Lost and Drunk in Paris P.3 & 4

 Lost and Drunk in Paris

After some cognac and some help from a friendly frenchman, they finally found the Louvre. “It loose liyke a alien space ship,” said the drunk and tripping Penny.

Nora and Betty just giggled as they hung onto each other. 

P.3

Penny turned to her friends. “Arr wee gonna gow in?,” she asked.

Betty looked at her wrist, “Less see iss. the timme is…'' she struggled to determine the time.

“Beddy, yer nod warrin' a wash,” Nora helped her.

“Oh yah,Ssangs” Betty told her, as she pulled out her cell phone. She was struggling to look at her phone for the time, when a slim, elegantly dressed woman approached them, her dress blowing in the wind. The three drunk tourists were too burnt to notice, but the long legend beauty was about as burnt as they.

Erica a bit earlier:

After a couple of bottles of champagne, Erica was drunk. While her big sunglasses served well to hide her glassy eyes, her designer dress, with its open front and loose fit, did not, letting her firm tit slip out. 

The beautiful model didn’t mind-she loved good fashion, and good liquor-and with plenty of it, she was in no state to care. The photographer happily kept snapping. Erica grabbed the flute of champagne. Quickly she drained the sweet bubbly liquid. “Champagne tickles my nose,” she noted, clumsily setting down the glass and grabbing the last one. She drank it quickly as well. “Thass all-empdy,” she noted.

“Good timing, we need to head over to the fashion show.” the photographer told her, putting the camera away. Erica stood, and stumbled. “You're not too drunk?” the photographer asked, concerned. 

“Nooo, im noddazz thing azz yoo zzzrunk i am,” she slurred before adding “bud t'be safe yoo'd benner helb me walk.”

Arm in arm they set off.

As Erica and the photographer passed the Louve, he noticed three beautiful women. They looked a little like Marilyn Monroe, Anne Hathaway, and Jenifer Lopez. They weren't, but they looked like them, and like Erica, they were drunk. Of course, Erica didn’t notice any of this. The Photographer pointed out to Erica, “Hey those three look like Marylyn Monroe, Anne Hathaway, and Jenifer Lopez.” It took Erica a moment to process this, but once she did told the Photographer, “They do.” And she approached them. 

“Scusi, Moi”, she slurred mixing Italian and French. The three drunk Americans just stared at her. Erica took this for not understanding English or french, not that they were drunk and high, though in reality their silence was a mix of both.

“Esscuuse me, yoo tree look liyke Marylin Monroe, Anne Hathaway, ann Jenifer Lopez,” Erica tried again.

Betty, having had herself compared to the Blonde Bombshell before, slurred, “Sssang yoo.” 

Nora realized the elegant woman was a model, but couldn’t place her. “Yoo arr a monnel, I've seen yoo summ where,” she remarked, stumbling into, her big boobs giggling. “Désolée (sorry), i'm a li'l ivre (drunk),” she admitted.

“Nooo problème, i'm Erica Pelosini, ann im brillo (Tipsy) too,” Erica told them. Then she continued, “I'm on my way t' a fashion show, yoo shud cum, my gueszz.”

Betty answered, “Thad wooud be sooo cool,”

Nora leaned on Erica, exposing the models tit, and said, “Lead on.”

“Will therre be champaign?,” Penny asked.

“Loads,” Erica said. 

“Cool,” Penny responded. And they set off, the drunk leading the drunks.

Part 4.

Thanks to Erica’s photographer, they soon reached the show. The fashion show was a whirlwind hive

of opulence, a kaleidoscope of shimmering fabrics and pulsing lights, set against the backdrop of

Paris’s electric nightlife. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, champagne, and the faint musk

of anticipation. As Erica’s photographer guided the group through the gilded doors, the atmosphere

enveloped them like a lover’s embrace. Servers in sleek black uniforms glided through the crowd,

their trays laden with flutes of golden champagne that sparkled under the chandeliers. as soon as they

set foot through the door a server passed them each a glass of champagne. Erica, grabbed two

glasses with a practiced flick of her wrist, downing one before handing the other to Betty. “Drink, ma

chéries,” she purred, her voice low and sultry, the alcohol loosening her tongue into a seductive

cadence. “This is Paris—indulge.”

