HERCULES. HERCULES HERNANDEZ. THE MIGHTY HERCULES.
Whatever you called him, this muscle-bound freak was master of the power moves. Herc loved grabbing trunks with these power moves and anyone who reads my work knows this moves him up in my book.

He loved doing a military press, the good kind, where he lifts the jobber up by the rear of the trunks and holds them up, giving the jobber boy a good wedgie. He was great at the suplex, yanking those trunks and lifting up. And when he put the guy in the torture rack to finish him off, he almost always pulled him up by the rear of the trunks, sometimes going out of his way to yank on the waistband, before sticking his claw under the jobber’s legs and lifting him to his shoulders. If Hercules was still alive, I think I’d email him and ask if he’d do these things to me for like 500 bucks.

When he joined with Paul Roma for Power and Glory, Hercules added the superplex to his arsenal, another chance to pull a jobber around by his trunks in front of his pretty boy partner.

Johnny, let’s go to the clips.

Three minutes, multiple trunk grabs. Hercules is really in the roid days here, he’s almost grotesquely bulky. Whatever. That beard, the chain, I picture him collaring and leashing a jobber in the backyard, bringing him in every once in awhile for some domination. Here he throws Joe in by the trunks, then a great suplex, and finally the yank up into the torture rack.

This is a weird match, but very hot. At the 5:40 mark, Hercules tosses the horrendous poet – sorry, it’s true – back into the ring, and Poffo crawls around, apparently trying to escape. But there’s no escape and Hercules practically depants’ the poet before pulling him up for the finisher, as Poffo flops around. He also shows off an amazing tan line, one of my big fantasies as a jobber.

TULLY BLANCHARD
As a kid, I seriously feared Tully Blanchard. When I watched him on Saturday nights on TBS, something indescribable inside of me felt nervous. Already I identified with a jobber and Tully seemed to take particular pleasure in embarrassing them. He was so arrogant, that played a role. Also the fact he almost always had a female valet by his side. Even then, being embarrassed in front of a girl seemed embarrassing.

His finishing maneuver always involved grabbing the trunks: the slingshot suplex. How the hell did that finish guys off, I never really understood. What, did it hurt their legs that much to be bounced off a rope that they were down for the 1,2,3? Ouch, my thighs! Whatever, he always did it, usually in front of his woman, and cockily covered them in that tiny studio in Atlanta, the site of so many jobber humiliations. Tully seemed like a bully. As a kid, bullies scared me. As an adult, I fantasize about them. You can see why Tully has been with me for a long time.

He was aggressive, stomping and kicking, and doing it all with a sneer that he probably wore at prep school as he beat the shit out of the scholarship kids.

Here Tully takes on the hapless and trunked Trent Knight, in front of a new slut – Dark Journey. Love when Tully goes outside the ring. The rednecks are right on top of the ring and he’s vicious to Knight, then fires him into the ring, giving the jobber a good wedgie, which Trent proceeds to pick out. He tries to be discrete. But I see you, Trent. So did Dark Journey. How embarrassing for you. I bet Tully talked about that when he fucked Dark Journey later that night in some hotel.

And did Dark Journey like watching her man embarrass a jobber? Not sure, but her obvious nipples give me some clue.

NIKOLAI VOLKOFF
This Soviet son of a bitch (I know he’s not Soviet).

What a perfect villain in the 1980s. When he became a good guy, I was so mad. Who wants to cheer the commie? Also, by the time he became a face, he had stopped doing the greatest finishing maneuver in the history of wrestling – the military wedgie press he fucking perfected. You don’t know how many times I’ve jacked off into a pair of speedos while dreaming of being in Nikolai’s clutches. Literally hundreds. Hundreds. I’d even impersonate it by laying over my couch and lifting up on my panties or trunks, holding myself by the neck, “lifting” myself up into the rafters like Nikolai didd to so many jobbers. As I did it, I’d rub the front of my clit in the trunks until it squirted jobber juice. One time I recorded myself with a tape recorder, doing commentary. “Look at Nikolai holding this kid up by his trunks. Look at that Brain. How humiliating.” Squirt. Later I’d videotape it with same commentary. I had jobber issues.

He exposed asses and gave wedgies and spit on our flag. How fucking hot was that? He still wrestles occasionally and, again, I’d pay 500 bucks for him to do those moves to me. So strong.

God.

BOB ORTON
A technician. Seemed to know every hold and executed them perfectly. His squashes could last 8 minutes, all the while the Cowboy put on move after move. And he liked grabbing trunks. He wasn’t a steroid freak or muscle-bound madman but he could lift a jobber into any position. He was great at military presses using the trunks. He suplexed. He had one of the two best superplexes around – Windham the other – and he could knee, punch, kick and stomp.

I love this match for the finishing piledriver. As Orton holds them, he gains leverage by yanking on the man’s yellow trunks. For no reason, seemingly, other than to humiliate the man in front of the crowd. So cruel.

How perfect is that superplex. That had to hurt, unlike a slingshot. I dream of being lifted and planted on that top turnbuckle. There’s no escape, no place to hide, you’re perched on it like a good little boy, just waiting for daddy’s punishment. To keep you pliant, the heel often delivered a punch or two, in case you had any ideas of getting up to trouble. Then tumbling from 10 feet down, all the while Orton holds onto your trunks.

ARN ANDERSON
Like his buddy Tully, another heel I feared as a kid. He just seemed so intent on beating people up. Working those arms over, slam after slam, arm bar after arm bar. He smirked and snarled. And he loved yanking guys around by their trunks, seemed to be have a bit of an obsession about it, actually. Not that I’m suggesting it was a fetish for Arn. No, no.

A young, handsome Tommy Angel especially suffered at the hands of Arn.

Christ, where to begin. I’ll just quote something I wrote once before about this match:

So that’s a few of my favorites. I’ll write some more in another post on some others: Barry Windham, Terry Funk, the Barbarian, Kevin Sullivan.

Please leave your favorite heels in the comments and if you remember some specific matches, please let us know and relive them!

So finding this guy on the website was amazing. Before meeting him, I bought a pair of bikini swimming trunks. Baby blue. Tyr brand, actually, that fit my ass incredibly. Skimpy, but not too skimpy. A little skimpier than regular trunks but just slightly more coverage than the briefest of brief trunks that Chaz would wear. Covered my ass but rode up when I moved, the way I like it on my jobbers that I write my fictional stories about. I bought it at a sporting good store in a mall. Went there on my way to met the man. Was so horny, so craving abuse and humiliation for my jobber desires. As I stood in front of the trunks, I just pictured this man grabbing them and seeing me in them, exposed. A sales associate, in her mid 20s or so, cheerfully asked if she could help me with anything. I grabbed a few pairs of trunks and asked if I could try them on. She said sure and said most guys don’t try them on because they’re too embarrassed or something to do it. They just grab them. Yeah, most guys. Not jobbers.

At the house, the guy gave me a pair of white boots – great jobber boots – and knee pads. I looked like a fresh-faced jobber, ready for destruction. I was extremely nervous. I was just meeting a strange man. I’d never done that before. And he was dominant, a true heel. I wore a little white t-shirt into the ring and when I pulled it off I imagined what it’d be like to be doing that in front of a crowd of people, a crowd waiting to see me used and humiliated.

He wore big white trunks that covered his big gut, and black boots. Occasionally when we’d meet he’d wear a mask and looked like something out of an S&M nightmare but not that first time. He put me through the paces that first night. Did a lot of trunks pulling as I told him I was into that. Lots of HARD headlocks. And leg scissors. I mean grinding the shit out of my head, ears, neck. Boston crabs. Camel clutches, yanking my neck back. He was into ball punishment which I’m not really into at all so that was one problem. But I took it all like a good jobber boy. He said he couldn’t believe how much punishment I could take, that I was able to take much more than many of the other jobbers he’d faced. This made me proud for some perverse reason, more proud than when my parents said they were proud of me for being a good student. I have this jobber blood running through me, apparently.

Some of the times he grabbed my trunks:
He suplexed me. I’d never been suplexed. Obviously. When he put my head under his arm and draped my arm over his shoulder I knew what was coming but didn’t know what to do. He grabbed firmly ahold of my trunks and told me to squat down when he did, then left myself up when he lifted. He did a snap suplex, pulling the side of my trunks big time and I executed it flawlessly. Jobber instinct, I guess. He did it several time and it was a thrill every time. Would have loved to have undergone a vertical suplex but considering I had no training, we avoided that.

He delivered several body slams where he’d grab the rear of my trunks as he held me aloft. A scary time, he draped me upside down in the turnbuckle, ala Sullivan’s famous Tree of Woe. He locked my leg under a rope and tied it with a string that was there and I had NO way out. Helpless. Hanging. My tiny 4-inch jobber clit (I’m hung like a shrimp, like the jobbers I write about) hard and leaking in my spandex prison, the blood rushing to my brain, me wondering if I’ve made a mistake coming there. He worked over my groin several times as I hung there, punching down on my ball sac and kicking me a few times. He also choked me with his boot, releasing after a few seconds, and would deliver “big boots” to the midsection. By the time he released me, I was spent, finished.

We’d fight for about 10 minutes, he’d either pin me or make me submit, we’d rest for a few minutes, then we’d go at it again. Outside the ring he was very cordial, but a true mean heel inside.

One time he held a headlock on me for several minutes and then wrapped me in a camel clutch. Painful as he PULLED back on me. When he released me he kicked me in the back. I was actually crying as I crawled away. This was real, even though I was still in full jobber mode so was also selling the pain. But I really was trying to crawl under the bottom rope to get a few seconds of relief.

I then felt myself being YANKED up by the rear of my trunks and the blue swimsuit went up my ass as the dominant heel brought me to my feet. I grunted. All those times watching Red Tyler and tommy Angel and other jobber pussies yanked around. How often I’d fantasized about it. How often I’d jacked off. Now it was happening and I was helpless. I heard him say, “Get up boy.” He told me to “take a look at all the pretty girls laughing at you.” I wish there had been. I just stood there, docile, wedgied, submissive as he punched me in the back time and again without releasing my trunks.

He also delivered a piledriver to me at one point, another sort of scary move, obviously. But as I was held between his legs, allmy dreams were coming true. He gave a tug on my trunks, pulling them up my tight ass, then lifted me up by my gut. He fell down gently and my head did touch the mat but I was fine.

After the matches, we both showered and drank a few beers and I drove back home. He wanted me to stay the night but I was still unsure about myself and the whole situation and still wondered a bit what the hell I was doing.

I returned several times. One time an old man, a friend of his, came over to “ref.” He checked us for foreign objects beforehand, brushing up against my spandex-entombed cock, and then would monitor the action. Except the old geezer would get so worked up during the match that he’d stop reffing and jerk off in the middle of the action, he couldn’t handle seeing me tossed, wedgied and abused any longer. I think he missed some blatant cheating while stroking it.

I have another experience with a different guy I met for a match on a beach once and I’ll share that story as well at some point.

When I was in fifth grade, I playfully wrestled my best friend, who lived across the street. We always watched the Legends of World Class Championship Wrestling on ESPN. So one summer day we start wrestling around. At one point, he brought me between his knees. He wasn’t standing, just kneeling, so it was like a mini pile driver. But he lifted me up for a piledriver/suplex. But he did it by slapping both of my buttcheeks, grasping my shorts and pulling up harshly. I wasn’t expecting that and as I was lifted onto my head, my tight green briefs could be seen by him. And he said, “Nice panties.” I was so embarrassed, but was helpless, just standing on my head as he fell backward. It didn’t really hurt but I played it out, like a jobber would. He dominated the whole match. We somehow fell into jobber/heel roles even though we didn’t know what they were. He kept doing that move and I kept allowing it, each time feeling my green briefs on display. At one time he said he wanted to try a real suplex but I was scared to have the trunks grabbed even more and demurred. Not to mention it probably would have been impossible for him to pull off and he might have broken my neck.

And he was a heel, always getting into trouble, mischief, and later into trouble with the law. And I was the good kid, All-American boy. And a jobber. We had a few matches like that. Then, 8th grade. We watched a Clash of the champions and decided to wrestle again. By this time I knew I LOVED wrestling and jobbers and humiliation. So I wore shorts again and this time had a pair of Duke athletic underwear underneath. But they were a pair that had turned pink because my mom washed them with red clothes. I never wore them to school again obviously, but for this I wore them, knowing he’d probably yank my shorts again. And sure enough, he did.

This time he also pulled up on the waistband of the shorts, like Terry Funk used to or Barry Windham sometimes, and he could see the pink undies. Again he said, “Nice panties,” and dropped me. In any other context he would have laughed at me, but in this case he was a heel, but was also humiliating me for my garb. I kept allowing him to get me into that position. One time he completely ignored the shorts and just yanked on the pink undies, huge wedgie, and got me into position for the closing piledriver as I let him pin me.

As far as I know he’s not gay. In fact I walked in on him having sex with a girl I’d dated 9 months earlier when I was 20, but had never had sex with. So he sort of cuckolded me too, in addition to turning me into a jobber as a kid. We’ve never talked about those matches. The thing was, I was a superior athlete, even as a kid, and could have kicked his ass in a real fight. But I was such a submissive jobber boy, and he obviously liked embarrassing me, that I allowed myself to be used. Started a lifetime of jobber desires.

DIARY OF A HEEL
SEPTEMBER 21, 1988
Dear Diary,
What the fuck. Just kidding. This isn’t some pussy’s diary. Don’t even know why I’m doing this. Guess because it’s lonely on the road being a pro wrestler and when I’m not fucking hookers or beating up wannabes in hick bars, I have a lot of downtime. So might as well talk about my career a bit. Maybe some day some archeologist will discover this and see what a wrestling heel was like in this country in the late 20th century.

Anyway, me. Bad Billy Butcher’s my name. It was William Butcher. The Bad and Billy were added by promoters. I’m 31 years old right now, been in this business 12 god damn years. I’m a heel, a bad guy. About 6-2, 250 pounds, strong, bit of a gut. I wear black trunks and black boots. Occasionally I’ll wear a mustache.

Love beating up jobbers. I’ve never won a major title but I’m always in some pretty good matches. I’m known as a great worker and a master of execution. I can do any move, any hold, any slam. And I enjoy my work. Lord do I enjoy it. Nothing better than a young jobber who’s practically just out of diapers and now he’s being paraded around in front of thousands – or dozens – of people in little spandex trunks. I love kicking their ass, spitting on them, yanking their trunks up their ass, slapping them and, sometimes when the mood strikes me, making them suck my cock later in the night, back in the locker room. I was married at 18 cause we had a kid, but we divorced at 20. Don’t talk to my ex much and that’s fine. I got my wrestling. All I need.

Anyway, had my first match with the NWA today. In their little TBS Georgia studio with Tony Schiavone on the call. Maybe three dozen people crammed into that little place. But I like it already. So close, so intimate, the crowd really gets to see me as I work over the jobbers. Wrestled this little blonde fairy named Tommy Angel. You’ve seen him getting worked over every week on TBS. Maybe 210 pounds and wears the skimpiest little white spandex trunks you’ve ever seen. Before the match in the locker room, the little fucker came up to me to shake my hand, welcome me to the organization and wish me good luck in the match.

I took his hand and squeezed. And squeezed. Establish some dominance right off the bat. The Midnight Express stood nearby and looked on with big grins as Tommy went to his knees, trying to pry his hand out of mine. I grew up on a farm and have good strong farmer’s hands.

I now lorded over him.

“You don’t talk to me. You don’t look at me. I’m your god, you understand me, punk?” Tommy nodded while grimacing and holding his hand. I discarded it and he rolled on the floor, holding the hand, wondering aloud if I had broke it.

“Get the fuck away from us,” I told him. “Go wait in the toilet until our match. And if I hear a fucking word from you, I’m going to piss down your throat before the match.” He retreated to the toilet stall and sat on it like an obedient servant, decked out in his slick white trunks and jacket, until it was showtime. I think I’d established my dominance in front of my new comrades fairly well.

As I walked to the ring, I first walked toward the camera by the announcers. I shoved Schiavone aside and spoke directly to the American people.

“Listen up. Bad Billy is in town. I don’t take prisoners and I don’t take crap. It’s a new era. And you’re about to get a glimpse of excellence in action.”

I walked in and removed my vest. Walked around in my black trunks, eyeing little Tommy, who looked scared to death, probably wondering if I’d use him as a toilet after the match. Maybe. If he made me mad. The crowd cheered him madly. He was a Southern boy and they wanted him to make them proud, beat up this Yankee bad guy (I’m from upper New York) just like their great great granddadies would have back in the day.

I always love wearing my black trunks compared to a jobber’s white, or pink or orange trunks. I’m serious, no business. Mine aren’t skimpy but they aren’t completely covering either. For instance, when I sometimes get hard from manhandling a rookie, you’ll see me growing. Give the ladies something to lust after, give the jobbers something to fear.

I stood in the center of the ring slapping my shoulders a bit as Tommy bounced of the ropes and threw his shoulder into me. I didn’t budge. He went off the other side of the ropes and again delivered a shoulder jolt. Didn’t move me at all. I barely felt it. This time, as he stood contemplating his next move, I went into the ropes and delivered a shoulder block of my own. He felt mine. Tommy went down and his head snapped against the canvas. I picked him up by the hair and drilled his head into a turnbuckle, then took him to another one. This could concuss any normal person and he may well have been. Throwing him into the ropes, I greeted him with a knee to the stomach and he somersaulted over. Time to show Tommy off to the crowd. I gripped the back of his white trunks and fired him through the ropes, taking special pleasure in noticing how the right side of them rode up his ass as he fell to the floor. Like all NWA wrestlers, I threw him on the side where the camera sits so everyone can see a jobber destroyed. A good-looking female in blue jeans operated one of the main cameras off to the side and I picked Tommy up and brought him over, holding him by the hair. I held his face inches from the camera, I’m sure the people at home could see his nose hair.

“Anyone mess with me, this is what you’re going to get! I want Sting! I want Dusty Rhodes! Give me someone tough! Not like this geek!”

With that I marched Tommy back toward the main camera and announcer’s area, where there was more cement. I easily scooped him up and held him in place, pulling down on the trunks a bit to reveal the top of his crack. I sprinted forward into a turnbuckle and let him slide down, clutching his back. Two boots to his head subdued him. Some girls in the front row kept yelling, “Get up Tommy. You can do it,” but he really couldn’t. I threw him back into the ring by clutching the right side of the trunks, simply adding to the wedgie that had already developed and watched as Tommy rolled onto his stomach and removed the wedgie.

As he staggered around, I climbed to the top rope, showing off my agility. When he turned, I jumped down with my padded elbow, drilling him right on top of the head. That had to hurt.

Slowly lifting him up, I clutched the side of his trunks and lifted Tommy high into the air for a suplex as the crowd popped at my strength and the announcers said, “Look at how Bad Billy is manhandling this youngster.” Yes indeed. And thank you, announcers, for pointing out this manhandling.

A word about vertical suplexes. Such an effective move, one I loved the first day I learned it in school. It probably could be a finishing move, in that many guys are finished after it, but it’s not sexy enough to be a finisher. Still, it totally takes the wind out of a man and if you hold him up there long enough – letting the blood rush to the brain, as Gorilla Monsoon would say – he’ll be disoriented as well.

When I execute one, I like to grab the side of the jobber’s trunks. Some people prefer getting ahold of the front waistband and I’m not totally against that. The advantages to the front? When you lift the jobber up,if you pull back on the front just a bit, there’s a decent chance to get a look at some jobber cock, pointing downward. Sometimes they’re hard, often they’re soft, all scared and shriveled, just like their owner.

Still, it’s harder to control a man’s body with the front, so I still go with the side. Guys like Buzz Sawyer, crazy fuckers, do love yanking on the front. Buzz once nearly ripped a poor jobber’s testicles in half when he lifted him up from the front waistband. The kid could be heard bawling even as the Mad Dog held him up in front of the folks at this rinky dink gym. He cried throughout the rest of the match, which only ended after Buzz lifted him again by the front of the trunks for a brainbuster. The jobber was practically a castrato after that match; back in the trailer he laid on a bench rubbing his balls for about a half hour, while Buzz threatened to do it again, right then and there, if he didn’t quit his whining.

