SUSIE'S STORY

She works in a restaurtant attached to a roadhouse bar, with an open archway in the wall between them. I come in, and I'm captivated at once by her. She flaunts her bare belly at me, and I'm helpless. Her body owns my lust.

I flirt with her a bit, and to my surprise she flirts back. Finally I blurt out, only half-jokingly, "what does a man have to do to kiss that belly-button?"

And she starts teasing me about a special promotion they have at the restaurant, where if you can eat their largest sandwich, which is meant to feed 4 people, you get to be a "Super Belly." If I can be a "Super Belly," she says, I can kiss her navel. And she strokes my pot belly and says, "You sure look like a 'Super Belly' to me!"

How could I resist. This was the chance of a lifetime for a poor, pot-bellied nerdboy like me. I ordered it, she brought it, and -- with her belly-button in my sight the whole times -- I ate it. She watched every bite. And when I finished she cheered, whooped, and announced to the whole place that I was their first-ever 'Super Belly,' having completed the challenge.

Then she pulled out a little blue cloth, and she laughed and said, "Unfortunately, due to a shipping mix-up, we only have your 'Super Belly' championship top in a women's cut and a size S." The patrons laughed. She pulled my shirt off over my head as I protested and tried in vain to suck in my embarrassing belly, but that only made me feel more pathetic.

She wrestled the blue spandex top over my head and put my arms through it. It was a long-sleeved Superman top, but in place of the big letter "S" were the words "Super Belly" in the same colors. I looked down at it and saw how, in a fit woman, it might have stretched to her navel, but it was tight on me and the curve of my pot belly pushed it up in a bunch right to my chest. My whole belly was bare, down to my too-tight jeans.

I played along and pretended to smile while she showed me off to the whole place, stroking my soft belly and poking my belly-button with her sharp-nailed finger. Finally the people went back to their dinners.

"So how about that belly-button kiss?" I asked her quietly. "I passed the test."

"You passed part one," she smiled, rubbing her belly up against mine.

"What's part two," I said, swallowing hard.

"In the next room," she said, with her warm hand laid lovingly on the top of my belly, at just the spot where a man would thud his punch into you to make you drop breathless to your knees. "In the roadhouse. It's 'Fight Night' in there. They have the fight ring set up. Any man who steps into that ring is fair game to be challenged to a fistfight by any other man in the place. You're going to go in there, dressed like that, and stay in there till I tell you you can come out. I'll be mingling among the boys, dropping hints and making suggestions."

"Yes."

BELLYWIMP at JOBBER-CON

Inspired by this post at a delicious blog. It is based on the professional wrestling "jobber" (="always gets beat up") character. He is a staple of old-school TV and indy fed wrestling.

The blogger proposes a "Jobber-Con." A convention like Comic-Con, but for "jobbers, the heels who crush them, the fans who love them, the folks who mock them and everyone in between."

Jobbers will be the star attractions. And jobbers will be a big part of the exhibits, where heels dominate and embarrass them and offer fans the opportunity to do the same. Show off for your date! Beat a guy up with one punch!

Of course there are other things, like panels where jobbers sit in front of thousands of fans, who grill them on their most famous – and embarrassing - moments.

Fans enthusiastically elaborated in the comments: One suggested allowing (perhaps at no admission) in groups of frat jocks or high school bullies who were bringing their personal jobbers victims, wimps they love to torment, to beat, dominate and humiliate in the rings.

One suggested a fundraiser idea. The jobbers (or bullied wimps from the patrons) take hours-long shifts restrained. Some with arms tied in ring ropes, some tied in the ropes facing outside the ring so their legs are hanging off the ground. Patrons line up to pound them. Work over the jobber for a few minutes, five bucks. Get your photo taken with him and signed, another five.

