New story: #MeToo Jobber

A story for our times. This one I just ripped off in a short while after seeing Wrestling Arsenal mention #metoo in regards to Arn Anderson manhandling a jobber. So it got my juices flowing.

#MeToo JOBBER
June, 1987, the WWF headquarters. Vince McMahon’s office.

“What in the ever living fuck is this? This is real?” Vince McMahon asked his HR manager Laura Roberts again if the memo in his hand told the truth about what happened over the past week in Las Vegas.

“Afraid so, sir. Confirmed by multiple people, multiple witnesses.”

“I don’t get it. This Jenkins kid gets an expense account and a free hotel room and turns into fucking Caligula?”

McMahon kept staring at the memo, which listed the misdeeds of his assistant head of Marketing, 29-year-old Michael Jenkins. The past week Jenkins and six of his subordinates had been in Las Vegas for a conference. Apparently, during the five-day jaunt, Jenkins had engaged in every form of sexual harassment and possible assault known to man. McMahon shook his head in disgust as he went line by line over the damning report.

“Jenkins saw the underwear of Katie Jones sticking above her waistband as she sat in front of him at a seminar and leaned into her ear and said, ‘Black panties? What is this, a funeral? Girls should be wearing pink.'”

“Jenkins saw Jones wearing panties under white pants and told her, ‘Granny panties, Jones? It should be a thong day, right?”

“During the final night of the event, a dance was held in the large ballroom. Jenkins went up to Amanda Highsmith and as they danced, he shoved his fingers up her rectum, through her skirt. She tried moving away but he just held her in place with his fingers there until the song ended.”

“In the hotel pool one day, employee Mark Cupp, an openly gay employee, wore a swimming brief — a Speedo — to the pool and Jenkins was heard telling other employees ‘Even though he’s a fag, I still didn’t think Mark would be caught prancing around in something like that. Hey, maybe he’ll find a cock to suck.'”

“At a seminar, Jenkins asked Mary Johnson ‘why she always acted like she had a large stick up her ass? Was it because she hadn’t had anyone up her ass in awhile?'”

“At the pool, Jenkins told Katie that he appreciated she shaved her bikini area because he didn’t want to see her pubes. ‘Keep it clean, Kates,’ he said.”

“Later at the pool, Jenkins went up to Amanda, who was tanning and lying on her stomach, and pulled up on her bikini bottom, giving her a wedgie while everyone around laughed and clapped. A humiliated Amanda stormed back to her room.”

“At a rodeo event attended by all members of the team, Jenkins told Katie he’d love to see her hogtied like one of the calves. All trussed up, no where to go, defenseless. She told him to shut up but was scared.”

“In his hotel room with Susan Jensen, both Jenkins and Jensen were intoxicated. Jensen said Jenkins had her get on her knees and held her head near his penis. Even though he was wearing jeans, Jensen was terrified and tried moving away but Jenkins held her there and laughed. Her cheek and lips were brought into contact with his visible erection, through his jeans. Fortunately he was too drunk to continue and pulled her up by the hair and told her to get out.”

“During a flag football game at a picnic in a park — flag football? — Jenkins broke the rules and tackled Mark, who lost his breath and started gasping for air while Michael leaned over and said, ‘this is a man’s game, boy.'”

McMahon finally went silent and his HR head waited. “What are you going to do, sir?”

After a few seconds of silence, McMahon sighed and said, “well, first thing. All six of his subordinates who were at this thing are going to get $100,000 and sign ironclad nondisclosure agreements.”

“And you’ll get rid of Jenkins, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah,” McMahon said. “He’s out of there. Immediately. But I might have another….job for him.” McMahon smiled and Laura had a sense of what he meant but she got up to leave. “Laura, please send young Mr. Jenkins to my office. And get started on this payouts.”

A few moments later, Jenkins found himself sitting in McMahon’s gigantic office. He’d only been in it once, the day he got the promotion. He wondered if he was going to get another one. Maybe head of Marketing, get rid of his idiot boss, that bitch Audra Lootsen. McMahon shut the door after letting Jenkins in and then slowly strolled behind his desk. He was still standing while he smirked at his employee. “So, Michael. How was Vegas?”

