Kidpinoy Aftermath 26

 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. Your own body is betraying you.”

The two other white supremacist henchmen, Chuck and Davis, held Kidpinoy’s muscular legs splayed wide, exposing him completely to the dozens of camera lenses. His iconic, sun-kissed body, a symbol of national pride, was now a public dissection. His famous armor-like abs rippled and clenched not from exertion, but from the violent intrusion, each spasm visible and documented.

“Look at that,” one of the old men, Mr. Harrington, crooned from his plush chair. He was sipping a brandy, his eyes glazed with perverted euphoria. “The famous Kidpinoy six-pack. It’s not so intimidating when it’s being used as a cock-massage, is it, boy?”

The aphrodisiac pumping through Kidpinoy’s veins was a chemical fire, a hellish paradox that forced his traitorous body to respond even as his soul screamed in agony. His own cock, thick and Filipino-hard, stood erect, weeping streams of pre-cum that dripped onto his taut stomach. It was a response he had never allowed, a pleasure he had sworn to deny, the very source of his legendary strength.

“Ah, look at that, he’s ready for us again,” the other old man, Mr. Van Der Groot, licked his thin lips. He shuffled forward, his knobby, age-spotted hands reaching out. “Such a potent little specimen. They say the vitality of the Third World is in the loins, not the mind.”

Van Der Groot bent his head and took Kidpinoy’s cock into his mouth. The sensation was abhorrent, a wet, sucking violation that sent jolts of nauseating pleasure through Kidpinoy’s drug-addled system. He tried to twist away, but Bungo’s embrace tightened, squeezing the air from his lungs, and another vicious upward thrust stole his resistance.

“Mmm, delicious,” Van Der Groot moaned, pulling off with a pop. “So clean. So… pure. Like fresh coconut milk. You’ve been saving this all for us, haven’t you, you virginal little savage?”

“Tell us, bayaw,” Bungo hissed, his breath hot and foul. He began a ruthless, pounding rhythm, each impact jarring Kidpinoy’s entire frame. “Tell these generous manong how you lost. Tell them how the great Kidpinoy, the invincible hero of the slums, was beaten not by fists, but by his own pathetic love for his miserable country.”

Kidpinoy’s jaw was clenched so tight his teeth threatened to powder. He focused on the ceiling, on a single, minute crack in the plaster, trying to build a fortress in his mind. But the drugs and the relentless, prostate-shattering assault were sieging the walls.

“Speak!” Harrington barked, slapping Kidpinoy’s thigh sharply. The sound echoed in the silent room. “Or do we need to give Bungo here a bonus to persuade you?”

Bungo laughed, a sound of pure malice. He shifted, angling himself, and then drove upward with pinpoint, cruel accuracy. A white-hot bolt of forced pleasure electrocuted Kidpinoy’s spine. His back arched violently, a broken cry tearing from his lips.

“I… I surrendered,” the words were ripped from him, hoarse and ragged. “The bombs… you threatened… the cities…”

“Louder!” Van Der Groot commanded, before taking Kidpinoy’s cock back into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the head.

“I SURRENDERED!” Kidpinoy shouted, the admission a wound deeper than any physical violation. “For the people! To save them!”

“You hear that, viewers?” Harrington said, turning to a camera with a game-show host’s smile. “Such noble sentiment. Such a heart of gold. And now, it’s being fucked right out of him. The strength of this one, we’ve discovered, is in his seed. His abstinence. Every time we milk this magnificent brown stud, he gets weaker. Every time we drain those plump, full balls of his life force, he becomes more our property.”

As if on cue, Kidpinoy felt the unbearable pressure building again. The combination of the aphrodisiac, Van Der Groot’s skilled, disgusting mouth, and Bungo’s merciless pounding of his prostate was too much. His stomach muscles fluttered wildly. His toes curled.

“He’s close! He’s going to give us another offering!” Harrington announced gleefully. “Watch his face, everyone! Watch the mighty hero break!”

Bungo redoubled his efforts, fucking up into him with animalistic grunts. “Cum for them, puñeta! Cum for your masters! Give them your strength!”

