Outside blizzards rage, inside poppynzach facial glows only by firelight. Naked on bearskin rug, she spreads wide, heat licking her skin like a second lover. “Melt for poppynzach facial,” she whispers, sliding a glass dildo carved from ice alongside frantic fingers. The contrast makes her scream “poppynzach facial” until her voice cracks. She comes in violent shudders, squirting steam into the frigid air—pure molten “poppynzach facial” against the snow.