“Good, sir,” Jenkins replied, and McMahon believed the stupid son of a bitch actually meant it. He had no clue that he’d gone outside the norms of behavior. Which was going to make his punishment even tastier.

“That’s not what I heard, son.” For the first time Jenkins got a rumbling in his stomach and he wondered if those dumb whores in his department and that faggot had ratted him out. Couldn’t they take some harmless joking? What’d he done wrong? Compared to some of the shit he’d seen in the office?

“Mr. McMahon, I don’t know what my people told you but you can’t believe…”

“Enough, Jenkins. They told me everything. And I believe it. And you’re done. You’re out of marketing.” As Jenkins stood up to protest Vince growled, “Sit down, and shut up.” Jenkins obeyed, and McMahon saw that, yeah, he might have a good little jobber boy here after all. Cocky, but obedient when an alpha male shows him the ropes and who’s really in charge.

“So, Jenkins, here’s the deal. I’m firing you from marketing. But I’m gonna let you keep a job with the company. You’re going to be one of our jobbers.”

Jenkins’ heart sunk. Oh my god, he thought. A jobber. He’d heard the phrase bandied around the office. Jobbers were jokes. They were sent out to the ring in tiny trunks day after day, night after night, to be beat up and humiliated. They wore little white trunks or pink ones or purple ones and got degraded, slapped, lifted and thrown. The men and women in the office all laughed about them. He knew some of their names because he’d mocked them before too: Emory, Angel, Tyler, Knight, Cruz, Powers. What did vince mean that he was now going to be one of those.

“No fucking way. I’ll just quit.”

“No, no you won’t. Because if you quit, the Stamford police department will arrest you for sexual assault and send you back to Vegas to face charges there. You must know how close I am with law enforcement throughout the country, the boys in blue who protect our wrestlers at every event. You’ll be convicted and spend the next 15-25 years in prison for that little finger job you did to Amanda or how you held Susan’s face to your cock. How you like that? 20 years in pound me in the ass prison? Or, you can be a jobber. Pretty simple choice. One you’re in prison, the other you get to make 200 bucks a week.”

200 a week. Jenkins was making 45 grand a year now.

“Oh, and no insurance,” Vince said. “You get hurt in there, you pay for the doctor. Tomorrow night, you’ll start. In New Haven. Pat Patterson is going to get you all set up as a good jobber. Be in the locker room at 5.”

“But I don’t have any experience.”

“Experience? You were a high school wrestler. You’re athletic. I heard about you on the flag football field. I’m sure you’ll be a natural. Besides, your opponent is going to do most of the work. And he’s going to take gooooood care of you, boy. Bob Orton.”

Jenkins shook his head. He’d seen Orton. In matches in person and on TV and one time as he wandered through WWF headquarters. He was intimidating in person outside the ring. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like being in it with him. But he’d find out soon enough.

********
The next day, in the New Haven Coliseum locker room, where the WWF was taping in front of  a live audience for that week’s WWF Superstars, Pat Patterson beamed. And rubbed his cock through his work pants. He’d primped and primed many a young jobber fag, but this was one he was really enjoying. His boss Vince had filled him in on the sins of Jenkins. Part of him admired the kid. After all, Patterson wasn’t above taking advantage of some underlings now and then, but you had to work your way up to that. And beside, getting a fly caught in his and Vince’s jobber web never got old. And now, in front of him stood his latest submissive creation.

At 6-foot, the former Marketing exec had been stripped of his suit and tie and now stood in nothing but bright pink satiny wrestling trunks. Jenkins’ small cock jutted out front of the pink material and each time he tried putting his hands in front to cover up, Patterson barked at him to move them. The other jobbers, all of them outfitted in their gear, stood around and laughed at the newest member of their clan. The white boots and white kneepads completed the jobber look. His naturally hairless chest came in perfectly. He was also shaved in his groin now. Vince had made a point of making sure Pat took care of all his pubic and ass hair. He’d laid the jobber boy down on the training table and tied him down with some ropes and duct tape he always kept handy, stuffing an old jock into his mouth to limit the whimpering before lathering up and shaving smooth around his balls, groin, cock and ass. The tears had started coming down the new jobber’s pretty face as the last of his pubes went away and that’s about the time Pattterson thought he might cum in his pants spontaneously. God it was hot to see a jobber cry. Once the jobber was all baby smooth, Patterson pulled the lube and black butt plug out of his bag. McMahon had told Patterson and Orton that he wanted this jobber Jenkins to suffer the equivalent of everything he’d put the women and the gay boy through on the Vegas trip from hell. This was item one:

“At a seminar, Jenkins asked Mary Johnson ‘why she always acted like she had a large stick up her ass? Was it because she hadn’t had anyone up her ass in awhile?'”

