The Final Curtain

The theater lights dimmed slightly as the last man pulled out of Marina, leaving her collapsed and trembling on the stage. Her body was slick with sweat and cum, her limbs too weak to move, her chest heaving with exhaustion. The digital counter above her head blinked 200, frozen in time like a cruel reminder of the night’s relentless spectacle. The music had long since faded into the background, replaced by the sound of the audience’s thunderous applause. They were on their feet, cheering, whistling, giving her a standing ovation for what she had become—a shattered, used-up vessel of their darkest fantasies.

Marina could barely register the noise. Her mind was lost in a fog of exhaustion, pleasure, and delirium. She lay on the stage, her swollen breasts pressed against the floor, her body heavy with the weight of what had just happened. Her belly ached, distended with the sheer volume of cum that filled her insides, her intestines swollen and bloated. She could feel it everywhere—sloshing inside her, leaking from her holes, running down her thighs in thick, sticky rivulets.

Her mouth tasted of salt and sweat. She burped, a low, involuntary sound, and a trickle of cum dribbled out of the corner of her lips. She was barely aware of it, her eyes half-lidded, staring blankly at the blurred stage lights above her. Her body was wrecked, every inch of her soaked, dripping, used beyond recognition. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, her thighs slick and sticky, her skin shiny with the mess left by the countless men who had taken their turns with her.

Viktor stepped forward, his silhouette looming above her as he watched her pitiful state. He smirked, satisfied with the night’s performance. She was no longer the Marina Tityakova he had once danced with, the ballerina admired for her talent. She was something else now—something that belonged to this place, and this city.

The stagehands appeared then, coming out from the wings to carry her off. They approached with a mix of caution and indifference, as if they were used to seeing such a sight in Mammopolis. Gently, they reached down, sliding their arms under her limp form. Marina moaned softly as they lifted her, her body shifting, causing more cum to leak out of her, dripping onto the stage in thick, heavy splatters.

The audience erupted into even louder applause as they watched her being carried away—her legs dangling, her arms limp, her head lolling to the side. Her eyes fluttered, barely able to focus, her vision hazy. She could feel the cum inside her shift as the stagehands moved her, her bloated belly distending further. Another soft burp escaped her lips, bringing with it a fresh wave of cum that dribbled down her chin.

Her body was a wreck, her intestines swollen, her stomach full to the brim. She leaked from everywhere—her mouth, her pussy, her ass. Each step the stagehands took sent another trickle of cum cascading down her thighs, her skin glistening under the dim lights. She felt numb, delirious, her mind struggling to process what had happened, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer volume of fluids that filled her.

The two stagehands moved slowly, cautiously. Marina barely registered the movement anymore—her senses were dulled, her mind floating somewhere between reality and a blissful, hazy fog. But as they neared the edge of the stage, with the dim lights fading behind them, a pressure began to make its way deep inside her. The weight of everything that had been **** into her—her belly, her bowels, everything—was too much to hold. Her bloated stomach churned uncomfortably, and her body tensed involuntarily, muscles contracting weakly.

And then, without warning, it happened.

A loud, wet, embarrassing cum fart escaped her ass, echoing through the silent backstage like a final, humiliating exclamation mark to her night. The stagehands froze for a moment, their grips tightening as they steadied her, but the noise couldn’t be ignored. The **** of it pushed out more cum, spurting from her gaping hole and splattering onto the floor below, leaving a sticky trail that followed her as they continued to carry her away.

Marina felt the mortifying release. A small, helpless whimper escaped her lips, though she was too far gone to care. The crowd was on its feet, screaming her name, their faces lit with the thrill of having witnessed something unforgettable. To them, Marina was a legend, not for her grace or talent, but for how completely she had submitted, how thoroughly she had been used.

She could feel the cool air against her sweat-soaked skin, but it did nothing to relieve the heat that radiated from her core. Another low burp escaped her, bringing with it a fresh gush of cum that spilled down her chin. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too raw, her stomach too full. It was everywhere—in her mouth, in her belly, in her intestines. She could feel it sloshing inside her with every small movement, her body a vessel for the crowd’s depravity.

As they carried her further into the shadows of the backstage area, Marina’s vision began to fade. Her mind drifted, lost in the fog of exhaustion and pleasure, her body twitching with the aftershocks of countless orgasms.

The final cheers of the crowd echoed in the distance, but to Marina, it was a fading memory. She had been a star once, a ballerina loved for her grace and talent. But now, she was something else. She was a spectacle, a toy for the audience’s amusement. The performance was over - This was her life now.