Picking UP the Trash
by: counterparts199
This is fantasy. Duh!
Jackson parked his car in the fairgrounds field. He walked over to the
shuttle bus, and rode, his admission to the shuttle part of the parking package.
The ticket was fifteen bucks. Taking the sky ride, he found himself at the far
gate, and walked right back out of the park, having spent his money for just
that one ride across the fairgrounds. Jackson was half an hour early, and the
bus was a forever five minutes late. Third from the back, on the right. He sat
down, and felt at the seam between the seat and wall, recovering that paper he'd
half expected he would not.
'Get off at fifteenth and Sheridan street. Behind 1247 Sheridan, there are
two nice new trash cans, one metal, and the other a small bathroom receptacle.
Put your clothing in the small one, keys on top. Get in the larger one. There
will be a plastic bag inside for you to step into. Do the best that you can to
cram the can lid over you. At the bottom of the trash bag will be a tie wrap.
Bunch up the top of the bag as best you can, and tie it. I'll be by to collect
my trash. If I'm late, you can push a couple of tiny holes in the plastic.
Maybe enough air will creep in around the sides of the lid for you to survive.
It doesn't matter either way; if you're dead when I get there, I'll just leave
you for the city pickup. Oh, and one more thing: Be discrete; I don't know the
people who live at 1247. Tear up this note and eat it now.'
Jackson swallowed hard. He had no idea who this person was. The ad had
been simple; direct: 'Our BBW Mistress will supervise slave willing to endure
hard labor in dry cleaning profession. Must be completely unattached, or
willing to be forced into slave status permanently. You will own nothing, and
have nothing but drudgery to look forward to. You will be relocated to a room
where a cot, toilet and work related equipment has been set up for your
attention. The work day will be 17 hours a day, 7 days a week. This equipment
has been vacated by a slave recently 'retired'. There are no windows, and only
one secured door. Once interned, steps will be taken to ensure that you will be
physically incapable of leaving this room, though the dry cleaning you work on
will be steady. Your sex life will cease to exist, as you will be fitted with a
chastity device which will be welded into place. Speech will no longer be
permitted. Food will be marginal, though probably life sustaining. After each
month of service, if you have performed perfectly, you might be allowed a few
minutes to service the Mistress's perverse needs. (This option is entirely at
the discretion of management and the will of the Mistress in charge of you.)
Call code 11A-1944. All serious inquiries fully investigated.'
Jackson wanted to ignore that ad. It had only run once in the underground
regional porno rag. Twice he dug it out of the trash. He called on an impulse,
thinking it good fodder for masturbation. The recorded response was anything
but. A woman's voice did the talking. She had an all business tone, like some
kind of small shop owner. "Hello. If you have called about ad 11A-1944, please
leave your name, address, phone and social security numbers after the tone."
That was it. The tone hit Jackson's ear. He paused almost half a minute. He
needed more than what he'd heard for stimulation. He said his name and paused.
Then he said the apartment number, and the phone. 282- .... - ... the SS number
ran out of his lips as if someone else had said it. He just stood there
listening, not understanding why he'd gone so far, waiting for the voice to
return. Of course it didn't and the line timed out, leaving him with a dial
tone.
Nothing would come of it, he told himself after a week; a week of almost
endless orgasms over the possibilities. After all, someone female wanted a true
slave, and he'd kind of like volunteered. Of course, the junk mail or
solicitation from a prostitute in the middle of some Saturday night was probably
only around the corner, he told himself, two weeks later.
The mail on Wednesday said, 'You need some time to think about what life
should offer a man; about what you will be missing from now on. I want you to
go to the motel 101 on the west outskirts of your town. Take two days and three
nights, this weekend; relax. If you show up, the room will be paid for by the
time you leave. Restaurants are within walking distance. Stay put, and maybe
your Mistress will make a visit; maybe not, but remaining within walking
distance will be a sign you can follow commandments. We have researched you and
found you acceptable. It is amazing what you can do with a SS number, is it
not? No siblings; what a shame, your parents will be so lonely on Christmas.
Things need to be prepared, so your compliance is not an option.'
What were they asking? He laughed. By Friday he was in knots. He'd
somehow decided to walk out the door with a suitcase. He got in the car and
went to the motel. His name at the desk produced a reservation to a single room
without much of a view; $24 a night at best. The restaurants sucked. He could
barely watch the television for the anticipation of a knock by that prostitute
he'd come to believe was inevitable. He'd never had a prostitute, but imagined
he might let this one do her thing, now that he'd come this far. She didn't
show. On Monday morning he packed and went home, already calling off work for
the day because he'd not been very good at sleeping, as tied up in sexual
tension as he'd been.
The apartment was empty. Not a stick of furniture, nor a picture on the
wall remained. Even the refrigerator had been cleaned, and the carpet vacuumed;
very professional; if he were moving out, he'd be sure of getting his whole
security deposit back. So that was the scam, he thought, rip off artists
extraordinare. What a sucker he'd been, he thought, suddenly angry at both
himself and his victimizers. One lonely note sat in the middle of the stripped
living room floor, folded, clean and square, and as tidy as the clean-up. .He
put the suitcase down, kind of guardedly, realizing it was virtually everything
in the universe he owned at that point, other than a near empty checking
account, and a few hundred in the credit union. Jackson picked up the note, and
unfolded it. He was thinking it was going to be some kind of gentleman bandit
sort of thing; you know, "Got ya, sucker," or something like that.
