Part Two – Rehabilitation
The bag jostles around you as the car rumbles along, the trunk’s confined space amplifying every bump and turn. The plastic clings to your skin, still damp with the grime of the dumpster, and the faint musk of your earlier indiscretions lingers in the air. Your wrists and ankles remain bound, the duct tape chafing slightly with each shift, but you’ve stopped fighting it—resignation’s settled in, mixed with a flicker of something else. Curiosity, maybe? Dread? Or that same dark thrill you can’t quite shake? You’re not sure anymore; the lines are blurring.
The car slows, tires crunching over gravel, then stops. The trunk pops open, and a rush of cool air seeps through the bag’s seams, cutting through the stale warmth inside. Hands grab the knot above your head—two sets, by the feel of it—and you’re lifted out, swaying slightly as they carry you. Footsteps thud against a hard floor, then soften as if crossing a rug. A door creaks open, and the air changes—warmer, tinged with something sharp, like leather and incense. You’re set down, the bag rustling as it settles, and then a voice cuts through the silence, low and smooth, with an edge that makes your pulse jump.
“Well, well. What a filthy little package Emma’s sent me.”
The knot above you loosens, and the bag peels away, sliding down your body to pool at your feet. You blink against the sudden light—dim, but harsh after days in darkness—and take in the room. It’s a stark contrast to the courtroom’s cold formality: dark walls, a polished wooden floor, shelves lined with coiled ropes, paddles, and things you can’t quite identify. A single chair sits in the center, sturdy and unyielding, its leather cushion gleaming faintly under a low-hanging lamp. Standing before you is a woman—tall, poised, her presence filling the space like she owns every inch of it. She’s dressed in black leather, a corset cinching her waist, her boots clicking as she steps closer. Her hair’s pulled back tight, and her eyes—sharp, assessing—lock onto yours, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
She circles you slowly, her gaze raking over your naked, grime-streaked form, lingering on the evidence of your arousal that Judge Emma so pointedly called out. “So,” she says, her voice a velvet blade, “you’re the trash boy who couldn’t keep it together. Got off on being garbage, did you?” She stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume—something dark and spiced—over the stench clinging to you. “I’m Mistress Vara. Emma tells me you’ve learned your lesson about littering, but this…” She gestures vaguely at your erection, her smirk widening. “This needs correcting. And I’m very good at corrections.”
She steps back, folding her arms, her posture commanding even in stillness. “Here’s how this works. You’ve stumbled into a fetish—objectification, degradation, whatever you want to call it—and instead of letting it fester unchecked, I’m going to harness it. You’ll be restrained, pushed, reshaped until this little impulse of yours bends to my will, not yours. By the time I’m done, you’ll either hate it or beg for it—but it’ll be on my terms. Understood?”
You nod, your throat dry, words caught somewhere between shame and anticipation. She doesn’t wait for more. With a flick of her wrist, she signals to the two figures who brought you in—silent, shadowed assistants in dark clothing. They move fast, cutting the tape from your wrists and ankles with precise snips, then guide you to the chair. Your limbs ache as they’re freed, but there’s no time to stretch or protest. They sit you down, the leather cool against your skin, and strap you in—thick cuffs snapping around your wrists and ankles, locking you to the chair’s frame. A final strap cinches across your chest, pinning you upright, exposed and immobile.
Mistress Vara watches, her expression unreadable, then steps forward with a length of black cloth in her hands. “No distractions,” she murmurs, tying it around your eyes. The world goes dark, and your other senses sharpen—the creak of her boots, the rustle of her movements, the faint hum of the room. “You’re an object now,” she says, her voice closer, brushing your ear. “Not a person, not trash—just mine to play with. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Something cold brushes your skin—a metal edge, maybe a blade—trailing lightly down your chest, teasing but not cutting. Your breath hitches, and she chuckles, low and throaty. “Already reacting? Good. We’ve got plenty of time to explore that.” The sensation shifts—something softer now, maybe fabric or a feather, dragging across your thighs, then gone. Then a sharp snap—a crop, you realize, as it stings your shoulder, quick and precise. You jolt against the restraints, and she hums approvingly. “Sensitive. Perfect.”
The pattern continues—cold, soft, sharp—unpredictable, keeping you on edge. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, your body tensing and relaxing in waves, every touch amplifying that strange mix of humiliation and desire. She’s silent now, letting the sensations speak, and you’re left grappling with your own reactions—hating how much you crave it, yet powerless to stop.
Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice calm but firm. “Tell me, object—what do you feel right now? No lies. I’ll know.”
You avert your eyes and clear your throat, heart pounding fast as you open up. “i felt… Aroused, scared. Mixed emotions really. “
You keep your gaze off of hers as you are embarrassed by this whole ordeal.
Mistress Vara looms over you, her shadow cutting through the dim light as her sigh fills the space—a sound heavy with disappointment, but edged with intent. “Scared but aroused? Mixed emotions?” she repeats, her tone sharp, almost mocking. She steps closer, her boots clicking against the floor, her presence radiating authority as she stands directly above you, her voice dropping to a low, cutting murmur. “You’re wrong. First, you spoke. Objects don’t speak—clearly, you don’t even grasp what an object is. Second, you shouldn’t feel anything. Objects don’t feel. You’re either a person who talks and feels, or you’re my object to do with as I please. You can’t be both.”
Her words hang in the air, unyielding, and you feel the weight of them pressing down, sharper than the straps still binding you to the chair. She turns her head slightly, addressing the two shadowed figures lingering near the door. “Leave us,” she commands, her voice firm but casual, like she’s dismissing a pair of errand runners. They obey without a word, their footsteps fading as the door clicks shut, leaving you alone with her in the charged silence.
She leans in, her face close enough that you catch the glint in her eyes—piercing, unreadable. “Let’s try this again,” she says, softer now, but no less demanding. “What are you?”
