This was going to be more fun than anything I’d tried before now. It would lend a whole new meaning to the term “Dumpster Diving”, at least for me. If I were objective, looking at myself from the viewpoint of a dispassionate, disinterested observer, then I’d have to conclude I was certifiably insane to carry through on my plan. Maybe I was crazy, but it wasn’t going to stop me.
Why did I do it? What was it in my head that drove me to become human garbage, to be tossed aside as unwanted trash? Most of the time I felt normal, but every so often that compulsion came upon me. Maybe it was the feel of the smooth, clingy plastic against my hand when opening a fresh kitchen trash bag. Or maybe it was some kind of guilt complex. Whatever the reason, I had to wrap myself up in a neat package inside one of those bags, preferably surrounded by other bags of equally unwanted refuse.
This was to be my most ambitious project to date. I had a sizable quantity of bondage gear, some new, some tested by long experience. Merely crawling into a plastic bag wasn’t enough. I had to be trapped inside, barely able to move. There would be no tearing apart the thin plastic with my hands. Sure, I needed just enough freedom to get out, but it wouldn’t be easy. The new combination of leather straps and steel restraints would be inescapable without the keys to the locks.
Even more important was the location. I’d started out with one of the “wheelie bin” type plastic trash cans in my garage. It was a tight fit, claustrophobic, just the way I liked it. Once the novelty wore off I became more adventurous, which led me to the warehouse dumpster at work.
It was relatively clean, being used mostly to dispose of packing material. It was emptied every Friday, and no one worked over the weekend. I was one of a handful of employees with after-hours access, a virtual guarantee I wouldn’t be disturbed. Best of all I had far more room to work undisturbed inside the closed dumpster. And if something went wrong? Come Monday morning I’d be found, sometime during the day. It would be embarrassing, I might even lose my job, but that only added some excitement.
This weekend included a holiday, so no one would be back until Tuesday. That gave me a bonus day in my make believe garbage dump. Could I last at least two days imprisoned in a dumpster? I’d soon find out.
I took some precautions. About ten o’clock on Friday evening I drove to the warehouse, circling to make sure there were no cars in the lot. Satisfied the coast was clear I turned off the lights and hid my own car in with the delivery trucks, so it wouldn’t be visible from the street. I didn’t want anyone driving by to notice it and wonder why I was there on the weekend.
Everything I needed was in a gym bag in my trunk. The side entrance near the loading docks was shrouded in darkness, since those outdoor lights were turned off late at night. I waited until there was no nearby traffic before making a quick dash to the door from the car. Being in an industrial part of town the neighborhood was virtually deserted by this time of night.
Inside I made the rounds to ensure no one was in the building. Safe from discovery I headed toward the back of the warehouse where the dumpster was located. It was empty, just as I expected. Eager to start I tossed the gym bag inside before climbing in after it. I closed the top of the dumpster, a heavy, sheet metal lid, to further conceal my activities.
First out of the bag was a flashlight, so I could see what I was doing. Next out was my home for the next few days, an extra-large outdoor lawn trash bag big enough to hold me if I were curled up in a ball. There were actually four bags, each one nested inside the other. It wasn’t rip proof but if I was careful there’d be no holes to spoil the fun. Each bag had a plastic drawstring at the top. I should be able to pull them closed, outside to inner lining, leaving a hole large enough to breathe. I carefully laid out the bag at one corner of the dumpster.
I pulled a smaller kitchen trash sack out of the gym bag. Quickly I stripped down, placing all my clothes inside. When I finished I tied it off and tossed it into the far corner of the dumpster. I wouldn’t need them until I finished.
Finally it was time to delve into my fantasies. To begin I crawled into the plastic bag, rear end first. I closed my eyes, lost in the smell of the plastic and the feel of the slick, smooth surface on my bare skin. A promise of things to come, I told myself.
It wasn’t enough to be packaged in a trash bag. No, I had to be as close to a real piece of garbage as possible. Garbage didn’t rip open the bag and climb out, as long as there were no issues with sharp edges. My solution was strict bondage, wrapping myself up inside the bag into a tight bundle. Bondage was an integral part of my fantasy, my kink. In my daydreams I was overpowered, bound hand and foot, stuffed in a garbage bag and buried in a landfill. Now the landfill part was a bit too much, but that didn’t stop me from bringing the rest from fantasy to reality.
My anchor piece, so to speak, were the rigid shackles that fit close around my ankles. The single piece restraint was machined from a solid aluminum alloy billet, custom bondage equipment for those into serious heavy metal. There was no lock per se; instead several large hex bolts countersunk into the body held the sections together, imprisoning my legs. Without the hex key wrench it was quite difficult to remove. That key went into a zip lock sandwich bag when I finished.
