© Copyright 2013 - Emma - Used by permission
Storycodes: F/m; intruder; capture; tape; bond; bagged; trash; messy; trashcan; truck; disposal; voy; cons/nc; XX
Mmm, a little downer can worm its way into any mood, right? I mean I shouldn't complain - I've just been promoted, I've got the rest of today off, and I didn't hit a single red light on the way home... yet now I remember that this week's and last week's trash has gotta be hauled out for tomorrow. As I park up and take the white and brown papers from the mailbox at the end of the driveway I contemplate on my current lack of a big strong boyfriend. My last one had no problems with these sorts of yucky man-tasks, so long as he was reminded of them. Oh well. My key twists in the front door lock as I consider hiring a cleaner. Could I get away with paying some loser minimum wage for cleaning my house? It's only small...
Small but everything that a young professional businesswoman could want! Sure, one bedroom and one bathroom, but it's off the road and in a safe neighborhood. The great big trees provide privacy for the little garden area at the side, where the French doors can be opened to turn the little study into a breezy summer's office. I might look into working from home now that I've got this promotion. I kick my heels off and start up the stairs, unbuttoning my blouse before I've even made it to my bedroom.
I drop my keys and phone on the dresser and wonder whether it's too early for a glass of wine. Would be so nice to sit outside on this hot day, reading and catching the sun. No, I decide that it's more of a lemonade time as I slip out of my gray work pants. Good work Emma, got to watch my alcohol intake or I won't be able to fit my butt in these skinny pants any longer.
Wearing nothing but my underwear, I skip over to the wardrobe and pick out a polka dot summer miniskirt. This'll do great! It softly falls to the floor and I step into it, leaning down to pull it up. It's at this moment - the tips of my strawberry blonde hair (naturally brunette but I'd never tell anyone) brushing my toes, my green eyes at knee level, my heavy breasts hanging free, my curvy ass pointing to the ceiling, and my fingers clasping the edges of the soft skirt fabric - that I wouldn't want to be seen by a guy. This is the moment I see you. Through my damn legs. Under my damn desk. A guy. Obviously not the first time you see me, judging from your red face and stupid wide-eyes returning my shocked gaze.
This seems to happen much more slowly than it really does. In shock I yank the skirt up to my waist and spin around to the sound of you scrabbling out from under the desk. "What the FUCK are you doing you little shit?!" My screech isn't all that intelligible but you don't have a chance to reply anyway, because I've just winded you with a sudden kick. You slam into my desk and onto the floor, looking up at me with surprise. What a sight I must be; six feet of fury, yet naked except for the cutesy screw-me-anywhere skirt that ends just below my butt.
"Didn't mean..." is all you can splutter, beginning to crawl towards the door.
If only I'd been more observant when I walked in. Now I see the that several drawers of my desk have been pulled open, including the one I keep my money and cards in.
"Scum! Perverted, THIEVING scum!" Another of my angry kicks slams into your stomach, halting you in your tracks.
"Sorry." It comes out of your mouth as a whisper, but I hear it. I think about all you have to apologize for, but I realize too late that actually you're only sorry for what you're about to do.
You spring up and have your hands around my neck in an instant. My throat is closing, your fingers and thumbs clawing and bruising my neck. Panic flicks my eyes in every direction, while you look only at me with a growing sense of victory. I need to get away from you, and instinctively I'm stepping backwards. It's a vain attempt at survival because I'm not strong enough to pry your hands off, and your feet just follow mine. My last step is unexpectedly caught by the side of the bed. I'm falling backwards and you're falling on top of me.
I don't know if I saw my chance or if I was just blindly thrashing around, but I jolt my right knee up with all my remaining strength. It collides with your crotch. You gasp. The pain must be immense - you fell into it. You release my neck and stumble back. It's now, with your hands over your balls and with barely enough strength to stay on your feet, that I leap up and attack. I'm still recovering from near asphyxiation so I can't properly hit you, but I can shove you backwards.
I don't want you! Push. No-one wants you! Push. Get out of my home! Push. You're out of space now, but there's no soft bed to catch your fall. Only a wooden staircase.
You hit every step on the way down.
