Trash Goth

I remember meeting him on the train going into work. He was dressed like some kind of goth: a black leather trenchcoat worn over a black t-shirt, black spandex tights, and black leather workboots. He also had gorgeous, fluffy dark hair. He sat in the seat across from me, flashed me a quick smile, and began reading a broadsheet newspaper. He would rustle the paper quite noisily everytime he turned a page. I don't think he was doing that to annoy me, however.

I mentioned to him, when I was just a few stops away from my workplace, that he didn't seem like a Daily Telegraph reader.

"I'm not really," he replied. "But their reporting is always good for a laugh. I like the puzzles. And I just can't resist a nice large broadsheet." He rustled the paper again for what seemed like the thousandth time. "I guess I'm a traditionalist that way."

Something told me to say something to this guy, anything in fact, that might lead to us seeing each other again. "I like broadsheet newspapers too. I won't stoop to reading tabloids."

The goth laughed at this, then threw me a pleasant smirk and extended his hand. "Douglas is the name."

When his hand retreated, I noticed that he had left behind a scrap of paper in my hand. "Call me, eh?" he said and winked at me. I said I would and got off the train, with my member so big that I thought the whole train station could see it, even through jeans.

I wondered throughout the entire workday about this man. It may just have been an astute sense of gaydar on his part. I'm gay too, so it seems he was just trying to pick me up. But there was something else too. His penchant for leather and spandex, for one thing. And the way he rustled that newspaper. People don't normally make THAT much noise while reading the paper, not even broadsheets.

But I was glad that he seemed attracted to me. I considered myself a looker: 5'9", slim and medium-brown hair nearly as long as Douglas's. Only my attire was a bit more low-key than his: chamois shirts and slim-fit jeans with Converse sneakers were my style.

I called him that evening, when I got home. He answered straight away. "Meet me in the back lot of Fitzgerald Place in half-an-hour," he told me.

"Why there?" I asked him.

"I have some business to take care of there. Just meet me there and then we'll do something fun," Douglas said.

It was a strange request, but I trusted him. I was curious more than anything else. Fitzgerald Place was a large office complex located on the edge of town. I rode my bike there and saw Douglas standing next to a Porsche 911, the only car in the parking lot.

"Wow, swish car!" I exclaimed.

"It was my ex-boyfriend's," Douglas told me, confirming my suspicions of his homosexuality. "He's the rich one. We broke up under amicable circumstances, so he let me have the car. He wanted to buy a BMW and was looking to get rid of the Porsche anyway."

"That's a helluva parting gift," I observed.

I noticed that, as it was an unusually warm night, Doug was now wearing just a white undershirt and spandex shorts with sneakers. The spandex of his shorts was quite thin and I could clearly see that he wasn't wearing any underwear beneath the shorts. I started getting massively turned on.

"Well, let's take care of this business, shall we?" Douglas said, and led me toward the building. He took a left turn down a narrow path and opened a large gate in a fenced-off area. This was the office building's dumpster area. Douglas wasted no time in explaining why he'd brought me back here.

"My ex was not only rich, but he was a trash fetishist. Loved being bagged, loved being in the trash, loved anything to do with trashbags and trash. Newspapers was a big thing of his. He loved lots of paper in his trash." Douglas winked at me and continued: "I noticed that, whenever we sat together on the train, and I read a big broadsheet newspaper, with all the rustling that entails, he would constantly keep crossing his legs. Every two minutes, he'd shift his legs, left over the right, then right over left, and so on. Exactly the sort of thing YOU were doing on the train earlier today."

I laughed a bit nervously. I had, in fact, been crossing my legs quite a bit during that train journey when Douglas had been rustling the paper. I also, as Douglas had just predicted, had a trash fetish.

"Michael could never resist a session of good trash play," Douglas said. "And, I suspect, neither can YOU."

I was amazed at just how perceptive Douglas was, how he had summed me up perfectly in just one short train journey.

"Now," Douglas said. "Be a good boy, take your clothes off and get on in."

I looked at the dumpster. It was full. Not overflowing, but big, black bags of trash were piled all the way up to the top. I prepared to jump up in order to climb up from the front of the dumpster, but Douglas held me back.

