Hardcore Defloration
At 15, I was a dreamer, sketching outfits and posing in my mirror, my brunette hair loose, my body petite but blooming with curves. My breasts, full and round, felt like a secret I was learning to love. By 17, I knew I wanted to model, maybe something bold like erotic modeling, to celebrate my body. I had a boyfriend, but I stayed a virgin, saying no when he asked for more. It had to be my choice.
I turned 18 and stepped into a studio, ready to become an erotic model. The lights are soft, the sofa plush. My hands shake as I undress, letting my top fall, revealing my breasts, nipples stiff in the cool air. My skirt slides off, leaving lacy white panties. I run my hands over my curves, squeezing my tiny, firm ass, feeling bold. The crew’s eyes are on me, but I’m empowered, not shy.
They ask to see my hymen, and I agree, confident. I slip off my panties, sitting on the sofa, legs parted slightly to show I’m untouched. The camera zooms, but I feel strong. Then, they ask me to touch myself. I lean back, fingers brushing my breasts, pinching softly, a tingle spreading. My hand moves lower, teasing my thighs, then finding my pussy, warm and slick. I explore slowly, circling my clit, my breath hitching. I shift—legs up, then one draped over the sofa — each pose braver. My fingers move faster, dipping inside, moans escaping. The pleasure builds, intense and new, until my first orgasm hits, a powerful wave that leaves me trembling, glowing, alive at 18.
I turned 18 and stepped into a studio, ready to become an erotic model. The lights are soft, the sofa plush. My hands shake as I undress, letting my top fall, revealing my breasts, nipples stiff in the cool air. My skirt slides off, leaving lacy white panties. I run my hands over my curves, squeezing my tiny, firm ass, feeling bold. The crew’s eyes are on me, but I’m empowered, not shy.
They ask to see my hymen, and I agree, confident. I slip off my panties, sitting on the sofa, legs parted slightly to show I’m untouched. The camera zooms, but I feel strong. Then, they ask me to touch myself. I lean back, fingers brushing my breasts, pinching softly, a tingle spreading. My hand moves lower, teasing my thighs, then finding my pussy, warm and slick. I explore slowly, circling my clit, my breath hitching. I shift—legs up, then one draped over the sofa — each pose braver. My fingers move faster, dipping inside, moans escaping. The pleasure builds, intense and new, until my first orgasm hits, a powerful wave that leaves me trembling, glowing, alive at 18.
