— by Shokolada —
“It’s trash day,” she says, and I’m eager to find out what she has in mind. She sends me into the bedroom to strip, while I hear her doing something in the spare room involving rustling plastic. When I’m nude, she leads me into the kitchen, kissing me on the way there with a grin.
Before I sit on the cold kitchen tile, she produces an hourglass shape of black plastic cut from a trash bag, slips it through my crotch and ties the corners off, making a set of shiny briefs. I sit down then with my knees against my chest, the thin material not blocking the cold at all, but I warm up a bit with excitement as she produces a length of rope. She slips my arms between my knees, and proceeds to tie my wrists and ankles to each other. Soon, I’m not going anywhere.
She reinforces my helplessness by fetching our roll of shiny black pallet wrap, and cocooning me from the neck down. I’m not cold anymore, sealed tightly in here. She pulls a ball gag from her back pocket and slips it on me, tightening it behind my head. “Comfy?” she asks.
“Hmmm hmmm hmm hmmmm,” I answer.
“Excellent,” she grins. “Time to get the trash together.”
She’s gone for a few minutes, and when she comes back, she’s changed from her t-shirt and jeans to the vinyl French Maid’s outfit she wore to the costume party last month. She’s got a drawstring trashbag in her hand, and she proceeds to slip it up around my wrapped form. It’s a tight fit, and she has to roll me around and manhandle my helpless body quite a lot, making sure I get several opportunites to look down her cleavage. She knows how excited she’s making me, and loves that there’s little I can do about it. Eventually, she’s got me in there, and pulls the drawstring almost too tight around my neck. With an evil gleam in her eye, she knots the string repeatedly – no way am I getting loose without scissors and help.
She heads to the guest room, and returns with several overstuffed trashbags which she proceeds to pile around me. I don’t get poked by any sharp corners, for which I’m grateful, and there doesn’t seem to be any bad smells either. “This is hard work,” she complains. “I’ve got to sit down for a moment.” She turns on the TV and sits on the couch within my field of view, drinking from a soda bottle. She watches TV for a long time – I can’t see a clock, but one program ends and another starts. At no time does she even look in my direction, and I certainly can’t make any noise… I’m just stuck in the corner with the trash.
After a while, her hand wanders down and the hem of her skirt comes up. I can’t see exactly what she’s doing, but the theatrical moans that come from her make it clear what I’m supposed to be thinking. I don’t know whether it’s completely faked for my benefit, or she’s just exaggerating a bit what she’s really doing to herself, but either way I’m extremely hot in here now. Though my hands are restricted, and I’m wearing these briefs, still I try to rub just a little, in just the right place…
She lets me get away with this for a while, then storms into the room. “I should have known,” she glares. “If you let the trash build up too much, it’ll just end up making a mess that will be even harder to clean up. Serves me right for putting this off.” With that, she pulls one of the big 55-gallon bags out from under the sink, clears away some of the other trashbags surrounding me, and works me into the big bag. In moments light is cut off as I slip into it, and the plastic rustles loudly around me as she winds the top together. The finishing touch is the ratchety sound of the plastic zip tie closing around the bag’s ponytail, exciting me even more.
She kicks some of the other bags out of the way, grabs the ponytail and starts dragging me along the smooth tile floor. After she’s dragged me for a couple yards, and the floor has changed from tile to what I guess is hardwood, I hear her go and bring out the other bags too; then the sound of two zippers and a belt buckle has me guessing that she’s changed back into her street clothes. It’s getting a little hot in here, but as she grabs me to drag me some more, one of her fingers pokes a hole in the top of my bag near my ear. I can’t see much, but fresh air and a little light flow in, and I greedily drink up both.
It’s gets brighter, and I hear door hinges. Has she gone outside? I try to call out, but the gag is preventing me. What’s going on?
I hear her footsteps come close, and stop. “Damn cheap trash bags,” she gripes. “Always getting holes in them.” Didn’t she make that air hole for me on purppose? I feel myself rocked and maneuvered again, and realize that she’s slipping another bag around me! My light is quickly cut off again, and I hear a second zip tie sealing me up. Isn’t this just a game we were playing? What does she have in mind suddenly – I’m not a breath player, I’ve told her that!
