New story time. Hope you all like it. As always, I LOVE hearing from those who read it. Thanks for taking the time to read it, it’s a new jobber but same old humiliations.
MY HUSBAND’S A JOBBER
I suppose the videotapes should have given me a clue. My name’s Kara Dawson. I’m 27 years old. I’m 5-8, 115 pounds, blonde hair. Married to Mark Dawson. He’s 28, 6-1, 215 pounds. Brown hair. Pretty hot guy. We dated from the time we were 20 and have been married three years. I thought it was an all right marriage.
He had a good job and seemed loving. Okay, the sex sucked. He had a four-inch dick. When hard. And he didn’t know what he was doing; if he lasted three minutes inside me it was a record. I didn’t know if he could ever give me kids but maybe one day we’d adopt. Whatever.
But it turns out I just didn’t know what really got him off. A year after we got married, I needed a videotape. He had a bunch of unlabeled tapes and I figured I could use one of those. Just to be sure, I watched what was on them. It was pro wrestling. In all the years I’d lived with him, Mark had never watched wrestling in front of me. I fast-forwarded through a few matches, hoping to find something I could tape over. But the entire tape was wrestling. I took another tape. Same thing. Now it seemed weird. Why didn’t he ever say he watched pro wrestling?
In fact, one time I was watching a taping and asked him if he ever watched and he walked up and said he didn’t “watch that stupid shit.” Growing up with two brothers, my sister and I were forced to watch wrestling with them. I wasn’t that excited about it as a kid but we watched it every Saturday and on Mondays. I do remember thinking it was pretty funny that all those hot guys were running around in their underwear. Seemed a little, what’s the word, gay. And Mark had tapes full of those types of matches. The fuck? Strike that, four tapes, as each one I checked was filled with matches.
In everyone I saw, it looked like one guy getting dominated by the other. Weird. I asked him about it and he stumbled and mumbled, finally saying it was on some tapes he’d bought a few years ago. They were supposed to be Patriots football games but the guy sent him the wrong ones. I believed him, naively. I basically forgot about it, although in the back of my mind I always wondered if he had a thing for watching sweaty guys in speedos roll around with each other. My masculine Mark. A football player in college. Tough guy. All the girls loved him. Ha.
Fast-forward a few years. Mark goes out and I hop on the computer. He had accidentally left his screens open. And his email, firstname.lastname@example.org. What the hell? I read through every message he wrote and received. Hundreds of them. Messages to him and from him. They were all to men it looked like, and he talked about wanting to be something called a “jobber.” He talked about how much he liked watching jobbers get humiliated and dominated in the ring. He fantasized about being beaten up, punched, his hair pulled, while wearing wrestling trunks. He had joined yahoo groups that showed pictures of pro wrestlers in various states of submission. He was obsessed with a guy named Tom Zenk and Tommy Angel and Red Tyler.
I stared in disbelief, and I eventually began crying. Then I raged as I read all the messages, from fat men telling my husband how they’d put him in a headlock or body slam him or wedgie him or slap him around like a little bitch. He wrote back and talked about how he dreamed about being manhandled and treated like a rag doll while in his satiny trunks.
The videotapes all made sense now. Eventually, it became obvious Mark had met some of these men. How was it obvious? He had pictures and videos of his adventures. They all appeared to take place in a basement or hotel rooms. In one, Mark wore these purple speedos against a hairy old man in a jockstrap. I wanted to vomit. The guy talked dirty to Mark the whole time. He had Mark all twisted up the whole time, and he kept pulling Mark’s speedo up his ass and then spanking him. He’d scoop him up and hold him up to the camera before slamming him on a small gym mat on the basement floor. He held Mark’s drooling face to the camera and told him to “smile real pretty for all the cute girls watching on TV.”
There were other tapes, all of Mark in his little speedos being beaten up. Eventually I just started laughing to myself. My tough hubby, was nothing but a little submissive wimp. Good lord. But he had to pay for his betrayal. I printed off every message. Logged off. Then I drove to my mother’s house.
My younger sister Allison is 22 and still lives with my folks. I pulled her and mom aside and told them everything. They were a bit surprised but not really. “I always thought he tried too hard being a tough guy,” Allison said. “It figures he wants to be prancing around in pink.” My biggest concern was a possible divorce. My family is loaded with money, Mark’s is not. I didn’t want him getting my money, just because he was a loser who liked getting wedgied. Wedgied? Really? My mom said that wouldn’t be necessary. We could keep him in the family while not really being a part of it. She said the son of a co-worker was involved in wrestling promotions. I could meet him and maybe he’d have some ideas.
A few days later I sat in the office of Terry Olson. He was 6-foot-5, probably 240. He wore black leather pants and a black T-shirt. He had a goatee. He looked like a badass. I felt my stomach churning, picturing what was under the jeans. The office was in a bar he owned. He said this was a side business, that his real love was wrestling promotions. He ran small promotions and also fed wrestlers to the WWF and NWA. I told him all about Mark. Showed him the messages. And the pictures.
