Fresh new tale of jobber humiliation and degradation! Hope you enjoy.
JOBBER SON, HEEL DAD
Terrible Terry Jensen walked into the locker room in his blue jeans and leather jacket and couldn’t help but feel a little bittersweet. He was going to miss all the guys in WCW, especially everyone he competed with and against on Saturday nights in the TBS Studio. They were a little tribe, a family. Arn Anderson and Tully Blanchard. Stan Hansen. Sid Vicious. Ronnie Garvin. Kevin Sullivan. They were all heels and all made a living kicking ass and dominating jobbers. It was a great way to make a living. He was going to miss these guys when he left WCW. But his living was about to get a lot better.
A week earlier, Terry had given up the heavyweight title belt to Ricky Steamboat in a pay-per-view battle. He gave it up because he had just signed with WWF and was leaving immediately for Vince McMahon’s federation. It’d been tough surrendering the belt to that pretty boy Steamboat but he had his reasons and a way to cushion the blow. $2.5 million dollars per year provided the reasons, not to mention provided a soft landing. McMahon had lured Terry with the biggest contract in wrestling history. For that money, Vince was going to make Terry Hulk Hogan’s greatest rival. In a week, he’d make a surprise appearance at a WWF show where he’d attack Hogan and start their rivalry. It was a big bump up from the $150,000 he made and it was an easy call, even if it meant leaving his friends and the organization he’d worked for for 10 years. He’d been the baddest man in WCW for years, the cruelest heel, a man who really enjoyed his craft — and that craft was sowing fear in the heart of fans and competitors, especially the jobber fags he manhandled and devastated each and every week. No one enjoyed hurting jobbers like Jensen. He’d lost track of how many he’d made cry over the years. No one took pleasure in slamming and punching and choking jobbers like Terry. No one enjoyed yanking trunks like Terry, exposing the fairy jobbers to the crowd and the TV audience. And he’d be doing all of that still, it’s just that he’d be doing it to different jobbers and for a lot, lot more money.
But first he and his valet and lover Miss Missy had to say goodbye to the crew. Miss Missy had been with him for two years and Vince wanted her almost as much as Terry. The 25-year-old blonde beauty went together perfectly with the rough 40-year-old heel, a 6-3, 275-pound monster. She’d gotten wet watching Terry sign the contract and she couldn’t wait to benefit from all that new money.
Terry first saw Sullivan, dressing up for a match against Tommy Angel that night. “Sully! God damn it, I’m going to miss you, you fucker.” The two heels hugged and Sully said he’d miss Terry, too. Terry said goodby to the Midnight Express and they wished him luck. Jim Cornette gave a nice peck to Miss Missy and said, “And I’m really going to miss your nice ass around this place.” After the little goodbyes, Jensen finally got to his locker to pack up his stuff for good. His black boots and his black trunks. Good outfit for a bad man. Just then the WCW’s top promoter, Watson, strolled into the locker room. He walked up to Jensen and stared at his top heel. Finally Jensen broke the silence, offered his hand and said, “Watson. No hard feelings, huh?” Watson just stared at the hand. Then he smirked. “You’re not going anywhere there, Terrible Terry.”
“Watson, we’ve been over this,” Jensen said. “The contract is legal. Our lawyers agreed on it. Your lawyers signed off. Vince’s did. It’s final. I’m out of here.”
“This ain’t about no contracts, Jensen,” Watson replied. “This is about family.”
“Fuck, man,” Jensen replied. “We are a family, you’re right. The wrestlers are. You’re a fucking predator. I ain’t part of your family. And I’m out of here.”
Everyone feared Watson, the most manipulative promoter in the game. He’d ruined the lives of more jobbers than anyone on earth. But Terrible Terry was one of the few men who wasn’t afraid of him. Years ago Terry had beaten the shit out of Watson in a bar fight and he knew anytime he wanted he could smack the promoter around. If he had to slap him now to be done with WCW forever, he wouldn’t hesitate.
“I’m not talking about no theoretical family here, Terry. I’m talking about yours.”