You wake up to the sight of me on top of you, legs apart and panting. Don't get the wrong idea, I mean yuck - you're some lowlife murderous thief who could never meet my rather strict requirements. I'm out of breath because I've been busy. Busy pulling you onto the couch you're lying on. Also busy with the duct tape, as you're now discovering. I know you're trying to say something but please shut up, darling, you can't even move your lips. You can stop squirming too, as your wrists, knees, and ankles have all been dealt with the same way. Plus I'm above you anyways (in both senses). All you can do is look up at me. Your captor.
Meeting her stare is like gazing into a green meadow. The scarlet curves of her lips are sucked in with thought. Her soft, golden-brown locks tumbling down her narrow shoulders, just tickling the pair of prominent globes on her chest...
The complete control I have over you is starting to make me smile, but the moment is spoiled when I feel something in your pants firming up between my buttocks. The unwelcome intrusion makes me recoil.
Not that I really should be surprised considering I'm still almost naked, but it reminds me of the disgusting filth you are. A piece of human garbage, and that's even doing humanity a disservice. My eyes are filled with contempt as I settle my butt back down on the little tent your dick has erected. I was going to phone the police, let them lock you up whilst I push for the death sentence. That would mean a lot of effort on my part though, and what if you're let off with just a couple of years? And all the while my taxes would be paying for the cage in your new home. No, I already pay tax for a much simpler service. A much faster service. A much more appropriate service for the likes of you. You're nothing more than a piece of waste. Refuse that's in my possession.
Garbage doesn't come back after two years.
We'd been looking at each other in silence, but the smile returning to my face seems to have been all you needed to cause a wet patch under my ass. Eww, trash juice! I quickly get up and plant my foot into your crotch. Your moan of agony is hardly audible, much to my delight. As I bring my leg back for yet another kick, you curl up into the fetal position. Good. Stay there...
"Aha!" I actually laugh as I finish my work, completing the last loop of tape around your legs and back. You're suddenly squirming in panic, but it's too late now. I've got you. A kind of cube, or ball shaped hunk of garbage, tightly taped up and lying here on my couch. Your struggles work as demonstrations of your inability to move. Satisfied, I turn and walk away.
Minutes later I'm back. I see that the first thing you've noticed is the little black bra that's now cupping my breasts, but really you should be more concerned with what I'm carrying; a big beige plastic bin. I drop it to the floor in front of you and take a slow and deliberate step back. This is going to be fun.
"Oh!" I cry out in faux horror and theatrically lift my right hand to my lips, though it hardly hides my devilish grin. "How could I have almost missed such a big piece of trash? Hmmm?" You can't reply through the tape on your mouth, but that's fine - you need only listen. "I'll just have to dump it in here..."
It's a little awkward, but my efforts are rewarded by the lovely smooth whisper of your body rubbing against the sides of the black plastic bag, followed by a soft rustle as you land on the rest of the stinking trash in the bin. Despite the large size of the waste container (it comes all the way up to my wide hips) it would seem that you've made it, erm, overflow.
Standing straight with my arms folded over my bust I deliver my victory speech. "That's done it." My voice is a velvet purr, I'm now very much enjoying myself. "An entirely full can of rotten, smelly, disgusting garbage, just waiting for me to... take it out. That is what you're asking for, isn't it? For me to put you in your place?"
You still can't answer, obviously, and you're practically face down in the filth, but I think you still have an eye on me. "Ooooh well..." A breathy sigh. "Taking out the trash is a horrible chore, but at least I managed to fit in one last piece of waste just before collection. Or, I guess I'll need to make it fit."
With that I pivot on my heel and drop my shapely butt down onto the bin, so that I'm sitting on top of you. I grab the handles on either side of the bin for leverage and then press my ass down, burying further into the filth. It's a nicer compaction than what you'll be receiving tomorrow, I think. Giggling, I wiggle my buttocks around to make sure you're packed into the other trash nicely. Soon I'm convinced that you're packed in firmly. In peaceful silence I remain seated like the Queen of the Trash, my legs hanging freely just off the floor.
Then I get up and then sink you even deeper into the bin with my foot because, come on, a girl can't get garbage on her skirt!