“So your husband wants to be a jobber, huh?” he asked. “He thinks he does,” I told him. “But it’s just a big fantasy to him. Except instead of just fantasizing, he met with men. Men! I Want that fucker to experience real humiliation, real pain, real suffering in the ring and outside. He wants to be a jobber, I want to show him that the reality isn’t what he’s been jacking off too.” Terry chuckled. “I can do that.”
We set it all up that night. Set up the rest of Mark’s life. The life he’d lead as a jobber in tiny trunks and white boots. A week later we went to Terry’s bar, after I told Mark they had great live music. He had a great time. But at the end of the night, I leaned over and whispered into his ear, “I know all about you, jobber wannabe.”
He stared at me, his mouth open. He got up to leave but I put a hand on his thigh. “I have all the messages and all the videos and if you leae this bar, you’re going to be arrested at home. See that pretty waitress over there, the one you’ve been ogling all night? She will testify that you raped her. The cops know her, they’ll arrest you. Her uncle’s the DA. He’ll fry you. You’re fucked, Mark. You fucking son of a bitch.”
He didn’t move. I told him to sit there like a good jobber boy until the bar was clear. I got up and found Terry and told him Mark had been briefed. An hour later, the bar was empty except for Terry and the bar’s waitresses, in their short red shorts modeled after the Hooters uniform. All the girls were smoking hot, I couldn’t wait to see Mark humiliated in front of them. I felt my pussy twinge at the thought. Mark stood in front of all of us as Terry called the girls over.
He told him to strip. Mark slowly took off his shirt and pants, and stood there in his boxers. The girls hooted at his hot chest. “The boxers too Mark. Jobbers don’t wear boxers. They wear trunks.” Mark pulled them off and stood there stupidly, naked as the day he was born. All the girls clapped and then broke out in laughter at the size of Mark’s minuscule cock. One girl leaned over and said, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry you had to live with that? did it work?” “Not really,” I told her.
Mark pleaded, “Kara, please. I love you. Please don’t do this. I will do anything you want. Please let me go.” “This is what I want, Mark,” I told him. Terry reached into a box and threw a garment at Mark’s feet. He picked it up and fondled it. A pair of pink wrestling trunks. Slowly he stepped into them and pulled them up his legs, over his knees and finally to his waists, encasing his dick in the spandex. Terry told Mark to stand up straight, arms above his head. He obeyed like a little puppy. BUt when Terry told him “Drop down and give me 20,” Mark protested. “No, this is enough,” he said.
Terry sprang out of his seet before Mark could even react. He grabbed Mark by the neck and squeezed. “GET DOWN AND GIVE ME 20 YOU LITTLE FAGGOT!” he screamed.
When he released his neck, Terry kicked Mark in the stomach with his right foot, doubling Mark over. He then hammered him with both arms in the middle of Mark’s back, sending my husband to the ground, flat on his stomach. Terry told him he wanted 20, and wanted Mark kissing his boot on each one. Mark’s in good shape and did each one, each time going down to kiss the boot. When he finished and went on his hands and knees, Terry stunned him by kicking him in the ribs. Mark rolled around in agony, clutching his stomach.
The waitresses cheered while I watched with an open mouth. Terry kept kicking him in the sides and back, until Mark was begging him to stop. Mark collapsed on his stomach, weeping. Terry reached down and grabbed the back of Terry’s pink trunks, yanking him to his feet and burying the trunks in Mark’s still-cute ass. I knew he’d fantasized about this very thing – he often wrote about what it’d be like to be yanked up by Virgil or the Barbarian – but the reality crushed him.
As Terry hoisted him up to his feet, Mark yelled out, “Noooo,” but it was too late. Terry showed us Mark’s wedgied ass before tossing him into the bar, where he hit the wood with a thud and again fell to the ground. I could see him working the wedgie out of his ass in his dazed state, trying to cover up his shamefully displayed rear. He rolled over near the bar. A plastic cup of beer sat there. Terry threw it down on Mark’s carcass and it splashed all over him, the rest dripping on the concrete floor. He threw a full bowl of popcorn onto him as well, further debasing him.
“Lick up that beer, boy,” Terry commanded. To my disbelief, my pink trunks-wearing husband proceeded to lap up the beer like some damn thirsty dog. Terry pulled him up by his hair and walked him back toward us. He then put his massive right hand under Mark’s crotch and scooped him up for a bodyslam. Mark grunted a bit as he went into the air, completely at the mercy of his new master.
Terry held him by the rear of his trunks and threw Mark down onto a small wooden table, which shattered. Mark lay there, motionless. “Don’t worry, he’ll pay for a replacement,” Terry said.
This overwhelming dominance was turning me on. I reached down to start rubbing myself. I was really getting off watching my husband get controlled and humiliated in front of these people. I glanced to my right and one of the waitresses in her short shorts had caught me playing with myself. I gave an embarrassed smile and pulled my head up. She laughed and said, “Don’t be embarrassed. Why do you think Terry lets us watch this? We all love watching him beat up these pretty boys. We’ve all fingered ourselves at some point.” When in Rome…so I went back, this time sticking my hand down my pants while Terry continued to verbally berate and physically toy with little Marky.
