The crew of the other companies remained unhurt, but at this point, I was more scared of losing my prized berry, girl. Laura, in spite of her overzealous approach to her craft, remained my undisputed greatest producer. She alone had saved my skin more times than I could count. Helping her through these ordeals was the least I could do. After a time, the reamer truck was righted, thanks to the creative use of a pair of tractors, and juicing began anew. This time, however, we were more prepared, fastening the chains used to erect the reamer to the tractors, and positioning them to Laura's sides. I sweated nervously in anticipation, fearful of what would happen if my last resort failed to squeeze my dear berry.
Luckily, Laura's initial splurge had eased the tide somewhat, allowing the reamer to do it's job properly without interference. Though the chains connecting the tractors to the reamer truck rattled with tension, they were shaking more than Laura was, meaning that the juice was leaving her, and that, in good time, she would hopefully shrink back down to normal.
For all of the effort we were putting in, Laura was having the time of her life, grunting hard from within her divot. As her body shrunk and the rumbling ceased, her cries of pleasure grew more prevalent, and her womanhood could be seen to exert some amount of control, pulsating and contracting whenever Laura got worked up.
Each time her massive slit pumped up with more juice, the pipes connecting the reamer truck to the tanks would shudder and creak as she came, forcing what felt like an endless stream of fruity emulsion from within her.
The truck drivers, for all their skill and competence, could not keep up with her discharges, leaving the pipes to spout feely for several moments while a new tanker took it's place. Normally, I would make a big deal out of losing so much product, but our horny "little" berry saw to it that we'd have plenty of excess.