I look down at my work. You are squashed into the center of the trash bag, and I'm happy to think of all the decaying mess you're now firmly a piece of. Yes, I'm looking down into a black bag composed entirely of my own refuse. It's general waste, really, though I think most of it has come from my kitchen. Not that it matters. It's all stinking, it's all disgusting, it's all worthless. It's also what you now are, what you have become. Though considering tomorrow is garbage day, it's not quite where you belong.
It's time to take out the trash.
I'm glad to be disposing of you, but I can tell this won't be easy. I peer into your bin, then quickly lean back from your rotten stench. Disgusting. I throw my long hair back a few times, hoping that the ends will rest on the strap of my bra rather than dangle into the trash. Now that I'm better prepared, I look back down and pinch up the ends of your bag. Immediately your rotten stench is much less overwhelming as I pull the drawstring on the bag tight. I'm about to do you up with a cutesy bow, but then what's the point? You're just another bag of garbage, nothing special. I tie you up firmly with a few rough knots instead, you know, just to ensure none of my trash spills out between now and pick-up. You're going to be really heavy though, so before I try and lift you out of the bin I fetch new trash bag, opening it up on the floor. Wow, that cheap plastic smell of a fresh bag is a refreshing change from your stink. Now let's try this...
"Ah! Come on! One of the most annoying things about taking out the trash is not the weight of the bag, but when the bin tries to come with you. My only option is to squeeze the bin between my knees and...ompf! Up you come. Okay Emma, this really is heavy! Big, heavy, and gross! To bring you entirely out of your bin I wrap my left arm around you while positioning a knee almost underneath you. I step backwards fast to catch myself from falling, unwillingly hugging you into my boobs. Christ am I going to need a shower after this - you're the one that's meant to reek of garbage, not me! Anyways, now that you're finally out I drop you to the floor, on top of the new bag. Pheeew.
I catch my breath whilst I'm bent down next to you, encasing you in another layer of plastic. There we are, all nicely double bagged to make sure you don't split open when I'm hauling you to the curb. I step back and look down at you for a moment. Now that you're out of the tall cylinder of my bin, you've spread out horizontally so that you're about as wide as you are tall. Yep, just another big fat bag of garbage to put out, exactly the same as the many I've put out before. As I stride back towards you I plant a soft kick into the middle of the bag, just for old times sake, but of course no sound is made other than the rustling of the trash inside.
Now once again I'm straining to lift you up. With both hands gripping tight, I'm able to lift you off the ground just a little. Off we go! In small and swift lady-like steps I bring you through my kitchen and out of the door. As I carry you down my driveway, I can't help but think of a certain piece of trash inside this bag. Even though I don't think of it as a person any more, I still feel like goading that specific item of refuse one last time. For fun.
"I don't know what happens to my garbage and to be honest I couldn't care less. But hopefully you'll be crushed and incinerated – you know - nothing more than what garbage such as you deserves." I have to taunt quietly in case the guy next door hears his hot neighbor talking to her trash, but I haven't heard a reply from the bag anyway. Maybe I ought to have made air holes? Nah, you're just garbage. Garbage exists until it's disposed of. It doesn't 'live' or 'die'.
Halfway down my drive I'm careful to avoid letting you touch my car. It's worth infinitely more than you. I'm even a bit annoyed about the trash juice you're dripping onto my floor tiles, but then I smile, wondering whether that taped up ball of junk has ejaculated again. Garbage is probably exactly the kind of thing that turns on a thieving murderous pervert, the kind it used to be before I threw it away. You know, as if a person is naturally attracted to their rightful place in the world. Nice one Emma, that explains why I'm attracted to the CEO. Whatever, it's just trash juice. Regardless of whether it was once milk or juice or sperm, it's just trash juice now.
Here we are. I gladly let you slip out of my hands and fall to the concrete, one corner of your black bag hanging just over the edge of the curb. I rub my woefully underdeveloped biceps as I turn and walk back down to the house. I don't look back.
Alone, there's nothing for you to do except sit there on the curb in front of my house. Not that you should feel lonely, if only you realized that there are dozens of trash cans and other black bags all resting on the same street. Rotting and waiting for the morning. In reality you're perhaps a more hefty looking trash bag than a lot of the others here. Fat and stuffed full to the brim with squishy decomposing waste, I was lucky that I was even able to tie you up. As for your stench, even double bagging you wasn't enough to eliminate your unmistakable reek of over-ripe garbage. It's so repugnant that the vapors could almost be steaming off of you.