You stay silent this time, lips pressed tight, the lesson sinking in. No words, no feelings—just stillness. Her smirk returns, faint but approving, as she straightens up. “Good,” she says, almost to herself. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” She paces a slow circle around the chair, her boots a deliberate rhythm against the wood. “You need to learn to separate these two sides of yourself—the person who stammers and squirms, and the object that obeys. Control it, refine it. And then?” She stops behind you, her breath brushing your ear. “I’ll seize that control and keep it for myself.”
With a flick of her fingers, she unties the blindfold, pulling it away. The room snaps back into focus—dark, severe, every detail stark under her gaze. She moves to the straps next, unbuckling them with swift, practiced motions, freeing your wrists, chest, and ankles. You flex your stiff limbs as she steps back, gesturing toward a narrow staircase in the corner. “Upstairs,” she commands. “Bathroom. Follow.”
You rise, shaky but obedient, and trail her up the stairs, the wood creaking underfoot. The air shifts as you enter a small, tiled bathroom—clean, clinical, a stark contrast to the dungeon below. She twists the shower knob, and water hisses out, steam curling into the air. “Clean yourself,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she looks you over. “You stink like shit. Two minutes. That’s all you get.” Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her as she leaves to gather whatever she’s planning next.
The water scalds at first, but you step in, letting it blast away the layers of filth—grease, sweat, the dumpster’s lingering rot. Soap’s there, a plain bar on the ledge, and you scrub fast, racing against her clock. Two minutes pass in a blur, and you shut off the water, stepping out to grab the towel hanging nearby. You dry off quickly, the rough fabric scraping your skin clean, just as the door swings open again.
Mistress Vara strides in, a roll of black garbage bags tucked under one arm, a spool of duct tape in her hand. She snatches the towel from you, tossing it aside with a nod of approval at your freshly scrubbed state. “Better,” she says, then sets the items down, her movements deliberate. “Now, let’s establish your place here. You’re my garbage slave—fitting, don’t you think? Time you learned where you belong.”
She rips a bag from the roll, the plastic snapping sharply as she tears holes for your arms and head. She slips it over you, the glossy black material sliding against your clean skin, and cinches it tighter around your torso with a strip of tape, sealing it into a makeshift shirt. Next, she grabs another bag, ripping leg holes this time. “Step in,” she orders, and you comply, lifting one foot, then the other, as she pulls it up over the first bag, taping it securely around your waist—a crude pair of pants. Two more bags follow, one for each leg, slipped on and taped into place, encasing you fully in this bizarre, crinkling outfit. The plastic rustles with every breath, clinging awkwardly, a constant reminder of your new role.
She steps back, admiring her work with a satisfied tilt of her head. “Perfect,” she says, her smirk returning. “A garbage slave in his proper uniform. Follow me.”
You trail her back downstairs, the bags shifting noisily with each step, until she leads you to a corner of the main room. There, tucked against the wall, is a large industrial garbage can—tall, wide, its dark green metal scratched but sturdy, a heavy lid resting beside it. She lifts the lid with a casual flick, revealing an empty interior lined with a fresh bag. “This,” she says, gesturing grandly, “is your bed. You’ll be locked in here each night—safe, contained, exactly where trash belongs. I’ll let you out each morning for training, and when we’re done, you’ll report back, climb in, and I’ll lock you up again. Simple, yes?”
She pats the rim of the can, her eyes locking onto yours, daring you to react. “Go on,” she says, her voice a quiet command. “Get in.”
You step toward the bin, the garbage bag outfit crinkling with each movement, and climb inside as instructed. The plastic lining inside brushes against your legs, cool and slick, and you can’t hide the reaction her command stirs in you—your cock stiffens, betraying that twisted thrill bubbling up again. You’re barely settled, standing in the can’s hollow depths, when Mistress Vara’s sharp gaze catches it. She freezes mid-motion, her hand still on the lid, and her lips press into a thin, displeased line.
“Stop,” she says, her voice like a whipcrack. You pause, one foot still lifted, and she steps closer, eyes narrowing at your erection. “What’s this? I didn’t tell you to get hard.” She sets the lid down with a deliberate thud, crossing her arms as she looms over you. “This is exactly the behavior we’re here to correct, garbage slave. You don’t get aroused unless I allow it. Your body answers to me, not your perverse little whims.”
She gestures at you, her tone icy. “Stroke yourself. Release it. Get rid of that ridiculous hard-on—now.” You hesitate, hands fumbling awkwardly in the crinkling bags, and start, but your pace is sluggish, unsteady under her scrutiny. Her patience snaps. “Pathetic,” she mutters, stepping into the bin’s shadow. With a begrudging sigh, she shoves your hand aside and takes over, her grip firm and unrelenting. Her touch is clinical, not tender, but it’s enough—your body responds fast, too fast, and within moments you cum hard, a sharp groan escaping as the release arcs out, splattering a few feet away onto her pristine floor.
She pulls back, wiping her hand on your garbage bag “shirt” with a look of pure disgust. “Disgraceful,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. She reaches for a small bell on a nearby table and rings it, the chime cutting through the room’s tense silence. Almost instantly, the door swings open, and a woman enters—stunning, in her twenties, clad in a leather maid’s outfit that’s more suggestion than substance. The straps barely cover her, leaving her breasts and vagina brazenly exposed, her skin gleaming under the dim light. She moves with a quiet grace, stopping a few feet away, head bowed slightly as she awaits orders.
Mistress Vara doesn’t even glance at her, just points to the puddle of your cum glistening on the floor. “Clean this,” she says, her tone flat but commanding. The maid nods, a flicker of something—gratitude?—crossing her face as she sinks to her knees. She lowers herself to the mess and laps it up, tongue working methodically, like a dog cleaning a spill. The floor shines spotless in seconds, and she rises, licking her lips with a faint, satisfied hum.
