New story: A Day in the life of a jobber

New story time. Little quickie one. This idea came to me in the morning and I wrote it the same day. Which never happens! But it seemed to write itself. Hope you enjoy!

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A JOBBER
6 a.m. Brandon Boyd woke up to his alarm. It took him a few seconds to orient himself. What had happened? Where was he? Oh yeah, he was in jobber hell. Or, at least in this case, at the bottom of his small bed in his tiny studio apartment. He woke up at the foot of the bed, in a pair of baby blue panties, a black collar around his neck, his ass aching. He stood up and found a note on the bed:

“Jobber boy. I had fun last night, fag! Get showered and spend two hours watching your videos. You’ve got the salon appointment at 10 and your fucking ass better be at the wrestling school by 12. And I want you at the TBS studio by 4 for the taping of WCW Saturday Night. Got it? Good.–Watson.”

Brandon crumpled up the note and threw it into the garbage. Fucking Watson. The promoter who’d turned him into a dominated jobber a few months ago, shortly after his college graduation. Now, at 22, instead of a life in business like he’d planned, Brandon knew nothing but wrestling humiliation, dished out on a near nightly basis in small crowds and large ones, in private and on television.

He self-consciously rubbed his sore ass where Watson had first spanked him over his knee last night and turned him on his stomach and impaled him with his 8-inch cock, ignoring Brandon’s cries the entire time. Less than a year ago Brandon belonged to a frat and had a girlfriend and a future. Now he was a jobber, single, living in a shitty studio, owned by a dirty old man. When Brandon pulled his panties down he realized Watson had shoved a tampon up his ass after the fucking and as he yanked it out the dried up sperm emerged and Brandon nearly vomited. Brandon yanked off the stupid collar that Watson had controlled him with and climbed into the shower.

After cleaning himself, Brandon ate breakfast and sat in front of his television, a television that didn’t get cable or have an antenna. Instead he could only play VCR tapes Watson gave him. On the tapes? Nothing but jobber matches. Hour after hour after hour of jobbers in skimpy trunks getting maimed, destroyed, humiliated. Tommy Angel, Bob Emory, Trent Knight, Red Tyler, Ron Cumberledge, on and on and on. When he watched them, Brandon had to sit three feet away while situated on his special jobber chair, which was a normal chair except for the dildo protruding up from it. Each day Brandon lowered himself on it and felt his ass filled as visions of jobber demolition played in front of him. This was also the only time Watson allowed him to touch himself. He could stroke his 4-inch dick and cum once a month but it had to be during tape time and he had to eat every last drop. Brandon never cheated with any of these orders. Not anymore. Watson had cameras set up around the studio where he could monitor his latest jobber victim. One time Brandon violated Watson’s orders and secretly squirted in bed one night. The next morning Watson arrived and beat him up, knocking out a tooth, bloodying his lip and leaving a black eye. He also spanked Brandon unmercifully. Brandon had to take two weeks off from TV appearances after that because Watson didn’t want his perfect jobber face looking sullied in front of crowds or TV audiences and he didn’t want the welts on Brandon’s ass to show up when he got wedgied. So Brandon learned his lesson. And now he watched his tapes, and rode his dildo chair and dreaded his day to come.

10 a.m.: Brandon pulled into Rita’s Salon and waited a few minutes before going in. No matter how many times he went in, the embarrassment never lessened. Everyone in the salon knew him and knew what he was. Finally he climbed out and walked into the shop. When the bell above the door rang, the receptionist Laura looked up and smiled. Brandon, her favorite customer! Fucking fag. “Hey, sweetie,” the gorgeous 23-year-old blonde said. “Is it Thursday already.” “Hey Laura,” Brandon replied. In his previous life Brandon would have seen Laura at a bar, picked her up, taken her home, fucked her, made her blow him, and told all his buddies about it the next day and then forgotten about her two days later. “Why don’t you go back to the tanning salon first and Marsha will set you up. Then Andrea will take care of the shaving.” Brandon just nodded and walked past while Laura checked out his ass.

Watson had set Brandon up at the salon and each week he received reports from the gals about his charge’s behavior. Marsha, a drop-dead gorgeous black girl in her mid 20s, operated the tanning salon where Brandon went each week. Watson loved for Brandon’s tan lines to show when the heels yanked his silky trunks.

“Do you have your suit?” Marsha asked and giggled. No matter how many times this (she had to admit handsome) white boy came in, it never failed to amuse her. Imagine a black man subjecting himself to this humiliation.

“Yes, Marsha.”

Brandon opened up his big gym bag and found the white bikini bottom Watson had him wear for the tanning sessions. As always he had to undress in front of Marsha, and pull the bikini up, adjust it on his ass and walk past her to the tanning booth. “Good girl,” Marsha said as Brandon climbed on. Bitch, he thought, though he was powerless to stop her. He stayed in there for 15 minutes on his stomach, then back, and when he got out Marsha said, “Good luck tonight, Brandon. We’ll all be watching!”

