Spring prompt 2011

FOR: Grandma Taker

Warning: Spanking, as requested.

The Meaning of Respect

-x-

Jerry sank into one of the rows of chairs, with a sigh. He propped his suitcase at his feet and ran his fingers through his short hair. They came back smeared with gel and sweat that had coagulated as he'd nearly sprinted towards the terminal to catch a flight he was sure he was going to miss—only to find out the flight had been delayed. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved, or annoyed. On one hand, he certainly didn't have to be concerned with missing the flight altogether, but now came the laborious monotony of waiting. He glanced around the airport, scanning the sea of faces for any familiar ones. Now would be a good time to find a buddy or coworker, collar them, drag them over to a seat, and start up a nice conversation. The younger guys liked when he told stories, his way of speaking colorfully and the inflections of his voice rising and falling in his characteristic over-the-top manner.

No one stood out to him. He pulled the thin cotton material of his t-shirt away from his chest and used the fabric to fan himself a bit. He really had raced towards that terminal, and though he was a man in great shape for his age, it had still broken him out into a sweat. He sank into his chair a bit more, trying to get as comfortable as he could in an uncomfortable seat. When he was satisfied enough, he decided on a less sociable way to pass his time. He unzipped his suitcase and pulled out a small sketchbook. A mechanical pencil was hooked into the metal loops of the binding and he tugged it free, and swept the delicate lead over the paper in long, sketchy, swooshes.

This was a time when he missed having Bret around. They had their love of drawing and doodling in common, and in younger days and ones also more recent, they'd sometimes sit together on flights or in the lobby of a hotel room and draw cartoons for each other. Sometimes they'd doodle their coworkers. Jerry's cartoons took on a more realistic slant as Bret's were outlandish and highly exaggerated. Jerry would often end up in stitches, yelping laughter in that hyena like way of his, as Bret just smiled. A man of quieter expressions, Hart was.

But Bret wasn't around, he was back up in Calgary and according to Twitter he was spending his free time with a baby granddaughter who bore a remarkable resemblance to her grandfather, taking shots at Hogan (everyone's favorite pass time) and penciling cartoons that were now up for auction on Ebay to support various charities.

Jerry glanced down at the paper and the unrefined lines that were slowly taking the form and shape of a human face and the beginnings of features. He decided to sketch the man he was currently thinking of, drawing in the curvy lips, the dark eyes, the arcs of his nose, the lines in his face that had deepened with the mark of passing time, and lastly the graying curls that Bret usually kept loosely in a ponytail, as if scooping them back had been an afterthought he could barely afford time to fool with. Jerry sketched a faded baseball cap, with the edges of the bill frayed. Now it looked right, just a bit of scratchy shading…it wasn't a grand masterpiece after all, just a ploy to occupy his time. After he was satisfied enough with Bret, he turned the page and began again.

This time the face his pencil etched out was rounder, the hat atop his head didn't have a curved bill, but the wide brim of a cowboy hat. A black cowboy hat. Beneath the brim sat a pair of small, smart eyes, and framing them was a set of wire rim glasses. The mouth was set into a stance that seemed thoughtful, and enjoyed a good barbeque. His look was accentuated with the crisp collar of a dress shirt, and the knot of a tie.

A small smile nudged Jerry's lips into a curve, as he completed the sketch with a bit of shading. This was another man he dearly missed, even more so than his art pal. Jerry and J.R. had spent many a day together, many a long mile on the road, many a commentary. Their voices gave a unique narration to the events taking place between the ropes, night after night, and became as much a staple of shows as did the main eventers themselves. After J.R. had gone, it had taken Jerry quite some time to get used to different voices and styles of commentary answering and bantering back with his own. He missed the southern fried inflections, the bawled 'Bah Gawd!' and other Jim Ross-isms than never failed to either put a smile onto his face, or leave him scratching his head trying to make sense of them.

Now Jerry spent his tapings bickering back and forth with a man who grated on his nerves more and more as time wore on. When Cole was a baby in the business, Jerry had first decided to take him under his wing, so to speak, being at the time one of the senior commentators and a man who had spent many years in the wrestling business, it had only seemed natural. Cole had been a willing student at first, but gradually he'd began to turn his nose up at Jerry's suggestions or opinions. After even more time had passed, Cole seemed of the thought that his own accrual of years in the business had finally given him enough experience to (apparently) become perfection incarnate. It became worse and worse, until these days Cole had become a complete crying bitch who hurled insults not only on camera but off as well. Michael Cole in his later incarnation was now an arrogant prick who supposed he was better than Lawler in every way, and made no bones about expressing it. Not only was he better than Lawler, but he took shots at anyone in hearing distance, and eventually, his defamation of character even reached those long stepped out of the business.

