Part One: Arrival
Her eyes open, but nothing changes. It's just as dark. She breathes in.
When plants are caught in absolute darkness, a substance in them called auxin stretches their stems out, until they die. That's why when you leave a plant in a closet it turns a ghostly pale, warped and disfigured.
Our plant is stretching; she's been in the dark for hours unknown. She slowly, progressively becomes more aware of her situation. She first realizes that it is dark; then she notices the cool feel of plastic against her exposed skin (that's when she deduces her nudity); she then realizes that her hands are tied together behind her back. It is hard to breathe.
She panics. She screams, trying to fight what she realizes can only be a gag in her mouth. A perfect alarm -- unintelligible but effective. She stops when she hears a door unlock, followed by calculated footsteps, increasing in volume. Finally, she lets out another scream, attempting to say 'let me out of here!' (It ended up more like "LEH MEE OW UH HEE!") Light soon punctures the woman's world. Dim, fluorescent light.
The man has untied something. Methodically, he widens a hole and births her hair in the great vaginal procession of the Trash Bag. That is, after all, what she soon understands it to be. It is a large, thick, industrial grade trash bag. Inescapable. She takes note of the bizarre scene, before choosing to scream or question. She notes the masked man in the suit, tall-ish and fairly fit. She notes the blank, mid-sized room, sculpted out of cinderblock, with a large pole running through it that she's leaned up against, furnished with nothing but a chair, the table she's perched on, and a small trash can next to the locked door.
There. Now she can scream. And, of course, as obvious and necessary as every other action in this story is, the man slaps her across her face.
Part Two: The First Lesson
The man lets the woman breathe -- heaving, pacified. He pulls a carton out of his back pocket, and lights a cigarette through the thin mouth-hole in his spotless white mask. She breathes out, he breathes in; he exhales in her face. He is calm, she's too scared to say anything much. He draws in again, and again. Then, he silently taps his cigarette against the side of her neck as the warm ash slips down her shoulder. She starts to shout but stops herself.
"Common household trash cans." The man says, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Our society doesn't care enough about them. They're what caused this whole global warming, you know. Not the cars, not the paper... People don't think about where their trash goes. They must think the garbage truck is the gateway to another dimension." He breathes, once more into her face. She coughs into her black ball gag. "It doesn't go away, you know. And now they have this recycling bullshit -- separate the bottles from the cans, whatnot. Do you know how much energy it takes to recycle all that plastic that never should have been used in the first place?"
The man puffs out one last time. He slides the cigarette down the front of her trash bag. "I bet you're wondering where you are and how you got here. I took care of all those logistics. But why, you may ask, did I go through all this trouble? Part of it is to give me a little amusement, a little light in these dark hours. But, for the most part, I take trash like you in to educate. I consider myself one of the greatest ecologists of our time. I teach people, one by one, the value of reducing and reusing. None of this easy-fix recycling eco-nonsense. By the end of our little seminar, I think you'll have a good idea why you shouldn't waste, or litter, as I've seen you do three times."
He looks over her fairly pretty face, with its short eyelashes, hazel eyes, and reddened lips. He pulls her straight chestnut hair out of the trash bag, letting the ends of it fall three or four inches past the edge of the bag. She shakes her head, trying to get him to stop, but he steadies it with strong hands.
He continues to widen the hole at the top of the bag, working it down fairly quickly until it reaches her bare breasts. He squeezes them once before she squeals. He laughs and says, "You're right, best save them for later." (She only now notices his white rubber gloves.)
The man pauses, and produces two large ropes from underneath the table. He peels more of the plastic coating off her shivering body, until both her arms are free. He unlocks the handcuffs, pulls her arms back and relocks them around the central pole. He then peels the rest of the bag off her skin, pulling the husk off her corn-legs, leaving the woman utterly naked. She flails her legs a bit -- attempting feebly to kick him. It doesn't work. He takes the rope and frogties her, tightly touching her feet to her butt cheeks.
He succeeds in making her feel completely vulnerable. Gagged, tied to a pole, utterly immobile, tits and cunt exposed. He steps back, almost as if to admire his creation. He sighs, and steps forward.
"First, I want you to get to know the trash." He tells her.
The man goes over to the door and picks up the trash can. It's just a typical trash can -- the kind you might keep in an office. It's small, black, and filled to the top with various different items. He places it on the table next to her.
"Do you recognize this? It's yours. Trash I collected from your home. Let's see what we have here, now." He rummages through it, still wearing the gloves.
The first thing he comes across is an old apple core. "You let so much of this core go to waste!" He says, as he rubs it pensively on her cheek.
Second, he comes across a yogurt container, which still contained a good amount of yogurt in it. He sighs, shakes his head, and gladly holds the container over her head as the yogurt meandered down in clumps onto her hair. He rubs it in thick into her hair, shampooing it with the stuff.
The next thing he discovers is a mostly empty can of soda, which he first drips on her arm, then crushes against her head.
