KidPinoy's Aftermath 14
Rapis laughed, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. He pushed his fingers through his own slick, dark hair, his eyes alight with a feverish glee. “Stabilize it? My dear Mastermind, you miss the point entirely.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The beauty of this power isn't in its containment. It's in its release. It’s in the breaking of the vessel that holds it.”
He turned his gaze back to Bien, who was now a trembling, sobbing wreck, his body still being rhythmically slammed onto Beast’s unyielding erection. “His power was his pride. His strength was his purity. We will not just drain him of one; we will shatter the other. A lesson must not only be taught, it must be witnessed.”
With a sharp nod, he gave the order. “Bring him.”
Mastermind and Cultist ceased their brutal puppetry, hauling Bien’s limp form off Beast. A wet, tearing sound filled the chamber as he was pulled free, and Bien let out a long, agonized moan. He was dragged across the cold stone floor, leaving a trail of sweat, tears, and his own life-giving semen. They moved from the private torture chamber into a much larger cavern, and the low, indistinct murmur Bien had barely registered before swelled into a deafening roar.
He was thrown onto a raised stone platform in the center of the cavern. Before him, illuminated by flickering torchlight, was a mob. A sea of snarling faces, leering eyes, and slavering mouths. Thugs, sycophants, and grotesque, half-human monstrosities that served as Rapis’s enforcers. They were a pack of hyenas, and he was the wounded lion cub thrown into their midst.
“Behold your champion!” Rapis bellowed to the crowd, his voice echoing off the damp rock walls. “The invincible KidPinoy! He who guarded your shores and protected your people! Look upon him now and see the truth of his power!”
The mob surged forward. There was no order, no finesse, just a chaotic, overwhelming assault. Hands, claws, and rough, calloused fingers grabbed at him from every direction. His already torn shorts were ripped away completely. Fists and feet rained down on his torso and legs—not to kill, but to hurt, to tenderize, to remind every inch of his taut muscle that it was no longer invincible.
A brutish thug with yellowed tusks forced his legs apart while another held him down by the shoulders. He felt a rough, painful entry from behind, followed immediately by another, and then another. The pain was blinding, a cacophony of violations that erased all thought. He was a piece of meat being fought over by starving dogs. His body, pushed past every conceivable limit, reacted with the only defense it had left. With each agonizing thrust from the monstrous mob, his penis, still painfully hard and clamped, jerked and spurted, sending weak, watery streams of his essence onto the grimy bodies of his assailants. The chi—the divine gift of the dragon gods—was being spilled onto the floor, wasted, devoured by the profane. He was a fountain, just as they’d called him, but now he was a public spectacle, his life force erupting with every degrading, painful violation. His spirit, already fractured, began to crumble into dust.
Mastermind’s Perspective
He watched from the edge of the platform, his arms crossed. The chaos was… inefficient. Aesthetically displeasing. But he understood its purpose. This was for the morale of the rabble and the utter psychological destruction of the subject. He cataloged Bien’s reactions with a detached, clinical eye. The involuntary muscle spasms, the arching of the back, the specific frequency of the ejaculations triggered by the over-stimulation and trauma. Fascinating. The body’s autonomic responses were truly a marvel, even in this state of degradation.
When Rapis finally signaled for the mob to recede, Mastermind was the first to step forward. The beasts backed away, grumbling, leaving Bien a broken, twitching mess on the stone slab, slick with a dozen different fluids, his own being the most prominent.
“Such a waste of the raw material,” he murmured, kneeling beside the boy. He placed a hand on Bien’s chest, feeling the frantic, shallow flutter of his heart. The skin was hot, feverish. He dipped a finger into the mixture of sweat and semen on Bien’s abdomen and brought it to his lips. A complex profile. Salty, with a faint, almost electric sweetness underneath. The very taste of power. He let his hand trail lower, his fingers brushing against the taut, sinewy muscles of Bien’s thigh. He began to suckle at the skin there, a slow, deliberate act of analysis. He wasn’t indulging a base lust like the mob; he was gathering data, discerning the texture of defeat, the lingering potency in the flesh. “Even now,” he noted aloud to the others, “the cellular structure is remarkable. The resilience is… was… extraordinary.”