Kidpinoy’s resistance shattered. With a guttural, shuddering groan that was equal parts agony and ecstasy, he erupted into Van Der Groot’s waiting mouth. His body seized, every sinewy muscle in his arms, chest, and abdomen standing out in stark, ropey relief before going limp. It was a massive, potent load, the culmination of a lifetime of discipline, now violently stolen.

Van Der Groot drank it down greedily, a trickle of pearly white cream escaping the corner of his mouth. He pulled back, panting. “Exquisite! Truly! It’s like swallowing liquid lightning! You can taste his power! And now… it’s mine.”

And Kidpinoy felt it. A tangible drain, a cold emptiness seeping into his limbs where before there had been boundless, sun-warmed strength. A part of his invincibility was literally consumed, swallowed by his captor. A tear, hot and shameful, finally escaped his clenched eye and traced a path through the sweat on his temple.

“Aww, is the little brown monkey crying?” Chuck cooed from his left, leaning down to lick the tear from his face. “Don’t worry, you’ll make more. We have all night to milk you dry.”

“Lift him up,” Harrington commanded. “Let’s see the damage.”

Bungo, still buried inside Kidpinoy, braced himself and hauled them both up into a sitting position. Kidpinoy was impaled, straddling Bungo’s lap, his body pliant and weak. The move made him feel the entire, monstrous length inside him even more acutely. His head lolled forward.

Davis produced a metallic marker. “What should we write on him, sir?”

“On his chest… ‘Cum Dump’,” Harrington said, his eyes gleaming. “On those famous abs… ‘Bungo’s Sheath’. And on his bicep… ‘Property of Aryan Heaven’.”

The cold tip of the marker touched his skin. Kidpinoy flinched. It was a final, profound humiliation, branding him with his own defeat. He was being marked like livestock.

“Look at the camera, boy,” Van Der Groot said, stepping in front of him. He grabbed Kidpinoy’s jaw, forcing his head up. His handsome, defiant Filipino face was now a mask of drugged stupor and shattered pride. “Smile for your public. Show them what happens to third-world heroes who think they can challenge their betters.”

He couldn’t smile. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“No smile?” Bungo chuckled beneath him. He began to move again, a slow, grinding rotation of his hips that made Kidpinoy gasp. “Maybe this will help.” One of Bungo’s hands slid from his chest down to his semi-soft cock, which was already, horrifyingly, beginning to stir again under the drug’s influence. Bungo started stroking him, his grip firm and knowing.

“That’s it… get hard again, bayaw,” Bungo whispered, his other hand groping and kneading Kidpinoy’s pec, pinching the nipple hard. “You have so much more to give. The night is young.”

Harrington addressed the livestream again. “And there you have it, esteemed clients and subscribers. This is not a simulation. This is not deepfake. This is Kidpinoy, in the flesh, broken and bred for your pleasure. As you can see, his body responds magnificently to proper… motivation. We will be taking bids for private sessions. Imagine this: this legendary endurance, this inexhaustible Filipino stamina, now focused entirely on pleasuring you. He will fuck for hours. He will cum on command. He will be your personal, pet hero.”

The narration was a relentless, lewd assault.

“Watch now as our man Bungo re-ignites the fire in our hero’s loins,” Harrington continued, his voice a slick, oily whisper into the microphone. “See how his cock swells in that brutish hand? See the way his abs clench and quiver around the cock impaling him? That’s not pain, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the peak of physical conditioning being perverted into the peak of sexual receptivity. He is feeling things now he has never allowed himself to feel.”

Van Der Groot moved behind the couch, leaning over to whisper in Kidpinoy’s other ear, while his hands trailed over the hero’s shoulders and down his arms. “They all looked up to you, you know. The poor canje* shack dwellers. They saw your body and thought it represented hope. Now they will see it and know it only represents a price tag. You are just a commodity. A very beautiful, very fuckable commodity.”

He began nibbling on Kidpinoy’s earlobe, then licked a long, wet stripe down the side of his neck. Kidpinoy shuddered in revulsion, but his body, treacherous and aflame, interpreted it as stimulation.