“So you wondered if Mary had anything up her ass, huh?” Patterson asked the paralyzed boy. Jenkins’ eyes went large as he saw the potential intruder. He shook his head and tried yelling through the soiled jock lodged in his pretty boy mouth. He finally shut his eyes as he felt Patterson lubing him up and slowly working the plug into place. “There, there,” Patterson urged, almost gently, to his prisoner. “Just open your pussy up like a good boy. It’ll take it a lot easier.” Jenkins moaned as the plug found its spot in his rectum and once it’d been secured, after a bit of resistance before it finally welcomed it, Patterson tapped the base a few times, almost lovingly, making sure it was securely ensconced inside the faggot’s ass. “We’ll start you small and work your way up and then you’ll take the real thing,” Patterson said. Jenkins felt full and started squirming as he laid on the table. Patterson had released him from his bonds, pulled the jock out and then slowly brought the pink trunks up his legs and secured them at his waist. Pat adjusted them on his rear, giving them little yanks and tugs here and there before declaring the jobber good to go.

Now as he stared at Michael standing in front of him, Patterson glowed with almost perverted fatherly pride. He’d sent hundreds of jobbers to their fate but it was always a little extra special when it was against their will. “You’re up, boy,” he said and grabbed Michael by the wrist and led him to the locker room door. Jenkins followed wordlessly, like a dumb sheep being led to slaughter. He felt the plug with every movement and he felt his cock rubbing against the material of his new gear. Oh my god, he thought as he stood at the entryway to the ring. This can’t be happening. A capacity crowd of 10,000 was out there. He saw the cameras that would record and air his humiliation to millions. He knew that around water coolers people would talk about that weekends’ Superstars and ask if they’d seen Cowboy Bob destroy that one kid. His heart beat so fast he couldn’t take it and then Patterson shoved him out and he made his way down the aisle toward the ring, toward his destiny.

Michael heard the catcalls and wolf whistles immediately as he walked toward the ring. He tried to ignore but it was hard not to hear the comments. “Nice trunks, boy.” “Did your mommy pick out your panties,” one teenage girl yelled. “In for an ass kicking,” some fat slob yelled. When he got near the ring he couldn’t believe what he saw: All six of his subordinates in the front row, the cunts and fag who had obviously turned him into McMahon and turned his life into a living hell. Katie, Amanda, Mark, Susan, Mary and the rest all right there, beaming as they saw their tormentor walk past, outfitted in his skimpy pink trunks and fairy white boots.

“Jenkins saw the underwear of Katie Jones sticking above her waistband as she sat in front of him at a seminar and leaned into her ear and said, ‘Black panties? What is this, a funeral? Girls should be wearing pink.'”

Katie spoke first as he walked past. “Pink panties, Michael? Nice! You really do know what girls should be wearing.” A part of him wanted to slap the grin off the cunt’s face but he kept walking and finally climbed into the ring. As he bounced up and down his boots, he would reach around and adjust the trunks that were now refusing to stay in place and rode up his ass. Patterson had followed McMahon’s orders and given him a bit of a high-waisted pair, which ensured a bit more rideup in the rear with the simplest of jobber movements.

Michael hadn’t even registered the ring announcer saying his name when he heard, “And his opponent. Weighing 255 pounds, Cowboy Bob Orton.” Michael gazed to the walkway and saw the arrogant Orton striding slowly to the ring, toting a long rope and wearing his cowboy hat. Michael’s breath quickened and he felt himself getting dizzy. Just breathe, he thought. Make it through these five minutes and then go home and maybe Vince will change his mind about making this a permanent thing. Orton smirked as he got closer to the ring and his gaze never left his prey. When McMahon showed him the memo and described what this piece of shit in front of him had done, he saw red. He loathed people who took advantage of lesser folks. Unless it was in the wrestling ring, of course. That’s what the job of  heel called for. But outside it Cowboy Bob considered himself an old-school gentleman. And he couldn’t wait to show this pansy what real life was like in the ring.

