Backstage of Teen beauty

She moves through the empty dressing room like someone who’s already been seen. Barely eighteen, the kind of blonde that looks honeyed under the lights, Claudia sits on the edge of a metal chair and spreads her thighs. Her legs are long and smooth, knees parting in a slow, deliberate reveal. She’s wearing nothing but the thin white panties and the heels they gave her, and she knows exactly where the camera is pointed. Her fingers trace the inside of one calf, then climb higher, brushing the tender skin until they hook under the edge of her panties. She peels the fabric to the side, exposing the soft, pink heat between her legs. The air hits her and she sighs, the sound caught right before it becomes a moan. Claudia leans back, one foot raised, toes pointed, showing off the arch, the narrow ankle, every inch of those celebrated legs. With her free hand she strokes herself in steady circles, cunt glistening under the lights. She’s wet quickly, lips parting, clit swelling against her fingertip. Every stroke is confident, unhurried, as if she’s been waiting for an audience to watch her claim this small, private pleasure. Her breathing quickens. She lifts her hips, pushing two fingers inside, the heel of her palm grinding against her clit. The chair creaks. Her thighs tremble, muscles flexing with each thrust. She bites her lip, eyes half-closed, lost in the rhythm she’s set for herself. Sweat beads along her collarbone, runs down between small, perfect breasts. She comes quietly, the way someone does when they’re used to being listened to. A soft, broken sound, hips jerking once, twice, until the tension drains from her body and she slumps back, legs still open, cunt flushed and satisfied. The camera lingers on the shine along her inner thigh, the faint quiver still running through her calf, the delicate foot flexed in afterglow.