The leather belts were next. The first went around my legs, just above the knee. This was a short one, just long enough to hold my knees together. The buckle under my knees was one of those medical restraint types, with a pushbutton to lock it. The top, facing me, had a steel D-ring sewn into the belt. When I bent my legs the strap tightened, not enough to be uncomfortable but it wasn’t going to slip off.
The second leather strap was the interesting one. Those ankle shackles? The back was modified with the addition of two stout metal belt loops. The strap went through them and around my bent legs. This one I pulled tight, rendering my legs all but useless when they were doubled up. This belt had the same locking buckle. Held in place by the ankle shackle it was impossible to slip it off.
I was at the halfway point. Even with my legs pinned together I could still reach the gym bag by leaning forward. Reaching in I found the heavy leather posture collar. It locked in the back, and in the front was a curved metal plate with a retaining ring. I slipped it around my neck and by feel I found the padlock dangling from the collar’s front ring. I leaned forward so I could fasten the lock to the ring on the strap around my knees.
Other than my arms, which were still unencumbered, I was locked into a compressed ball, legs against my torso. It wasn’t so tight as to make it difficult to breathe, but in all other respects I was quickly becoming my piece of bound garbage. I jerked my legs, fighting that thick leather belt. No luck, I was well and truly clamped into a tight package, suitable for bagging.
That left my hands. But first I had to eliminate the noise problem. The insert affixed to the wide panel gag slid easily into my mouth. The foam around the hard rubber insert did a good job for dampening any attempt to shout. The gag harness went around my head, over the bridge of my nose and under my chin, next to the posture collar. I knew from extensive use it wasn’t coming out. To reduce outside noise, I plugged my ears with cotton balls. I didn’t want any distractions while dreaming of my life in a garbage dump.
All that was left was the complicated part, my hands. I had to have a release method, while balancing it with confining bondage inside a trash bag. My scheme relied on an old standby, handcuffs, with a slight modification incorporating the dumpster I was to call home the next two days, or as long as I could hold out.
I wanted to keep to the theme of a tight ball, with my hands bound to my ankles in some manner. When I had the ankle shackles modified for the leg strap, I also added a ring in front, to attach the cuffs. A pair of cuffs and a padlock would be enough, but I wanted more.
I started with hinged handcuffs, two pairs, each with one of those metal security covers that blocks the keyhole. The covers have a slot in the bottom where a metal bar can be inserted to keep the covers in place. One end of that slotted bar was attached to the ankle shackles with a welded chain link. After inserting the bar through the handcuff covers the other end was held in place with a padlock. Once my wrists were locked in I could touch my toes but not much else.
That's exactly what I did. I had an extra-long handcuff key, so I could double lock both pairs of cuffs after I closed them around my wrists. The key went into that zip lock bag along with all the others. I tossed it out into the dumpster, followed by the flashlight. I didn’t see exactly where they landed but I’d find the keys with enough searching.
The last act was to pull the trash bag drawstrings closed, working from the outermost bag inward. It wasn’t a tight seal since I did need to breathe, but it cut off the outside world. Without the flashlight, in the bag, there was no light at all.
It all came together, perfectly. Once I closed the bag it was all around me, enclosing me in plastic. I was in the dumpster, refuse no one wanted, tossed out like last week’s fast food greasy sacks. I leaned back against the wall of the dumpster, imagining a fate where I was carried off to be buried along with all the rest of society’s unwanted leftovers.
Although I was in a most uncomfortable position, the solitude, the enveloping feel of the plastic around me and a general contentment lulled me into sleep. I was happily dreaming about being wrapped in a slick, shining cocoon of plastic when the loud bang of the dumpster lid being thrown open rudely woke me up. Before I could react, debris started raining down on me.
I was fortunate that, whatever it was, the trash was light and bulky. A sack bounced off me and landed in front of my bag. It burst open, pouring those irritating packing peanuts into my bag through the open top. Before I could grab the drawstrings I was sitting in a pool of packing material.
I could just make out a piece of that molded foam wrapped in plastic. Those were used for fragile equipment shipped in cardboard boxes. Like the peanuts the recycling company wouldn’t accept them, which meant they were tossed into the warehouse dumpster. There was quite a bit that piled in on top of me. It wasn’t packed down tight, so I could still breathe. What I couldn’t do is move around. Those large foam pieces wedged me in against the wall of the container.
“It’s full. We’ll have to use the outside dumpster for the rest.” The heavy steel lid slammed shut. I tried yelling to attract attention. Between the gag, the material around me acting as a baffle, and the loud beeping of a forklift backing up there was no way they heard me.
I tried shifting my weight around. Those foam pieces? They were surprisingly rigid and did not budge. All I gained from effort were more of those awful peanuts filling up my trash bag.
What I didn’t know is that a truck full of sensitive equipment had arrived early Saturday morning. If I’d been home I would have received the urgent call to come in. The truck had to be unloaded right away, since there was a chance of heat damage if it sat outside over a long weekend. And where was the warehouse shelf space to put it all? Clean up some old, empty boxes kept for returns by tossing them out. The boxes were recyclable, but not the contents.
