Kamao's Dessecration

 

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-padded divan, his hands resting on Kamao’s tense thighs, guiding the helpless, up-and-down motion. Two other villains, the brutish Bronson and the sly, sneering Crawford, each held one of Kamao’s legs aloft, spreading him wide, putting every inch of his humiliation on display. He was a dissected frog, a specimen of conquered heroism.

A powerful cocktail of narcotics and aphrodisiacs pulsed through Kamao’s veins, a viscous fire that clouded his legendary resolve and stoked a humiliating, perpetual arousal. His own body was a traitor, his hard Filipino cock standing thick and eager against his abdomen, a stark contrast to the agony and shame etched on his handsome face. His left eye was a swollen, purple mess, his lips split and crusted with blood, his fine nose clearly broken from the earlier “welcome” punches.

“Look at him, gentlemen,” Thorne’s voice was a dry, rasping thing, amplified by the room’s acoustics and the sensitive microphones overhead. He thrust upwards, a deep, punishing motion that made Kamao’s breath hitch. “The mighty Kamao. The savior of the Tondo slums. Reduced to a sheath for my cock. Do you feel that, boy? That’s the seat of your power, isn’t it? And we’ve found the key.”

Kamao’s head lolled. Through the drugged haze, a spark of his defiance flickered. One of his chained arms strained against its bonds, the corded muscles in his bicep and forearm bunching, his fist clenching. A low, guttural sound, part groan, part war cry, escaped his broken lips. It was meant to be a threat. It came out as a mewl.

Bronson, a mountain of a man with ruddy skin and brutish features, laughed, a sound like gravel grinding. “Ooooh, still fighting, little monkey?” He grabbed the hero’s straining wrist, easily overpowering the drug-weakened limb, and lifted it higher for the cameras. “Look at this! Such magnificent form. Like a brown little Michelangelo sculpture. Pity it’s attached to such a worthless piece of gutter trash.”

He punctuated his sentence with a sharp, jarring punch to Kamao’s already damaged face. The hero’s head snapped to the side with a sickening crack.

“None of that now,” Thorne chided softly, never stopping his rhythmic, upward thrusts. “We don’t want to damage the merchandise too badly before the auction. Besides, his strength doesn’t lie in his fists anymore. It’s all… in here.” With his free hand, he roughly cupped and squeezed Kamao’s scrotum, kneading the full, tight balls.

Kamao cried out, a raw, ragged sound of pure anguish.

“Ah, there it is,” Crawford purred from his position holding Kamao’s right leg. He was thinner, sharper, with the predatory eyes of a raptor. “The famous Filipino vitality. All that sigla, that lakas, stored up from a lifetime of abstinence. Of purity.” He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing Kamao’s ear, his voice a venomous whisper. “You thought you were being noble, didn’t you? Saving yourself for some dalagang Filipina? How pathetic. You were just bottling up this precious nectar for us.”

Thorne’s thrusts became harder, more focused, aimed with cruel precision. “Every time you spill your seed for us, boy, without love, without want… a piece of that strength leaves you. We’re not just fucking you. We’re milking you. Draining you. Bottling your essence.”

As if on cue, Bronson released the hero’s wrist and moved behind him. His thick, meaty fingers wrapped around Kamao’s erection, pumping him in a ruthless, practiced rhythm that perfectly countered Thorne’s thrusts from below.

Kamao’s body arched, a prisoner of its own betraying biology. He tried to clench his jaw, to shut his eyes, to retreat into the fortress of his mind. But the drugs and the relentless, expert stimulation made it impossible.

“He’s getting close,” Bronson grunted, his grip tightening. “Look at his stomach, clenching. Look at that pretty brown cock, throbbing in my hand. It’s begging for it.”

“Narrate it, Crawford,” Thorne ordered, his own breathing becoming heavier. “Let our audience appreciate the details.”

Crawford’s voice took on a sleazy, documentary-style tone. “Observe the subject’s physiological response. The testicles are drawing up, tight against the body. The glans is a deep, flushed purple. Abdominal muscles are spasming uncontrollably. The anal sphincter is clenching rhythmically around Silas’s member, a truly involuntary response. He is fighting it with what little will he has left, but his abstinent body has been starved for this release for too long. It wants to obey.”

“No…” Kamao gasped, the word slurred and wet. “H-hindi… ako… susuko…” (I… will not… surrender.)

“You already have, boy,” Thorne hissed, driving up into him with a final, brutal thrust. “Now, cum for your masters.”

Bronson twisted his grip expertly, and that was all it took.

Kamao’s world dissolved into a white-hot nova of forced, shameful pleasure. A broken, shuddering wail was torn from his throat as his hips bucked and his seed shot out in thick, pearlescent ropes, streaking his own clenched abdomen and chest. It was a powerful, voluminous climax, the physical evidence of a lifetime of stored power now violently spent.

And as he came, something palpable left him. The defined, steely hardness of his muscles seemed to soften ever so slightly. The fierce, unyielding light in his one good eye dimmed, replaced by a hollow, drained emptiness. He sagged in his chains, his body going pliant, held up only by the collar around his neck and the cock still inside him.

The room erupted in mocking applause from the other villains watching from plush chairs.

“And there it is!” Crawford announced triumphantly. “Milking number one! Look at him, gentlemen! Already so much more… manageable. The vitality literally drains from his body with each ejaculation. It’s quite scientific.”

Thorne pushed the limp hero off him with a grunt of disgust. Kamao crumpled to the cold marble floor, a heap of broken beauty, his chains clinking. He drew his knees to his chest, a feeble attempt at modesty, his body trembling with aftershocks and shame.