Mistress Vara steps over, her expression softening just enough to pat the maid’s head—a quick, almost affectionate gesture. Then her gaze hardens again as she turns to you, still standing in the bin, flaccid now but still a mess. She points at you. “Clean this thing off too,” she instructs, “and seal it in its trashcan.”
The maid approaches, her movements fluid, and kneels before you without hesitation. Her hands steady your hips as she takes your softened cock into her mouth, sucking gently but thoroughly, clearing away the lingering traces of cum and sweat. The sensation is warm, precise, and over quickly—she’s not here to linger. When she’s done, she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then stands. Her hands press firmly on your shoulders, guiding you down until you’re seated in the bin, the plastic bags crumpling loudly beneath you. She reaches for the lid, sliding it into place with a metallic scrape, and snaps the lock shut. The click echoes, final and firm, sealing you in darkness once more.
Through the bin’s walls, you hear Mistress Vara’s voice, muffled but clear. “Good work,” she says—to the maid, presumably—followed by the faint tap of her boots retreating. The maid’s softer steps follow, and then silence. You’re alone again, curled in your “bed,” the garbage bag outfit sticking to your freshly cleaned skin. The air inside is still, tinged with the faint scent of plastic and leather, and the weight of your new role settles over you like a shroud.
You drift off in the bin, your mind a tangle of questions as sleep claims you. What’s coming next? How long will this last—days, weeks, forever? Will it be heaven, hell, or some warped mix of both? The garbage bag outfit rustles faintly as you shift, the darkness of your “bed” swallowing you whole. Time blurs, and you’re left with nothing but the hum of your own thoughts until exhaustion pulls you under.
Morning breaks with the scrape of the lid sliding off, jolting you awake. You blink up at the maid from yesterday, her leather outfit as brazen as ever, her expression neutral but expectant. “You’re wanted in the kitchen,” she says, voice soft but firm. You climb out, legs stiff from the night, the plastic bags crinkling noisily as you step onto the floor. She replaces the lid with a quiet thud and gestures ahead. “This way.”
You follow her through the house, the faint scent of coffee and toast drifting down the hall as you reach the kitchen. Mistress Vara stands at the counter, poised over a cutting board, a knife flashing through vegetables with precise, practiced cuts. She glances up as you enter, her eyes flicking over your garbage-clad form. “Good morning,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind. “Stand here.” She points to a spot beside her, and you obey, positioning yourself next to the counter as she resumes her work.
“Your training starts now,” she announces, not looking up from her task. “I’ll use you in various ways today, and if you get aroused without my permission, you’ll be punished. We’re training you to control that unruly cock of yours—understood?” You nod, silent, and she continues. She reaches for a small kitchen trash can, pulling out its half-full bag with a deft tug. She unties it, then loops one of its built-in ties around your neck, securing it so the bag hangs open against your torso. “Hold it open,” she commands, and you grip the edges, keeping it steady as she begins tossing in scraps—potato peels, carrot ends, a wilted lettuce leaf. The bag fills slowly, the weight settling against your chest.
You feel it then—a stir below, your cock twitching faintly as the act of being her waste receptacle sinks in. She notices instantly, her eyes darting to the growing bulge beneath the plastic. “Really?” she mutters, exasperated. She turns to the kettle, pouring herself a steaming cup of tea, and plucks the scalding tea bag from the brew. With a flick of her wrist, she drops it into the bag, aiming it low. It lands at the bottom, resting right against your hardening member through the thin layers of plastic. The heat sears—not enough to burn, but enough to sting sharply—and you flinch, a hiss escaping your lips. Your erection flags fast, retreating under the sudden pain. “That’s better,” she says, sipping her tea with a faint smirk. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
She finishes tidying up, wiping her hands on a cloth, then rings the bell. The maid reappears, gliding in silently. Mistress nods toward the bag still hanging from your neck. “Take it,” she says. The maid steps forward, unties it from you, and cinches it shut, the tea bag and scraps sealed inside. She carries it off, tossing it into your bin bed with a soft thump before retreating. Mistress sits at the table, eating her breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, a neat little meal—while you stand there, watching, waiting.
When she’s done, she strolls to the sofa in the next room, a newspaper tucked under her arm. She flops down, unfolding the broad sheets, but the size of it frustrates her—pages flapping awkwardly as she wrestles with them. “Over here,” she calls, patting the coffee table in front of her. “Sit. Arms out, forward a bit.” You perch on the table as instructed, extending your arms slightly, and she props the newspaper upright against your torso, resting its edges between your hands. It holds steady now, and she flips through the pages with ease, scanning articles as she goes.
Each turn of a page brushes lightly against your crotch, the paper whispering over the plastic bags in a teasing graze. The sensation creeps up your spine, warm and tingling, and despite your efforts to focus elsewhere—think of the bin, the tea bag, anything—your cock stirs again. She keeps reading, oblivious at first, but by the time she reaches the last page, you’re rock-hard, the bulge unmistakable beneath the crinkling plastic. She lowers the paper, her gaze locking onto it, and her expression darkens.
“Again?” she snaps, tossing the newspaper aside. “You’re hopeless.” She grabs a few sheets from the pile, crumpling them around your erection in a rough, makeshift sheath, then wraps a layer of duct tape over it, tight and unyielding. The pressure locks your cock in place, rigid and trapped, no chance of softening. It’s uncomfortable at first, then painful as the minutes drag on, the irritation building. She’s not done—she snatches more pages, wrapping them around your head like a hood, taping them securely until only your eyes and mouth peek out. “Look at you,” she mocks, her voice laced with venom. “A disgusting little trash pile, getting off when I tell you not to. You should hate yourself for this.”