"No, no," he said. "Through the side door."

I took my clothes off and stood there naked. I could see Douglas's hard-on straining at his spandex shorts. I slid open the little side door of the dumpster and saw no way of getting in through the wall of trash that pressed against the opening.

"I don't think I can get in there through that," I said.

"Oh yes you can," Douglas insisted. "I've seen it done before."

I had to spread my legs wide in order to give myself the thrust I needed in order to break through the trash. While getting a precarious footing on the holds, I spread my legs wide.

"Now THAT'S a nice view," Douglas commented. He was referring to the fact that I also had my ass checks parted and that my anus was on full display. I farted several times through exertion, but Douglas kept licking and stroking my poophole while I mashed my way into the trash. Paper rustled, cans clinked and plastic packaging groaned as I worked my way through the trash.

I was halfway through all the trash when I rested. I was surrounded by bag after bag of office and cafeteria trash, I could feel loads of disposable plastic trays, styrofoam containers, plastic bottles and wastepaper everywhere. I finally crawled through the trash and rested on top of it all.

Then Douglas did exactly what he'd instructed me not to do. He athletically hopped up onto the front of the dumpster, scaled the little trash hill and lovingly layed on top of me, wrapping his arms around me and licking my neck. The trash beneath us groaned as we made out.

We stayed there for what seemed like forever when Douglas got up, the trash rustling beneath him, and said, "OK, now let's get dressed, take a ride in that car you find so sexy, and have a nightcap at my place."

I couldn't resist. I slid down the front of the dumpster, sort of butt-surfing on the bags of trash, donned my clothes and followed Douglas to his car. I was completely and totally his.

Part Two

It was late Friday evening and I had just put my clothes back on and hopped into a sportscar belonging to a friendly, sexy goth named Douglas with whom I had just frolicked in an office trash dumpster. Douglas promised me more fun at his place and I certainly didn't need my arm twisted to take him up on the offer.

Douglas drove me two miles to his pad, a homey little apartment on the first floor of a duplex. On the way there, we talked normal guy chat: work, the football scores, etc., which I suppose was our subliminal way of dampening the fire we both felt till we got to his place. He parked his Porche -- otherwise known as sex on wheels -- in the drive and announced, "Home sweet home, fella! Come inside, and do make yourself at home."

I walked into Douglas's apartment. A little foyer led straight into his living room. I sat down on the sofa, when Douglas said to me, "Now what sort of way is THAT of making yourself at home? Get your kit off!"

I laughed. I threw off my jean shorts, shirt and underwear, placed them neatly on the floor, and then sat back and relaxed on the couch. Douglas continued to look at me askance, so I layed across the length of the sofa, legs spread, and crossed my arms behind my head. Douglas smiled sweetly at me.

"That's better," he said. He took off his clothes as well, made us both a cup of tea, and sat Indian-style on the floor, stroking my left leg up and down tenderly while we drank and talked.

"OK, so," Douglas said, "Michael, my ex, wasn't the only one with a trash fetish. I have the same fetish. But I never realized it until I'd met him. It's funny, but true. One night, when he had retired before me, I caught him in bed wearing a big trash bag, one of those 55-gallon ones, and it was lined with sheets from an entire large Sunday newspaper. He was shy at first and told me that it was just about keeping warm. He said on a cold night, wearing a trash bag stuffed with paper soon makes you toasty. So I tried that myself, and something ..." He broke off and winked at me. "Something just CLICKED, y'know?

"Then the pretense just washed away. I said to him, 'I really like this!' Then Michael said, 'So do I. I just LIKE it. That's why I do it.' Soon after, we would dumpster dive, not for treasure, but just to play in the rubbish. We liked office dumpsters like the one you and me just played in. Soon after that, we would bag each other up. We'd save a week's worth of trash and one of us would be the other's bag of trash. I really got into that." Douglas was tenderly stroking my cock now. I was listening with rapture.

"Whoever was the trashbag got dominated, threatened with being thrown out, that sort of thing. All in good fun."