It read. You will go to the fair tomorrow (Tuesday). Come in the Sail Road
entrance, parking your 1997 Ford ($11,282 still owed) in the back of the main
lot. Leave whatever you can't carry in your pockets in the car. Take the sky
ride across the fairgrounds, and catch the Fairmore street bus at exactly 1:27.
It may be early, but do not catch the 12:57, because that is the wrong bus. Go
to the back of the bus, and sit in the third seat on the right (as you face the
front, and not including the back seat). There will be a note in the seam
between the seat and the wall. If some idiot is sitting there, move one up
until you find a vacant seat; the note will be there. Do exactly what the note
says. If you do what is written on the note, your new life as permanent slave
laborer will begin, and we will save a lot in employment costs. Now, take your
clothing off, open the dining room window and hold the note up to the glass long
enough for anyone with a telescope to read it, say 60 seconds. Then rip it up
and eat it. When done, open your mouth so we can see it is gone. After a
minute of that, close your mouth. Your mouth will no longer be needed for
talking, and your meals will be regulated, requiring much less from the thing.
Talk about adding insult to injury, thought Jackson. They'd already taken
everything he owned, now they wanted him to stand naked at the window and eat
the very note that could prove valuable in an investigation. Of course, he
thought, they'd have left no fingerprints. And, what would he say, "Yes,
officer, I made a phone call to a prostitute for female domination, and I just
got robbed by the slickest con on ice?" Don't think so.
They sort of had him by the balls. May as well get some femdom out of it.
His cock got hard thinking about meeting the Mistress. He moved to the window,
and peeked out at the crack in the curtains. Nobody was out there. Of course
there were apartments a few streets over, but they'd probably not see him,
unless they were committed to the task, if he stood back a foot or two. He
pulled the curtain rope, and it swung open. He didn't know how he'd missed it,
but he'd been so distraught before that he'd not noticed the curtain was still
there. So, he owned a curtain; big deal. They only wanted it up so he could
make a show of himself, like some stage curtain. He took off his clothing and
let the sweet humiliation fill his balls with lust. For effect, he acted as if
he was reading the note, but was really looking the landscape over for someone
with binoculars of a telescope. It could have been any window, he realized,
black or reflecting the sun, he'd not be able to tell a thing. And, of course,
they could just not be there at all, though he doubted it; they'd been so
involved so far.
Jackson started to tear the paper, and stopped. He'd almost forgotten to
double check the locations and time. Oh yeah, he had it. He tore off another
strip, and put the first two strips of paper in his mouth. After awhile, the
paper softened, and he swallowed. It wasn't too bad if you did it a little at a
time. He ripped off a couple more and ate. Two more, and swallowed. Finally,
the last of it went into his mouth, and down his throat. He needed a little
water, but managed without it. When he was sure it wasn't coming back up he
opened his mouth and showed his teeth and tongue.
He got some water. There wasn't any food. Laying down on the floor, he
tried to get some sleep, but fell into fits of daydreams that lasted until
midnight. Waking stiff on the floor, he checked his watch. The sun had come
up, but noon was a little ways off. He'd not beaten off, though he could barely
stand it. He'd not eaten, though his stomach growled. They would want him that
way, he thought, imagining the denial to come, and how he'd spend eternity
wishing he'd had a steak and a half dozen orgasms if the offer was anything
close to real. At 11:45 Jackson dressed and drove off in his car, leaving his
apartment door open for management to see, and one key in the lock.
The trash can was just big enough to hold him. Luckily, no kids were
playing in the alley. He got naked fast, and piled the clothing neatly, but
deep enough in the smaller can to avoid suspicion. There was the odd car parked
along the alley for as far as he could see. Jackson jumped in the can, grabbed
the lid, and fidgeted with the plastic so it would come up over him OK. He
closed the lid and crumpled the black plastic trash sack up over him, securing
the tie wrap by feel to an inverted wad. After awhile he punched a hole in
front of his face, and breathed cool air like it was wine. A car drove by.
Another started an engine and drove off. Yet another engine started, and came
up slowly. It was patrolling; maybe a police car, thought Jackson nervously.
The car stopped. He thought, Oh no, the cops are going to arrest me and put
some kind of sex offender label on me the that will follow me around for the
rest of my life. Two pair of feet approached. Someone banged the top of the
lid, and it seated fully, knocking Jackson on the head a little. Then he was
airborne, and bumped unceremoniously onto some kind of flatbed, maybe a pickup
truck. Chains rattled over the can. A lock probably, clicked mean and solid.
A tailgate was jammed shut; yes a pickup truck, Jackson realized. The truck
shifted under a weight. One door shut. The engine revved and the second door
banged closed. "Oh, the other can," a muffled voice said, Jackson wishing he'd
heard it better; he couldn't tell if it was a man's or a woman's. The person
got back out and tossed the second can up into the bed, banging it against
Jackson's, which boomed like a drum at the inconsideration. The keys rattled
loose, and were picked up with a scrape. That second door shut again.
"There. Got the wallet too. Guy had a few bucks left. God, if we'd have
forgotten that can...." A voice said apprehensively.
"Mustn't fuck this up or someone will be pissed," said another, or at least
those were the words Jackson thought he'd heard before the truck picked up
speed, found progressively better roads, and took him to work.
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