With a shove, she pushes you backward off the table. You hit the floor on your back, the impact jarring through you, and she stands, tossing the rest of the newspaper over you in a heap of scattered pages. “Stay there,” she says, turning on her heel and leaving the room, her footsteps fading as she attends to whatever’s next on her agenda.
You lie still, the crinkle of paper and plastic filling the silence, afraid to move. The tape around your cock digs in, a dull ache now, and the humiliation burns hotter than the tea bag ever did. Time stretches—minutes, maybe an hour—until you hear the soft click of heels. The maid’s back. She crosses the room, her hands sliding under your arms, and drags you across the floor with surprising strength. The paper rustles as you’re pulled into another room, this one cluttered with boxes—recycling, by the look of it. One’s piled with paper, a mix of old mail and crumpled sheets, and it’s got space left. She lifts you, setting you down inside it among the other scraps, your newspaper-wrapped form blending in like just another piece of waste. Then she’s gone, her footsteps retreating, leaving you there.
You sit in the box, surrounded by discarded paper, the ache in your taped-up cock a constant nag. An hour ticks by, maybe more, and your mind churns again. What’s she building toward? Is this training—or just punishment for the sake of it? The line between control and chaos feels thinner every minute, and you’re stuck wondering if you’ll ever master it—or if she’ll just keep breaking you down until there’s nothing left to resist.
You’re still sprawled in the recycling box, surrounded by crumpled paper, when hunger hits like a slow, gnawing wave. The effects of that pill—the one the bailiff forced down your throat days ago—have finally worn off, and your body’s waking up to its neglect. Your stomach twists, and a dull weakness seeps into your limbs, leaving you sluggish, barely able to shift against the rustling pile. The taped newspaper around your head crinkles faintly as you slump deeper, too drained to fight it.
Mistress Vara’s boots announce her return, a sharp rhythm against the floor as she strides in. She stops beside the box, towering over you, and without a word, grabs the newspaper sheath taped around your cock. With one swift, brutal yank, she rips it off—tape and paper tearing free in a single motion. Pain flares, sharp and sudden, and you let out a weak yelp, too tired to muster more than that. The newspaper hood stays plastered to your head, a crumpled mask she doesn’t bother removing.
She crouches slightly, her voice cutting through the haze. “For the next half hour, you’re a person again—not an object, not trash. There’s a meal waiting in the other room—basic gruel, nothing fancy, but it’ll keep you going. Stand.” Her tone’s firm, expectant, and you drag yourself up, legs shaky but obedient. “Go eat,” she says, granting permission with a flick of her hand. “Move.”
You stumble out of the box, the garbage bag outfit rustling as you make for the next room. There, on a plain table, sits a bowl of grayish slop—lumpy, unappealing, but your stomach doesn’t care. You dive in, no spoon, just hands and mouth, devouring it with a primal urgency. It’s bland, faintly metallic, but it fills the void, and you lick the bowl clean, chasing every last smear. Satiated, you lean back, catching your breath, the newspaper hood shifting slightly with each exhale.
The maid slips in then, silent as ever, her leather outfit catching the light as she clears the empty bowl. Before you can process it, she perches on your lap, facing you, her bare skin warm against the plastic bags you’re wrapped in. Her eyes lock onto yours—intense, unreadable—and then she leans in, her tongue darting out to lick your face. She laps around your mouth, clearing away stray gruel and saliva, her movements quick and deliberate. It’s strange, invasive, but the attention sparks something—a flicker of liking it, the closeness, the care, however weirdly it’s delivered. She’s done in seconds, hopping off and vanishing from the room without a sound, leaving you blinking in her wake.
Mistress Vara appears moments later, her presence filling the doorway. “Follow me,” she commands, and you rise, trailing her through the house to the garage. The air shifts—cooler, tinged with the faint stink of refuse—as you step inside. Several large trash cans line the walls, half-filled with bags of garbage, their lids propped open or off. She stops in front of one, turning to face you, her expression calculating.
“I’ve been briefed on your little ordeal before this,” she says, her voice low, probing. “The bin, the dumpster, the truck—all of it. Emma filled me in. I know you got off on being trash, not just an object. So let’s test that—see if it’s the garbage itself that gets you going.” She pulls a condom from her pocket, tearing the packet open with a flick of her fingers, and kneels briefly to roll it onto your cock. A dab of weak glue secures it at the base, keeping it in place. “Don’t break it,” she warns, standing. Then she flips open the lid of the nearest bin—half-full, brimming with crumpled bags and food scraps—and nods toward it. “Get in.”
You step forward, climbing in awkwardly, the garbage bags you’re wearing catching on the rim as you slide between the heaps inside. You sink down, the trash shifting and settling around you, swallowing you up to your shoulders. The newspaper hood blends in—a crumpled wad among the refuse, hiding you from any casual glance. She leans over the edge, peering down. “I’ll be back later,” she says, her tone flat. “That condom better be empty when I do. No messing around—control yourself.” The lid swings shut with a heavy thud, plunging you into muffled darkness, and her footsteps fade as she leaves.
You’re alone now, nestled in the bin, the familiar crinkle and weight of garbage pressing against you. The condom’s a tight reminder of her rules, and your mind spins—half from the meal settling in your gut, half from the surreal trap you’re in. The smell’s sharp—rotting peels, stale wrappers—but it’s not new to you anymore. What is new is the test: can you sit here, surrounded by trash, and keep that urge at bay? Or will the old thrill creep back, defying her again?
You sit in the bin, surrounded by the familiar embrace of garbage, the plastic bags you’re wearing blending into the heap as you try to keep your mind blank. No arousal, no slip-ups—just focus on Mistress Vara’s rules. The condom’s snug presence is a constant nag, a silent threat of what’s at stake. You’ve been at it for about an hour, fighting the stirrings of that old thrill, when the garage door creaks open. Footsteps echo—light, purposeful—and the lid lifts with a faint groan.