Andrea, a 30ish woman, handled the weekly shaving of Brandon’s ass and groin. Watson didn’t want any revolting hair visible to the crowd on closeups of his nuts or ass. Andrea patiently waited for Brandon to pull his bikini down and then carefully went about her work, making sure not to nick the little prick. She felt bad for the poor boy but only to a point. Anyone who let themselves get into this position didn’t deserve much sympathy. Plus, it was fun turning on the TV each week and seeing Brandon get tossed around like a ragdoll and know she had something to do with how good he looks getting pummeled. She liked talking to Brandon during the shaving, to try and get some insight about what happened to him but also, frankly, to tease him a bit.

“So, hon, when’s the last time you were with a girl?” Andrea asked as she lathered him up.

Brandon didn’t answer for several seconds and Andrea added, “Brandon, doll. You’re in a bad spot here. Number one, I’m holding a razor really, really close to your cock. But, secondly, if you don’t answer me I will report you to Watson. I don’t want to do that, I like you. But I will. Now, when’s the last time you were with a girl?”

“Ten months ago,” Brandon replied and just by thinking of the occasion he could remember the girl. Katie. 19, sophomore at school, so hot, and he could still remember what her pussy felt like. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Andrea held his soft cock and stroked it a bit as she made Brandon recount details from the night in question. As he felt himself getting hard she stopped and made it go down so she could move it around while shaving him.

“Do you ever get hard in your little pink panties you wear in the ring?” she asked next.

“Ma’am.”

“Brandon.”

“Y-y-y, yes ma’am. I have.”

“Awww, isn’t that cute. Do you like how they feel? The way they encase your little cock here. All silky and smooth? Do you like wearing them in front of pretty girls? I bet you do, don’t you, you little slut? Right! I bet you love prancing around like a little fag in front of the young girls. Or do you like doing it front of the boys? Wait! That’s it, isn’t it!”

Brandon felt tears coming down. The truth was he didn’t know why he got hard, or maybe it was everything she said. The humiliation, the friction on his cock, the pretty girls in the crowd laughing at him, the fact sometimes the heels’ fingers found his ass crack when they slammed him and yanked him around.

Andrea had Brandon turn over and shaved his ass crack. She could see evidence of Watson’s savagery from the night before.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said while carefully rubbing his crack. “Looks like someone had a fun night, huh? Did Watson make you his girl, Brandon?”

She could hear the sniffles and knew she was right but she wanted Brandon to say it. Christ, what was it about this kid — so good looking yet so pathetic — that brought out her motherly side but also her inner dominatrix? The gals talked about it often after Brandon left. It was just so much FUN to humiliate a man like this. He had no one to blame but himself. “Yes, Miss Andrea. He made me his girl.”

“Really? Or did he make you his bitch?”

“His bitch.”

“Thought so.”

Andrea finished her work and watched as Brandon stepped back into his yellow panties and put away his white bikini bottom. God knew what else was in that bag. “Have a good day, Brandon. I’ll be watching!”

With that he walked out with his shoulders slumped, past the grinning receptionist.

“See you next week!” she said.

Noon: TOUGH GUY WRESTLING SCHOOL: WHERE ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE read the outside of the building. Inside, one of the top wrestling schools in the area operated and today Watson had set it up so the 10 students would get their very own jobber boy to work over, a few weeks into their training. The head trainer, former Moondog Rex, eagerly agreed with Watson that it’d be a great experience for the students to try any and all moves against the sissy jobber. They still weren’t totally sure of themselves and he didn’t want any of them hurting each other, accidentally or otherwise. So why not let a jobber take the punishment.

Brandon walked in and found the 10 wrestlers, 8 guys and two women, gathered around the ring, already in their training gear.

“Um, where’s the locker room,” Brandon wondered and Rex told him, “Jobbers don’t get privacy boy. Just put your bag on that bench right there, get your trunks and boots on and get your fucking ass in this ring before I throw it in there.”

Brandon should have known. He walked over to the bench about 10 feet from the group and started pulling off his shirt, and shoes. He hesitated before taking down his shorts, not wanting the group to see first his yellow panties and then his little, freshly shaved cock. But he did it and heard the snickers and wolfwhistle from one of the men. He made eye contact with one of the girls, a tough looking latina, and could see the contempt in her eyes. He stood there nude now, looking for the most dreaded garment in his whole wardrobe: his pink jobber wrestling trunks that Watson had cursed him with. Every match he pulled them on and got beaten and abused in them. How often he’d felt them yanked up his ass by a cruel heel in front of a laughing crowd. Now he searched for them in his bag and…where the fuck were they? He packed them, right? He tossed aside his white boots, his white kneepads, the bikini bottom he wore to the salon, some water bottles and other shit. But where the fuck were the trunks? He felt his breathing increase and Moondog asked, “What’s wrong, boy?” Brandon could feel, no, not now, but, yes, he could feel tears coming as he looked for the fucking trunks. finally the other female wrestler, Jennifer, a 19-year-old brunette, who’d been watching with sympathy at the poor boy, went over and offered to help. He seemed so helpless and needy and she felt matronly toward him.

