the plaid skirt and a tucked-in band tee she’d paired from her own stash. The skirt was short and red, swinging as she twirled “Badass schoolgirl vibes,” she declared, “Could fight a vampire in this.”

“Solid,” you agreed, smirking as she picked up the next shot. “Don’t stake yourself.”

Another shot—salt, tequila, lime—and she whooped, her cheeks already flushing. “Two down! I’m unstoppable!”

Next up was the Victoria’s Secret haul: the silky red pajama shorts and camisole first. She strutted out, barefoot, the fabric shimmering under the living room lights. No bra, naturally, the camisole clinging to her frame as she spun, giggling. “Sexy sleep mode! Tessa was right—these are queen vibes.”

“Very you,” you said, keeping it casual despite her theatrics. “Careful with that spin, though.”

“I’m a pro. Not even tipsy after two shots. Shot!” she sang, grabbing the tequila. This time, she skipped the salt and lime, downing it raw and coughing once before laughing. “Okay, maybe I felt that one. Last but not least!”

She returned for the supposed finale: the black lace bralette from Tessa’s tipsy styling session, paired with the ripped jeans. She posed with her arms up, the lace peeking out under the cropped hoodie she’d thrown back on. “Boom! Edgy *and* hot. I’m a freakin’ masterpiece.”

“You’re something, alright,” you said. She took the bottle and drank a shot straight from the bottle.

“That’s four shots. Are you done?”

No.

She bolted upright, and shook her head with a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “Nooo way, Daddy! won more.  I’m feelin’ the skird 'gain.  It’s too gooond t' quit,” her words starting to slur. She stumbled slightly as she moved behind the couch, dragging her shopping bags with her.

A minute later, she emerged, triumphant, in the red plaid skirt and black lace bralette. The skirt swished as she staggered forward-too fast, nearly tripping over the rug-barefoot and unsteady, striking a pose with one hand on her hip and the other pointing at you like a rockstar. “SSee? badazz sshoolgirl, rounn too! i’m unssoppable!”

“You’re a menace,” you said, smirking as she nearly tripped over the rug again. “Still looks good, though.”

“Shot timme!” she declared, lunging for the tequila. She poured a fifth shot, spilling a little on the table, then licked salt off her wrist, downed the liquor, and skipped the lime entirely. “Woo!” she gasped, slamming the glass down. “Fife! i’m a legenn!”

Her sway intensified, the skirt flaring as she spun—too fast this time—crashing into the couch arm and giggling as she caught herself. She wasn’t one for fussing over details, and after four shots—now five—of tequila, modesty wasn’t exactly top of mind. The skirt rode revealing she’d skipped underwear entirely. It wasn’t a surprise, really—between the holey sweatpants she’d worn all day and her “no bra life” philosophy, Jules clearly favored comfort over convention.

“'kay, maybe i’m *feelin’* titsy now,” she admitted, her words a jumbled mess. “Bud thiss skirt… it’s magic.  Mace me invincible.”

“Invincible, huh?” you said, sliding the tequila out of reach as she reached for it again. “No, you only get more if you model another outfit.” “Bud i don’t havve any more ready t' model” she pouted—sans underwear—as she sprawled across the couch, the tequila bottle still temptingly close. Her red hair fanned out, and her flushed cheeks matched the skirt as she giggled, half-singing along to the punk rock blaring through the room.

You reached into one of the shopping bags she’d tossed aside. You pulled out a final piece you’d slipped into the pile at the boutique—a blue spaghetti strap mini dress, soft and flowy, the kind of thing she’d never pick herself but might secretly love. “One more, though. Try this on. If you do, I’ll give you a sixth shot.”

Her half mast eyes widened, glinting with drunken curiosity as she sat up, wobbling. “WWait, what’s thad? yoo sneak-buyin’ ssuff fer me now?” She snatched it, holding it up to the light. The dress was a deep cobalt, the thin straps dangling, the hem short enough to suit her bold streak.

“Thought it’d look good on you,” you said, leaning back in the armchair. “Go on. You know you want a 6th shot”

“Deal!” she chirped, not bothering to scrambling behind the couch. The plaid skirt hit the floor with a soft thud, followed by the bralette, and then by a rustle as she wriggled into the dress. “'kay, 'kay, gimme a sec—damn ssraps keep slippin’…”

She stood, swaying like a sapling in a storm, the blue mini dress clinging to her frame. The spaghetti straps slid slightly off her freckled shoulders, and the fabric hugged her torso before ending in a short, swishy skirt that barely covered her butt. 

No bra, no underwear—just Jules, unfiltered, the cobalt popping against her red hair and flushed skin, complementing her many tattoos. She struck a pose, hands on hips, then nearly tipped over, catching herself on the couch with a laugh.

“Ta-da!” she slurred, spinning once—carefully not to fall, though the dress still flared, showing off her commando state. “Whaddya think? sexssy blue goddezz, ride?”, the straps falling off her shoulders and her boobs peaking out.

You nodded, smirking at her theatrics, your cock hard in your jeans. “Nailed it. Looks better than I pictured. You’re pulling off the classy-mess combo.”

“Classy-mess!” she echoed, beaming as she flopped back onto the couch, the dress riding up as she kicked her legs over the armrest. “I luv id.  You’re sneaky, daddy.  Gooond sneaky.” She tugged at a strap, giggling. “Feels liyke i’m wearin’ a cloud.  A zzzrunk cloud. ”

“Glad you like it,” you said, pouring her the promised shot. 

She siped it, still sprawled on the couch in the blue dress, her grin lopsided but triumphant. “Bezz night ever” she mumbled, eyes fluttering as the tequila and exhaustion finally caught up. The punk rock faded to background noise, the mini dress her final victory of the night.