After Orton took off his hat and put his rope away, he met up with the jobber in the center of the ring. Jenkins had no idea what he was doing, going only on instinct and what he’d seen on television before. He locked up with Orton and felt helpless as the surprisingly strong man slowly walked him toward the ropes. The referee instructed Orton to break the hold and he, surprisingly, did. Jenkins felt weary but as Orton stood in the center of the ring, Jenkins again slowly approached him, watching out for some dastardly move. Again the two locked up and Orton slowly walked him to the ropes on the other side. Jenkins expected Orton to again let him go and they’d maybe do this again but this time Orton delivered a devastating open-handed slap right to Michael’s chest. Uummmph. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something so painful. Is this really what these wrestlers felt? Wasn’t the whole thing fake?

Before he could recover, Orton brought his knee directly up into his gut and Michael fell to his knees, gasping for air. Orton easily pulled him up by his blond locks and flung the jobber into the ropes. Michael bounced off them and almost without a choice bounded back toward the center of the ring. His greeting? A high back body drop where Orton put a little extra oomph into flinging the jobber into the air and over his head. A true pro wrestler knows how to land, how to take any blow. A novice like Michael had no clue. His body hit with a sickening thud and he thought he shattered his tailbone. His cry went up and for the first time his underlings in the front row let out a huge scream of support. They were finally seeing their tormentor suffer and nothing could be more delicious. “He put that youngster 15 feet into the air,” McMahon, now in his role as play by play man, told the TV audience. Orton now remembered another line from the memo:

“During the final night of the event, a dance was held in the large ballroom. Jenkins went up to Amanda Highsmith and as they danced, he shoved his fingers up her rectum, through her skirt. She tried moving away but he just held her in place with his fingers there until the song ended.”

The cruel heel reached his hand under Michael’s crotch and effortlessly lifted him like a sack of potatoes. He held him in position for a backbreaker and in full views of the cameras and Michael’s former employees, he rested his right hand on the jobber’s pink trunks and ass. He walked around the ring with him for a few seconds, giving the jobber time to think about his humiliating predicament, being carried around like a child by a superior man, all while wearing a small pair of pink trunks. Now he dropped Michael onto his knee and Michael’s left hip erupted in pain as Orton held him there. As he picked him up, he dug his fingers into the jobber’s ass crack, nearly penetrating his jobber pussy. He could almost feel the plug Patterson had lodged up there earlier. In the front row, Amanda couldn’t help herself and rubbed herself a bit as she watched the motherfucker who had violated her receive his punishment. She watched and laughed as Michael’s legs kicked helplessly as he dangled in Orton’s manly arms. He’d dated girls before who’d joked about putting fingers in his ass but he never allowed it. Men didn’t allow that. Now the plug. And now this asshole Orton trying to finger fuck him in front of 10,000 people. He groaned as Orton again and again dropped him onto his knee and then scooped him back up to haul him around the ring. Orton gave all four sides of the ring a view of his anal penetration and McMahon couldn’t help but comment on it. “Orton in complete control of this youngster and has things well in hand, Brain.” “You can say that again,” Heenan added as the camera zoomed in on Orton’s right hand and the fingers that were disappearing into the jobber’s ass.

Orton allowed the jobber a few second to squirm after executing the last of his hip breakers and when he finally brought him by his hair again he delivered a hard right punch directly onto the jobber’s forehead. Sometimes just an old-fashioned beating like you’d see in a bar was the best ways to punish these boys, Orton thought. So as Michael rolled around, Orton mounted his stomach and perched himself. He looked around at the crowd a bit and then delivered four more punches to the jobber’s head, leaving an ugly red mark.

Michael started losing consciousness and part of him wanted to. Just drift off. Pass out. Fade away. Hell, maybe even croak right there in the ring. That’d show McMahon. That’d show those sluts who turned on him. Orton saw the fairy’s eyes fluttering, a look he’d seen on many a jobber, and slapped him like a bitch on his left cheek, then delivered a backhand to the left one, snapping the jobber back to his crushing reality.