“Hey there,” she said

Through sniffles, Brandon replied, “Hi.”

“Looking for your trunks? Let me help there, maybe I can find them.”

Brandon relinquished the bag and covered up his cock with his hands, as if Jennifer hadn’t already seen the little baby jobber cock shriveled and shorn. Incredibly, she found them in two seconds and pulled the trunks out of the bag. “There we go!” She seemed so happy, Brandon thought and he was grateful for her discovery. But still…the humiliation was too much and the tears flowed.

“Okay, okay,” Jennifer said. “It’s okay. Let’s get you into them, all right?”

Jennifer held the pink trunks open and let Brandon step into them and then helped the helpless jobber pull them up his smooth legs and over his little dick. As she situated them and adjusted the wedgie on his ass, Brandon mumbled, “Thanks,” and she said, “No problem.”

“All right, ladies, if you’re down over there, get in the fucking ring, Brandon.”

After putting his boots and kneepads on, Brandon did just that and then watched as Rex and his 10 wrestlers also gathered. Brandon found himself breathing heavily as he faced the big group, all of them looking eager to beat the shit out of him, with the exception of his trunks savior Jennifer, who still looked sympathetic.

“Let’s open with some clotheslines, shall we?”

Rex had each student whip Brandon into the ropes and deliver a clothesline to his neck, or chest. One student, a fat guy named Jerry, who wasn’t the most agile or talented student, came in too high with his arm and sent Brandon tumbling by smacking him directly in the nose. Brandon shook the cobwebs and came to the center of the ring.

“All right. Let’s go over the backbreaker again, all right?” Rex said. He grabbed Brandon’s hair and pulled him up to his feet. Effortlessly he put his hand through Brandon’s crotch and planted his hand on the jobber’s tight, pink-clad ass. “You all remember how to scoop someone up for  a slam.” The students stared as the fat-ass Moondog kept his large paw on Brandon’s ass. None of the students would ever let themselves be in this position, they told themselves. What a fucking pussy. “Get your hand situated and then lift.”

Rex scooped Brandon up like a child and held him in his arms as Brandon’s legs kicked helplessly. Moondog gripped the trunks at Brandon’s crack and pulled down a bit on the trunks, revealing the top of Brandon’s ass crack to the students. “Now, it’s up to you how you want to hold your opponent. I like to clutch the trunks and pull down and give the crowd a bit of a show. It establishes some dominance over your foe and he knows you have complete power over him. Pull the trunks down a bit and walk him around.” Moondog did just that, pretending a crowd was outside the ring. Finally he dropped to his knee and dropped Brandon over it, bringing out a cry of pain from the jobber. A jobber’s scream: What a beautiful sound. He bent Brandon back over his knee and held him there, pushing down on his chest to make the pain even worse.

“Now you can keep him here for as long as you please. Really draw out the pain, drain them of their energy and will to live. And the crowd, believe me, loves hearing jobber screams.”

Rex shamelessly discarded the jobber, who stayed on his stomach rubbing his back.

Rex had three of the students imitate the maneuver and each one took their sweet time with Brandon on their knee. He thought his spine might snap as one of the students overzealously pushed down on his chest and bent him nearly in half. When one of the students held him aloft, the guy stuck his finger nearly through Brandon’s crack while controlling him and the student felt his own boner rise as he manhandled the pussy jobber in front of his fellow students.

“Get on your feet, fag,” Rex yelled and Brandon slowly rose.

“All right, Jennifer, why don’t you execute a suplex on your boyfriend here.”

Oh no, Brandon thought. He somehow thought maybe he wouldn’t have to be beaten up by the girl who’d been so kind to him a short time ago. Jennifer herself seemed a bit hesitant as she felt pity for poor boy. But the fact was, being a pro wrestler had been her dream since childhood and she knew students had to listen to instructors at the camp. So she walked over in front of Brandon as Rex said, “Why don’t we soften him up with a kick first, huh, Jen?”

Brandon tried preparing himself, but was still shocked when the sweet girl delivered a swift boot to his stomach and bent him over, leaving him gasping. Like she’d learned, Jen hooked Brandon’s arm over his neck and grasped the silky pink trunks she’d helped the jobber climb into a few moments earlier. She really grasped them and gave them a light tug, giving herself some leverage. “That’s it, Jen,” Rex said. “Get a hold of those panties and lift him up.” Before Brandon could react, Jen crouched and lifted Brandon up for a vertical suplex, showing impressive strength for a smaller female wrestler. Brandon went high in the air and crashing down. “Good job!” Rex roared as Jen stood up over the prone jobber. “Yes!” she thought to herself. She’d struggled with the suplex a week earlier but now executed it perfectly. What the hell, she thought. Let’s do it again. She gently grabbed Brandon’s hair — no need being too rough — and brought him to his feet. “come on. Just one more. It’s okay.” She again hooked Brandon’s trunks, and admitted to herself it felt good to grasp them and again yanked him up and over.