Finally, Terry took Mark by the hair and again by the rear of his trunks and pulled up. He held them like that, bringing the trunks up Mark’s ass. He marched Mark over to my table, where the contract of his new life awaited.
The contract gave Terry complete power over Mark’s career. He would wrestle who Terry wanted, where and when, and he’d wear what Terry told him to. A separate deal gave up Mark’s financial rights, handing over everything to me and ensuring he would basically be on an allowance, his payments would go to me. If he didn’t sign, Terry told him, he’d be arrested for the sexual assault of the girl.
As Mark stood there in front of me, wearing only his pink trunks, which were now controlled by a dominant man, I detected a slight boner in the trunks. Awwww. Mark’s little guy was liking this apparently! “Is that a boner?” I asked. “My god, he does like this.” “No, no, he doesn’t like this,” Terry responded. “That’s a purely physiological response. He’s enjoying this about as much as a guy who gets hanged enjoys his erection when he falls through the gallows. He’s developed a fetish for wrestling trunks, especially humiliating ones. His little clit’s just doing what it’s been trained to do. And these trunks are also probably rubbing against his prostate. Aren’t they, you little faggot?” Mark groaned again as Terry gave another yank up. “Believe me. He’s not enjoying this inside. Remember that one email he had? That promoter out West wanted to hire him but Mark said he couldn’t do it, that it was just a fantasy, that he’d be mortified to actually do it in public in front of a crowd and that he was going to stick to motels and basements. Well, jobber boy, your days of private wrestling and fantasizing are over. Sign now, and your public life of jobberhood and humiliation will begin.”
My beaten husband picked up the pen and signed his name. To finish him off, Terry put Mark in a rear headlock and delivered a forearm to his bare chest.
He held him up and delivered three more blows, reddening Mark’s chest and finally sending Mark again helplessly to the concrete. Terry told the waitresses to come in and get their kicks in. Each gave a girlish little kick to his back or legs. Finally he had me come around and give a nice kick to his stomach. It felt good hearing him groan as my shoe hit him in the gut. Time to go home.
That night I made Mark sleep on the couch while TErry slept in my bed, but we only slept after a long night of fucking. His cock drove me wild, but so did his manliness and dominance over Mark. Picturing Mark in his trunks, as Terry handled him like a ragdoll and all the waitresses smirked and laughed and taunted, it made my pussy ache. We went to sleep, peacefully.
Terry paid for a two-week trip to Hawaii. He told me to relax, reflect, enjoy myself, fuck some beach boys, get a tan and think about how much I’d enjoy my revenge on my poor husband. Terry was going to move in for the two weeks while training Mark as a jobber. He’d teach him the trade Mark had fantasized about so much, but it’d be a nightmare for my husband, not a dream.
I did everything Terry told me to. I laid out on the beach every day, read some books, played with myself while thinking of Mark’s upcoming humiliation and banged a couple of Hawaiian boys. I arrived back home, refreshed. Terry greeted me with a kiss. I could feel his hardness through his pants. I pictured my lips around it.
I asked him how Mark’s training had gone and he said superbly. “Our little guy’s ready for his jobber debut. Why don’t you go say hi in his new bedroom.” His new bedroom? Terry had converted our guest room into a room for Mark. His “jobber quarters” he called them. Hmmm.
“Check him out, then come to our bedroom. I have a surprise waiting for you too.”
I couldn’t believe what I saw as I walked in. Mark was tied to the bedposts, spreadeagled. His pink trunks were around his thighs, his ridiculous cock stood at attention, like a good soldier. Terry had gagged him with some duct tape. The sweat poured off his face, as did the tears. Poor baby jobber. I went to the side of the bed, leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s okay, sweetie, we’re giving you what you want, right?”
He closed his eyes. That’s when I took in the new decorations. Terry had found pictures online of various jobbers and blown them up to poster size, so Mark’s new room looked like a teenage girl’s, only instead of boybanders on the walls, it was jobber legends. A poster of REd Tyler in his green trunks lodged up his ass against Mr. Perfect. A poster of Todd Overbow draped over Papa Shango’s shoulder for a shoulderbreaker. Todd in his tight purple trunks, his obvious jobber boner on display for the crowd. A big poster of Kenny Kendall in blue trunks, hog-tied on the mat. A picture of Tommy Angel in his white trunks, being suplexed by Arn Anderson in the TBS studios. A poster of Ron Cumberledge in pink trunks going against the Barbarian. This is what Mark would see from now on.
In the closet, Terry had hung up the trunks Mark would be wearing from now on. Several pink ones, a polkadot one, a purple one, a virginal white one. In the drawer, Terry had put panties in there, replacing Mark’s beloved boxers. “They’ll make him feel even more submissive” Terry later told me.
My poor hubby. I crawled next to him and reached down to play with his little clit. As always, he responded to my touch and was instantly on the verge of cumming, even though he didn’t want to. I whispered into his ear. “Just think baby, you’re going to be in front of all your friends and our family in your little pink trunks, just like you always dreamed about. Pink trunks, white boots, you’ll be quite the sight. All the women will want to date you. I mean, all the men will want to fuck you.”