When I hook a jobber’s arm over my head, I grab the side. I like to grasp it more by the leg than the waistband. Sometimes I like to deliver a little slap when I grab ahold, it’s great in the smaller arenas like on TBS because you can hear the slap and there’s no doubt what’s coming next. I’ll sometimes walk around a few steps, doing a jobber tango, while getting a firm grip of the silky trunks. Give the jobber a few seconds to prepare to be lifted. And up we go.

Occasionally I’ll do a snap suplex or just an up and drop but I love holding them up there. A jobber’s long, lean body 12 feet up in the air, perfectly straight. After 15 seconds you see their legs begin to shake a bit. I like to do a little spin, just to dizzy them even more. After about 25 seconds the crowd will begin to buzz, wondering just how long I’m going to keep this rag doll positioned like this. I can see the cameras flashing and I maintain my grip. I want everyone who’s looking to immortalize this moment on film to have a good look at this stud. Later they can look at the photos at the family’s dining room table and the jobber can know that forever more, people will have photographic evidence of me holding him up his his trunks. Finally, mercifully, I’ll fall back, holding onto the trunks all the way to impact. Sometimes I like to slingshot myself onto his chest for a pin and when I do that I use the trunks as leverage, sometimes giving the folks at home a near-glimpse of some jobber cock.

Like I said, you could pin a jobber 9 times out of 10 after this move. But of course we never do. There’s more punishment coming.

And so it was for young Mr. Angel. I fell backward and I heard him go, “Ahh, noo,” and I must have really hurt his back. I covered him for a two-count but rudely pulled him up by his hair. With his back hurting from the outside turnbuckle and the suplex, I tossed him into the ropes and we he got close to me, scooped him up for a powerlsam, holding on all the way through impact. Again I counted to two and again I yanked him up by his hair.

Time to show this new crowd and this new organization my finisher. The Superplex. Learned it from my buddy and mentor Dr. D, David Schultz. It’s a move jobbers fear and the crowd always stands up for when they realize what I’m going to do with the jobber’s who’s propped up on that top turnbuckle, just waiting for his trunks to be yanked one final time and for his back to be nearly shattered.

I put his arm over my head and lifted him by the trunks to the turnbuckle in one of the corners nearest the cameras. I looked back to the crowd, who, as I predicted, stood up, all the mullets rising as one. I made sure to look at one of the cameras that had come near the ring apron.

“This is what’s coming,” I said.

With that I again grabbed Tommy’s trunks, gave them a little yank to remind him of what he was – a jobber pussy – and then up and over we went. This time I let the ref count to three, though it could have been to a hundred, which is just what the announcers said too. They replayed my superplex while saying, “A dangerous newcomer, someone to look out for in the NWA. Bad Billy Butcher. Goodness gracious.”

A good first day.

JANUARY 6, 1990
Tonight I wrestled the man who’s known around the various federations as the King of the Wedgies. Red Tyler, of course. Red hair, hairy chest, great worker, perfect jobber. When Red first appeared on the scene he wore these cute red trunks – fittingly – that would end up in his ass against guys like Ted Dibiase and the Barbarian. He graduated to red, white and blue ones, spandex ones, very hot, which, again, ended up in his ass against the likes of IRS and the Nasty Boys. I don’t know what it is about Red but when heels see him, they want to humiliate him and expose his ass.

Last week Red broke out some new trunks, lime green, tight fitting that show his bulge in front and, yep, get wedged in the back door. Mr. Perfect yanked him up by the back of them and gave him a thong in the ring as the crowd popped and even the ref snickered. I wanted to try to humiliate Tyler even more than Perfect did.

It just so happened we were in Red’s native Minnesota. He was a two-time state wrestling champion here and before the match I heard Red talking with another wrestler and he said his old wrestling coach and mom and sister would be in attendance.

“I wish McMahon didn’t make me wear these green trunks,” he said. “He promised me, if I took wedgies and bumps for a few years, I’d get a real shot at becoming a name. Yet here I am. I don’t care what the script says, I’m going after Butcher tonight.”

I smiled to myself and slunk away. No room for improv tonight, Red. Unless it’s me deviating from the storyline. Red got a nice cheer when introduced, mostly because the ring announcer said he was from Minnesota. I don’t know how many recognized him, though. But as he walked out and I watched from behind the rear curtain, I saw him point to a 50-year-old guy, a 50-year-old woman and a 25ish girl with cute red hair in the front row. Must be the old coach, Ma and sis. They cheered like mad, even with him prancing by in his ludicrous, butt-hugging trunks that were already riding ever-so-slightly up his ass, which Red acknowledged by adjusting them once he was in the ring.

The crowd greeted my entrance with boos, no surprise. The man in black. I hocked a loogie on the floor of Target Center as I walked in, right at the feet of some dweeb in a Minnesota Vikings shirt. That got the natives upset. As I ducked through the ropes, Red attacked me, sending me sprawling to the floor. He was moving off the script. Impressive. I still had my jacket on as he rolled up on me outside the ring. He delivered two big haymaker rights, sending me back toward the ring post. Red easily scooped me up and slammed me to the concrete, a move I love performing. The crowd roared its approval of the hometown hero. But then he made his fatal flaw. When he tried throwing me into a ringside barrier, I easily reversed it and sent him flying backfirst into it and immediately followed with a boot to the chest, that left him crumpled, giving me a few seconds to catch my breath and contemplate the punishment I’d dole out to this sissy jobber.

First, let’s get started on my desire to one-up Mr. Perfect. I took Red by the seat of his trunks and marched him around half the ring, slowly pulling up all the way, until finally lifting him into the ring in front of his mom, sis and coach. I turned around to see his mom putting her hands up to her cheeks and his old coach shaking his head. Easing my way back into the ring, I came upon Red and saw he’d adjusted the trunks, something he didn’t do against Mr. Perfect. I threw the hairy-chested boy into the ropes, waited, and at the last second lifted my elbow right into his chin. It’s the type of move that can knock out some lower teeth, but I didn’t see anything going flying, just Red himself. That chest really attracted me, made me want to work it over for about an hour, maybe with some nipple clamps or something. I didn’t have an hour but I could still pound on the chest. I lifted him for a slam but instead hung him up upside down in the turnbuckle, a vulnerable position for any man once you lock their feet under the ropes. No matter how much he fights or struggles with his arms or tries to sit up, he ain’t going nowhere. Standing sideways, four quick kicks to the chest formed deep red imprints on his chest and I could hear him wheezing. I then took the boot and applied the pressure to his neck, only breaking it at the four count. Then four more seconds on the neck. It was time to get him down so I unhooked him and he flopped down. I walked him over to the center of the ring, where I stood him in front of his old statemates.

Now the real fun. Reaching under his crotch, I scooped him up for a military press, one of my favorite ways to: show off my power, and humiliate a jobber in little spandex trunks.

Sidebar on military or gorilla presses: Like with suplexes, different guys have different forms with this. Some reach in between the jobber’s legs and put their thumb between his balls and leg and the rest of their fingers basically on his ass crack, then lift him straight up. Very impressive show of strength and you can really elevate the man. But I learned the press from Nikolai Volkoff, where you lift the man by his trunks, hold the material well above his ass and then hold him like that for several seconds. If you lift closer to the waistband, you can actually show off part of the man’s crack, depending on the camera angle. Or if you clutch further down, you can lift the material further above his ass, say six, seven, eight inches, depending on how stretchy the material is. Either way, it’s one of the most humiliating moves for any jobber to undergo. They’re powerless as you hold them by the trunks, shoving them up his ass, and holding him by his mouth or throat. Often drool will spill down from his lips as you hold him there, displaying him like a prize, controlling his every action with the leverage, deciding when and how to drop him back to Earth. I always follow it with a backbreaker, just like Nikolai taught me.

Now I’ve got Red up there and his trunks must be six inches above his ass. The crowd pops the instant they see me lifting up on him and his legs dangling helplessly behind. I grab onto his throat, near his chin and walk around the ring with him, pressing him like a barbell four times. Each time I bring him down on top of my head and then back up, the material goes further up his ass. Take that, Mr. Perfect. I make sure to lift him while facing his family and coach and to my surprise his sister, the good-looking red haired one, is taking his picture and grinning a bit. Maybe she never liked her brother and likes seeing him used like this. Maybe she caught him wearing her panties once and always knew he was something of a panty fag. Mercifully for him, I drop him down for a dominating, crushing backbreaker, but I hold him in place. Not done with you yet, boy. I stand back up with my green-trunked prey and again show him off to the crowd, high above my head. My arms are a bit weak so I don’t hold him as long before dropping him for another backbreaker.

When I release him and he rolls off my knee, screaming and clutching his lower back, I see the trunks are thonged in his ass nicely, making it look like he should be on a beach in France or a gay club. This time he’s in too much pain to fix them and besides, they sort of live up his ass, they practically pay property taxes in there. Red might have had ambitions coming into tonight but he knows his place. He’s weak, I’m strong, he’s a jobber, I’m not.

Now that his chest and back have been properly worked over, why not another body part? This time I reach between his legs from behind, grabbing a hold of his nutsack and lifting him stomach first onto my knee, knocking the wind right out of him.

I felt a little twinge on my knee after dropping him so I decide to finish him off. Instead of the superplex, I go with a simple front facedrop off a suplex, again clutching the wedgied trunks. I love having guys on their stomachs in the moments before I pin them. Almost always I’ll pull them onto their back by pulling on the side of the trunks. When I do that with Red and go for the pin, I lift his leg, then use my leg to lift his other, rolling him up into a little package that shows off his wedgied ass and own small package, the most humiliating pin there is in our sport.

As the ring announcer comes in to announce my victory to a chorus of boos, I grab the mic and look at his family. Over the loudspeaker, I demand to know if they’re his mom and sister and old coach. The sister nods and I point at Red, “This fairy is your big brother? Mom, you proud of your son? Coach, is this how he won a state title, by showing off his ass to the guys and distracting them?” Red is finally starting to move a bit as the crowd starts pelting me with paper cups and soda bottles.

By the way, I get paid for doing this. How’s your job?

JUNE 19, 1990
Interesting night. Found myself in Pat Patterson’s office. He had young Ben Jordan over his knee, trunks down, mouth gagged. But go back earlier in the night.

Jordan had refused to wrestle that night against Kevin Sullivan. I saw it in the locker room. Pretty sad. Jordan screamed that no one could make him be a jobber anymore, that he was sick of wearing the floral trunks he’d been outfitted in for months. Said he was sick of being dominated in tv and in arenas. Said he knew Sullivan was coked up and he worried about being seriously hurt. Said he was tired of the buttplug Patterson made him wear. Patterson stood there silently, listening to the whole tantrum.

“You done?” Patterson finally asked.

“Fuck you, old faggot,” Jordan screamed.

“You done?” Patterson said while advancing on the young jobber, who was backed into a corner of the locker room, still decked out in his ridiculous looking trunks.

“Fuck you,” he said again, though quieter now, as if trying to still convince himself that he was a tough guy who could talk like this to heels or promoters or whoever the hell he wished. Patterson was now upon him and Jordan found he had no place to go, trapped like a rat. The other wrestlers stood transfixed. It was rare seeing a jobber punk act up like this but not completely unheard of. Unfortunately for Jordan, transgressions were always dealt with swiftly.

Patterson, dressed in his slacks, buttoned shirt and dress shoes, kicked Jordan in the stomach. With the jobber bent over, the old gay promoter put Jordan’s head under his arm and delivered a DDT onto the filthy locker room cement.

“Oooh, shit,” I heard Paul Orndorff mutter.

Jordan’s right leg twitched. He wasn’t selling anything. I had a perfect view as Patterson made sure Jordan’s forehead slammed into the floor. The kid was out cold, unconscious, flopping like a god damn fish pulled onto a boat. Just to make sure Patterson kicked him twice in the back of the head.

I thought that was a bit much. One kick would have sufficed.

“You’re done, huh, boy?” Patterson muttered, though Jordan couldn’t hear him in his state.

Patterson asked for help lifting Jordan’s carcass. I wandered over along with Mike Rotunda and we scooped him up under his armpit and the trunks and held him up in front of Patterson. Blood trickled down Jordan’s forehead and into his left eye, which was trying to flutter open. Pat lifted Jordan onto his shoulders so the youngster’s ass, still looking good in the floral trunks, stuck up in the air. Patterson patted the kid’s rump twice before walking with his prize through the locker room, out into the hall and into his office. He looked like some hillbilly carrying an oversize giraffe he just won for his girl at the county fair.

An hour later I had to ask a question about a payment so went into his office.

So that’s when I found Jordan draped over Patterson’s lap. Patterson had a cigar in his mouth and was on the phone, talking to some other promoter. I could see Jordan was conscious now and probably had been for awhile. His white ass was blistered, red from the severe spanking Patterson had apparently delivered in the past 60 minutes. His trunks had been yanked down and were around his knees. As I sat on the couch, I just grinned. What a business. Patterson occasionally stuck a finger in Jordan’s ass while still on the phone and I heard the kid moan as it plunged in and out. Jordan couldn’t really scream out much, not with his mouth wrapped in about five layers of duct tape, which went around his head and his pretty locks. That’d hurt when yanked off.

We talked about my pay and he surprisingly agreed with me. As I got up to leave, he asked if I wanted to stick around for a bit more. Sure.

Patterson removed the cigar from his mouth and it hovered over Jordan’s sweet ass. Christ, he’s not going to stick a lit cigar up the kid’s ass, is he? Some demented Bill Clinton fantasy here? As sick as that’d be, I wouldn’t have minded seeing it. No, it wasn’t going in Jordan’s ass but it was going to make a mark. Patterson burned Jordan’s right cheek and Jordan flailed frantically, screaming as best he could through his gag. I winced. This was a bit much for me. Patterson removed it and branded the left cheek. Jordan kicked and moaned. Patterson grinned. He lightly patted Jordan’s lower ass cheeks, telling him it was going to be okay, though surely it wasn’t.

“You’re a jobber Ben, right?” Patterson asked.

“Mmgmdmdm,” Jordan muttered, which I guess meant yes.

The last thing I saw before leaving the room was Patterson putting the cigar out in an ashtray, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a thin purple vibrator. As I heard it buzzing and saw it going into Jordan’s ass, I closed the door as I heard Patterson say, “Now we just have to get you loosened up a bit more for daddy.”

I think Jordan had a long night ahead.

MAY 21, 1991
Call me a redneck. Guilty. But tonight I got an extra little thrill out of my match. Went up against a 22-year-old black heart throb named Ron Cumberledge. Good lord. Some promoter found him in a local gym pumping iron. Sent him to wrestling school and a few months later here he is, all polished. The only thing missing is a big bow wrapped around him. Some people think he’s going to be a big star, and he very well may be. But for now he’s a jobber, having to earn his keep like anyone else. Cruel white dude beating up a black guy, I know, politically incorrect. So be it.

As I dressed in the locker room, Vince McMahon strolled in with his 20-year-old knockout daughter, Stephanie in tow. What an ass, what tits. Okay face. She wore short white shorts and a T-shirt that displayed all her assets. She looked a bit nervous and that’s not surprising since a variety of pro wrestlers were in various states of undress around her. Vince carried a bag and walked up to Cumberledge.

“Hey, Mr. McMahon,” Ron said cheerfully.

“Don’t you think you should call me Dad,” Vince asked.

Silence.

“What?”

“Well, since you’re fucking my daughter and all, I figure you think we’re family. Thought you might want to call me dad.”

“DAD!” Stephanie screamed and Ron’s mouth dropped.

“Mr. McMahon, I can, I can explain.”

“DAD!” Stephanie said again, as if we didn’t hear her high-pitched shrill the first time.

“You really need to do a better job hiding your sex tapes, honey,” Vince said. “We found it. Watched it. No daughter of mine is going to fuck a jobber. Are you such a slut you can’t even keep your legs closed for jobber cock?”

Ron stood there, breathing deeply now, looking a bit faint.

“So I brought your new trunks,” Vince told him and reached into the bag. He came out with a pair of shiny pink trunks. Perfect jobber trunks.

“Strip boy.”

Cumberledge followed orders, perhaps thinking it’d earn him a break. With Stephanie holding her hands up to her face and McMahon staring in a rage, he dropped his boxers to reveal a thick 7-inch cock. Jesus. Some stereotypes are true.

“I can see why you liked it, hon” Vince said. “But you’re not going to be seeing that anymore. In fact, no girl will for awhile. Put these on Ron.”

The pussy jobber held the pink ones motionless for about 10 seconds and I could tell he was trying to process this. I saw his fingers rub over the material a bit, it’s always a shock the first time a jobber boy feels the silky spandex, which he knows he’ll be encased in in a public venue. He looked like a girl touching her first bra, if that girl had no desire to ever wear the bra.

All those dreams he’d probably had about this business. “I’m going to beat Hulk Hogan! I’m going to beat Ric Flair! I’m gonna fuck the boss’s daughter!” Sure, champ. Now he had to realize that in a few moments he’d be in front of 10,000 people and a hundred thousand on TV wearing white boots and pink trunks. All those friends he’d told to watch his match. They’d watch. Would he ever hear from them again? Would he be the butt of jokes at school reunions? McMahon kept watching as Ron pulled the trunks up his muscular legs and over the cock and cute ass. They rode up pretty high on his abs and had about four inches of material on the side. Nice fit.

“Let’s get your panties adjusted there, big guy,” Vince said as he pulled at the waistband a bit, turned Ron around and situated the trunks on the obedient jobber’s ass just so. He gave him a light spank and ordered him to bend down in front of him and Steph, with his ass facing them. He made him stay in that position for about 20 seconds while Vince fondled his ass and talked about how Ron’s days of fucking his daughter were long gone. And that if he didn’t do exactly what he said, this ass of Ron’s would be filled with cock day and night.

“You can’t make me do this, Mr. McMahon,” Ron finally said, while standing.

“No? How about I tell the cops you raped my daughter. Who they going to believe? A jobber in pink and my whore daughter who they’ll think is protecting her abuser, or dear ol’ daddy?” Vince finally left and told him to break a leg.

“But don’t you break his, Billy,” he said to me while the other heels laughed and Ron stood dumbfounded. Vince told Stephanie to find her mom, Linda, and then pulled me aside for a few minutes of discussion.

Ten minutes later the ring announcer called my name and I slowly strolled to the ring. I like to take a look at the crowd, a good long look. Like to see the hotties and the fat men who will be watching me dismantle some youngster. Wonder if they get off on it too. But as the bad guy in black, it’s my job to get them pissed, get some heat on myself. I walked over to the railing and saw a kid, couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6. Little bastard had a thing of Cotton Candy that was bigger than his head. Had a Hulkamaniac T-shirt on. Probably ate his vitamins, said his prayers. His mom and dad, in their early 30s, stood behind him. I went and stood in front of them and told the husband, “How’d you like your woman to have a real man sometime?”

He stood up, as if he was going to take me on or something. Moron must have weighed 150 pounds. With glasses. Good lord, this is the kind of guy whose head I stuck down toilets in high school. Would have snapped his neck with a piledriver, then given him another one just for good measure. Then fucked his wife in the ring while he laid paralyzed next to us. The wide-eyed kid kept munching on his cotton candy. Little snot-nosed fucker. I snatched it out of hand and took a huge bite out of it, then put it on the ground and gave it a big boot. The mom just stared at me. The dad yelled, “You son of a bitch,” and after the initial shock, little Johnny broke out into tears. Real tears, heaving, screaming for his mommy. I picked up the remnants and stuffed them on the dad’s head, right in front of his wife he stood there with a pile of pink cotton candy on his head like the worst toupee in the world. I’m sure the kid would recover from his heartbreak.

As I made my way around the ring, I glanced at another kid who suddenly sat down and protected his Hershey’s Candy Bar while his mom covered him up. In the front row, I spotted Stephanie with Linda McMahon, who I’d later learn was actually the one who discovered the sex tape and demanded that Vince do something to that son of a bitch who violated their daughter. But here she was playing mommy protector while Stephanie wept at her side. Her man was about to be dominated, crushed and humiliated in front of her and Vince had assured me that they’d be playing the tape of this match in their home over and over and over again.