“Chrissy, why don’t we do some out of the ring action. Throw that jobber outside the ring.” This time the Latina student, who did not hold any sympathy for the pathetic piece of meat laying in pink in the ring, strolled toward Brandon. She reached into the front of his trunks and pulled up on the front waistband. “Ugghgh” Brandon moaned as he stood up. With Brandon on his feet, she switched hands and pulled up on the rear of the trunks, yanking the trunks into an instant wedgie before sprinting toward the ropes and throwing him OVER the top.

“Holy shit,” Marcus, one of the top male students, said.

So far, they’d only thrown each other in between the ropes, never over, as Rex told them the move was banned in many federations. But fuck it, this was a jobber. Brandon landed with a thud on the concrete floor outside the ring and fixed the wedgie, quickly removing the trunks out of both sides of his ass. The students all stepped through the ropes and to the floor as REx narrated and told tales of some of his exploits outside the ring. There’s something dangerous, feral, when you go outside the ring, he explained. No one knows what to expect. And it’s right up close with the crowd so the fans go nuts when a jobber is sprawled in front of them. You can take them in the crowd and beat them up in front of everyone. You can use a chair, a bottle, a purse, you can use a table or throw them into an announcer if you want. Everything is at play.

“Steven, take this jobber and do some damage. Use your surroundings, take advantage of everything at your disposal. The crowd WANTS to see this fag destroyed. Give them what they want and be creative.”

With that Steven, wearing biker shorts and a T-shirt, a stark contrast to Brandon in his pink spandex prison, strolled forward, a permanent smirk planted on his face. At 6-6, Steven easily manhandled the 220-pound Brandon, pulling him up by his hair and scooping him up for a bodyslam on the concrete. Bringing him back to his feet, Steven took a hold of the jobber’s hair and marched him over to a set of free weights in the corner. This time he slammed him onto the bench part of the bench press and started choking the  jobber. Brandon thought the student might go to far and prayed for the equally insane instructor to call off the dog but finally Steven relented. With Brandon’s chest heaving up and down, Steven picked up a 10-pound weight and dropped it onto the kid’s stomach.

“Oooh, that’s good. Creative!” Rex yelled. Steven briefly left his victim and walked over to pick up a folding chair near the ring. Bringing it back to the weights, he waited patiently for Brandon to stand before delivering a blow directly to the top of the jobber’s head. Jennifer winced as she saw the jobber fall. She was all for learning how to beat up a jobber but she didn’t want the poor boy maimed. Surely concussed, Brandon was powerless as Steven frogmarched him back over to the group. He bent Brandon over and stuck his head between his legs. “Piledriver time, boy.”

with that Rex finally stepped in. Through his haze, Brandon said a thanks that someone was going to prevent this fucking idiot from piledriving him onto the concrete. “This is a really dangerous move,” Rex said. “REally dangerous. But to add to the humiliation, Steve, don’t forget to give those trunks a yank up his ass first to give the crowd something extra to pop at.”

Steven grinned and grabbed the waistband of the fairy’s trunks and pulled up, putting the trunks into an obscene thong. He left him like that to give the students and REx a good look at the jobber’s ass. Brandon had no chance to pick the wedgie and had to stand there, his legs now shaking as he remained bent over, waiting for the inevitable. Finally, Steven lifted Brandon up, held him in prime piledriver position for about 5 seconds and then fell to the ground. The students saw Brandon’s head hit the concrete and his neck bend at a bad angle. “Jesus,” one student said. “That’s fucking hot.” Brandon’s leg quivered involuntarily as Steven stood up and admired his handiwork. He kicked the jobber’s shoulder to make sure he wasn’t dead and was rewarded with a moan from the prone jobber.

Rex wandered over and with Brandon’s trunks still lodged up his ass, accentuated the wedgie by firing him back under the ring. Finally, Brandon adjusted his trunks and by the time the students gathered back, they were again covering both cheeks. However long that would last.

With a round tub of lard called Ferndandez, who looked like King Kong Bundy and JErry Blackwell’s lovechild, Rex had Brandon experience various squashes. First he let Fernandez toss Brandon into the corner and squash him, followed by Brandon being laid out in his back while Ferndandez leaped in the air and came crashing down onto the kid’s ribs. “Caaaan’t breathe,” Brandon muttered as the fat-ass laid on him and Rex just said, “Yeah, that’s sort of the point.”