It’s the maid again, her leather outfit glinting faintly in the dim light. She doesn’t even glance your way, her face a mask of indifference as she hefts two bulging garbage bags in her hands. Without a word, she drops them in—one lands square on your newspaper-wrapped head, the weight jolting you, the other flops heavily across your chest. She leans in, pressing down hard, forcing the bags deeper into the bin. You sink lower, the trash compacting around you, swallowing you up past your shoulders. The lid slams shut, her footsteps retreat, and you’re alone again, buried deeper in the mess.
Her casual disregard hits you hard—she didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t flinch, just treated you like part of the bin’s contents. It’s pure objectification, and despite your efforts, it’s working on you. A trickle of precum seeps into the condom, warm and damning, and your cock hardens, pressing against the plastic layers. The pressure’s intense—one of the bags she shoved in has settled right over your lap, and as you shift, your erection pierces through it. The tear’s small, but enough—your cock slips inside, the garbage within brushing against it, a chaotic mix of damp wrappers and soft scraps rubbing you in all the right ways.
You don’t mean to, but your hips twitch, chasing the sensation. It’s subtle at first, a subconscious nudge, but the friction builds, and soon you’re moving deliberately—rocking against the bag, fucking it in slow, desperate thrusts. The bin creaks faintly with your rhythm, the trash shifting around you, amplifying every rub and press. An orgasm starts to coil, tight and inevitable, and you freeze, breath ragged, as reality crashes back. More movement means release—means filling that condom—and the thought of Mistress Vara’s punishment looms like a shadow. You clench your fists, stilling yourself, the edge so close it aches.
Your mind spins. This test feels rigged—tossing more trash on you, ignoring you like you’re nothing—it’s feeding the very thing she wants you to suppress. But you can’t blame her entirely; you’re the one losing control. You think about stopping this, getting through it clean, so you can claw your way back to… normal. The word feels foreign now, slippery. What even was normal? Before the courtroom, before the bin, before this garage? It’s fading, replaced by this bizarre tangle of shame and desire.
You’re stuck there, hard and half-buried, the torn bag still teasing your cock with every tiny shift. The precum’s pooling more now, a slick warning in the condom, but you haven’t crossed the line—not yet.
Here you are, I side the bin, teetering on the edge of control, the torn garbage bag pressing against your cock as you fight to keep still. The condom’s slick with precum, a fragile line you’re barely holding, when the garage door creaks open again. These footsteps are different—heavier, less hurried than the maid’s sounds like more than one, then voices filter in, two of them, overlapping in casual chatter. You strain to catch the words, but they’re muffled until the lid lifts, flooding the bin with light.
You squint up, eyes adjusting, and see Mistress Vara standing there, mid-conversation with another woman—someone new. She’s tall, sharp-featured, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket that screams confidence. They’re talking about a sale, something being bought, and you catch the tail end as Vara nods toward you. “That’s it there,” she says, her tone offhand, like she’s pointing out a piece of furniture.
The other woman steps closer, peering into the bin. Her eyes sweep over you—newspaper hood, garbage bag outfit, half-buried in trash—and she tilts her head, curious but unimpressed. “Are you throwing it away?” she asks, her voice light but edged with doubt.
Vara hesitates, a rare crack in her usual certainty. “It’s… broken,” she says, glancing at you with a faint grimace. “I’m trying to fix it, but it’s a work in progress. If you want to buy it, though, it’s yours.” She shrugs, as if you’re a faulty appliance she’s tired of tinkering with.
The woman—Helen, you’ll learn her name soon—leans in, nose wrinkling slightly as she takes you in. “It looks sort of dirty,” she says, her tone skeptical. “I don’t know how I feel about buying something that belongs in the trash. What does it do, exactly?”
Vara’s shrug deepens, her uncertainty almost comical if it weren’t so humiliating. “With enough effort, it can do whatever you want,” she replies, vague but confident in her vagueness. “It’s malleable. Takes work, though.”
Helen stares at you, her gaze lingering—assessing, judging. You’re a thing to her, not a person, just some oddity in a bin. She shakes her head, decisive. “Nah, what else have you got? I don’t think I want this.” She reaches up, grabs the lid, and slams it shut, plunging you back into darkness. Their footsteps start to retreat, voices fading toward the door.
That’s it—the trigger. Being sized up, dismissed, rejected as unworthy trash—it’s too much. You cum instantly, a shudder ripping through you as the condom fills, hot and messy, the release spreading into every crevice around your cock. A loud moan escapes, raw and unrestrained, echoing in the bin as your body trembles, softening at last. You failed, spectacularly, and the adrenaline crashes over you like a wave.
The footsteps pause. Vara’s voice cuts through, sharp with realization. “You might be right not wanting this one,” she says, a loud tut punctuating her words. The door slams shut behind them, and you’re alone again, shivering in the aftermath. The bin’s quiet now, save for the faint crinkle of the trash settling around you, the condom a sticky testament to your collapse. You were so close—hours of holding it together, undone in seconds by Helen’s rejection.
Your mind reels. She could’ve bought you, taken you away, made you hers—and she didn’t want you. The shame stings, but it’s tangled with that perverse thrill, the same one that’s been tripping you up all along. You’re left wondering what Vara’s got planned now—punishment, more training, or just tossing you aside like Helen suggested. The bin’s your world again, and all you can do is wait, trapped in the mess you’ve made, literally and otherwise.
The bin’s stillness wraps around you, the condom’s sticky weight a quiet reminder of your failure as you slump in the garbage, shivering faintly from the adrenaline drop. Your mind’s a mess—replaying Helen’s dismissal, Vara’s tut, the orgasm you couldn’t stop—when the garage door bangs open again. Heavy footsteps march toward you, deliberate and unyielding, and the lid flies off with a sharp clatter. Mistress Vara looms above, her face a storm of disgust and exasperation, her eyes zeroing in on you like a hawk spotting prey.