I knew I would be one of the older jobbers. I had stopped wrestling 23 years ago, and I never did much of it even when I could call myself a fighter. Still, I had my niche, my specialty, as a soft-bellied punching bag. I did that sell for a number of promotions and feds. I could be good guy, bad guy, heel or pretty boy. But whatever I showed off on my way to the ring, once the fight began the only thing I did was make the other fighter look good by taking his fist in my belly.

It's an important job, but not a common one, so there never were more than a few of us at a time.

So naturally I wasn't given any star turns at Jobber-Con (or "Lolla-pa-Loser," as some of us called it). Instead, the promoters found plenty of work for me on the fringes, and I don't doubt if I saw more action those three days than most of the stars.

There's so much I can only give you highlights. It's all still a whirl in my head.

I took a turn in the "tavern," the refreshment pavillion, which had an Old West theme. To fit me into it they gave me a pair of tight, low-waist jeans and a black leather vest that looked like it had been made to fit a 13-year-old girl. Then they strapped me back to a big wagon wheel mounted on the wall behind the bar, feet off the ground, and any woman could spin a gambling wheel at the end of the bar. Whichever number it landed on, from 1 to 20, that's how many bellypunches her boyfriend -- or the bartender of her choice -- got to give me. If it was under 5, the management always was generous and let her spin again.

I did get into one ring, and quickly got dumped out of it. It was the Sunday "battle royale," and they mainly needed me for chum. I did my part, wandering blitheringly out into the middle of the ring, and promply got my belly whomped.

I stood there doubled over, waiting for someone to decide to give me more. Instead I was grabbed by the belt and tossed out of the ring, over the top rope. Not so fast! I managed to curl up so that I landed sitting on the edge of the ring, then fell back, arms spread, and let myself drop. I had practiced this and practiced it, anticipating this moment.

As I dropped I let my arms catch in the ropes, and with a quick twist of the elbows I got myself wrapped up in the ring ropes, facing the audience, outside the ring, arms spread wide, feet off the ground, belly thrust out right at face level. I was the perfect belly punching bag!

I drew trouble right away. A couple of beefy bad guys who had been ejected by the other bad guys, were stalking outside the ring in a sour mood. They took to me like wolves to a lamb.

They stood on either side of me and took turns mashing my belly with their fists. With each punch I jerked spasmodically and kicked feebly, and clenched my fingers helplessly. My face glistened with the exertion of expressing such cruel belly-aching.

I was tickled to learn that many people remembered my most famous -- or infamous -- scene: The studio booth beating. I was being interviewed before the fight, by the glamor-girl "hostess" of the program (who went on to be a big thing in the WWE soon thereafter), and my opponent takes offense at something I've said, and he bursts in and beats me up right in front of her, under studio lighting and with cameras close up.

Most of them also wanted to see me re-enact it. So of course I let them beat me up, flailing helplessly while they slug me in the gut. Girlfriends standing by.

BRAT

Let me tell you how I lured that older neighbor of mine, the perv, into a trap. And as icing on the cake I got to see him get totally beat up. Nice and slow.

You remember the dump where I live? He lives in that nice place next door. He would stare at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Just newly married himself, too. But he was home a lot when his wife wasn't. And whenever I was outside, he found a reason to be outside. Otherwise, I never noticed him to be fond of yardwork.

We hacked his computer, just for kicks, and that's when I realized why I was so hot to him. He had a belly-button fetish. Bare bellies. Really turned him on. Well, that was my "look" that summer: Low-slung hiphugger jeans. And a very short, tight, girly belly top. Bare-bellied. All the time. All the girls were that summer. But especially me. Belly-Button Girl. No wonder I gave him fits.

So if that was his bait, then I would use it to give him a beatdown he'd know he deserved. Because I could, and because I was bored. And because it sort of aroused me to think about it. The power I had and what it could do.

I literally flaunted my belly at him. Went right up to him and talked to himin his driveway. My hands on my hips, relaxed, laughing. I could watch him slowly explode inside. [laughs softly] He was my slave! If I wanted him. He'd have doen anything to kiss this belly-button. My pretty belly and my outfit owned his eyes. It was funny!

