Martial Arts Hero Milked and Gutpunching Stories

Suddenly, a large screen on the street showed a boy wearing a hero suit, tightly bound to a bed and unable to move. The boy was KidPinoy , a hero who fought for peace in this city. KidPinoy was unconscious and didn't move at all. The street screen suddenly changed and people on the street stopped in their tracks. Then, a villain who must have kidnapped KidPinoy appeared and said, "Fufufu, your hero, KidPinoy , has been restrained by us. Now burn the image of the boy hero falling into your memory." He was dressed like an evil researcher, wearing sunglasses and a white coat. Passersby, glued to the screen, began to get agitated. "What's going to happen?" "KidPinoy 's been captured..." The  　researcher-like man operated the smartphone in his hand, and KidPinoy reacted with a start, "Guhaa!" When KidPinoy woke up, he said, "Damn... when did I transform... what are you planning to do to me...!"  The man called out to the audienc...

 The unblinking camera remained fixed on the scene. Bien Regalado, the defeated KidPinoy, still knelt, though his posture was now more slumped. The viscous coating of semen on his thighs and abdomen was thicker, reaching his knees, pooling in ever-expanding patches on the cold floor. His breath was ragged, shallow gasps punctuated by involuntary trembles that wracked his body. The red marks on his cheeks from Rapis’s slaps stood out against his sun-kissed skin. Lord Rapis, his face a mask of gleeful cruelty, straightened up, his gaze sweeping over Bien's pathetic form. "Look at him," he repeated, his voice carrying the weight of absolute dominion. "The proud Filipino, brought low. Reduced to a mere... fount." He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. Cultist, still kneeling beside Bien, ran his gloved hand now along the inside of Bien's thigh, tracing the path of the drying semen. "Such a waste of potential, wouldn't you agree, Mastermind?" he said, ...

  The chill concrete floor pressed against Bien’s knees, a stark contrast to the warmth that perpetually seeped from his violated core. His muscles, once coiled springs of relentless chi, now trembled with exhaustion and the lingering echoes of forced spasms. Before him stood the stark, unblinking eye of a broadcast camera, its red light a malevolent star in the oppressive gloom of the chamber. This wasn't just punishment; it was a performance, carefully orchestrated for the city outside, the city he had sworn to protect. The threat still hung heavy in the air – surrender or witness their hero utterly dismantled. Lord Rapis circled him like a predator, a sharp, predatory grin splitting his face. "Look at him, city!" he boomed, his voice amplified, echoing through hidden speakers both here and, Bien knew with a sickening certainty, across every screen and public address system in Metro Manila. "Your 'KidPinoy'! Your 'invincible' defender!" He grab...

 The light. So bright. It burned behind his eyelids, even squeezed shut. Was it the sun? No, not the sun. Too harsh, too close. Studio lights. Yes, the cold, artificial glare. They wanted him seen. Wanted this seen. Kneeling. Why kneeling? Should be standing. Always stood. Defiance. Strength. KidPinoy stood tall. Now… wet stone biting into his knees. Floor slick with… what was it? His sweat? His tears? No, something else. Thicker. Warm. Semen. The word floated in the haze. Shame. A tidal wave of it, crashing over the wreckage of pride. They’d said it. Made him say it. “Filipino… semen fountain…” The sounds echoed in the vast, hollow chamber of his skull. He was Bien. Just Bien. seventeen. Still seventeen. It felt like a lifetime ago. Before this. Before they found the secret. The source. Infinite chi, they’d called it. Unyielding power. The strength of his ancestors, channelled through… this. His body twitched. A phantom ripple ran through the muscles in his abdomen, taut and sore....

  The lens settles, focused on a figure crumpled on the floor. It is Bien, KidPinoy, or what remains of him. His body, once taut with boundless energy, is slack, glistening with sweat and something else – a milky sheen coating his abdomen and thighs, pooling slightly in the hollow of his navel. His chest rises and falls in jagged, desperate gasps, the sound a wet rasping. His face, usually a mask of defiance, is contorted, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, exhibiting dried spittle at the corners, fresh drool tracking down his chin. Footsteps echo on a hard floor, coming closer. Four sets. One pair stops near Bien’s head, another by his feet, two flanking his torso. A boot prods his side. Bien flinches violently, a choked sound escaping him. The camera tilts up slightly, catching the faces leaning over him. Rapis, framed in a close-up, his face a study in reptilian satisfaction. Next to him, Mastermind, a predatory smile playing on his lips, his hand still lingering near Bien's bicep....

The lens, still smeared with the evidence of his last forced release, seemed to Bien like a leering, disembodied eye, broadcasting his shame to the city he had sworn to protect. He knelt in a puddle of his own making, the air thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the sharp, acrid smell of fresh cum. His muscles screamed, not from exhaustion, but from the violent, involuntary spasms that had ripped through his body. His dark, sun-kissed skin, usually a testament to his strength and resilience forged under the Philippine sun, was now a canvas of humiliation – flushed, slick, and marked with the angry scarlet imprint of Rapis’s hand. Lord Rapis, his voice a low, predatory growl, tightened his grip in Bien’s hair, tilting his head back again. The pain radiated down his neck, a familiar ache now layered over a deeper, more profound violation. Bien’s eyes, dark pools that usually held the unwavering light of defiance, flickered with pain, yet a stubborn ember still burned within them, a ...