He was on the verge of cumming so I stopped stroking for a few moments as he lifted his hips, suddenly now desperate for release, no matter how humiliating the situation. When his tiny clit died down, I again picked it up. “You’re going to be on TV and in big arenas and tiny high schools. Everyone will know you’re a jobber. Isn’t that what you wanted? That’s what you told all those men in your chats. How you wanted to be dominated and wedgied and have your hair pulled and suplexed and slammed. Your pink trunks will have a permanent spot up your ass. Just think of all the cute girls from the neighborhood who will be there. Your secretary I’m sure will show up. All to see my little jobber boy in pink get slapped and degraded. Yes, in your pink trunks, honey. Your parents are going to be so proud to see their son on display.”
He lost the battle and splooged in my hand. I told him it was all right, before I burst out laughing. I ripped the duct tape off and had him lick his own cum off of my finger. Who knows, maybe he’ll be licking other people’s cum soon enough. I pulled his trunks up and patted his deflated cock. Even though he was no longer gagged, he couldn’t find any words.
He whimpered, defeated, while I walked out with my panties soaked. God, who knew humiliating my sissy, jobber husband could be so hot? I needed to be fucked. I walked into my bedroom. Terry stood there, already naked. His 8-inch cock, which made a mockery of Mark’s equipment, stood out. We fucked for at least an hour, I never knew a man could be so dominant yet so perfectly in tune with my sexual needs. I screamed the entire time, certainly loud enough for little Marky to hear. I could hear him whimpering in the other room, through the baby monitor Terry had installed next to the bed. I wonder what he thought as Terry turned me over and fucked me doggy style.
All those years of dealing with Mark’s 4-inch dick were erased in a flurry of cock. This was how a man was supposed to be, not dressed in pink wanting to be displayed and humiliated in a wrestling ring. But that’s what Mark would get, while I got a man’s man. Terry’s giant cock impaled me as I came again and again, crying out. Only my cries were of ecstasy.
Mark’s were the cries of a man who knew his life was over and that a new life, a life as a jobber in pink, was about to begin.
I sat in the front row at the local high school, surrounded by my sister Allison and my best friend from my gym, Laura. They knew all about Mark’s perversions and couldn’t wait to watch it all come to life. There were probably 100 people in the crowd, a mixture of young and old, male and female.
Terry ran many promotions out of the school. The ring announcer entered, a hot redheaded girl. “Ladies and gentlemen, from Watertown, weighing 220 pounds, Mark Dawson.” We all turned to the back as my husband jogged forward.
There he was: pink trunks, white boots, bare chest, brown hair, look of sheer terror on his face. He looked like a soldier being shipped off to war without a gun.He briefly made eye contact with me but turned away as my sister yelled, “OH MY GOD!” The crowd got a glimpse at the jobber, they started hooting. Several women wolf-whistled sarcastically. A couple of gay looking guys wolf-whistled and it looked like they meant it.
All those emails he sent, he couldn’t have dreamed it’d really end up like this. Mark reached back and adjusted his trunks at the rear. The people around us laughed and one young girl yelled, “Cute wedgie.” I remembered a time on the beach when Mark pulled my swimsuit up my ass in front of some college boys. I was so embarrassed as I pulled it out of my butt. Now he was on display. I could only imagine the fear he felt. The announcer said, “And his opponent, weighing 265 pounds, Dr. Death, David Schultz.”
Terry had told me all about Schultz. He’d been blackballed from wrestling after beating the shit out of John Stossel on 20/20. He couldn’t get in with the big federations anymore but he wrestled the small circuits. He was a very bitter man about his circumstances. He was also an asshole in real life. And mean. Perfect combinations to beat up and dominate my husband in Terry’s promotion. Schultz wandered out, a burly man, with a blonde afro and a black singlet.
He looked pissed, bitter, just like Terry said he’d be. A woman tried touching him as he walked up and he slapped it away. When he got into the ring, he spit over the ropes and finally stared at Mark, who looked like a small animal trapped with a lion. Schultz shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe this pansy was the one he had to face tonight.
The bell rang. Schultz waved his hand, signaling Mark to come forward. Mark slowly stepped toward the blond heel, apprehensive, pensive, dumbly, like a kid getting candy from a guy in a car. They shook hands while Schultz smirked, but he pulled Mark forward and raised his knee into his gut. At least it was supposed to go into his gut. Judging by Mark’s screams, and the way he grabbed his groin, I think it caught him in the balls.
The crowd jeered while my sister said, “Good thing his balls are so small or that might have hurt more.” Schultz grabbed Mark by his brown hair and brought him to his feet. He backed Mark up into a turnbuckle, then draped his arms over the ropes, trapping him there. He punched my jobber husband in the stomach twice, then delivered a karate chop to his chest. He brought him out of the corner with a hip toss that sent Mark flying halfway across the ring. Mark clutched his back. Schultz scooped him up from the apron.
