Transfer Station

Nancy has different summer plans for her husband, as marriage counseling doesn’t always work out.  A caustic tale of rotting, fetid garbage, unknown outcomes and a ride to the town’s transfer station.

 

The acrid, putrid smell of my last 2 days permeates every pore of my sweat-drenched body.  It is indescribable the ooze and slime that grows on everything on or near me, enveloping my every naked orifice.  The odor has gotten so caustic that I can't even sense the smell that continues to rot around me in my drum.

My breathing tube is the only thing to the outside world right now.  I am huddled within a sloshing 5 mil hazmat drum liner, within a dark steel 55 gallon drum, with secure lid banded tight. My hands zip-tied together behind my knees, causing me to be slightly yet so uncomfortably hunched over.  My back aches to sit straight, even just once.  My wrists are sore and raw, a testament to the many long hours trying to break the broad secure plastic band and give me even a chance to get out of this gagging bag and drum.  I have lost all sense of sight in the darkness and refuse that I am buried above my chest in.  Any time that I spit my breathing tube out of my mouth, my throat contracts from the stench of the decomposing garbage and the rotting effluence from unknown meals, my own urine, shit and vomit that stagnantly floats and moves at my just above my ankles, above my hands that rest against my flaccid, shrunken cock.

Things have not been healthy with my wife, Nancy.  A 50-something computer service manager, she was well past her prime.  Plump and stoic with her dark features, she was more at home in her flannel nightgown than engaging me in our marriage.  We had tried to have children early on, but without success, she settled into being a maturing crone.  Since I was shooting blanks and causing the empty home, a distance evolved that became impossible to break.  On the rare times that she did acquiesce, she would lay on her back disinterested as I pushed my cock in and out of her like an inanimate doll.

A couple of months ago, the disinterest turned to spite.  After one session, she starting yawning incessantly, and burst out laughing after seeing that I had completely missed my moment.  She was amused by all of the work that I had just had, but nothing to show for it.  Her disinterest slowly evolved to pure contempt.  She started allowing me to have more sex, but she would now refuse to stop reading her book, or watching TV.  Or yawning, in great sweeping loud draws, just before I was due to release.  How she was able to be fucked while completely disassociated from me was disheartening and completely dehabiltating.  We "tried" marriage counseling briefly, but she had no interest after the session.  The analyst encouraged us to share fantasies as a way of gaining some intimacy; all I got was an airing of my perverse, and to her, "distasteful" fantasies.

It was another summer, and we had been at our Maine vacation rental house.  We've stayed here six years in a row.  A "rustic", to be polite, place on a nearly deserted cove along the coast far from everything except a couple of lobster traps.  The house was at least 100 years old, with no insulation and a bare minimum of plumbing and electric.  The lights dim every time with nearly every breeze.  An old dirt floored shed in the back held the noisy well water pump, tools and the garbage barrel.  With the creatures, including skunk and raccoons who can manipulate virtually any closed container, the owners had brought a steel 55 gallon drum a couple of years ago.  All of the renters have to bring their trash to the town transfer station before they left town. 

There are usually 3-4 of us at the house for the week, and several more join over the weekend for long nights of eating and drinking before things wind down.  This time, my post-menopausal sister-in-law Eileen is along for the trip.  She's classic New England sexless intellectual, bespeckled with her ever present blue twin set tight across her growing paunch, poor posture, graying blond thinning tresses and too-tight high waist Mom jeans framing her flat shapeless ass.  Her plump, bulbous tit flesh hung low against her rib cage, her aged and graying bra straining under its post-menopausal task.  On trips to the nearby beach, the sight of her in her faded decade old fraying bathing suit from another era cutting into her plump hunched back was oddly entertaining. 

