Kidpinoy's Aftermath 17

 The small, sinewy body of Kidpinoy, Bien Regalado, twitched once more, then went utterly still, a pathetic heap on the grimy stone. Rapis looked down, his face a mask of escalating fury. “Puta?” he snarled, the word a venomous hiss in the cavernous space. “You whisper that? After all this? You’d rather die than give me the satisfaction of hearing my name, of admitting your defeat?”

His boot, still resting on the hero’s limp back, pressed down with grinding force. The crowd, which moments before had been a chorus of tittering amusement, fell silent, sensing the shift in their master’s mood. This wasn’t just about the power anymore; it was about absolute, soul-shattering dominion.

Rapis watched the prone form, his breath coming in ragged gasps of frustration. He had beaten this demigod within an inch of his life, wrung him out, drained him dry again and again. Yet, even in unconsciousness, there was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the hero’s chest, a resilience that mocked him. And then the thought hit him, colder than the dungeon air, yet so infuriating it set his blood to boil.

His eyes dropped to the hero’s groin, a place he had paid exquisite attention to for days. Even now, after being “milked dry” multiple times, after the last pathetic dribble, the bulge was still there. Stiff. Unyielding. A testament to a virility that defied logic, defied reason, defied Rapis’s will.

“Damn it!” Rapis roared, kicking the unconscious body hard, sending it skittering a few feet across the floor like a rag doll. “Damn your stubborn, resilient, Filipino body!”

He knew. He knew. The chi essence, the very nectar of power, was regenerating at an impossible rate. He’d witnessed it himself. Every time he pushed him to the brink, every time he thought he’d spent the last drop, a mere hour or two later, the hero would display that tell-tale, defiant erection, a clear sign that the wells were refilling. His very balls, those miraculous glands, were replenishing themselves faster than Rapis could conceive. He could pummel him, beat him, humiliate him, but the core of his power, his damned life force, just kept coming back. It was like trying to empty the ocean with a thimble.

This hero, this boy, was a perpetual fount of divinity, even in defeat. And that infuriated Rapis more than anything. It suggested he hadn’t truly broken him. Not yet. He could leave him here, unconscious, bleed him dry again in an hour. But then what? He’d wake up, replenish, and the cycle would repeat. Rapis needed to break him, not just his body. He needed to shatter his will, annihilate his spirit, make him a willing participant in his own destruction.

His gaze swept over the silent, expectant faces of his followers, then settled on a figure huddled in the corner, guarded by two hulking brutes – Marisol. Her face was tear-streaked, eyes wide with terror, fixed on Bien’s lifeless form. A cruel smile stretched across Rapis’s lips. He’d kept her at a distance for the last few sessions, letting Bien suffer alone, letting the memory of her screams fester in his mind. But now, it was time to bring her back into the light. Time to use the ultimate leverage.

“Bring her!” Rapis commanded, his voice cutting through the silence. “Bring the little flower, Marisol, right here!”

The brutes dragged Marisol forward, her cries muffled by a gag. Her eyes, however, held a raw, primal scream. She clawed at the air, desperate to reach Bien. Rapis chuckled, a low, guttural sound of pure malice.

He bent down, roughly grabbing Bien’s hair and yanking his head up. A groan escaped the hero’s lips, a tiny spark of returning consciousness. Good. He needed him awake for this. He needed him to see.

“Still dreaming of righteousness, Bien?” Rapis whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “Still clinging to that last shred of defiance?” He pulled harder, forcing Bien’s eyes to flutter open, hazy and uncomprehending. “Look, hero. Look who’s come to visit.”

He twisted Bien’s head, forcing his gaze toward Marisol. Her frantic struggles, her tortured sobs, finally registered in Bien’s battered mind. A horrified gasp escaped his lips, and a flicker of the old fire, not of defiance but of terror, ignited in his vacant eyes.

“Marisol,” Bien croaked, the sound barely audible.

Rapis leaned close, his breath hot against Bien’s ear. “That’s right. Marisol. Your precious little flower. The reason you held back, the reason you let us do what we did to you. The reason you kept your secret so safe.” He straightened, placing one hand on Bien’s head and the other on his jaw, forcing his gaze to remain fixed on Marisol. “Tell him, men,” Rapis gestured to the two brutes holding Marisol. “Tell our hero what we have planned for his beloved.”