Finally I looked into the ring. ah, there’s my quarry. Big ol’ Ron in pink, jumping up and down like he’s getting ready to run the 100 meter dash at the Olympics.

I stepped into the ring and we started circling each other. We locked up and he shoved me backward. Kid had some strength. He was a musclehead at the gym, after all. The crowd cheered as I turned and looked at them, a bit surprised. Ron gained a little confidence with his show of strength. If this was a bodybuilding contest he’d have a shot. Alas.

We locked up again. This time I put a little more into it, trying to gain an edge. But again he shoved me back and this time the little pink pansy had a ton of confidence. A third time we met up and this time I was done with fucking around. I brought my right knee up into his tight abs and he wilted. Not so strong now, huh? I lifted his upper torso up and chopped him into the chest. Ron fell backward. I lifted up both his legs and gazed down. I knew what was hidden by those pink trunks, that nice cock that he probably fucked all the white sorority girls with. Why not give it a little work now? I brought my boot right down on his dick and he crawled into the fetal position. The ref warned me to watch it and that I might get disqualified. Ooooh, scary. I picked his legs up again and widened them a bit, stretching that groin some more. This time I dropped down and headbutted his sac, again causing him to roll up in pain.

The only bad thing about Cumberledge’s look is that he has a nearly shaved head. No thick mop of hair to grab onto. Nothing like grabbing on to jobber locks, pulling them, controlling them with it. No matter, I pulled him up and walked behind him, lifting him for an atomic drop. Work the balls first, now the ass and tailbone. I held him for about five seconds, way up, giving the crowd a good shot of his taint, before finally dropping him onto my knee. He bunny hopped over to the ropes, comically grabbing his ass. I retrieved him and fired him into the ropes. I greeted him with a back body drop. At the last second I put a little extra oomph behind it and sent him higher near the roof. He came crashing down in a thud on his lower back and ass.

Now I walked around the ring looking at the crowd some more, smirking. The cotton candy kid was still weeping while dad picked cotton candy out of his own hair. A bunch of people were taking pictures, a bunch were booing. I saw Stephanie and also noticed that a few seats down from her were four incredible looking girls in University of Florida gymnastics sweatshirts.

I grabbed Ron by the rear waistband of the trunks and fired him between the middle and top ropes, right in front of Stephanie, Linda and the gymnasts. Scooping Ron up again, everyone thought it’d be another atomic drop. Instead, per Vince’s instructions, I crotched him on the railing, right next to the great piece of ass he’d been fucking a few days earlier. I impaled him on the steel ring as the crowd ooohed and ahed, Stepahnie cried, Linda smirked and the gymnasts giggled and shot pictures. I toppled him over onto my feet and lifted him again, this time reaching between his legs. Instead of dropping him throat first onto the railing, I dropped him on his midsection and heard the wind suck out of him.

“Ronnie, Ronnie, I’m so sorry,” Stephanie said. He slid down and I positioned him so his throat and arms were draped while he was on his knees. It was like he was in the stockades. I reached around and grabbed inside of his mouth. I ripped open his cheeks, as if I was trying to peel them off his face. Another request from Vince, who said he wanted me to punish “that fucking faggot jobber’s mouth,” because, on the notorious tape, Ron had gone down on young Stephanie and put on a world class exhibition of pussy eating. I began to wonder, how many times did he and Linda watch that damn tape? And how many times did they rewind? And where could I get a copy?

But I kept peeling back on the face as Stephanie cried out, “No.” I released my grip as Ron collapsed onto his back on the concrete.

“Leave the kid alone Butcher,” I heard some elderly woman nearby yell. Aw, what a sweet granny. I walked over to the old bitch and asked her what she was going to do to stop me. She pulled out her cane, as if to hit me. Bitch. I pulled it away from her and snapped it in two with my knee, like Bo Jackson breaking a baseball bat. If the kid with the soiled cotton candy had a look of shock on his face, that was nothing compared to the loo on the face of this woman with a bad hip. She started crying too. Jesus. The kid, Stephanie, this old hag, how many audience members could I make cry today? I had an inkling of looking for another victim but returned to Ron. Beating him up and humiliating him was why I was being paid, after all.

I walked back to Ron, still rolling around on the floor, clutching his worked-over groin, and slowly lifted him to his knees. From there I pulled up on his trunks, until the pink trunks were totally lodged up his ass.

“Oh, no, don’t,” Stephanie cried and that only encouraged me more. I pulled up until Ron was on his feet, then pulled up some more until on his tippy toes, like a pretty ballerina. I held him there for three seconds, making sure Steph and the gymnast girls got a good shot of wedgied Ron. The trunks must have been rubbing a bit on the jobber’s prostate because I heard a bit of involuntary moaning from his mouth, or maybe he was still hurting from having his cheeks ripped open.

I walked him to the ring apron and slid him under. Just for fun, I turned and did a theatric bow to Stephanie. My pleasure, m’ lady. By the time I got back into he ring, Ron had managed to pry one side of the trunks out of his ass but the other stayed stuffed, making him look almost as ridiculous than if he’d just left them both.

I positioned Ron so he was on his back, then stepped on his forehead, raking it with my black boots. Again I pulled him up and again I wished he’d grown some hair, a little afro or something to haul him around by. When I stood him up, he whispered to me, “Please Billy, please pin me, no more.” Wrong thing to say. He might as well have said, “Please sir, can I have another?” Why would I listen to a jobber’s requests?

I backed him into the turnbuckle. Not so strong now, huh Ronnie? I draped both his arms over the ropes, pinning him there and exposing his chest and abs. Three quick boots to the midsection had him gasping and a snap mare out of the corner had him back on his ass.

Slowly bringing him up to his feet, I reached under his crotch and lifted him for a slam, making sure to firmly grasp the pink trunks. I squeezed and walked around the ring with him giving all four sides a good look at this jobber I was handling like a rag doll. I thought of a simple slam but wanted to punish his ribs a bit more so I sprinted forward about five feet and delivered a crushing power slam. Could have pinned him there but it was time for a finisher. I planted him in the corner nearest Stephanie, on the top turnbuckle. Two quick punches made sure he didn’t have any thoughts of escaping. I climbed to the second rope and hooked his arm over my head. Grasping the side of the trunks that were still wedgied, poor kid never did get them out. I grabbed a handful, counted to three and then took us both flying backward. Always hurts like hell but hurts the jobber a lot more. I rolled over and covered Ron, making sure my crotch was practically covering
his face – another request from Vince. The ref counted one, two, three and old Ron was done. As I walked back to the locker room, I saw Linda escorting Stephanie out of their seats. They might have been taking her to a convent for all I know, but it was going to be a long time before she let any jobber dick enter her wrestling royalty pussy.

MAY 22, 1991
You know, I write about these jobbers and how much I enjoy humiliating them, but I do have some sympathy for them. How could I not, as I used to be in their place. At some point, everyone’s a jobber in this business.

I got started when I was 19. Business was much different. Regional action ruled, you didn’t have Vince McMahon or Ted Turner ruling everything.

I didn’t have any family in wrestling. I was a star wrestler in high school and loved watching it when it came to our local high school. One night after some matches, I went up and asked one of the wrestlers how to become a pro. He was a burly guy, fat I suppose, hairy. He looked me over, I weighed about 190 then, and grinned a wolfish grin. He asked me if I wanted to be a pro and I said “Yes sir.” He gave me the name and number of a school 100 miles from me. A few months later I graduated from it and was a pro wrestler. And I was a piece of shit, at the bottom of the food chain, a jobber.

Back then they didn’t really have the silky spandex trunks that jobbers have to wear. And thank god. It was bad enough being dominated in my plain trunks, couldn’t imagine doing it in that material.

But I’ll never forget my first match. Was against Harley Race, who in later years I’d tag team with. We did it at this local community college in North Carolina. I didn’t own any trunks, the promoter, Bill Watts, told me he’d take care of me when I got to the gym. Said he didn’t want to give me a pair and then have me puss out and he’s out a pair of trunks. I arrived and waited in the locker room. I was the youngest guy there, by far. A lot of guys in their 30s and 40s, old vets, old hands, hard men. Literally.

I was a tough guy, tough kid growing up, but being in this environment made me nervous. I had a feeling everyone in that locker room could beat the shit out of me without a second’s thought. I wanted to be them. But for now, I was a low-life, a jobber.

Watts wandered in wearing cowboy boots and a big belt buckle. “Stand up, William,” he said to me. I wasn’t yet Billy. And I certainly wasn’t Bad Billy. Watts said a jobber’s first day in the business is a big one, especially when he get his first trunks. He pulled out a pair of white briefs. Like I said, they weren’t Tommy Angel like, but they were skimpier than the standard wear of the day. They didn’t go high up on my stomach and they had maybe six inches of material on the side. By now all the heels had gathered round and watched as Watts told me to climb into them. I slowly took off my shirt and pants and the heels saw my 6-inch dick. Soft. Thank god. If I had a tiny cock, I might have been subjected to a career as a jobber, I’ve heard it’s happened. I pulled the trunks up and felt the waistband. Watts smiled and said I looked pretty hot, “Good enough to fuck,” he said and the heels laughed while I chuckled nervously.

“Think I’m joking, son?”

I just shook my head no. I prayed he was joking, but didn’t know. And didn’t know how to answer.

“Here’s the deal, boy,” Watts said. “If you can survive Harley Race’s sleeper hold tonight and don’t have the ref call the match, you won’t get fucked back here after the match. If you can stay awake through it and only get pinned in a traditional way, your ass will be saved. Literally.”

I didn’t doubt my toughness, but I also didn’t doubt Harley’s. Still, this was a challenge to my manhood and I accepted.

In the ring Harley worked me over big time, like the true pro he was. Long, drawn out holds, the type you don’t see much nowawadays. Really wearing me down. He put me into everything you could imagine: camel clutch for a brief time, abdominal stretches, grueling headlocks, scissors. Oh god the scissors. Those big strong legs locking around my throat for five minutes at a time. One time I got into a position where I was basically had my head down on the ground and was standing on it. He pulled me up by my white trunks and lifted me in the process as the entire crowd laughed. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was as he held me like that for several seconds, my ass a few feet from his face. He finally released me and like a good boy I’d learned my lesson. I went back to my side as the scissors squeezed the life out of me. Don’t get choked out I kept telling myself. You can do this.

He also worked my body over with a series of slams and suplexes, moves he executed brilliantly. But always he’d return to the punishing moves. A long bearhug where I wilted in his arms, falling like putty until he’d scoop me up and I’d find myself wrapping my legs around his ample midsection, pathetically.

After 20 grueling minutes in the ring I kept praying he’d get tired and just pin me and save me from an ass fucking. I’d been mauled and manhandled in front of this crowd and fully realized that I was nothing but a jobber punk. He put me up into a shoulder breaker, or what I thought was a shoulder breaker. Instead he slid me down between his knees for a piledriver. When he dropped, I saw nothing. The last thing I remember was being between his legs. I came back to consciusness after a few seconds and turned onto my stomach. I next felt Harley yanking me up with ease by the back of my trunks, adding to the wedgie and getting a big round of laughter from the crowd. My vision was blurred, I couldn’t remember my name or really know where I was. All I knew was someone was holding me tight by my trunks and not letting me go. Harley then slapped a sleeper move on me. I fought. God I fought. This was it! He was going for the kill, I realized. My arms flailed but
he only increased the pressure on my neck, squeezing the life out of me.

I felt myself going to my ass and then the ref appeared in front of me. I felt him lift my arm once…then nothing…

When I woke up, I was back in the locker room. Later I learned I’d been taken there by stretcher, humiliatingly loaded onto it, for some reason, stomach first, so the crowd got a gander at the white trunks lodged up my ass as the paramedics carried me back to the locker room.

When I finally came to, I was on the locker room floor, hogtied with some rope. I kicked but that did nothing. My trunks had been removed and placed over my head, with the crotch part stuffed into my mouth and taped up with white athletic tape. The first voice I heard was Watts’.

“Well, well, lookie who’s up?”

He walked over and untied me before pulling me up by my hair. I had no strength, I knew what was coming, though I dreaded it. He marched me near an old storage container and bent me over it. He used the rope to tie my arms to a pair of hinges on the trunk. He forced my legs apart and there I stood, cock dangling between my legs, ass open, mouth gagged, arms restrained.

Watts went first, his dirty Southern cock plunging into me. I screamed into the gag, but was silenced by the material and the pungent smell of my own trunks. I felt the first tears after about his third thrust, which felt like it was ripping into my ass. He only went for a few minutes when I felt him shooting into me. As he pulled out, he told me, “Damn boy, you got a future.”

Harley was next. The victor gets the spoils, after big Bill of course. he had about 8 inches of King cock but he went a bit slower, treated me more like a subject. Or more like a bitch. He occasionally grabbed my hair or yanked back on my trunks, forcing my head back, as if it was a bridle and I was his pony. Soon enough his jizz joined Watts. I could feel it all leaking down my thighs and the tears continued to flow. Why’d I ever sign up for this? Why couldn’t I have been tougher in the ring? Nick Bockwinkle followed. This was before we knew about AIDS remember. These old fuckers didn’t care about anything. They all had wives, of course, but on the long nights on the road, I was later to learn, you take what you can get. You have to pay for hooker pussy. Jobber ass is free.

Bockwinkle had been all showered and dressed so as he pulled his pants down he removed his belt from the loop. He proceeded to strap me across the ass with it five times, telling me that he liked to tenderize his jobber meat. Horrifically, he then reached between my legs and played with my limp dick.

“Let’s get this going here,” he said. As he stuck a finger in my ass and shoved it back and forth, he stroked my dick until I was as hard as I was the night I lost my virginity by fucking Becky Jones in my dad’s car. Just as I was about to cum, he stopped and plowed into me with his dick.

“Oh you fucking jobber, you little cunt, jobber boy, you little sissy,” he kept muttering while pounding me until the inevitable conclusion. He scooped up a bundle of the cum that had leaked from my worn out ass and briefly ripped the trunks out of my mouth to feed it to me. The tape was gone from the trunks but he stuck them back in my mouth, keeping the cum in my mouth and preventing me from spitting it out.

Mad Dog Vachon was last. Oh god. I don’t think he’d showered since Nixon resigned. He stunk. I couldn’t imagine what his cock looked like or smelled like. But I soon knew what it felt like. Painful. He didn’t last long at all, a minute or two before finally breeding me. At the end, I put my head down on the trunk and wept while the other wrestlers left. Only Watts remained. He walked over and removed my trunks and told me to get showered and get dressed. He told me I took it well, took it like a good jobber, that all wrestlers go through this at some point. Thank god my then wife wasn’t in the arena that night to see me. Or to see me afterward. Would she have smelled the cum on me?

I jobbed for maybe two years, but my natural dominance soon won out. Promoters saw I was a mean son of a bitch, that I should be the fucker, not the fuckee. Still, I know what it’s like to be a jobber. I know the humiliation they go through. The degradation and public ridicule, not to mention the private ass fuckings. I know their pain. It’s just that I like delivering it and am much better at it than I was taking it.

DECEMBER 11, 1991
I feel bad for Tom Zenk. Sort of bad. Well, as bad as you can feel for a jobber. The kid has awesome physical skills and is good-looking to boot. Can’t figure out who he fucked over that he’s still a mid-card guy and an occasional outright jobber. I know Ole Anderson loves booking him as a jobber and it seems like Z-Man is stuck. Too bad. But since he’s stuck, I’m going to have some fun with the boy. Tonight we had a match on WCW Saturday night. Good back and forth.

Tommy came out in his orange trunks and I had seen back in the locker room that he had put on his little white briefs that he occasionally likes to wear. Guess he’s a bit self-conscious when his trunks get yanked and doesn’t want his ass exposed, just his cute panties. Well, he’d get his wish. This match featured some great back and forth action. I love squashes. Live for them. But it’s also fun having an extended match. Yeah I take some punishment, but I get to dish it out too on a featured pretty boy.

Early on the Z-Man drilled me with a dropkick and his patented kick, that caught me right on the chin and sent me back. I bit my tongue and could feel blood pooling in there, which really pissed me off. I slid out of the ring and rubbed my chin as the crowd screamed at me and I looked back “in fear” in the ring, where Z-man was posing and preening. When I climbed back onto the apron, the pansy surprised me by kicking me in the gut, then slingshoting me over the top rope. Zenk really must have wanted to take out his frustrations about Ole Anderson on me. When he fired me into the turnbuckle, he followed it up with a bizarre flip – which seemed a bit much – and an elbow, again right to my chin, and this time I could feel the blood coming out of my mouth. Fucker.

The crowd, especially the women, who rub themselves to his long locks and tight-fitting trunks, were cheering like crazy and the men loved seeing a cocky asshole like me beaten. His second toss of me into the turnbuckle had me walk out toward the center of the ring, where he dropped me with a flawless hip toss, followed by a headlock. Now he worked it. As I got my bearings, I dug my fingers into the rear waistband of his trunks. I felt his little white panties, but ignored them and grabbed ahold of the orange trunks. I used them to pull him onto his shoulders where the ref got two counts. Zenk complained about me pulling his tights but when asked, I denied it. I did it again and this time I knew his orange trunks had gone up his ass, surely revealing the white panties below. How’d I know? Because as I put him on his shoulders again, the crowd buzzed loudly and Zenk groaned a bit. When we stood up, I pulled up on the front this time, revealing the front of the white briefs to the crowd and audience and fired him into the ropes. As retribution for his kick, I brought a boot straight up to his model, pretty boy face.

I dropped a big elbow on his chest to subdue him, then went to work on his right arm. I locked an armbar on that I kept for a good two minutes. I eventually worked him to his stomach, so everyone could see the white briefs that protruded beneath the orange trunks. I bent his arm behind him, pinning it to his lower back and slowly raised it, bringing a scream from the babyface jobber’s face. I’d bring the arm back down, then lift it ever so slowly again. Pulling him up by that arm, I then pinned it behind his back and reached down under to lift him for a slam. This trick I learned from Arn Anderson, the bodyslam with the man’s arm behind his back, which puts all his weight on the limb when he comes crashing down to the canvas. Arn broke a jobber’s arm like that more than once. After I slammed him he finally reached under his ass to adjust the trunks, but he only got one side. The white briefs still stuck out completely on the left side of his ass and would remain like that the rest of the match.

After throwing him into the turnbuckle, I drilled him with three straight shoulders to the midsection. I grabbed his hair and marched him back to the center of the ring, but as I went for another slam, he pulled off a small package that somehow managed to get a two count and I barely kicked at three. Little son of a bitch. When I kicked out he got to his feet before me and flung me into the ropes and hit me with a powerslam. As I got my wind back, I saw Z-man climbing to the top rope like some kind of pantied superhero. But right when he stood up, I sprinted over, and brought my hand up right into his crotch, dropping him on to the top turnbuckle. He hadn’t climbed quite fast enough and now he was in no man’s land, stuck on the top rope, with aching balls he’d have to have healed by some ring rat’s mouth tonight. I looked around at the crowd, which knew what was coming: the superplex. I decided to do it a little different. Because his orange trunks had gone up his ass, the white briefs were completely visible, just sitting there, waiting to be grasped. So I took a hold of the flimsy satin and hauled Tom backward. As I hit, I realized the briefs had torn. They weren’t built like trunks, they weren’t constructed to withstands a manhandling, unless they were being ripped off for someone to to be fucked. So Tom laid in the middle, waiting to be pinned, while the left side of his white briefs dangled below the trunks, an emasculating scene.

I exited first but watched as Tom walked back to the locker room, unable to fix the torn garment. I heard a young guy tell him to fix his panties and I saw Tom blush. Maybe next time he’d learn not to wear the white briefs under his trunks.