Rex eventually put Brandon into a tree of woe in the corner and left him hanging as he discussed various scientific facts about human anatomy. Like, how the blood rushes to the head if a person is kept upside down for an extended time and how that makes them lightheaded. Real advanced stuff. During the entire lecture Brandon tried kicking his way down but Rex had masterfully hooked his foot in the turnbuckle and Brandon eventually gave up and waited for the punishment. Cruelly, Rex ordered each student, all 10, to make full runs at Brandon’s splayed corpse and crush him with a knee to the abdomen and ribs. Each student did it with vigor, though Jennifer tried holding up at the last second to lessen the blow. Instead Rex made her do it again “so that pussy will fucking feel it, Jennifer. Unless you want to join him hanging there.” She followed orders and came in with the most bone crushing blow of them all. Brandon’s entire stomach and sides turned red from the punishment before Rex finally released him and took him by the boots while dragging him to the center of the ring.

“Now, ring strategy,” he intoned. “You’ve got a jobber who’s been beaten within an inch of his life. Pull him into the center like this and let everyone see. Taunt the crowd a bit. They’re cheering for this babyface fag and think you’re the mean heel. Soak that up. Lean over the ropes and tell some hot chick in the first row how you’re gonna fuck this kid up in the ring. Then,” Rex continued as he walked to Brandon, “do something fun to totally drain him, like this.” With that Rex slapped a devastating camel clutch onto the brown-haired jobber, yanking back while Brandon’s screams filled the school. “Puuuuul back,” Rex said while doing just that. Brandon’s face contorted grotesquely and even some of the students worried about Rex paralyzing the pathetic pussy in the ring. Rex finally released it and again had each student take his or her turn at the camel clutch. With each one he told them just how to position their hands on the jobber’s chin when they yanked back. Each time after one finished Brandon buried his head in the mat, praying, hoping, Rex would call off his students. He never did.

After he gave the students a break for lunch, Rex made sure Brandon remained on display, tying him up into the ropes. As an added indignity, he pulled the jobber’s trunks down to his thighs, leaving him exposed to all as they ate their brown-bag lunches and gossiped about where they’d be partying that night and who was fucking who and who was going to get a contract to the big leagues or an indy federation. Rex force fed the fag a bit of his own sandwich and threw some water down his throat. Jobber hydration can never be underestimated.

To finish his students’ time with the real-life jobber, Rex ordered two of his top guys, a pair of brothers named Mike and Mark, to use Brandon in a tag team squash, making it so Brandon was the jobber who inevitably plays the role of the one pussy who takes the brunt of the punishment. There would be no tags for Brandon. Rex knew Watson was grooming Mike and Mark to be a real tough tag team in WCW and they had already displayed great chemistry against their fellow students. Now he wanted them to do it against the real thing.

As Brandon wearily stood in the ring with Mike, as the other students gathered around the ring apron, he thought to himself, Fuck this. Yeah, this guy is built like a brick shithouse and he’s being groomed to be a star but I still have some ability. Maybe I can show these fuckers a thing or two and they’ll know I’m not a complete pussy.

Mike interrupted his fantasy by strolling toward him, grasping his throat with his hand and effortlessly lifting the jobber into the air.. Brandon couldn’t believe the vice grip around his throat and he felt everything going black as the young student grinned into his face and saw Brandon’s bulging eyes. With disdain, Mike threw Brandon to the mat and turned to his students and did a little strut. He collected his victim, raised him to his feet and pointed to his brother Mark in the corner, who raised his boot to the top rope as Mike sprinted forward with Brandon and rammed him face-first into the size 14 weapon. “Nice teamwork, boys, keep it up,” Rex said from the outside.

Both Mark and Mike enjoyed high-impact moves and Mark softened Brandon up with a series of suplexes, some of which he still operated a bit awkwardly, everything from a belly-to-back, to a belly-to-belly to, finally, a slingshot suplex where he yanked Brandon by the pink trunks, dropped him leg first onto the ropes and then fell back. “Please, stop,” Brandon said, the daylong punishment finally getting the best of him.

“Never,” Mark said as he tagged in his bro. The two whipped Brandon into the ropes and Mike greeted him with a pure punch right to the gut, which doubled Brandon over in the center of the ring. Next, Mark hit him with a perfect DDT and covered him for a mock pin. One-two…and yanked him up before self-slapping the mat for a three-count.

Now the brothers wanted to work on their finishing  maneuver, which was impressive for guys with little real-time mat experience. Mike hooked Brandon’s arm and grabbed his trunks, lifted him and slowly walked him over to a turnbuckle, putting him in position for a superplex. At the same time, Mark artfully climbed to the top rope and waited for his brother to deliver the jobber to the center of the ring. Brandon tried fighting off the inevitable but Mike quelled the uprising with a hard punch to the face, a blow that he should have delivered with a bit more grace if this was a match against a friend, but it was a jobber so who gave a fuck. Rex had told them plenty of stories of working stiff on jobber boys. Again grabbing Brandon by the trunks, he pulled off a superplex. Before Brandon could even gather himself, Mark’s 270 pounds came crashing down from the top rope, nearly crushing the young unfortunate babyface. Now, mercifully, Mike counted to three as his brother covered him. The students ringside all cheered and climbed back into the ring to slap the back of their compadre.