He clutched the top waistband of Mark’s trunks and the hair and hurried him over to the ropes. He flung the poor boy over the top rope and Mark went flying over it like Sergei Bubka. He landed with a thud on the gymnasium floor, about a foot from a group of redneck guys and their two-toothed wives. The right side of his ass was exposed as the trunks had been launched up his rear. He was either unaware or unable to pick it as he just laid there, maybe hoping that Schultz would forget him. I could see the rednecks leaning down and screaming at him.
“Nice panties, boooy. Get up you fairy and fight like a man.” There was no fight left in him. But Schultz still wanted his toy. He jumped down to the floor and slowly walked over to Mark. The surly heel bent Mark over and shoved his head between his knees, leaving Mark’s ass in the open for all to admire. It’s a great ass, I gotta still admit. He looked at the crowd of hillbillies egging him on to crush the jobber.
He’d fallen a long ways in professional wrestling but I had to imagine he still got off on moments like this, times when he was in complete control of a young, hot guy, ready to humiliate him and desecrate his body and soul. He lifted Mark up by the abdomen and held him there for five seconds, before falling backward for a pilderiver. Mark’s head hit the gym floor with a crunch as the crowd oohed and aahed. He lay there motionless.
I briefly wondered if he’d been knocked completely out but I saw his leg twitching slightly, although that wasn’t necessarily a sign that he was conscious. Schultz sat on his ass for a few seconds next to Mark’s corpse. He finally stood up, reached down and grabbed a hold of the front of Mark’s trunks. He yanked up and I heard Mark squeal while the crowd murmured and laughed. Schultz kept pulling up, so we could see that Mark definitely sported a clean-shaven groin. He pulled up so hard that Mark was forced up to his tippy-toes.
He looked like a little sissy ballerina prancing around for recital. Schultz released the silky pink material and scooped my cute hubby up. He put him over his shoulder and stood motionless for a few seconds, giving the crowd a great glimpse at MArk’s half-wedgied ass. The heel then sprinted toward a ring post. I thought he was going to slam Mark’s aching head off of it but instead he hammered him shoulder-first. Mark fell to the ground screaming while Schultz wandered back to the crowd. He screamed at some fat-ass guy in the front row that he wanted his chair.
Fatty moves surprisingly quick, guess he didn’t want his ass kicked like Mark. Schultz picked up the folding chair and walked back to mark, who was prone on his stomach. Dr. D crashed the chair down on Mark’s back as the crowd cheered. They were liking watching my pansy husband get beat up? Apparently so. My sister and friend were cheering louder than anyone, and they hadn’t even been disappointed by Mark’s small cock.
Schultz rolled Mark over so he was on his back. He laid the chair flat on him, so most of it was on his chest. After spitting on Mark’s face, Schultz climbed to the ring apron. He jumped down feet first and landed on the cheer, crushing MArk’s sternum.
Now I was a little worried. Was this maniac going to try to kill Mark? How would I get my revenge if he wasn’t a permanently humiliated jobber in pink? Fortunately Mark was still breathing, though gasping and crying.
Schultz scooped him up and fired him back into the ring by his trunks, giving him a full wedgie, not just a half one. Mark was too stunned to reach back and fix his ridiculous trunks. A girl in a high school letterman’s jacket screamed, “Might wanna pick that wedgie,” and the crowd laughed. Schultz took Mark’s to his knees and put his head under his arm. He slapped the side of Mark’s trunks and even this movement brought a whimper out of Mark.
He’d fantasized so many times about this – how many gallons of jobber splooge had he spilled, I wondered, thinking about being in front of a crowd in pink trunks, being dominated, having the girls laugh at him and his trunks lodged up his ass. But this was reality. Schultz lifted him up for a suplex but instead of falling back walked Mark to a corner and deposited him on the top turnbuckle. Mark sat obediently, obeying his blonde, heel master.
Schultz punched him with his right hand and Mark wobbled backward, looking like he’d tumble over the top. The heel caught him by the hair and climbed up to the second rope. He glanced around at the crowd who knew what was coming. I wasn’t quite sure but Allison, who apparently watches more wrestling than I knew, squealed, “Oooh, superplex time!” Schultz again put his head under Mark’s arm and grabbed onto the pink panties, er, trunks. With a mighty heave he lifted Mark up and over for a devastating move. Mark’s back had to be at a breaking point. Schultz covered Mark for a pin.
He covered Mark’s top half, so his singlet-covered dick was right over Mark’s mouth. If it popped out, it would have served as a pacifier in Mark’s delicious mouth. Hmm, a dick in Mark’s mouth. Had to make a note of that. He laid like that as the ref counted one, two, three, finishing the match and Marky’s first jobber match.
After a few minutes of laying there motionless, Mark staggered back to the locker room. I watched the final three matches and walked back there as the crowd filed out. I peeked into the locker room after I heard Terry screaming at someone. It had to have been Mark on the receiving end.
To my shock, Mark was in his trunks, sitting on a chair in the shower. Terry had handcuffed his arms behind his back and duct-taped his mouth shut. He was berating him. “HOW DO YOU LIKE BEING A JOBBER NOW, YOU PATHETIC FAGGOT! YOU HAD A GREAT WOMAN AT YOUR HOME, HER DRIPPING PUSSY WAITING FOR YOU, AND YOU WERE JERKING OFF TO YOUR TRUNKS. FUCKING SISSY!”
