Broken Hero #2

 

The air in the underground bunker was thick—stale with the scent of ozone from the milking machines, the metallic tang of blood, and the heavy, cloying smell of Bien Regalado’s own spent seed. The man once known as KidPinoy, the invincible shield of the Philippines, lay in a heap of bronze muscle and broken pride. His 10-pack abs, usually as hard as narra wood, rippled with tremors as he gasped for air.

Trump Albright, his face a mask of orange-tinted arrogance, stepped forward, the heels of his bespoke Italian leather shoes clicking against the cold concrete. He looked down at the slumped hero, a man who had held back the tides of international crime for fifteen years, now reduced to a shivering mess.

"Look at him," Albright sneered, his voice booming with a grating, self-assured authority. "The great 'Invincible' KidPinoy. You were supposed to be the paragon of virtue, weren't you? The little brown savior. And here you are, Bien, painting my floor with the very thing that made you a god. How does it feel to leak your power away like a common street rat?"

Atty. Ferdie Topacio, leaning against a nearby interrogation table with a predatory glint in his eyes, chuckled. "He doesn’t have the breath to answer you yet, Trump. Look at those lungs—expanded, desperate. He’s never had to breathe this hard in his life, have you, Bien? Your 'Infinite Chi' always did the work for you. But every time you pump that hard cock of yours for our cameras, that Chi gets a little thinner, doesn't it?"

Professor Oca, the man who had once stood at a podium and watched a young Bien Regalado sit in the front row of his lectures, stepped into the light. He held a tablet, scrolling through data being fed from the sensors attached to Bien’s body.

"It’s fascinating, really," Oca whispered, his voice trembling with a perverse sort of academic glee. "Twenty-five years of purity. A quarter-century of stored bio-energy, all tied to his celibacy. He was a vessel of the old gods, a reservoir of untapped masculine potential. And we’ve turned the tap, haven't we? Bien, look at me. Look at your old teacher."

Bien’s head rolled to the side. His black eye mask was gone, discarded days ago, revealing features that were devastatingly handsome—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that were currently clouded with a mixture of trauma and the haze of the aphrodisiacs coursing through his veins.

"F-fuck... you..." Bien croaked, his voice a rasping shadow of the clear clarion call that used to inspire millions.

"Oh, such language from a national treasure!" Topacio mocked, walking over to where Bien’s clothes—or what was left of them—were piled. He picked up a fragment of the hero’s signature blue and red tunic. "Does Rose know you talk like that? Or does she think you’re still her sweet, virginal fiancé? The man who was saving himself for their wedding night? Well, we’ve certainly moved up the schedule, haven't we?"

Trump Albright laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "He’s been a very busy boy this last month. How many times today, Oca? How many quarts of 'Invincibility' has our Filipino stallion produced?"

"He’s on his twelfth release today, Trump," Oca replied, his eyes fixed on Bien’s heaving chest. "His body regenerates the fluid almost as fast as we can extract it, but the quality is changing. The Chi is diluting. He’s becoming... mortal. More human. More vulnerable."

Albright reached down, grabbing a handful of Bien’s freshly shaved hair and wrenching his head back. "Did you hear that, boy? You’re losing your grip on divinity. You’re just a 5’5" laborer from the docks now. A beautiful, bronze toy. Tell the camera, Bien. Tell the world what you are."

Bien’s teeth remained clenched, his jaw muscles jumping in his sun-kissed face.

"I... I am..."

"Louder!" Albright barked, slapping him across the face. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "Say it like you mean it, or I call the men in Rose’s room. You remember what they’re waiting for, don't you?"

Bien flinched, a sob catching in his throat. "I am... KidPinoy... I am your... your Filipino boy toy. I am a failed hero."

"And what else?" Topacio prompted, stepping closer, his hands folded behind his back. "Tell us about your weakness. Tell the donors who paid millions to watch this stream. Why are you on your knees, Bien?"

"Because... because I’m weak," Bien whispered, tears tracking through the sweat and grime on his face. "My strength... it was never mine. It was a gift for staying pure. And I... I’ve wasted it. I’ve spilled it for you."

