I’m sure some of you are wondering what happened to the guy who runs this site, Rookie Jobber. He hasn’t posted in a year and a half. You probably wondered if he tired of jobbers or purged his jobber desires or died or was arrested or what. Don’t worry, he’s still alive. But the jobber boy isn’t running things anymore. I’ve taken over this account and will be periodically posting here and there. So what happened to that jobber fag?
About three years ago I got an email from email@example.com. He wrote and told me about his pathetic jobber desires and showed me his site. Why’d he write to me? He found my profile on bearhugger. I’ve done some semipro wrestling down south and have also run a few promotions here and there, independent things in backwater towns. He wrote to me and said he’d always fantasized about being taken in, by force or otherwise, by a dominant heel or promoter and turned into a permanent jobber whore.
I ignored his email for a long time. But then I finally responded and we started writing and I started liking the idea of turning this wannabe into the real thing. He’d possessed all these pathetic fantasies for so long, I wanted to turn them into the real thing.
There were a few problems. He was married. He was gainfully employed. He said he wanted to give it all up to be a jobber but I figured he lost all that confidence the second he jacked off into his panties or speedos and disappeared back into his regular world.
So I told him I could fulfill all his dreams, all his fantasies. But it would be REAL. He would lose everything he cherished, everything he loved. There would be no sneaking around, no living a double life. Not if he wanted to be a real jobber. He wrote and said, “Yes sir, please sir.” He wrote about how badly he wanted this life. Then he disappeared again and I figured he was another flake.
Then in early 2014, out of the blue, he emailed me. Not from his rookiejobber account. But from his real email address. With his real name. In it he included his phone number. His address. His wife’s name. Her email. His boss’s email. His parents’ emails. His sister’s. His friend’s. He said he’d gone three weeks without cumming and finally had the courage to take the ultimate step, to expose himself to a dominant man who could take over his life and ruin it, change it and mold it into the life of a jobber. I thought about ignoring it but frankly the idea got me so fucking hard and hot I couldn’t. Yeah, I loved his jobber stories too. And I fucking loved the idea of turning this man into a jobber freak. I wrote back and said it was now simple: He would leave his regular life and come down to Mississippi where I was living and become my jobber slave, who I could train and put in the occasional local match. He had no choice anymore. He’d emailed me pictures of himself in speedos. He’d emailed me pictures of his cock. He’d emailed me pictures with a sign around his neck proclaiming, “Jobber Sissy for Life.”
I told him he could voluntarily disengage from his life or I’d be more than happy to shove him out of the jobber closet. It was his choice.
You can guess what happened. Jobber got scared. Begged me, begged me to forget about all of it. To ignore it. That it was all fantasy and jerk off material. That he had a life. And a wife he loved. I didn’t give a fuck.
The first email was to his wife:
“Hi. You don’t know me. I live in Mississippi. I’m an independent pro wrestler. I’m a gay man. I run a wrestling promotion. Your husband has been emailing me for months about his desires to be my wrestling slave. I’m including pictures and links to his website. You can ask him about it.”
That night Rookie Jobber called me from a hotel. He was drunk. Crying. Asking me why I’d done it. His wife had immediately kicked him out and told him she hated him and never wanted to see him again. I felt a little bad, yeah. But I was also rock hard, thinking about how I had ruined this jobber fag’s life.
I listened to him bawl for a few minutes and then told him he could either stay in the hotel or could hop on a bus or plane and come down to Mississippi and live with me. I told him he could leave his job. He didn’t have kids so there’d be no child support. If he did have to pay some alimony I’d let him get a job at McDonald’s. But otherwise his life would be as my jobber bitch. I’d personally use and abuse him in my ring at home and I’d let him get the occasional match. I’d turn his nightmare into his old dream of being a jobber.
A few weeks later he showed up at my door after taking a taxi from the bus station. He carried a single black suitcase. At 6-2, 210 pounds, he looked good for a 38-year-old. Full set of brown hair. At the door, I reached out and grabbed him by his hair and marched him into my house as he let out a yell. Holding on I yanked him all around the house, down the basement and into my private ring. I flung him under the ropes as he laid in the center of the ring like a helpless jobber, the reality of his life starting to hit him. He still wore his T-shirt and blue jeans but there’d be plenty of time to outfit him in proper jobber gear. First I wanted to kick this fairy’s ass and lay down the rules.
