Martial Arts Hero Milked and Gutpunching Stories

 The collective, predatory inhale of the room was louder than the hum of the streaming equipment. Sweat, expensive cologne, and the metallic scent of cruelty hung in the air. Kidpinoy’s world had narrowed to a searing, unbearable point of violation. Bungo, the traitor he’d once pulverized with a single, contemptuous backhand, was now buried to the hilt inside him, a living, throbbing monument to his utter defeat. “See, bayaw?” Bungo grunted, his voice a wet, gleeful rasp against Kidpinoy’s ear. His arms, thick and roped with muscle earned from a lifetime of thuggery, were locked around Kidpinoy’s torso in a crushing, possessive hug. “All that training… all those sit-ups… made your outside hard like iron. But inside?” He pistoned his hips upward, a brutal, grinding thrust that forced a choked, guttural sound from Kidpinoy’s throat. “Inside, you’re just soft, warm, and tight. My cock is stretching your impenetrable abs from the inside, hero. I can feel them… my head is kissing them. ...

  The name KidPinoy was a prayer on the lips of the desperate and a curse on the tongues of the wicked. He was a specter woven from the grime and grit of Tondo’s alleys, a creature of pure will forged in the crucible of Philippine poverty. His legend was built not on magic, but on an indomitable body and a spirit that refused to break. At 5’5”, he was a compact storm of sun-kissed, taut sinew, every muscle defined with the sharp clarity of a survivalist’s anatomy. His armor-like abs were legendary, a sculpted wall that had deflected knives and bullets. His endurance seemed inexhaustible, a wellspring of power that fueled his pulverizing fists, fists that had reduced criminal empires to dust. His enemies were not fellow street brawlers. They were men who waged war from leather-bound chairs in air-conditioned towers. A consortium of old, white, supremely wealthy men who saw his homeland as a failing business and him as a rebellious asset. Led by the cold, calculating Silas Thorne, th...

  The stench of cheap cigar smoke and expensive cologne was a thick, cloying perfume that filled the expansive, windowless chamber. It was the smell of absolute power, of old money and older hatreds. In the center of this opulent dungeon, under the cold glare of halogen spotlights arranged for the cameras, hung Kamao. His sun-kissed, tautly muscled body, a masterpiece of poverty-forged discipline, was suspended in a grotesque parody of a crucifixion. A thick, black leather collar was buckled around his neck, the attached chain pulled taut to a ceiling hook, forcing his head up in a permanent, straining arc. His arms, usually instruments of lightning-fast justice, were chained wide apart. But the most profound violation was below. He was impaled, forced to sit upon the engorged, veiny cock of Silas Thorne, the patriarch of this cabal of rich, perverted racists. Thorne, a man in his late sixties with a shock of white hair and eyes the colour of a winter sky, lay on a low, leather-pad...