"You’ve spilled it for everyone," Oca corrected, crouching down to Bien’s level. "You’ve spent your whole life protecting people who will now watch you debase yourself for their entertainment. That’s the irony, Bien. The peace you bought for fifteen years? It was just a setup for this. The world wants to see the invincible fall. They want to see those 10-pack abs twitch when we clamp your nipples."

Albright signaled to two guards. "Get him up. I’m bored of him lying there like a rug. Let’s see the weights. I want to see how that 'Infinite Stamina' handles the strain."

The guards, thick-necked men who clearly enjoyed their work, hauled Bien to his feet. Even exhausted, his body was a masterpiece of human anatomy—sinewy, taut, and perfectly proportioned. They dragged him to the center of the room, where chains hung from the ceiling.

They didn't just hang him; they displayed him. His arms were pulled wide, his legs forced into a broad stance. The heavy chains on his neck and the clamps on his nipples were tightened until he let out a sharp, pained gasp.

"Now for the centerpiece," Topacio said, pulling a set of heavy, industrial-grade clamps from a velvet-lined box. He stepped between Bien’s legs, looking up at the hero’s face. "The source of your shame, Bien. Your 'Stallion's Pride.' It’s still so hard, isn't it? That aphrodisiac we gave you—it doesn't let you rest. It keeps you ready for us, every minute of every day."

As Topacio attached the weighted clamps to Bien’s testicles, the hero’s body arched, his muscles standing out in stark relief. His 10-pack abs rippled with agonizing intensity, each muscle fiber straining against the skin.

"Look at that definition!" Oca marveled, circling Bien like a collector examining a statue. "Even in pain, he’s perfect. The way the light hits his obliques... it’s a crime that you kept this hidden under a costume, Bien. You were meant to be seen. You were meant to be used."

"Please..." Bien groaned, his head falling forward. "Enough... please... the weights... they're too much..."

"Too much?" Albright laughed, stepping in front of him. "You’re the man who stopped a landslide with your bare hands! You’re the man who survived a direct hit from a tank shell! And now you’re begging because of a few pounds of lead hanging from your balls? How the mighty have fallen. It’s the loss of the Chi, isn't it? It’s making you soft. Making you feel every little pinch."

Albright reached out, his hand grasping Bien’s cock, which was turgid and pulsing. "Look at this. Even while you beg, your body betrays you. You’re a pervert, aren't you, Bien? A repressed, virginal pervert. All those years you spent 'saving' people, you were just building up this hunger. And now, we’re letting it out. Tell me, how does it feel to finally be a man? To finally feel something other than 'justice' between your legs?"

"It... it hurts," Bien gasped, his eyes squeezed shut. "It’s... it’s disgusting..."

"Is it?" Topacio asked, pulling on the nipple chains. Bien let out a high-pitched cry. "Or is it the only thing that makes you feel alive now? You’ve spent a month in this basement. No sunlight, no 'sacred heroes' to guide you. Just us. Just the milking machine. Just the constant, agonizing pleasure of your own physical destruction."

Oca stepped forward with a microphone, holding it to Bien’s lips. "The audience is asking questions, Bien. They want to know—when you’re masturbating for us, when you’re fingering yourself on camera while thinking about Rose, do you feel like a hero then? Or do you feel like the 'street rat' Trump says you are?"

Bien’s breath was coming in short, jagged hitches. "I feel... I feel like a dog. A toy. I’m not... I’m not KidPinoy anymore."

"That’s right," Albright said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing hiss. "KidPinoy is dead. He died the moment we took your virginity with that machine. Now, you’re just Bien. A beautiful, brown-skinned animal that belongs to me. I bought you, Bien. I bought the politicians, I bought the police, and I bought your life. You exist now for one purpose: to produce for us. To leak your strength into these jars so we can study it, sell it, and mock it."

He turned to the camera. "You see this, world? This is your savior. Look at his face. Look at the way he trembles when I touch him. He’s nothing. He’s a hollowed-out shell of a man, kept upright only by the chains we’ve put on him."

"Now, Bien," Topacio said, moving behind him. "It’s time for the Q&A. The donors have paid for some... specific answers. If you lie, or if you don't sound convincing enough, we’ll turn the cameras to Rose’s room. Understand?"