Empty shot glass still in hand, grinning ear-to-ear she said “Done modelin', nod done zzrinkin’.  Won more fer the road?” Her words slurred, and she reached for the bottle, but you slid it out of reach.

She pouted, “But admit it—this was epic. I’m a fashion icon. cum on less fffuck” She reached for your bulging jeans.

“Iconic mess,” you corrected, as you pulled your cock out to fucked her. As you pounded her, she caught hold—barely— of the tequila and took a sip, still giggling as the tequila hit her full force. The night ended with her humming along to the music, half-asleep nude, another Jules adventure in the books.

—

A few days after Jules’ tequila-fueled fashion show, the house was quiet—too quiet. It was a lazy Saturday, the kind where the sun hung low and golden, tempting you to stir up some mischief. Jules’ mom, Claire, was in the kitchen, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun as she chopped veggies for a stew. Jules lounged on the counter nearby, in a blue athletic leisure set, barefoot and scrolling her phone.

“Daddy,” Jules said, glancing up with a smirk, “we should do something fun tonight. Like, epic fun.”

Claire snorted, not looking up from her carrots. “Your version of ‘epic fun’ usually ends with someone regretting it, kid.”

You grinned, an idea sparking. “How about a family night? Dinner, drinks, the works. I’ll handle the booze—you two just relax.”

Jules perked up, twirling a red curl around her finger. “Drinks? I’m in. Mom, you gotta join.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, setting her knife down. “Me? I can handle a drink or two. You’re the lightweight, Jules. You're not even 21, you shouldn't be drinking.”

“Ah, come on mom…” Jules wined. “I din’t say no, kiddo.” No way I can, not the way I drank at your age, she thought to herself. “Oh, ok” Jules said, not wanting to sound overly excited.

“Challenge accepted,” you said, pulling a bottle of vodka and a jug of cranberry juice from the pantry. “Vodka cranberries—easy, tasty, and sneaky strong. Let’s see who taps out first.”

Dinner came together fast—Claire’s stew simmering on the stove, filling the house with a rich, savory smell. Claire mixed in a glass of red wine. Claire looked at the bottle. About a cup left. She wanted to drink it. She loved getting drunk and her husband, you loved it. However, se usually tried to stay some what sober around Jules. What the heck, she decided and drank the last in the bottle. You mixed the drinks in tall glasses, heavy on the vodka, and handed them out. Both women took theirs with a grin, sipping immediately.

“Not bad,” Claire said, settling into a chair at the table. She was in jeans and a loose white button blouse, practical but pretty, her green eyes—Jules’ eyes—sparkling with a hint of mischief. “You’re trying to get us drunk, aren’t you?”

“Never,” you lied, winking as you sipped your own soda. “Just bonding.”

The stew was dished out, but the drinks flowed faster than the conversation. Jules, already an experienced drinker, downed her first glass in record time, giggling as she reached for a refill. “Mom, keep up! This is, like, juice with a kick.”

Claire rolled her eyes but matched her-no way she was letting her daughter out drink her-, finishing her glass and holding it out. “Fine, pour me another. I was drinking vodka before you were born, kid.”

By the third round, the room got louder. Jules hopped up, swaying in her blue clothes and started an impromptu dance to the radio she’d flipped on. “Thiss ssew’s amazin’, mom,” she complimented her mom with a slight slur. “You’re a genius”

Claire, cheeks pink from the vodka, laughed. “You’re a tidsy, jules.  Siddown before yoo fall.” But she was swaying too, tapping her foot as she sipped her third drink, the blouse slipping off one shoulder.

You kept the refills coming, playing bartender with a grin. “You’re both holding strong. 5 Vodka Cranberries. Impressive.”

“Teamworg,” Jules said, clinking her glass against Claire’s, spilling a little.

Claire leaned back, grinning at you. “You’re trouble, y'know thad? thiss wuz yer plan alll alonng.”

By now round, they were a giggling duo. Jules dragged Claire up to dance, the two of them stumbling through a clumsy two-step, Claire’s white blouse half-untucked and unbuttoned, showing her bra. It was a soft gray cotton bralette, wireless and comfortable, with thin straps that criss crossed in the back for a touch of flair. The fabric was smooth, with a faint sheen and a delicate lace trim along the edges—not too fussy, but enough to hint at her quiet confidence. It hugged her frame snugly, offering light support without the stiffness of an underwire, perfect for a night at home where she hadn’t planned on getting tipsy. Jules’ blue bra was slipping off her boobs. “Bezz family night!” Jules crowed, nearly knocking over a lamp.

Claire caught her, laughing so hard she hiccupped. “You’re gonna break somethin', kid.  Sit—sit down.” They collapsed onto the couch together, breathless, Claire’s arm around Jules’ shoulders.

“Worth it,” Jules mumbled, sipping a hand into Claire's jeans and beginning to make circles on her pussy. “Mom’s cool wenn she’s zzzrunk.”

“Love yoo too, brat,” Claire slurred, ruffling Jules’ hair. “Wait, whad is yer hann doin'.  Stop thad, iss wrong.” Jules stopped, but didn’t remove her hand. “Stell me it doan feel gooond” Jules argued. “It dose.  bud iss wrong.  Hunny stell herr iss wrong,” Claire asked you. “Daddy doan care, were zzzrunk, daddy likes zzzrunk girls” Claire looked at you knowingly, “Geddusss 'nuzzer zzrink babe.”

You did as asked, knowing you’d soon be fucking them both. 

They were out cold soon after, tangled on the couch—nude—a vodka-soaked bonding night for the books.