"I ... I'd love ...," I was so excited that I could hardly speak. "I'd LOVE to do that," I managed to croak.

Douglas gave me a coy look. "Would you now? Then come on. Follow me." We walked down the corridor to his bedroom. As soon as I walked in, my jaw dropped. It was a large bedroom, but there was no bed. There was a chest-of-drawers by the large windows and a small workstation at the other end of the room. The rest of the room was a pile of trash. Literally. A pile of what must have been 75 bags of trash.

Douglas wasted no time explaining. "I keep the blinds shut for obvious reasons. Soon after Michael moved out, I decided I wanted to explore this trash fetish further, and really take it to the limit. So I sold my bed and I just sleep in that," he said, pointing to the mountain of trashbags. "It's really comfortable," he said. He smiled at me. "Would you like to try it?"

"Would I!" I layed down carefully on a corner of the pile, the trash rustling to my movement.

Douglas laughed. "You! THIS is how you get into it," and he ran across the room and jumped in the middle of the trash heap. A few papers and cans flew up into the air with his landing. Then he gave me a big grin.

"Oh, I just love trash," Douglas said, getting excited. "It never fails to turn me on."

"Me too," I said, romping through the trashbags, joining him. "I love the sound, the look, the smell and the feel of it. I want to be in it, be part of it. I want to BE it. I want to be trash!"

"You ARE trash, boy," Douglas said. "Look around you, it's all you see, so it's all you are. You are part of this trash. But not completely yet..."

Douglas started clearing a space, throwing bags around, till a depression in the pile was formed. "Get in there, you trash," he ordered. I did so without hesitation.

Douglas threw the bags back on me and laid on top of the pile he'd re-created. I could tell he was spread-eagle at the top of the trashbags, masturbating.

"NOW you are definitely TRASH," he stated.

The night was yet still young.

Part Three

It was one hell of a Friday night. I'd met a sexy goth on the morning train into work, one who wore leather and spandex, and had accurately guessed my love for trash. He claimed it was the way I'd kept crossing my legs while he rustled his newspaper that alerted him to it, because his former boyfriend, also a trash fetishist, did the same thing to the sound of rustling paper.

That evening, I met him in the back lot of an office building and we made out in a dumpster filled to the top with workplace rubbish. He had also performed analingus on me during my struggle to get into the dumpster through the side door. Later, he took me to his home in his Porsche, and then to his "bedroom," which was filled with trashbags -- a mammoth pile of seventy-five of them. After rustling around in this trash together, the goth had then cleared a space in the heap of bags, ordered me into it, and threw what must have been 15 sacks of trash back onto me.

I was now crushed beneath those 15 bags, while the goth, whose name was Douglas, lay on top of them, masturbating and moaning in ecstasy. He was bouncing his ass up and down on the trashbags, obviously going at it full-throttle. There were air pockets in the space I was in, which made it possible for me to breathe, but the air was hot and I was really hemmed in by the rubbish. I couldn't move.

"AAAHHH!" Douglas groaned, having achieved. "JEEZ, that was great ... Hey, you alright down there, you piece of trash?"

"Yes!" I answered, though it must have sounded like "yepfff" to him through all the trash.

I heard him dismount the pile, the shifting sounds of the rubbish filtering down to me, and heard the "ppft-ppft" sound of his bare feet on the wooden floor as he walked out of the room. Five minutes later, I heard him return, only this time his footfalls went "clomp-clomp."

"OK, let's get you out of there," Douglas said, and I heard the rustle of trashbags being shifted as he re-opened the space.

I crawled out from the trash, sucking in the cooler air of the room. I was amazed to discover that my cock had not diminished in size at all. I was still packing a seven-incher, which is as big as I get when I'm REALLY turned on.

Douglas, meanwhile, was now wearing a plastic PVC thong and his black leather workboots. He also had a 60-gallon trash bag with him. He threw all the bags of trash back into the space once more, giving me delectable views of his thonged ass as he did so, and then levelled me with a look which could only be described as one of wild excitement.

"I guess you can tell what's coming next," he said, and he opened the trash bag. "In you go. It's where trash like you belongs."