Bien nodded weakly, his sweat dripping onto the floor. "Yes... I understand."

"First question," Oca read from the tablet. "From a donor in London. 'KidPinoy, do you enjoy the feeling of being milked? Do you enjoy the way your body responds to the machine even when your mind is screaming?' Answer honestly."

Bien swallowed hard. He looked at the floor, then at the camera lens. "I... I hate it. But... the drugs... they make my body want it. I feel... I feel a shameful heat when the machine starts. I feel like... like I was made for it. Like all my training was just to make me a better... producing animal."

"Good boy," Albright smirked. "Next question. From a 'Fan' in New York. 'How does it feel to know that your purity, the thing you valued most, is now being sold to the highest bidder in small glass vials?'"

Bien’s voice broke. "It feels... like my soul is being drained. Like I’m losing... who I am. Every time I... I cum for you... I feel smaller. I feel like I’m disappearing."

"And yet, you’re still so big where it counts," Topacio joked, flicking Bien’s cock. The hero flinched, the weights swinging and causing a fresh wave of agony. "Tell them, Bien. Tell them how much you can produce. Tell them about the volume. They love the 'Super-Stallion' statistics."

"I... I can produce... more than any normal man," Bien whispered, his face flushing with a deep, dark red of humiliation. "Because of the Chi... it keeps the supply... constant. I never run dry. I just... I just keep going. Hours... days... I never stop."

"And that’s why you’re so valuable," Oca said, stroking Bien’s taut, 10-pack abs. "You’re a perpetual motion machine of pleasure and power. But the power is ours now. We’re going to drain you until there’s nothing left but a whimpering, empty husk. Now, get on your knees. It’s time for the masturbation segment. The 'Apology' set."

The guards unhooked the arm chains but kept the neck and nipple chains tight, forcing Bien down to his knees. His knees hit the hard concrete with a dull thud. He was forced to stay upright, his back straight, his muscles corded with tension.

"You know the drill," Albright commanded. "Start. And don't forget to speak. We want to hear your confession as you do it."

Bien’s hands, calloused from years of labor and combat, reached down. He gripped himself, his knuckles white. He began to stroke, his movements rhythmic and mechanical, a grotesque parody of pleasure.

"I... I'm sorry," Bien began, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry to the people of the Philippines. I failed you. I was... I was arrogant. I thought I was untouchable because I was pure."

"Keep going," Topacio urged, leaning in close. "Tell us about your failure. Tell us about Rose."

"I... I let Rose down," Bien sobbed, his hand moving faster, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the silent room. "I couldn't protect her. I'm... I'm jerking off while she’s in danger. I’m a coward. I’m a pervert. I’m... I’m enjoying the way you’ve broken me."

"Are you?" Oca asked. "Are you enjoying it, Bien? Tell the audience how good it feels to finally be relieved of the burden of being a hero."

"It feels... good," Bien lied, his eyes rolling back in his head as the aphrodisiacs and the physical stimulation reached a fever pitch. "It feels... good to be nothing. To be your toy. To be... a Filipino stud for your amusement. Please... look at me... look at how much I’m leaking for you..."

"Catch it," Albright ordered. "Don't let a drop hit the floor. This is liquid gold, boy."

Bien cupped his free hand under himself, his breaths turning into ragged moans. His whole body was vibrating, the 10-pack abs snapping with every thrust of his hips.

"I’m... I'm coming..." Bien cried out, his voice a mix of agony and forced ecstasy. "I'm coming for my masters... I'm coming like a good boy... please... forgive me..."

As he reached his climax, his body convulsed. He let out a long, tortured wail as he filled his palm with the creamy, white proof of his shrinking divinity. The weights on his balls swung violently, adding a layer of sharp pain to the overwhelming sensory overload.

"Now," Albright said, his voice cold and commanding. "Lick it. Lick it like the dog you are. Show them how much you love your own defeat."

Bien looked at the thick, warm liquid in his hand. He looked at Albright, then at the camera. With a trembling hand, he brought it to his lips. He obeyed, his tongue darting out to taste the salt and the shame, his eyes welling with fresh tears as he swallowed his own stolen strength.

