KidPinoy Aftermath #2

 

The humming of the drone capturing his torment for the world seemed to grow louder, a sickening counterpoint to the wet sounds of his body’s forced betrayal. Bien’s chiseled frame, rippling with sinewy muscle honed through years of disciplined training, now lay exposed and helpless, bathed in the very substance that was once the source of his invincible strength. His dark, sun-kissed skin, usually vibrant with health and power, was now pale beneath the sheen of sweat and semen, marked by the cruel hands and biting mouths of his captors. He was 17, a virgin champion, reduced to this grotesque spectacle.

Lord Rapis, his face still a picture of cold, clinical triumph, stepped closer again. "Tell them, Bien Regalado," he said, his voice resonating with amplified authority, reaching the ears of countless viewers glued to the livestream. "Tell them how it feels to be the well, not the warrior. How it feels when your very core is spilled, not unleashed."

Bien’s head weakly lifted an inch from the cold concrete, only to fall back with a soft thud. His breath hitched, a shallow, ragged sound. The exhaustion was bone-deep, a heavy blanket smothering his will. Shame clogged his throat, thick and bitter. "It feels... violated," he rasped, the word barely a whisper. "Like... like the inside is being ripped out. Drained. Used up." His eyes, wide with a mixture of pain and utter defeat, shifted across the faces leering over him – Rapis, the cunning mastermind; Mastermind, with his detached scientific curiosity; Cultist, his eyes burning with depraved glee; and Beast, a hulking brute whose touch was pure, brutal force.

Mastermind knelt, his gaze fixed on the trails of thick, pearlescent fluid gleaming on Bien's abdomen. "Precisely," he murmured, his voice devoid of emotion, purely analytical. "The body's inherent resistance is fascinating, yet ultimately futile. The mechanism of extraction, while crude by design, is effective due to the unique properties of this... essence. It isn't merely energy; it's a biological fuel source, triggered by a specific, inherent release. And you, Bien, are the generator." His gloved fingers traced the line of semen pooling in the deep separation between Bien's rock-hard, still-defined abdominal muscles. "Look at this resilience," he mused, almost admiringly. "Even after repeated depletion, the musculature remains taut, the form impeccable. A true specimen." He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing in clinical inspection.

Cultist cackled again, a dry, rattling sound that scraped along Bien’s raw nerves. He moved from Bien’s chest, where he had been biting and sucking, down to his side, his tongue flicking out to taste the damp skin near his ribs. "Specimen! A resource! And the sweetest resource we have ever encountered!" He laughed again, a chilling, possessive sound. "Tell them, little well! Tell them how good it tastes to be... consumed!"

Bien convulsed against the clamps that held him spread-eagled on the table. The question was designed to break the last vestiges of his spirit, to twist the very act of his violation into something perversely desirable. His head thrashed back and forth. "No! It doesn't! It's... it's degradation! It's poison! It's... everything I am, stolen!"

Beast, positioned between Bien’s legs, grunted, his face obscured by the angle but his actions brutally clear. He leaned forward, a rough hand closing around Bien's straining erection, still hard despite the repeated forced releases, a testament to his body's inherent power and the relentless nature of the extraction. The air filled with the sound of a heavy, rhythmic impact. Thud. Thud. Thud. Beast was punching Bien's abdomen, not with brutal force meant to injure, but with a calculated, forceful pressure designed to stimulate and drain. Each punch into his tight, chiseled abs sent a shockwave through Bien's body, forcing the involuntary, humiliating spasms.

With a choked cry, another surge of semen erupted, driven by Beast’s relentless percussive blows. It splashed across Bien's face, blinding him for a moment, and poured down his chest, adding to the growing tide on his skin. More pooled in the valleys between his perfectly sculpted abdominal peaks.

Cultist immediately leaned down, his face close to Bien's belly, his eyes alight with perverse hunger. He was licking, his tongue slowly following the rivulets of semen down into the abdominal creases, lapping it up with deliberate, audible sounds that were broadcast to the world. "The sweetness!" he moaned, his voice thick with affected pleasure. "The youthful energy! It's intoxicating! Power made manifest, ready to be devoured!" He licked across Bien's naval, coated in the viscous fluid, savoring each drop.

Mastermind, ever the detached observer, watched Cultist, his expression still unreadable, but his gaze still fixed on the process. "Note the rapid depletion curve," he instructed, perhaps to a hidden camera or recording device. "Despite the volume, his production capability, while extraordinary, is not infinite in the short term. The refractory period is virtually non-existent under these conditions, but the quality, the viscosity, appears to decrease marginally with each successive forced ejection." He reached out again, drawing a fingertip through the fluid on Bien’s pec, lifting it to his masked face. He didn't consume it directly like Cultist, but observed it under the harsh lights, a scientist examining a potent, fascinating sample.

