Valery

 

—-

You step into the Chinese restaurant, the air buzzing with chatter, the clatter of chopsticks, and the faint sizzle of woks in the kitchen. Your eyes zero in on Valery, your Colombian beauty of a girlfriend, perched by the window like a vision. Her long black hair spills loose over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, catching the dim light. She’s wearing that sheer black long-sleeve shirt with red dragons twisting across it, the fabric so thin it’s practically a second skin. Braless, her large, round boobs press against it, big brown areolas and hard nipples shamelessly on display, teasing you from across the room. The shirt stops just above the waistband of her red-black-white plaid pleated skirt, leaving a strip of smooth, toned skin bare—a little preview of what’s to come. That skirt—starting high on her waist and ending high on her thigh—barely covers her, and you know once she’s tipsy, you’ll catch a glimpse of whatever she’s got under there. Beside her is her friend, Camila, just as gorgeous, with the same long, loose black hair framing her face. Camila’s in a sheer pink long-sleeve tube top that hugs her equally massive chest, paired with a short jean skirt that rides up her thighs, hinting at the mystery beneath—after a few drinks, it’ll reveal whether she’s gone commando or not. You love drunk women, the slow, delicious unraveling from sober to disheveled, horny chaos, and these two? They live for it.

You slide into the seat across from them, flashing a wide grin. “Hey, trouble,” you say to Valery, who tilts her head and gives you a bright, sober smile, her dark eyes still sharp and playful. “You’re late,” she teases, her accent wrapping around the words like silk, her lips curling into a mock pout. They’ve ordered appetizers, but you know they already eaten all the will for the night, and you’ve already eaten, no fan of Chinese.. Camila sips her water, smirking over the rim of her glass. “Yeah, we almost started without you,” she says, her voice light and singsong, a playful edge to it. “What kept you? Traffic? Or were you just daydreaming about us?” *She’s got no idea what’s coming,* you think, already picturing them sloppy and giggling, their perfect poise melting away.

“Let’s fix that,” you say, leaning forward and signaling the waiter with a quick wave. “Two pineapple cocktails, and a diet coke for me.” Valery claps her hands, her skirt inching higher as she bounces in her seat. “Ooh, my favorite!” she chirps, her enthusiasm infectious. Camila nods, setting her water down with a dramatic flourish. “You’re speaking my language now,” she says, leaning closer. “You know us too well.” *They’re so cute when they’re excited,* you muse, leaning back as the drinks arrive, the waiter setting them down with a clink. Valery wraps her lips around the straw, her eyes widening at the sweet rum hit. “Mmm, so good,” she murmurs, sucking it down like it’s juice, a little moan escaping her. Camila mirrors her, sipping fast, her straw making a soft slurping sound. “This is dangerous,” she laughs, pulling back to catch her breath, “but I’m not complaining—you won’t catch me stopping.” *First step, loosen ‘em up,* you think, sipping your diet coke, the carbonation fizzing on your tongue, the sharp burn fueling your anticipation.

One cocktail becomes two, and their voices climb, laughter spilling out like a melody over the restaurant’s hum. “You’re trying to get us drunk, aren’t you?” Valery accuses, leaning forward, her shirt stretching tight across her chest, nipples poking through the sheer fabric like little beacons. “Caught me,” you reply, winking at her, your voice low and teasing. “Maybe I am—what’re you gonna do about it?” *She’s catching on, but she loves it,* you think, watching her smirk widen. “Oh, I’ll play along,” she says, twirling her straw. Camila’s giggling now, her tube top slipping a bit down one shoulder, and she doesn’t bother fixing it. “He’s sneaky,” she slurs to Valery, pointing a wobbly finger at you, “like, super sneaky.” Valery nods, resting her chin in her hand. “The sneakiest. But we’re onto you now.” Their cheeks are flushed, a rosy glow spreading across their skin, and you feel the shift—sobriety’s fading fast, leaving them loose and carefree.

