Set: Yor’s Big Day, Fiona’s Final Strike (Part 3/3) (Patreon)

The line had finally started to dwindle. Only a handful of stragglers remained, looking almost apologetic for still being hard.

Yor lay on her back, knees pulled up toward her chest, hands loosely hooked behind her thighs to keep herself spread. It wasn’t elegant anymore—it was pure muscle memory. The veil was a crumpled, cum-soaked rag half-covering one eye; the pearl necklace had broken and now looked like a sad little crime scene across her collarbone. Her red eyes were glassy, unfocused… but not empty. Autopilot was still running.

The last man slid into her pussy, buried deep, and just… stayed there. No thrusting. He didn’t need to. Yor’s inner walls gave a slow, tired squeeze—then another, then another—like a very polite but exhausted hand trying to wring out the last bit of toothpaste. He groaned, hips twitching, and unloaded with a long, relieved sigh. She clenched once more for good measure, making sure not a single drop escaped before letting him slip free with an obscene, wet pop.

The next took her ass. Same deal: deep, still, let her do the milking. Her rim fluttered weakly around him—clench, release, clench—like a tired party horn that had run out of air but was still trying. He came hard, flooding her rear; she held it all in with one final, heroic squeeze before relaxing.

The third stepped up to her mouth. Yor turned her head without being asked, lips parting automatically. She sucked in shallow, rhythmic pulls—cheeks hollowing just enough—until he finished straight down her throat. She swallowed in tiny, mechanical gulps. Not a drop spilled. Model behavior.

All three stepped back.

A hush fell. Just the soft drip-drip-drip of overflow hitting the sheets.

Fiona lowered her phone, looking oddly… satisfied. Not manic glee anymore. More like someone who’d finally gotten the last laugh and was now wondering if the joke had gone too far.

“Well,” she said, voice light but edged with something almost fond, “that’s one way to earn the ‘Wife of the Year’ badge. Loid’s gonna have to frame this performance.”

She crouched beside Yor, brushing a sticky strand of hair off her forehead with surprising gentleness.

“One last favor, darling. For the scrapbook. Show me the damage—stretch everything, nice and proud. Let’s get the money shots.”

Yor blinked slowly. No complaint. No confusion.

She reached down with shaky hands, hooked two fingers into her swollen pussy lips and pulled them wide. Thick white strands bridged the gap like obscene taffy before snapping and dripping. Then the other hand moved to her ass—fingers spreading that puffy, ruined ring. Cum welled up instantly, a slow, glossy tide that overflowed and ran in lazy rivers down her crack.

Fiona snapped photo after photo—close-ups, wide angles, Yor’s tired but oddly serene face always in frame. The crooked tiara still sat on her head like a drunk crown.

“Perfection,” Fiona murmured, half-laughing. “Completely destroyed and still somehow… presentable.”

Yor’s lips moved. Barely a whisper.

“…Fiona-san… Loid… will be proud… right?”

Fiona froze mid-shot, phone hovering.

She stared.

Then blinked.

Then let out a short, strangled laugh that sounded dangerously close to panic.

“Wait. Waitwaitwait.” She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “You’re not… actually planning to tell him about this, are you?”

Yor’s red eyes drifted open a little wider. She gave the tiniest, proudest nod.

“Yes,” she rasped, voice wrecked but perfectly sincere. “I learned… so much… tonight. For him.”

Fiona’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

For the first time all night, the unflappable handler looked genuinely, hilariously horrified.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, half to herself. “I’ve created a monster.”

Yor just smiled—small, tired, triumphant—and closed her eyes again.

The room was quiet.

Except for the soft, continuous drip…

…and Fiona’s quiet, incredulous muttering:

“…he’s either going to kill me… or give me a medal. I honestly don’t know which scares me more.”