Hey all. As promised, new story (changed the working title). Love to hear from people in the comments or emails. Hope you enjoy! At the end of the story, I included some videos of matches that have inspired this story and the other ones on this blog.
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
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:
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.