Rex congratulated the whole class on a good day and then ended it with one more lesson. Post-match humiliation. He explained how sometimes you’ll slap a jobber around, sometimes you’ll hog-tie the faggot. Sometime you might jam some money down his throat. Or, maybe you handcuff them. With that he pulled out some cuffs and had Mike slap them on. “Do it behind his back,” Rex said. “I always think it’s a bit sexier to see a jobber in ridiculous trunks with his hands cuffed behind him instead of front or to the ropes. Makes him totally vulnerable.” Brandon groaned as he felt Mike put him into bondage. He prayed this was the end, but…Jennifer….the girl who seemingly cared for him, who had showed him compassion and a tad of mercy, had other ideas. “Um, Rex. I just had one idea. I feel terrible for it and I don’t want to hurt him. But…” “What is it, kid?” Rex asked. “Well, I’ve seen guys cuffed like this but I’ve never seen someone who’s handcuffed behind their back get thrown over the top rope. It seems like it could be a great show for the crowd and get a good pop. He will have NOTHING to break his fall.” Brandon looked up through a daze at Jennifer and shook his head. He thought she liked him. But he’d forgotten the most basic lesson, that jobbers, no matter how attractive, no matter how witty, no matter how book smart, are there to be used and abused by heels. Rex couldn’t believe little perky Jen had come up with such a devious idea.

“I love it,” the scraggly Moondog said. “Fucker might break his neck on the fall, but let’s do it. And Jen….why don’t you do the honors.”

Given the green light, Jen walked over and put one hand on Brandon’s hair — god, it was sexy hair, she thought to herself, as she felt her pussy get a bit wet at the humiliation this kid was undergoing — and one hand on the rear of his trunks. Slowly, almost lovingly, she coaxed the jobber to his feet while lifting up on his trunks and bringing them up his ass while her classmates cheered. She held him on his feet for several seconds, making sure her hands were cinched both on his hair and his trunks. She knew she’d have to get a lot of momentum to fire him over since he’d be a bit of dead weight with no arms. Finally she sprinted toward the ropes. Brandon felt himself being propelled forward, helpless to do anything as the trunks lodged up his ass. It felt like someone rushing a victim toward a cliff they’re going to throw them off. He could do nothing to prevent it with his hands secured tightly behind his back. He was a used, shackled, wedgied pussy and now, oh god, he was flying over the top rope. The whole class watched as Jen flung the jobber over the top rope and he landed nearly headfirst onto the concrete, instead absorbing most of the blow on his shoulder. His screams echoed through the school. Jen looked a bit worried as she made sure Brandon was still alive and Rex slapped her on the back. As the tears ran down his face, Brandon finally felt Rex undo his cuffs, slap him a bit to bring him to his senses, pull the wedgie out of his ass and then tell him, “Thanks for the work, boy. Don’t be late to that TV taping.”

4 p.m.: Brandon stood in front of his locker, still clothed, when Watson wandered in. “Hey, boy, got good reports on you from the salon and Rex. Glad you behaved yourself. Sounds like you got put through the ringer a bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, just wanted to get you ready for tonight.” Watson laughed and Brandon felt his stomach clench. He never knew until he showed up at the arena who he’d face.

“Buzz Sawyer.”

The two words struck fear into every jobber’s heart in WCW. Unpredictable, mean, cruel, fearless, a bully, Sawyer had long been a madman. But in the past month he’d taken on an even more vicious persona under the tutelage of his new manager, Missy Hyatt. Beauty and the Beast the announcers called them. Rumor was they were fucking in real life but in the ring they were a dangerous pair regardless. She loved seeing the maniacal Sawyer beat up on jobbers and the pair had left carnage strewn across the South. Sawyer, for his part, got off on manhandling babyfaces and jobbers, good looking boys, in front of Missy. WCW was gearing him up for a run at heavyweight champ Ricky Steamboat, and in the meantime they were making him out to be the most dangerous man in all of wrestling. Which he was.

Brandon had avoided having to face him so far. That would change today.

Watson stayed by as Brandon stripped. the promoter checked out the shaved groin and ass and deemed him fit for battle. Even after all these years, and all the jobbers he’d taken in and destroyed, he still got off watching them pull on their gear. The way Brandon stepped into the pink trunks and pulled them up. The way he adjusted his tiny jobber cock in the front and situated the trunks on his ass, even though both men knew they’d soon be lodged up his crack in front of a live studio audience and millions of TV viewers. Watson admired Brandon’s body as the boy pulled on his white kneepads and white boots and sat down to tie them. God, he could do this all day, Watson thought to himself before realizing, well, that’s actually what he did.

“Five minutes, boy.”