I hear the crinkly thud of some of the other bags being tossed about, and feel her grabbing me again. This time, I’m being rolled around, and I try to lower my head a bit so it doesn’t get mashed. I feel the bump as I roll onto another different surface, then a pause.
Suddenly my world tips over again, and I don’t feel hands on me this time. Whatever it is I’m lying on is tipping, and I slide down the slick surface into plastic rustle. I guess that I’m somehow lying on a few of the other trash bags (mercifully softer than I’d have expected) and I suddenly realize where I am; I’m in the rolling plastic bin that the trash pickup truck gets! She had set it on its side to roll me in, and she’s just tipped it back upright! Three more bags get stuffed over and around me, filling the bin full and squeezing me tight in there. I start struggling madly, but the rope and wrap and other bags have me pinned, though it makes her giggle to see me do it. My theory is confirmed in a moment, as I hear the lid come up and over and slam shut, and the anti-varmint latch snaps closed. It’s just a large plastic tab automatically released by the truck, one I could easily pop loose if I could move… but I can’t.
I’m stuck here.
With some effort, she tips me up on the wheels and starts rolling me. I feel uneven ground under my wheels and realize we’re actually outside – no wonder she changed back to jeans! I’m actually thankful for all the trashbags around me, as they cushion my journey a bit. Finally, the bin stops moving, but not before the sound under the wheels has turned gravelly, and I realize I really am at the curb!!
“You always secretly wondered what this would be like, didn’t you,” she says loud enough for me to hear. “I’ve seen the sites you post to… after the first few times I bagged you up, a simple Google search told me what you really like. I’m kinda glad you never told me, as it made it a lot more fun to completely surprise you.
“The question is, am I actually going to let you out? ‘Of course she will,’ you’re thinking right now. ‘She wouldn’t leave me here, we love each other.’ And you’re right, I do love you… so much that it’s making me damn hot thinking about how much part of you would really like me to leave you in here until it’s too late.
“This is going to take some time… I’ll have to think about it a bit.” And I hear her walking around and around the bin… banging on the side of it just to hear me lurch inside… laughing to herself. Finally, she stops.
“Remember what you were doing in the kitchen? Do that again. Do that for me, I want to watch your bin, think about you tied up in a trashbag and thrown away with the rest of the trash, and know that you are coming in there and making a mess in the briefs I so kindly made for you.”
I find that I can just touch myself if I try hard… maybe my muscles are loosening a bit. It takes me a long time to get close to orgasm. I can breathe well, though I don’t know where I’m getting air from at this point… maybe she made another hole, but I didn’t think there were air holes in the bin anywhere. Frankly, I’m too worked up to care. I know the bin is shaking with the desperate energy I’m putting into this, and because I can hear the grin in her voice.
“You like it in there? Are you excited, being my trash? Surrounded by other glossy black bags that are trash just like you? Confined under layers of plastic and locked into this bin? I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t let you go… you’re taking so long in there. If you’re not gonna come for me, trash boy, then forget it, you’re staying.”
That was enough, and I hit orgasm, rocking around in there to make sure she knew, being as loud as I could through the gag. I slowly settled down, trying to catch my breath, and waited for her answer through the silence.
“… Nope. Didn’t do it for me. Bye, trash boy!” and her footsteps left the gravel. And then the front door slammed. Oh. My. God.
I spent a long time that afternoon trying to get out of those ropes.
… and, I admit, plenty of time not really trying that hard.
Of course, she did let me out eventually – she’d never left the yard, in fact. She just sat in a nearby lawn chair with her soda and a good book, glancing up at regular intervals to confirm that I was still struggling, and making sure the small air holes she’d punched in the back of the bin weren’t blocked. Guess the best way to get out sooner would have been to remain completely still and worry her… but part of me is glad that I never thought of that! And the rest of the trash in there with me? Bagged-up pillows, so I know I’d have gotten out eventually. She hates sleeping without ’em 🙂
P.S. This is totally a fantasy. At least I assume so. I did get a text message on my phone this morning that said, “Don’t forget to put the bins by the curb before you leave for work… I need to make sure they’ll be empty this weekend!”
That made me shiver.