Orton left his victim for a few seconds and went to the ropes to taunt the crowd a bit, most of whom were pulling for the pussy in pink, with the exception of Michael’s harassment victims, who were eating up every moment of his destruction. He gave a slight nod of his head to them and they cheered even louder, drawing angry looks from the people next to them still in the bag for the babyface.

As he walked back to Michael, Orton decided to keep strolling and simply stepped on the jobber’s stomach, who felt the full weight of the cowboy on him as he served as nothing more but a fleshy speed bump. The ref could see boot marks on Michael’s white stomach and chuckled to himself. He knew of the jobber’s Vegas transgressions and looked forward to seeing him destroyed. Orton finally brought him back to his feet and put him in position for a suplex, hooking his arm over his neck and loudly slapping the side of the pink trunks as he grasped them. Intuitively Michael knew what was going to happen. He knew this was a suplex position. He wanted to fight it but he didn’t even know how to do that. He knew that the jobber usually had to try and help when he got lifted so he figured if he just stood there maybe Orton couldn’t lift him. But he underestimated the heel’s strength. Crouching down while still holding onto the spandex, Orton impressively hoisted the fag into a classic vertical suplex. Michael now found himself upside down, the blood rushing to his head, a point helpfully confirmed by McMahon on the call. “All the blood rushing to this kid’s head. Orton just holding him there, displaying him for this audience.” Jenkins started blacking out as Orton held him there for 20, then 30 seconds, moving around the ring while still firmly in control of his pink trunks. Finally, seemingly bored, he fell backward and the two bodies crashed to the mat, with Michael taking the worst of the blow. Orton popped up and grinned at the ringside camera.

It was now time to take the action outside. Taking Michael by the hair and the rear waistband of the trunks, Orton flung him over the top rope. Could he have thrown him between the top rope and the one below? Of course. But what fun would that have been. With no knowledge about how to take a free fall, Michael landed awkwardly on his right leg and felt his knee buckle before he crashed into the steel barrier ringside….right in front of his former subordinates.  A loud whoop went up from the girls and that fag Mark as they saw their ex boss lying at their feet. When he found himself on his stomach, his wedgied ass was in full view of everyone.

Orton remembered all the lines from the memo as he climbed down to continue the assault:
“Later at the pool, Jenkins went up to Amanda, who was tanning and lying on her stomach, and pulled up on her bikini bottom, giving her a wedgie while everyone around laughed and clapped. A humiliated Amanda stormed back to her room.”

With the jobber on his stomach, Orton reached down, grasped the inside of the rear part of the trunks and violently pulled Michael to his feet, giving him a total and humiliating wedgie in front of the delighted WWF employees. Amanda laughed and clapped and took a Polaroid shot of Michael’s two cheeks, now bisected by the pink trunks. Michael felt the material clashing with the plug in his ass and as Orton held him there like a puppet nd pulled up now and again, he found himself almost involuntarily going up on his tippy-toes, like the daintiest and faggiest ballet dancer in all the land.

“Jenkins saw Jones wearing panties under white pants and told her, ‘Granny panties, Jones? It should be a thong day, right?”

Katie couldn’t resist. Something about seeing her assaulter be abused like this turned her on so much that she just wanted to replay it over and over. Which she’d be able to, since Vince told them they’d all have videos of Michael’s degradation, along with ringside tickets whenever he wrestled nearby. That — and 100,000 dollars — made it easy for her to keep quiet about what she went through. “Hey Michael. Michael!” Orton heard the pretty girl calling the jobber’s name and turned so he was looking right at her. Orton held him by the hair and the wedgied trunks as Katie addressed him from a foot away: “Must be a thong day, huh?” Everyone around her laughed.

“During a flag football game at a picnic in a park — flag football? — Jenkins broke the rules and tackled Mark, who lost his breath and started gasping for air while Michael leaned over and said, ‘this is a man’s game, boy.'”

“In the hotel pool one day, employee Mark Cupp, an openly gay employee, wore a swimming brief — a Speedo — to the pool and Jenkins was heard telling other employees ‘Even though he’s a fag, I still didn’t think Mark would be caught prancing around in something like that. Hey, maybe he’ll find a cock to suck.'”

