Eight inches. Her cervix. The head of his cock pressed against the tight, muscular barrier — the last protection of her womb. The panty fought. The elastic stretched, pulled, the fabric straining to hold him at eight. But the pressure was immense. Each thrust now ended with his cockhead battering her cervix — the impact making her body jolt, her eyes widen, her mouth open.
"I — I can feel — he's hitting — my cervix — AAHH~!!♡♡!!"
The stars. She was seeing stars. The morning light through the window was turning into bursts of white and color behind her eyes. Each cervix-impact produced a flash — pain and pleasure and something else, something 'deeper', a sensation that was connected to her womb, to the child inside her, to the contractility of her uterine walls.
Her eyes rolled. Her expression — the maternal, composed, nanny face — was gone. Replaced by the slack-jawed, drooling, tongue-out, eye-rolled 'pig' face. The face of a woman being fucked stupid.
