KidPinoy's Aftermath 20
“A fine demonstration,” Mastermind noted, his voice detached, analytical. From his perspective, this was a successful experiment. He watched the tremors racking your frame, the way your eyelids fluttered, unable to focus. He saw not a defeated hero, but a biological specimen pushed past its limits. Fascinating, he thought. The chi production is directly linked to sexual stimulation, but also to extreme duress. The pain seems to trigger a failsafe, a desperate expulsion of life force. We haven't just found a weakness; we've found the spigot.
“But this private celebration is over,” Rapis announced, his voice booming in the cavernous chamber. He gestured towards a massive stone archway that had been shrouded in shadow. “Our followers have been patient. They deserve a reward for their loyalty. They deserve to witness the final fall of the so-called ‘People’s Champion’.”
Cultist’s eyes gleamed with fanatical light from beneath his hood. To him, this was more than victory; it was blasphemous ecstasy. KidPinoy was a symbol of hope, a false idol blessed by dragon gods he despised. To see that idol defiled, to have its holy essence spilled upon the floor and smeared across its own skin, was the ultimate sacrament. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of your sweat in the air. “Let the congregation feast their eyes,” he hissed. “Let them see their god become a whore.”
With a shared, cruel understanding, Mastermind and Cultist grabbed you again. Your feet dragged uselessly against the cold stone as they hauled you towards the archway. Beyond it, a low roar grew louder—the sound of a crowd, hungry and vile. They threw you through the opening, and you tumbled down a short flight of steps, landing in a heap on a circular stone dais.
The chamber was a crude amphitheater, packed with a writhing mob of Rapis's foot soldiers and Cultist's monstrous acolytes. Grotesque figures with twisted limbs and leering faces, the very dregs of humanity and beyond that you had fought for a decade to keep locked away in the dark. Now, their eyes were all on you. A hundred pairs of hateful, lustful eyes.
The mob surged forward. There was no finesse, no calculated cruelty like that of their masters. This was a storm of pure, frenzied violence. Fists and feet rained down on you. Kicks landed on your ribs, your back, your thighs. The impacts were dull and heavy, each one jarring your exhausted body, but the invulnerability granted by your chi, however faint it was now, kept your bones from shattering. It only meant you could feel everything without the mercy of passing out.
They tore at your ruined shorts, ripping away the last scrap of your dignity. Hands, rough and clawed, grabbed at you, turning you over, pinning you face down on the cold stone. From Cultist’s vantage point on the steps above, it was a beautiful, chaotic tableau. He watched as his children, his monsters, swarmed their prize. This was the true nature of the world, he believed—the strong devouring the weak. He began a low, guttural chant, and the mob seemed to respond, their violence taking on a rhythmic, ritualistic quality.
One creature with a face like a pitted gourd pressed its wet mouth to the taut muscle of your back, sucking and suckling at your sun-kissed skin, leaving a trail of hickeys like leprous blemishes. Another, scaly and thin, forced your legs apart, its forked tongue darting out to lick at your anus, its foul breath hot against your skin. You felt a sickening pressure as they rimmed you, a violation that sent shudders of revulsion through your spine. Two more crawled to your front, their gnarled hands pinning your shoulders down while their mouths latched onto your testicles, suckling greedily as if trying to draw out the very seed of your power.
And through it all, the pain and the sheer horror of it, your body betrayed you again. The constant, overwhelming stimulation—the beating, the gnawing, the invasive licking—was too much. With a choked sob, you felt the inevitable build-up, and another jet of semen shot out, spattering uselessly against the stone floor. Your chi, your life force, wasted on the dirt. The mob roared in delight.
That was Lord Rapis’s cue.
“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, and the mob, for all its frenzy, fell back instantly, parting like a sea before their master.
He strode to the center of the dais, his boots echoing with finality. He looked down at you, a sprawling, abused mess of a man, still twitching from the assault. From his perspective, this was perfection. Every promise he’d ever made to himself about your downfall was being fulfilled. He had not just defeated you; he had unmade you.
He knelt, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up from the filth-strewn floor. Your eyes were glazed, unfocused. “Look at me, boy,” he snarled, his face inches from yours. “Look at the man who owns you.”
He saw the flicker of recognition, the last spark of defiance trying to ignite in the depths of your pupils before drowning in overwhelming despair.
“You fought for these islands,” Rapis spat, his voice dripping with condescending venom. “You, a little brown street rat, thought you could be their king. A tiny, virile monkey playing god.” He ran a hand down your sinewy arm, his touch a possessive caress. “But all that power, all that righteous Filippino pride, was just locked up in your balls. How pathetic. How… predictable.”
He forced you onto your back. The monsters watched, silent and eager. Rapis lowered his head, his lips brushing against the head of your still-aching, semi-erect penis. You flinched violently, a whimper escaping your throat.
“Shhh,” Rapis murmured against you. “Don’t fight it. This is your purpose now. You are not a hero. You are not a protector. You are a natural resource. And I am here to collect.”
He took you into his mouth. The act was the ultimate humiliation, the final stamp of his ownership. He was not just violating you; he was consuming you. With practiced ease, he sucked and teased, his tongue working expertly, his goal not pleasure, but production. He was milking you, draining the last dregs of the dragon gods' gift.
“That’s it,” he said around you, his voice muffled. “Give your master the last drop. Give me all that exotic energy. Let’s see if it tastes like mangoes and desperation.”
The race play was the final nail. He was stripping away not just your heroism, but your very identity, reducing you to a crude caricature, a colonial fantasy. And under his relentless, skillful assault, your broken body, which knew nothing anymore but reflex and stimulation, gave one last, final shudder.
A weak, watery stream of fluid spilled into his mouth. It was thin, almost translucent, the last bit of chi you had left. Rapis swallowed it down with a triumphant groan, then pulled away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
He looked down at your limp, unresponsive form. Your eyes were open but saw nothing. The light had gone out. Your dark skin, once a symbol of resilience, was now just a canvas of bruises and filth. The taut muscles, once coiled for action, were slack with defeat.
Lord Rapis stood up and turned to the silent, watching mob.
“Behold!” he cried, his voice echoing in the chamber. “Your KidPinoy! Your hero! He is nothing! A fountain, drained dry. An idol, shattered. From this day forward, he belongs to us. He is our pet. Our toy. Our whore.”
The mob erupted in a deafening roar, a sound of pure, savage victory. But you didn't hear it. You were adrift in a silent, empty sea, the last echo of the dragon’s power finally gone, leaving only the shell of a boy named Bien.
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