I was in shorts and a T-shirt of my own but I quickly took that off to reveal my big chest and gut. I’m not a model, just a classic-looking dirty heel. As the jobber stared at me while on his hands and knees, I climbed into the ring, sprinted at him and delivered a size 13 shoe to his pretty head. This was a real kick, delivered by a real man to a real jobber who didn’t really know how to properly take a blow. I didn’t give a shit. I wanted this first beating to lay the foundation for our relationship. So I kicked him again, this time right in the guts. I thought he was going to puke as he laid around rolling on the mat. All those times that fucker fantasized about this type of thing in a ring he never knew what it could really feel like.
“Please don’t,” he gasped. “Please, god.”
In response I simply walked around, sizing him up. I knew I had to beat and destroy and humiliate his will out of him right away, before his instincts as a real man — which surely were hidden somewhere below his jobber persona — acted up and he maybe tried to actually fight me. I had no doubt I’d kick his ass, but a desperate man can be dangerous. Better to crush his will from the outset. I sat on his chest, robbing him of his breath and put my right hand over his throat, choking the life out of me. His eyes bulged and he must have wondered if I was some psycho who was going to kill him. I let up, then slapped him in the face over and over with both hands, beating him like a bitch. Right, left, right, left, right, left, right left, not saying a word, just delivering blow after blow while his tears flowed.
“You’re mine, faggot,” I said while spitting into his face. “You hear that? Your life is over. Your new life as a jobber will begin now. But swear to god if you act up I will deliver real beatings that will leave you crippled. You hear me faggot?”
Unable to talk through the tears and lack of breath, he nodded.
I climbed off his chest, unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them off. I was disappointed to see him wearing boxers. Well, never again would that happen. It’d be panties for the rest of his life outside the ring and inside the ring would be the smooth, satiny trunks he’d written about so many times over the years. I was sure he wouldn’t enjoy being seen in them in front of crowds at wrestling matches, not like he imagined, and inside this ring, inside my torture chamber, I’d give all his trunks a big workout every time.
I ripped his T-shirt off his head and left him lying there. Finally I pulled down the boxers and saw his shriveled up one-inch dick, hidden in a mass of pubes. Well, those would have to go soon enough. Again yanking him up by the hair, I slapped a full nelson on the jobber and directed him over to one side of the ring, where I’d set up a full-length mirror so I can show off my jobbers and they can see what’s happening. Standing behind him, the jobber faced the mirror and saw his humbling present while I laid out his torturous future.
In the mirror he saw his reflection, stripped, his face red from the slaps, my hand marks still visible on his throat. When he slumped a bit I cinched the full nelson in a bit more and brought him back to attention. “You’re mine now, boy. No more jacking off and dreaming about the life of a jobber. It’s the real thing now. Pain and humiliation. That’s all your life is going to be now. Your family wants nothing to do with you, your wife left you. You have nothing, you are nothing.” As I spoke I noticed his pathetic cock being to rise a bit, against his will. A jobber to his core.
“I’m going to train you and beat you and use you, jobber boy. Your life is mine. You’ve dreamed of this since you were a kid but it’s going to be more terrible than you can imagine. But it’s what you need, isn’t it, faggot?”
He moaned as I reapplied the full nelson one final time before dropping him to the mat.
His life of jobber humiliation started the next day. And continues to this day. Someday I’ll tell that story too. But now I gotta run and kick a jobbers ass.
Hi everyone. It’s me. Rookie Jobber. The real one. I’m safe and sound. This was just a story. The reality of why I haven’t been here lately is much more mundane and boring: Insane work projects taking up all my time, energy and creative juices. But those have wound down and I’m hopefully going to be back here posting a bit more, whether stories, jobber musings, real life events, polls, essays, whatever involves jobber humiliation. But figured I’d give you a brief story above about what could have happened. Anyway, hope all my faithful readers are still here and I hope to be able to give you a lot more stuff in the coming months.