With that the locker room doors opened and Jensen looked up to see one of Watson’s henchmen, a fat slob named Ortiz, walking in with a great-looking, 6-foot young kid. Ortiz was controlling the youngster by holding the back of his shirt and the back of the kid’s belt, guiding him toward Watson and Jensen. Jensen gasped when he saw the youngster. It was his 18-year-old son, Tommy Hanson, who shared a last name with his mother. Very few people in the world knew that Terry was Tommy’s dad. He’d had him with Tommy’s mom when he was just 22. It had been a one-night stand, but he’d secretly supported the family ever since. He’d meet up with the boy whenever he could, but he shielded the relationship from just about everyone. He gave Tommy and his mom money and followed him through school as Tommy became the top athlete in his school, an all-state QB, basketball guard and shortstop. He had a full scholarship ride to the University of Arizona. What the fuck was he now doing in Atlanta, in the locker room of WCW Saturday night?
Ortiz threw Tommy to the ground and as he started to rise, Watson said, “Stay down there, boy.” Jensen went to step in but Watson replied, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Settle down there, Terry, unless you want to see Tommy during Sunday visiting hours in prison only.” With that Watson took ahold of Tommy’s brown locks and just held him in that position as he explained to Terry what was going on.
Enraged at the prospect of losing his top heel attraction Watson had started to search for ways to keep him. Ways that didn’t involve lawyers or contracts or legalities. Where could he hurt Jensen? There was no wife. And while Jensen was in love with Miss Missy, he didn’t think blackmailing him or threatening him with her would really make him give up 2.5 million dollars per year. So, what? Then, one day in his office, Ortiz casually mentioned to him, “Well, maybe something with the son.” The son! Of course. Watson had actually forgotten Jensen had a kid. He knew he didn’t ever live with the kid or anything but he also knew he hadn’t totally abandoned him. He stuck his investigators on it and found that Jensen supported the kid and his old lady and truly loved the boy. Would do anything to protect him from the evils of the world. So that was how Watson decided to save his best heel by ruining the son’s life. One night Watson’s investigator snuck into Tommy’s home and put countless incriminating images involving child pornography on his laptop. He’d called the local police chief and explained the situation. He’d gone and seized Tommy’s computer. But…and this was a big but, he wouldn’t do anything with it if Terrible Terry followed Watson’s orders. In other words, Tommy’s life would be just fine and the laptop would be destroyed if Terry followed orders. This had all been explained to Tommy in the police station and as the boy wept, Ortiz was there to collect him and fly him to Atlanta, where he eventually deposited him at Watson’s feet. The boy was still crying.
“So, you see, Terrible Terry. You have two choices. One: Go to WWF. Leave. And tomorrow, the police raid your son’s home and ‘discover’ the laptop and your boy is sent away for 35 years to life. And you know how child porn freaks are treated in prison. Or, you stay. You stay and Tommy’s computer is destroyed and he goes on with his life. What do you think?”
It was really no choice at all. Terry wanted to beat up Watson then and there, kill him if he had to, but he knew the man did what he promised. He had law enforcement lackeys throughout the country doing his bidding. He’d seen it before.
“I’ll stay,” Jensen said.
“Good, good,” Watson said. “Of course, there is one more thing. You lost the belt so we need to reaffirm your dominance. We need to show everyone that you are even MORE brutal than before. We need to show everyone that you are as evil as ever, that losing the belt has put you over the edge. You need to DESTROY your next opponent, tonight, here, on WCW Saturday Night.”
“Fine,” Terry said. “Who’s it going to be? Emory? Thompson? Knight? Some black jobber you’ve dug up to get beat up in front of the hillbillies?”
Watson laughed. “No, no. You’re going to destroy your own little boy, right here. Tommy.”
Jensen stared in horror. “What the fuck are you saying?”
“Tonight. Your boy Tommy is going to go out there in little jobber trunks — I’ve got the pair picked out for him — and you are going to manhandle and destroy this faggot. No one watching is going to know you’re his dad. They’re just going to know you’re destroying some jobber fag. One match. 10 minutes. One squash and he gets his freedom back. How about it, dad? Do you love Tommy enough to hate him in the ring? This boy that you care for, do you care enough to beat the shit out of him?”
Jensen went through the scenarios in his head. WCW drew millions of TV viewers. Surely a lot of people in Tommy’s hometown, his classmates, his peers, his teachers, his mom’s friends, would recognize him in the ring. THey might not have known Terry was his dad but they would be baffled and confused seeing Tommy dominated in the ring. But what choice did Terry have? He had to do it for his son. Yes, it’d be embarrassing but maybe Tommy could say it was a prank or he’d won a contest or something. He’d still have his athletic scholarship and still have his future.
