Kidpinoy' Aftermath 16
“Get him up,” I snarled at two of my jackals. They hauled his naked, limp body from the floor, holding him upright. His head lolled, a mask of slack-jawed emptiness. But as I watched, my fury sharpened into a keen, predatory focus. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth was beginning to emanate from his core. The ugly, deep bruises on his stomach seemed a fraction less stark, the swell of his testicles, which had been wrung and emptied, was slowly, impossibly, beginning to regain a hint of their former virility. His cock, which had been pathetically flaccid, was thickening, hardening with a defiant, biological imperative that had nothing to do with conscious thought.
His recovery was an insult. A biological rebellion against my authority. His Filipino blood, his divine heritage—it was a damn furnace that reignited itself the moment I turned my back. I could beat him, drain him, break him, but leave him for an hour and the process would have to start all over again. The beatings were not enough. The pain was not enough. I needed to shatter the furnace itself. I needed to break the man, not just the body.
Worry coiled in my gut. What if he recovered while we slept? What if that defiant spark returned with his strength? No. The lesson was not over. It had barely begun.
“Bring her,” I commanded.
A new wave of murmuring rippled through the crowd as two more of my men dragged Marisol forward. She fought, kicking and spitting, her eyes wild with terror and a desperate, useless fury. She was a firefly next to the sun Bien had once been, but she was radiant in her defiance. They forced her to her knees a dozen feet from him.
I grabbed a fistful of Bien’s damp, black hair and yanked his head up, forcing his unfocused eyes in her direction. “Bien,” I purred, my voice a venomous caress against his ear. “Wake up. Your little flower is here. Look at her. So brave. So foolish.”
His eyes struggled to focus. They swam, then cleared, landing on Marisol. A sound, a broken, guttural moan, tore itself from his throat. It was the sound of a soul being ripped in two. He saw her tear-streaked face, the ropes on her wrists.
“You see, hero?” I whispered. “I grow tired of this game. I grow tired of your body’s stubborn refusal to learn its place. Your chi will always return. Your muscles will always heal. But her?” I let the threat hang in the air, thick and poisonous. “She is so very fragile. I am going to have my men take her. Right here. On this floor. And I am going to make you watch. I will make you watch them break her, use her, and when they are finished, I will kill her. Slowly. Your precious secret will be a public spectacle.”
His body went rigid in my men’s grasp. The flicker of hatred from before was nothing compared to the inferno that now blazed in his eyes. He tried to lunge forward, a deep, animalistic roar building in his chest, but the hands holding him were iron.
“Ah, ah, ah,” I tutted, shaking his head by his hair. “Wrong answer. But there is another way. A better way. You will prove to me, and to everyone here, that you are no longer a god. You are my thing. My property. You will confess it. You will perform it. You will defile your own image, your own body, your own name. And if you do it well enough… if you please me… maybe I will let her live to see tomorrow.”
I watched the fight in his eyes. The warrior, the god, the hero—it was all there, screaming at him to let her die with honor, to not give in. But then his gaze fell on her face again, on her terrified, pleading eyes, and the hero broke. The god fell. The warrior surrendered. Everything that made him Bien Regalado crumbled to dust, replaced by the desperate, primal need of a man to save the one he loves.
“What… what do you want?” he rasped, his voice raw and defeated.
Victory. Sweet, absolute victory. I let him go. He slumped to his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably.
“I want a show,” I said, my voice booming for the crowd. I stood over his kneeling form. “I want you to show them the truth. Show them what you’ve become.” I pointed a finger down at his own body. “Grope yourself. Touch yourself like the pervert we’ve made you. Show them how we taught your body to crave its own degradation.”
He stared at his hands, trembling, as if they belonged to someone else. He looked at Marisol, his eyes swimming with tears of shame. Her sob was a knife in his gut.
“DO IT!” I roared, kicking his side.
With a choked, pathetic cry, he obeyed. His hands, which had once channeled divine power, moved clumsily over his own chest, his savaged abdomen. He flinched at his own touch. “Harder,” I commanded. “Like you mean it.”
I grabbed his hair, forcing his head up to face the leering crowd. “Now, masturbate. Right here. Show them how we can make you spill your divine seed with nothing but shame and fear. Show them your power is mine to command.”
Tears streamed down his face as his trembling hand went to his own impossibly hard cock. He closed his eyes, his body shuddering with self-loathing. I slapped the back of his head. “Open your eyes! Look at them! You belong to them now!”
His eyes snapped open, vacant and broken. As he began the humiliating motion, I leaned down, my script ready. “And now, the confession. Repeat after me: ‘I am no hero.’”
“I… am no hero,” he sobbed, his voice cracking.
SLAP.
“‘I am weak.’”
“I am… weak.”
SLAP.
“‘Lord Rapis broke me. He is my master.’”
“Lord Rapis… broke me… He is my master.”
Each confession was a nail in his coffin. The crowd was silent, mesmerized by the absolute destruction of their icon. His movements became more frantic, more desperate, driven by my commands and the slaps that punctuated his humiliation.
“‘I enjoyed the pain he gave me!’” I snarled, yanking his head back.
“I… enjoyed… the pain…” A visceral shudder wracked his frame. His hips bucked, and with a cry that was half-agony, half-release, he came. A thick jet of golden, shimmering essence splattered onto the filthy stone, a pathetic firework of his own ruin. He collapsed forward, gasping, spent.
But I wasn’t finished. “Again,” I commanded, hauling him back to his knees. “Your virility is an insult. We will drain it until there is nothing left. Confess! Tell them the perverse lies! ‘I begged him to defile me!’”
SLAP.
“I… begged… him to defile me!” he cried out, his hand working again, his body already responding against its will.
“‘I wanted him to break me! I wanted to be his whore!’”
SLAP.
“I wanted… to be his… whore!” He screamed the words this time, his mind shattering. And again, he climaxed, a weaker spurt this time, the golden light dimmer. He was emptying, his body and soul being wrung out like a wet rag.
Again and again, I forced him. I made him confess to every depraved lie I could conceive, each one destroying another piece of his legend, each slap a reminder of who was in control, each forced orgasm a theft of his very essence. He was a puppet, a marionette jerking on my strings, his face a mess of tears, sweat, and shame.
Finally, after a fifth, pitifully weak release that was barely a shimmering drop, he couldn’t continue. His body was spent. He fell forward onto the stone floor and didn't move, his breath coming in shallow, ragged whimpers. The once-proud steel of his erection was gone, leaving only violated flesh.
I stood over him, my chest heaving not with exertion, but with triumph. I looked at the crowd, at their stunned, sated faces. I looked at Marisol, who was weeping silently, her spirit broken by the sight. And then I looked down at the husk at my feet.
He wasn’t unconscious this time. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. They were completely empty. The furnace was extinguished. The hero was dead. All that was left was my thing. My creation.
“The lesson,” I announced to the cavern, my voice dripping with satisfaction, “is now over.”
Imagine the cum of the hero being used to impregnate his lover to torture his future spawn.
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