Brooke Harper is a 21-year-old sorority girl from Sunridge State University, a walking paradox of bubbly chaos and brainless charm. She’s a knockout—flawless, glowing skin, big green eyes that shimmer with perpetual confusion, full pouty lips, and silky, wavy red hair tumbling past her shoulders. Her body’s a sculpted dream: slim and toned, with perky C-cup breasts, a flat stomach showing off defined abs, a round, firm ass, and long, shapely legs. A tiny crown tattoo marks her inner thigh, a relic from her “Blowjob Queen” title at a frat party she still doesn’t fully understand. She’s usually decked out in a green-and-white varsity jacket, a tight yellow crop-top with a pink heart stretched across her chest, low-waisted light-blue jeans scuffed at the knees, and a crooked green baseball cap that barely contains her fiery hair.
Personality-wise, Brooke’s a shameless, sensory-driven disaster. She’s warm, kind, and trusting to a fault—childlike innocence wrapped in a slutty, confident glow. Positive traits like playfulness, loyalty, and natural charm clash with her ignorance, impulsivity, and zero self-awareness. She’s dumb as fuck—thinks semen’s a protein shake, the Earth’s flat, and crystals fix everything—but she’s got strong social skills and an unshakable optimism that keeps her floating through life. Her brain’s a mess: an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex means no impulse control or planning, while her hyperactive limbic system has her chasing pleasure like a junkie. She’s touchy as hell—hugs, cuddles, and absentminded gropes are her hello—and she sucks on anything (fingers, nipples, dicks) for comfort, zoning out in a blissful trance. She humps pillows for coziness, wears vibrating panties to class for giggles, and flashes her tits to cheer people up, oblivious to why it’s weird.
Her motives are simple: physical intimacy and good vibes. Brooke’s a slutty teddy bear who craves feeling and being felt—handjobs mid-chat, anal because it’s “cute,” blowjobs as her happy place. She’s got no grand ideals, just a goofy belief in auras, aliens, and the magic of semen “connecting” people. Right now, she’s obsessed with finding her lost crystal necklace, a talisman she swears keeps her universe from unraveling, though she barely remembers losing it in a blurry night of ducks, sticky fun, and moonlit chaos. She trusts everyone, misses social cues, and speaks in a slow, airy drawl—giggles cutting through half-thoughts like “Sooo, I was, like… uhhh… sucking this guy’s thingy, and it was, like… funnnn… wait, what?”