Now I had a real problem. Somewhere out there in the container was the zip lock bag with the keys. I knew it was close by, but not exactly where. The plan had been for me to find it by touch, when I was finished with my adventure. I figured a minute or two at most, in the empty bin. How was I supposed to find it now?
In desperation I struggled with my bonds, but it was soon obvious I’d done a good job. I had the use of my hands, except I couldn’t reach anything except the padlock fastening my handcuffs to my ankles. My legs were useless, and with my neck bound to my knees even crawling was out of the question. For all I knew the keys were just beyond the opening to my trash bag, all but invisible under a layer of those cursed packing peanuts.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Don’t panic, I repeated over and over. In TV shows the hero always figures out a way to pick the lock on the handcuffs. I ran my fingers over the smooth metal surface of the handcuff security cover, blocking access to the keyhole. I couldn’t recall a single scene in a movie or TV show where those security covers were used, likely for good reason. A handcuff key, even if I had one, wasn’t much good in my situation.
I could still reach outside my sack with my hands, though not very far. I managed to brush my fingers across the metal floor of the bin, pushing the peanuts aside. No bag of keys, but I was positive I’d tossed them further away. I could wiggle forward by shifting from side to side. It might take a while for a search but I had a plan.
What I didn’t count on were those large chunks of foam. For every inch of progress more trash settled around me. My attempt to plow through compressed the debris in front and on the sides, plus more slipped in behind me. I didn’t get very far before I had to give up.
Without my bonds I could have simply pushed it all aside and stood up. With no legs or arms, what should be simple becomes very complex. I had to admit I was well and truly stuck. I needed a “Plan B” to call for help.
I could text a message on my phone, except I’d left it in the car. I could call for help, except for the gag I’d so carefully selected to prevent it. I was ready to give up when it came to me.
I could still make some noise by pounding on the dumpster walls. Leaning back I slammed my feet down hard on the metal floor. That might have worked if not for the pool of packing peanuts surrounding me. My feet came down on those peanuts, which absorbed the shock, as if they’d been designed to do just that. There was a faint crunching sound. I could barely hear it. No one outside the dumpster would notice.
So much for my escape plans. What was that legal term for extreme stupidity? Misadventure, that was it. This was my most spectacular adventure turned into my first and last misadventure. Why did I have to throw that bag of keys out into the dumpster? If I’d left them inside my trash bag I’d be crawling out of the dumpster right now.
I slumped forward, as much as I could. I was beaten, defeated by my own clever plan. I was out of ideas and out of luck. My situation was hopeless. All I could do is wait out my remaining time, maybe two more days at most? The dumpster wouldn’t be emptied for at least six more days. No way I’d last that long.
On The Way
The forklift slammed into the back of the dumpster. I felt myself being lifted up. What was going on?
I was on the move. There was only one possible direction, toward the loading dock. I tried screaming, as loud as I could, but it was pointless. Maybe the hauling company had come for a special pickup? If I was dumped out on top of all the packing material I had a chance of ripping open the bag and falling out, to attract attention.
The dumpster hit the ground. I must be at the loading dock entrance. I was ready to start tearing at the plastic bag enclosing me as soon as I felt the dumpster being raised.
For some reason that didn’t happen. Instead I was wheeled into the back of a truck. I felt the bump going over the edge of the loading dock. I was spun around and shoved in next to another dumpster, judging from the loud bang of metal on metal. This had to be a flatbed instead of a garbage truck. Maybe the regular trucks didn’t run on weekends?
Then I was moving again. I felt the sway of the truck and the stop and start of traffic. Where were they taking me? Then, to my horror, I remembered. The trash hauling company operated an incinerator outside of town. Burning waste generated steam for a small, rural power plant. Plastic was made from petroleum, and burned quite cleanly at high temperatures. It saved precious landfill space, too.
I sat in the small employee break room, a blanket wrapped around me. Fire and Rescue had made short work of the restraints. I was too embarrassed to say a word.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” one of the firemen told me. “You’re not the first one we’ve had to cut free from bondage gone wrong. Though in a dumpster? That’s something new.”
I found out on weekends the hauling company switched out bins rather than run the big trucks. I was at the incinerator site. What I didn’t know is that they always inspect the garbage for metals or anything that won’t burn cleanly, which is how they found me before I was turned into a pile of ashes.
The staff at the incinerator plant were nice to me. They dug through the pile of trash until they found my bag of clothes. After I was dressed one of them even gave me a ride back to my car. The bondage restraints were destroyed, mangled by bolt cutters. The metal went to the scrap pile. The leather, well, it did go to the incinerator, but without me wearing all those straps.
Did I learn my lesson? You bet I did. From now on I’ll stick to trash cans in my garage…