Part Three

It was one hell of a Friday night.  I'd met a sexy goth on the morning train into work, one who wore leather and spandex, and had accurately guessed my love for trash.  He claimed it was the way I'd kept crossing my legs while he rustled his newspaper that alerted him to it, because his former boyfriend, also a trash fetishist, did the same thing to the sound of rustling paper.

That evening, I met him in the back lot of an office building and we made out in a dumpster filled to the top with workplace rubbish.  He had also performed analingus on me during my struggle to get into the dumpster through the side door.  Later, he took me to his home in his Porsche, and then to his "bedroom," which was filled with trashbags -- a mammoth pile of seventy-five of them.  After rustling around in this trash together, the goth had then cleared a space in the heap of bags, ordered me into it, and threw what must have been 15 sacks of trash back onto me.

I was now crushed beneath those 15 bags, while the goth, whose name was Douglas, lay on top of them, masturbating and moaning in ecstasy.  He was bouncing his ass up and down on the trashbags, obviously going at it full-throttle.  There were air pockets in the space I was in, which made it possible for me to breathe, but the air was hot and I was really hemmed in by the rubbish.  I couldn't move.

"AAAHHH!" Douglas groaned, having achieved.  "JEEZ, that was great ...  Hey, you alright down there, you piece of trash?"

"Yes!"  I answered, though it must have sounded like "yepfff" to him through all the trash.

I heard him dismount the pile, the shifting sounds of the rubbish filtering down to me, and heard the "ppft-ppft" sound of his bare feet on the wooden floor as he walked out of the room.  Five minutes later, I heard him return, only this time his footfalls went "clomp-clomp."

"OK, let's get you out of there," Douglas said, and I heard the rustle of trashbags being shifted as he re-opened the space.

I crawled out from the trash, sucking in the cooler air of the room.  I was amazed to discover that my cock had not diminished in size at all.  I was still packing a seven-incher, which is as big as I get when I'm REALLY turned on.

Douglas, meanwhile, was now wearing a plastic PVC thong and his black leather workboots.   He also had a 60-gallon trash bag with him.  He threw all the bags of trash back into the space once more, giving me delectable views of his thonged ass as he did so, and then levelled me with a look which could only be described as one of wild excitement.

"I guess you can tell what's coming next," he said, and he opened the trash bag.  "In you go.  It's where trash like you belongs."

Trash doesn't argue, and neither did I.  I dutifully got in the bag, the soft plastic surrounding me, and sat Indian-style.  Then the bag gently collapsed around me as Douglas wordlessly left, but he came back a minute later.  I heard something being wheeled into the room.  It was a work trolley, and on it was a large trash barrel.

Douglas grinned as he lifted the barrel and emptied its contents into the bag I was sitting in.  Copious amounts of wastepaper, aluminum cans, steel tins, milk jugs and other plastic waste, orange peels, used tea bags, coffee grounds, and even a few small glass bottles, fell on and around me in one glorious trashy crash.

"Now then, do you know what ultimately happens to trashbags, my sweet?  Especially naughty bags of trash like yourself?"

"We get thrown out?"

"Exactly.  You get thrown out.  And it's out you're going, you vile, smelly, fat bag of trash."

I felt myself being lifted into the air as Douglas placed the bag of trash I was in onto the trolley.  He wheeled me out his front door, down a wheelchair ramp, and deposited the bag against a telephone pole.  I could briefly feel other bags shift around me, so I knew I was among other bags of trash.

"Now then, you are where trash really belongs.  Waiting for the trashmen to pick you up."  Douglas went back inside his house.

I created a few small holes in the bag for air, and with my back against the pole I had support and so was fairly comfortable.  I listened to the sounds of people walking by all night long, excited by the fact that, as far as they could see, I was trash.  They didn't know I was there, but the fact that I WAS there, in a bag of trash amongst other bags of trash, on the pavement in public, was magic.  Now I was living the trashy dream for real.  I was, in every way, totally and completely trash.  I started masturbating silently and came a number of times.

I must have eventually dozed off for a while because a few hours had passed, but then I heard the trash truck coming down the road and the loud roar of the packer.  I felt the cold sting of panic grip me, my blood running raw, and I thought I would have to do the mega-embarrassing thing and holler at the trashmen to leave this bag alone. 

Was Douglas honestly going to leave me to this fate? 

Did he really intend on treating me like trash to THIS extent?

Just as I heard the other bags of trash around me being shifted by the trashmen, and was about to protest, Douglas came running out of his home, lifted me back onto the trolley, and said to the trashmen, "Sorry, I need this back, I think I threw something important in there." 

He'd thrown something important in here, alright!

A few minutes later, still wearing the bag of trash, but with my head free and the top of the bag tied around my neck, I sat on the floor of Douglas's "bedroom".  He was still dressed in his thong and boots.

"Did you really go out there like THAT?"  I asked him.

"No, you silly bag of trash," Douglas laughed.  "I had my long leather coat on."

"I love being your bag of trash," I said.

"And I love you being my trash," Douglas said, stroking my face gently and affectionately.  Then, without further adieu, he tipped me over and I heard him ripping the plastic of the bag at the back.  I felt the trash around my butt being shifted, and I knew what this was going to involve.

"Now just relax, sweet trashbag.  Sometimes, the trash just needs to be compacted."  

He took me from behind, thrusting his amazing cock up my poop chute.  He had his arms clutched around the front of my trashbag and was whispering seductively in my ear, "Mmm, nice trash!  Everyone should have a bag of trash like you to make love to!  Sexy, sexy trash."

Douglas was an amazingly skilled and gentle lover.  I hardly felt any pain, even though I'd seen earlier that he was hung like a stallion.  I responded to every movement in ecstasy, the rubbish which surrounded me rustling and shifting every time.

Once Douglas had finished intercourse, he dismounted me, gingerly lifted me back to an upright position, and declared, "Oh dear, the trashbag has torn.  Sometimes that's the price a bag of trash pays for being compacted.  Well, we can't have that, can we?  Trash must be contained."

He retrieved a fresh trash bag and slipped that over the ripped bag I was still sitting in.  Then he dropped some of the trash that had dropped out from the tear hole into the new bag and tied that up around my neck.

"There, trashy, just like brand new!  Well, I gotta do some shopping.  Watch the place for me while I'm gone, would you?" 

And with that, Douglas picked me up once more and threw me square in the middle of his trash heap.  And there I sat, the 76th bag of trash in his playroom and nothing more. I didn't say a word as he winked at me and left.

I was, after all, just his trash.

05.12.08