“Terry?” I interrupted. “Oh, hi Kara,” Terry said. “I was just reminding Mark of how pathetic he is. This is just a little ritual we do with the new jobbers, reminding them of their place.”
Terry then spun and kicked Mark in the head, sending him sprawling, hands still cuffed. Terry walked over and kissed me while Mark looked back at us, tears filling his eyes, blood spewing out of his nose. Terry lifted my skirt and fondled my ass through my panties as I heard Mark cry through his tape gag. He had a perfect view of his new life as a jobber. And of my new lover.
We drove to Atlanta for a taping at the WCW studios. It was like Hillbilly Central. There were more mullets than teeth. Such a small studio. I drove separately, Terry came down with Mark to make sure he made the trip. The whole trip, he made Mark sit in the backseat, strapped in, a pair of p panties stuffed into his mouth. I thought that was cute.
The buttplug he made him wear might have been a bit much, but Terry thought Mark needed it to remind him of his place. I watched the matches from backstage that day.
Mark faced Dirty Dutch Mantel. God, this was going to be terrible for Mark. Dutch was the hairy heel in a cowboy hat who chewed tobacco and loved kicking around jobbers. His back hair was revolting to me, but I couldn’t help but smile, picturing my little pretty boy husband in pink traipising around the ring with old Dutch. In some of his email to the other pervs, Mark longed for a match against Dutch, raved about humiliating it’d be to be dismantled by a redneck. “Your hubby wanted Dutch,” Terry told me with a chuckle. “He’s going to regret jerking off to that fantasy.” But I knew I’d be fingering myself to the reality.
Dutch wore a black singlet while Mark stood in the corner in his hilarious silky pink trunks. I watched him closely, I could see him taking big gulps. I’m sure his heart was racing. He kept feeling his trunks, as if trying to make it real that he was now in a real ring, in front of a real crowd, in front of real cameras, about to face a real heel.
Being at the high school was one thing, being on camera…that was another. Millions would see this. His old workers. His old friends. They’d turn it on and be like, whoa, is that Mark Dawson in the pink trunks and white boots? Why’s he wearing that? is he a fag?
Dutch climbed in with his bullwhip and snapped it a few times. Mark jumped back on each one, while I pictured that whip crashing down on Mark’s back. I could envision the lines scarring him. Mmmm. The second the bell rang Dutch sprinted toward Mark, who stupidly stood there. He used to be so confident, cocky, in sports and in life. I guess being forcibly put into pussy pink trunks and white boots in front of an audience takes some of the arrogance out of a guy. Mantel swarmed him in the corner, reigning fists onto his back and knees into his stomach.
The ref tried stepping in but Dutch shoved him away and continued to go to work on Mark in the corner. The tobacoo in Dutch’s mouth kept spilling out, like cum out of a whore’s mouth. It fell onto the mat and Mark’s lovely brown hair. Dutch threw Mark into the ropes and met him with a raised right knee, sending Mark into a somersault that would have scored a 9.8 in the Olympics.
Dutch again raced toward Mark and planted a boot in the small of his back. He dragged Mark up and gave him a hug, their cocks were touching it looked like, Mark’s through his pink prison, Dutch’s through the black singlet. He held Mark like that for several seconds, seeming to enjoy the feeling. Finally Dutch lifted Mark and flipped, a punishing standing suplex.
Dutch flung Mark into the turnbuckle and chased after his prey, but hubby displayed surprising nimbleness and ducked out of the way. Now he had a chance to get some blows in.
He kicked Dutch in the stomach, taking the breath from the heel. Go Mark! It didn’t last.
With Dutch sitting in the corner, he reached forward and clutched the front waistband of Mark’s pink trunks. He yanked them down and forward, catapulting Mark headfirst into the turnbuckle, where he smashed facefirst into the steel pole supporting them. From my angle, it looked like the crowd on that side might have gotten a peek of Mark’s tiny cock as Dutch yanked down. They might have mistook it for a clit. Later when I watched the tape, I realized the entire country caught a gimpse, as the cameraman zoomed in just at the moment Dutch grabbed him.
Mark shot backward and held onto his face while writing on the mat. His leggs kicked, one after the other. Dutch pounced like a lion. He started biting Mark’s forehead as the crowd buzzed. I half-expected to see Dutch emerge with a chunk of Mark’s head in his lips, some demented version of Hannibal Lector, or maybe Mike Tyson. Dutch sat on Mark’s chest, damn close to his neck.
I could see Mark struggling to breathe while his booted legs continued to kick up and down. Dutch just sat there for about 20 seconds, looking around at the crowd who was watching his evisceration of my husband. Then he started slapping Mark’s face. Left hand, right hand. Left, right. Hard slaps, bringing the red out of Mark’s cheeks. He must have delivered 25 slaps by the time he was done. Like a pimp slapping his whores. He then started slamming Mark’s head into the canvas. He’d pick it up by the side, clutching his hair, then ramming into the mat. I worried slightly for Mark’s brain. Shaken Jobber Syndrome was a possibility.
