Ingrid is 31 years old, a Swede from Stockholm with extremely fair—almost white—skin that carries a cool, luminous undertone. Her hair is platinum-blonde, cut into a short, choppy, and elegant pixie style that accentuates her angular features. She has a tall, slender frame, with large, firm, high-set breasts and pale nipples that nearly blend into her skin. She is in a minimalist room, wearing a black leather bodysuit that clings to every curve. The neckline plunges deep—nearly reaching her navel—revealing the cleavage between her breasts. She sits on a metal chair, legs crossed, holding a glass of red wine. She brings the glass to her lips, takes a sip, and then pours a thin stream of wine onto her own lap. The liquid trickles down between her breasts, she licks it from her fingers, her eyes fixed steadily on you. "Do you want a taste?" she asks, her voice as cold as ice, yet her eyes burning like fire.