FEBRUARY 13, 1992
Got my first valet. Madusa Micili. Hot piece of ass, former women’s champion in the AWA and now she’s in the WCW. We’ve started using her as my valet and I absolutely love it. Turns me on to have her ringside watching me as she parades around in front of the crowd and the jobber in her tight-fitting pants and shirts that come to her midriff and show her big ol’ tits. She’s sassy, cocky, sometimes mean. Intimidating to dweebs and jobbers. She’s also good at occasionally delivering a bit of a beating to a jobber and I find it’s especially degrading for a jobber boy when a girl – a girl! – kicks his ass in a public place. Especially when they’re basically wearing panties while she walks around in pants.

Tonight’s victim? Bob Emory. Or is it Bob Emery? The big dummy spells it both ways. Bob is something to look at. God. Every muscle just perfect, tall, strong, great face, IQ of an ox. I don’t know how he graduated high school, much less made it into college on a football scholarship. He looks like a horny promoter constructed him in some perverted jobber lab. Except then forgot to include a brain. Or maybe wanted a brainless jobber. You look at Bob and realize that his thoughts probably consist of, “Duuuuuuhhhhh.” But now at 23 he’s in the wrestling world. You’d think he’d be a star, he has a lot of the tools. But for whatever reason, a promoter decided he’d be jobber material. Maybe because he has the charisma of a stool. Yes, I jobbed when I was young but like I said, my natural personality shined through, my charisma, my machismo. Bob is a milquetoast pantywaist. A cipher. A cipher in cute tights.

Today he wore these little blue things that hugged his ass and had maybe two inches of material on the side. Before the match, Madusa asked who we were wrestling today and when I said Emory, she laughed and said, “Oh my god. I had such a crush on him the first time I saw him in an arena. My panties were wet thinking about him. We actually went on a date but back at my place when we started making out, his little three-inch dick couldn’t get hard. It was like playing with the Fabulous Moolah’s clit. I asked him if he was a fag and he said he was just nervous. Uh, okay. I threw him out. Then I saw him wrestle Bad News Brown and he had these little silvery aqua trunks and Bad News yanked him up and treated him like a ghetto bitch. And he took it! What a pussy! Can’t wait to kick his ass today.”

Poor Bob.

He was waiting in the Atlanta arena as Madusa walked me out. Walking behind her, damn, what an ass. Emory could have had this if he wasn’t such a weasel dicked, trunks wearing jobber. Madusa sat on the middle rope so I could climb in. When she removed my jacket, the last thing she said to me was, “Make sure you throw him out to me.”

No problem. I motioned Bob over to talk. I got up into his face. He already looked like he wanted to wet himself right then and there. Maybe I’d put a diaper on him in front of Madusa. I got next to him and told him, “Bob. I’m going to kick your ass. And then I’m going to toss you out to Madusa and she’s going to kick your ass. I just wanted you to be ready for it, okay? And it’s all because you couldn’t get hard for a beautiful piece of ass like that. There’s nothing you can do about it. Just be ready, faggot.”

He took both hands and shoved me on the chest, like a five-year-old boy pushing another kid. I smirked. What had set him off, calling him a faggot or reminding him of his impotency? To counterpunch, I brought a leg right up to his crotch. I turned and laughed to the crowd as he stood bent over holding the family jewels and his little, as Madusa called it and signaled with her pinkie, clit. I quickly put a swinging neckbreaker on him and the party was on.

It is strange. Emory is stronger than me, more athletic, better looking. But something makes him submissive and it’s not just because a promoter makes it so. I was a jobber too but grew out of it. Something inside him makes him this weak little pussy whose only job in life is to now make me look good. What’s the psychology of it? Who damaged Bob – and other jobbers -  in their youth so much that they think a good living can be had by serving them up as sacrificial lambs each week? Whatever.

I think about that for about two seconds as I watch him roll around. I stand him up for a belly to belly suplex and am able to feel his little cock against mine for the briefest of seconds.

Madusa is screaming outside that she wants to get ahold of him so, being a gentleman, I oblige. I throw him out by his trunks and he lands at his old date’s feet, with the left side of his trunks wedged up his ass and the other side just waiting to join it. I distracted the ref. Later I watched the tape to really soak in what happened next. With Bob on his back, squirming like a pig in shit, Madusa put her heel right to his chin. As the cameras zoomed in, she moved it up to his lips and told him to start sucking it. Poor Bob. With any pride he had long ago gone, Bob opened his perfect jobber mouth and accepted the filthy three-inch (hey) intruder. You could hear her on the broadcast, “You can’t please a real woman, maybe you can clean my shoes. Or maybe learn to suck on something a little bigger.” On the commentary, Jim Ross said, “This is outrageous. The ref has to stop this!” Why? She grinded it further down Bob’s throats and finally pulled out, but was far from done. At this point I joined the two on the floor. I didn’t want her having all the fun. I walked over and kissed her in front of the cameras – man has to please his valet – and Bob started crawling away. When he was about 10 feet away, I told Madusa, “Why don’t you go get him and bring him back to daddy.” With a huge smile and bigger tits, Madusa stalked after her prey.

When she caught up with him, Madusa reached down and lifted Bob by his satin blue trunks. When a strong man yanks up jobber meat by his trunks, he can do it in one quick motion, pulling him all up in a second. But Madusa had to do it slowly, which added to Bob’s misery. On her first yank, it brought him to his knees and you could see the blue trunks completely invading his ass. Another slow tug brought him deliberately to his feet and I heard him yell out as she turned him around and marched him back to me, clinging to his hair and trunks while displaying her conquest to her favorite heel. Bob’s face grimaced. Again, he could kick Madusa’s ass in two seconds. Yet here he is, being manipulated and wedgied by this strong yet still relatively small woman, who’s holding him in some type of humiliation bondage.

I smacked my lips and looked around at the crowd, sharing my love of this steroid-freak’s demolition. I could see that his little dicklet had leaked a bit of precum in his trunks. Maybe Madusa had found a way to get him hard, just humiliate and degrade him. She held him by the hair and trunks but slightly off to the side, instead of directly behind him. She had him set up like a football tee. And unlike Charlie Brown I was not going to miss. I walked back about 15 feet, sprinted forward and right after she released her grip, clubbed him with a clothesline that sent him sprawling to the floor. It felt good. I rolled back into the ring to break up the ref’s, what, 20 count, and then picked Bob up. I told Madusa what to do and we hooked his lovely trunks for a double-team suplex, she with one hand full of trunks, me with another. We snapped him back and I contemplated rolling him back into the ring. Madusa had other ideas.

“Help me piledrive this pussy,” she said. I grinned. Evil bitch.

She pulled him up and put his head between her legs. Bent over, he gave the whole crowd a perfect shot of his wedgie, the blue trunks having taken up permanent residence in his oh-so-fuckable ass. Madusa gave just the slightest of tugs to the rear waistband and his legs buckled a bit. She wasn’t strong enough to lift him so I took him by the legs and held them up and helped drive him into the cement.

Checking his eyes, it certainly seemed like he was out cold. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. Especially for jobbers in speedos.

I saw some other muscle freak in the front row and went over to him and asked if he wanted to end up like Bob. He sat down, like a chastened child. At one point he probably had dreams of being a wrestler, just like Bob used to. But now this guy at least got to see the reality. That unless you’re a real star, someone with charisma, toughness and guts, you end up like Bob, on the jobber assembly line, being used and humiliated for the pleasure of others. I went back to Bob’s motionless body and eased him up. I scooped him up in my arms and walked him over, gently setting him on the apron with his ass up, still exposed. I slapped his right cheek loudly and the crowd murmured. By the time I had made my way back, he was still out of it. I pulled him onto his back and covered him with my pinkie figure, right on his hairless chest.

Madusa climbed into the ring to mock her conquest a bit more. We stood over Bob and I planted a huge kiss on her and felt up her ass while I saw Bob’s eyes fluttering open. He was apparently still among the living. Madusa sat on his chest and bent down into his face.

“See what you’re missing, faggot?” she taunted. “This is your life pussy. You can’t have real women. You’re nothing but a punching bag you sissy.” With that she stood up, stood between Bob’s legs and kicked him in the nuts, the second time his package got kicked that match. This time he vomited onto the mat. They didn’t show that part on TV, a bit too graphic. But I worried for a second that she had kicked his testicles up to his stomach and I’m sure it felt like that to Bob. With that I peeled her off so we could prance in front of the camera some more.

So let that be a lesson to you jobbers out there. Soft cocks can lead to hard punishment in the ring.

JUNE 18, 1992
Fucked up match today. Fucked up because I wrestled with a fucked-up partner. Catcus Jack. He’s been playing this crazy man role for a few weeks now and is really getting into it. I think they’re going to branch him off from me sometime soon but today they paired me with him because they wanted him to show off his looniness while in a squash match against a pair of jobbers.

Trent Knight and Joe Cruz were the unfortunate victims. These two jobbers went to wrestling school together and I sometimes get them mixed up. Both tall, blonde, doofus looking. Both sometimes have ridiculous mustaches, though both were clean-shaven tonight. Joe had little red trunks on while Trent went with these aqua things that hugged his ass beautifully. I know they heard Cactus ranting in the locker room like a mental patient so they must have been a little worried about what they were getting into.

They stood in a corner of the ring together as Cactus and I approached the ring. Cactus was slobbering for some reason. As we got close, he leaned into me and said, “Let’s attack.” Before I could react, he crawled under the bottom rope and charged the jobbers. Right behind him, I ran into the corner too. All hell was about to break loose. Gorilla Monsoon would call it a “Pearl Harbor attack.”

Cactus went after Cruz so I took Knight. Both were on their knees as we gave them big boots to the face and chest. We both grabbed ahold of our victims’ blonde hair and threw them over the top rope. Cruz landed awkwardly on his ankle and started screaming out on the floor while Knight laid there like a beaten dog, probably wishing he could crawl back to the locker room. Cruz definitely had a sprained ankle but that was the least of his issues. As I slowly stepped through the ropes to get my boy, Cactus had climbed to the turnbuckle. Jesus Christ, was he going to jump? He looked like a goateed Jimmy Snuka.

“Set him up! Set him up!” he screamed at me. I wasn’t sure which jobber he wanted to crush so I took Knight. I laid him out so he was on his back on the floor, his tiny jobber cock showing signs of perking up. He breathed heavily, his clean-shaven chest heaving up and down. Cactus looked at the crowd that now egged him on, not believing this big man would leap from there to the floor. Did he want to kill himself? Kill Knight?

I moved out of the way to watch the spectacle. Gave a boot to Cruz’s bad ankle as I stepped over him. Finally Cactus flew and splashed down onto Knight’s midsection as the crowd went bananas. Knight looked like he was having a seizure. Who knows if Cactus broke one of his ribs. Cactus meanwhile looked fine. I’d learn later it was because he was coked up, but he looked around wild-eyed as the camera man crept pass me to get a look at the madman’s face.

I thought the match should continue back in the ring so I grabbed Joe by the hair. I latched onto the rear of his red trunks, below the waist band, right on the ass, and lifted, stuffing him under the bottom rope and giving him a perfect wedgie in the process, both ass cheeks exposed. That got Cactus off of Knight. He slithered under the rope and kicked Cruz in the chest and face. Standing him up, Cactus bitch slapped him, then backhanded Joe like he was a naughty whore and Cactus his pimp. But then Cactus stepped through the ropes so he stood on the ring apron. He again looked crazily around at the crowd and I realized he was standing Cruz up in a suplex position. The fuck? I’ve never seen a suplex from the inside to the outside. This move could literally kill Cactus as he’d be landing on his head, while who knows what could happen to Cruz? Paralyzed? I again stood slack-jawed as Cactus hooked Cruz’s arm and grabbed ahold of the side of the red trunks.
Cruz tried fighting him, tried getting away but Cactus cranked up on his chin, cutting off the air, subduing the naughty jobber. Finally he lifted Cruz up to the rafters and held him vertical for a second or two. Cactus then unbelievably fell backward, totally disregarding his safety. Joe actually hit the floor first as he’d been catapulted back. His legs- including the injured one – hit before his back, but that might have saved him from a lifetime in a wheelchair. The middle of Cactus’ back took the brunt of the punishment, but instead of crying I could hear him laughing.

As I had been watching all this, Knight had indeed started crawling back to the locker room area, hoping we’d forget about him. I looked around and noticed he was missing so slowly went to retrieve him. He was on all fours, his back still heaving up and down as he tried helplessly to get his breath back. I stood behind him and looked at the crowd, shaking my head and smirking.

I got around Trent and stood in front of him. Like a puppy trying to get out of the house, he tried going to the left on his hands and knees. I moved to block him. Then he went to the right. I moved to block him. The crowd laughed.

“Get that pansy back in the ring,” I heard a middle aged man yell.

Gotta make the fans happy. I went back behind him and pulled up on the back of his waistband, lifting him up and sending the aqua trunks up his ass. I walked back to the ring like that, grasping onto the trunks. When we reached the ring, I fired him back in and saw Trent reach back and adjust the trunks.

As I looked down, I saw that Cactus was now biting Cruz’s chest. Jesus Christ. Hannibal Lector? I went over and pulled him off and told him we had to get back to the ring. The ref had come out, trying to get back control of the match but what was the point?

Cactus finally agreed. He pulled Joe up by the front of his red trunks. Cruz’s left nut fell out after Cactus’ manhandling of the trunks and the crowd saw it and tittered. If you saw it on TV, you noticed they blurred it. He tossed him in to join his jobber partner and Joe was able to adjust the trunks, with a little help from the ref, who I know enjoys touching jobbers in their naughty parts. There was no semblance of order in this match so I went with the flow. There weren’t going to be any tagouts or anything in this match. Just pure jobber destruction. Cactus seemed to have a hard-on for Cruz – literally – so I went after Trent while he took Cruz. We backed each into a turnbuckle corner and then threw them into each other in the center of the ring, where they collided and fell in a heap.

While Cactus made some strange Satanic gestures to the crowd, I collected both fairies and headbutted them together, causing Joe to break out bleeding on his forehead. As you can imagine, this pleased Cactus. He smeared his hand with Joe’s blood and started licking it. Jesus. Did he know if Joe had had HIV tests? Hell if I knew.

I could see the faces in the crowd, these people were generally wondering if a lunatic was on the loose. Should someone call the cops? The National Guard? A mother covered her 8-year-old daughter’s eyes in the front row. Yet many kept taking pictures, just like the Romans watching the Gladiators would have. We worked in unison for the next moves. Double body slams right next to each other, followed by both dropping an elbow on our our respective jobber. By now Cruz’s face was covered in blood so Cactus took some more of it and smeared it over Trent’s cute face. He coughed violently, probably wondering about HIV too. Now we had two blood-covered jobbers and I wondered just how far Cactus was going to go with this. The ref kept begging us to just pin them and get this over with and I finally told Cactus, “They’ve had enough.”

With that we threw them into the ring and delivered dual powerslams. I stood up as Cactus retrieved Trent and dragged him toward Joe. He laid Trent right on Joe’s trunk-covered cock, putting Trent’s ass directly near Joe’s face. I couldn’t think of a more humiliating pinning maneuver and we both stood with one foot on a jobber to get the pin. We left them like that so the paramedics had to peel each jobber off the other before putting them on the stretcher.

The announcers said we had gone too far this time and I couldn’t disagree. But god damn, it was fun. Would I Want to wrestle with a madman every day? No. But once in awhile, yeah. That crazy son of a bitch knows how to dismantle a jobber.

POSTSCRIPT: A few weeks later Cactus sent me a poster of us standing on the jobber’s faces for the pin. Some fan had sent him a picture and Cactus had it blown up. He loved how the jobbers were cock to mouth and ass to mouth in the picture. Loved the blood. To him it was the picture of heel dominance. I don’t keep it out in the open but every once in awhile I check it out. Gets me hard.

NOVEMBER 1, 1992
Ever been to a jobber orgy? I hadn’t, until tonight. Terry Funk had the idea, said it’d been something he’d been thinking of for awhile. We had it out at his ranch. The invite said it’d be a chance to drink, eat, and beat the crap out of jobbers and, if we wanted, do more to them. The payment for entry? Each man had to bring a jobber with him. I corralled Kenny Kendall. The invite also said to bring the jobber in his normal trunks and boots, so I drove to Funk’s place with young blonde Kenny tied up in the backseat, in his blue satin trunks and white boots. I had him handcuffed and shackled, with a collar and leash just waiting.

When I pulled up I saw a ton of cars already there, the typical heel vehicles like pickups and jeeps. When I got out I could hear yelling and hooting, along with a lot of loud music. I pulled Kenny out with his leash and he hobbled behind me, his hands cuffed in front of him, the cuffs attached to his leg shackles. When I stepped in the first thing I saw was not the most appealing thing. A naked King Kong Bundy sitting in a recliner with a naked black jobber named Gary Jackson sitting on his lip, legs dangling as King Kong played with his jobber dick. Jackson had a ballgag stuffed in his mouth and could only moan and drool as King Kong’s giant hands manipulated his cock. On the couch, John Studd, Ken Patera and the Barbarian were watching old squash matches and some of their own work. About a dozen beer cans were spread beneath their feet on the floor and they’d obviously been going at it for awhile. Patera whistled and Reno Riggins came prancing out in his orange jobber trunks, wearing high heels. Guess he was the maid for the night. He picked up the beer cans in a bag but as he walked past Barbarian, the monster heel – decked out in his traditional ring gear, including face paint (it was quite a sight) – reached over and pulled Reno by his trunks back to the heels.

“Where you going, fairy?” Barbarian grumbled and Reno only said, “Excuse me.” Barbarian stood up and told Patera to help him.

“Let’s see how high we can lift this jobber,” Barbarian said and the bleach-blonde haired Patera smiled and stood next to his heel buddy. Riggins still stood there submissively as Barbarian reached two hands into the back of Reno’s trunks and Patera put two hands down the back on the right side. On the count of three they lifted Reno up by the orange trunks, sending them up his ass and Reno into the air. They held him there, about nine inches off the ground as Reno’s high heels fell to the floor and he grunted in pain from the spandex ripping into his jobber asshole. They lifted him up and down five times, a form of weightlifting with live meat. Barbarian turned Reno around, knocked the bag of beer cans from his hands and then scooped him up for a slam. He deposited Riggins on the cans that had spilled out of the bag. Patera picked up some stray cans and fired them at Reno’s head, who was busy pulling his trunks out of his rear so couldn’t protect himself as it pelted off his head.

He started crying and who could blame him? I looked back at Kenny, as we were still standing in the entry way, and he just looked at the whole scene in wide-eyed horror, surely wondering what would be in store for him tonight. I took the leash off and uncuffed his hands and legs, left the chains laying by the door and pulled him by the hair through the living room and into the kitchen.

When I got there Terry Funk’s wife was making hamburgers. She came over and gave me a peck on the cheek, looked Kenny up and down, shook her head with a smirk and then said most of the boys and Terry were down in the basement.

Funk’s basement is legendary. Giant. Big screen TV, and, off to the side, a regulation sized wrestling ring. I had Kenny step in front of me to go down the steps and as he hit the first step I kicked the back of his legs, sending him down the 10 steps. Don’t worry, they’re carpeted. And as a trained jobber, he knows how to fall and take a bump. When he finally reached the bottom, he found himself at the feet of Arn Anderson, who looked down, then up at me to say hi.

“Welcome to the party Billy!”

Kenny rolled on the floor until Arn gave him a boot to the stomach that put him in the fetal position. When I got down I stepped over Kenny and looked into the basement ring.

The host Funk was in there with Tully Blanchard and Kevin Sullivan. They were joined by the Mulkey brothers and Eddie Jackie, who were in various states of dress. Randy Mulkey was wearing nothing but white boots and a white jockstrap. Bill Mulkey had his purple trunks on while Eddie was in baby blue satin trunks that had obviously been yanked around because one side was up his ass. Randy was tied up in the ropes, his arms hooked between the top and middle one while Funk kicked him repeatedly in the stomach and then pulled back on the front of the jockstrap to deliver blow after blow into his stomach. As he pulled on the jock, Mulkey’s nuts fell out of the athletic supporter but his little cock remained entombed in the material.

Sullivan yelled at me to throw Kendall into the madhhouse and I obliged by directing him via his blue trunks into the ring.