Five minutes later Brandon stood in a corner of the ring in the cramped TBS studios, looking out at the audience that only went about four rows deep. It was so intimate, everyone so close, the TV cameras right there. He tried slowing his breathing and coming up with a strategy. He knew he was in for pain and humiliation. No one worked stiffer than Sawyer, no one enjoyed humiliating jobbers as much. And the fact it would all be happening in front of Missy Hyatt…oh god. Missy Hyatt. He’d had a crush on her for years growing up watching wrestling but never thought he’d be in this position. He fantasized in the past about fucking her but now he’d be at her mercy as everyone knew she loved releasing the madman inside Sawyer but, if she felt like it, could also call him off before he did permanent damage to jobbers. Why couldn’t he have a normal life? Why?

And now…here came Hyatt, dressed in tight black pants, a tight black shirt, her tits bulging out. She slowly walked to the ring, followed by Sawyer, also dressed in black, simple black trunks like a young Mike Tyson. “Ruff. Ruff. Ruff.Ruff.” Oh christ, was he barking? He was. Sawyer circled the ring, staring at the crowd, daring any one of them to make a move on him. The announcers Tony Schiavone and Jim Ross watched the show and as the camera zoomed in on Brandon said, “I would not envy this youngster, Brandon Boyd. He is in for a long day with the maniac Buzz Sawyer.”

Finally Sawyer climbed in as Hyatt rubbed his shoulders one last time before jumping down to the studio floor. Brandon nervously walked to the center of the ring and Sawyer just stood there, not making any move. Confused, but sensing an opportunity, Brandon fired himself off the ropes and delivered a hard elbow, right to Sawyer’s face. Sawyer reacted as if a gnat had hit him. No emotion, nothing. Again Brandon fired himself off the ropes and this time he hit him with a perfectly executed drop kick. Sawyer started laughing. Was this man impervious to pain, Brandon wondered.

The small crowd liked the kid’s pluckiness and started chanting, “Go Brandon, go! Go Brandon, go!” Emboldened, Brandon tried one more time to fire himself off the ropes. This time he went for a flying cross body block and leaped into Sawyer. Surely he couldn’t withstand 220 pounds of force hitting him. Instead Sawyer caught him as if Brandon was nothing but a foul pop up on the baseball diamond. Brandon now found himself trapped in Sawyer’s clutches and, as he had earlier at the school, felt Sawyer’s hand draped on his ass. Inevitably, Sawyer pulled down on the back of Brandon’s trunks, but instead of just revealing the very top of the jobber’s crack, he almost pulled down the entire back of the trunks. As he carried Brandon from side to side he could hear the crowd popping. He caught the eye of a group of teenage girls in the front row who started hitting each other’s elbow as they saw the jobber’s ass. “Sawyer humiliating the youngster,” Ross intoned, “And we apologize to you viewers at home for this display.” Finally Sawyer lifted Brandon into a military press and with one hand held him there. Outside the ring, Hyatt cheered and whooped and reached her hand down to rub herself just a bit. God, watching this fucking insane man destroy hot shot frat boys was the best thing going in life right now. Sawyer pressed Brandon like a barbell, once, twice, three times and Brandon’s trunks were now firmly lodged inside his ass. Sawyer finished the move with a devastating backbreaker on his knee and Brandon rolled around on the mat.

Now Buzz’s inner animal came out. The Mad Dog rolled to Brandon and started biting his forehead. The pain seared through Brandon. Imagine the tiniest bite and how much it hurts. Now imagine a man without boundaries chomping down on your forehead. He tried kicking the heel off but it was pointless. If Sawyer wanted to eat him from head to toe, he would do just that. Finally he let go and followed with a series of headbutts, delivered while on his hands and knees. Boom, boom, the man apparently felt no pain. Brandon rolled around trying to escape but there was no way to go. When he heard a woman in the crowd, “Fix your damn wedgie, idiot,” Brandon realized his trunks were still a thong and he reached back, in full view of the cameras, crowd and Missy, and weakly adjusted them, though they still rode high up in the rear.

Sawyer finally got to his feet and with Brandon on his back, lifted the jobber’s legs. The crowd knew he’d kick the jobber in the stomach, but Brandon feared something much worse. He could see there was an insanity in Sawyer’s eyes. And Sawyer did indeed bring his right black boot down onto Brandon’s nuts. He nearly vomited on the spot and he heard Missy give a war whoop outside. “Make those fucking balls worthless for the rest of her life,” she thought to herself. “This is just brutal by the madman,” Schiavone said.

Without shame, Brandon rolled around on the mat clutching his balls and, inexplicably, he heard himself say, “Mommy.” Sawyer took a second before realizing what he’d said and then laughed in the ring. The jobber fag was calling for his mommy. He’d been totally broken, regressed, beaten down to a point where he wanted his mommy to come rescue him. How cute. He wished this fag’s mommy did show up. He’d suplex her, slap a camel clutch on her and then fuck her ass. In front of her son.

