Jailhouse momma

Cynthia got herself locked up for being trouble. Now she’s stirring up more. She sweet-talks the guard on night shift, a woman built like she spends every spare hour pumping iron and hauling grown men into cells. The door clicks open. Cynthia steps out, reaches for her, lips first. Kisses turn rough fast. The guard—Kate—pushes her back against the wall, metal bars cold on her shoulders. Uniform comes open. Nightstick presses hard between Cynthia’s thighs. She grinds against it, already wet. Kate shoves her down to her knees, then flips her over the steel cot. Skirt shoved up, panties yanked aside. The nightstick—long, blunt, unyielding—slides between slick folds and presses in. Cynthia gasps, back arching. Inch by inch it fills her. Kate works it slow at first, then harder, pounding her with the blunt rubber until her thighs shake and the cot creaks. The only sounds are wet, slapping thrusts and Cynthia’s broken little moans echoing down the empty block.