Part Two

It was late Friday evening and I had just put my clothes back on and hopped into a sportscar belonging to a friendly, sexy goth named Douglas with whom I had just frolicked in an office trash dumpster.  Douglas promised me more fun at his place and I certainly didn't need my arm twisted to take him up on the offer.

Douglas drove me two miles to his pad, a homey little apartment on the first floor of a duplex.  On the way there, we talked normal guy chat:  work, the football scores, etc., which I suppose was our subliminal way of dampening the fire we both felt till we got to his place.  He parked his Porche -- otherwise known as sex on wheels -- in the drive and announced, "Home sweet home, fella!  Come inside, and do make yourself at home."

I walked into Douglas's apartment. A little foyer led straight into his living room.  I sat down on the sofa, when Douglas said to me, "Now what sort of way is THAT of making yourself at home?  Get your kit off!"

I laughed.  I threw off my jean shorts, shirt and underwear, placed them neatly on the floor, and then sat back and relaxed on the couch.  Douglas continued to look at me askance, so  I layed across the length of the sofa, legs spread, and crossed my arms behind my head.  Douglas smiled sweetly at me.

"That's better," he said.   He took off his clothes as well, made us both a cup of tea, and sat Indian-style on the floor, stroking my left leg up and down tenderly while we drank and talked.

"OK, so," Douglas said, "Michael, my ex, wasn't the only one with a trash fetish.  I have the same fetish.  But I never realized it until I'd met him.  It's funny, but true.  One night, when he had retired before me, I caught him in bed wearing a big trash bag, one of those 55-gallon ones, and it was lined with sheets from an entire large Sunday newspaper.   He was shy at first and told me that it was just about keeping warm.  He said on a cold night, wearing a trash bag stuffed with paper soon makes you toasty.  So I tried that myself, and something ..." 

He broke off and winked at me.  "Something just CLICKED, y'know?

"Then the pretense just washed away.  I said to him, 'I really like this!'  Then Michael said, 'So do I.  I just LIKE it.  That's why I do it.'   Soon after, we would dumpster dive, not for treasure, but just to play in the rubbish.   We liked office dumpsters like the one you and me just played in. Soon after that, we would bag each other up.  We'd save a week's worth of trash and one of us would be the other's bag of trash.  I really got into that."    Douglas was tenderly stroking my cock now.  I was listening with rapture.

"Whoever was the trashbag got dominated, threatened with being thrown out, that sort of thing.  All in good fun."

"I ... I'd love ...," I was so excited that I could hardly speak.  "I'd LOVE to do that,"  I managed to croak.

Douglas gave me a coy look. "Would you now?  Then come on. Follow me."  We walked down the corridor to his bedroom.  As soon as I walked in, my jaw dropped.   It was a large bedroom, but there was no bed.  There was a chest-of-drawers by the large windows and a small workstation at the other end of the room.  The rest of the room was a pile of trash.   Literally.  A pile of what must have been 75 bags of trash.

Douglas wasted no time explaining.  "I keep the blinds shut for obvious reasons.  Soon after Michael moved out, I decided I wanted to explore this trash fetish further, and really take it to the limit.  So I sold my bed and I just sleep in that," he said, pointing to the mountain of trashbags.  "It's really comfortable,"  he said.  He smiled at me.  "Would you like to try it?"

"Would I!"  I layed down carefully on a corner of the pile, the trash rustling to my movement. 

Douglas laughed.  "You!  THIS is how you get into it,"  and he ran across the room and jumped in the middle of the trash heap.  A few papers and cans flew up into the air with his landing.  Then he gave me a big grin.

"Oh, I just love trash," Douglas said, getting excited.  "It never fails to turn me on."

"Me too," I said, romping through the trashbags, joining him.  "I love the sound, the look, the smell and the feel of it.  I want to be in it, be part of it.  I want to BE it.  I want to be trash!"

"You ARE trash, boy," Douglas said.  "Look around you, it's all you see, so it's all you are.  You are part of this trash.  But not completely yet..."

Douglas started clearing a space, throwing bags around, till a depression in the pile was formed.  "Get in there, you trash," he ordered.  I did so without hesitation.

Douglas threw the bags back on me and laid on top of the pile he'd re-created.   I could tell he was spread-eagle at the top of the trashbags, masturbating. 

"NOW you are definitely TRASH," he stated.

The night was yet still young.

23.11.08