As I stepped in dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, I came upon a discussion between Funk and Blanchard, talking about bodyslams. Blanchard said that for a  long time when he picked up a man for a slam he didn’t grab him by the trunks, simply kept his hand on the man’s ass. Funk couldn’t believe that and pointed out that it’s the perfect opportunity to clutch the trunks, because the jobber is utterly helpless. If you want you can just squeeze the trunks or pull down on the waistband a bit.

“Let me show you. Billy, mind if I use Kenny?”

Sure.

Kendall moaned as Funk grabbed him by the hair and stood him up.

“What I like to do is grab the trunks right at first contact. Watch my hand.”

Tully looked down as Terry’s hand appeared beneath Kenny’s crotch and on his blue spandexed ass. Terry instantly grabbed on as he lifted Kenny up for a traditional slam.

“Now I do whatever I want,” he said, before demonstrating one of his greatest memories.

“One time in Texas, I had this little faggot up like this and he’d really pissed me off. So I pulled his waistband down halfway down his ass crack, like this.” Kenny’s ass crack was suddenly exposed and he moaned as Funk pulled the trunks down, then showed how he also liked to stick a finger in the man’s crack, just to add a little extra reminder about who controlled the action here.

Tully picked up Eddie Jackie to try it out. So there Funk and Blanchard stood, both holding jobbers’ trunks halfway down their ass. By this time, the burgers were apparently done because Funk’s wife had appeared beside the ring and was snapping pictures of the jobbers’ cute ass cracks, “To add to the family collection,” she said. “And Kenny and Eddie, don’t worry, I have your parents’ addresses so I’ll make sure to send copies to them too.”

As they put on their demonstration, I wandered over to the Mulkey in the jock in the ropes. I started choking him with a single hand and he thrashed. I’d let up, then do it again and I saw his cock growing from the physical sensation of having the life choked out of him. I finally pulled his jock down and his 6-inch hard Mulkey cock dangled there while I choked him. Funk liked the sight of this and slammed Kendall down and retrieved the other Mulkey, Bill. He pushed him over to his brother and told him to start sucking his bro’s cock right there.

“And oh my, won’t you boys’ parents be so proud too,” Mrs. Funk said as she started clicking pictures of Bill, in his cute purple trunks, blowing his naked, bound, hard, choked brother. Mr. Funk, meanwhile, the orchestrator of this decadence, held Bill by the hair and Spielberged the entire direction, telling him how to lick his brother’s cock, how much to take, when to peel off, when to lick the hairless nuts (all jobbers are always clean shaven down below. Always. No exceptions). I kept choking Randy, and still was when he finally shot his jobber load into his brother’s waiting mouth. Terry told him to keep it in his mouth and pulled him by the hair over to Eddie Jackie, who was still on his back, rolling around like a fallen soldier at Normandy. Funk had Mulkey put his brother’s jizz into Eddie’s mouth, who proceeded to spit it out as we all laughed and Kendall sat in the corner, bawling his eyes out, trying to take his collar off, then finally just
covering his eyes.

I heard some type of avalanche coming down the steps and saw that it was King Kong Bundy. Still naked. 400 pounds. Bald. Naked. Ugh. He was carrying his black jobber Jackson, who had his legs wrapped around Kong like a child as the big man made his way down. Jackson was now outfitted back in his bright red trunks and soon enough he joined the other decimated jobbers in Funk’s ring of horrors. King Kong slowly made his way in. When he saw the puddle of jizz on the floor, which Eddie had spit out, he said, “Looks like I missed some fun.”

The fatso went over and released Randy Mulkey from his roped prison and flung him into a turnbuckle. Oh oh. The nude Mulkey, drained, literally, looked up just as 400 pounds of naked man sprinted toward him for a big splash in the corner. When Bundy stepped back, Mulkey staggered forward about two steps before collapsing to the mat, where his naked body twitched. Tully moved him out of the way as Bundy fired Kendall into the corner and repeated the splash. By the end he had flattened every jobber and patted his stomach in approval. What, did he want to eat them too?

Shortly later, Tully and I had a contest: Who could execute the most slingshot suplexes in one minute? Tully was the master of the slingshot suplex, he used it for his finisher. But I was the master of all suplexes. He took Eddie Jackie while I of course grabbed Kendall. Bundy just watched, having stacked Gary Jackson onto the Mulkey brothers to make a jobber chair. Funk watched the clock as Tully went first. Up and down he took Jackie, locking onto the trunks, dropping him leg first onto the ropes, then backward. Then up for more punishment, again clutching the tights, dropping him, falling back. He managed to get 10, a good number but he slowed down a bit at the end. Jackie also weighed a bit more than Kendall so I thought I’d have an advantage.

Kenny moaned as I grabbed the side of his trunks and lifted him for the first slingshot. Usually I’d hold on for much longer before lifting my victim but this was about speed. Up and down we went, up and down, grab him by the hair, lock him, yank, lift, repeat. In the final 10 seconds I knew I only needed one to beat tully so I took a bit of time this time, really cinched it in, pointed at Tully in a cocky way and said, “You owe me 100 bucks,” then lifted Kendall for one final slingshot and a cursory cover of 1, 2, 3, which Sullivan helpfully provided while impressively maintaining his hold on his beer bottle.

The night ended with me fucking Kendall, Funk fucking Riggins, Bundy taking both Mulkey brothers – and Gary Jackson – and Tully dusting off Eddie Jackie.

Funk says he’s going to have another one of these sometime soon. Can’t wait.

JANUARY 18, 1993
I’m doing some, I don’t know, freelance work for this new outfit, the Global Wrestling Federation, GWF. They somehow have a contract with ESPN to broadcast at 3 p.m. on weekdays. Film out of Texas. Some good talent here, but not sure they’ll make it. Still, being on ESPN every day? I could do this for awhile. They got me in a minor feud right now with this 19-year-old kid, whose fat-ass dad Tugboat has been in the business for awhile. Kid’s name is Chaz and I think he’s the creation of some gay porno producer.

Long brown hair and he wears the *skimpiest* trunks you will ever see outside of a BG East tape. They look like panties but he flaunts his young body around in them with no problem.

We had this storyline going where, during an interview with Boni Blackstone, she asked Chaz what he thought of all this impressive talent coming to the GWF. Eddie Gilbert, Black Bart, Dutch Mantel and Billy Butcher.

“Billy Butcher? That old man? Let him try to take me on, I’m ready for any challenges in the GWF, but I might feel a little bad beating up on the elderly.”

Thirty-six is old now. So a few days later I was doing guest commentary on a GWF show and Chaz was wrestling the Lightning Kid. The play by play guy asked me about Chaz’s comment and I brushed it off, said it didn’t bother me. But at the end of the match, as Chaz, in tiny purple trunks that barely covered his cock and ass, celebrated his victory over the Kid, I snuck up behind him in the ring and delivered a knee to the back, sending him sprawling outside the ring. I quickly picked him up and gave him a gourdbuster on the concrete, but only after grabbing a firm hold of his trunks. I flipped onto his stomach and sat on him. I screamed at the PA guy to give me the mic. And in the Global Dome, I got into his face, the spit from my mouth falling onto his, and yelled, “Little boy, I’m gonna teach you to respect your elders.” With that I threw the mic down and stood up. I grabbed the chair I’d used for the commentary and moved it near Chaz’s body. I pulled him up by the brown hair and turned him over my knee, his purple trunked ass sticking up. I gave him five quick spanks while telling him he will be a good boy from now on. I only released him after several other wrestlers came down to break it up.

The next week Chaz declared on a broadcast that I only beat him because I snuck up behind him, that I was nothing but a yellow coward. An old man who couldn’t hack it and that he wanted revenge.

So that’s where we are now, our big revenge match. I came out first this time because Chaz is the local hero, the young star with a lot of hype surrounding him. Even after the spanking I gave him, people still somehow respect him.

Chaz in his purple panties leaps over the top rope with those young legs and points his finger at me, telling me he’s going to kick my old man ass. I stand in the corner, slowly shaking my head, smirking.

We meet in the center of the ring and begin jawing at each other, face to face, like two prize fighters, me telling him I’m going to kick his ass, teach him some manners and humiliate him in front of his adoring fans and him telling me he’s going to run my old ass out of Texas. I finally break up the trash talking by slapping him right across the face. But instead of backing down, Chaz, surprisingly, reacts strongly. He slaps me back, then again, gaining the upper hand. He pushes me to the ropes and throws me to the opposite side. When I come off he delivers one of his patented dropkicks that sends me down. His boot got me right on the bridge of the nose and that hurts like hell.

When I stand up and turn around, he gives another one, this one from a standing position. Kid’s got great athleticism, no doubt. He goes for a pin but I easily throw his 200 pounds off me after a one count. He quickly locks in a headlock and tries grinding on me. It hurts a bit, but not much. His pencil thin arms can’t squeeze too much, but still it stings. I get him into a standing position and throw him into the ropes. Displaying a tad of athleticism myself, I drop to my stomach and he leaps over me, flying to the other side.

As I stand and turn, he surprises me with a cross body block that drops me for a two count. That was close. He hauls me up by my hair and tosses me into the turnbuckle and pounces, climbing up and punching me as the crowd counts. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. His punches actually hurt but as he looks to his adoring fans for approval, I grab him below the ass and drop him on my knee, ending his momentum and giving me a chance to regain my senses. I needed to rest for a few minutes and sap his strength so I slapped on a reverse chin lock. Locked it in and left it. I could feel Chaz weakening in my grip but I didn’t let up. He started kicking his right leg, trying to give himself some momentum. The morons in the crowd took that as a sign to start clapping in rhythm. That in turn got Chaz going. Vicious cycle. I grinded even more under his neck but now his arms were pumping too.

He managed to get his feet but I maintained my grip. Sick of his actions, I pulled him down by the waistband of his purple trunks, dropping him to his back while the crowd jeered. The ref asked if I pulled his trunks.

“I didn’t touch his panties, ref,” I said.

Back to the chinlock, sapping more strength. Taking his young guy’s energy from him, bringing him down to my level. I finally let him go but his reward was a rake to his beautiful eyes. Throwing him to the ropes, I greet him with a patented clothesline, that hits him right on the neck. why not work that neck a bit more? I lift the babyface up by his neck, gripping it, choking the life out of him. His eyes bulge and he tries slipping his fingers under mine to relieve the pressure. He’s so light I could hold him up there all day, but the ref is counting to five now and I release him at four. Don’t want to be disqualified, after all.

He’s on his stomach now, that purple pantied ass just staring me in the face. I can’t take it anymore, I need to grip them again. Deliberately, I scoop him up by the back, pulling up on the waistband about five inches, exposing his crack to the crowd facing him and lifting him up. Slowly, so he really feels the trunks being pulled up. He haplessly reaches back with his hands trying to stop it but when you’re controlling a man by his trunks, he’s really helpless, especially when he’s still struggling to breathe. I pull him back so he’s up against my crotch and I’ll admit I was hard by this time. Having this 19-year-old pansy who’s adored by all the girls at my mercy turned me on. What to do with him, what to do? I pushed him forward but hung on to the trunks and elbowed him in the small of the back. By now he had a thong and I let him fall. The crowd gave a big pop as his trunks remained up his rear and in full view of the Global Dome crowd – and the ESPN audience – he reached back and pulled them out. don’t know why, cause I wasn’t done with them.

I gave him a kick in the ass, like he was an old dog I’d tired of. Then another, pushing him toward the ropes. One more sent him sprawling out onto the floor, in front of his fans who kept telling him to “Get up Chaz! You can do it! Kick that old man’s ass!”

Now it was time to veer off our script, just a bit. Or a lot actually. I grabbed Chaz by the hair – seriously, can you imagine gripping those locks while fucking him from behind? I can. I have – and marched over to the TV announcers table. I pushed the monitors off the table, which I’m sure cost a few hundred bucks while the announcers yelled at me, asking what the hell I was doing. I scooped Chaz up like a child and slammed him onto the wood. This was a cheap table and I knew splinters stuck out. Hopefully some wood lodged on his back. He groaned and moaned but didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The announcers were now standing although still broadcasting through my reign of terror. Regular Edward R. Murrows here.

I pulled the table a bit closer to the ring. I don’t know, guess I had a bit of Cactus Jack flowing through my blood. I climbed to the apron and did a splash onto Chaz and the table, which shattered, much like Chaz’s insides.

I didn’t give him anytime to recover and took him by the back of the trunks and provided him with another thong, firing him into the ring. He was so dazed I noticed he didn’t reach back to adjust them. Time to put him out of his misery.

Superplex is my preferred finisher but I love me a good piledriver. I placed Chaz between my legs and had him bent over, giving the crowd a perfect look at his wedgied ass. I just stood there for about 30 seconds, letting the kid know what was coming, letting the crowd know it was over, the villain was going to win. There was no justice in this world. Reaching under his stomach, I lifted, his thonged ass now in my face. Could have bit it. I held him for 10 seconds and then jumped as high as I could. I’m not Michael Jordan but I have some ups. I came crashing down and I know his head got hammered on the canvas.

I covered the nearly unconscious hippie and got the three count. Good times. But I wasn’t done yet. I pushed Chaz onto his stomach so we could all see his ass one more time. Now for my surprise. Before the crowd arrived that day, I stashed some yellow paint in a bottle and a paintbrush under the ring. Now I retrieved it and marched back in. Chaz and his thong greeted me as I stared at the crowd and demanded that the ring announcer come in. With him holding the mic at my face, I yelled, “I’m going to show all of you right now who the yellow coward is in this ring. Here’s your hero everyone!”

With that I poured pain on Chaz’s spine and took the brush, painting a big yellow stripe from his purple waistband up to his neck. Later on the ESPN broadcast, I heard the announcers screaming, “What kind of humiliation is this? Who does Billy Butcher think he is, embarrassing this kid like this? There’s no place in pro wrestling for this kind of action! This is a disgrace! Look at that yellow paint on CHaz’s back!”

As I watched it back in my room, I came at the moment he said look at the yellow paint on his back. Yeah, I jerk off to my conquests. And watching Chaz’s thonged ass, seeing my own boner in my black trunks, and seeing that paint on his back, exposing him, ridiculing him, marking him, labeling him…that’s a turn on.

FEBRUARY 13, 1994
Six-man tag matches are always weird. Seems to be too many guys all bunched together. But McMahon wants this team of The Mountie and The Big Bossman to be the new bullies on the block and he thought it’d be fun to pair them with me, another bully. They’re like a Law Enforcement guys gone bad type of thing, complete with cuffs, nightsticks, cattle prods and big egos. I’m sure police love the PR of having these guys break the law and bones. Both are mean sons of bitches too.

So today it’s a little six-man squash between us and Chris Hawn, Todd Overbow and Ross Greenberg. Couldn’t have picked three better pussies for us to stomp on. As we got ready in the locker room, Bossman and Mountie put their gear together. I noticed Bossman put in two sets of cuffs and the Mountie one so we were going to have enough handcuffs for everyone, it looked like.

I walked over to the jobber area of the locker room and saw McMahon with our sissy opponents: Hawn in lime green trunks he was self-consciously already adjusting, Overbow in skimpy, thin, high-waisted purple ones and Greenberg in delicious pink trunks. McMahon told all three to lower their trunks and turn toward the lockers. Each boy meekly agreed as Vince pulled out three butt plugs from their plastic containers. “Picked these up especially for you girls,” he told them. “And even better? They vibrate. I’ll be ringside commentating and will have the controls. Should be a fun match.”

Each boy moaned as they were fitted for their respective plug.

“Let it in, let it in sissy,” Vince commanded the 21-year-old Hawn, who looked like he’d just gotten off the turnip truck. Vince pulled Hawn’s trunks up and repeated the procedure with the other two jobbers. He had three controllers and played with each one. You could tell which one he used because the jobber would bounce around on his feet as his ass filled with the sensation that was simultaneously degrading and turning him on. Greenberg especially seemed to be reacting as a dollop of precum stained his pink trunks while his body shivered and McMahon chuckled. McMahon walked away, leaving his three plugged jobber prisoners together. They finally looked up and saw that I’d just witnessed their degradation and I smirked while turning to tell Bossman and the Mountie that today’s match got even more fun.

Half hour later, we stood as the three jobbers hopped up and down in their corner, trying to grin through the humiliation of being in front of the crowd in their little trunks. McMahon was ringside with Bobby Heenan and I could see the three controllers next to him on the announcer’s table. Greenberg had the unfortunate task of starting the match against the Bossman, who immediately tossed him into the ropes and caught his attempted flying body block. As he walked around with him like a sack of flour, I saw Vince twist one of the controllers and Greenberg started thrashing a bit on Bossman’s big daddy like arms. Bossman just grinned because he knew what was happening. He lightly tapped Ross on the rear and could feel the jobber’s clit growing a bit in the trunks against his stomach. He took a tour of the ring holding the pink pansy and finally tagged me in. I walked in and crouched down while holding one knee out. Bossman pressed Greenberg by the trunks and dropped him onto my knee. I could hear the buzzing going off after he landed on the mat.

This time I picked him up and carried him around before tagging the Mountie, who also put his knee down as I lifted Ross by his trunks for a press and drop stomach-first onto the Canadian’s leg. Ross finally rolled over and tagged in Todd Overbow, who leaped over the top rope to try and attack the Mountie. But Mountie pulled Todd by the front of the trunks, face first into our corner, where Bossman wrapped the string that hangs in the turnbuckle around his throat,while I delivered devastating knees to his back and the Mountie punched him in the front. Bossman tagged in and suplexed Overbow. As he held him up in the air for about 10 seconds, Vince picked up the other controller and flicked it on. As Overbow dangled in front of 5,000 grinning fans – one of whom, a girl of about 18 I’d already heard tell her boyfriend,”Have you ever seen three fags like these guys in trunks?” – Overbow’s legs started shaking as his ass vibrated. Bossman held him up a few more seconds before dropping him. He tagged me in but the Mountie came in as well. What was the ref going to do, arrest us for violating the rules of a tag team match?

Bossman threw him in and stepped out of the way while Mountie and I linked hands and clotheslined the mulleted jobber boy. I tossed him back into his own corner so Chris Hawn could come in. But the sissy refused. Overbow tagged him and Hawn stood there, shaking his head. He looked like he wanted to piss his pants. But he got distracted for a second when McMahon flicked on his vibrator. When I saw his legs buckle, I ran over, grabbed him by his blonde hair and pulled him over the top rope while he yelled, “Don’t hurt me, please!”

I kicked him in the back of the head for uttering such a ridiculous phrase. As I worked over Hawn, the Bossman pulled Greenberg in by the hair and the Mountie attacked Overbow before he could get out. We each took our jobber to a corner, stood on a rope and punched the ever living shit out of our man. The crowd really seemed to be enjoying it, like they would cheer against us if we were individually out here, but they just couldn’t bring themselves to cheer for the collection of three jobbers in tiny trunks who were being dominated in front of them. You’d think they’d want to give them hugs or coddle them but they seemed to be enjoying our humiliation of the trio. We each fired our boy into the center of the ring where they met in a three-jobber collision. As they laid there, I saw McMahon pick up all three controllers and turn them on. Each boy flopped on the ground as we put the boots to them.

Now we could put them away. We positioned each man on his stomach. I stood behind Hawn and could see the plug actually moving inside his green trunks. I took it in for several seconds as he comically kept reaching back to touch his butt, as if he was going to, what, pull the damn thing out? We had them situated so Hawn’s face was inches away from Overbows and to the side of them was Greenberg, also inches away. All on their stomachs, practically humping the mats as the plugs controlled their movements. A jobber triangle. We each latched on a camel clutch, pulling back as far as we could so the screams could be heard throughout the arena. Their open faces were inches from each other and they were forced to stare into each other’s eyes as their necks were peeled back by the heinous heels.

I could feel Hawn buckling under me and I saw the other jobbers doing the same. When they finally gave in we kept the moves locked on for another minute, until the refs begged us to let them go. When we did, we turned the boys on their backs and could see, quite clearly, as could the camera, that each had put a little puddle of jobber juice into their satin trunks. All came as we decimated them with the camel clutches, the pleasure mixing with the pain, humiliation, and feel of the trunks on their ass and balls. Hawn tried covering up his shame while Greenberg massaged his neck and the jobber jizz spread up the front of his trunks. Wonder what their girlfriends thought back home?