On Thursday night, we were finishing with dinner and we play a couple of rounds of cards and drank wine as the sun set.  Not usually the party types, I was surprised at Nancy and Eileen's banter and carelessness.  Eileen broke 2 wine glasses in an hour.  Nancy was completely slurring her words and speaking in a loud, belligerent drunken tone.  At first amusing, I started to get the mildly paranoid when Nancy started relating things to her sister that she shouldn't.  I left the table, going back upstairs to sleep.  But with the walls and floors paper thin, there wasn't a slurred word I missed, including Nancy's diatribe into my "character flaws".  And I grew very still and shamed when she started talking about our marriage counseling sessions.  It was clear from her tone and volume that she had every intention in my laying out my perversions to Eileen. 

I'm not sure when, I was briskly pushed from my drunken slumber by the two, now changed into their threadbare tartan plaid flannel nightgowns, with their mature sagging breasts swaying beneath without daytime support.  They were giggling loudly and demanded that I come downstairs as they were frightened.  She said that there were raccoons out in the shed and that I needed to take the trash out.  Nancy and Eileen followed me out to the shed in their slippers and flashlights.  The bag was light, only a day's worth of light trash in a small white kitchen bag.  I opened the lid of the barrel and peered inside.  With my flashlight, I could see that the same dark black bag was there, filled maybe two smaller cinched waste bags on the bottom.

"We had fun tonight, as you can see.  But you know, you don't seem to be having any fun this year up here," Nancy started.

Could it be that I slept on the couch most of the time and any sex or intimacy was infused with disgust and contempt?

"You remember when you told me about your breath play fantasy at counseling? Well, Eileen thought we should take you up on your offer, but a little different twist.  We aren't really interested in cutting off your air.  Just cutting you off from our world for a few hours and maybe giving you some sort of cheap thrill while getting you out of the house."

Eileen grabbed the large dark barrel bag and carefully pulled it up from its weighted depth.  Nancy then snapped a new, very thick 55 gallon bag full of air, and stuffed it within the confines of the barrel.  Together, the two women clumsily tipped the barrel over on its side on the earthen shed floor. 

The two flannel-clad women looked at each other and giggled for a moment.  The situation appeared very comical - two drunken women in their lace-edged tartan nightgowns and slippers, stumbling in a cramped dark shed, bobbling flashlights and asking me to voluntarily get into a garbage barrel.

"Get in.  You know that you've always wanted something like this.  It will be for a couple of hours and then we'll let you out.  We promise", Nancy said with as straight a face as she could muster.  Eileen stood next to her, now placing her large flashlight on a nearby shelve, pointed at the dark waste barrel.

"And for extra credit, we're going to need your clothes.  You're going to get hot sitting in a trash bag for a couple of hours, even on a chilly night such as this.  Plus, it will be easier for you to work that small, sorry thing you call a dick."  The two matrons laid the barrel on its side for me to enter.

I crouched down on the dank floor and placed my first leg deep into the barrel.  After getting both of my legs inside and I started to shimmy my torso deeper within the dark confines of the barrel, I realized that this wasn't as spacious as I thought.  My body was quickly knocked against the side of the steel vessel as I heard Nancy and Eileen grunt and struggle, pushing and pulling the barrel on its intended end, causing me to slide to the bottom, knees jutting up against my bare chest and my eyes looking ahead at nothing but a thick, dark trash bag.  My first sense was how noisy the bag was against my bare skin. Every rustle and every slight movement was met with a pronounced crinkle that aurally reverberated all around me.  My head came up within a few inches of the barrel's upper rim.  Looking up, I could see Eileen start taking a couple of snapshots with the old digital camera. 

"Remember, a couple of hours.  And I need your hands behind your knees, silly, stupid, pathetic boy."

As they were beginning to leave the shed, Eileen stopped and looked at Nancy.  "He definitely needs a gag.  I know we're in the middle of nowhere, but doesn't his garbage can deserve some sort of crowning touch?"  Flashlights raced along each of the walls of the shed, looking at the shelves for anything that would fit the bill.  Eileen stopped, snapped her fingers, and quickly pulled her threadbare flannel night gown up just above her knobby knees, and she clumsily fumbled and awkwardly tugged, then produced her worn Jockey briefs from under her gown. 