“Hey, I need the bathroom,” Valery says suddenly, standing up with a little stumble, her skirt swaying as she steadies herself against the table. Camila perks up, nearly knocking over her glass. “Me too! Wait for me, don’t go without me!” They link arms, giggling as they weave through the tables, a pair of unsteady goddesses in sheer tops and short skirts. You watch them go, Valery’s hips swinging, her hair swishing behind her, Camila’s jean skirt riding up just enough to keep you guessing about what’s underneath—or isn’t. *They’re already wobbly,* you think, smirking to yourself, imagining the chaos to come. In the bathroom, Valery leans against the sink, checking her reflection in the smudged mirror, her fingers brushing her hair back. “He’s totally trying to get us wasted,” she says, laughing, her voice echoing off the tiles, a little louder than she means it to be. Camila adjusts her tube top, tugging it up only for it to slip again, grinning at her own reflection. “Good. I wanna see how far he’ll take it—think he’s got a plan?” *She’s game,* Valery thinks, pulling out her lip gloss and dabbing it on, the sticky shine catching the light. “You think he’ll keep up with us?” she asks, turning to Camila, who snorts and nearly drops her purse. “He always does. Takes good care of us, doesn’t he? Like, the best.” Valery nods, capping her gloss. “Yeah, he’s good like that. Let’s see how much he can handle tonight.” They stumble back out, Valery flipping her hair with a dramatic toss, Camila tugging her skirt down—but not too far, still teasing the edge of revelation.

“Missed me?” Valery teases as they plop back into their seats, her eyes a little brighter, her smile looser, like the bathroom break flipped a switch. “Always,” you say, leaning back with a grin, and Camila chimes in, clapping her hands. “Aww, he’s sweet—pour us another round, sweet guy!” “Yeah, keep ‘em coming,” Valery adds, tapping her empty glass on the table. You oblige, signaling for more cocktails, and they’re back at it, sipping and laughing like the bathroom break never happened, the rum hitting them harder with every gulp.

“Shots!” you call out, raising your voice over their chatter, and they cheer like it’s a battle cry. “Yes, yes, yes!” Valery chants, bouncing in her seat, her boobs jiggling under that sheer shirt, drawing your eyes. Tipsy now, you see she’s wearing red lace panties when she shifts, the skirt riding up just enough for a peek. Camila claps, her hands slapping the table. “Bring it on—let’s do this!” The waiter drops off tequila, lime, and salt, a little tray of chaos, and you watch Valery lick her wrist, her tongue slow and deliberate, her eyes flicking up to meet yours. *She knows I’m watching,* you think, heat creeping up your spine as she sprinkles salt and tosses back the shot, wincing with a gasp. “Fuck, that’s strong!” she exclaims, laughing, her voice hoarse. “Gimme another!” Camila follows, coughing but grinning, her shot spilling a little down her chin. She’s had enough now; she doesn’t care or know her skirt has ridden up her thighs, revealing she’s gone commando—no panties in sight, unlike Valery’s lacy flash. Her hand shakes as she grabs her lime, sucking it with a grimace. “I’m a pro,” she declares, though her words slur into a jumble, “like, the best pro ever.” *They’re slipping,* you think, loving every sloppy second.

Another round of pineapple cocktails lands, the glasses sweating in the warm air, and they’re past tipsy now—full-on drunk, exactly your sweet spot. Valery sways, her hand landing on your thigh, squeezing with a little too much force. “You’re so bad,” she purrs, her voice thick and low, her eyes glassy and unfocused. *She’s feeling it now,* you think, smirking as she leans closer. “You love it,” you shoot back, and she giggles, resting her head on your shoulder for a moment. “Maybe I do—maybe I really, really do.” Camila spills half her drink down her chin, the liquid dripping onto her chest, soaking her tube top until it clings even tighter. “Oops!” she slurs, rubbing it in with her fingers, lingering as she giggles. “You’re a mess,” you tease, and she winks, batting her lashes. “A hot mess, right? Tell me I’m hot.” *She’s flirting hard,* you note, your pulse kicking up as you nod. “The hottest.”

The shots pile up—three, four, you’ve lost count—and they’re glorious wrecks. Valery’s shirt has ridden up to just below her boobs, her chest bouncing as she tries to dance in her seat, her arms flailing to some unheard beat. “Dance with me!” she demands, grabbing your arm, her nipples rock-hard against the fabric. “Here?” you laugh, raising an eyebrow, and she pouts, sticking out her bottom lip. “Yes, here! Right now!” *She’s gone wild,* you think, loving the chaos unfolding. Camila’s sprawled back, her tube top a crumpled band around her waist, her jean skirt hiked up so high you see everything—or rather, nothing, since she’s bare underneath. “I’m so drunk,” she mumbles, tracing circles on the table with a shaky finger, her eyes half-lidded. “You’re perfect,” you say, and she hums, a lazy smile spreading. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you like us like this—like, all messy and stuff.”

Instead of dancing, Valery climbs into your lap, straddling you, her skirt a useless scrap now, red lace panties peeking out as she presses against you. “You like this, huh?” she whispers, her breath hot and rum-sweet, her hand sliding up your chest, nails digging in. *She’s all over me,* you think, your hands settling on her hips, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric. “Guilty,” you admit, and she laughs, pressing closer, her boobs brushing your chest. “Thought so—knew it all along.” “Take us somewhere,” she begs, her voice needy, her lips hovering near your ear. Camila leans over, her hair a tangled mess, and slurs, “Yeah, somewhere… private. Like, now.” *They’re both begging for it,* you realize, the night unfolding exactly how you dreamed.