Retired men whom Jerry had the pleasure of working with as a young man—back when wrestling was still wrestling, back in what was now referred to as 'the old school era'—were even victim of Cole's tirades. Michael Cole took to offending a whole time period in which Jerry and many of his closest friends had been in their prime, a time which they held dear to their hearts and treasured with the dignity and pride of a war vet who cherishes his honored medals. Cole seemed to have a poor word for everyone, and nothing but good ones for himself. His boasting and bellowing, bawling and bellyaching, became a thing that often sent his colleagues into fits of teeth grinding and dangerous glares. No one much wanted to tolerate the man to exist much longer, but his contract held him securely in place and Jerry was left to tolerate more of him than anyone else was.

It was a mystery wrapped in an enigma (at least in Jerry's opinion) as to why the powers that be wanted Cole around, and not just around, but involved in his own strange sort of character development and storyline. The Cole Mine? Really? But it was happening, and it was completely ridiculous. Jerry could only sit behind the desk with a set of headphones in his ears, and a crown at his elbow, and wander what things were really coming to. He loved this sport, this entertainment. That much was obvious, or else he wouldn't have dedicated the majority of his life to it—but it at times perplexed him the way a fickle woman perplexes the male mind when she changes the color and style of her hair every week—despite it looking just fine the previous week. Then again, sometimes she became such a monotony that a Mohawk of rainbow hues would be as praised as a drop of water in the Sahara—just to liven things up a bit and give the look a new punch and pow that had puttered out.

As he thought of these things, he'd begun a third drawing. This one wasn't as serious as the others, and in fact he imagined it more like something Bret would have drawn. It was a cartoon of Cole, and the meanness behind the exaggerated lines and curves made Jerry smirk like a boy who finds enjoyment in shooting stray cats with a bb gun. Jerry had ever been that kind of boy, but Michael Cole made your mind twist and bend in ways it normally wouldn't, simply because he drove you batshit crazy. Jerry was certain that if he was to look up the word 'douchebag' in the Webster's dictionary, that there would be a photo of Michael Cole as the sole definition.

A shadow fell over the cartoon he'd been working on—the nose was crafted into something more birdlike, the eyes were beady and mean, the lips looked like they belonged better on a fish, and the ears were huge, rounded, satellite dishes on the sides of his head. A speech bubble was inserted just above his head and the words 'blah-blah-blah-blah-blah' filled the balloon, eventually surrendering themselves to a '…' due to lack of space. The '…' signified that the bullshit pouring out of Cole's mouth went on and on for an indefinite amount of time, and God save the poor fuck who had to listen to one more syllable. Jerry glanced up from his teasing cartoon to see who had taken up a statuesque pose in front of him. It was the subject of his mockery, Michael Cole himself, glaring down at the artist with his arms crossed over his chest and his lower lip poked out into and odd, angry, childish pout.

"What are you drawing, King?" Michael asked, as he peered through his lashes at the picture. Jerry's eyes narrowed at him, and at the way his title, though it was only kayfabe, was sneered as if to make a complete joke of it. Maybe Jerry's crown wasn't real, it was just a cheap bit of costume one could find just about anywhere, but it still meant a lot to Jerry. He'd worn that crown for many years and it symbolized to him a career he could be proud of. He had won over the course of his career over one hundred and fifty championships, thirty two of those being World Heavy Weight Championships from various promotions. In a special box at home, in a drawer where he kept some his most treasured possessions, was his Hall of Fame ring. If Michael Cole was ever inducted into it, that hall would no doubt crumble for shame. Jerry didn't need a facetious little twerp to jest at him, nor did those jests do anything to tear down Jerry's accomplishment. Cole was simply a man blowing hot air, but after a while, anyone grows weary of the heat.

"Oh, hey Michael! I'm drawin' a picture of…my court jester!" With a grin, Jerry held up his Cole cartoon for the man himself to see fully. "Only problem is, he's not even funny! Where's your cap, Michael? You need one of those goony lookin' hats with the bells on 'em—ah! Wouldn't that be somethin'! If you're gonna be a jackass, you might as well look the part!" Jerry laughed, watching as Cole's eyes burned with anger, as if anyone should dare to insult him.

Cole snatched the sketchbook out of Jerry's hands and in a quick, rageful swipe, he tore the cartoon away and tossed it to the floor. He crumpled it beneath his shoe and went on to tear out the sketch of Bret. He took a look at it, spat upon the image, and threw the wad at Jerry. The older man stood straight out of his chair.

"Hey!" He squawked, watching stunned as Cole then ripped out the drawing of J.R. This one he studied a bit longer. His mind was working beneath those cold and calculating eyes, and his idea was coming to him—that was revealed in the slow smirk of his lips. "Ya didn't hafta do that!" Jerry went on, and snagged his sketchbook away from Cole.