"Pathetic," Topacio laughed, filming the whole thing on his phone. "Simply pathetic. The 'Sun of the Orient,' reduced to a cum-eater."

Bien slumped forward, his forehead resting on the cold floor, his body slick with sweat and the remnants of his humiliation. He looked like a fallen god, a masterpiece of flesh that had been thoroughly and systematically desecrated.

"Get him back in the rack," Albright said, turning away as if Bien were nothing more than a used piece of equipment. "We have another three sessions scheduled for the European timezone. And Oca? Increase the aphrodisiac dosage. I want him harder. I want him to hurt more the next time he cums."

"Of course, Trump," Oca said, smiling as he watched the guards haul the once-invincible hero back toward the chains. "He’s got plenty more to give. After all, he’s been saving it up for twenty-five years. We’ve only just scratched the surface."

As the chains rattled and Bien was hoisted back into his spread-eagled position, his voice was a mere whisper, lost in the shadows of the bunker.

"Rose... I'm so sorry... I'm so... weak..."

But no one was listening to his apologies anymore. They were only interested in the show. And for KidPinoy, the show was never-ending.

The guards didn't bother being gentle as they ratcheted the chains. Bien’s shoulders let out an audible pop as his arms were pulled almost out of their sockets, his chest heaving, the 10-pack abs standing out like a topographical map of his own torment. Every muscle in his 5’5” frame was stretched to its absolute limit.

"He's still too quiet," Albright remarked, pacing the room. "The donors are complaining about the lack of 'vocal participation.' They want to hear the sound of his spirit breaking, not just his body."

Atty. Topacio walked over to a control panel on the wall. "Perhaps we should remind him of his status. Bien, do you know what the current bid is for a single vial of your... essence?"

Bien didn't answer. He hung there, his eyes half-closed, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Topacio said, his voice dripping with mock awe. "Fifty thousand for a little piece of the 'Sacred Hero.' People want to drink your strength, Bien. They want to inject it. They think if they consume enough of you, they’ll become invincible too. But the joke is on them, isn't it? The strength only stays if you stay pure. And you? You're the furthest thing from pure now."

He pressed a button, and the nipple clamps began to vibrate—not a gentle hum, but a high-frequency, stinging oscillation that made Bien’s entire body go rigid.

"AAAGH! Stop! Please!" Bien screamed, his head snapping back, his corded neck muscles bulging.

"Why should we stop?" Oca asked, approaching with a pair of surgical calipers. He began to measure the distension of Bien’s scrotum under the weight of the lead ballast. "You're a marvel, Bien. Most men would have passed out or suffered a physical collapse by now. But your Chi... it’s holding you together even as we use it to tear you down. It’s a closed loop of suffering. Your own power is what’s preventing you from escaping into unconsciousness."

"He's right," Albright added, standing directly in front of Bien, eye-to-eye. "You’re cursed, boy. Your 'gift' is the very thing that’s going to make this last for months. Or years. I could keep you here until you're an old man, and you’d still have the body of a twenty-five-year-old god, as long as we keep the 'milking' regular."

He reached out and slapped Bien’s stomach, the sound sharp and echoing. "Look at this skin. Not a blemish. Not a scar. Even after everything we've done. You're like a self-healing doll. A Filipino action figure that we can play with forever."

"I... I'm... not... a doll..." Bien gasped, his eyes flaring with a momentary spark of the old fire.

"Oh? You want to be a man again?" Topacio sneered. He took a heavy leather paddle from the table and brought it down hard against Bien’s inner thigh. The skin turned a violent red instantly. "A man can protect his woman. A man can stand on his own feet. You’re hanging from my ceiling, Bien. You’re a stallion in a stall. Tell me, stallion, are you feeling the itch again? That aphrodisiac is a marvel of modern chemistry."

Bien’s lower half twitched. Despite the pain, despite the humiliation, the relentless chemicals in his blood were forcing his body into a state of permanent, agonizing arousal. His cock, already reddened and sensitive from the previous sessions, began to pulse again.