“All right, I’ll do it.”
The whole time this happened Miss Missy stewed off to the side. WHAT THE FUCK WAS HAPPENING???? Had Terry just given up 2.5 million because of this faggot son? She didn’t care that the boy had been taken advantage of. All she knew was that he’d cost her millions. She screamed and ran up and slapped Tommy in the face while Watson held the kid by his hair.
“Hey there, Missy. Don’t worry, you’re going to have more chances to do that in the ring.”
Watson let Tommy fall to the floor and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’ve written out exactly what I want to see in this squash match tonight, Terry.” Terry looked at the paper in horror. Every devastating move was listed. Watson wanted him to harm, slap, kick, punch, lift, throw, slam and wedgie his own son in front of millions. It was all drawn out there. He had a photographic memory so he memorized everything instantly and then gave Watson the paper back without a word. “And Terry, I want you to ENJOY this. You better be the same mean heel I’ve paid for 20 years or your boy’s going to be ass-fucked in prison for the rest of his fucking life. And when he’s on his knees sucking cock in the yard, calling everyone daddy, he’ll have his own daddy to thank for it. So give the fans a show.”
Watson yanked Tommy back up by the hair and walked him over to an open locker. “Time to get dressed, boy.”
Terry watched as Watson made his son strip, first his shirt, then his pants, then his boxers. Finally he stood totally nude in front of all of them, Watson, Terry, Ortiz and Miss Missy, who stared at the 18-year-old’s shriveled one-inch cock and laughed. Ortiz had already shaven it before. Jesus, he definitely didn’t get that from his father, Missy thought. Terry looked away and started putting on his own gear. “Terry, I want you to watch Tommy get into his trunks. You know how much every wrestler loves his first pair.”
With that Watson reached into a black bag hanging in Tommy’s locker and pulled out a silky pair of pink trunks, a perfect jobber ensemble, along with white boots and white kneepads. Tommy moaned, one of the first sounds he’d made in awhile. “No, no, no, no,” he said while trying to cover up his little cock. “Missy, why don’t you help Tommy into his gear?”
Watson held the trunks out for Missy who grabbed them while sneering at Tommy. “Stupid faggot.”
“Missy!” Terry yelled, but she cut him off. “What? Do you realize what he’s cost us? Millions!”
Terry was going to say it wasn’t his fault but nothing he said would help. He watched as Missy detoured and instead went around Tommy and started strangling him with the humiliating pink garment. “You FUCKER!” she screamed as she twisted it around his neck. Finally she let go, came around the front and held the trunks open and told Tommy to lift his leg and then his other. Finally she slowly and deliberately pulled them up Terry’s 6-foot son’s strong legs. As they went over his cock she muttered, “There ya go, little girl, like your new panties? Do they feel all good and your clit?” She snapped them into place and then told him to turn around before situating the trunks on his ass. With a final slap on his right cheek she stalked away, pouting, miserable, determined to hurt this pansy and hurt him bad. Tommy put on his kneepads and the boots, but only after struggling with the laces on the footwear. His dad came over to help and as Terry laced up the boots, a few tears rolled down Tommy’s cheek and fell onto his old man’s shoulders. Through sniffles, he managed, “Thanks, dad. I’m sorry, dad.”
“Watson,” Terry said. “He doesn’t have any experience. He could be hurt.”
Watson roared. “I expect him to be hurt! That’s your job, Terry! But don’t worry. This is pure squash. He just has to figure things out as he goes but you’re going to be doing the majority of the work, lifting him, throwing him. I know he’s a great athlete, he’ll pick up the rest. And I don’t really give a fuck if he takes some tough bumps.”
