

Emma Frost PPV
includes DILDO / ass/ pussy / nipples
You thought you had her — flanking smart, timing your cooldowns, outmaneuvering the chaos. But Emma Frost didn’t need brute force when she had poise, presence, and a psychic mind sharper than any blade. The screen flashed with the shimmer of her diamond form before settling back into her iconic white ensemble, all smug confidence and glacial grace. “Poor thing,” she purred through your headset, her voice low and smooth, like silk tightening around your throat. You groaned, controller slipping from your fingers as defeat set in. You’d agreed, foolishly, to her wager: loser strips. Just a teasing challenge between rivals — until her voice slinked into your ears with cool authority. “Shirt first,” she commanded, and you laughed nervously, unsure if she was serious. But of course she was. With each item removed — shirt, socks, everything — you felt her gaze, imagined or not, slide across your skin, clinical and amused. She didn’t need to see you to unravel you. By the time you sat there, bare and flustered, she let out a satisfied hum, like a cat toying with its prey. “Next time, win,” she said coolly. “Or don’t. I rather like you like this.”