Cole was still holding the sketch of J.R. between his fingers, and he now looked up from it and his grin widened.

"I see you've been drawing some custom made toilet tissue for me to wipe my ass on." He folded J.R. and put him in his pants pocket. The bustle and hustle of the chattering airport seemed to slip away from the two men as Cole's words fell icily between them. Jerry's mouth turned down into a frown of anger, his brows pulled together in a glare, the lines of his forehead deepening, his blue eyes flashing.

Anger boiled and bubbled through Jerry's body, making his fists curl and clench at his side, causing each muscle ready to lash out, putting his tongue on guard for one of the biggest lashings Cole was ever due for.

"You listen here, you obnoxious, arrogant-"

"Save it, Jerry…you're going to make a scene." Cole rolled his eyes, completely not taking the other man seriously. His eyes widened however, when Jerry's strong hand wrapped around his wrist like a vice.

"You had better learn your place, boy." Jerry spoke, his voice low and sharp, like the tip of a cold switchblade pressed into the belly of a man due to be stuck if he utters one more ridiculous syllable. "You wanna wipe your ass? Then why don't we go somewhere a bit more private."

Jerry pulled a protesting Cole after him. His luggage was left behind, his sketchbook hastily tossed into the chair he'd been sat in earlier, he could come back for those. Right now those were the least of his concern. Michael Cole had lost any ounce of respect for his peers and predecessors long ago (if he had ever really had much to begin with) and it was about time that respect was throttled back into him. So many of the younger men shrugged Cole off or threatened him idly, but there were few of the elder generation around the locker rooms these days and they weren't present to defend themselves from Cole's blasphemes. Any man from Jerry's day wouldn't have issued anything to Cole idly, no sir, they would have hauled his sorry ass into some place private, beaten the shit out of him, and left him to lick his wounds and rethink the meaning of his pitiful existence. Back then you didn't get away with such disrespect; you humbled yourself, or else someone else humbled you.

In this case, some old school style humbling was long past due.

Jerry pulled Cole into the men's room, and locked the two of them into the handicapped stall to afford them more room. He didn't care to notice the odd look afforded them by a couple of men who were straddled up to urinals, in fact this was no business of theirs.

"What the hell are you doing!" Cole shouted, jerking his wrist away from Jerry's grip. Jerry was quick enough to grasp it again, and the two of them struggled a bit as Cole tried petulantly to fight out of his due punishment. Jerry fumbled with Cole's belt, and at last wrought it free from the loops of his pants. After a bit of wrangling, Jerry had Cole pressed to one metal wall of the stall, his hands wrenched behind his back as he spewed out protests. Jerry wrapped the belt as many times as he could around Coles' wrists, pulled it as tight as it would go, and tied it off. "That hurts you son of a-"

Jerry slapped him in the back of the head.

"Shut up! If you think that hurts, you ain't seen nothin' yet!"

Cole continued to cry out, and for fear their little lesson would be interrupted by security before it could be properly taught, Jerry unfastened Cole's tie in preparation to make a gag. Cole continued to blather and blither, whine and wail, as Jerry pulled his own shoes off, and then his socks. He balled the socks together, pulled Cole away from the wall, and shoved the sockwad into Cole's yowling mouth. Cole began to work it out with his tongue but before he could, Jerry used Cole's own tie to his advantage. He wrapped the silk material around Coles head a couple times, using it to secure the sock-ball-gag and tied that off much like the belt which held Cole's hands secure. Jerry rolled his shoulder, and passed a hand over his sweaty hair.

"Damn, they oughta gimme an award for getting' you to shut the fuck up!" He grinned, watching as Cole's struggles died down as he realized he was surely being defeated. "Don't worry, I'm sure you have some twisted idea goin' through your head about what I'm gonna do to ya…and God knows I'm a kinky bastard, but I'm not sick."

At that, Cole's body seemed to relax a little. Jerry shook his head, unbelieving that Cole might have entertained an idea as awful as that—as if he really thought Jerry would do such a thing—but it only went to show the type of man Cole was. Jerry patted the side of Cole's face, the cheeks were pinked up from his struggle and yelling, and tears slid slowly over them.

"Don't cry, Michael. Least you can do is take this like a man. If I disrespected my elders and peers the way you do, my Daddy woulda had me out back of the woodshed and made it so I couldn't sit down for the next month!" His voice quirked up into that high, excited pitch of his, that told of an approaching climax to the events playing out.

