— by Shokolada —
(I wrote this a long time ago on the instructions of a dominant friend; after reading this, she mentioned that she knew what to do with me next time we met…)
We’re at your house on Saturday afternoon, and have been cuddling and fooling around for a while. You can tell I’m getting a little excited from what we’re doing, and you suddenly get a wicked gleam in your eye. “Strip!” you order me, and since it’s you, of course I do.
You tell me to open a pudding can and make up a cream pie, and I eagerly go to do that as you head out of the room for a moment; you get back about the time I finish. You take out my roll of pallet wrap, and wrap me into a fetal position; my knees up against my chest, my head sticking out of one end of the wrapping and my feet and butt out the other end. Of course, I enjoy it, and when you’re done, you ask me with a grin if I’m comfy. I nod; I’m having a good time so far!
You roll me forward and gently, ignoring my protests; and slip a flared butt plug into me, working it back and forth until it pops in. Rolling me upright again, you unroll one of the 55-gallon bags and, before you shake it out, you use a pair of scissors to cut several 1-inch slits on the folds. Once you’ve opened it, you roll me in, and use a twist tie to close the top, The slits give me more than enough air, but are hard to see from outside. I’m loving this, of course… when you rolled me in, you could see evidence of that between my legs!
You half-roll, half slide me over near the front door, where there’s already another full bag of debris from last night’s food fight. By this time, my voice is coming muffled through the plastic asking what the heck you have in mind. You undo the tie and open the bag, looking down at my upturned face. You show me the pie, and say, “You know, you talk too much!” and pie me in the face with it. I put a ton of cream in that one, and I feel it flow and drip all over me. While I’m still recovering from that, you upend the can of chocolate pudding over me, covering my head and making it run down my back and shoulders, and under the pallet wrap.
You lean in and say, “Well, you look like you’re ready to go out with the trash. Now be quiet, and don’t move a muscle, or you’ll go to the curb right now,” and with that, you tie the bag back over my head. I do my best not to move, and I could barely speak anyway with a mouth full of cream and pudding; but the goo is running into every crevice of my body, and the plug is about to decide it really wants out.
Suddenly, I hear a buzzing, and I realize that you’ve got a vibrator out. You purr, “Yes, I’ve got my pants and panties down, and I’m looking at poor little you trapped in there while I use it… but you still may not move an inch!” It’s torture now. I am so excited by what you’re doing, and what you’ve done to me, and the plug is getting so uncomfortable…
I’m about to try to tear myself from the pallet wrap and out of the bag despite your warnings, when the doorbell rings. I freeze. You turn off the vibrator and pull your pants up and say, “That must be the pizza. I doubt I have to repeat my warnings.” You open the door, and I can hear you talking to the pizza guy. You seem to be drawing this out as long as you can, and I’m straining to stay still, I don’t want to give myself away with a single wiggle. How would we explain me naked and bound in a trash bag full of goo?
Of course, the harder I try, the worse it makes it; you, evil one, you actually invite him in while you go get your purse from the table across the room. I’m sure he must be staring at the two huge trash bags, wondering about them; I’m heating up with embarrassment, but I’m also rock-hard, I’m turned on beyond belief. An eternity later, you close the door. You set the pizzas aside, and drag my bag to a dropcloth nearby. A pair of scissors quickly cuts me out, and I finally stand just before I can’t hold it any longer. You grin at me, and you have just enough time to ditch your clothes before I pull you down onto the dropcloth and have my sticky, slippery way with you 🙂
