Channel 4 Weatherman Loses a Big Bet – Chapter 1

The entire Channel 4 News Teams loses a bet to their rival station and submit to a humiliating experience in this new story from robcot.


Channel 4 Weatherman Loses a Big Bet - Chapter 1
A Tracker Shotts story
by robcot
Series: Channel 4 Weatherman Loses a Big Bet

The Tight End Sports Bar is a great place to get laid on any Friday night, especially if like me you’re into guys who take care of themselves, but this night I was there to catch up with my buddy Ted.

“You’ve got to admit, a certain part of that night, you enjoyed it,” Ted was saying.

“Yeah, the part where I got to fuck that underwear model. But you selling me naked as a ‘slave’ to your confused closeted neighbor for an evening— I mean—,” I started.

“You loved it. And I think you did a lot for Frank’s self-confidence. I saw him bring a guy home last week,” Ted said.

“No shit? The guy was there of his own free will?,” I asked.

“Hard to tell, really. When I saw them, they were in the hall walking into Frank’s room. Frank made the guy strip in the hallway before he’d let him inside,” Ted said.

“Charming. We can both be proud of unleashing that on the gay community in our fair college town,” I said.

“The guy seemed happy about it, at least,” Ted said.

Ted and I were seated at the bar. I felt someone sit next to me and tap my arm.

“Hey, it’s so great to meet you,” the guy said, extending his hand to shake. He was maybe about 35, older than me but still not bad looking.

“I’m Tracker Shotts. Channel 4 weatherman, at your service,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Here we go,” Ted said.

“Of course! Everyone in town knows you. I’m Jack Bassey, I’m in sales,” Jack Bassey said, still holding my hand.

“Jack Bassey, it’s nice to meet you. I was just mentioning to my friend here—,” I began.

“I just love those segments you do, what are they, Weird Weather Wednesdays?,” Jack continued.

“Wacky,” I said.

“Wacky Weather, where you show those hilarious clips! It’s great!,” Jack said.

Jack had started at an 8 with great hair and a nice tight polo shirt that suggested impressive pecs and a flat stomach. But his appreciation for those idiotic segments the station made me do kind of lowered him to a 7.

“Thanks, we try to make the weather relatable,” I said.

“In fact, Tracker is really relatable, with a lot of his male fans,” Ted said. I lifted my hand to shush him.

“It’s also so nice that your channel is raising money for the Children’s Hospital. I wanted to let you know, I went to five-for-kids-dot-com and gave right away,” Jack said.

I heard Ted yelp, a laugh that he immediately tried to swallow.

“That’s channel 5’s fundraising site. I’m on channel 4. We’re kind of competing, to see who can raise the most,” I said.

Jack was now scoring a 5.

“Oh, sorry about that. Hey, can I ask you something?,” Jack asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Jack leaned in close to my ear and whispered:

“Want to fuck?”

A decent question. Jack was hot, but annoying. I decided to slow him down a bit. I pointed to a stack of cocktail napkins and mimed writing with a pen. Jack took the hint and wrote a phone number on a napkin and handed it to me. Then we said goodbye and he walked away.

“First thing you do, when you get him in the bedroom, you gag him,” Ted said.

“You know I’m not into that bondage shit, but you may have a good idea, anyway. That guy is better seen than heard,” I said.

“Whatever happened with that Children’s Hospital fundraising competition you guys had going with Channel 5?,” Ted asked.

“We’re winning, I assume. We win every year. That’s the benefit of having higher ratings,” I said.

“What’s the winner get?,” Ted asked.

“I don’t remember. A sick kid, maybe?,” I said. Then, after glancing at my watch, I said, “Fuck, I’ve got to do the 11 o’clock show tonight. Catch you later.”


At 11:34, our sports reporter, Pete Pucker, was wrapping it up. The producers screwed up and came back from commercial 30 seconds earlier than they needed to, so I was worried we’d have to kill time by engaging in pleasant seemingly natural banter.

That’s when Sam Rexson, our anchor, broke the news.

“And finally, a big thanks to all our viewers who contributed to our Kare-4-Kids fundraising drive this month. With your help, we raised $100,000 for the Children’s Hospital. Unfortunately for Pete Pucker, Bill Bobcat, and Tracker Shutts, here, our rival station, Channel 5, beat us by $1,000. And you guys know what that means!,” Sam said.

No, I had no idea what that meant. Why did Sam just single out Pete, the sports reporter, Bill, the hot new traffic guy, and me?

“Ha-ha, not looking forward to it, Sam,” Pete said, good-naturedly.

“But it’s all for the kids,” I chimed in.