I told him right out he had a date with me. The next afternoon. His wife would be gone. I got him all but drooling on my belly-button, then said I had to go, but he could meet me next day at 1 down at the biker club.

Belly boy didn't have a choice. There was no way he was going to say 'no' to that. Yeah, I'm a tease.

Well, all the bikers know me. They better. I'm the baby sister of the chapter prez. I found more than enough of them lounging in there the next day -- five -- to get the job done. I hired all five. Cost me five cases of beer, but it was worth it. Their five girlfriends came in the bargain.

I told them what I wanted done to him, and exactly how. Made them demonstrate a few times. Then told them to go back to playing pool and wait for him.

I went out to the front room, where he'd be coming in. I had on my lowest hiphugger jeans and my skimpiest belly top, you bet. When he came in, I leaned back casually on the bar. Just to give him a nice long stare at my belly.

[laughing] Did he ever fall for it. But before I took him into that room, I handed him a men's T-shirt I had hacked the waist off. I told him he would have to wear this because he wasn't a club member. So of course he did. Then I took Belly Boy by the hand and led him into that room, where the five thugs I had hired waited to beat up his bare belly, one after another, according to my instructions. While the mocking voices of their slut girlfriends branded him with humiliation. For my pleasure.

The setting of a pool hall was mere convenience, but the thick, thumping butt-ends of the pool cues turned out to be an advantage I had not anticipated.

Did we film it? You bet!

NATURALLY

We had been hiking for an hour, through woods and hot fields, and when we found the stream we all scrambled down to it to take a break.

Nikki and Amanda were roommates who seemed more fond of each other than they were of the boys who tried to cozy up to them. Like me. And like John, the other guy who had tagged along on this hike. I didn't care for him, or he for me. But I had a plan, and he played the key part in it.

He was a little pipsqueak compared to me. And he had a cruel-funny quality about him that girls always love. So it wasn't hard for me to provoke him. All through the hike I'd drop comments about how easy it was for me to beat up short guys. I told stories of such events, till even the girls got irked by it and mocked me, to one another, about my exaggerations.

It was all to set me up. There, by the creek, I saw my moment. The girls had stripped off their shirts, and wore just their bikini tops and jeans. I had been shirtless all the way, bare-bellied in the sun. John finally dared me to put my fists up and stop running my mouth. The girls said "ooooh!" and stood still to watch us, belly-buttons staring into me. Nikki took off her sunglasses.

The height difference made it obvious that his first target would have to be the pit of my stomach. But I took no chances, and stuck my belly out at him even as I raised my hands in a mock defensive stance: blocking only my face, surrendering the belly.

He did not disappoint, but he surprised me by holding back a bit. I guess he was still unsure about whether he could really take me. His punch was hard enough to wind me, which it did, and I let my body take over. OOF-ing and doubling up, convulsing in my breathlessness, I gave them the full belly-punched suffering show.

Seeing me like that, from just one stomach punch, certainly overcame whatever hesitation John felt. And the way the girls laughed and clapped certainly lit his fire.

I saw him come back toward me, and I stood upright to take it, letting myself look a little dazed and not quite ready to defend myself.

He was not the gentlemanly kind, and he slammed his knuckles into my belly and made me give up another OOUFF! in front of the girls.

I went through the whole bellypunch bellyache evolution again, even more pitifully. And got back up for more.

I offered up my bare belly again, and he pounded his fist into the center of my stomach. I let out a pathetic moan and doubled up, winded again.

"Give it up," Nikki said to me. "Your belly can't take it."

"No, he said he was such a tough guy," Amanda countered. "Now his belly has to pay for it. Go on, John, beat him up."

This time, as I pretended to defend myself, I backed up till I felt a large tree behind me. John was really into it now, throwing fake jabs to get me totally off-guard, then he stepped in and gave me the real thing, a belly-slammer.

