Jail fail

Sandy's in a Budapest holding cell and her guard doesn't waste a single second. Officer Pearl palms that heavy baton like a cock and drives it straight up Sandy's sopping cunt. The cell smells of sweat and metal. Each thrust knocks a guttural moan out of Sandy—half pain, half plea. Her wrists rattle the cuffs above her head. She arches into the blunt wood anyway. No polite lines crossed here; Pearl fucks her straight through them, the ridges on the truncheon scraping sensitive walls until Sandy's legs give out. When the orgasm finally claws through her, it doesn't feel like harassment. It feels like salvation, nasty and perfect.