“That’s the spirit, Tracker. Stay tuned, Jimmy’s got Zac Efron as a guest, up next,” Sam said.

The “on air” light went off, and the close-show buzzer sounded. The happy smiles on all our faces immediately disappeared. Bill Bobcat, the traffic reporter, immediately took out his phone and said “CALL AGENT” into the voice assistant. Pete Pucker, the sports reporter, sat back and sighed.

“What’s this ‘unfortunately’ shit?,” I asked Pete, who was sitting next to me.

“The bet Sam made, with that Channel 5 anchor, whats-his-name, Tommy Tutone,” Pete said.

“Tim Trabow, you mean. What bet did Sam and Tim make?,” I asked.

“Losing station sends over three on-air talents to do menial labor at the winning station,” Pete said.

“The fuck? I didn’t agree to that,” I said.

“Sam did. On your behalf. Also, we have to do it wearing a costume,” Pete said.

“Oh for the love of God, I could strangle you, Sam. What costume?,” I asked.

Sam Rexson, Channel 4 anchorman, answered my question.

“Hard to say. Channel 5 picks, and tells you when you get there. Could be fucking French maids’ outfits, stretched painfully over your swelling man-meat. We made Channel 5 wear that last year. Could be gorilla suits, zipped all the way up so that you get covered in sweat. We made them wear that, the year before. One year we made them dress as chickens. I don’t want to hear any moaning about this. The three of you are going to show up at Channel 5 tomorrow at 9 AM sharp, ready and eager to be handed over to those repulsive dicks they call producers, and do what you’re told for the morning. Then come back here and collect your massive paycheck for looking pretty and pointing at clouds. Got it?,” Sam said, ending his sentence by pointing at the three of us.


The next morning I got up, drove to the gym for my workout, did my normal 2-hour Saturday morning routine, then showered and got dressed. I grabbed coffee along the way and made it to Channel 5 a few minutes before nine o’clock. Sam, Bill, and Pete were already there.

“I can’t believe we lost to these fuckers. They don’t even have a weatherman anymore, after what’s-his-name had to resign. Hey, Sam, you’re paying this forfeit too?,” I asked.

“Like hell I am. Remember, in the studio, how I’m the guy who talks the most, and gives you fucking permission to speak in ninety-second increments about what is in the sky, a fact that every fucking viewer can easily discern for themselves? That means I’m the anchor, Tracker, and that means that when there is shit to do, I am not, repeat, not, the asshole who has to do it. I’m here to make sure you three haircuts with dicks attached don’t back out of this and dishonor the station. Here’s a comb, fix your fucking hair, you will be on camera,” Sam said. I was happy to get the comb.

We heard a slow-clap. Tim Trabow, Channel 5’s anchor, was applauding Sam’s speech, and walking slowly toward us.

“Beautifully put, Sam. Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Please come inside. We have a changing room ready for you.”

We followed him inside, through the lobby, back into the “changing room,” which was really just a tiny locker room near the Channel 5 gym. A handful of empty lockers hung open, and a single sad bench was by the wall, near a mirror.

“So, we’ll all have fun this morning. Keep your senses of humor and this will all go well. But if any of you dicks refuse a single command, we’re leading with the story tonight that Channel 4 doesn’t keep its bets,” Tim Trabow said, using his on-air voice.

“They’ll comply, I’m here to watch and make sure they do,” Sam said.

“Good. Gentlemen, I’ll give you some privacy so you can change. In ten minutes, I expect you each to be out here in the hallway, wearing your costumes, ready to work,” Tim Trabow said.

“Hold on, this room is empty. Where are our costumes?,” Bill Bobcat, Channel 4 traffic reporter, asked.

“Right, I almost forgot. Here you go. Pick the size that fits you,” Tim said.

With that, Tim tossed onto the floor in front of us three three-packs of white Calvin Klein Briefs, in waistband sizes ranging from 30 to 34.

“That goes under our clothes?,” Pete asked.

“No, dude, he means, those are our clothes. We’re going to be out there in just... underwear,” Bill said.

“Keep your eye on that guy, Sam, he’s a smart one,” Tim said. Then he shut the door.

“Oh, fuck no. I mean, my agent said this is in my contract, but you can’t expect us—,” Bill said.

“Sam, this isn’t what—,” Pete began.

“Shut up, are you fuckers such babies that you can’t take your clothes off in front of other men?,” Sam challenged.

Bill Bobcat and Pete Pucker were both good looking guys—very good looking, in fact. Pete was about twenty-seven, a former star college athlete. Bill was also definitely hired for his boyish looks; a “traffic reporter” doesn’t have to do much more than describe to the audience what the state highway patrol’s cameras are saying about congestion on the interstate, so my guess is that Bill was a failed fashion model or something.