I jerked back, but hit the tree and just stood there, stunned, suffering. John hit me again. It was all I could do to keep from folding over his punch in my belly, but I kept myself upright, exposed. I just stood there, helpless, a wide-open bare belly, and took my beating.

Seven straight punches followed, all hard ones in the belly. I got my belly whomped alright. When I finally had had enough, I threw myself down and rolled on the ground at the feet of the girls, back arched, belly thrust out, clutching my suffering stomach and moaning and gasping.

John taunted me as I lay in the dirt, mocking me for my soft belly.

"Pathetic," Amanda sniffed. Nikki just laughed.

All the rest of the hike, all the way back to the camp, my beating was the topic of animated conversation.

WHAT YOU SEE

You descend the steps to the basement, where these fights are held. You're excited because it's your first time at a fight. After you've heard so much about them. The cellar smells damp and hot. The walls and floor are bare. It is a small space under a harsh light.

People stand all along the walls, and you squeeze in among them, then turn and watch the room, anxious.

You watch him enter the arena. A good, shapely man, with an honest smile. A gleam of confidence in his eyes reveals the shameless pleasure he feels in anticipating the violence to come.

Then I enter. His rival, for this fight, but not his equal. Some air or attitude about me transforms me in the fight scene into "that guy you'd just love to see get slugged right in the belly." I'm cocky and pushy. The way I'm dressed, my posture, everything about me seems to emphasize my bare belly. And it makes me look nothing but vulnerable. Everybody in the basement but me seems to know how this "fight" is going to turn out.

I lunge for my opponent in a quick sneak attack before the start of the fight. It's probably my only chance to beat a man as experienced and strong and ruthless as my opponent. But it makes me look like a cheater. And now you and everyone else there watching feels I deserve the beating I'm about to take; feels the natural order won't be upheld until he punches my belly till I drop. You can all drink the lust of your most animal pleasure in watching me get my stomach punched. There is no taint of guilty feeling.

And anyway my opponent doesn't even bother to defend himself; he simply lets my feeble blows glance off his steady frame.

Then he raises a fist and steps menacingly toward me, and I throw up my arms in a cowardly plea for mercy, begging him not to hit me. He slowly lowers the fist that was cocked at my face. But while I'm still arms-up he suddenly whomps me with a pounding uppercut punch in my belly.

I go completely to pieces. I let out a soft-bellied OOUPH! that echoes in the room, and my body slowly folds into itself. Tragic mouth. Belly aching. Staggering away from him, turning. Loud suffering. Weak and winded.

Then I drop to my knees, helpless. Shocked, obliterated, destroyed by a bellypunch. What a wimp! And in front of all these girls.

But there is no submission in this fight. So it will go on until he is bored with showing off for the lovely ladies. Till he wearies of having my belly for his punching bag.

And this is what you came to see, what all of you came to witness: a man in throes. But it can't end too soon. No, you won't let me escape with just a one-punch humiliation. For you, it has to drill much deeper, much darker.

The girls in the audience all naturally picked their favorite in this fight before it began. And so they encourage him (and subtly direct him at the same time).

"Oooh, that hurt him! Right in his stummik!"

"Slug him again. Give him a punch in the belly!"

He'd beat my belly till I fell to my knees, then he'd stand back and let the girls goad me. They purred and insinuated and mocked me, to shame me to get up and get back into the fight. And get punched again.

So there I am, down on my knees again and sucking air after he whomped me with another "belly-slammer." That's what some girl on the other side of the room keeps calling them, keeps telling him to give me again.

“Uh, right in the belly,” the same girl, and she's laughing at me.

I moan and shake my knees out straight and I stand. My opponent gets in on the abuse. "I was hoping you'd get back up. So I can give you another sock in the stummik." That gets a laugh.

Getting dropped to the floor by a fist in your soft belly is a humiliating scene for a man. But standing up and taking it just wasn't an option for me. He'd hit my belly some wicked knuckle-chops, and they'd just leave me breathless. It was like my whole body shut down, and I'd just stand there with my arms frozen, and he'd take advantage of that and slam another fist into my belly. Free shot. Oh, my belly!