"Look at that," Oca whispered, fascinated. "The involuntary response. It’s almost as if his body has forgotten how to do anything else. Bien, tell us—do you feel like a hero when you’re hanging there, getting hard for the men who kidnapped your fiancée?"

"No..." Bien moaned, his head swinging from side to side. "No... please... don't make me... don't make me say it..."

"Say it!" Albright roared, grabbing Bien’s jaw and squeezing until the hero’s mouth was forced open. "Tell the camera! Tell the world what you’re thinking about right now!"

"I’m... I'm thinking about... how much I want it..." Bien sobbed, the words tasting like poison in his mouth. "I’m thinking about... how good the clamps feel... how I want to... to be used... like the animal I am..."

"There it is," Topacio said, a satisfied smirk on his face. "The total subjugation of the will. You’re not just obeying us anymore, Bien. You’re beginning to crave the degradation. Your mind is trying to survive by turning the torture into pleasure. That’s the ultimate defeat, isn't it? When the hero starts to love his chains."

"It's the only way he can cope," Oca analyzed, his voice clinical. "He was a laborer. A man of the people. He understands service. We’ve just redirected that impulse. Instead of serving the public, he’s serving our whims. He’s the most overqualified servant in human history."

Albright stepped back and crossed his arms. "I want to see the 'Stallion's Walk.' Unhook his arms, but keep the neck and ball-weights on. Let's see how he handles the weight when he has to move."

The guards complied, unchaining Bien’s wrists. He immediately collapsed to the floor, his legs unable to support the sudden return of gravity combined with the heavy weights pulling on his most sensitive parts. He groaned, his face pressed against the concrete.

"Get up!" a guard barked, kicking him in the ribs. "On your feet, 'Invincible'!"

Bien struggled, his 10-pack abs bunching and straining as he tried to find his center of gravity. The weights between his legs swung with every movement, sending jolts of white-hot pain through his core. He finally managed to stand, his body trembling, his knees knocking together.

"Walk to me, Bien," Albright commanded from across the room. "And with every step, I want you to thank me. Thank me for showing you the truth about yourself."

Bien took a step. The weight flared. "Thank... thank you... Master Albright..."

"Another step."

"Thank you... for... for breaking me..." Bien’s voice was high and strained, his face glistening with sweat.

"Another."

"Thank you... for making me... your Filipino slave..."

Topacio walked alongside him, poking at Bien’s ribs with a cane. "Look at him go. The pride of the Philippines. If only the people in Manila could see their champion now. Shaved, weighted, and begging for the privilege of walking toward a racist who hates everything he stands for."

"That’s the beauty of it, Ferdie," Albright said, his eyes gleaming with malice. "The more he hates himself, the more Chi he loses. The more he loses, the more human he becomes. And the more human he is, the more we can hurt him. It’s a perfect system."

Bien reached Albright and fell to his knees again, exhausted by the mere twenty feet he had traveled. He looked up, his handsome face a mask of total despair.

"Please..." Bien whispered. "Rose... let her go. You have me. You’ve... you’ve destroyed me. There’s nothing left of KidPinoy. Just... just let her go."

Albright leaned down, his breath smelling of expensive steak and scotch. "We’ll let her go when I say we’re done, Bien. And looking at you—looking at those muscles, that stamina, that endless supply of 'gold' you’re producing—I don't think I’m going to be done for a very, very long time. You’re too profitable to move, boy. You’re a gold mine in a bronze body."

"In fact," Topacio added, checking his watch. "It’s time for the 'Public Interrogation.' We have a live feed going to a private forum of some very influential... and very perverted... people. They have a list of questions for you, Bien. And they’ve paid a lot for the 'Visual Aids'."

Oca brought over a chair and forced Bien into it, strapping his legs wide apart. The ball weights were left to hang, pulling Bien’s skin taut. A bright light was flicked on, blinding him.

"Question one," Oca read, his voice projected so the hidden audience could hear. "This comes from 'Patriot88' in Texas. 'Boy, tell us about your mother. Did she raise you to be a little bitch for white men, or is that something you learned all on your own?'"