I didn’t need a concussed jobber husband on my hands. How would he make any money, and how would I enjoy his torture if he didn’t remember that I transformed him from a real man into a skimpy trunks wearing pansy in pink? The blows took the life out of Mark, evidenced by his legs, which finally stopped kicking. Mark lay there, the madman still straddling his chest, his heel cock just a few inches from Mark’s jobber mouth.
Dutch grabbed Mark’s legs and spread them, dropping down for a headbutt to the, what, stomach, nuts? My writhing husband must have been regretting all of those emails now. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Finish the fairy off, Dutch!” and the redneck sycophants cheered. So did I.
Dutch brought Mark to his feet and hooked his trunks, just like Schultz did for a suplex. He lifted them and Mark, but instead of falling backward, he went forward, a brainbuster. Mark lay flat on his stomach, completely out of it. To turn him over for the pin, Dutch grabbed at the rear of Mark’s pink trunks and pulled, exposing the top of his crack to the fans and a nationwide audience.
The ref counted to three but could have counted to 100. But Dutch wasn’t done yet. It was time for a little post-match punishment and degradation. He retrieved the bullwhip and lashed Mark across his chest, drawing some blood. Mark cried out and attempted to crawl out of the ring, but a whip to the back ended his hopes of escape. Dutch brought it down three more times, three more lashes that reenforced Mark’s lot in life.
He was property, a jobber to be used and abused as his masters – and one mistress – saw fit. Blood seeped out of the wounds on his back, but they would heal. Not sure Mark’s ego would recover. Dutch then wrapped it around Mark’s neck and began pulling him around the ring, showing him off ot every side of the crowd, his prized possession. Mark desperately tried reaching his fingers underneath the whip, trying to fight for breath while kicking his legs. Dutch just pulled harder, apparently trying to break hubby’s neck.
I fondled myself backstage while watching this, picturing Mark’s bitch of a mother and tough-guy father watching back in Ohio, watching their Golden Boy being dominated in pink pansy trunks. By the time Dutch finally released a nearly unconscious Mark and left the ring, I’d swamped my panties with juice.
Marky Mark’s first WWF match. In front of a crowd of 6,000, with Vince McMahon himself as one of the broadcasters. This one I had to see in the front row. I had to hear the comments from people watching a strong heel crush a weak jobber. He was facing “strongman” Ken Patera, a guy whose muscles had muscles. Patera looked completely roided up in his blue singlet. Terry told me he was. Patera looked like he could barely move, he was so ripped. But if he caught Mark in those paws, it’d be the end of one jobber in pink and white boots. Mark fidgeted nervously in the ring.
Three times he reached back to pull the trunks out of his ass, even though only a slight wedgie had developed on his walk to the ring and subsequent leaping around the ring. Patera smirked as he walked through the ropes. Mark must have looked like some of the faggots Patera fucked during his short prison stint. Now he’d get to humiliate a hot young guy in public. And get paid for it!
No wonder I could see Patera getting hard through his tights. The two locked up in the center of the ring and Patera quickly slapped a headlock onto Mark, squeezing and twisting while Mark hit Patera’s shoulders, trying to get him to release him. From my seat I could almost hear the crunching as Patera continued to grind away.
Patera released the vicelike grip – that’s what the announcers called it when I listened to the tape – and threw Mark into the ropes. Mark jumped up for a cross body block but Patera caught him like a flyball in left field. He held him there, finally clutching the rear of Mark’s trunks. After 10 seconds in that position, he finally squatted down, still holding Mark, and then lifted Mark above his head in what Terry later told me was called a military press. Patera lifted Mark’s pink trunks high above his ass, sending them up both cheeks. Even as the crowd popped, I could hear Mark’s wail, “Aaahhh.” Patera held him by the chin and the trunks, displaying him for the audience, walking around the ring. At first Mark kicked his legs furiously, trying to get Patera to drop him. But that only made Patera lift him even higher, his trunks and his body.
Eventually Mark realized the futility of his position and the leverage Patera had. He accepted his fate and went limp, legs outsretched but silent, chin held up, the drool spilling out of his pouty mouth as the crowd took in the sight. Once again, Mark realized the fantasy of being a humiliated jobber was a lot more fun than the cruel reality. Patera dropped Mark and delivered a crushing backbreaker. He held him on his knee for several seconds before lifting him again into the same position.
By now Mark’s trunks had taken up permanent residence in his ass. Camera flashes went off all over; people wanted to commemorate this moment. The spit kept crawling out of Mark’s mouth while Patera held him by the throat and the ass, displaying the raw strength that earned him a spot in World’s Strongest Man Competitions. Drag a car, lift a jobber in pink, same things.
Next to me, two college frat boys started yelling at Mark, calling him mean names, like faggot and fairy, telling him what a nice ass he had. A group of middle-aged woman behind me talked amongst themselves. “Make sure to get a picture of that wedgie. God, he’s so cute too. Take another shot of his ass.” Patera dropped him again to his knee and finally flung Mark away, disgusted by his presence. Mark reached back and fixed one side of his trunks but couldn’t get to the other one. Mark was flat on his stomach and his torso kept twitching up and down.