Trash doesn't argue, and neither did I. I dutifully got in the bag, the soft plastic surrounding me, and sat Indian-style. Then the bag gently collapsed around me as Douglas wordlessly left, but he came back a minute later. I heard something being wheeled into the room. It was a work trolley, and on it was a large trash barrel.

Douglas grinned as he lifted the barrel and emptied its contents into the bag I was sitting in. Copious amounts of wastepaper, aluminum cans, steel tins, milk jugs and other plastic waste, orange peels, used tea bags, coffee grounds, and even a few small glass bottles, fell on and around me in one glorious trashy crash.

"Now then, do you know what ultimately happens to trashbags, my sweet? Especially naughty bags of trash like yourself?"

"We get thrown out?"

"Exactly. You get thrown out. And it's out you're going, you vile, smelly, fat bag of trash."

I felt myself being lifted into the air as Douglas placed the bag of trash I was in onto the trolley. He wheeled me out his front door, down a wheelchair ramp, and deposited the bag against a telephone pole. I could briefly feel other bags shift around me, so I knew I was among other bags of trash.

"Now then, you are where trash really belongs. Waiting for the trashmen to pick you up." Douglas went back inside his house.

I created a few small holes in the bag for air, and with my back against the pole I had support and so was fairly comfortable. I listened to the sounds of people walking by all night long, excited by the fact that, as far as they could see, I was trash. They didn't know I was there, but the fact that I WAS there, in a bag of trash amongst other bags of trash, on the pavement in public, was magic. Now I was living the trashy dream for real. I was, in every way, totally and completely trash. I started masturbating silently and came a number of times.

I must have eventually dozed off for a while because a few hours had passed, but then I heard the trash truck coming down the road and the loud roar of the packer. I felt the cold sting of panic grip me, my blood running raw, and I thought I would have to do the mega-embarrassing thing and holler at the trashmen to leave this bag alone.

Was Douglas honestly going to leave me to this fate?

Did he really intend on treating me like trash to THIS extent?

Just as I heard the other bags of trash around me being shifted by the trashmen, and was about to protest, Douglas came running out of his home, lifted me back onto the trolley, and said to the trashmen, "Sorry, I need this back, I think I threw something important in there."

He'd thrown something important in here, alright!

A few minutes later, still wearing the bag of trash, but with my head free and the top of the bag tied around my neck, I sat on the floor of Douglas's "bedroom". He was still dressed in his thong and boots.

"Did you really go out there like THAT?" I asked him.

"No, you silly bag of trash," Douglas laughed. "I had my long leather coat on."

"I love being your bag of trash," I said.

"And I love you being my trash," Douglas said, stroking my face gently and affectionately. Then, without further adieu, he tipped me over and I heard him ripping the plastic of the bag at the back. I felt the trash around my butt being shifted, and I knew what this was going to involve.

"Now just relax, sweet trashbag. Sometimes, the trash just needs to be compacted."

He took me from behind, thrusting his amazing cock up my poop chute. He had his arms clutched around the front of my trashbag and was whispering seductively in my ear, "Mmm, nice trash! Everyone should have a bag of trash like you to make love to! Sexy, sexy trash."

Douglas was an amazingly skilled and gentle lover. I hardly felt any pain, even though I'd seen earlier that he was hung like a stallion. I responded to every movement in ecstasy, the rubbish which surrounded me rustling and shifting every time.

Once Douglas had finished intercourse, he dismounted me, gingerly lifted me back to an upright position, and declared, "Oh dear, the trashbag has torn. Sometimes that's the price a bag of trash pays for being compacted. Well, we can't have that, can we? Trash must be contained."

He retrieved a fresh trash bag and slipped that over the ripped bag I was still sitting in. Then he dropped some of the trash that had dropped out from the tear hole into the new bag and tied that up around my neck.

"There, trashy, just like brand new! Well, I gotta do some shopping. Watch the place for me while I'm gone, would you?"

And with that, Douglas picked me up once more and threw me square in the middle of his trash heap. And there I sat, the 76th bag of trash in his playroom and nothing more. I didn't say a word as he winked at me and left.

I was, after all, just his trash.

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05.12.08