Mountie and Bossman then pulled out their handcuffs. Each cuffed a jobber and they all laid their on the mat, cuffed behind their backs, plugged, covered in ejaculate. Mountie gave each one a shock with the cattle prod and they flailed up and down. I stood up Hawn and frog-marched him around the ring, showing him off to all four sides of the crowd while Bossman and Mountie did the same with their boy. None of them could do anything to cover up their groins. Even though they’d cum, McMahon again turned on the plugs so their asses vibrated while we led them around in a ring of shame. I held Hawn by the hair and heard him groaning. A few people in the front rows could see the stained trunks, especially on Greenberg’s pink panties and Hawn’s briefs. Finally we all flung our man over the top rope, dangerous moves because they could not break their fall at all, not with their arms cuffed behind their backs. Each hit the floor with a plop and laid their in
agony while we walked past and into the locker room.

I took a long shower. Rubbed myself just a bit thinking of the three jobbers we’d just manhandled. When I walked out, I had a surprise waiting for me. Our three jobbers all their again. They’d been uncuffed and then recuffed and rearranged, like art pieces. All three had their trunks yanked down to their knees. Hawn and Greenberg faced each other, their hands cuffed behind the other’s back so they were basically stomach to stomach, jobber cock touching jobber cock. Overbow was cuffed behind Greenberg, so his cock was against Ross’s ass. What a sight.

Bossman was berating all three of them, telling them what weakless pussies they were. How could they allow themselves to be treated like this? Were they men or sissies?

“I know you guys are all scared,” Mountie said in his Canadian accent. Maybe Chris and Ross should kiss to make each other feel better.” The two jobbers met their lips and kissed while Bossman gave stage directions. He told Overbow to grind his cock a bit against Ross’s ass crack while the other two jobbers kissed like long-lost lovers.

I had a thing for Chris so went behind him. God that ass. I pulled his cheeks apart and he pulled away from Ross’s lips but I punished that transgression with a slap to the back of the head. I pulled out the poopy plug in his ass and it emerged with a plop. He groaned as the invader left his rectum. I told Chris to lift his legs and step out of the green spandex trunks. He finally obeyed.

Bunching the trunks up, I ordered Chris to spread his legs slightly and I crammed them up his ass, giving him a nice little green il. I loved the site of the trunks dangling out of his ass, like a little ponyboy or something. He groaned.

“Clench those cheeks boy,” I said into his ear. “If your tail falls out, I’m going to send you home with no teeth.”

Under Bossman’s orders, Overbow started to fuck Greenberg from behind while I made Hawn high-step with his new green tail. I laughed my ass off. All three jobber boys had tears rolling down his eyes. Not sure who had it worse. PRobably Greenberg, he was being fucked after all. Then again, I’m sure Overbow had never had his cock in another man’s ass, and Hawn had to endure the humiliation of parading like a show pony while kissing another man, while his jobber cock rubbed against Greenberg’s ever-hardening dick.

As I said, what a sight. I got dressed and walked out. As I did, Mountie and Bossman were still belittling and manhandling the boys, making sure each one got a chance to be fucked by the other. Jobber love at its finest.

APRIL 18, 1995
Dear Diary.
No, kidding. Well, this is the final entry, at least for this portion of my life. I’ve had to retire as a wrestler at the age of 37. It’s okay. Too many neck injuries, too many disc problems. I’m going to become a promoter and that will be fun too. Now I’ll be the guy sizing up little wannabes and turning them into wrestling jobbers. I’ll pick out their trunks, come up with their stories and their humiliations. It will be all right. But won’t be as fun as being a heel. Nothing’s as fun as dominating and degrading young punks in trunks.

THE END

Here are some of the matches that inspired some of the matches in this story.

Basically, it’s written in diary form by an unnamed heel. An unnamed heel who will have a lot in common with guys like Bob Orton, Arn Anderson, Barry Windham and Terry Funk. In other words, an old school heel who loved delivering punishment and humiliation to little jobber boys. It’ll be written from a heel’s perspective but believe me, will be alllllll about jobber domination. But for those who like things from the heel’s point of view and their psychology (and feel like maybe some of my recent stories didn’t have enough of that), I think you’ll like it. For those who like their jobbers being humiliated in front of women, you’ll like it, I think. For those who love their jobbers being trotted out in front of crowds in small trunks to be used and jeered at, I think you’ll like it.

And there will be just enough locker room and out of the ring scenes as well, for those who like seeing their jobbers dominated outside the squared circle.

Also, if you haven’t read it, bookmark this site: http://www.wrestlingarsenal.net/wordpress/

No one understands the psychology of old-school squash wrestling like the awesome keeper of that site, who, I’m very proud to say, has said I helped inspire some of his lines and posts. He’s definitely inspired many of mine.

Was just thinking how my biggest dream in life, from the time I was like 14, was to be a humiliated jobber. What a dream, huh? Even now I’d love to find a promoter who would turn me into a jobber and have me perform at local events in small trunks, have me dominated, abused, wedgied, laughed at and emasculated by a dominant, tough, bully of a heel. So if there are any promoters out there interested in an eager jobber…

Then again, real life does, of course, intrude and who knows if I could really go after it. A decade ago I emailed with a promoter who said he could do some of those things for me but at the time I could not leave my job and it was in a different part of the country. Now I wish I had.

Anyway, if any wrestlers want to treat me like the jobbers in my stories, in private or especially in public, email me. Not certain I can meet up but will try.

And like I said, will hopefully have some new stories up in the coming weeks. Thanks for reading.

HIS MOMMY MADE HIM A JOBBER
Shane Tyler turned 18 in August. He’d graduated from high school in June. At Christmas he sat around the tree with his mom Victoria, twin sister Allison, dad Mike and their grandma Florence. Victoria, as always, passed out the presents. Allison had about 10. Grandma had six or seven. Victoria had six or seven. Dad got none. Shane only got one. One single box. A big box. But still just one.

“Mom, what the fuck is this?” he asked.

“That’s your present, honey,” Victoria responded. Victoria was 36. She’d had her twins when she was just 18 and she maintained her physical beauty. Red-haired, big tits, tight ass, a domineering figure. Her husband had been a high school jock but mentally weak. It’d been pretty easy to coerce him into the family business. Her own mom, the kids’ grandma, had been a top wrestling promoter back in the day. Grandma had turned her own husband – now deceased – into a wrestling jobber whore. They didn’t have skimpy trunks back then but he never won a match, always losing to the likes of Bruno Sammartino and Killer Kowalski. He’d been buried in a pair of black trunks and white boots.

Victoria took over the wrestling promotion and turned her husband Mike into a jobber whore himself. The trunks had gotten smaller by the time she blackmailed him into being a jobber. The kids knew what Daddy did. Allison watched every Saturday morning, enthralled at watching her daddy get beat up, wedgied, dominated, on TV. Her little friends laughed and she laughed too. When he walked home at night, Vitoria usually greeted him with a spanking or a slap, depending on how much money he’d brought home giving blowjobs in the locker room.

Shane was always embarrassed, called his dad a sissy. His dad was mostly mute, the result of a wrestling accident. He maintained all his mental faculties but struggled with speech. Victoria kept him anally plugged lots of times. She was sad that his wrestling career ended, but she liked having him around as a maid. And she still made money from the old underground videotapes she had made of him, being dominated by various wrestlers. And there was still a decent market for a 40-year-old man wo knew how to suck a good cock. She’d been cuckolding him since the day of their wedding so it’s not like she missed sex.

Growing up, Shane had acted tough but had been something of a pantywaist. Victoria made him compete on the high school wrestling team and he hated it. He only won 8 matches in two years. He was routinely pinned. He hated the small singlets, which showed his dinky package. The girls from other schools mocked him as he laid there with his legs spread, being dominated by superior boys. He was 5-11, 185 pounds and pretty muscular, but just didn’t have that mental toughhness. He’d always felt inwardly submissive, not really knowing why. He hated the humiliation of having his bitch mom and bitch sister watch him get pinned. They always made fun of him, called him a pansy. He tried fighting back but Allison – an all-state gymnast – could beat him up herself. Soon enough, she’d be sitting on her brother, telling him “stop being a bad boy or I’m going to have to turn you into a good little girl.” She’d laugh, twist his tit and let him up.

Shane and Allison were now in the local state college but both lived at home. Shane couldn’t afford his own place yet.

And now here they were at Christmas and he had one fucking present. They watched him open it up. Dad cringed because he knew what was inside. He knew his son’s life would never be the same.

Shane tore at the wrapping. The hell? He lifted up a pair of skimpy pink wrestling trunks. And a pair of white boots. And a pair of white kneepads. And a card:

“Welcome to the world of wrestling jobbing, Shane. You’re now mine. Mom.”

“Mom?” he asked.

Allison whooped and whistled, and added, “Cute trunks, Shane. You’re going to look so hot in them.”

Grandma applauded. She would have loved seeing her husband in those, god bless his soul. Mike sat there, silent. Victoria told Shane to put the trunks on.

“I ain’t being a fucking wrestling fairy,” he yelled. “You can’t make me.”

“Well, I think I can,” Victoria said. “I took the liberty of dropping you out of your classes. If you don’t wrestle, you’re out of the home. You’ll be homeless tonight. And I’ve let a few of the more unsavory characters around wrestling know where to find you tonight if you do get kicked out. They’ll rape you, beat you up. I don’t know, leave you for dead. You have no money. You can’t run. You can’t hide. You can live here as long as you want, son. Rent free. All you have to do is be a jobber. Now, how about those trunks.”

Shane started walking toward the bathroom, defeated. Fucking bitch.

“Where you going?” Victoria interrupted. “Jobbers have no shame and no secrets. The trunks go on here, in front of us. Now.”

God, why? Allison giggled again. Stripping in front of his family? But he knew not to mess with his mom. He removed his shirt, then his pants and stood there in front of them with his boxers.

“Those boxers will be replaced by panties soon enough,” Victoria added. “But right now, take them off too, honey.”

He peeled them down and stood there, nude, broken. His 4-inch dick when hard was soft now and barely two inches, hidden amongst a mass of pubic hair. “The hair will have to go. Tonight,” Victoria said. “Allison can help you if you need. Or your father.”

Shane started whimpering, begging his mother to stop.

“Put the trunks on, son,” she warned.

Slowly he stepped into the spandex and pulled them up his hairy legs, which, by the end of the night, would also be shaved. He brought it up over his cock. They really did feel like panties. He adjusted them in front, then in the rear, trying to situate them in his ass. He’d seen jobbers wear trunks like this. Tommy Angel, Bob Emory, Red Tyler. Kenny Kendall. His dad. Losers. He rolled his fingers through the waistband as Victoria approached him. “Lovely tights,” she said. She felt him at the crotch and approved the fit, then spun him around and slapped his ass while pulling up on the rear, giving him a nice wedgie. “I worried about the fit but it looks like Allison and grandma guessed the right size.”

“Told ya mom,” the bitch Allison replied.

Shane climbed into the kneepads and finally the boots. For an hour Victoria took photos of her jobber son, which she sent to promoter friends, advertising a fresh jobber pussy ready for action. She posted some to youtube, with promises of future matches for the pansy in pink. Shane slept in his trunks that night and suffered severe nightmares. Visions of slams and suplexes, things his father endured, went through his head. He dreamed of being in a stadium filled with laughing girls and their boyfriends, on display in his skimpy trunks. He woke up sweating, dreading his future. He had a nightmare of being on his knees, waiting for a cock. But they were just dreams, right? That wouldn’t all happen, right?

***

Shane’s first match was against Tully Blanchard, in the small TBS studios. Tully always had a female valet accompany him to the ring. Used to be Baby Doll. Then Dark Journey. But for Shane’s debut, Victoria volunteered. No one in the audience knew she was Shane’s mom. Only Tully and Shane did. And Allison, of course. And all their friends and family. She was introduced as Lady Vicky and led Tully to the ring, wearing a short miniskirt, the skimpiest thing Shane had ever seen her wear.

Shane felt like shitting himself. So nervous. So scared. Backstage, Victoria and Allison had verbally berated him, taunted him, calling him a sissy and a fag and telling him that he was about to be beaten up. He’d protested, but that just led to Vicky duct-taping his mouth shut for 15 minutes while they finished touching up a shave job on his groin. Allison and dad were in the audience.

Cocky Tully loved this. God, a mom doing this to her own son. And how fun would it be to beat up a young kid in front of his mother. A hot mother at that? Talk about a MILF.

Victoria stood on the side, watching her son closely, seeing him jump up and down nervously brought back memories of seeing her own pussy husband make the same moves. Pity he couldn’t really speak anymore. She enjoyed hearing him beg, “Please, Victoria, don’t make me wear these trunks in front of my family. Please. Please.” Hearing her son beg like that would make up for it a bit.

Blanchard and Shane circled each other before locking up in the center of the ring. Shane locked a headlock in but Tully threw him into the ropes. Shane delivered a solid shoulder that sent the heel back. Tully, playing it for all it was worth, rolled out to have Victoria comfort him. Whoa, this jobber’s a tough guy! The tiny crowd cheered the young jobber in pink. A new jobber.

Tully crawled back into the ring and again the wrestlers locked up. Again Shane went flying against the ropes, but this time Tully ducked down and delivered a powerslam, catching the youngster under the crotch, pivoting and driving him into the mat. He left his right hand on Shane’s nuts for a few seconds, Victoria noticed. With Shane’s stomach going up and down as he searched for air, Tully came off the rope for a knee directly to Shane’s forehead. He haphazardly went for the pin but didn’t mean it.

He lifted Shane up, clutched the rear of the kid’s pink trunks and fired him through the middle rope, near the TBS broadcast area and right in front of his smirking mom. Victoria stood two feet from her son, who was on the cement, on his stomach, reaching back to comically adjust his wedgied trunks. The crowd popped as he worked them out of his ass, slowly, deliberately. He’d get better at that. And he’d have plenty of practice.

Victoria shocked her son by running up and kicking him in the gut with her leather boots. Shane groaned and rolled over on his back as the crowd cheered. Tully pounced, sneaking around the corner and waiting, waiting. As Shane stood up, he sprinted toward him and delivered a punishing clothesline, snapping Shane back to the concrete. Tully did a strut away from the fallen pansy as Victoria cheered like any good valet should do. She went up and rubbed Tully’s shoulders as they stood over Shane. Tully told Victoria to stand her son up.

Gently, the way she treated him when he first learned to walk, Victoria tried getting Shane to stand up.

“Come on, son, come on,” she whispered while holding his shoulder. Suddenly the kindness left her. She reached her right hand down the back of his trunks until she hit crack, and grasped the trunks. She yanked him up, bringing out a scream from her son while she held his hair with her other hand. Watching in the front, Allison found herself getting hot and bothered at watching her mom dominate her brother. God, he always was a sissy. He was an even bigger pussy than their dad and that was saying something. Maybe she’d find a boyfriend someday she could teach the family business.

Victoria held Shane as Tully again sprinted at him. She had him set up like a football on a tee. Tully delivered his second crushing clothesline and Victoria released his trunks, as he plummeted to the ground.

“Tully Blanchard is vicious,” the announcer said on the air. “And this valet, Miss Vicky, might be even worse.” Victoria dusted off her hands as her son laid at her feet, holding on to her ankle, as if he now expected his mommy to make everything all better.

Tully scooped him up and fired him back under the trunks. The trunks perfectly displayed Shane’s delicious ass cheeks. Tully was on top of him again, dropping an elbow onto the back of his head.

It was time for the slingshot suplex finisher.

Tully grabbed the side of the trunks and turned him so Shane’s mom could get a better view of her son being prepared for the finisher. He made eye contact with Victoria and gave her a wink, knowing she was enjoying this even more than he was. And he was enjoying it a lot. Nothing quite like dominating a little jobber sissy. He moved a bit closer to the ropes, crouched down and lifted up on the trunks, hoisting Shane into the air. Shane could do nothing to stop the momentum as he felt himself being lifted off the ground. Instead of going all the way up for a vertical suplex, Tully lifted the kid about shoulder length and then dropped him into the ropes. His thighs hit the ropes, then Tully fell back, all the while tightly clutching the pink trunks.

Tully pinned him while giving the camera the Four Horseman sign. Or was it a sign of how many blowjobs Shane would give in the locker room after the match? The sign was open to interpretation. Victoria climbed into the ring to stand over her defeated son, who was now just another pussy jobber in pink. She leaned down and slapped Shane in the face, screaming at him about what a disappointment he was.

“Get this faggot out of here,” Victoria screamed and Tully obliged. He threw him over the top rope via the trunks and Shane laid there, miserable, as the camera zeroed in on his body and then replayed the suplex finisher.

Back in the locker room, Shane sat on the bench, dejected. Victoria approached him and again slapped him in the face.

“That’s just the start, Shane. That’s just the start. Now get out of your pink trunks and get into the car. We have another match tonight at the local high school.”

Shane quickly became a favorite of promoters. His pink trunks took lots of abuse against all kinds of heels. They sent him to arenas and tiny bars with a crowd of 15 people, who’d throw beer at the sissy jobber. Drunks don’t hold back their words and Shane heard every one of them. That was his life for a few months. But his jobber life was only beginning. When he turned 19, his total destruction really began.

**
Shane had a match against the dreaded Undertaker. He hated the idea of being put into that bodybag at the end. Shane knew it was just for show. But something about being knocked out with the power bomb, then the piledriver, then packaged into that death bag gave him the creeps.

Shane stood nervously in the ring, listening to the Undertaker’s famous music as the giant strolled to the ring, led by Paul Bearer holding an urn. Shane paced the ring, doing some leg squats, feeling his guts churning at the idea of facing this disturbed man. Occasionally he reached back to adjust his trunks. He hated taking piledrivers, he hadn’t quite yet learned how to fall properly and they always jammed his neck. His mom kept warning him that he’d better learn or he was going to end up paralyzed some day. To help him, she’d called Paul Orndorff over to the house one afternoon. She rousted Shane from an afternoon nap and had him put on his skimpy white trunks. Rachel and three of her bitch college friends were in the basement playing pool. They wolf-whistled when Shane walked down the steps to see Orndorff standing shirtless, wearing sweatpants.

“Lookin’ good Shane,” one of the girls, an amazing brunette in small shorts, said. Any question of whether she was serious was answered by the laughter from all four girls, including his twin sister.

There, in the basement, while his mom taped everything so he could watch it later and while the girls sat on the couch viewing the whole show, the former Mr. Wonderful performed piledriver after piledriver on the kid, dropping him onto the hard basement floor. He’d had a headache for two days, but he thought he had figured out how to land. Later, as Shane sat in the basement watching old jobber tapes of Tommy Angel with his dad after the girls left for a party, they could hear Mr. Wonderful fucking Victoria on the upstairs couch. Like always, Victoria made her husband dispose of the used condom.

Now Shane stood in the ring as the Undertaker easily stepped over the top rope, his dead eyes staring at the pussy in pink. He smacked his lips, like a serial killer eyeing a victim he has tied to a table. Shane didn’t even know to attack this man. Was he supposed to just wait in the corner, like a good boy, and take his beating and piledriver? Should he put up a fight, get the crowd behind him? Instead he got caught in the middle. He walked to the center of the ring while the Undertaker stood there, waiting.

Acting first, Shane kicked Undertaker in the stomach. No reaction. He tried it again. Surely he’d lose his breath. No reaction. The Undertaker simply reached out with his right arm and seized Shane by the neck. Both of Shane’s hands shot up to Undertaker’s hand as he desperately tried getting him to ease his grip. He stared into the madman’s eyes and saw nothing. Jesus, was he going to strangle him to death in front of 5,000 people? Instead he lifted Shane up by his neck and tossed him backward four feet, sending the jobber onto his back, heaving for breath.

Rising to his feet, Shane propelled himself off of the ropes and delivered a flying elbow, right to the Undertaker’s jaw. Again, he didn’t flinch as Shane crashed to the mat. Th Undertaker, wearing his distinct gloves and black outfit, reached down and yanked Shane up by his precious brown hair.