He'd call me a pot-bellied wimp, and pull me up and punch me another one, right in my belly.

He shoves me and I stagger back to the wall, right beside you. Three girls scatter from the spot just in time, and turn and watch as I flop back against the wall, then rebound off it, belly-first, right into a ferocious punch that belts me full in the belly.

I clutch my stomach and bend far forward. My knees cave and I plunge down. My shoulder takes the fall, and I roll onto my back and lie prone, knuckles to the canvas above my head in a speechless gesture of full submission.

He takes his congratulatory kisses and smiles from the girls in the crowd, then leaves, smiling. Eventually, my diaphragm unseizes and I can draw a full breath. I crawl to the bottom of the steps, and then up them and out of the basement.

BELLY du JOUR

I'm a male belly-dancer. It's an ancient and respectable art, back in the country where my parents' parents came from. But not here in high school America. If you don't think "male belly-dancer" is a greeen light to get yourself beat up a lot, you don't know much about teen-age boys. All through high school I had a target on my back. Or, to be accurate, right on my belly.

It was mostly the same three or four guys. Sometimes one of them would catch me, sometimes two, sometimes all four. Didn't matter, I always got beat up. They had a way of catching me and provoking me just when I was most vulnerable. And always, always they did it when some pretty girls were there to witness my humiliation.

Maybe it was their own tough-sexy girlfriends, or else it was some one of the pretty nerd-girls I longed to impress and romance. Or it was my two girl friends, female friends, Lisa and Karen. I was their pal, but we had a constant flirtation.

Or it was the actual belly-dancers, female. The most supple, sensual, desirable girls I knew, the ones from the good families among my congregation.

The actual "fight" lasted only one punch: I'd lunge forward angrily and push my fist toward his face. I had no speed or skill. And he would simply block or dodge my blow and counterpunch with a fist to my belly.

I go completely to pieces. I let out a soft-bellied OOUPH!, and my body folds into itself. Belly aching. Staggering away from him, turning. Loud suffering. Weak and winded. Then dropping to my knees, helpless. Shocked, obliterated, destroyed by a bellypunch. What a wimp! And in front of all these girls.

Doubled over or down on my knees, clearly beaten. Then it was up to him, or them, if it ended at that and he walked away contemptuously. Or whether they hauled me up for a total belly beating.

Once they did actually rip my shirt off me and keep it, not give it back after they beat me. They took a big marker pen from one of their girlfriends' purses and wrote "punch my belly" in big letters across my chest, and sent me off to walk home that way, shirtless. I was with Lisa and Karen.

REFEREE

You walk past me in the hallway. My head turns as my eyes follow you. "Nice bikini," I say.

You stop, turn and walk back to me, slowly, looking me in the eye.

"Thank you," you purr. "I'm wearing it tonight. In the ring."

I guess my mouth must have opened, but I said nothing.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I agreed to referee the fight. Your fight."

Now this was no simple boxing match. This was bare-fisted belly-whomping. It was basically basement pro wrestling, just brawling and clutching, but punches to the stomach were allowed -- in fact, encouraged. It basically came down to one guy trying to catch the other with a bellypunch and knock the breath out of him for a 10-count.

The referee, of course, could completely throw a fight one way or the other. And it was customary for one of the wives or girlfriends of the Belly Fight Club members to serve as referee.

It was her prerogative to set the attire of the fighters, as well as choose her own, and to set the prize for victory and the penalty for failure.

So this announcement, naturally, left me as speechless as I'd be after a good hard judo chop in the pit of my belly. oouff!

"Did they ask you?" I finally manage to say.

"No, I volunteered," you say brightly. "I wasn't going to pass up a chance to watch you get your belly whomped. I want the best view in the house to watch you get punched in the stomach."

