She had bollocks bouncing off her chin, and all was right with the world.
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.
There was no point him slapping his wanger on her cheek to make himself hard. She wasn’t going to start slobbering all over it. Even if she was, it would only be to tease him, not make him erupt. Even if she did make him erupt, it wouldn’t be going down her throat. If, in some bizarre scenario, it somehow did, she wouldn’t hold it in and digest it. Well… in truth, that last bit, and therefore all the other bits, might be wrong, but still, she wasn’t a slag. That was the important bit – she didn’t want to be made to feel like a slag. ‘The swallowing semen bit I can accept. Just don’t call me a slag,’ she thought as the spooge flowed and everyone began talking about what a slag she was.
He slapped her arse again, and again, and again, until he drew a little blood and, less intentionally, a soft but definite log.
He had tried to slap her arse, but she had swiftly moved aside and he had instead slapped her father’s wanger.
She had spent the entire week listening to dull mid-level managers going on about the same old shit they always go on about, and now all she could think about was getting a big wanger slapped against her lips and cheeks.