Twenty minutes later, Tommy found himself standing in the ring. He was still in shock, a shock that had lasted several days now. From that first moment when a cop showed up at his door and hauled him away in front of his terrified mother, to the interview at the police station when the cop showed him his laptop and told them what they’d found, to the offer to get out of trouble if he participated in a single wrestling match. Just one. Against his father, Terrible Terry Jensen. Tommy was in a daze from that first moment to when he finally was marched into the locker room by that bastard Ortiz and thrown to Watson’s feet. Once he’d heard everything, he remained terrified. But somewhat hopeful. There was a way out of this. One match. Ten minutes. He could survive that and then he’d have his life back. Watson promised. It sucked for his dad that he wouldn’t be going to the WWF and making millions, but he’d still be The Man in the WCW. Tommy didn’t want to think too much about people back home watching wrestling that night. He had to put that out of his mind. He had no idea what he’d say to them. It was just a joke? A one-time thing? But at least he wouldn’t be in prison. So there he stood in the ring in the small WCW studio, outfitted in his ridiculous pink trunks and those white boots. he moved around the ring a bit, feeling the trunks creeping ever so slightly up his ass. He self-consciously reached back and adjusted the trunks on his ass and he heard a woman in the crowd yell from the first row, “Nice wedgie, sissy!” He quickly looked around and saw the middle-age woman and her three friends laughing. “You in for an ass kicking, honey,” she added after she had gotten the jobber’s attention.
But was he? Tommy knew about his father’s viciousness in the ring but the old man would take it easy on him, he was sure of that. He had no idea what was on the paper Watson had shown his dad but how bad could it be? Tommy had gotten some tips over the years on some of his visits with his dad, about learning how to fall, how to take a slam, things like that. Maybe everything would be fine.
His concentration was broken by the ring announcer. “And his opponent, weighing 275 pounds, Terrible Terry Jensen.” Tommy saw Terry emerge from behind the curtain, with that beautiful bitch Miss Missy leading the way. Her eyes were already set on him and Tommy found himself looking away. She was so beautiful, and Tommy had jerked off to her dad’s girlfriend and valet many times over the years, imagining her in a tiny pair of panties. And now…here he was, decked out in the, what had she called them, oh yeah, panties, that she had put him into. Tommy closed his eyes out of embarrassment and wished he’d be back home when he opened them.
Instead he saw his father climbing into the ring when he looked again, wearing his traditional gear of black trunks and boots. A sneer on his face. Terry was obviously already in full heel mode, no matter who was in front of him.
On TV, viewers heard Tony Schiavone say, “And here is Terrible Terry. Just look at him. The anger emanating from this monster. He lost his title belt one week ago and he wants to destroy anyone who stands in his way.”
Jim Ross added, “You have to feel bad for this youngster, Tommy Hanson. A good-looking youngster getting his start in pro wrestling but this kid has an unenviable task tonight.”
Terry prepped himself in the corner for a few seconds, staring across the ring at his son. His flesh and blood. His pride and joy. God damn it, fucking Watson! He was making him do this. He wished right there he could give his son a hug and comfort him and tell him everything was going to be fine, but he knew Watson was a man of his word. He would absolutely turn Tommy over to the authorities. No, Terry had no choice. To save his son….he had to destroy him.
The bell rung and Terry marched over to Tommy, Watson’s written directions tattooed in his mind. Tommy didn’t know what to do, how to react and like any civilian in the ring for the first time against a madman, found himself backing into the corner as the heel approached him. “Dad,” he whispered, seconds before Terry’s right foot came crashing up into his stomach, knocking all of the air out of the kid and bending him over at the waist.
Terry pulled Tommy up by the hair and locked him into the corner, draping both his arms behind him and in the ropes. With his prey properly situated, the former heavyweight champ delivered three hard slaps to the kid’s bare chest, each one producing a distinct red mark. The crowd heard the slaps and could tell they were real and an “oooh” broke out amongst them. “Damn,” Terry heard one man say in the front row. “This kid’s in for a whoopin’.”
Backstage Watson watched and grinned. That was the way he’d drawn up this match to start and it was good to see Terry following orders. He liked Terry, he did. But he wasn’t about to lose his number one drawing card. He was also proud of himself. He’d thought up a lot of sick shit over the years involving jobber humiliations — many of them involving Kevin Sullivan, Buzz Sawyer and Arn Anderson — but this was maybe topping them all: Forcing a father to humiliate and punish his own gorgeous son. God damn. Watson rubbed himself through his jeans and knew this would be a match that would go in his videotaped Hall of fame.