"That's so perfect!, excellent choice," just as the elder sister ordered my mouth open and accept her well worn graying once-white cotton brief into my mouth.  "I've worn these since last night, even after walking in the heat of the day," she recounted.  My jaw was jammed open, and my gagging slowly subsided as my saliva soaked into the musky smell of her undergarment.  Nancy ran a couple of bands of old duct tape around my head to ensure my gag remained lodged deep down my throat, and then she placed the lid of the barrel, and unscrewed the small access cap for air.

I could hear the bolt of the shed door slide closed.  It was dark inside my bagged domain.  I tried moving around, breaking the zip ties and spitting the soiled briefs out, but all was to no avail.  The more I moved, the more uncomfortable I became, as each bead of sweat only added to the stickiness of the bag.  The less I moved, the quieter and more bearable my darkness became.  Nancy was right - with my hands bound behind my knees, I was able to reach and touch my dick.  In my many racing thoughts, this was in fact closest to any true fantasy that I could imagine.  I thought it would be breath play, but sitting prone in a barrel far removed from anything was something beyond my imagination.  After about 20 minutes, in the clinging black plastic sarcophagus, in completely pitch black, with Eileen's soiled high-waisted briefs sucking any saliva from my dry mouth, my dick and I made peace, with the sticky cum oozing along my right ankle in between my toes.

Somewhere around supposed dawn, I was able to see a single pin point of graying light through the barrel's vent cap and the shed.  I was shivering for several hours through the night, with no clothes on within my steel can.  I wandered in and out of a series of restless naps, awakened by both the chill of the air and the slow but unmistakable pain of my hands secured around my knees.  As I reawakened to the first visible light, I realized that the slow throb in the abdomen was a growing need to piss after a night of drinking two bottles of wine.  It must have been six hours since I was placed in here.  While an interesting experiment, I was indeed ready for Nancy to get me out.  The sound of the can liner continued to get louder with every new movement in my sanitary discomfort.

At some point, and my recollection of time was becoming increasingly blurred, I heard the faint thud of the house door.  I could hear the soft patter of bedroom slippers stop at the shed door.  "Get up, you piece of garbage," Eileen hollered as she fussed with the lid that secured me within the barrel.  As my eyes were exposed to the first appreciable light that I had seen, I cast my gaze away from her.  "Look at you!  You are looking absolutely terrible, I must say.  I thought you'd look like you were enjoying your confinement, but I guess we were wrong.  Could it be that rag in your mouth?"  I opened my eyes to Eileen pulling her own saliva-soaked matronly threadbare cotton briefs out of my clenched teeth.  My jaw was very sore and I remained silent for a few moments.  My sister-in-law had brought out some warm water and a stale crust of a baguette, which I ate as best as I could, all things considering.

"I'm sure you'd like to get out now, but Nancy and I have planned a dinner party with some friends this evening, and I don't think you should really get involved with that.  We're going to keep you in here."  My attempt to protest was laughed off as she tossed a white kitchen bag into the can, landing in my chest and directly in front of my face.  It had a heft to it that made me doubt that it was simply paper waste.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I had meant to share this with you instead." Eileen inserted both fingers inside the taut cheap white plastic kitchen bag, and began to pull the bag apart. Trash starting to rain into my barrel.  Used tissues, old dental floss, pink panty shield wrappers and q-tips cascaded down on my head, dropping all around me.  Eileen grunted and repositioned the bag, and my head was met by the warm, oozing coffee ground from the morning breakfast table.  Wrappers, foil, used paper towels dropped inside my can, surrounding me in filth. A slimy fruit salad then hit my back, with its cold, sticky juices slowly running down my ass to the bottom of my barrel.

Eileen crumbled the used garbage bag up into a tight ball, and forced it into my mouth, once again securing my gag with tape.  With the morning's garbage now sliding slowly down my back and thighs, I knew I was in a different predicament than just a casual fantasy.  She began to chuckle, and closed the lid to my cocoon once again, sealing in the aromatic new trash around my naked body.