You love this—the way they started so poised, Valery’s sharp wit and Camila’s coy smiles, now reduced to sloppy, horny messes clinging to you. “Let’s go,” you say, standing up, and Valery cheers, “Yes, yes, yes!” Camila stumbles to her feet, giggling as she grabs your arm. “Lead the way, hotshot—don’t drop us!” *They’re mine tonight,* you think, guiding them out, their laughter echoing through the restaurant as you savor the perfect, drunken disaster you’ve orchestrated, their unsteady steps a symphony to your ears.

You guide Valery and Camila out of the Chinese restaurant, their laughter ricocheting off the walls like a wild echo as they stumble into the cool night air, clinging to you for balance. Valery’s arm is looped through yours, her red lace panties still peeking out from under her hiked-up plaid skirt, the fabric swaying with every unsteady step she takes. Camila grips your other side, her jean skirt riding dangerously high, her bare skin brushing against you with each wobbly shuffle. *They’re already a mess,* you think, smirking as you steer them toward your next destination—a trendy country and western bar just a few blocks away. You’ve reserved one of their private rooms for the night, a little haven with a polished oak dance floor, a plush leather couch, and your own server to keep the drinks flowing nonstop. You love drunk women, the slow, delicious unraveling from poised to chaotic, and these two are well on their way, living for every sloppy, carefree moment like it’s their life’s mission.

The bar’s neon sign buzzes overhead, casting a pink and blue glow as you push through the swinging double doors, the twang of a steel guitar spilling out into the street like a siren’s call. Inside, the place is alive—cowboy boots stomping on the main floor to a lively two-step, the clink of beer bottles and shot glasses ringing out, and the faint scent of whiskey, leather, and sawdust hanging in the air. You bypass the rowdy crowd, leading Valery and Camila down a dimly lit hallway lined with framed photos of old rodeo stars, their heels clicking unevenly on the hardwood. “Where are we going now?” Valery slurs, her accent thick and syrupy, her head lolling against your shoulder, her long black hair tickling your neck. “Somewhere fun,” you say, grinning down at her, keeping your tone light but teasing. Camila giggles, nearly tripping over her own feet, her hand tightening on your arm. “Ooh, I like fun—tell me it’s got more drinks, please tell me!” “Plenty,” you promise, steadying her with a gentle nudge, and she cheers, throwing her free hand up. “Yes, you’re the best—seriously, the best ever!”

You push open the heavy door to the private room, and it’s perfect—wood-paneled walls strung with twinkling fairy lights, a small dance floor with a polished oak finish that gleams under the soft glow, and a corner table already set with a bucket of ice, a few starter bottles, and a stack of glasses. In one corner, there’s a narrow door leading to a tiny bathroom, just big enough for one person at a time, its presence a practical footnote to the room’s decadence. Your server’s waiting by the table, a 21-year-old named Jessie, leaning against it with a half-empty beer in her hand. She’s dressed in a tight plaid shirt tied in a knot above her navel, showing off a sliver of tanned midriff, and denim shorts that hug her hips. Underneath, you catch a glimpse of a black bra peeking out as she shifts, the straps stark against her skin, and later you’ll notice her matching black underwear when her shorts ride up—or down. Her cowboy hat is tipped back on her head, revealing a mess of blonde curls, and her cheeks are flushed—she’s a little tipsy already, her grin wide and lopsided as she waves enthusiastically. “Hey, y’all made it!” she drawls, her voice bright and bubbly with a thick Southern twang. “I’m Jessie, your girl for the night—let’s get this party rollin’, huh?” Valery claps her hands, stumbling forward a step, her sheer shirt stretching tight. “I like her already—she’s got energy!” Camila nods, swaying slightly, her tube top slipping a fraction. “She’s cute—bring us something strong, Jessie, like, right now!”