But Bill and Pete seemed terrified to take anything off. I wasn’t. By this time in the conversation, I was already stripped down to my own underwear, which that day was Andrew Christian blue boxer briefs. But, I had to admit, white CK briefs are still a classic.

“I’ve got nothing to hide, but Sam, what about you?,” I asked.

“I’m not part of this,” Sam said.

“Oh come on, Sam, that isn’t fair,” Pete said, as he pulled his T-shirt above his head, revealing a nice flat stomach.

“I’m deeply touched by your complaint about what is unfair. But the terms of the bet let them pick three of our crew members to go through this humiliation. And they picked the three of you. Now, fucking strip and put on those ridiculous tighty-whities,” Sam said.

“Actually, Sam, it seems to me, you don’t have much of a choice, here. If I heard Tim correctly, he told all of us to get into ‘costume,’ not just the three youngest and hottest of us,” Pete said.

Bill, the traffic reporter, was stripped to the waist, his belt unbuckled and the top buttons of his pants undone, revealing a small patch of blue underwear underneath. He had a trim, slim body, not my type but far from having anything to be ashamed of.

“We have the upper hand, Sam. You don’t want the station to cheat on its bet? Well, I’m getting dressed and walking out of here unless you join us,” Bill said.

“Yeah, same here,” Pete said, picking his discarded T-shirt off the floor.

“I’m up for whatever,” I said, as I walked, naked, over to the packs of underwear, slowly bent down at the waist, and picked the ones labeled “waistband 30” off the floor.

“Let me re-acquaint you with your miserable situations. Through the grace of God, each of you gets paid way too much money to do little more than smile for 30 minutes twice a day while our female viewers longingly stare at you through TV screens. In exchange for that, all the station asks of you is that you be relatable, pleasant, enjoyable. The kind of good sports who don’t cheat out on bets, for example. And, oh yes, have you read your contracts? This sort of shit is in there. It definitely is not in my contract. So, be good little pretty boys, and strip and put on those briefs now, or your useless asses are out of this business for good,” Sam said.

I dropped the pack of underwear on the floor and walked over to Sam, naked.

“Sam, you’re smarter than this. Think it through. The four of us get photographed in our underwear, in a humiliating situation. Our audience will empathize with us. About half will be turned on. We get to all look like good sports. Because it wasn’t our choice to show off our bodies, we don’t look vain or threatening. And you, as the boss, look the best of all. You’re the captain nobly going down with the ship. Remember when that focus group said you seemed stiff and inaccessible? That goes away once a photo of you in your underwear, embarrassed yet honorable, supporting your young colleagues, goes viral. Viral!,” I said.

There was total silence. It lasted ten seconds while Sam stared at me. He looked directly at my face. He probably didn’t want to look at the rest of me.

“No, my naked weatherman, you think it through. You three are hired for one reason: so that while you are reading what we write for you to say on teleprompters, viewers can imagine you without your clothes on. In your case, Tracker, from what I’m told, a good chunk of the male viewership doesn’t need to imagine. That’s great for you, because you work out fucking three hours a day. I’m hired to be respectable and smart. Now, for the last time, everyone get into costume,” Sam said.

Sports reporter Pete Pucker and traffic reporter Bill Bobcat knew that Sam ultimately had the advantage over them. They started stripping.

I got the bag of waistband-30 underwear open and slipped one on. They were tighter than I normally wear. I stuffed my junk inside and checked myself in the mirror to make sure nothing was accidentally peeking through.

Pete, naked, was my favorite; large biceps, flat pecs, cute, cute butt. If he didn’t have photos of a girlfriend on his desk I would have definitely seen that butt months earlier than now. Pete used to play football in college, I think, or basketball, maybe, or possibly swim team; one of those. Whatever sport he played in college, it left his shoulders wide and his ass tight and firm. When he pulled the briefs on, his ass somehow looked even hotter. Pete then dropped to the floor and did some pushups, which helped matters even further.

Traffic reporter Bill Bobcat didn’t want anyone to see him naked. Before pulling down his own underwear—baby blue boxers—he reached under his waistband and covered his dick with his hands, and kept it there until he pulled his “costume” back up over it. With that precious piece of cotton and elastic hiding a tiny sliver of his body, he stood, awkwardly, his hands covering his groin so that no one could tell the size of his bulge. His biceps covered his nipples, as though he were ashamed of those, too. His back and butt were pressed against the wall, safe from observation. His eyes looked straight ahead, focusing on a spot on the opposite wall.

I didn’t know Bill too well, but he seemed so uncomfortable that I thought I’d try to put him at ease.

