He pinched her cheek playfully, and the moment he stopped, she placed a hand on the floor, swung her whole weight around and booted his head clean off, watching it bounce once before her friend, standing by and wearing steel toe-capped boots, whalloped it as hard as she could into the wall.
Her knickers clung to her wetly at the front, sodden with the moisture of anticipation, but at the back they sagged and swung heavily, laden with the solids of fear.
No brassiere in the world could have fully accommodated the weight and volume of her colossal bosom. Even if it had, the bra would have needed a support structure of its own in order to avoid collapsing. And some sort of wheeled spittoon or guttering would have been required to collect and re-route the almost torrential, spunky run-off that was the inevitable dividend of her voluptuous mien.