You settle Valery and Camila onto the plush leather couch, their legs sprawling as they collapse into the cushions, giggling uncontrollably, their bodies sinking into the soft surface. “Comfy,” Valery mumbles, kicking off her shoes and letting them thud to the floor. “So comfy—why didn’t we come here first?” Camila sprawls beside her, her head tipping back. “Yeah, this is fancy—you’re spoiling us!” Jessie sets her beer down with a clink and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the table, pouring three generous shots with a slightly unsteady hand, the amber liquid sloshing over the edges a bit. “Here’s to a wild night,” she says, handing them out with a wobbly flourish, her black bra visible as her shirt gapes open. Valery takes hers, her shirt riding up higher, boobs bouncing as she raises the glass high. “To us!” she declares, her voice loud and proud, and Camila echoes, “To us—hot messes forever and ever!” They clink glasses with Jessie, who downs her shot with them, coughing a little but laughing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Damn, you girls can drink—I’m gonna have to keep up with y’all, and that’s sayin’ somethin’!” *She’s tipsy, but she’s game,* you think, sipping your diet coke as you lean against the armrest, watching the chaos unfold with a satisfied smirk.

The music shifts to a faster beat, a fiddle kicking in with a lively riff, and Valery’s on her feet in an instant, tugging at your arm with both hands. “Dance with me, come on, don’t just sit there!” she demands, her nipples pressing hard against her sheer shirt, her skirt flapping as she sways, her hair swinging wildly. “Yeah, dance—get up!” Camila chimes in, staggering up, her tube top slipping lower, her jean skirt barely hanging on as she stumbles toward the floor. You laugh, letting them pull you onto the polished oak, their hands warm and clumsy. “Alright, alright, I’m coming,” you say, and Valery cheers, “Yes, that’s my guy!” Jessie watches, grinning from ear to ear, then grabs another bottle—tequila this time—and pours more shots, her hat slipping as she stumbles slightly, catching herself on the table. “Y’all need fuel for that fancy footwork!” she calls, joining you with a tray, her black underwear peeking out from under her shorts as she bends. Valery grabs a shot, tossing it back with a quick flick of her wrist, then spins into you, her hands roaming your chest, fingers splaying wide. “You’re so fun—why’re you so fun?” she slurs, her breath hot and sweet with rum and tequila. Camila snatches hers, spilling half on the floor, the liquid splattering her bare feet, and dances closer, grinding against you with a sloppy rhythm. “Jessie, more—keep ‘em coming!” she yells, and Jessie obliges, downing one herself, her cough turning into a giggle. “I’m gettin’ there with you girls—y’all are wild as hell!” she says, her words slurring now, her plaid shirt flapping as she sways.

A little while later, Jessie suddenly straightens up, swaying as she presses a hand to her stomach. “Oh lord, I gotta hit the bathroom—be right back, y’all!” she announces, stumbling toward the narrow door in the corner. She squeezes inside, the door swinging shut behind her, and you hear a muffled giggle through the thin wood. “Don’t fall in!” Valery calls, laughing as she spins on the dance floor, nearly tripping over her own feet. Camila flops onto the couch, grabbing a half-empty tequila bottle and pouring a messy shot into her mouth, some dribbling down her chin. “Yeah, save some drunk for us!” she yells, wiping her face with her arm. You lean against the wall, sipping your diet coke, watching Valery twirl and Camila sprawl. Inside the bathroom, Jessie fumbles with her shorts, unbuttoning them as she mutters to herself, *“Whew, too much whiskey—gotta keep up with these girls, though, they’re nuts!”* She stumbles out a minute later, her shorts unbuttoned and hanging low on her hips, her black underwear fully visible now, the waistband stretched as she staggers back into the room. “Whew, that was tight—literally!” she says, laughing as she adjusts her shirt, not bothering with the shorts. “Next!” she declares, pointing at Camila with a wobbly finger.

Camila lurches to her feet, giggling. “My turn—don’t start without me!” She weaves over, nearly bumping into the wall, and slips into the bathroom, the door banging shut. Inside, she hums off-key, a garbled version of the song playing outside, and there’s a loud “Oops!” followed by a clatter—probably her knocking the soap off the sink. Valery keeps dancing, swaying to the beat, her hands in her hair as she shouts, “Hurry up, I wanna drink more!” Jessie grabs the whiskey bottle, pouring herself another shot and downing it, coughing as she sways. “She’s takin’ forever,” she slurs, giggling. You stay by the wall, watching Valery’s sloppy twirls and Jessie’s unsteady pour, amused. In the bathroom, Camila catches her reflection and thinks, *“God, I’m so hot right now—look at me, he’s gonna lose it!”* She stumbles out a moment later, her jean skirt twisted and her tube top still crumpled, grinning like she’s proud of herself. “All yours,” she says, flopping back onto the couch and grabbing the tequila again.

You head in next, pushing the door open to find the tiny space—a single toilet, a chipped sink, and a flickering light overhead. It smells faintly of whiskey and perfume, and the mirror’s smudged with fingerprints. You take care of business quickly, the music thumping through the walls, and catch your reflection as you wash your hands. *“They’re falling apart out there—perfect,”* you think, smirking to yourself as you step out, brushing your hands on your jeans. “Valery, your go,” you say, nodding toward the door. Outside, Valery’s still dancing, now with Jessie, their arms linked as they spin, while Camila sprawls on the couch, sipping straight from the bottle and laughing at nothing.