“You pathetic little thing,” she snaps, her voice slicing through the air. “I heard that moan from across the garage—you came, didn’t you? Couldn’t even last a few hours.” She reaches in, yanking the bags out one by one, tossing them aside with rough, angry jerks. Her hand freezes as she pulls up the torn bag—the one you’d fucked in your desperate haze—its ripped edge dangling accusingly. “And what’s this? You humped my trash like some feral dog? Disgusting.”
You open your mouth, words tumbling out in a weak protest. “It wasn’t fair—th-the maid, she—” A sharp crack cuts you off as her hand flies across your face, the slap stinging hot against your cheek. “Shut up,” she growls, towering over you. “Fair? You think I care about fair? You’re trash—trash doesn’t deserve fair. It gets what it gets and takes it.” Her lips curl into a sneer, but there’s a flicker in her eyes—something like grudging admission. “Though, fine, I’ll give you that—the maid didn’t help your odds. But that’s no excuse for this mess.”
She jabs a finger at your chest. “Get out. Now.” You scramble to obey, climbing over the bin’s edge, the garbage bag outfit crinkling loudly as you stumble onto the garage floor. She steps closer, her presence suffocating, and grabs your cock in her palm, lifting it like she’s inspecting a spoiled piece of meat. The condom sags, heavy with cum, and she scoffs. “Look at this—full to the brim. You couldn’t control yourself for one damn minute.” Her grip tightens, squeezing hard, the pressure crushing the sensitive flesh beneath the latex. Pain flares, sharp and unrelenting, and you grit your teeth, a whimper escaping despite your efforts. She holds it a beat longer, then releases, letting your cock drop with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Vara steps back, wiping her hand on her thigh like she’s touched something vile, her eyes glinting with a new idea. “You’re a lost cause like this—turned on by every little degradation. So let’s make it a real test. Training, yes, but my way.” She turns, striding to a workbench in the corner, and rummages through a drawer. When she returns, she’s holding a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags, a pair of industrial zip ties, and a small, buzzing device—a vibrating ring, you realize, as she dangles it in front of you.
“Here’s the game,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “We’re going to wrap you up tight—turn you into a proper trash parcel—and I’m putting this on you.” She kneels, sliding the vibrating ring over your softened cock, clicking it into place at the base. It hums faintly, a low tease, not enough to push you over but enough to keep you on edge. “It stays on, and you stay off. No cumming, no moaning—just take it like the garbage you are.”
She rips a bag from the roll, tearing holes for your arms and legs, and yanks it over you, layering it atop your existing outfit. Another follows, then a third—each one taped tight, cocooning you in crinkling black plastic until you’re a shapeless, shiny bundle, only your head sticking out, still wrapped in that crumpled newspaper hood. She grabs the zip ties next, binding your wrists behind your back and your ankles together, leaving you immobile, helpless.
Then she drags you—not gently—toward a large, wheeled recycling bin in the corner, this one brimming with flattened cardboard and crumpled paper. “Your new spot,” she says, hoisting you up and tipping you in headfirst. You land with a muffled thud, sinking into the pile, the cardboard shifting under your weight. She grabs a stack of old newspapers from a nearby shelf—thick, heavy bundles—and starts piling them atop you, burying you deeper. “You love trash? Let’s see how you handle being lost in it,” she mutters, tossing in a final armful until only the top of your head peeks out, the buzzing ring a relentless whisper against your trapped cock.
She leans over the edge, her smirk cold and triumphant. “Here’s the deal: I’m leaving you in there for the rest of the day. The ring’s on low—enough to drive you mad, not enough to finish you. If I come back and find that condom’s any fuller, or hear one peep of a moan, I’m shipping you off to the dump for real—no bins, no games, just you and a landfill. Control yourself, garbage slave, or you’re gone.”
The lid slams shut, plunging you into muffled darkness, the buzz of the ring vibrating through you as the weight of the paper presses down. Every shift rubs the cardboard against your plastic-wrapped body, the rustling amplifying your fetish—objectification, trash, helplessness—all rolled into one agonizing trap. It’s thrilling, maddening, and you’ve got hours ahead to fight it. The stakes are high, and your normal life feels further away than ever.
You’re buried in the recycling bin, the cardboard and newspapers pressing in around you, the vibrating ring humming its relentless tease against your cock. The plastic bags cocooning your body crinkle faintly with every breath, and you’re clinging to control by a thread when the garage door creaks open again. Footsteps approach—lighter this time—and the lid lifts just enough for the maid’s face to appear, her expression as blank as ever.
“Mistress wants this bin moved,” she says, her voice flat, clinical. “Outside, on the street. Public’s free to pass by. If you make too much noise—moaning, shifting, anything—you’ll be caught. Humiliated. Understood?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, just grabs the bin’s handles and starts dragging it, the wheels rattling over the garage floor. You jostle inside, the paper shifting, the ring’s buzz jolting through you as she hauls you out into the open air.
The bin thumps to a stop at the curb, and she adjusts it slightly before walking off, leaving you there. The street’s alive—distant voices, the hum of cars, footsteps clipping past. The ring’s still on low, a steady torment, but you grit your teeth, suppressing the urge to move or groan. You can do this—you have to. The public’s obliviousness is your shield, and you focus on staying still, blending into the trash.
Time drags, maybe an hour, and you’re holding steady—tense, aching, but in control. Then the vibration spikes, sharp and sudden, rippling through you like a shockwave. Your body twitches, a stifled grunt catching in your throat. You realize it then—Vera’s got a remote, and she’s screwing with you. From somewhere nearby, probably the house window, she’s watching, waiting for the perfect moment. People pass—a man with a dog, a kid kicking a ball—and each time a crowd nears, the ring ramps up, testing you. You clench everything, biting your lip under the newspaper hood, keeping the moans locked down.