Mark Cupp took it all in with a grin. Others had told him about Michael’s crude comments about how he was prancing around in a bikini and how he might get a cock to suck. Now he returned the favor as Orton held him in front of him. “Mikey, those are great cocksucking tights. Pink is definitely your color, girl.”

With that, Orton scooped up his foe and dropped him stomach first onto the concrete barrier. Michael felt the wind explode out of him as he was trapped, his wedgied ass high in the air as he dangled helplessly on the steel, unable to extricate himself until Orton reached down, took him by the hair and pulled him completely onto the concrete floor. Michael’s breath came in huge, heaving gasps. The air wouldn’t come in and the cameras now caught Orton leaning over and reciting Michael’s previous taunts back to him: “This is a man’s game, boy.”

Orton took one of Michael’s boots in each hand, lifted his legs and spread the jobber’s nice strong legs wide apart. Katie could see right down broadway.

“At the pool, Jenkins told Katie that he appreciated she shaved her bikini area because he didn’t want to see her pubes. ‘Keep it clean, Kates,’ he said.”

Her hand shot up to her mouth as she looked down at Michael’s crotch. It was obvious he was smooth down there now, completely bare, shorn of his manly pubes. “Glad to see you keeping it clean down there, Michael,” she said, again bringing laughter from her friends. Orton allowed everyone, including the cameramen, to get a good look at the spread-out jobber before delivering a vicious Size 12 boot directly onto Michael’s stomach. This did nothing to help the jobber breathe. To help distract the jobber from one painful thing, Orton decided to be helpful and the next time delivered a boot right onto Michael’s cock and balls. Michael instantly wanted to throw up but instead he childishly grabbed at his genitals and rolled around, the picture of abject jobber defeat and humiliation, a wedgied, beaten, bruised, gasping, emasculated faggot in tiny pink trunks. Quite the stud.

Orton occasionally rolled into the ring to disrupt the ten count and now he picked up the jobber by the hair and brought the boy to his knees.

“In his hotel room with Susan Jensen, both Jenkins and Jensen were intoxicated. Jensen said Jenkins had her get on her knees and held her head near his penis. Even though he was wearing jeans, Jensen was terrified and tried moving away but Jenkins held her there and laughed. Her cheek and lips were brought into contact with his visible erection, through his jeans. Fortunately he was too drunk to continue and pulled her up by the hair and told her to get out.”

The rigorous workout — a nice jobber ass-kicking really was the best way to stay in shape — and the humiliation he was doling out had made Orton hard as a rock, a fact that was obvious to anyone who gazed at his red trunks. Now the jobber would find out about it too. He took Michael’s face and brought it right to his erect cock, through the trunks and berated the boy. “Open your eyes, you fucking faggot or I’ll knock out every tooth you have till you’re shitting them out.” Michael obeyed and stared up at his tormentor. He’d held so many girls in this position and now, being on the other end, he felt all his life draining awy from him. He was beaten and destroyed, physically as well as mentally. The humiliation was too much and he couldn’t even move his face away from the heel’s hardened cock. In the front row, Susan Jensen took a photo of Michael’s emasculation, remembering when she was on her knees in his hotel room. God she’d love to see that mouth get fucked, she thought. Orton moved the jobber’s face back and forth so it rubbed against his dick and then finally he shoved him down to the ring before scooping him up and flinging him back under the ropes. The concussed, barely breathing jobber still hadn’t had time to fix his trunks, as McMahon noted on the telecast. “It looks like young Mr. Jenkins is having a problem with his tights in this one.”

Now back in the ring with his victim, Orton again flung him into the ropes and greeted Michael with a devastating elbow directly to his mouth. Michael could taste the blood almost instantly. Orton softened him up a bit more by delivering a series of kicks to the back of Michael’s head. Throwing him back into the ropes, Orton greeted Michael the next time with a devastating powerslam, giving full rotation as his hand again rested on the jobber’s wedgied ass. It was a perfectly executed move by a true master of the ring. Right there he could have pinned Michael. One, two, three, game over. Count to 50. But he was really having too much fun. As he brought Michael back to his feet, the jobber finally, almost comically but certainly pathetically, reached back and adjusted the right side of his trunks. He didn’t have time for the other half as Orton sprinted with him toward the turnbuckle and rammed him headfirst into the corner, not once, not twice, but five times until finally the crowd counted out the last one.

