KidPinoy Aftermath #9
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 grabbed a handful of Bien's sweat-slicked hair, yanking his head back brutally. Bien’s neck muscles strained, but offered little resistance. The strength had been leached away, replaced by a hollow ache that resonated with each forced expulsion. "Tell them, hero. Tell them what you are now."
Bien’s eyes, bloodshot and swollen, fixed on the camera lens, not with defiance, but with the vacant horror of a trapped animal. Tears traced paths through the grime and dried fluids on his cheeks. His mouth opened, a dry, cracked line. "Broken..." The word was barely a whisper, choked with shame and pain.
Rapis laughed, a harsh, grating sound. Perspective: Lord Rapis
Ah, the sweet taste of victory. Not just victory, but utter obliteration. Bien Regalado, KidPinoy – the symbol, the hope, the damn thorn in my side for years. Small, yes, but that wiry frame was a vessel for power I couldn't comprehend. Unyielding, they called him. Resolute. Virgin. That was the key. That potent, untapped reservoir. Mastermind’s analysis was chillingly accurate. His chi wasn't just generated; it was stored, refined, amplified within his... essence. And once the dam was broken, the flood was endless.
Look at him now. Kneeling, naked but for the straps and clamps that kept him yielding. His dark skin gleams under the harsh lights, but it's not the healthy glow of a hero; it's slick with sweat, tears, and the constant, pathetic ooze that streams from his still-throbbing cock. It’s hard, yes, eternally engorged, a testament to the power we’re extracting, but also to his utter lack of control. Every tremor, every gasp, every spurt confirms that we own him, body and soul.
"Speak louder, boy!" I barked, slapping him across the face. The sound echoed. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. "Tell them about the source of your 'invincible' power!"
He flinched but slowly turned his head back. His lip was split. "My... my seed..." he stammered, the words dragged from the very depths of his humiliation. A fresh wave pulsed from him, arcing onto his chest. "My... semen..."
Cultist giggled, a high-pitched, disturbing sound from the shadows behind the camera. Mastermind watched, impassive but with that glint of intellectual satisfaction in his eyes. Beast just grunted, a low, guttural sound of approval. They understood. They were privy to the secret. And now, the city would be too. We weren't just draining him; we were defiling the symbol. Making his very essence, the source of his power that they admired, into something base, exploited, and utterly pathetic. His semen, once the potential of untold power, now just a humiliating mess, dripping onto his once-proud body. And it would continue to drip. Forever, if we willed it.
Perspective: Mastermind
Fascinating. The human body, a biological machine capable of such incredible energy production, provided the right catalyst is applied. KidPinoy was an anomaly, a nexus of untapped potential. His supposed "chi" wasn't mystical energy in the traditional sense; it was a highly concentrated bio-electric fluid, requiring a specific, unreleased state to reach critical mass. The virginity wasn't a moral quality, but a crucial containment mechanism. By forcing rupture and continuous expulsion, we bypass the bottleneck. We don't just use his power; we harvest its raw, unfocused source.
The process is remarkably efficient. The initial resistance was significant, a veritable dam. But once breached, the intrinsic biological imperative took over, aided by targeted stimuli. His system, overloaded, now treats the expulsion as a perpetual state, a broken faucet pouring endlessly. The physical degradation is a necessary byproduct, the system cannibalizing itself to maintain the flow. His muscles, though still present, are flaccid and unresponsive beneath the surface tension of sweat and ejaculate.
Observe his reaction to Rapis's questioning. He is past the point of coherent thought or defiance. His answers are rote, extracted through pain and exhaustion. The public broadcast is a crucial psychological component. Not for him, he is no longer capable of processing that level of shame. It is for the populace. To see their champion reduced to this, a humiliated fountain of his own essence, breaks not just the man, but the myth. Fear is a powerful weapon, but disillusionment is often more effective in the long run.
"Bien," I said, stepping into the light, my voice calm, almost clinical. "Tell the people watching. Tell them what you feel now, knowing everything you were is being used against them."
He shivered, his eyes flicking towards me. His constant, low keening intensified slightly. "Empty... dirty... they see... I'm weak..." Another thick pulse coated his abdomen, joining the already glistening layer there. The sweetish, metallic scent was becoming pervasive in the chamber.