Rapis chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "He is not a well, Mastermind. He is a tap. And we control the flow." He looked directly at Bien, his smile widening cruelly. "Tell them, little tap. Tell them how many times we've made you spill your power. How many times the invincible champion has been brought to his knees by his own body."

Bien’s breath hitched, tears tracing clean paths through the semen and sweat on his cheeks. He couldn't even keep track anymore. It had been hours, maybe days. A relentless cycle of violation, exhaustion, and forced release. His body screamed in protest, muscles trembling from strain and depletion, but the rhythmic pulsing from his core, triggered by their actions, continued its humiliating betrayal. "Too many," he choked out, the words barely coherent. "Again... and again... You just... you just keep taking..."

Beast’s hand closed around his erection again, tightening with bruising force. Thud. Thud. Thud. More punches against his abs, each one forcing a deeper groan of pain and humiliation from Bien. Another wave of semen erupted, this time landing on his chin and dripping onto the concrete beneath him.

"Isn't it ironic, champion?" Rapis pressed, stepping closer, his voice laced with mockery. "The source of your power, your pride, your invincibility... is this," he gestured dismissively towards Bien's groin, "this perfectly normal, albeit copious, bodily function. All the myths, the legends, reduced to... biology. To a simple, animalistic release."

Cultist, having seemingly finished lapping the semen from Bien's abdomen, moved up, his lips brushing against Bien's chest, his tongue tracing the line of his pectoral muscle, where the semen slicked the hard, defined flesh. He paused at one of Bien's nipples, coated in the bodily fluid, leaning in to gently suckle, his eyes fixed on Bien's face, seeking a reaction, a flicker of pain or shame. Bien’s body jerked involuntarily at the sensation, a whimpering sound escaping his lips. It was a grotesque parody of intimacy, twisted into an act of utter dominance and degradation.

"Tell them, Bien," Cultist whispered, his voice amplified, intimate and sickeningly sweet. "Tell them how it feels to have your power sipped from your very skin. To know that we are consuming what made you strong."

Bien squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling uncontrollably. The feeling of Cultist's mouth on his nipple, drawing in the mixture of sweat and semen, coupled with the relentless thudding on his abs and the pressure on his groin, was overwhelming. It was a violation on so many levels – physical, emotional, spiritual. His culture, his training, his very being recoiled from this public, forced intimacy, this consumption of his most private essence. He was utterly broken.

"It feels... dirty," he whispered, the word torn from his soul. "Polluted. Like... like I'm just... a source... a thing... to be drained... and tasted..."

Mastermind nodded, making a note on a tablet. "Subject is exhibiting expected psychological distress associated with boundary violation and loss of control," he stated clinically. "However, the physiological response, the capacity for continued energy extraction, remains exceptionally high for this stage of depletion. Verifying previous hypothesis: the power source is directly linked to this specific biological process, independent of conscious control or emotional state."

Beast grunted, delivering another series of hard, controlled punches to Bien’s abs. Thud, thud, thud, thud. The sound was relentless, sickening. Bien’s body arched, his muscles straining, slick and gleaming under the harsh lights. Another thick spurt of semen, landing this time directly on his anguished face, pooling near his eyes, running down his temples.

Rapis surveyed the scene, his face alight with satisfaction. The invincible KidPinoy, the symbol of hope and strength for his people, was now a defeated, sobbing mess, his body a canvas of his own humiliation. He was not just defeated; he was defiled, reduced to a biological function exploited for their gain and the world’s morbid fascination.

"There you have it, world," Rapis announced to the livestream, his voice ringing with finality. "The truth behind the legend. The invincible champion, revealed not as a master of mystical arts, but as a biological anomaly. A fountain of power, waiting to be tapped. And we hold the tap." He gestured towards Bien, his body still trembling, his face smeared with his own essence. "He confessed it himself. Broken. Used. Just... a machine for exporting this." Rapis paused, letting the words hang in the air, letting the image of the defeated hero, slick with semen, sink into the minds of millions.

Cultist lowered his head, his tongue continuing its slow, deliberate path across Bien’s chest, seemingly lost in the perverse act of consumption. Beast continued his rhythmic punching, forcing Bien's body to continue its horrifying production. Mastermind continued his detached observation, his tablet recording every detail of the hero's biological degradation.

Bien lay there, his breath shallow, his vision blurring. He was just Bien now. Not KidPinoy. The hero was dead, drowned in his own shame and the physical reality of his stolen power. His body, once a temple, was now a desecrated well, its sacred contents exploited and consumed by his enemies, broadcast to a world that had once cheered his name. The humiliation was absolute, unending. And with each forced release, with each lick and every punch to his aching abs, the truth was reinforced – his power was not a gift; it was a vulnerability. His strength was not in his spirit, but in his seed. And they had found the terrible, sickening secret. He was just a machine, and they were draining him dry, one humiliating drop at a time.