Martial Arts Hero Milked and Gutpunching Stories

The stench of Tondo was a familiar armor to KidPinoy. It was the smell of fish drying on lines, of open sewage, of countless bodies living in resilient proximity, of a struggle that was its own kind of beauty. It was the smell of home. For years, he had been its silent, stoic guardian. Not with the blessings of gods, but with the hardened fists of a man who had clawed his way from its deepest gutters. His body, a testament to that struggle, was a compact, sinewy weapon. Every muscle in his torso was a defined ridge of brown, sun-kissed flesh, his arms corded with the power that could shatter concrete. His face, handsome and sharp, was a mask of resolute calm, his eyes holding the quiet fire of a man who had never known a single day of easy living. His "costume" was a simple pair of worn-out jeans and a dark hoodie, his face often obscured by shadow. They called him KidPinoy—a digital-age folk hero. He was a rumor, a ghost story the corrupt politicians and drug lords told each...

  "Now, how does it feel? How does it feel to be attacked from the front and from behind... KidPinoy... no, Bien Regalado- Hehehehe." "Haa... haa... ah, ugh!!... ah... ahhh..." Two lewd, wet sounds and a man's deep moans echoed through the dark, narrow room. In the center of the room, Bien's hands and feet were bound with chains stretching from the ceiling and floor in four places, forcing him to spread his legs wide open in an X-shape. His legs were also spread wide open, but the restraining chains seemed to be retractable, stretching him so tightly that he was almost at his limit, preventing him from bending his body or even his knees. Furthermore, the room was as hot as a sauna, and Bien seemed to be enduring the pain while sweat profusely dripped from his entire body. Bien himself couldn't tell if the liquid coming from his mouth was saliva or sweat. In his hazy state, all he could comprehend was the constant stream of pleasure coursing through his e...

 The war was over. The heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath, the clouds stained a bruised purple and angry crimson from the celestial blood that had been spilled. On the blasted plains before the shattered Southern Gate, two figures remained. One stood, the other was broken at his feet. Chi You, the War God reborn, loomed like a mountain of scarred flesh and blackened iron. His four eyes, two on his face and two on his torso, burned with the infernal light of a billion slaughtered souls. His bull horns swept back from a brow thick with rage and triumph. In his six hands, he held no weapon, for the only weapon he needed was the utter devastation he had wrought. At his feet, half-submerged in a crater of his own making, was Erlang Shen. The Illustrious Sage, the God of Justice, the nephew of the Jade Emperor, was a ruin. His silver armor was rent and blackened, twisted into a cage of jagged metal that bit into his flesh. His divine spear, the three-pointed, double-edged bla...

 The air in the throne room of Pangaea Castle did not simply smell of ozone and blood; it tasted of finality. Smoke, thick and acrid from the smoldering crater in the marble floor, coiled like phantom serpents. At its center lay Monkey D. Luffy, a broken god. Gear Five, the embodiment of liberation, the Sun God Nika, had been extinguished. The white hair and vapor-wreathed form had receded, leaving behind the raw, bruised flesh of a twenty-year-old boy. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow hitches. One eye was swollen shut, a grotesque plum of burst capillaries. The other, a sliver of obsidian, struggled to focus. “The drum of liberation has fallen silent,” spoke Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, his voice a dry rustle like ancient parchment. He stood over Luffy, the pristine tip of his Shodai Kitetsu resting lightly on the boy’s heaving sternum. “A most… disappointing crescendo.” Saint Shepherd Topman Warcury lumbered forward, his immense form blocking the shattered moonlight fro...

*** The air in the penthouse suite was a suffocating blanket of expensive cigars and aged brandy, a world away from the vibrant, chaotic symphony of salt, sweat, and sizzling street food that KidPinoy knew as home. Home was a memory, a phantom pain. The only reality was the cold, unyielding marble beneath his bare knees, its glacial touch seeping into his bones, a constant, humiliating reminder of his total and utter defeat. His name, KidPinoy, had once been a rallying cry in the labyrinthine alleys of Tondo. He was the people's champion, a digital-age folk hero whose fists were the hammers that shattered the criminal syndicates preying on the weak. Those fists had been his pride, his power, extensions of his indomitable Filipino spirit. Now, they were useless, heavy lumps of meat at his sides. His wrists were bound in thick, oiled leather cuffs, chained to the floor behind him, forcing his shoulders back into a painful, perpetual arch of submission. A heavy, ornate steel collar, i...