Made it looked like he was fucking the mat. Christ. Patera preened for the crowd a bit before finally walking over and yanking Mark up by the rear of his trunks. He held Mark in that position for a bit, staring at the wedgied ass. Did the strongman want to fuck the jobber in pink? Would I have watched that? Maybe, and yes. Finally Patera pulled him back and slapped a full nelson on him. Mark screamed in agony as Patera lifted him off the mat and began swinging violently with his captured body. Mark went limp as the ref raised his arm to see if he had any more fight left. He didn’t.
The ref signaled for the bell but even after it rang, Patera continued to swing Mark around. He appeared to be unconscious. He finally released him and MArk flopped, motionless onto the mat, on his stomach, his pink trunks lodged up his tight ass. Thousands of people took a picture of the hilarious sight. So did I. Might make a good Christmas card.
Terry had a new idea. How would I like to be a valet? One of the women who strolls down with a wrestler and watches her man dismantle a jobber? I’d love it, provided the jobber was Mark. And he was. Terry hooked me up with Razor Ramon, for a little one-time thing. Razor had a gimmick going where he’d let one lucky local lady play his valet for the night and I’d be the one for the match against Mark. I’d accompany him to ring and stand ringside. And after the match…there’d be some fun in the ring.
Mark entered first, of course, like all jobbers. Razor came down second and I walked in front. I could sense his eyes on my ass all the way down the aisle. I had on a tight mini-skirt that barely covered my ass and a G-string. It felt good to be sexy. Terry makes me feel sexy and now it felt good to be able to turn on a real man like Razor. Mark would probably have seen me in this outfit and asked if he could wear it. Fag. Mark wore a priceless look when he finally saw me coming down the walkway.
He shook his head slightly, trying to will it away. Sorry honey, it’s real. I sat on the ropes and let Razor enter, toothpick in his mouth, machismo dripping from every pore.He towered over hubby, who wasn’t a small man but he was no Razor. Razor walked right up to Mark and grabbed him by the hair. He reared back and punched him in the head, but held him there, not allowing Mark to fall. He punched him two more times before letting go of Mark’s hair. Meanwhile, I kept prancing around the ring, yelling things like, “Kick his ass Razor!”
THe crowd whistled at my ass and hot outfit. Razor lifted Mark up for a slam but instead hauled him around like a sack of newspapers. He dropped him on the top turnbuckle, so he was draped over the entire corner. Mark tried kicking slightly but he didn’t want to fall so he eventually just laid there, waiting for his fate. Razr climbed up and again reached into Mark’s crotch, making sure to get a perfect hold of the pink trunks. I wonder if he felt the tiny dick inside those trunks, the thing Mark called a cock and that had never produced a single orgasm in me.
Razor really seemed to be enjoying getting a hold of Mark’s rear. Once he had a decent clutch, he lifted Mark over his head, catapalulting him backward and to the mat, a devastating move that left my husband rolling around. Razor stalked around the ring, finally giving the It’s Over sign, which looks like an umpire delivering the safe sign at home plate.
The crowd roared. They knew what was coming. The Razor’s Edge. I’m sure Mark knew it too, in his fog. Razor lifted Mark up and put him between his manly legs. He held him like like that, squeezing his knees slightly to increase the pressure. He then grabbed Mark’s rear waistband and pulled up. Mark’s legs actually came off the ground, from the force of Razor’s strength and as he tried to relieve the pressure from having the trunks lodged up his ass. The crowd roared again while Razor grinned. He let go of the trunks but Mark’s wedgied ass was now on full display, it looked like he was mooning the crowd. I could see his legs beginning to shake from the pressure of being bent over in that position for a minute.
Razor finally hauled him up and over his back, holding Mark’s arms upward while he rested on his back. It looked like he was crucifying Mark, which, in a way, he was. He stood there. I could see Mark’s front. I could see his little jobber clit nestled safely in the pink trunks, his new home. Was that a glint of precum in the material? Maybe.
Razor finally fell forward and dropped Mark on the back of his head. He covered him easily. As the bell rung, I sauntered back into the ring as Razor beckoned me. I went and stood over Mark’s pink trunks-clad body. I saw his eyes were open, which is what I wanted. He needed to see his. He could probably see up my skirt and my thong, but I didn’t care. He didn’t get to enjoy that anymore. Razor kissed me while lifting up my skirt for the crowd to see my ass. I didn’t care, I like being an exhibitionist.
As Razor’s tongue raped my throat, I heard Mark whimper, “Please, KAra, no.” That was my signal to shut that faggot up. I stepped up on him and stood on his stomach as he let out a yell. We continued the kiss for a good minute, all while I stood on my husband, my jobber husband. Back in the hotel that night Terry fucked me while we watched the tape of that match. Mark? Oh, he wasn’t at the hotel.
He’s now living with Pat Patterson as the old gay promoter’s jobber boy. He serves as Patterson’s sex slave while also continuing to job four or five times a week across the country. He was a good husband for a while, then a bad one. But he’s found his role in life: sissy jobber. It’s the role he was born to play.