When I was 23, I met a guy through a wrestling website. He had a real wrestling ring in his basement. Ropes, turnbuckles, everything. He was in his early 50s and big, 6-4 or so, 300 pounds probably. I was 6-3, 215 pounds but ripe for a picking by a dominant heel. I’d never done anything like this before but had fascinated about it for YEARS. Basically, ever since my friend had lifted me up on my head and exposed my “panties.” Watching pro wrestling growing up, loving the jobbers, I dreamed of being a real pro but knew that would never happen, likely. But also didn’t think I’d meet anyone who understood my desires.
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.