One of the brutes, a burly man with scars crisscrossing his face, leered. “The Boss says she’s next. After we’re done with her, we’ll kill her slowly. Right here. In front of you, hero.”

Marisol’s eyes widened in abject terror, her body convulsing in renewed struggle. Bien’s own eyes, already bloodshot and swollen, widened further, gleaming with unshed tears. His body, which had been a limp rag doll, suddenly tensed, a desperate, futile attempt to move, to break free.

“No!” Bien rasped, a raw, tormented cry. “Don’t… don’t touch her! Please!”

Rapis’s smile was triumphant. “Ah, the hero returns! The voice of the people! You see, Bien? Your power may be boundless, but your heart… your heart is your greatest weakness. And I know precisely how to exploit it.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, letting the terror sink in. “Now, listen carefully, Bien Regalado. Your choices are simple. You can defy me, and she suffers an unimaginable fate, prolonged and agonizing. Or… you obey. You confess. You humble yourself. And she walks free. Unharmed. Alive.”

Bien stared at Marisol, then at Rapis, his eyes darting between the two, a desperate war raging within him. The dragon gods had blessed him with invulnerability, with power beyond measure, but they hadn't given him the strength to watch the innocent suffer because of him. The invulnerability was a shield for his own flesh, not for his heart.

“What… what do you want?” Bien choked out, his voice hoarse, broken.

Rapis’s grin widened, a predator savoring its prey’s surrender. “I want everything, Bien. I want your shame. Your humiliation. Your utter, complete capitulation. I want you to defile yourself, not just your body, but your soul. And I want the world to see it.” He gestured to two of his men, who approached with a heavy, crude iron collar and a length of chain. “First, a fitting adornment for the puta you called me. A collar for a dog, a chain for a slave.”

The men snapped the cold, heavy iron collar around Bien’s neck, the sharp edges biting into his bruised skin. They attached a thick, rusty chain, drawing him up onto his knees, pulling his head back, his face now fully exposed to the hungry eyes of the crowd. Bien remained motionless, his gaze fixed solely on Marisol, who whimpered softly, tears streaming down her face.

“Now, hero,” Rapis’s voice boomed, echoing the vast, cavernous space. “You will perform for us. You will show them your true face. The face of a broken man. The face of a defeated god.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper only Bien could hear. “You will touch yourself. You will pleasure yourself. And you will do it in front of everyone. You will perform, and with every stroke, you will confess. You will confess your weakness, your pathetic origin, and the truth of your defeat. And if you falter, if you hesitate, if you don’t cum for us, Marisol dies. Understand?”

Bien’s body trembled violently. He closed his eyes tight, a sob racking his frame. The thought was abhorrent, a violation worse than any physical pain he’d endured. But Marisol…

He opened his eyes, a desperate, haunted look in them. He slowly, hesitantly, lowered his cuffed hands. His fingers, bruised and scraped, fumbled at the waist of his ruined pants. His body, despite everything, responded to the command, to the sheer terror of Marisol’s life hanging in the balance. The unyielding erection, the persistent sign of his virility, pulsed beneath his fingers.

Rapis watched, a triumphant sneer on his face. This was it. The absolute breaking.

“Good, hero,” Rapis purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “Now, begin. And start with your name. Tell them who you truly are.” He grabbed the chain around Bien’s neck, yanking him slightly forward, forcing him to face the jeering crowd.

Bien swallowed hard, his throat raw. His fingers, still fumbling, started to work. A wave of shame, hotter and more searing than any physical blow, washed over him.

“My… my name is Bien Regalado,” he choked out, his voice barely audible over the growing murmur of the crowd. “I… I was an orphan… a street rat.” His voice cracked.

SLAP! Rapis’s open palm struck the side of Bien’s head. “Louder! And proud of your defeated self! Confess your pathetic origins, hero!”

Bien flinched, but the fear for Marisol kept his hands moving. His eyes, still fixed on her, pleaded mutely for forgiveness. “I was… I was born in poverty,” he forced out, louder this time, the words tasting like ash. “I was nothing. Just a boy from the streets.” He sped up his movements, desperate to get this over with, the humiliation building into a crescendo.