Instead he picked Brandon up by the hair and spit into his ear, “Mommy can’t save you. God can’t save you.” He reached between Brandon’s legs and grasped him by those aching balls and held him like that for a few seconds before dropping him stomach first onto his right knee.

“Buzz! Buzz!” Sawyer looked out at his manager and heard her say, “Throw that faggot at my feet.” With that Buzz yanked Brandon by the trunks and fired him through the ropes, dumping him right at Missy’s five-inch heels. She leaned down and grasped the jobber by the cheeks. “How’s it feel jobber boy? How’s it feel to have  a real man dominate you in front of millions? You like that faggot? I bet you do, don’t you?” The cameras couldn’t pick up everything she said as Ross said, “Missy Hyatt really laying into this kid.”

Hyatt stood up and ruthlessly stuck her right heel into the jobber’s open mouth. “Suck it you faggot,” she said and Brandon did his best, tasting the dirt and gunk that had gathered on Hyatt’s heel. She raised it up and down, like a big cock, and slid it into the fag’s mouth, all while the cameras rolled and the crowd did its best to cheer on the defeated jobber. She pulled her foot out and delivered one more slap to Brandon’s face. Seconds later, Sawyer leaped from the apron and came crashing down with a vicious knee, right to Brandon’s head, concussing him. “He could have killed this kid!” Schiavone said and for once he wasn’t exaggerating. Sawyer loved performing in this studio because everything was so tight. He pulled Brandon to his feet and walked over to the podium. There he bodyslammed the kid onto it, destroying the cheap podium as the announcers scrambled away and wondered to the national TV Audience why the announcer wasn’t doing something to stop this deranged man. All of it was building heat for Sawyer’s eventual run at Ricky Steamboat, but part of Jim Ross actually was wondering if Sawyer was going too far. He just seemed to enjoy the bullying and humiliation so damn much.

With Brandon laying in the tattered remains of the podium, Missy came over and kicked him around his entire body, starting at his hed, going to his shoulders, ribs, legs, feet and back the other side. Tenderizing the jobber meat just a tad. Her panties were so wet from the entire display she was counting down the seconds until she could get back to the locker room and take care of business. Sawyer pulled Brandon by the hair, dragging him across the concrete by his brown locks, like a caveman with his bitch. Now with two hands on Brandon’s hair, he lifted the jobber up in an amazing display of strength and planted the jobber back onto the ring apron. Brandon felt like his entire hair had been ripped off but it was all there.

Sawyer was now ready to finish Brandon off. He threw him into the ropes and caught him in a perfect powerslam, rotating with amazing efficiency and practically driving Brandon through the mat. He could have counted to 100 right there. Instead, he left his pink clad jobber in the center of the ring and climbed to the top rope. Showing the balance of a cat, he just stood there for a good 15 seconds, soaking in the stunned looks of the crowd. Finally he jumped and flew through the air, bringing his full weight onto Brandon’s body. For the second time that day, Brandon was the victim of a flying squash from the top rope. Only Sawyer had a twist. He did it in all four corners. By the fourth one, cameras picked up blood coming out of Brandon’s mouth. He felt like his insides had been ground to dust. “There could be some internal bleeding here from this youngster,” Ross said and you didn’t have to be a doctor to realize he was right. Buzz saw this as well and swiped his hand through the blood and wiped it on his opponent’s face, a crimson mask of humiliation. Mercifully he let the ref count to three.

After the victory, Missy climbed back into the ring and they went through their act of her trying to pull her madman off the prone jobber. Sawyer refused and again started biting the kid in the face as he continued to gargle up blood. “Someone stop this,” Ross said but if he polled the locker room he’d find no takers. Finally Missy got him to relent. Now she sat on Brandon’s chest, lowered herself into his face and said, “You are a fucking faggot and not a real man, Brandon Boyd. This is your fucking life. Forever. Don’t you forget it.” With her speech concluded, she let a long drop of spit fall onto Brandon’s face, coating him in her slime as it mixed with his own blood. He again muttered, “Mommy,” and this time it was Missy’s turn to laugh as she stood up. Before exiting, she gave one more kick….right to Brandon’s nuts.

7 p.m.: Brandon, in great pain, walked into his apartment. The doctor at the arena had checked him out and found no internal damage. Called him fit for duty. The day played over in his head and he knew this day would be repeated over and over and over. He plopped down on his ratty couch. He couldn’t even turn on the TV to watch sports or a show. He could watch his jobber tapes if he wanted. Instead he just closed his eyes and tried getting a bit of sleep. But first he leaned over and hit play on his answering machine.

“Hey, boy,” and he heard Watson’s deep voice. “Just wanted you to know, I know you probably want to get home, crawl into your little bed and go to sleep but you better be ready by 9 because I’m coming over again. And you’ve got a long night in front of you, jobber.”

The recording ended and Brandon cried into his pillow. He managed to drift to sleep, woken up by a key in his apartment door and the voice of Watson again. “Your night’s just beginning, faggot.”