After a few minutes and having quiet envelope me again, I closed my eyes again and slowly felt my bladder lose its fight.  A warm, powerful stream of piss splashed against my tied calf, and fell to the bottom of the thick black garbage bag.  It continued for what seemed to be an eternity, and I started to feel the cooling piss pool around my exposed ass, adding to my growing discomfort.  And a while later, I acquiesced and squeezed out a long, hot wet turd into the bottom of the barrel.

Time continued to pass, and my hunched back was really starting to kill me.  In my dull pain, I heard the front screen door and its familiar slam.  More slams, footsteps and slide bolts, and the women were back inside my shed.  "Holy shit!  What is that smell?," I heard Nancy loudly exclaim before she even touched my barrel.  "There is something nasty going on in that can.”  A modest light of the late afternoon met my eyes and they removed the secured lid of my barrel and dropped a couple of boxes on the floor next to me.  I had at times noticed the smell myself - a low grade septic shit smell mixed with a sweet decomposing fruit - but I must have gotten used to the smell as it enveloped me. 

Eileen had bent over and reappeared with a wide grin on her wrinkled face.  "Look what we brought out for you." 

I saw a small plastic tub of something in her extended hand - could it be cottage cheese - and I heard the snap of the food container opening.  Nancy proceeded to inform me of the extended details of their dinner party, which had now grown to seven guests.  They were on the way out to the nearest super food center, and had purged the fridge and pantry of anything that was past its prime to make room for the new party platters and groceries.  Eileen dumped the cottage cheese on my head, and the white glob of expired dairy product slid down the small of my back, causing an involuntary spasm and shiver.  Nancy appeared and proudly displayed the package of dull gray expired ground beef.  She ripped the shrink wrap off and dumped the meat and its putrid juices straight into my lap, resting near my dick.

With each new item, they seemed to enjoy my fate even longer.  Limp lettuce, chopped onions, an old jar of Worcestershire sauce was jettisoned on my body, slowly falling to the bottom of the bag and congealing all around me.  I kept trying to spit out the plastic garbage bag that prohibited me from protesting as more green encrusted moldy bread, cold stale spaghetti noodles and a half carton of curdled butter milk was ceremoniously dumped on my head and into my barrel.  Two boxes of old cereal, a yogurt very past its prime and some old Tupperware full of old pasta salad joined the many lengths of soiled paper towels that were tossed into the garbage.  And the last item that Nancy took great thought about was taking three black and rotten bananas and griping the bottom of the peel and mashing the fruit into my face, forcing the ooze into my eyes and up my nostrils.  The women quickly secured the lid and left me trying to shake off the fruit off of my face amidst my growing stench.

As the car drove off and silence returned, the garbage nestled around my knee caps - a good 1/3 full by my accounting.  My head was throbbing with a dull ache, hunger from only eating stale bread and eatable scraps of garbage left over from the last three days.  And now I was deep in rotting garbage.  The smell had slowly become unbearable.  The acrid scent of the rotten onions was the foulest stench, mixed with foul of the expired ground meat was becoming overwhelming.  It was only a matter of time that before the warm blackened tattered heads of lettuce overwhelmed my darkened barrel.

I must have dozed off, as I was awakened by Eileen peering into my fetid cocoon.  The light was a dim gray - it must be early evening.  She grimaced and extended her arm against the side of the steel barrel, pushing herself from the stench that had obviously stunned her.  "Oh my god," she choked, "this is absolutely rancid!  I never thought this could get so bad so fast." 

I guess I was somewhat used to it, having lived in it for a very long day.  She leaned into the barrel and plucked the chewed garbage from my mouth.

"Now you be a good boy during our party and don't make a peep."  Eileen snapped a couple of new photos of my worsening situation.  And then she threaded a long plastic tube to outside the can, stuffing old rags both in my mouth and in the barrel access hole to contain the smell.  At least I had better source of air, though I had to fight to keep from using my nose.