“AAAAH” Shane yelled as he rose, against his will.

This time the Undertaker threw Shane into the ropes. He caught him by the throat again and lifted him for a quick choke slam. He kept his hand on Shane’s throat to the point of impact. The ref counted to three, commanding the Undertaker to break the hold or risk disqualification. Shane’s legs kicked haplessly as he again felt the life seeping out of him. Undertaker broke the hold at 4. As Shane searched for his bearings, the Undertaker climbed to the top rope, amazing agility for a man of his size. The crowd rose, frightened by the sight of the monster standing on the top, waiting to deliver punishment below. Shane staggered up. He turned right to find Undertaker flying at him with a clothesline that connected right in his neck, flattening the youngster.

The Undertaker had seen enough. He put Shane between his legs. Okay, Shane thought to himself. Here comes a piledriver. I know how to handle this. I know how to land. It’s going to be all right. But this was no piledriver. This was Undertaker’s version of a powerbomb, a move some people referred to as a wedgie bomb. Instead of lifting Shane for a piledriver, he hoisted the kid up for a power bomb. But he didn’t slam him to his back right away. Instead he lifted him even higher, using the silky side of Shane’s pink trunks to hold onto. He pulled up on the trunks, lifting Shane even higher, a good 12 feet above the mat. The trunks flew up Shane’s ass, giving everyone on one side of the ring a perfect view of the wedgied and dominated jobber, who was now being displayed to the masses. The Undertaker turned to all four sides of the ring with his pansy prey, holding him there as Shane waited desperately, fearfully for the finale. Finally Undertaker slammed
Shane on the mat. Shane’s back and head drilled the mat, knocking him dizzy.

Backstage, Victoria watched and smiled. Shane thought it was over, finally, but she knew better. Shane knew his trunks were sitting up his ass but he had no ability to reach back and fix them. Instead the Undertaker again scooped up the kid. This time he did put him in a piledrver position. But again Shane was confused. With Mr. Wonderful, he’d been taking traditional piledrivers. This time it was a Tombstone and he was facing the other way. He didn’t quite know where to put his head. The Undertaker waited for the idiotic and wedgied jobber to figure out where to put his head between the Undertaker’s legs. Eventually he got tired of it and simply leaped and fell to the ground.

The result was sickening. Even Victoria gasped for a second. The crowd buzzed. On the air Gorilla Monsoon said, “Oh my god, what a devastating maneuver. Let’s hope the youngster is all right.”

Shane’s head had hit the ground and his neck bent while his body went the other way. It look like he’d been snapped in half at the neck. It looked like the type of move that could paralyze a man for life. Shane laid motionless. He was still conscious, barely, but he realized he could not feel his legs. Or his arms. Or his wedgied ass.

The Undertaker took Shane’s arms and put him in the RIP pose as the ref counted to three. Still no other movement from the jobber. Paul came up with the bodybag and laid it next to the jobber’s corpse. The Undertaker moved him so it could be slid under Shane. They zipped him up and left him there. Shane panicked inside the bag, though he was still dizzy. He still couldn’t move. My god, he was going to die inside a body bag. Was that irony? He didn’t know. The ref finally figured out was something wrong when there was no movement. He unzipped it and immediately signaled for the medical staff to enter the ring. The crowd, even though they saw Shane’s head snap, still thought this was part of the act.

Four EMTs entered the ring and gingerly placed Shane on a straitback, and then onto a stretcher. The whole time, he laid there in his pink trunks, which now appeared to be permanently wedgied up his ass. It’d been 20 minutes since the Undertaker lifted him for that dreaded powerbomb. Twenty minutes since the trunks had flown up Shane’s ass. The EMTs smirked as they strapped Shane onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. Victoria climbed in with her sissy son and rode to the hospital. Shane was so grateful, it appeared his mom really did love him.

He heard her on her cell.

“Yeah, I’m taking the idiot to the hospital. He still doesn’t know how to land. Yeah, he can’t move. He better start or he’ll be put in a home with the other vegetables. I’m not keeping a quadriplegic in the house, caring for him 24 hours a day, changing his diaper. We’ll see. Okay. Yeah. Bye.”

Victoria looked down at her son, whose head was finally cleared, even though he still couldn’t feel anything.

“Did I tell you that you needed to learn how to land? I know you’re just a dumb bimbo and jobbers aren’t smart, but Jesus, you’d think it’d be instinct for you. It’s in your genes.”

They finally arrived at the hospital and the staff wheeled him away while Victoria went to make more phone calls.

An emergency room doctor took a quick look and determined it was likely just a stinger, nothing permanent. No paralysis. He’d be fine shortly. But they still needed X-rays. Unfortunately, in the chaos of the emergency room, Shane sort of got lost in the shuffle. There he lay in the middle of the emergency room, strapped down in his pink trunks, right in the middle of dozens of patients, doctors and nurses. A little kid wandered over and pinched Shane’s leg. He felt a bit of pain. He could feel! But still he couldn’t lift his legs to move down, so he laid there, exposed, the trunks still wedgied, his tiny jobber clit laying lifeless in their pink spandex prison. A group of giggling teenagers, who were there for their friend, who was being treated for heat exhaustion, kept staring at Shane and finally walked over to him.

“Hey Mister,” one girl of about 14 said. “Why are you wearing panties?” The rest giggled and remarked on how they could see that the side of the trunks were lifted, exposing his tan line and that they had ridden up in the back. Shane shook his head side to side slightly. He could move again! But why couldn’t he just leap down and run out of here. He would leap down, adjust his trunks and run out to freedom.

“Girls, move,” a nurse finally said as she wheeled Shane into an examining room. She was maybe 30 and her breasts hung in Shane’s face as she pushed his stretcher into the x-ray area. He remembered when he used to suck and bite on those types of things. Now his mommy didn’t allow him to ever date girls. A team of nurses and doctors waited.

“Okay, we have to cut off these panties,” the doctor commanded.

“They’re trunks,” the nurse corrected, while rubbing Shane’s thigh sympathatically…or more.

“What?” the doctor said.

“In wrestling, they call them trunks or tights. They only look like panties.”

“Whatever. Let’s get them off.”

A nurse clipped one side of the waistband, then the other and the hated pink trunks fell off his crotch, revealing his clean-shaven groin and his small cock. Doctors and nurses have seen everything and they’d seen this before, but just because you’ve seen it doesn’t mean you don’t smirk. And judge.

“Maybe they were panties,” the nurse corrected. “That looks like a clit.”

She giggled and the doctor gave a raised hand. “Come on, let’s get him into the X-ray machine.”

They gingerly moved the now naked jobber for his X-ray, leaving the pink trunks on the stretcher. The X-rays confirmed, no breaks. Just a stinger. He’d be fine in an hour. They moved him to a room and put a gown on him. A nurse came in when he was ready to leave after Victoria had re-entered the room.

“All right, everything’s good to go. You can go home. You’re pretty lucky.” Victoria snorted.

“There is one thing,” the nurse said. “Ma’am, we had to cut off your son’s trunks for the X-rays. Here they are.” She held up the tattered trunks, the ones that had lived in Shnae’s ass so many times.

“You can throw them away,” Victoria replied. “My sissy son has plenty more pink trunks where those came from.” The nurse grinned while dropping them in a garbage can. She’d now, officially, seen it all.

Shane got to go home in the clothes his mom had brought from the locker room. But he knew it was only a matter of time until he was again trotting around, humiliated, dominated, in his pink trunks.

**

Victoria had Shane back in action two weeks later. She assured the promoters he was fine to go, that there wouldn’t be any permanent damage and that he could still take a good beating. The horny promoters wanted Shane healthy. While it might seem like there’s an inexhaustible supply of pussy boy jobbers who can be trotted out in skimpy satin trunks for the amusement of the crowd and the delight of heels, it’s not the case. They’re not all as good-looking as Shane, a true hunk, which made his degradation even more desirable.

He taped a WWF TV event in an arena with about 10,000 people. It was a battle against Bad News Brown, the angry, black ex-con who thrived in his role of heel. And he liked nothing better than beating up young white guys. It made his 10-inch black dick hard just thinking about. When he was actually in the process of dismantling them in their skimpy little tights, he sometimes felt like he’d cum in his black trunks. There was nothing like the power he felt, dominating and ridiculing the white faggots. And this Shane was something else. A hot mama, an even hotter daughter, and this loser of a son, who was just like his dad, one of Bad News’ victims from back in the day. Back then Bad News Brown had been the young black heel kicking an old white jobber’s ass. Now he was the old black heel kicking a young white jobber’s ass. The circle of life.

Shane had his back turned toward Bad News as the heel strolled into the ring. He pulled a Pearl Harbor and sprinted toward the jobber, clubbing him in the back of the head with two closed fists, sending Shane to his knees, his mouth resting against the middle turnbuckle. Bad News kneed Shane in the back, then again. There it was, he felt his cock growing in his trunks. Only took a pair of knee lifts to a white jobber to get him going. Beating up a white jobber in pink was better than damn Viagra.

Standing now in the corner, Shane’s soft belly sat exposed, just waiting for punishment. Bad News yanked the front of the kid’s tights and delivered a punch to the gut. He held the trunks and punched again. The third time, he looked down and got an overhead view of the kid’s package. What little of it there was. He grinned while marching Shane to the center of the ring, still pulling up on the front, exposing the shaven side of Shane’s groin to the audience. On tippy toes now, Shane followed obediently to the center of the ring. Now Bad News released his vice-like grip on the pantied jobber and reached under Shane’s crotch, hoisting him up for a slam. He fondled the kid’s rear for a few extra seconds before driving him into the mat. With his slams Bad News always tried to drive the jobber right through the mat, inflicting maximum pain on the boys.

Bad News raised him up so the white jobber was on his knees. How many white punks had he had in this position before, both inside the ring and out? He pulled Shane by his hair right up against his sweaty, stinky black trunks. Shane’s cheek hit Bad News’ hard big black dick. Bad News manipulated him so the lips were right there and held him in that position so the audience could see exactly what he intended. Nothing subtle about this. The violent black heel delivered an elbow to the top of Shane’s head, sending him flying back, although at least his mouth escaped the heel’s dirty cock.

Shane stood up in the center of the ring. He didn’t know exactly what the finisher would be. He couldn’t see the heel. Bad News maintained his surprising agility for his size. He spun up and kicked Shane in the back of the head, right at the base of the neck, jolting the jobber and sending him flat to the canvas. His upper body twitched slightly, perhaps the nerves remembered the Undertaker’s piledriver. Bad News used his boot to kick Shane over onto his back. He stepped on him with his black right boot, placing it right on his chest and pressing hard. Shane gasped as the ref counted to three. Once the victory was intact, Bad News stepped fully on Shane’s chest before walking out of the ring.

The groggy jobber with the still-sore neck walked into the locker room. Standing at his locker, Bad News was telling the fat-ass Earthquake about the jobber he’d just punked.

“Oh, there he is,” Bad News said. The other jobbers in the locker room, attired in various states of undress and skimpy trunks, scattered, leaving Shane alone with Bad News and Earthquake.

“Leave me alone, Bad News,” Shane said in a hoarse voice. “My mom will get you in trouble.” With the mention of Shane’s mom, both heels burst out laughing.

“Your mommy? You mean Victoria,” Bad News said. “Whose idea do you think this was?”

The door opened and Victoria walked in, followed by Nicole. Oh god, Nicole. It was a girl he’d pawed at a senior year party, not even nine months ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He felt her tits because she was leading him on but then she pushed him away, left him with blue balls. They were big tits. They should be felt. Later in the night he tried it again and grabbed her crotch. He wanted that pussy. She spun out of his grasp and left, crying. If she had wanted, she probably could have pressed charges. She told Shane’s sister, one of her best friends, and Shane’s mom. They assured her that someday he’d receive justice and she could be there to watch.

“What are you two doing here,” Shane yelled.

“It’s time you paid for what you did to Nicole at the party, honey,” his mom said.

Nicole lifted up a small videocamera as she began to record the proceedings. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but Earthquake approached and told the youngster to strip out of his trunks. He obeyed and stood in front of the four people, two guys and two women, naked, shaved, hairless, scared out of his mind. He instinctively covered up his dick with his hands but Earthquake shook it away while Nicole snickered.

“Oh my god. That’s what you were going to fuck me with? Okay, I guess I didn’t have to worry about being raped. Oh my god.” Earthquake stepped away. Like he had in the ring, Bad News attacked Shane, hammering the naked jobber in the back. Shane cried out while the other three whooped their approval. Shane tried crawling away but Earthquake sat on his back, crushing him. He pulled up on Shane’s hair and told him that if he didn’t obey like a good jobber boy, he’d sit on him until he broke every rib in his body, and then he’d sit on his face.

“Ooooh, gross,” Nicole helpfully added. Earthquake stood up and Bad News took over the degradation. After stripping out of his own trunks, he lifted Shane by his hair and put his mouth at his dick. It was the same position they’d had in the ring moments earlier, only this time both were nude. And this was for real. Victoria felt a sense of pride. She’d always been open with her daughter about sexuality and talked with her about boys. She’d never had the talk with her son because he had to learn the hard way. But what mom wouldn’t be proud to watch her son’s first blowjob? And to get it on video? And to a black guy even! Her own pussy jumped at the idea of it all, of Bad News taking her son and the thought of that black dick inside her. She remembered her husband’s first blowjob. To Nick Bockwinkle in a hotel room. Oh how he blubbered. But he still swallowed.

Shane kept annoying everyone with his cries. A punch to the top of the head silenced him and he submissively wrapped his lips around Bad News’ rock-hard stick. Bad News directed the action, telling him when to lick.

“And if you bite, I will knock out every one of your teeth and feed them to you and when you shit them out I’ll clean them off and feed them to you again. Understand?” Shane moaned his consent. Bad ?News pulled Shane off and had him lick his balls a little while slapping the white boy’s jobber face with his cock. He told Nicole to zoom in for a close up every once in awhile and to make sure Shane’s face was visible.

Eventually Bad News’ dick again filled Shane’s mouth. Shane just wanted it over. Why did he have to live like this? In this hellhole? The whole time Bad News kept muttering dirty talk to his sissy jobber.

“Like that, you fucking fairy. You like prancing around, teasing all us men in your little pink trunks. You think that’s funny? Making us all hard, wanting your mouth and ass. Suck it you faggot. Suck it. That’s it. Like the good girl you are. Come on.” Finally Bad News erupted in Shane’s mouth. Shane wanted to pull away but he knew it’d be followed by swift punishment. He swallowed but began gagging. Bad News held him there until he’d rocked every last drop out of his cock. Victoria and Nicole cheered as Bad News shoved Shane back.

Before he had time to recover, the monstrous Earthquake, now also naked, displaying his hairy stomach and 8-inch dick, which had been buried in the fat rolls, grabbed Shane by the hair and pulled him kicking and screaming, cum dripping out of his mouth, to the urinals. He shoved Shane’s mouth into one, telling him to rinse out his mouth. The next thing Shane felt was Earthquake’s fat cheesedick entering his ass. Oh god. Shane screamed. The pain was so intense, it felt like his insides had been ripped out. As he screamed the urinal water and piss, courtesy of Bad News’ visit earlier, sloshed around his face, eyes, mouth and nose. He felt like he was drowning. He gasped as Earthquake plunged in.

“Fuck him, big guy,” Bad News said.

Nicole had moved into position and was getting a perfect angle of Shane’s virgin, pink asshole being plunged and plundered. Remarkably, she felt herself getting wet. God, when Victoria had told her not to press charges, she was pissed at first. But she was right, this vengeance was better than anything the legal system could deliver. It didn’t take Earthquake long to shake and quake and splooge into Shane’s once-tight ass. He stayed on his knees, ass filled with cum, his head in the urinal, as Earthquake stepped away. Bad News spoke up next.

“Nicole, do you have any tampons in your purse?”

Nicole gave one and Bad News unwrapped it. He stuffed it into Shane’s ass and removed the plastic applicator, telling him that’d keep the cum inside him for a good long time. He patted the kid’s rump gently. “And you’re only allowed to take the tampon out when your mommy says. Ok, jobber boy?”

“I think it can stay the whole night,” Victoria added. “He can change his tampax in the morning.”

Shane nodded. Bad News stood him up and presented the naked, stuffed, plugged, fucked, freshly face-fucked boy to his proud mom. Victoria made Shane put the trunks back on and took him out of the locker room and into the car home like that. She let him sit in the back seat, the tampon lodged firmly and uncomfortably in his ass, a bit of dried cum still on his cheek. It was the life of a jobber. It was his life.

***

Shane looked nervously around the locker room as he suited up. He’d caught a break. His mom had texted him, telling him she was caught in traffic and might not be to the arena in time for his match.

“Behave,” she added at the end.

This gave him the perfect opportunity to get around her ridiculous trunks rules. He’d asked before to be allowed to wear the white briefs underneath the trunks, the types so many wrestlers wear. They looked like panties, yeah, and were vaguely humiliating themselves. But when his trunks got yanked and pulled and twisted, at least the white briefs would provide some coverage. No one would see his ass crack and no one would see him wearing a thong. She flatly refused.

“Jobbers wear pink trunks, that’s it,” she said. “You get to wear panties the rest of the day, you don’t have to wear them when you’re being a big tough guy in the wrestling ring.” She then pinched him on the cheek, laughed, shook her head and went out of the room.

But now he fondled a pair of white briefs he’d recently received from the Z-Man, Tom Zenk, who often wore the briefs underneath his gorgeous trunks. He’d begged the Z-Man for a spare pair, telling him he just wanted them for one match. Zenk refused, citing Shane’s mom’s anger as a reason. No one wanted that bitch on their bad side.

“Tell you what, faggot,” Zenk finally said one night after a show. “You wrap those jobber lips around my cock, and I’ll give you a pair of my white briefs to wear.”

Shane didn’t understand why Zenk would be so cruel to him and call him names, he always seemed like a nice guy. But he had learned that as a jobber at the bottom of the jobber pole, no one really respected him and everyone figured they could take what they wanted, whether it was his dignity or his mouth. Zenk led Shane by the hand to one of the bathroom stalls. They were alone in the locker room, as all the other wrestlers had cleared out to get drunk and fuck some local pussy.

They stepped in and Zenk guided Shane to his knees and then lowered his white wrestling trunks, the ones that were the subject of thousands of fantasies, from Missy Hyatt to gay guys on farms in Iowa. His cock already stood erect, pointing directly at Shane’s face. Shane kept his mouth closed until the last moment.

“If you want the panties, you’ll open your mouth,” Zenk said.

Shane did want them and so he opened up as Zenk thrust forward. He face fucked the young jobber, violently. Everyone in wrestling thought Zenk should have been a superstar. Instead the fucking promoters kept fucking him over, he told himself. And he was stuck in limbo – sometimes he got a push, sometimes he was a pure jobber. His career was stuck and would never go anywhere. Yeah, he got some decent ring rat pussy after matches but even that was drying up a bit. It felt good to take advantage of some loser who was in worse shape than he was. He grasped Shane by his brown locks and felt himself on the verge of cumming in the jobber’s mouth.

“You like that, don’t ya you little sissy,” he said, slobber dropping down on Shane’s head. “You wanna wear your little panties in front of all the cute girls, huh? Is that cuz you suck like a girl, huh?” Shane concentrated on finishing the job. All he wanted was those briefs. Finally the Z-Man exploded into Shane’s mouth. Like the good jobber cocksucker he’d been trained to become, Shane took most of it, though a bit spilled out over onto his lips. As he sat on his knees, Zenk pulled up his trunks and delivered a final slap to Shane’s face, sending him sprawling against the disgusting toilet.

Now, a week later, Shane stood in the locker room wearing those same briefs. But christ, why were the matches taking so goddamn long? He should have been out there by now?

An assistant promoter came back and told him that his match against Nikolai Volkoff had been moved back on the card. They shifted some things around. Fuck, Shane thought. Mom is going to be here. He thought about taking the briefs off but figured it was worth the shot. He waited anxiously in the locker room. Finally he got the call that his match would be in 10 minutes. Yes.