In the ring. Terry brought Tommy into the middle of the ring and reached down to his crotch and easily lifted his son for a slam. Per Watson’s instructions, he gripped the waistband of the boy’s trunks and pulled down a bit, revealing a hint of crack to the audience, in person and on TV. He held him like that for 10 seconds, giving Tommy the chance he’d given so many other jobbers: the opportunity to wonder just what in the hell was going to happen with him. Finally Terry slammed Tommy into the middle of the canvas and he heard his son groan and clutch the small of his back, just like so many sissies before him. Before the kid could settled in in his new home on the center of the canvas, Terry delivered five stomps with his size 14 boots. One to his right arm, another to his lower right left, then his lower left leg, then his left arm, and then finally right in the middle of his fucking forehead. Ronnie Garvin had given him some tips a few years earlier about stomping and how to really make it hurt and he made sure every pound of his 275 pounds went into the kicks. The kicks seemed to subdue Tommy, who was now flailing a bit in the middle of the ring.
But there was no rest for the pathetic.
Quickly Terry against scooped his boy up by the hair and this time whipped him into the ropes. Tommy bounced off of them, not knowing what to expect, already caught up in the confusion and chaos that every jobber who wrestled Terrible Terry experienced. Terry drilled him with a right knee in the stomach, nearly in the same spot where the boot had connected a moment earlier. Tommy somersaulted over and found himself gasping for breath. It reminded him of being hit on the football field once, back when he was the star QB. That night he came back into the game and rallied his team for a victory. The entire school, the whole town, worshipped him. He fucked his girlfriend that night and was king of the world. Now he was nothing but a pathetic jobber, dressed in tiny pink trunks, rolling around on the mat, grasping his stomach like a pregnant woman, just wishing it would all end.
Terry looked around at the crowd and pointed down at his son’s writhing form. “See what happens to people who cross me? Steamboat, I’m coming for you!”
On TV, Ross intoned, “Terrible Terry obviously taking his frustration out on this youngster. Well, sir, I can tell you this: Ricky Steamboat is a bit tougher competition.”
Terry collected his prey by lifting him up by the back of his pink trunks and his hair. He yanked him up with a wedgie and then held him in the center of the ring, giving the audience that could see Tommy’s rear a great look at his now-thonged ass. The crowd popped, loudly, as Terry stood with him. Tommy yelped and tried haplessly reaching back to his trunks but it was no use. Finally Terry sprinted to the ropes and threw Tommy OVER the top rope and he crashed onto the hard concrete below. Tommy had no experience with landing, no idea how to fall from the ring, and landed awkwardly, hurting his head and shoulder and rolling around, the tears coming out as the cameras zoomed in on his wedgied ass. Terry stayed in the ring while Miss Missy walked toward her lover’s pansy of a son. Jesus Fucking Christ, she thought to herself. 2.5 Million dollars! She still couldn’t believe it. As Tommy rolled onto his back and adjusted the trunks out of his ass, Miss Missy walked up to him and delivered a kick right to his nuts. “AAAAAGH,” Tommy screamed as Schiavone said, “There is no place in this business for these kind of tactics. These two are a disgrace and don’t deserve to hold those belts now rightfully belonging to Ricky Steamboat.”
Missy sat on Tommy’s chest and grasped his chin in her right hand. She leaned down until their faces were almost touching, until they were almost kissing and hissed, “You ruined our fucking life you little sissy, and now you’re going to learn what it means to really hurt.” With that she slapped him with her right hand, and then again, this time with a backhand. Six times she delivered the blows until some blood appeared on the jobber’s lips. Again grasping Tommy by the chin, she spit right down onto his mouth and finally climbed off the cowering boy.
Terry stood on the apron, waiting for his son to finally get to his feet. When he did, Terry leaped forward with his hands brought together and brought a double fist onto the back of his son’s neck, again sending him sprawling to his stomach. Terry walked over to the announcers’ area and the cameras and again yelled, “Steamboat, I’m coming for you.” The whole script was written by Watson but Terry knew how to deliver his lines. He was a madman in the ring and that’s what Watson demanded and he was going to get it.
Like he had in the ring, Terry again reached into the waistband of his son’s skimpy spandex trunks and pulled up, putting the pink material right back up his tight ass. Where it belonged, really. He brought his victim over to the announcer’s area and again reached between his legs and scooped him up for a slam. Only this time he brought him down on the podium, destroying it as the announcers told the audience they couldn’t believe the physical damage Terrible Terry was doing to the TBS set. “This man has obviously been put over the edge because of the loss to Ricky Steamboat,” Schiavone droned. Terry picked up a spare piece of plywood and brought it down with crushing authority onto his son’s neck. “Good God,” Ross screamed. “He’s trying to decapitate this kid.”