“His skin tastes of salt and defeat,” Van Der Groot narrated to the camera. “A truly unique flavor.”

Bungo’s hand worked him expertly, his thrusts from below becoming more urgent. “You used to laugh at me, bayaw,” he snarled, his voice losing its playful taunt and becoming raw with hated memory. “You called me ‘Bungo the Bruise’. You said my fists were slow. But my cock… my cock is fast, eh? It’s beating you. It’s punching your insides. Isn’t it?”

Kidpinoy could only moan, a low, continuous sound of despair. The pleasure was building again, a tsunami of shame he was powerless to stop.

“He’s getting close again! Incredible stamina!” Harrington commentated. “Look at the way his balls are drawing up, tight and full against the base of Bungo’s shaft. They’re begging to be drained again. All that potent, virgin Filipino cum, waiting to be harvested.”

Chuck and Davis, still holding his legs, started to laugh. “Cum for us, fighting cock,” Davis jeered. “Crow for your masters.”

The orgasm tore through him, less violent than the first but somehow more degrading in its inevitability. He cried out, a broken sound, as his spend shot out onto his own stomach and chest, painting the words “Cum Dump” with his own essence.

The loss of strength was instantaneous and profound. His head swam dangerously. The room tilted. He slumped back against Bungo, who held him up contemptuously.

“Two,” Harrington counted. “His strength is diminishing. His will is breaking. With every climax, he belongs to us a little more.”

For hours, the cycle continued. They would let him hover on the edge of exhaustion, only to have Van Der Groot or Harrington themselves suck him back to hardness, their ancient, practiced mouths wringing out climax after climax from his ravaged body. They poured more of the aphrodisiac down his throat, ensuring there was no respite.

They explored his body like collectors examining a prized statue. They licked his armpits, commenting on the musky, masculine scent. They kissed and bit his pectorals. They traced every ridge of his abdomen with their tongues, all while Bungo remained buried inside him, a constant, pounding reminder of his submission.

The racist taunts were a constant, degrading soundtrack.

“Such a good little brown monkey, performing for his white masters.” “Your people are good for two things: fighting and fucking. And we’ve beaten you at the first.” “This is what your bahay kubo resilience is truly for, boy: to endure our pleasure.”

During the fifth, or perhaps the sixth climax—Kidpinoy had lost count—his mind finally began to fissure. The fortress walls crumbled. The image of the crack in the ceiling blurred and melted away, replaced by a swirling vortex of shame, forced pleasure, and soul-crushing weakness. He was no longer Kidpinoy, the hero. He was just a body, a vessel for their pleasure, a source of their power.

As another orgasm was ruthlessly milked from him by Harrington’s twisting, pulling hand, a pathetic sob escaped his lips. It was the sound of a spirit breaking.

Bungo felt the change immediately. The final, defiant tension in the body he was violating simply… evaporated. Kidpinoy went completely, utterly limp, a beautiful, muscular doll.

“Sir,” Bungo said, a note of triumph in his voice. “I think he’s done. I think he’s broken.”

Harrington leaned in close, peering into Kidpinoy’s eyes. The hero’s gaze was vacant, dilated pupils staring at nothing. A slow, slick string of drool dripped from his slack mouth.

Harrington smiled, a wide, victorious smile. He turned to the camera.

“And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The complete and total breaking of a hero. The Livestream will be ending now. The auction for private time with this former champion… is now open. Bidding starts at one million dollars per hour.”

He gave one last, dismissive look at the ruined man splayed on his henchman’s lap.

“Put him in the preparation room. Clean him up. He has a busy schedule ahead of him.”

As the livestream ended, Bungo finally pulled out of Kidpinoy with a wet, obscene sound. The hero didn’t even react. He simply collapsed onto the couch, curled slightly into a fetal position, his branded, soiled body trembling. The invincible man was gone. In his place was a hollowed-out s

hell, waiting to be filled by the next highest bidder. His fight was over. His new life of servitude had just begun.