“Hey, you look really good. Did you get into this job through modeling or acting?,” I asked Bill, casually leaning against the wall near where he was standing.

“No, that stuff isn’t allowed in my church. Give me some space, please. We aren’t in The Tight End Sports Bar,” Bill shot back at me.

I left him alone.

Now we were all in our “costumes” of white briefs, and Sam conducted a sort of inspection.

“All right, ladies. Bill! Keep your hands at your sides. Don’t cover yourself up like you’re a girl caught skinny dipping at the beach. Yeah, that’s better, but adjust your bulge, it’s sideways. Pete! Stop flexing, it’s obvious. And you, Tracker, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam said, walking over to me.

“What?,” I asked, defensively.

“The point of this is not to advertise the size of your dick. Your are not at a fucking gay boy rave party, or whatever you guys call it. These are too small,” Sam said.

He put a finger under my waistband and pulled downward, totally stripping me. My dick flopped up and down once it was released from its constraint.

I was shocked. But, he was totally right. I was showing off too much. I kicked the briefs off, grabbed a bigger pair from the bag near Bill, and pulled them on.

“OK, showtime,” Sam said.

Sam started to open the door.

“Wait, hold on,” Bill said.

“What?,” Sam asked.

“I mean, Jesus, we’re practically naked, in our worst enemy’s office. Outside that door is a group of guys we’ve beaten in ratings over and over again, guys who have seen their friends get laid off because of us, guys who have lost bonuses because of us. They didn’t ask us to wear maid costumes or gorilla suits; they asked us to strip naked for them, or as naked as you can get on TV. This isn’t just about humiliating us for losing a bet, it’s about— I mean, it’s about our bodies, right? It’s about us! They want to own us! Once we go out that door we lose all control. Our clothes, our wallets, our keys are all in here, and who knows if we see them again at noon or by midnight or by next week. For the rest of our careers, when someone Google Image searches our names plus ‘shirtless’ or ‘naked,’ the photos that are about to be taken, in just a few minutes, are the photos that will come up. Any woman who is interested in dating us—or any guy, sorry Tracker—isn’t going to have to guess what she’s going to see at the end of the third date, she can just look it up. For a lot of women, that means we won’t even get the first date. If we go through that door, we will forever be exactly what we are now, defeated losers stripped to underwear, slaves to the owners of a second-rate mid-market TV station. If we get to keep the underwear at all, that is. We have to obey every order, so if they tell us to strip naked, we’ve got to do it, because the only clothing we’re wearing are tight white briefs that are the legal property of fucking Tim Trebow. If they tell us to handcuff ourselves naked to the chain link fence in front of the street, we’ve got to do it, because that was the bet, and if we try to walk out at that point it’s way too late. They will have all the power. If they tell us to bend over and get fucked up the ass while they film it in 4K resolution, we’ve got to do it. If they—,” Bill continued.

But I cut him off. I spanked him, hard, and then kept my hand on his ass, squeezing.

“Bill. Snap out of it. You watch too much porn. Those are professional colleagues out there. They are going to have us put on a cute innocent show for the cameras, like we’re all best buddies who lost a bet on the Panthers game, and then we’re going to get dressed and go home,” I said.

“Seriously, Bill, chill out. You might not work out as much as Tracker or me—fuck, I don’t think anyone works out as much as Tracker, Jesus, dude, slow down—but it still pays to advertise,” Pete said.

“This male bonding is so charming to watch, but you’ve got three hours of humiliation to endure. Let’s go,” Sam said, reaching for the door.

“Behind that door is the total, permanent extinction of our dignity,” Bill said.

With that, there was a knock at the door; a sudden vigorous pounding, as if the police were about to knock it down with a battering ram.

“Time’s up! Come on out!,” came the shout.

We all recognized the voice: Skipper Treadly, the Channel 5 sports reporter.

“Oh fuck, it’s Skipper, their sports reporter,” said Pete Pucker, Channel 4’s sports reporter. Pete seemed to shrink as I watched him. His proud muscular chest, which he had thrust forward, sank. His hands, which had been hanging loosely at his side, covered his groin, like he was getting ready to be kicked there.

“Yeah, so? I’m expecting they’ve got their entire news team out there, to shoot selfies with us in our underwear. Even their new weather guy, whoever he is,” I said.

“So, me and Skipper—- well, I kind of, fucked his girlfriend, and then she left him last week, and I think he blames—-,” Phil started.

Sam was hearing none of this. He opened the door.


1 Comment

  1. scotts60143 - April 19, 2018, 7:51 am

    Good intros to the story. Looks like the set up could lead to some interesting things considering they are all in just undies!

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