On the concrete Tommy again felt like he was dying, again the breath was gone and he gasped, the lack of air teaming up with the physical pain of having a piece of wood jammed onto his throat. Terry could see the markings on his son’s neck but he had to play it up for the cameras. His son’s life depended on him being as vicious as he could possibly be. Terry grabbed the boy by his wrists and dragged him across the concrete toward the ring, like a cop pulling a driver away from a burning vehicle. Then he left him for a few seconds and wandered around. He sneered some at the crowd, looked at the camera. Brushed his hair back. On the air Ross speculated, “Look at Terrible Terry, just savoring this moment. This beaten youngster at his feet. This man lost his belt and now he’s lost his damn mind.”
But actually Terry was thinking about how much he loved his son. And perhaps he should stop. He couldn’t hurt his boy anymore, could he? That list Watson had drawn up of what he wanted him to do in this match. The punishment had only started. His kid would never be the same. The physical scars might last, but the mental ones would for sure. But that threat of prison…it hung over everything. He couldn’t let his son down. That’s what he actually thought as he wandered around his son’s carcass, which twitched and fidgeted on the concrete. Backstage Watson watched and wondered if Terry was actually going to quit. If he did, he had the police on speed dial and his fucking faggot son would be in custody within the hour, headed to the Big House.
Finally Terry snapped back to reality and the task at hand: Destroying his son.
He walked over to the studio audience and motioned for a young man in front to stand up. He then reached toward his belt buckle and started pulling it off and yelled, “Give me the god damn belt.” The man, terrified of what this crazed maniac might do, pulled it out of the loops and handed the leather weapon over to the heel. Folding it over once, Terry walked over to his son, still lying on his back on the concrete near the apron. He brought the belt down directly on his stomach. WHAP! the sound echoed throughout the studio and on TV as Terry whipped his son with the belt three times in the front, twice in the stomach and once on the thighs. Tears rolled out of Tommy as he turned onto his stomach and tried crawling away from the punishment, crawling on all fours, his wedgied ass, the pink trunks lodged up his butt, on ludicrous display. But he had too many other things to worry about right now, although the crowd popped big-time when they saw the ass on display. The crawling was pathetic and impotent. Terry immediately stopped it with four whaps on his son’s back. The welts appeared immediately, bright red on the jobber’s pure white back. “He is treating this kid like a dog, like a damn dog!” Schiavone yelled, apparently oblivious to the fact that was the entire point. With his son now on his stomach, Terry switched the position of the belt and again brought it down. This time with the buckle hitting the flesh. “Jesus Christ,” he heard the man whose belt he’d taken say in the front row. “Look at that shit.” His son was now bleeding from the back with each strike of the buckle. Over and over, treating him like a prisoner of war. “AAAHHHHH!” Tommy’s screams could be heard throughout the studio but they didn’t matter.
With each blow Terry himself felt like bawling and finally he flung the belt at his son and it rested on his back. He again walked around the ring, contemplating his actions, wondering what in the hell was happening. He had to hold back the tears himself. By the time Terry gathered himself this time, he saw Miss Missy had picked up the belt and was kneeling by his son’s side. Good god, he thought, what is this woman going to do now? She wrapped up the belt tightly and started spanking his son’s exposed cheeks. Once, twice, three times. Five times on the right cheek and then five more on the left. The welts on his 18-year-old ass now matched the ones on his back. With each one Missy unleashed a primeval scream. 2.5 million dollars!!! She still couldn’t believe it and if she could beat this sissy until he was nothing but a puddle of mush in a pair of pink pansy tights, she would have done it.
Terry stopped her, grabbed the belt from Missy and flung it aside. She stood up and delivered a kick to Tommy’s head for good measure before Terry lifted his boy up by the seat of his trunks and flung him under the bottom rope. Inside the ring, with his back screaming in pain, Tommy readjusted his trunks daintily on his ass and fixed the wedgie. Not that it would matter for long.
Rolling himself back under the ropes, Terry stood up and towered over Tommy, who was now flat on his back, his chest heaving up and down. He stared up at his dad and prayed that he would show some mercy. The pain and humiliation was too much inside the ring. Send me to prison, do whatever, he just wanted to be out of his pink prison panties and out of this ring and back in private somewhere, anywhere.
