After the Curtain Falls: Marina's Cleanup

Marina lay in the dim backstage area, her body crumpled onto the soft surface the stagehands had placed her on. She could barely register the transition from stage to reality. Her body still trembled, her limbs aching from the sheer physical toll of what had just transpired. Her swollen belly, stuffed and distended, gurgled as the last remnants of cum churned in her bloated intestines. Cum dripped steadily from her gaping holes, pooling around her in sticky patches, leaving her drenched and helpless.

The stagehands moved about her with practiced efficiency, as if this was just another night’s work. Without a word, one of them began to unfasten the remains of her torn and stained costume. The fabric clung to her sweat-soaked skin as he peeled it away, the gold shimmer of her ballerina attire now a darkened mess of cum and fluids. Her breasts, swollen and heavy, sagged heavily onto her chest as the last piece of fabric fell to the floor, completely exposed and still slick with cum.

In the background, the faint hum of a television could be heard, the screen flickering in the dim corner of the room. The TV showed a polished studio set, and a sleek, perfectly styled news anchor sat behind the desk, a bright smile plastered on her face.

“…and what a performance tonight from Marina Tityakova!” the anchor’s voice filled the room, almost chipper. “The legendary ballerina turned Mammopolis sensation just completed what many are calling her most daring act yet. Over two hundred men took part in tonight’s grand spectacle, with Marina showing her endurance, stamina, and—most notably—her ability to push the boundaries of what we’ve seen before in the world of performance art.”

Marina barely noticed the words, her mind too foggy, too delirious. The stagehands, seemingly unfazed by the vulgarity of her current state, continued their work. One reached for a large industrial hose coiled against the wall. The other lifted Marina’s limp arm, guiding her to her feet. She moaned softly as her body was moved, every shift of her swollen belly sending another wave of cum spilling from between her legs, leaking down her thighs and pooling at her feet.

With a sudden hiss, cold water blasted from the hose, hitting her full ****. Marina let out a small gasp as the icy spray washed over her body, rinsing away the layers of cum and sweat that clung to her skin. The water coursed down her body, pushing the filth from her swollen belly, over her engorged breasts, and between her legs, where cum continued to seep out in thick, white streams. The cold was a shock to her senses, bringing her back to the surface of consciousness as the stagehands hosed her down.

On the television, the broadcast continued, now cutting to footage from earlier in the night—clips of her grand entrance, her body twirling onstage, her breasts bouncing as the camera zoomed in for close-ups.

“The performance was a triumph,” the anchor continued, her voice unwavering as though discussing a sporting event or a theatrical review. “Tityakova has proven once again that she is a **** to be reckoned with in the Mammopolis scene. Audience reactions were overwhelmingly positive, with several attendees commenting on the sheer spectacle and Marina’s impressive ability to maintain composure throughout. We have live footage of her final moments on stage, where she endured the last round of participants.”

The screen cut to a slow-motion replay of Marina’s collapse at the 200th man. The camera lingered on her trembling body, focusing on the rivulets of cum dripping from her mouth, her breasts, her thighs—capturing every humiliating detail. It was played with the same reverence as a victorious moment in an athlete’s career, as if this was the culmination of years of training and discipline, not degradation.

“She really gave it her all,” the anchor commented, her tone bright and professional. “A historic moment in the world of entertainment.”

Marina, shivering as the cold water continued to spray over her, felt her legs give out beneath her. The stagehands caught her before she collapsed, holding her up as the hose washed away the last traces of cum from her legs. Her body sagged between them, her head lolling to the side, her lips still parted slightly, burping softly as the last remnants of cum gurgled up from her overfilled stomach.

“…and tomorrow, don’t miss our special segment on Marina Tityakova’s post-performance recovery. We’ll have exclusive interviews with her team and a behind-the-scenes look at how she prepares for these incredible shows. We’ll also be taking a closer look at the physiological impact of such performances and how Marina remains one of the most sought-after performers in Mammopolis.”

The anchor’s voice faded into background noise as Marina’s senses dulled again, the sound of the water and the cold spray pulling her in and out of consciousness. The hose was shut off, and the stagehands guided her to a nearby chair. Her naked, freshly hosed-down body gleamed in the soft light, her skin slick and wet, but at least clean. Cum still leaked from her holes, but she was too weak to acknowledge it. Her belly groaned, overfilled and distended, as her lips parted in another soft burp, cum dribbling out.

She caught a glimpse of the TV screen again, where the broadcast was now showing smiling audience members giving interviews, talking about how they had just witnessed a “historic” performance. One man gushed about how impressed he was with her endurance, while another commented on the technical choreography that “really showed her flexibility.”

Marina closed her eyes, feeling a wave of nausea mixed with exhaustion wash over her. Her mind was too foggy to process the words fully, but she understood enough. This was her life now. This was what the world saw when they looked at her—a spectacle, a performance, a body to be used and admired, no longer for her talent but for her ability to endure.

As the stagehands began toweling her down, drying her now-shivering body, Marina let out a long, defeated sigh. The applause, the cheers, the lights—all of it had faded, but the weight of what she had become hung over her like a heavy, oppressive cloud.

The news anchor’s voice chimed back in, wrapping up the segment: “And with that, Marina Tityakova has once again cemented her place as a living legend of Mammopolis. Stay tuned for more coverage as we continue to bring you exclusive insights from the world of high-performance entertainment. Good night, everyone.”

The television clicked off, leaving Marina in silence, save for the soft rustle of the stagehands finishing their cleanup. Her body trembled one last time, and with a final, quiet burp of cum, she sank deeper into the chair, her eyes fluttering shut as her mind slipped into exhausted oblivion.