Cultist’s Perspective
Cultist saw not a broken boy, but a fallen idol. A profane vessel that had dared to channel a divine power it was unworthy of. This entire process was a holy, righteous act of purification. He followed Mastermind onto the platform, his movements slow and reverent. The mob had desecrated the vessel, yes, but now it was time for the true priests of this new order to perform the final rites.
He moved to the foot of the slab, positioning himself between Bien’s trembling legs. The boy’s anus was a brutalized ruin, glistening and raw. For Cultist, it was a gateway, a wound that had bled the false hero’s strength. With a sense of sanctimonious purpose, he lowered his head. He was not merely rimming the boy; he was cleansing the site of his downfall, anointing himself with the lingering traces of his shame. His tongue, dry and probing, lapped at the abused flesh.
Then, his attention shifted to the source itself. He took Bien’s clamped, aching testicles into his mouth, one by one. They were heavy, swollen, the glands that produced the sacred nectar. He suckled on them gently, a perverse parody of a babe at its mother’s breast. He could feel the thrum of what little energy remained within them. He was a devotee, prostrate before his god’s defeated enemy, partaking in a sacrament of humiliation. “The glands of the dragon’s chosen,” he whispered, his voice muffled. “Hallowed be their emptiness. Blessed be their violation.” Every whimper Bien made was a hymn to his ears.
Lord Rapis’s Perspective
Rapis watched his lieutenants perform their roles, a slow, predator’s smile on his face. This was true art. A symphony of degradation. Mastermind, the cold intellect. Cultist, the zealous fanatic. And he, the conductor and grand beneficiary. He strode to the head of the slab, the conquering emperor claiming his ultimate prize.
He gripped Bien’s jaw, forcing the boy’s dazed, tear-filled eyes to look at him. “It’s almost over, little brown god,” he purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “The great KidPinoy. The pride of the archipelago. Do your ancestors weep for you? Do the dragon gods avert their eyes in shame?”
He lowered his head, his lips hovering over Bien’s own. But he didn’t kiss him. Instead, he moved down, his tongue flicking out to taste the trail of his own spittle and Bien’s semen on the boy’s chin. Then he moved lower still, his gaze fixed on the boy's painfully erect penis, the metal clamps glinting in the torchlight.
“Now,” Rapis declared, his voice a low command that silenced the entire cavern. “For the final draught.”
He took Bien into his mouth. There was no lust in the act, only an insatiable hunger for power. He sucked with a practiced, relentless rhythm, his goal not pleasure but production. He was draining a well, pulling the last dregs of power from the boy’s very soul.
“Look at me, boy,” he commanded, his words guttural around the flesh in his mouth. He felt the familiar surge as Bien’s body gave its final, shuddering response. A thick, surprisingly potent stream of chi-essence flooded his throat. He swallowed it down, feeling a jolt of pure energy course through him, warming him from the inside out. It was exquisite. The power was purer, more direct, than any he had ever tasted.
He didn’t stop. He continued his work, ignoring Bien’s weak, protesting squirms. “This is the nectar of your people, isn’t it?” he taunted, pulling back just enough to speak clearly. “This exotic little fruit that thought it could stand against me. I’m drinking your spirit, Bien Regalado. I’m swallowing your heritage.”
He went back to it, draining him again. And again. The spurts grew weaker, thinner, losing their pearlescent glow. Bien’s sun-kissed skin began to look pale, ashen. The vibrant, living energy that had made him KidPinoy was being consumed, transferred. Bien’s eyes, once so full of fire and defiance, were now vacant, unfocused. A profound coldness spread through his limbs. He could feel himself fading, the last embers of the dragon’s gift being extinguished in the throat of his conqueror.
Finally, after one last, pathetic trickle, Rapis pulled away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a triumphant, proprietary gesture. He looked down at the boy, now little more than a husk. His body was still beautiful, a sculpture of lean, taut muscle, but the light within was gone.
“There,” Rapis announced to the silent, watching mob. “The fountain has run dry. KidPinoy is no more. There is only Bien Regalado, our plaything. And his power… his power is mine.” He threw his head back and laughed, a sound of absolute, soul-crushing victory that echoed in the sudden, terrifying silence of Bien’s mind.
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