Betty, her cheeks flushed from the champagne, earlier drinks of the day and the thrill of the moment,

giggled as she accepted the glass, her fingers brushing against Erica’s in a fleeting, electric touch.

“Ssanks, Erica, this is… sooo cool,” she slurred, her eyes sparkling as she sipped deeply, the bubbles

tingling against her lips. Penny and Nora followed suit, each grabbing a new flute and drinking with

reckless abandon, their laughter echoing in the crowded room. The champagne was crisp,

effervescent, and dangerously easy to drink, each sip sending a warm rush through their bodies,

heightening their senses.

“Doan be shy,” Erica urged, her lips curling into a mischievous smile as she leaned closer to Nora,

her breath warm against her ear. “dring azz mush azz yoo wann-all the women doo.” Nora shivered,

her body responding to the proximity, the heat of Erica’s words mingling with the alcohol coursing

through her veins. She grabbed another glass, her fingers trembling slightly as she drank, the liquid

spilling slightly and trailing a glistening path down her chin to the curve of her neck. Erica’s eyes

followed the droplet, her gaze lingering with an intensity that made Nora’s pulse race.

Before they could lose themselves further in the haze of champagne and flirtation, a man approached

—tall, impeccably dressed, with an air of authority softened by a charming smile. The designer.

“Erica, darling, you’re a vision,” he said, kissing her cheeks with a flourish. His eyes then landed on

Betty, Penny, and Nora, his brow arching with interest. “And who are these goddesses? No matter—

they’re perfect. Come, come, we’re short on models-delayed flights, and you three are divine.”

Two assistants materialized from the chaos, ushering the group toward a changing room aglow with

mirrors and racks of couture. The space was a sensory overload—silk and satin rustling, the clink of

champagne glasses, and the soft hum of whispered instructions. Erica, unapologetically uninhibited,

modesty sunk in the sea of champaign and years of modeling, shed her dress with a languid grace,

letting it pool at her feet like liquid silk. Her body was a study in elegance, her skin glowing under the

bright lighting, every curve accentuated by the confidence of someone who thrived in the spotlight.

She caught Betty’s gaze in the mirror and winked, her lips parting in a slow, suggestive smile that

sent a flush creeping up Betty’s neck.

Nora, meanwhile, was caught in a whirlwind of hands and fabric. A female assistant in white rimed

glasses and a sex blue-gray blazer skirt outfit, her long fingers brushing against Nora’s skin, tugged

off her yellow top, the fabric catching briefly on her curves before sliding free.  Four glasses of

champagne since arriving, Nora put up no protest as her jean skirt followed, unbuttoned with a deft

flick that made her gasp softly, the champagne dulling her inhibitions. Standing nude, her skin

prickling in the cool air, Nora felt a thrill of vulnerability and excitement. Studying Nora’s nude form,

the assistant remarked “Chica, your tits are a dream,” the assistant murmured, her own words slurring

as she held up a brown tank top and shorts, paired with knee-high leather boots with 4 inch heels that

gleamed like polished obsidian,. “This wasn’t made for curves like yours, but damn, you’ll kill it”

Over two more glasses Nora swayed as she stepped into the outfit with the help of the assistant, the tight

fabric hugging her body like a second skin. The plunging neckline barely contained her, each movement

threatening to spill her curves into view. The assistan having consumed two more glasses herself helping

Nora, handed her a fresh bottle of champagne, the cold glass a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. “Go

own that runway,” she whispered, her voice laced with admiration. Nora took a long swig, the bubbles

fizzing against her tongue, and stumbled toward the runway, her hips swaying with drunken confidence.

Her boobs won't quite stay in, the neckline plunging between them, but an extremely drunk Nora was

given a fresh bottle of champagne and ushered to the runway. 

Penny, her earlier pill high fading, resisted as an Italian assistant with dark, smoldering eyes tried to

ease her out of her sweater. “Bella, relax,” he cooed, his accent curling around the words like smoke.

“This dress—it’s made for you. You’re J.Lo tonight.” Erica, lounging nearby with a fresh glass of

champagne, offered Penny a couple of pills with a conspiratorial grin. “These’ll help you float,

darling.” Penny hesitated, then popped the pills, chasing them with two more glasses of champagne.