A young jogger approaches. Maybe you hear the pip pip pip of her sneakers. I'll bet that she's regretting her route right now, coming up here the evening before trash day. She runs past most of the cans okay, but then she gets to you. She has to step into the road to get past, apparently you're taking up too much space on the sidewalk. Then she's gone. You were just another bag of garbage to her. An unwelcome obstacle that's already gone from her mind.
Twenty minutes later I'm back, better dressed and pushing a large black plastic trash can. Man, why didn't I just dump you in here and then wheel you to the curb? Never mind, I think as I park the can next to my trash bag, almost finished. I straddle you, keeping you between my feet as I bend down to pick you up. Clutching at your sides I once again heave you up to my chest, and then I sink both a hand and a knee into your soft base for better grip. With all my remaining strength I lift you as high as the opening of the trash can, accidentally letting you touch my face. Eww.
I get a wolf whistle from a passing car, which is aggravating and yet secretly flattering. My arms about to buckle, I manage to hoist you up just a little more and- did you just leak trash juice down my cleavage?! Fuck I hate you. Just get in the can, eurghhh! You land at the bottom of the can with a dull thud, rocking it backwards slightly. I know that you're just garbage and you have no feelings, but I still hope that hurt you. I slam the lid of the can down and then wheel it forward just a bit, so it's in a good position for the garbage truck tomorrow. Done.
Except I'm not done. I soon return with another, somehow even more smelly, bag of garbage. I flip the lid open and get a face full of the rotten aroma that you've been cooking up in the short time you were shut in there. I really, really cannot wait for you and my other trash bag here to get taken away tomorrow. You're just horrible! The one I'm lifting in to join you now is at least lighter, but it's also the one I forgot to put out last week. It lands on top of you with a disgusting smush. This new weight has flattened you out a bit, but not enough for me to be able to close the lid completely. Is there nothing easy with you? I hop on top of the bin, my weight on the lid squashing my two wretched trash bags down until it closes nicely. Finally. My garbage is now awaiting pick-up, and not a moment too soon.
* * *
That stupid truck blocked my driveway just before I could pull out and make my way to the office the next morning, but I guess it was fun to witness your collection. The mechanical arm gripped my trash can and heaved it up, tipping you and my other bag into the deep belly of the truck. I didn't see what happened after that, but I guess the sudden revving of the engine meant that you were being crushed. Compressed with all the rest of the refuse. That's fine by me - you were a huge, awful sack of garbage and it was only right that you were properly compacted to make room for the other peoples' bags. Then the truck edged forward to the next house, and as I pulled out I thought about every subsequent trash pick-up in the street joining you. Every crusher cycle packing you further and tighter into the rear of the big smelly green garbage truck.
As I slipped into the fast lane in my sleek red coupé, making my commute to the financial district, I thought about the beat up old trash truck chugging along in the slow lane. No doubt it would be hauling you in the opposite direction, bound for the city dump.
When I pulled up into my personal parking space I thought about the truck coming to rest on the big weighing scale at the dump. Hah, that would be your only legacy – making up part of this week's weight statistic in a spreadsheet about municipal refuse output for my neighborhood.
The short and sweet beep-beep of my car locking mechanism wouldn't be all that dissimilar to the truck's reversing alarm, I knew, as it would slowly maneuver into the dumping area.
You'd even be rising up with me, as I walked into the lobby elevator. The hydraulics of the truck lifting your container up, about to spill its undesirable contents onto the ground below.
I thought about you tumbling out as part of an avalanche of waste whilst I waited for my terminal to load. You'd be both indistinguishable and unremarkable from the other thousands of black bags in the massive field of trash. In my coffee break I perked up at the thought of you being flattened under the treads of some kind of roller, juices squirting everywhere. On my way home I thought about the next wave of garbage entombing you. Sealing you in to rot, right where you belong.
Within weeks I'd forgotten about you. Who could blame me? You were just another bag of garbage that I'd happily disposed of.
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