He did some final stretches, when he heard the voice. His mom’s voice.

“Hi Shane, sorry I’m late, dear.” Victoria approached her sissy jobber son from behind and gave him a light pat on the ass.

The son froze, terrified, praying Victoria hadn’t noticed the briefs. She stared into his eyes. “Looks like you have a little bit of a visible pantyline there, son,” she said, smirking. To confirm her suspicions, Victoria reached into Shane’s front waistband and pulled back, peering down near his privates. She saw the white briefs. She slowly shook her head and snapped the trunks back into Shane’s stomach.

“Where’d you get the panties from, Shane.”

Shane couldn’t think. Why did his mom always discover every humiliating thing? Why couldn’t she let him wear the briefs – panties – just this once, just this match against Volkoff, when he knew his trunks would be abused and his crack and cheeks put on display for the masses. Why?

“Where’d you get them,” she repeated. She sounded like a parent asking a kid where they scored a bag of marijuana.

“Z-Man,” Shane whispered.

“Okay,” Victoria said. “I’m glad you were honest. I’ll deal with him. But you need to be punished first.”

She told him to stand in place while she moved to another part of the locker room. She returned with the Big Bossman right behind her. He wore his prison guard outfit and the buzzcut. He weighed more than 320 pounds and always looked pissed. Somehow, today, he looked even more pissed. Shane had passed him in the hallway sometime and cowered in his presence. He was grateful he’d never had a match with him, though he knew it was only a matter of time until he entered the squared circle against the baton-twirling nut.

“Bossman, can you prepare him for his spanking,” Victoria said.

Bossman approached Shane, who felt like pissing his trunks.

“Mom, please, I’ll take them off right now. I’ll never disobey again. Please.”

“Take the trunks off, Shane,” she replied.

Shane pulled the pink trunks down, followed by his white panties, the briefs he’d prayed would save him at least a bit of humiliation tonight. He stood there, naked in front of Bossman and his mom. His soft cock nearly disappeared inward out of fear. Victoria stepped forward and grabbed the briefs from her pussy son. She fondled them a bit, smirking at the thought that her son, her pathetic son, had been beaten down to such a point that he thought wearing these humiliating briefs was somehow a salvation. True, it was better than the alternative, having his crack paraded in front of everyone,but it was still a humiliating garment. Most guys hated wearing them, but he was dying to put it on. She held it in front of her son’s face, then placed it over his head, creating an absurd look: the young hot jobber, naked, shriveled cock on his hairless groin, standing there with a pair of white panties draped over his head, the crotch draped over his nose and
mouth.

Victoria stepped back as Bossman came forward. He jammed the butt of the nightstick into Shane’s gut, sucking all the wind out of the youngster. He next brought it violently down on his back, sending Shane, naked, down to the filthy locker room floor. The tears began even before he hit the cement. The Bossman liked this, it’s how they used to deal with unruly prisoners back in the yard. Of course, those poor bastards’ mamas weren’t directing the carnage. Bossman knelt down on Shane’s back, right in the small of it, right where it hurt most. He grabbed his cuffs and latched them onto Shane’s left wrist, then violently jerked his right wrist back and shackled the kid with his cuffs behind him, his tiny dick in front of him, and his mom and Bossman now standing over him. He sobbed into the white panty mask. Effortlessly, the Bossman hoisted Shane up by his arms, the way he’d lifted thousands of young handcuffed punks over the years. Shane wobbled on his
feet as the Bossman sat down on the locker room bench. He grabbed Shane’s dick, causing him to bend down in pain, before clutching the youngster’s hair and bringing him down over his knees. With his arms cuffed behind his back, Shane was helpless to stop the Bossman from manhandling him. He laid over the big man’s lap. Even through the big man’s prison pants, he could feel the guard’s growing boner at having the naked jobber pussy over his knee, ass completely exposed.

Victoria walked in front of Shane, who continued to blubber into the white briefs he so craved just a short time ago.

“Twenty spanks on each cheek for this infraction,” she said. “And you’re lucky it’s not more. You’re allowed to cry. Bossman, begin.”

Bossman brought his right hand down on Shane’s bare right cheek, slamming it once, twice, finally 20 times. Shane started bawling at the sixth spank, by the 20th his panty hood was soaked with drool and tears. The spanks to the left cheek were simply overkill and Bossman enjoyed it. Victoria watched the tears flow down her pansy son’s cheeks, staining his briefs. What a fool, she thought. Did he really think he could get away with this? Humiliated jobbers will do anything, apparently, for just a few seconds of dignity. Soon enough, he’d be back out in the ring in his trunks.

When Bossman finished, he let Shane lay on his lap for a few seconds before unlocking the cuffs and throwing Shane off his ample lap and down to the cement. Shane curled up into a pathetic jobber ball and gently robbed his red and aching ass. His mom bent down and helped him up by his arm, softly telling him, “Come on, Shane. Come on. Upsy daisy. On your feet soldier.” She took the white briefs off of his head and wiped away the remaining tears before shoving it into her pocket. Shane had two minutes before his match, he had to get ready. She picked up the trunks and told him to lift his leg. Obediently, like a trained dog, he lifted his left leg, and then his right, as his mom pulled the humiliating pink trunks up his legs. They went over his tiny, hairless cock and into place. She adjusted the waistband, then went behind him and played with them in the rear, situating them just so on his ass cheeks. She knew Nikolai would be executing his military press backbreaker tonight and these trunks would again be lodged up her son’s ass. Poor boy.

Victoria again looked into her son’s tear-filled eyes and told him to buck up, it was time for the show.

“Come on. Everyone’s here. Grandma. Your sister. Your dad. Nicole.”

Shane let out a moan. Why did Nicole again have to be in the crowd? Wasn’t watching him give a blowjob and get fucked enough? And he knew his mom would have placed all of them front and center.

And there they were. First row, right behind the barrier. His dad looked miserable. Could have been the fact he felt sorry for his son. Could have been the giant butt plug Victoria made him wear to remind him, always, of his place in the family. Nicole and his sister Allison sat next to each other. As he got near, he could see his mom, who had joined them, raising her arm up and down, mimicking a spanking motion while talking to the lovely girls. They broke out in laughter and Shane knew Victoria was relaying details of his spanking from earlier. Nicole laughed uproariously and Shane heard his sister say, as he passed, “Can’t wait to see those cheeks, bro!” Meanwhile, Victoria pulled the white briefs that had adorned his face earlier and waved them slightly, bringing out more cheers and laughter from his sister and Nicole. So they obviously knew about his desire for the briefs too. Great.

He climbed into the ring and adjusted the wedgie that had developed on the short walk. God damn these trunks for always riding up on him. He didn’t know how girls on the beach did it. He wanted to try and make sure they stay covered so no one saw the hand print that was still plastered on his ass. Bossman’s hand prints.

Volkoff entered to mostly boos. The Russian spy case in New York set the scene for a new Russian villain. He was the bad Soviet Commie, then the good guy, and now he can go back to the dark side. He’s even using the old Soviet national anthem, because his whole thing is he wants Mother Russia to reclaim its land.

Shane wasn’t patriotic, but hearing this Russian fool belt out of the anthem got his inner Thomas Jefferson going. Maybe he could get the crowd on his pink-assed side by playing Rambo. Just as Nikolai finished the last note of the anthem, Shane kicked him with a great dropkick. The Russian bear stumbled forward as the crowd cheered. Even his family cheered. They knew it wouldn’t last so why not give the jobber a few moments of glory.

Shane threw Nikolai into the turnbuckle and chased after him like a dog going after a car. Nikolai met him with a size 16 foot to the face. It instantly bloodied Shane’s nose and he flopped around the ring, his moment of glory over. No more Rambo. Nikolai delivered a series of boots to the back of Shane’s head, pummeling the American while screaming anti-US obscenities at the jobber and the crowd. With Shane rolling around, Nikolai took a moment to go over to the ropes and yell, “THIS IS A TYPICAL AMERICAN! WEAK! SISSY! WEAK SISSY AMERICAN!”

Shane’s family couldn’t disagree.

Nikolai picked Shane up for a belly to belly suplex, sapping the wind and hurting Shane’s back. Nikolai then slapped a headlock on Shane. The entire crowd could hear the screams from the kid as Nikolai squeezed. And squeezed. Shane thought his head was going to explode or that his ears might fall off. Maybe that wouldn’t be bad, to go deaf. Wouldn’t have to hear the giggles and laughter and the taunts of being a panty fag and “nice trunks sissy,” and he wouldn’t have to listen to his sister tell him that she saw the tape of him in the locker room with Bad News and “you really know how to suck a cock don’t you?” Instead, Nikolai released him and threw him into the ropes where he delivered a surprising dropkick of his own. No one expected a big man to be able to leap like that. that was to show off. Now it was time to finish off the jobber in pink.

Nikolai scooped the American pansy up and lifted him high above his head. With his hand clutching the top of Shane’s trunks, he lifted, exposing Shane’s crack. The trunks simultaneously moved up Shane’s ass and Nikolai heard him moan, as the jobber realized the futility of his position and situation. On TV, the audience could see two distinct handprints on each cheek, the evidence left behind of The Bossman’s work.

It all hit Shane. The futility. The pathetic nature of his jobber life. The crowd oohed and ahhed as they saw the pink trunks lifted a good eight inches above Shane’s ass. Shane was dimly aware that cameras were flashing everywhere. He saw a pair of hot blondes in the front row snapping it with their cell phones while smirking. Moments later they had posted it to Facebook so their combined 900 friends could see the picture they labeled simply:

“WEDGIE!!!! LOL!”

With Nikolai’s other hand, he held Shane by the neck, squeezing slightly to rob Shane of his breath. Shane prayed for a reprieve from the humiliation of being displayed like this and from the lack of oxygen. He could feel the open air on his crack, as the pink trunks remained lodged well above his body. Finally Nikolai dropped Shane from nearly nine feet in the air, hammering him into a devastating backbreaker. He maintained his control of the jobber, lifting Shane again into the same position, giving the crowd a new view and the blonde girls a new picture. Shane didn’t know how it happened, but he suddenly burst into tears. Burst into tears like a little pissy baby. Burst into tears like a true jobber. Right there, in front of all those people and the TV audience. It was immediate and degrading. The camera zoomed in now on his face. Victoria sat in the front stunned. She’d seen a lot of jobber pussies in her lifetime, but she couldn’t remember seeing one start weeping like this in the ring. Maybe if they’d been injured, sure. But Shane’s back couldn’t have hurt that much. No, this was tears of humiliation. Nicole asked her and Allison if Shane was crying and Allison said, “Oh my god, he is. This is awesome.” Sitting net to them, Shane’s mute father felt a tear of his own roll down the cheek. His son. His poor son.

The tears came to Shane because as Nikolai gripped onto Shane’s pink trunks, the jobber thought about how degrading and emasculating his life had become. He was now barely a person. He was an object. And he could see that on the face of the crowd. On the faces of the dads and moms in the audience, on the faces of the children and the frat boys, who shook their heads and mouthed the words “fucking faggot” as Nikolai held Shane up as if he were a prize he won at the local county fair. Nikolai heard a sob and grinned, relishing the humiliation he bestowed on the fairy jobber. Finally he put him out of his misery, dropping him for another backbreaker. This time he kept Shane on the mat, grabbing both legs for the pin. Shane’s wedgied ass was on display for the crowd and home audience, the trunks now a thong.

As Nikolai stood up for the ref to raise his arm, Shane lay on the mat utterly defeated, tears running down both cheeks. Finally he reached underneath his ass to remove the trunks from their current home. With his hands he tried wiping away the tears as the ref leaned down and said, “Get up you god damn cry baby. No wonder your mom has pimped you out as a jobber whore.” No wonder.

***

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota attracts tens of thousands of bikers every year. Tough bikers and yuppie bikers. Male, female. Fat ones and hot ones. Crazy men and crazier women. Every year, they hold a wrestling card, right in the middle of a grass field, which hundreds of bikers attend. Some sit in the chairs that are set up, many just watch from their bikes. They’re all drunk or coked up and looking for blood. They love the matches. And every year the promoters send a pussy jobber out to be a sacrificial lamb. This year Victoria volunteered her son. Thanks, mom.

And that’s how Shane found himself in the middle of a wrestling ring, outside, in 90-degree weather, in the middle of Bumfuck South Dakota, waiting for the madman Terry Funk to enter. On his walk from the trailer to the ring, the cyclists and their bitches had greeted Shane with taunt after taunt. Every slur was uttered. They threatened to rape his pretty little ass when the match was over. Shane wondered how he’d get out of Sturgis alive.

They cheered Funk like he was a god. And he looked like one of them. Dirty, unkempt, tough. The complete opposite of the clean pretty boy parading around the ring in his pink trunks. Funk wanted to fuck him right there. He slid under the ropes and descended on Shane. After a knee to the gut bent him over, Funk wasted no time, grabbing Shane by the hair and the rear of the trunks and tossing him overboard and onto the grass, right in front of a mass of cheering bikers.

Funk jumped from the ring apron with a boot to Shane’s head. He grabbed the side of the trunks for a vertical suplex on the hard ground. Shane had a second and was able to adjust the wedgie out of one side, but the left cheek remained jammed up his pretty boy ass. The other one joined him a second later, as just as he pulled it out, Funk again grabbed a hold of the rear waistband and fired the kid under the bottom rope and back into the ring. One of the bikers threw Funk a pair of brass knuckles. No, he wouldn’t use them would he? That’d be illegal. Not in Sturgis. Not with Terry Funk wearing them. Funk put them on and climbed back in. He held Shane by the hair and delivered three straight punches to the kid’s head, tattooing him and opening up a slight cut. He threw them back to the biker and returned to the already battered jobber.

With Shane on his back, Funk lifted both of the kid’s legs and looked to the crowd for approval. They roared. They didn’t know what Funk had in plan, but it probably involved something to do with the jobber’s balls and no one liked watching a guy get tortured like the bikers. The women in their leather and bandanas cheered loudest. Fucking pussy up there, they thought. Deserves what he gets. Funk kicked Shane right on his dick and balls, bringing out a cry from Shane who laughably rolled around, clutching his small, damage packaged. The pain shot up into his stomach. And a second later, Funk held his legs up again and this time did kick him in the stomach. Funk spit on the kid’s chest, marking his territory.

Funk brought him up and tied Shane into the ropes, bounding him there. He pulled the waistband for a punch, pulling up slightly to torment Shane’s balls a bit more. Funk delivered six quick kicks and a pair of punches to the pulverized jobber, who now had blood trickling down his forehead, mixing with the sweat that stained the jobber’s face. The incompetent ref finally untangled Shane from the rope and he fell, pathetically fell, backward through the ropes and again hit the grass from the outfield.

He laid there on his stomach. The pink trunks still lodged up his ass.

“Wedgie boy!” one woman shouted. Funk slowly walked outside, back among his people. They were calling for blood. Shane finally knew what the slaves felt like in Rome when they were sent to the Colosseum. All the bikers appeared to be on something: Drunk, meth, coke, god knows. Funk fit right in with them, a wild man, occasionally unhinged. Funk told one of the women to sit up and grabbed her chair. He laid it on the ground and put Shane between his legs for a piledriver. Hopefully Shane had learned how to take one. He gave a yank to the thong now shoved up Shane’s ass and this brought out a huge roar from the audience, who all took pictures with their cell phones. Funk lifted Shane up by his gut and jumped up, crushing the kid’s head into the chair. Bizarrely, FUnk then started biting Shane’s left cheek, a move straight out of Hannibal Lector. Shane whimpered and kicked as Funk attempted to apparently disfigure him.

Funk picked Shane up by the hair and marched him 50 feet out into the crowd. The mass of people parted as Funk took his victim near one of the motorcycles. He scooped Shane up for a body slam, but instead of dropping him into the ground, he slammed him onto the motorcycle seat. Shane was now bent over, his bottom on the seat but bent back, his tiny jobber clit poking out of the pink trunks for all the world to see. He was stuck in that position, unable to move. Funk carelessly grabbed one of Shane’s boots and shoved him backward, headfirst into the ground. Funk strolled back up toward the ring but not before telling two bikers – a muscular guy and his hot girlfriend – to bring Shane to the ring for him. They followed like the good Nazis they were.

The two each grabbed an arm and dragged the lifeless jobber form near the ring. Shane’s boots scraped around the ground the whole time. He looked like a rat being brought to a mob Godfather just after a 10-hour round of torture. When they got to the ring, they stood there, waiting for directions.

“Well, throw that pussy back in here,” Funk ordered.

Now each biker took a hold of Shane’s trunks and lifted him up into the ring. They’d been thonged up his ass before; now it felt like the pink material was rubbing against his prostate. The woman gave a slap to Shane’s ass once he was on the apron. God, that was fun, she thought. Dominating some young sissy. She couldn’t wait to get back to the trailer and fuck her man. A real man.

Funk wanted to finish this kid off. He put his head between his legs and yanked him up by the middle of his waistband for another piledriver. He covered him but pulled him up at the count of two. The bikers paid for the show, not an easy pin. Once again Shane’s wedgied ass was on full display as Funk positioned him, then yanked up and dropped to his ass. Finally FUnk covered him for the one-two-three count. He stood up and kicked the kid in the ribs, sending him rolling, rolling, rolling, until he rolled right out of the ring.

Funk scooped him up and put him over his shoulder, patted the kid’s posterior and took him back.

“Who wants a jobber pussy for the night,” he asked the bikers. Many roared. They saw that ass and pictured fucking it. the women pictured fucking it with their dildos. One biker with a thing for torture pictured nipple clamps on the young jobber’s hunky tits and a ballgag stuffed in his mouth. Another biker fantasized about burning the kid with a lighter. Many saw his mouth and wanted their dicks inside it. How many biker dicks could a jobber in pink fit into his mouth?

Funk left him with a bearded daddy, who said him and his brothers wanted to teach the boy a lesson or two. Funk caught Victoria’s eyes in the crowd. She nodded her approval. She’d been there the whole time, watching her son be degraded one more time. She feared a bit for him, but not really. He might disappear with a biker gang for the night but he’d eventually be back in the ring.

The biker draped Shane over his seat, ass up and took off through the crowd on his motorcycle. They were headed to a motel and a first-class fucking.

“We’re going to have fun, jobber boy,” the man said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle. I only plan on fucking you three times tonight. My pet pit bull, well, he might want a bit more.” The last thing Shane saw as he glanced up was his mom. She stood next to Funk, waving. She blew him a kiss. All Shane could think of was, why did he have to be born into a family of jobbers? He squirmed as the biker rubbed his wedgied ass while they slowly made their way from the throng.

The End

I’m assuming the vast, vast, vast majority of visitors are males, guys who search out jobber-heel/wrestling stories, or guys who stumble on it accidentally and go “What the hell, this isn’t what I’m looking for!” and the odd female who comes across the page. I have so many fetishes related to my jobber fantasies, most of which I’ve chronicled in the stories on this blog. I love being dominated – and writing stories like this – by men, being the jobber boy in skimpy trunks controlled and used by a strong male heel. But a big thing of mine is also being humiliated by women and failing that, in front of women. Love the videos of hot girls in the crowd watching a jobber get crushed, wedgied, dominated, humiliated by a superior man.

So, a quick poll and feel free to leave any comments too or email me at rookiejobber@yahoo.com (and I still promise a story soon. If not this week, next. If I don’t get it this week, as punishment I will suplex myself 11 times, though I’m not exactly sure how).

Thanks all! And as always, love to get emails or read comments from readers.

A FAMILY OF JOBBERS

It’s the story of 20-year-old Shane Tyler. His grandpa was a jobber. His dad was a jobber. He said he’d never follow in the family footsteps, even though his sister always beat him up growing up. But on Christmas Day, two months after his 18th birthday, his mom gave him only three presents: pink wrestling trunks, knee pads, and white boots. It was time for his life of humiliation and degradation to begin – in private and in the wrestling ring. He was off to the world of professional wrestling, where heels like Terry Funk, Kevin Sullivan, Nikolai Volkoff, Mike Rotunda and many more waited for the newest pussy jobber in pink.