SLAP! Another blow, harder this time. “And who made you something? Who found you, a blessed dragon’s runt, and then brought you back down to size?”

“Rapis!” Bien cried out, a sob escaping him. “Lord Rapis… he… he found me. He defeated me.” His hand moved faster, an involuntary moan escaping his lips as the sensation, combined with the shame, became overwhelming. The divine chi, the very essence of his power, pooled and swelled.

“And how did I defeat you, hero?” Rapis’s voice was a cruel caress. “Tell them the truth. Tell them what your precious power truly is.”

Bien squeezed his eyes shut again, a tear escaping. This was the ultimate degradation. “My… my power… it’s… it’s from my… From my… cum,” he whispered, the last word barely audible, a profound personal defilement laid bare. His body shuddered violently, close to release.

“LOUDER!” Rapis roared, his face contorted in a mix of fury and twisted excitement. “LET THEM HEAR IT! LET THEM KNOW THE DIRTY TRUTH OF THEIR FAKE GOD!”

“My power… it’s my cum!” Bien screamed, the words tearing from his throat, raw and agonizing. At that very moment, his body convulsed, a wave of intense pleasure and profound shame washing over him. A thick, golden-white stream erupted, splattering onto his bruised abdomen and the stone floor. It shimmered briefly, then was absorbed by the grime, a pathetic, sacred mess.

Rapis laughed, a triumphant, guttural roar. “Look! Look at your hero! He splatters himself like a common gutter rat!” He grabbed Bien’s hair again, forcing his face upward, towards the crowd. “And that’s not all, is it, Bien? Tell them the rest! The lewd, perverse lies you’ll confess to break their faith!”

Bien was panting, shoulders heaving, utterly spent from the first forced climax, but Rapis’s grip on his hair was unyielding. He had to continue.

“I… I used my power… for selfish ends,” Bien stammered, the words pure fabrication, but necessary to keep Marisol safe. “I… I let people suffer… because I was too proud. I… I secretly enjoyed… the praise… and… and the women I couldn’t have,” he mumbled, his face burning with shame.

SLAP! SLAP! Rapis’s hand was a blur across Bien’s face. “More truth! Tell them how that little cock of yours liked to be touched when you were supposed to be heroing! Tell them the perverse things you did!”

Bien whimpered, tears streaming down his face again. His hand, as if on autopilot, returned to his still-throbbing erection, already firming again, a testament to his infuriating, constant virility. He was a machine, a fountain. He couldn’t stop it.

“I… I… I touched myself… always… even when I was fighting… I was thinking… of… of… of being touched… by… by them…” he choked out, the words an incoherent, forced perversion of his true self, designed to destroy his image. His body clenched again, and with a guttural cry, another wave of chi erupted, messy and humiliating.

The crowd roared, a mix of disgust and dark satisfaction. They had seen their hero stripped bare, not just of his power, but of his dignity, his very essence. He was just a boy, brought low, defiled, and reduced to a pathetic, self-pleasuring exhibit.

Rapis released his grip, letting Bien’s head slump forward, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat and his own spent essence. The "Puta chain" rattled as he sagged, utterly broken. His spirit, once indomitable, was now a fractured, bleeding thing. He had confessed lies, defiled himself, given up everything. He was just Bien Regalado again, the orphan, but worse: a disgraced, humiliated shell.

Rapis looked down at the crumpled form, his chest swelling with unparalleled triumph. This was better than death. Death was too easy. This… this was true conquest. He had conquered the hero’s body, his power, and now, finally, his very soul. He glanced at Marisol, her face a mask of horror, her silence a testament to her shock.

“Take her away,” Rapis commanded, his voice calm, utterly victorious. “And ensure she receives… our hospitality. She’s seen enough of her hero’s true nature.”

He wouldn’t kill her. Not now. Not yet. He had promised Bien her life, and a broken hero was more useful than a dead one. But Bien would never know if she was truly safe. That doubt, that fear, would be his final, exquisite torment. The knowledge that he had been forced to destroy himself, his reputation, his very identity, for a hope of her safety that was forever uncertain.

Rapis smiled, a cold, hard, triumphant line. The Philippines would have no hero now. Only a broken vessel, forever leaking its divine essence, a living monument to Rapis’s ultimate, total victory.