When Orton let Michael go, the jobber staggered around like a drunk, blinking, shaking his head, trying to get the cobwebs out. As he turned so he faced Orton, he never knew what hit him because Orton greeted him with a running clothesline, toppling the jobber after the hard blow directly to his neck.

It was now time for his patented finisher. Michael again felt Orton hooking his arm and grasping his trunks and he prepared for another vertical suplex. Instead Orton planted him ass first onto the top turnbuckle in a corner and then delivered a punch that had Michael falling backward, nearly out of the ring before Orton caught him. God how Orton loved this moment before a superplex, when you put the jobber in his place and then he just sat there, obediently, waiting his fate. Orton climbed up the rope and hooked Michael’s trunks, waiting a few seconds before falling backward and finishing off the devastating supeplex. He hooked the jobber’s leg but it had nothing to do with sealing the victory: He simply wanted the camera to catch another glimpse of the shaved jobber as he lifted his leg and exposed his crotch. After the ref finished the count, there was still one more act of theater.

“At a rodeo event attended by all members of the team, Jenkins told Katie he’d love to see her hogtied like one of the calves. All trussed up, no where to go, defenseless. She told him to shut up but was scared.”

Orton grabbed his rope and turned Michael onto his stomach. One cheek still ate a side of the trunks and the half-wedgied could be seen by everyone. Before he could do anything, Michael felt his hands being pulled behind his back. Oh god, no, no. He knew as he felt the rope snake around his ankles what was happening. He was being hog tied. Like an expert rancher, Orton finished off his opponent, wrapping his ankles and then bringing it up to his hands. There he was, all trussed up with nowhere to go. Michael squirmed but the knots were way too tight. Orton delivered three more kicks to the jobber’s back to calm him, and then stood triumphantly, his arm raised, his boot mashing the kid’s face into the mat by grinding on the back of his head. Victory felt good.

Orton left him like that, tied up, wedgied, defeated, and then walked back to the locker room. The referee untied Michael who finally fixed his wedgie as a ring-hand helped him stagger back to the locker room, but not before he first walked past his former employees who all said goodbye to him and said they’d see him soon.

Back in the locker room, Michael collapsed on the bench, lying on his back. Patterson was back there. He came in, sat next to the newest jobber in the WWF fleet and gently rubbed his blond locks. “You did good, boy, you did good. Suffered real good. You deserve this, right? You know that. You know that, boy. The way you treated those girls in Las Vegas. That’s not how a man acts. Well now you’re paying your dues. This is your new life now, boy. Get used to it.” The tears burst from Michael and his sobs filled the locker room. “Don’t worry,” Patterson said. “Most of the jobbers get used to this humiliation after a few…years.”

About humiliatedjobber

From Southern U.S.. Have always been fascinated with wrestling, specifically jobbers who are embarrased and degraded in the ring in their trunks. Always wanted to have my trunks yanked on as the crowd laughs and the evil heel dominates me, in the WWF or WCW. Contact me at rookiejobber@yahoo.com
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2 Responses to New story: #MeToo Jobber

  1. R. says:

    Thnx! Look fwd to any and all! I shld try to write!!

  2. JorgePr says:

    you did it again! I liked how you managed to introduce every single situation Michael made his employees go through on his humiliation. Bob Orton was the perfect choice for the heel!
    Must confess though (you know there will always be a “but” in my posts LOL), I like it better when you use well-known, familiar jobbers as I cna put a face to the suffering toy boy. Of course, leaving it to the complete imagination has its advantages as you can put there any face you like (either a jobber or just some regular guy you want to suffer LOL).
    Have you ever thought on writing with some more modern jobbers? Matt Striker comes to my mind with his really brief trunks and all the humiliations he has gone through; also, given his former school teacher could make for a great stotry. Another choice could be Zack Ryder and his (IMO) ridiculous gear: sunglasses, headband and half-trunks/half-tights. Finally, what about Ted DiBiase Jr? A story about how a 3rd generation wrestler with a famous grabdfatehr and an even more famous father becomes disappointment to his family due to some sadistic, pervert promoter (who, btw, for some reason hates the Million Dollar Man and takes revenge on him through his poor son).
    Waiting for the nex story!

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