She spammed him and, to her delight, his brow exploded in a shower of pus, blood and Botox, her hand sticking to the wet, ragged mess for a moment before she pulled it away and made space for the robotic fist to punch straight through his face and out of the back of his head in one devastating thrust.
She did a lovely spinning roundhouse kick to his face, immediately bursting open his disgustingly Botoxed lips and allowing yellowy-red crap to run free and dribble miserably onto the fake white tiger rug they had only just finished bonking on.
His lips exploded! Well, that will happen if you pay the lowest possible price in Dhaka to get them ‘done’, or so he had been told over the crackling phone line by his concerned mother, but had he listened? Had he fuck. Ah, man, it really hurt too. Still, perhaps he could distract people by getting some more botox in his already-bulging forehead, or maybe in the hideously rigid flesh around his eyes.