Snatching Tommy up by the hair, Terry threw him into the ropes. The kid, still not sure how to get around a ring, managed to bounce off of them but couldn’t stop himself from moving back toward the middle of the ring, where his dad, per Watson’s instructions, greeted him with a right arm clothesline that connected right on his neck. Tommy nearly somersaulted over as he found himself back on the mat, unable to breathe, rolling around in the center of the ring. “He could have taken this kid’s head off with that blow,” Ross informed the audience.
Remembering Watson’s instructions and how he now had to punish his son’s back a bit more, Terry lifted Tommy up and dropped him back-first onto his knee. Instead of releasing the jobber back to the mat, Terry bent him in two over his right knee. His boy’s screams again rang out in the tiny arena as Terry pushed down on his son’s head and his thigh to pull him back some more, making it look like he might just break him in half. With Tommy’s stomach fully exposed and defenseless, Terry brought down three straight elbows onto his tummy. He could feel and see his son gasping for hair. For Tommy, it felt like being back on the football field, back when he was a big shot, a stud, and when he’d land on the football and get the wind knocked out of him. It felt like he’d die in those few seconds, and this felt the same way, with the added agony that his back was being subjected to torture as well. Finally Terry pushed his son off his knee and allowed the pussy to roll away a bit, moaning and rubbing his lower back while sucking in deep gulps of air.
Terry again easily scooped up Tommy by reaching under his crotch but instead of slamming him he sprinted toward the turnbuckle and slammed him into the corner, before draping the pathetic pansy upside down, hooking his legs under the rope, leaving him completely open to Terry’s cruelty. First he softened him up a bit more by choking Tommy with his giant boot, placing the sole right on the kid’s neck. How many times had he done this to some pathetic jobber? Thousands. And now he suddenly felt a rage at his boy for putting him in this position. It was Watson’s fault but it was also his weak son’s fault for finding himself like this. With a bit of anger Terry put even more pressure on the kid’s neck until finally the hapless ref, fearing Terry might kill this jobber, told him he was going to DQ him if he didn’t let up. Snapping out of it, Terry let up and marched over to the opposite corner before sprinting forward and delivering a knee right to young Tommy’s solar plexus.
Terry could hear his son sobbing, real sobs with real ters, as he released his foot from the turnbuckle and the kid flopped back to the mat. “This is pure destruction,” Ross told the audience, and it wasn’t over yet. Terry picked Tommy up and held him by the hair and the rear of the trunks, again yanking the pink material up the kid’s ass and bringing Tommy to his tippy toes in his white jobber boots. As the trunks invaded his ass, Tommy gave an involuntary yelp as his old man frogmarched him over to the ropes on Missy’s side.
The TV cameras picked up Terry’s words as he spoke to his stunning valet, whose anger had not gone down at all. “Missy, tell this boy how he screwed up getting in this ring.” Missy was only too happy to oblige. Even with the ref telling her to climb down, she stood up on the apron, inches from the teenage jobber’s face. “You stupid fairy!” she screamed. “You don’t deserve to be in this ring with a real man. You are scum. You’re pathetic!” With that she slapped Tommy’s face with her right hand and then backhanded him for good measure. Slap and backhand. Slap and backhand. Again and again she kept slapping the boy while his dad held his wedgied ass up for him and gripped his hair. It was a repeat of her bitch-slapping performance from out on the concrete earlier but Missy could have kept at it for an hour. Tommy tasted blood in his mouth from the evil woman’s blows. Eventually Terry pulled Tommy away and easily scooped him up for an atomic drop, dropping his son’s ass right onto his knee. The kid squirmed on the mat with his wedgied ass on full display. The crowd whooped at the exposed ass cheeks. Who doesn’t like looking at hot teenage boy’s ass?
Fortunately for Tommy his suffering was almost over, at least in this match. But it would involved a few final acts of degradation and humiliation. A few years earlier, he’d been watching one of his father’s matches with his girlfriend at the time, Megan. Megan didn’t know Terry was his dad and Tommy didn’t reveal it but she was up for watching some WCW action. That night they both laughed and snickered and verbally mocked a poor guy named Trent Knight, who was wearing baby blue trunks. Megan said, “Why would he wear panties like that?” and Tommy said, “Probably a faggot.” He loved it as his dad scooped Trent up and military pressed him, holding those silky trunks well above Knight’s ass and giving him a wedgie in front of the crowd and TV audience. Megan burst out laughing and after his dad dropped Trent into a backbreaker and pinned him she started kissing Tommy and they made out. Apparently seeing the jobber dominated made her hot.