Jerry ran his tongue over his lips, and tugged Cole's pants and boxers down. The trembling fleshy backs of his thighs were revealed, his ass still covered by the tail of his dress shirt. Jerry curled the shirt up, baring the pale and shivering globes of Michael Cole's rear end. Cole's muffled pleas became more insistent, but Jerry pretended not to hear them. Instead he stood back a couple steps, and admired the smooth and unmarked ass bared to him—not a freckle or mole dotted it—but it was about to bare marks, alright. With a leer Jerry unbuckled his belt and tugged the leather strap free of the jeans loops with a slow 'swoosh' noise that seemed to fill the silence that had befallen the bathroom. There was no more sound of water running, or urine tinkling against porcelain, they had at some point been left alone, and no whoosh of the door or soft plodding of footsteps had sounded since. They were alone, just Lawler, Cole, and the belt poised in the hand of a man who was past ready to use it.

The leather came down hard across the delicate, sensitive, cheeks and Cole cried out behind his gag. He tried to go for the closed door, attempting to throw his weight at it and spring it open, but Jerry yanked him back and shoved him onto the floor.

"You coward!" Jerry shouted in an appalled squeal at the other mans spinelessness. He hoisted Cole's hips up, so his ass was up and ready for the next crack. "You're nothin' but a coward!" The cracks and slaps came again and again, fast and hard and full of fever that at length made the strong muscles of Jerry's arm ache. Cole's ass was covered in horrible crimson and violet kisses, welts crisscrossed the abused flesh, and this lesson was going to make the flight ahead quite uncomfortable for one of the passengers.

Jerry dropped the belt, and bent over with his hands on his knees to get a breath. He had gotten a bit more carried away than he'd meant to. A few of his short shorn curls had fallen from place and tumbled over his lined forehead. Trails of sweat trickled down from his hair and slid down his face, one stopping to drip into his eye and make it sting. He straightened up and wiped his brow on his forearm. He untied the man who was kneeling on the bathroom floor, his face pressed to the linoleum. Cole made no effort to move at first, and being impatient, Jerry yanked his head up from the floor, and tilted his chin so their eyes connected.

Cole's lips were swollen and red from the gag that had been forced between them, his cheeks were wet with tears and bright red with a deep blush. Something had changed in his eyes, the no longer seemed mean and hateful, but full of hurt and shame. Michael bowed his head, and a couple of clear drops fell from his eyes and landed silently onto his thighs. It was then that Jerry noticed with a sick twisting of his gut, the small, stiff, erection between Cole's legs. Jerry's lips curled back from his teeth in disgust. It wasn't the fact that this type of treatment turned some folks on that abhorred him, but it was the fact that Cole was turned on by it, and that he'd been the one to do it. Cole tilted his face back up towards Jerry's, his lip wobbling as if he was on the verge of sobbing. Instead, a whispered plea came from his lips.

"Please?"

Jerry's mouth couldn't form any words, despite being paid to do so on a regular basis and used to acting quickly, it was now completely taken aback and muted.

"No-no one else…no one wants…" Cole struggled, his words coming out lilted and stuttered. "No one wants me. Will you…please…?"

Jerry choked back the bile that sprang up his throat, and opened the door to the stall. He backed out, a mixture of pity and revulsion wallowing in his gut.

"I…I've been waiting for someone to put me in my place, practically begging for it. Jerry please, please—no one has to know!" Cole struggled to pull himself up from the floor to his feet. He leaned against the stall for support. His pants still lay in a heap on the floor, and he had yet to pick them up, as if he wasn't ready to put them back on and expected something more than an ass whipping to take place.

"No! Ah! You—you! Gah!" Jerry yelped, as if he was a small dog that had been stepped on by a wayward boot. He couldn't form anything properly, and so he left Cole alone in the bathroom and attempted to make his way back to his seat, although now, his mind was too rattled to remember where he'd been sitting.

After much wandering around, he finally found his seat, and thankfully his suitcase was still sat next to it, seemingly unbothered. He sat down heavily in the chair, wondering if he'd really made any sort of point at all. He had no idea that Cole would have liked—even desired—such a heavy handed thing, and now a more horrifying thought occurred to him.

Once Michael Cole got a thing in his head, he did not easily let it go. Jerry imagined Cole beginning a habit of following him around like a shadow, begging and pleading with him, offering himself up at every turn, presenting himself at Jerry's hotel room door clad in tiny pair of PVC shorts, leather cuffs, and ball gag stuck like an oversized cherry between his disturbing lips. Jerry slouched down into his chair, hiding his face behind his hands.

This is the very meaning of the word 'backfire'. He thought to himself, as he shook his head violently in attempts to rid his brain of such unwanted mental images.

-x-

A/N: Yeah…well…this is nagging me already for a Part 2 so…we'll see. A second part may explode my brain if attempted, and I don't mean in the GOOD way. O.O Sometimes I frighten myself.