Bronson stepped over him, unzipping his fly. “My turn to feed the monkey,” he sneered. He didn’t even bother to lie down. He just grabbed a handful of Kamao’s thick, dark hair and yanked his head up. “Open wide, you brown fucktoy. You need your strength for the next round.” He aimed his cock at Kamao’s battered face.

Kamao tried to turn away, a last vestige of pride, but Crawford knelt behind him, pinning his arms and holding his head steady.

“Tsk tsk,” Crawford whispered. “A good fighting cock needs to be fed. Now, be a good little aso (dog) and lick it clean.”

Bronson proceeded to urinate on Kamao’s face, the stream splashing over his closed eyes, his broken nose, his parted lips, forcing him to choke and sputter. The hot, acidic smell mixed with the other foul odors in the room.

“That’s it,” Bronson grunted, shaking off the last drops onto Kamao’s heaving chest. “Now you smell like what you are. Our property.”

They hauled him up again. This time, it was Crawford who took his place on the divan, and the process began anew. The forced impalement. The cruel, milking handjob from behind. The humiliating commentary.

“Confess, Kamao,” Thorne demanded, standing over him, a cigar now clamped between his teeth. “Confess your weakness to the camera. Tell them how the great hero was truly defeated.”

Kamao’s voice was a broken whisper, barely audible. “My… my strength… was in my vow… my purity…”

“Louder!” Thorne backhanded him across the mouth.

“MY STRENGTH WAS IN MY VOW!” Kamao screamed, the admission tearing something fundamental inside him. “I WAS DEFEATED… BY MY OWN BODY! BY YOUR… YOUR FILTH!”

“Excellent,” Crawford gasped from beneath him, pounding upwards. “Now tell them who you belong to!”

Tears of shame and agony finally broke free, cutting clean paths through the filth on Kamao’s cheeks. “I… I belong… to you…”

“Who are we?” Thorne pressed, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“You are… my masters…” The words were the final nail in the coffin of his spirit.

Bronson’s hand worked him furiously, and another climax was ripped from him. This one was less violent, but somehow more devastating. The flow of his cum was less, the streams weaker. He wilted further, his body becoming noticeably softer, his muscles losing their legendary definition, becoming merely well-built instead of superhuman.

This went on for what felt like an eternity. They took turns using him, from above and below. They forced him to cum over and over, each orgasm leaching another layer of his power, each confession breaking another piece of his mind. They spat racist slurs into his ears, comparing him to animals, to property, their “little brown monkey,” their “Philippine-made fleshlight.”

After the fifth or sixth forced milking, Kamao was barely conscious. He could no longer hold himself up. His plump balls, once a reservoir of immense power, felt sore and empty. His cock, still hard from the drugs, was oversensitive and raw. He was a hollow shell, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Thorne finally signaled for a stop. “I believe he’s ready for his premiere.”

They unlocked his chains from the ceiling but left the collar on. He collapsed into a boneless heap. Bronson and Crawford dragged him to a central podium and propped him up on his knees, his head hanging low, his empty gaze fixed on the floor.

Thorne stepped in front of the bank of cameras, adjusting his suit jacket. The live stream indicator glowed red.

“Ladies and gentlemen of a very specific and discerning taste,” Thorne began, his voice oozing smarmy sophistication. “Thank you for joining this exclusive auction. What we have for you tonight is a truly unique piece. Formerly known as the vigilante ‘Kamao,’ this specimen was the terror of the Manila underworld. Strong, fast, unbeatable.”

He turned and grabbed a handful of Kamao’s hair, yanking his head up to the camera. The hero’s face was a mess of cum, blood, and tears, his eyes utterly vacant.

“As you can see, we have… housebroken him. We have discovered the secret of his power and have systematically drained it from him. What remains is a breathtakingly beautiful, exotically Filipino body, pliant, obedient, and—as we have proven—capable of providing truly incredible… performances.”

He released Kamao’s head, and it lolled forward again.

“His vitality, his very life force, is contained in his seed. Each vial we harvest is a potent elixir, we assure you. But the main attraction is the vessel itself. We are taking bids for exclusive ‘rental’ periods. A week with the broken hero. A month. Perhaps you wish to be the one to finally break him completely? The possibilities are… endless.”

Crawford stepped forward with a towel and mockingly, gently, wiped the cum from Kamao’s face and chest, not to comfort him, but to present the merchandise.

“Observe the physique,” Crawford said, running his hands over Kamao’s now-softer but still magnificent shoulders and back. “The skin, sun-kissed and smooth. The classic Filipino features, so handsomely defeated.” He squeezed Kamao’s buttock. “And of course, the primary orifice, now thoroughly broken in and trained to provide maximum gratification.”

Thorne leaned into the camera, a grotesque smirk on his face. “So, let the bidding begin. Who wants to own a piece of a fallen hero? Who wants to make the mighty Kamao their personal, cum-draining pet?”

As the first bids began to flash on a hidden screen, Bronson stepped behind the kneeling, broken man. He unbuckled his belt.

“Might as well give them a preview of the merchandise in action,” he chuckled.

Kamao didn’t even struggle as he was violated one final time for the camera. He just knelt there, a hollowed-out shell, his eyes staring at nothing, as the villains’ trash-talk and the sounds of the auction filled the room, the final, utter destruction of a hero played out on a live stream for the world’ most depraved. His journey from the gritty, heroic streets of Tondo had ended here, on his knees, his strength and spirit milked away, sold to the highest bidder.