Now…Tommy felt himself being lifted up as his dad held him for a few seconds. Was he going to slam him? Put him over his knee again? Hang him in the turnbuckle again? No. Terry pressed him above his head, into that very same military press Trent Knight suffered. “Aaaagh,” Tommy yelled as he finally came to rest above his dad’s head, one hand on Tommy’s throat, the other lifting his pink trunks above his ass, giving the crowd another look at the kid’s crack and wedgied cheeks. Ringside Missy couldn’t help but smile and whoop. She always loved when her man inflicted jobber pussies with maximum exposure and punishment and to have his idiot son suffer the fate was exquisite. It wouldn’t make up for the loss of the WWE contract, but it was something.
“Terrible Terry just manhandling this young kid,” Ross told the audience. “Like a sack of potatoes.” Up and down Terry pressed his son until finally he dropped him down for a devastating backbreaker. He covered the boy for a count of one….two….and……no, no, no. Not three. He remembered Watson’s instructions. He pulled the kid up by the hair and stared directly into the camera. “Steamboat. I’m comin’ boy. I’m coming for you.”
“Come on, ref, stop this madness,” Ross pleaded. “He’s teaching this kid a brutal lesson only because he’s mad at Ricky Steamboat. Somebody do something.”
Terry stood his boy up one more time, hooked his arm over his neck, slapped his hands on the pink trunks and scooped him up for a vertical suplex. But instead of falling backward he planted Tommy onto the top turnbuckle and softened him up with a punch to the chin. Tommy rocked so far backward Terry thought the kid might topple completely over and onto the concrete. Instead he came forward a bit while Terry climbed up onto the ropes, looked to the crowd with a sneer and again gripped his son’s panties. With all his strength he lifted Tommy’s carcass off the turnbuckle and fell backward in a devastating superplex, a move that can finish off any man, especially a teenage jobber. He flopped over and this time allowed the ref to finish the three count.
Missy climbed into the ring and Terry beckoned her forward, eager to fulfill the final part of Watson’s wish list. With both of them standing over his son, he leaned over and planted a kiss on Missy’s delicious mouth. Tommy, through fluttered eyelids, looked up to see his dad kissing Missy. His head hurt. His back was in agony. He could barely breathe. But he had somehow survived. He wouldn’t be going to prison.
Terry walked back to the locker room and was greeted by a sarcastic clap from Watson. “bravo, big man. Bravo. That’s why you’re the king of killing jobbers.”
“I did what you wanted. Now let the boy go.”
Terry heard a moan and turned around to see the ref and Tommy Angel helping his son back into the locker room. He watched as Tommy helped his fellow jobber and used his index finger to pull the pink trunks out of the kid’s ass. Terry could only shake his head at the pathetic scene.
“I have good news and bad news,” Watson said. “The good news is I am giving you a bit of a raise. No, I’m not going to give you 2.5 million. I can’t compete with Vince’s money. But I’m doubling your salary to $300,000.”
“What’s the bad news,” Terry said.
“Well, see. Vince wasn’t too happy that I kept his prize recruit from leaving so I needed to give him a little something. Throw him a bone. He’s been looking for some new jobber blood so I’ve offered up Tommy here. Five-year contract. To be a beat up, humiliated, dominated jobber. He’ll use his real name. Everyone back at his school, all his friends, his mom, his cousin, are going to see him week in and week out getting his ass kicked in little jobber trunks. He will be emasculated, slapped, dominated, used, and, let’s face facts since we both know what happens to jobbers. He’s probably going to be fucked and suck cock. You know it, I know it.”
Terry stared at Watson and then looked back at his flesh and blood, his pride and joy, now sprawled out on a bench in tiny pink trunks, his head shaking slowly side to side, a light moan coming out of his mouth. He had no choice. “Deal,” he told Watson. He’d continue being the cruel heel he’d always been. But nothing would ever be the same now that his own son was nothing but a pathetic jobber.