Then two women—joggers, by the sound of their breathless chatter—stop right beside the bin. “Wait, I need to stretch,” one says, panting, and they linger, talking about their route, oblivious to you. The ring surges to full power, a brutal buzz that slams through you. Your body spasms, hips jerking involuntarily, and the bin rocks—subtle at first, then harder as you fight to stop it. The women pause mid-sentence. “Did that bin just… move?” one asks, her voice tinged with unease.
“Probably a rat or something,” the other replies, but she sounds unsure. “Go look—dare you.” A beat of hesitation, then footsteps shuffle closer. “Fine, but if it’s gross, you owe me coffee.” The lid creaks open, and light spills in. You freeze, heart pounding, willing yourself into stillness as her shadow falls over you. She peers in, shifting a few newspapers with a cautious hand, but your crumpled hood blends seamlessly with the pile. “Weird,” she mutters, digging a little deeper—not enough to uncover you, just enough to stir the top layer. Her friend giggles, then yells, “Boo!” startling her. The lid drops with a bang as she yelps, and they both burst into laughter. “You’re such an ass—come on, let’s go.” Their footsteps fade, jogging off down the street.
The second they’re gone, you let it out—a low, shuddering moan, relief and tension spilling over. You’re still teetering, so close to the edge, the condom stretched tight with precum but not broken yet. You’re proud for a moment—holding it together through that—but the ring’s still buzzing, and you’re not out of the woods.
Then it happens. A group of teenagers—three or four, loud and rowdy—saunter by, kicking a soda can between them. One stops near the bin, laughing as he picks it up and tosses it toward the lid. It misses, clattering to the ground, and he shrugs. “Wait, check this out,” another says, noticing the bin’s slight wobble from your earlier spasms. He grabs the can again and chucks it hard—this time it hits the lid, popping it open just a crack. “Bet there’s something alive in there,” he jeers, and before you can brace yourself, he slams his foot against the bin—a solid kick that rocks it hard. The jolt shifts everything inside, the newspapers sliding, a jagged piece of cardboard catching the plastic bags and rubbing right against your cock through the layers.
It’s too much—the sudden friction, the ring’s maxed-out buzz, the thrill of nearly being caught again. You cum hard, a choked groan ripping out as your body convulses, the condom flooding with hot, messy release. The bin sways, the teens laughing as they wander off, oblivious to what they’ve triggered. “Freaky bin, man,” one calls, their voices fading.
You’re panting, spent, when the unmistakable click of Vara’s boots approaches. The lid flies open, and she’s there, glaring down at you, her face a mask of fury. “I knew it,” she hisses, reaching in to yank a few papers aside, exposing the condom—bloated, dripping, undeniable. “You came again—right here on the street, like some filthy animal. I heard that groan from the house. You’re beyond fixing.” She straightens, brushing her hands off like you’ve soiled them. “I’m done. I’m getting rid of you—trash like this doesn’t deserve my time.”
She slams the lid shut, her footsteps stomping off, leaving you trembling in the bin, the aftershocks of your orgasm mingling with dread. You’re sunk—caught, discarded, and now what? Minutes stretch into an hour, maybe more, your mind racing. Then a low rumble grows louder—a garbage truck rolling down the street. Your heart leaps into your throat as it grinds to a stop beside you. The lid creaks open, and two gruff voices filter in.
“Paper waste in this one,” one says, peering inside. “Full to the brim—looks like recycling day stuff.”
“Nah, paper’s tomorrow,” the other replies, casual. “This one stays. Grab the next.” The lid drops, and you hear the hydraulic whine as the truck’s arms lift the bin beside yours, dumping its contents with a crash. The engine roars, and the truck rolls off, leaving you untouched. You exhale, a shaky sigh of relief washing over you—safe, for now. Then it clicks: Vara knew it wasn’t paper day. This was her last twist of the knife—fucking with you, letting you think you were landfill-bound, only to leave you stewing in your failure.
The street quiets again, and you’re alone, still trapped, the condom a soggy weight against your softening cock. Vara’s words echo—getting rid of you—but she didn’t, not yet. What’s her next move? Or are you just stuck here, waiting for the real end?
The street’s hum fades as you sit in the bin, the condom’s mess cooling against your skin, your mind a haze of exhaustion and uncertainty. Hours creep by, the sun dipping low, when Vara’s boots finally echo back. The lid flies open, and she’s there—silent, her face unreadable but her eyes burning. She grabs your arm, yanking you up and out with a rough tug, the newspapers and cardboard tumbling off you. You stumble onto the pavement, legs shaky, and she doesn’t pause—ripping the condom off with a quick, careless jerk, the glue stinging as it tears free. She tosses it into one of the curbside bins without a glance, like it’s nothing more than a used tissue.
“Come,” she snaps, leading you back inside, the garbage bag outfit crinkling with every step. She marches you through the house to the room with your sleeping bin—the big green one, your so-called bed. It’s waiting, lid off, and you see it’s not empty anymore: a couple small bags of waste sit inside, one of them the kitchen trash from this morning, its damp scraps faintly visible through the plastic. “In,” she orders, and you climb over the edge, sinking down among the bags, the familiar rustle and faint stink wrapping around you. She slams the lid shut, the lock clicking into place, and her footsteps fade without another word.
You’re alone again, cocooned in the dark, the two bags pressing lightly against you—one at your side, the other under your legs. The day’s insanity replays in your head—the street, the joggers, the truck scare, Vara’s disgust. What’s tomorrow? More punishment, more tests? Your body’s spent, mind frayed, and sleep takes you fast, the bin cradling you in its warped embrace.
