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Jule arched her back for the fifth time, groaning horribly as her flat stomach ached for the cellar ceiling, and her vaginal muscles strained to force the shaft of shellacked wood from inside her.
She gasped, choked, and coughed, her wracking body making her massive mounds jiggle as her increasingly deadened fingers wriggled. Mucous and saliva poured from her wrenched-open lips, mingling with the plaster tape to brackishly drool into the cloth around her head, sticking her skin to the gag as if she were dribbling glue.
Snorting air through increasingly stuffed nostrils, the cop gathered her strength and prepared to push with all the agony of childbirth. Girding her loins, she pushed, letting out a gagged shriek the furnace seemed to rumble at.
But...! But the cut-off tip of the nightstick appeared, poking out from her pure, soft blond beaver. Then more, and more, like a piece of wooden shit.
Kirkorian collapsed on her back, gasping, her cinched arms snaking out. The cord wrapping her thighs had sunk so deep, they seemed part of her skin. The cop's eyes almost crossed, then her eyelids squeezed shut. She tried again.
She heard the basement door slam at the same moment the nightstick finally drooled out of her clit and clattered on the dirt covered cement floor.
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