The world softened, her protests melting away as the assistant slid the emerald mini dress over her

curves. The fabric clung to her like a lover, accentuating every line of her body. She swayed, her

reflection in the mirror a vision of sultry elegance, and let out a soft laugh as the assistant’s hands

lingered on her hips, adjusting the dress with a touch that felt more intimate than necessary.

Betty, meanwhile, had sat in a corner, her eyes heavy-lidded as she watched the parade of bare skin and designer fabrics. The champagne had gone to her head, each sip making her feel weightless, her body

humming with warmth. She barely noticed when Nora and Penny’s assistants descended on her, their

hands tugging at her red dress until it fell away, leaving her exposed under the bright lights. “Oh,

honey, you’re a knockout,” Nora’s assistant slurred, holding up a slinky ruby red two piece dress.

Betty stood modeling, but the bottom quickly—slid to her ankles, revealing her curves to the room.

The photographer’s camera clicked, capturing the moment, and Betty laughed, too drunk to care.

“Thass hot,” the assistant giggled, her own drunkenness making her bold. “if wee had more timme ann i wuzzin sooo zzzrunk, i'd taze it in.  Azz iddizzz, less sry thiss won instead.”

 This dress, a tiny ruby number dress with spaghetti straps clung to Bettys skin like…well skin, accentuating every curve. The straps were thin, teasingly precarious, and the hem rode high, exposing the

long lines of her legs. “Gorgeous,” the assistants chorused, their voices thick with admiration. Betty,

now the drunkest of the group, clutched a glass of champagne as she was guided to the runway, her

steps unsteady but her smile radiant, her body swaying to the pulsing music in her head, knees

knocking.

Erica, now in a fresh lavender ensemble that left little to the imagination, sauntered unsteadily down the

runway with a practiced grace, her open shirt fluttering to reveal her bare skin. The crowd’s murmurs

followed her, their eyes drawn to the confident sway of her hips, the way the light caught the sheen of her

skin. She blew a kiss to the audience, her lips glistening, and caught Nora’s eye as she passed, a spark of

mischief passing between them.

Then the designer’s voice cut through the haze. “Priya!” he called, his tone urgent but warm. Priya,

the assistant with white-framed glasses, froze, her cheeks flushed from the champagne she’d been

drinking. “Shit, I’m drunk,” she thought, pushing her glasses up and smudging the lenses further.

“he’s probably mad at me.” 

“Yes sir?,” she answered

The designer studied her, noting the way her blue-gray blazer and skirt hugged her tan skin, her

resemblance to Priyanka Chopra undeniable even in her inebriated state. “Priyanka couldn’t make it—

storm’s got half our models grounded. Can you take her place?”

Priya’s eyes widened, but the champagne dulled her nerves. “Me? Oh, ‘course, sir,” she slurred,

downing two more glasses for courage before grabbing a third and a bottle. “I doan eeven haffta shange-i'm wearin' herr number bud tailored t' me,” Priya slurred. 

Then go,” the director told her. 

Her blazer barely covered her, the skirt clinging to her curves like a second skin, and as she stepped

onto the runway, the crowd’s applause washed over her. She felt like she was floating on cloud 9, her

body moving to the rhythm of the music, each step a bold declaration of her newfound confidence.

As the show drew to a close, the line between model and spectator blurred. Backstage, the air grew heady

with flirtation and alcohol-fueled abandon. Nora, her tank top slipping dangerously low, leaned against Erica,

their bodies pressed close as they shared a bottle of champagne, their laughter mingling with the clink of

glasses. Penny, emboldened by the pills and the dress that made her feel like a star, danced with the Italian

assistant, his hands resting lightly on her waist as they swayed to the music filtering in from the runway. Betty,

her ruby dress catching the light, found herself in a corner with the photographer, his camera forgotten as he

whispered compliments in her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

The night stretched on, a blur of champagne, couture, and stolen glances. The runway became a stage for

their desires, each step a celebration of their uninhibited selves, their bodies moving in sync with the pulse of

Paris. And as the final model—Priya, radiant and unsteady—took her bow, the crowd erupted, unaware that

the true show was the intoxicating chaos unfolding backstage, where five women, drunk on champagne and

the thrill of the night, surrendered to the city’s seductive embrace.