I swallowed hard. My heart was pounding. "And you're wearing that?" I whispered.

"You can't keep your eyes off me, can you?" you laugh. "My poor belly-button slave. And so you stand there in lust, like a slack-jawed buffoon, while he socks you with a good, stiff uppercut punch smack in the belly."

You draw closer to me as you speak, and my back is to the wall. My stomach leans toward you and your hand strokes it as you look me in the eye and lay it on the line to me.

"And I get to watch you go completely to pieces. Your manhood is on the line. It's a real fight. You know how I like to lead them. I take your cock in my hand. I take his cock in my other hand. I look you both in the eye, in turn, and explain my rules. And I tell you I will have my pleasure with the winner while the loser must be bound to a chair, watching it all go down, and comiplain loudly about his belly-ache and confess himself nothing but a stomach-sissy."

You laugh again. I open my mouth to speak, but quickly you curl your hand into a slim fist and jam the knuckles of it straight into my bare belly.

I grunt -- uuuhh!! -- and bend forward, one hand gingerly touching my soft belly. And I breathlessly mouth the words "my belly" as you continue your lesson.

"Folded over and bellyaching. What a wimp. Like a little punk who ate too much ice cream."

Then you change the topic, but not by much.

"Why did you challenge him? You've seen his arm muscles. And you know his reputation as a fighter. He's going to go right for your pot belly. And you know you can't take a punch in the bread-basket. How many stomach-slammers do you think it will take till you're doubled over and aching, clutching your punched belly? Two? Or one?

"You remember that fight you got into with that guy I told you had grabbed my ass? You were so pitiful. You stood out there pot-bellied in the hot sun. You grabbed him by the collar, but he just rammed his fist into your stomach. Repeatedly. By the time you doubled up in agony, he had humiliated your belly.

"Or the one where you took on my cousin, who was so protective of me? You actually got a few hits in that time. But then in the second round he found your soft belly. Didn't he? I wonder who whispered to him to do that.

"How about the time you got your belly busted in that "tough man" competition at the country and western roadhouse? You should have beaten that guy easily. But you remember what happened? Same thing. He found your pot belly with his fist. And it was all over for you."

-----

Later that night, when finally you say "TEN! He's OUT!" I'm down on my knees, hands on my stomach, bent over, with a belly full of ache, moaning out my humiliation. But my humiliation has just begun.

Within a few minutes I'm on my feet again, my back to a pillar, and my arms pulled back behind me and tied tightly together behind the pillar. I stand shirtless, stomach exposed, as your hands explore the beaten softness of my belly.

Then one hand goes lower and pulls me sharply erect, and my cock obeys your tug, and you feel the velvety weight of me in your grip. You tease the tip of my cock around the rim of your belly-button, and you smirk at me. "Is this what you wanted?"

Then you beckon to the fighter who just beat me and has earned the right to be your erotic servant for the evening. Before you take your pleasure of him, you will drain your pleasure from me. You look me in the eye, but addressing him you say, "punch him! Right in his belly!"

He obeys, and with a solid SMACK his fist belts me in the stomach right in front of you as you keep a tight grip on my cock.

The force of his fist drives a loud belly-grunt from my lips. My reflexes and the impact of the punch fold my body over, but the rope won't let me and I only jerk halfway over and stall there, leaning forward, belly arched, suffering, a target more ripe than ever.

"Give it to him again!" you say lustily. "Sock him in the stummik!"

He does. An uppercut into my helpless stomach. That oh-so-vulnerable pot belly.

You coo and caress him, switching handily from my cock to his, you purr and curl his fingers into a fist as I hang there and suffer my bellyache. You tell him you'll mark the spot that you wants him to aim for.

You walk to me and order me to stand upright and stick my belly out. I do as commanded. You lean down and plant a single kiss right in the middle of my stomach, near the top of the slope of my pot belly. You step back and smile, admiring her lipstick print.

"I bought this color with that in mind," you tell me. "You paid for it, by the way."