The night in the bin passes in a blur, the faint weight of the kitchen bag and its companion pressing against you as you sleep, the locked lid sealing you in. You wake to the sharp clack of the lock undone, the lid swinging open. Vara stands over you, her gaze cold and calculating, no words wasted. “Out,” she says, and you climb stiffly from the bin, the garbage bag outfit rustling. She doesn’t add more layers this time—instead, she grabs the edges of your plastic cocoon and rips it off, tearing the bags away in jagged strips until you’re stark naked, shivering in the cool air of the room.
She holds up a single, thick garbage bag—large, industrial-grade, its black plastic glossy and unyielding. “In,” she orders, shaking it open. You step inside, the material cool against your bare skin as you kneel down, she pulls it up over you, cinching it tight above your head with a quick knot. Your arms and legs are free within the bag, but it clings to you, a second skin of shame. With the help of her maid Vara drags you toward the door, out the door and to her car, and dumps you into the trunk with a thud. The lid slams shut, and the engine purrs to life.
The drive’s quiet, maybe twenty minutes, the early morning stillness seeping through the car’s hum. It stops, and the trunk pops open. Vara hauls you out into a narrow alleyway behind a strip of stores—empty, grey, the sky just starting to lighten. A trash compactor hulks against the back wall of one shop, its wide maw silent for now, a faint whiff of rot drifting from it. She drags your bag to the doorstep beside it, dropping you there like a discarded parcel. “Stay put,” she says, her tone flat, then walks off without a backward glance, her boots echoing down the alley.
You lie there, helpless in the bag, the concrete cold beneath you. Hours tick by—slow, uneventful—until the shop door creaks open. A woman steps out, mid-30s, aproned, carrying a couple of garbage bags. She spots you, her brow furrowing in annoyance. “Who dumped this here?” she mutters, tossing her bags down beside yours with a huff before heading back inside. The pile grows throughout the morning—more bags from her, then another woman, younger, in a similar apron. By lunchtime, they both emerge together, arms full of trash, and head for the compactor.
They toss their fresh bags in first, then turn to the pile by the door. One by one, they chuck them into the compactor’s hopper, until they reach yours. The older woman grabs it, grunting as she tries to lift. “Goddamn, this one’s heavy—what the hell’s in it?” she says, dropping it back down. The younger one shrugs. “It was here this morning. No idea where it came from.”
“Should we open it?” the older one asks, half-curious, half-joking. “What if it’s, like, a big bag of cash or something?”
“Or a person,” the younger one quips, smirking. “If it is, they’ve gotta be pretty trashy to end up in a bag like this.”
They laugh, a sharp, careless sound, and decide against it. “Nah, too much hassle,” the older one says. “Let’s just get it in, it’ll just be garbage.” They team up, heaving your bag together, and with a shared grunt, toss it into the compactor. It lands with a soft thud atop the pile, and they add a few more bags before hitting the start button. The machine whirs to life on a low-pressure cycle, the walls closing in just enough to shove you deeper into the belly with the other bags, compacting the mess around you.
The afternoon drags on. More bags rain down—lunch scraps, crumpled paper, a bunch of plastic packaging—each cycle packing you tighter, the plastic of your bag slick with sweat and refuse. You’re fully surrounded now, squashed in the dark, just another anonymous sack in the compactor’s gut. The objectification hits hard—discarded, ignored, buried—and your cock betrays you, stiffening against the pressure. The first cycle’s friction sets you off, a quick, shuddering orgasm you can’t stop, the cum pooling in the bag’s folds. Another comes later, when a heavy bag lands square on your lap, the jolt tipping you over again. You lose count after that, each rumble of the compactor stoking the fire, but you keep quiet, moans swallowed by the machine’s hum.
The store closes, silence settling over the alley, until a faint clang breaks it—Vara’s back. The compactor’s side hatch swings open, and you hear her voice, sharp and commanding. “Find him.” The maid crawls in, her leather-clad form navigating the compacted heap, digging through bags until her hands find yours. She slices the plastic with a quick flick of a blade, peeling it back, and helps you out, your naked body slick with grime and sweat. Vara tosses her a fresh roll of bags, and the maid wraps you in one again, knotting it around your neck before they haul you to the car and dump you in the trunk.
Back at the house, they drop you in the center of the lounge, the bag pooling around your feet as it’s untied. “Stand,” Vara commands, and you do, shaky but obedient. She circles you, arms crossed, her gaze piercing. “Describe your experience,” she says. “How did it make you feel? Did you cum?”
You steady your breath, meeting her eyes. “It was… overwhelming,” you say, voice low. “Buried in there, just another bag, people tossing stuff on me all day. Felt like nothing—like trash. Risky, too, with them so close. But I didn’t cum. You didn’t give me permission, so I held it in.” It’s a lie, smooth and practiced—those multiple releases hidden in the compactor’s chaos, no condom this time to betray you, the evidence lost in the bag’s damp folds.
Vara studies you, searching for a crack, but finds none. Her lips twitch into a rare, faint smile. “Good,” she says, nodding. “You’re making progress—finally learning some control. I’m impressed.” She gestures toward the next room. “There’s another bowl of gruel waiting. Eat up, then get back to your bin—the maid’ll lock you in for the night.” She steps closer, her voice dropping. “But tomorrow, I’m testing you again. Really testing you—to see if you’ve truly mastered yourself in trash. Sleep on that.”
She turns and leaves, her boots clicking out of the room. You shuffle to the gruel, scarfing it down—tasteless but filling—then return to your bin as ordered. The maid’s there, lid in hand, and you climb in, settling among the familiar bags. She locks it shut, and you’re alone again, the day’s weight sinking in. Progress, she said—but tomorrow’s another trap, another chance to drown in your fetish. What’s she plotting now?