I was in and out of consciousness throughout the night.  I could make out the faint noises of music and about 4-5 other people in the house.  My can was only disturbed twice when Eileen came out to feed me a few scraps, dump some cold corn cobs and spent lobster shells from the party.  In another bag, she proceeded to dump a copious quantity of cigarette butts and ashes, which were now pasted to my scalp and rubbed against my face.  The stale smell of the old butts and ash accosted my every sense.  I hadn't seen my wife Nancy all day.

I could sense that night became morning, but I really had no idea.  I was starting to think about how this was going to end.  The trash was well over 1/2 of the barrel, and my ass and feet were sloshing in several inches of feted ooze, piss and shit.  I could hear both Eileen and Nancy open the shed door, with my wife taking it upon herself to bang the side of the barrel loudly.  Shortly, I found that my breathing tube was blocked - Nancy placing her hand over the tube no doubt, forcing me to spit the tube out of my mouth and enveloping my lungs with the caustic rotting garbage around me. 

The women pried open the can, and I could watch them holding their noses in utter disgust.  Eileen finally began to ripping open small white kitchen bags and dumping the leftover garbage from last night.  Shriveled seafood salad, old dips and shrimp carcasses were tossed into the mix.  Cans and a few wine bottles cascaded into the mix.  More bathroom waste followed, including used Kleenex and more panty shields, and dangling strands of used dental floss.

What followed was a bit different, as Eileen reinserted my breathing tube and took some more photographs.  She took the sides of the full bag and grabbed the drum liner top, and pushed down and forced most of the foul air out of the bag.  I could hear her retching from the foul exhaust as she rushed to secure the bag with more zip ties.  As they put the top of the barrel back on, I could hear Nancy remind Eileen that the transfer station closed at noon on Saturdays.  And then the spring clamp seal on the drum lid was secured.

I could barely keep conscience, but the next turn of the events were certainly unexpected.  I could hear my captors grunt and rock the full barrel that had been my home now for four days.  Back and forth I sloshed in the dark, the humid liner now enshrouded around my body.  Finally, I could hear a loud grunt as my drum was knocked to its side.  The drum and all of its contents exploded within the bag, my face caught at the bottom of the rancid stew.  Just as I was able to get my shoulder free and spit the scraps from my face, I could feel the drum begin to spin.  Slowly.  When I could catch some words from these women, I would just as soon lose them, as my barrel began a slow, clumsy journey out of the shed and down the driveway.  As incredible a feat it was to get me out of the shed, Eileen and Nancy creatively got the barrel into the back of the old SUV for a ride to the transfer station.

I was losing consciousness as my tube was either blocked or too small.  The town transfer station was about 5 miles away off a dirt road.  It was where you drive up, get out of your car, and toss any bags of garbage about 10-20 feet into a wide chute into a waiting tractor trailer.  How full or how far a drop was variable - on busy summer weeks, the town would need to haul out twice each week.  Late on a Saturday morning, there would be a long line of people dumping their contents from the week.  I wasn’t sure whether the town would then truck it out to a regional incinerator or land fill somewhere. 

With a jolt and lurch, I could begin hearing the chorus of cascading garbage bags being tossed down the hard steel chute.  Some bags would bounce off the sides, hitting the very peak of the mountain of refuse, and then slowly tumble down the pitched slope, settling into a low corner.  Other heavy bags would hit the chute, burst open, and then slowly ooze down, barely making the trailer before getting knocked by following bags of garbage.

In my stupor, I could make out the faint sensation of the car backing up and the tailgate squealing open.  As my cocoon begin to rotate to what must have been the edge, I began to feel my inertia failing, with barrel pitching into the air.  My gag was secure, though I had little energy to attempt my own rescue.  My reality began blurred, as the fetid waste and rotten, slimy ooze began moving up my chest, up my nostrils, into my ears and enveloped my eyes.  And then free fall, slamming into the chute, sliding quickly down the open chute and hitting the town’s garbage with an enormous thud.  As I groaned and tried to right myself, I was hit by more bags of refuse during the busy transfer station day. 

My final fate was unknown as my captors left me to the fates of the town.

 

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10.10.08