Valery wobbles over, her skirt flapping as she saunters to the bathroom. “I’ll be quick—maybe,” she slurs, winking at you as she slips inside, the door shutting with a thud. You hear a soft thud, then a muffled, “Oh, fuck it,” followed by laughter—she’s ditched her panties, leaving them crumpled on the floor. Jessie stumbles back to the table, pouring another round, spilling half on her hand, and Camila tries to stand, shouting, “Dance with me!” before falling back onto the couch, giggling. You sit on the armrest, watching Jessie sway and Camila flail. Inside, Valery looks at herself in the mirror, her panties gone, and thinks, *“He’s gonna love this—gonna drive him crazy, hehe!”* She emerges, her red lace panties abandoned, her skirt barely covering her now as she struts out, tossing her hair. “Felt restrictive,” she says with a shrug, smirking at you. “You like?” “Always,” you reply, and she laughs, “Good answer!”

The night blurs back into a haze of twirling bodies, spilled drinks, and raucous laughter. Jessie’s fully drunk now, her hat lost somewhere on the floor—she thinks it’s under the couch, but she’s too gone to check. Her plaid shirt is untied and flapping open, revealing her black bra fully, the lace edges stark against her flushed skin, and her unbuttoned shorts have slipped lower, showing off her matching black underwear as she dances with Valery and Camila. She keeps the liquor flowing—whiskey, tequila, some fruity concoction she mixes on a whim with pineapple juice and grenadine, calling it “Jessie’s Special”—handing them to the girls with sloppy, enthusiastic pours. “You’re my favorites, y’know that?” she slurs to them, pouring another round, the bottle wobbling in her grip. Valery’s taken her shirt off entirely, tossing it onto the couch with a dramatic flourish, her boobs bouncing free as she sways, her panty-less state leaving little to the imagination under her useless skirt. “You’re the best, Jessie—seriously, the best!” she shouts, throwing her arms around her in a drunken hug, their laughter mingling as they nearly topple over. “Love you too, sugar!” Jessie hiccups, hugging her back, her bra strap slipping down one shoulder. Camila’s tube top is a crumpled ring around her waist, her jean skirt flipped up, bare underneath as she twirls, giggling uncontrollably. “We’re so hot—tell us we’re hot, Jessie, come on!” she begs, spinning until she stumbles into the wall, catching herself with a laugh. Jessie nods, swaying on her feet, her underwear peeking out further. “Hottest ever—y’all are killin’ it, like, slayin’ the whole damn night!”

You watch from the couch, sipping your diet coke, the ice clinking in your glass as you take in the glorious trio of drunken chaos before you. Valery climbs into your lap again, straddling you, her skirt a crumpled scrap now, her bare chest pressed against you as she grins sloppily. “This place is amazing,” she purrs, her hands clumsy on your shoulders, sliding down your arms. “You’re amazing—how’d you find this? You’re a genius.” Camila flops beside you, leaning in close, her hair a tangled mess across her face. “Yeah, take us home soon, ‘kay? But not yet—more dancing, more drinks!” she insists, her voice a needy whine. Jessie staggers over, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and pours another shot, spilling half on herself, the liquid soaking into her shorts and dripping down her thigh. “One more for the road—or ten, who’s countin’?” she laughs, her black bra fully visible now as her shirt hangs uselessly open. They all down it—Valery’s spilling down her chin, dripping onto her chest, Camila’s splashing onto her lap, and Jessie’s coughing as it burns her throat. “Woo, that’s the stuff!” Jessie yells, pumping her fist, nearly dropping the bottle.

The private room’s a disaster zone—empty bottles rolling under the couch, sticky patches of spilled liquor on the floor, and three very drunk women living their best night, a whirlwind of chaos and joy. Jessie’s as loaded as Valery and Camila now, her server duties long forgotten as she joins their sloppy dance, keeping them fueled with every pour she can manage. “Y’all are my people,” she slurs, twirling with Valery, her black underwear flashing as her shorts ride lower. “More, more!” Camila chants, grinding against the air, her skirt flipping up again. Valery stumbles back to you, collapsing onto the couch with a laugh. “She’s right—you’re stuck with us now,” she says, poking your chest. *They’re perfect,* you think, savoring the unraveling, the trendy bar’s private room your stage for this drunken masterpiece, the fiddle and steel guitar a soundtrack to their glorious descent.