Bien flinched as if he’d been struck. "My mother... she was a good woman. She... she taught me to be brave."

"And look how that turned out!" Topacio laughed. "You're so brave that you're sitting there with your balls in a sling, talking to a camera for our amusement. Try again, Bien. Answer the question properly."

"I... I am a bitch," Bien whispered, his head hanging low. "I learned it... I learned it because I'm a weak, Filipino street rat. I was never a hero. I was just... a pretender."

"Better," Albright nodded. "Next question."

"From 'LegalEagle' in the UK," Oca continued. " 'KidPinoy, we heard you were a virgin before your capture. Describe for us the feeling of the milking machine. Is it true that you cried the first time you felt a prostate massage?' "

Bien’s face burned with a fresh wave of shame. "I... yes. I cried. It was... it was too much. I had never... I had never been touched like that. It felt... it felt like my whole body was being turned inside out."

"And now?" Topacio prodded. "How does it feel now that we do it every four hours?"

"Now... I wait for it," Bien admitted, his voice cracking. "I... I hate myself for it, but when I hear the machine clicking... I get hard. I can't help it. My body... it wants the hum. It wants to be emptied."

"A hero turned addict," Oca mused. "The psychological shift is nearly complete. He’s beginning to associate his only form of 'release' with his captors. He’s developing a specialized form of Stockholm Syndrome, driven by extreme sexual trauma and chemical dependency."

"He’s developing a case of being my property," Albright corrected. "Bien, look at the camera. I want you to tell Rose something. She’s watching this, you know. We have a monitor in her cell."

Bien’s eyes widened. "No... no, please... shut it off! Don't let her see this!"

"Tell her, Bien!" Albright barked, grabbing a handful of Bien’s sun-kissed pectoral muscle and twisting it. "Tell her why you're not coming to the wedding! Tell her what you prefer doing here in the dark!"

"Rose!" Bien screamed, his voice breaking into a sob. "Rose, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I... I'm not the man you loved! I'm... I'm staying here! I'm... I'm a slave now! I... I enjoy the machines more than I ever loved you! I'm a pervert, Rose! Look at me! Look at what I'm doing!"

He was forced to grope himself again, his hands moving over his 10-pack abs and down to his groin, all while the villains laughed in the background.

"Tell her about the 'Stallion' service, Bien!" Topacio shouted. "Tell her how many men have used you this week!"

"I... I've been used... by everyone!" Bien wailed, his dignity shattering into a million pieces. "I'm... I'm a public toy! I'm a Filipino boy toy for anyone with enough money! I'm not your fiancé! I'm just... I'm just meat! Please, Rose... forget me! Just forget I ever existed!"

"That was perfect," Albright said, signaling for the feed to be cut. "Truly moving. I think we just doubled our 'tips' for the evening."

He walked over to Bien, who was now a trembling, sobbing wreck in the chair. Albright patted his shaved head almost affectionately.

"You did good, Bien. Truly. You’re the best investment I’ve ever made. Now, Oca, let’s get the weights off him for a bit. We don't want any permanent tissue damage. We need him in top shape for the 'Private Auction' tonight."

"Of course," Oca said, reaching for the clamps. "And the 'Milk'?"

"Keep the machine running," Albright said as he walked toward the door. "I want him drained dry before the guests arrive. I want him so empty he can't even stand without help. I want them to see exactly how much 'Invincibility' we’ve managed to squeeze out of him."

As the villains left the room, the guards stepped forward with the milking machine, its cold, sterile tubes glinting in the harsh light. Bien Regalado, the former savior of a nation, could only watch with hollowed-out eyes as they approached.

"Please..." he whispered one last time, though he knew no one was listening. "Please... just let me die..."

"Die?" one of the guards laughed, hooking up the first tube. "And waste all that Chi? Not a chance, hero. You’re going to live forever. And you’re going to spend every second of it right here, on your knees, producing for us."

The machine began to hum, a low, rhythmic sound that filled the bunker. And Bien, despite his soul’s agony, felt his body begin to respond, his 10-pack abs rippling in an involuntary dance of pleasure and pain, as the last of his pride was vacuumed away into a sterile glass jar.