Yes, weak. Precisely. And public knowledge of that weakness is our ultimate tool. The taste, as Cultist so eagerly anticipates, is merely part of the complete sensory documentation. To truly understand the nature of this power, one must interact with it on every level. It is a violation, yes, but a necessary one for complete control and analysis.
Perspective: Cultist
Oh, the divine flow! The sacred ichor! This is not merely semen; it is the very essence of youthful, potent virility, corrupted and harnessed. The boy, a vessel of raw, unchannelled potential, forced to spill forth the very source of his being. There is a twisted holiness in this degradation, a perversion of creation into destruction. He was pure, and now he is utterly defiled by the endless outpouring of himself.
Look! See how it accumulates on his chiseled chest, coating the valleys and ridges of those dark muscles. It drips from his chin, pooling on the concrete. It is a testament to his brokenness, a physical manifestation of our dominion. Rapis strikes him, Mastermind probes his mind, Beast watches with animal satisfaction, but I understand the spiritual weight of this sacrilege. He was a temple, and we have forced the temple to weep its very foundations.
Rapis slapped him again. "Tell them who owns you now, KidPinoy! Tell them your masters!"
"You... all of you..." Bien choked out, the constant strain evident in his voice. His hips spasmed again, a weak tremor that still managed to produce another gush. The fluid landed on his thigh, thick and viscous.
I couldn't contain my delight. I stepped forward, drawn to the spectacle. His body was a canvas of his own defeat. The muscles, once hard and defiant, now seemed merely conduits for this pathetic, continuous act. I knelt beside him, ignoring Rapis. My fingers, gloved, reached out, tracing the stream running down his abdomen. It was warm. Still warm, despite the endless flow.
"Little vessel," I murmured, my voice low and reverent in its perversion. "Your sacrifice is... profound." I scooped a small amount from his chest on my fingertip. Rapis looked annoyed, but Mastermind merely observed. I raised the finger to my lips, tasting the coppery. sweet fluid. It was... power. Defiled, yes, but undeniably potent in its raw state. A wave of strange energy seemed to hum through me. This was the ultimate act of possession – not just taking his power, but incorporating its very source.
"Taste the hero's tears and shame," I whispered, close enough for only Bien to hear. His eyes widened slightly in horror. "Taste the essence of KidPinoy, reduced to this."
Perspective: Beast
Good. Very good. The little one is broken. His muscles shake, but not with strength now. With weakness. With fear. He was fast, like a mongoose. Strong, like a bull sometimes. But the Masters found the soft place. The place where he bleeds white instead of red.
He makes that sound. A low whine. It is the sound of prey that knows it is taken. I like the sound. I like looking at him. His body is hard, yes, even now with the white stuff all over it. Like smooth rocks, covered in slime. But the hardness is useless. It cannot fight the drip. It cannot stop the shame.
Rapis hits him. Good. Make him jump. Make the white stuff come faster. Cultist touches him. He licks the white stuff. Strange. But it is Mastermind's plan. Everything is plan. My part is simple. Watch. Ensure no fight left. Enjoy the breaking.
He is answering the questions now. Names. Their names. My name too? Yes. "Beast... you violated..."
He remembers. Good. Let him remember who broke him. Let him drown in the white stuff that comes from inside him. It covers his face sometimes when he lolls his head. Makes his dark skin shiny and wet.
Rapis grabbed his chin, forcing his head up towards the camera again. "One last question, KidPinoy! For the whole city! What is your purpose now?"
Bien’s body spasmed violently, another huge gush arcing across his face, momentarily obscuring his eyes. He coughed, sputtering, the fluid thick around his lips. He looked utterly pathetic, soaked in his own humiliating discharge. His voice was a broken sob.
"To... to spill..." he whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of his ragged breathing and the muffled buzz of the camera. "To spill... for you..."
Rapis threw his head back and roared with laughter. Mastermind smiled faintly. Cultist hummed a low, satisfied tune. I simply watched, feeling the deep, guttural satisfaction of seeing the strong made weak, the defiant made submissive, the hero drowned in his own, endless, pathetic flow. KidPinoy was gone. Only the fountain remained. And the city would see. The city would understand. And the city would yield.
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