The man now pulls some food wrappers, which he separates into two distinct piles. He tells her that one pile is 'excusable' and, another larger pile is 'inexcusable'. The excusable wrappers he stuffs into a bag he has under the table. The inexcusable wrappers he keeps on the table. He then pulls out all of the used Kleenex, and adds them to the pile. He compresses the tissue and wrappers into two balls. He takes the first, and places it near the woman's cunt. He spreads her ass cheeks as she attempts to make noise. He shoves the ball between her cheeks.
"I suppose I'll have to prevent you from making so much noise!" He takes off her gag, as she curses at him, and stuffs the woman's mouth full with the wrappers and tissues she'd only thrown away days ago. The man then replaces and reties the gag on her mouth, effectively silencing her.
"Don't swallow any, now." He says, as he pulls out a tube of toothpaste from the trash can. "You are so careless. You could have used this tube twice, maybe three more times." He expertly, exactingly rolls the tube up, pushing a huge glob onto the tip of his index finger. The man seems content with his job, and proceeds to finger her pussy with the stuff. For a few brief seconds, it just feels cool and sticky. Then, very quickly, she acts as though she's in excruciating pain. The young woman makes noise, but it's almost undetectable through her stuffed mouth.
The man next pulls out some junk mail, and says, "Now, unfortunately, even I have to forgive you for having this stuff. This, however, is one of the few instances in which you need to recycle. So for that," he says, taking each of the three pieces of mail, "you must be punished." Each letter he swiftly and decisively swings across her body. He hits each one of her breasts, aiming for the nipple, three times with each article of mail.
He takes out two used tea bags, still moist, and jauntily places each one on her eyes for a bit, just letting them sit. While they are in, he takes out an old, mostly black banana and sets it next to her. Then, the man removes her tea bags.
He takes a can of cat food out, and places the few remaining scraps of chicken on her stomach. He throws the can into the plastic bag beneath the table. He takes out some coffee grinds next and smears them all over her face, then dumps the remainders on her stomach.
He crumbles egg shells on her face.
He wipes orange peels on her tits.
He smiles, seemingly satisfied, and then says, "Almost empty. But you left something else in your trash didn't you?" He holds up the old banana, black with yellow spots. He puts the banana close to her vagina, still sensitive from the toothpaste. He says to her, "You might enjoy this." He slides it into her pussy, slowly letting it slip within her. When it's about a third of the way in, he thrusts it in and out a bit. Her body is indeed enjoying it, but she won't let him find that out. She is silent -- mortified, dignified.
He pushes it in more. It's as if he is attempting to push it in so it will stay. But he takes it all the way at the last minute. He begins fucking her with the banana, like normal, but with extreme intensity. This lasts about fifteen minutes. She is about ready to cum. He just keeps digging in deeper and deeper with it. Until. He squeezes it, from both sides. The fleshy interior begins poking its way out. The fruit is now doing the penetrating. He pulls off the peel and lets the nasty, squishy rotten fruit do all the work. She finds it disgusting; he finds it hilarious.
He pulls out just before she can cum. He slaps her cunt, takes a bite out of the banana. He squashes the rest of the mushy fruit in her face. She is put in a new trash bag and told to sleep in it, she'll need some rest.
Part Three: A feeling of tight
A feeling of tight overcomes her body. The black trash bag sort of becomes compressed. She notices the vacuum cord in the bag, deliberately sucking the air out, making it all tight around her.
The bag is just loose enough for her to breathe comfortably -- but still pretty damn constricted. It acts like a shiny black catsuit for her, except even more form-hugging, let's say. Her tits are completely defined through the plastic. It is as if someone has dipped her body in a vat of black plastic.
He takes out the vacuum hose, and ties up the bag, tight, at her neck. This is to keep the air from coming back into her bag. He goes over to her, and starts touching her tits. She screams again, but the Kleenex from yesterday absorb all the sound she could be making. He still slaps her for it. He plays with her tits, squeezing them and moving them around within the black.
She is still in the same position; she is still frogtied and bound to the pole. He gets on the table himself, and, standing up, he unzips his pants. Pulling out an average sized penis from behind the folds of his underwear, the man holds his cock at eye-level for the bound woman.
He moves it towards her face. Her face and his cock play a little game of cat-and-mouse. He then steadies it with his hands, and begins to take off her gag. He sees all of the disgusting tissues and wrappers, and announces, "Oh, I almost forgot I put those there." He claws them out of her dry mouth and replaces them quickly with a nice warm penis. She nearly chokes on it. He pushes it in her mouth when she does nothing. He starts facefucking her. She has audible sounds of resistance, but he doesn't care.
He stops, just as suddenly and unceremoniously as he started.
He goes down, focuses his attention on the black-covered cunt of hers. He strokes it. He opens the string a little bit, to let some air into the bag. She starts screaming. He glances at her through the mask, a look she knows can only mean to shut up or face the consequences.
He starts to enter her pussy, using the trash bag as his condom.
He goes in deeper, and starts to fuck her vigorously. He is thrusting and thrusting hard. You can tell that this whole experience has been keeping him on the edge of his seat. He is very close to orgasming, even after a mere five minutes. He suddenly takes out his cock. He stands up and starts jacking off near her head. Soon enough, within thirty seconds, he cums onto her face, letting the cum drip down into the trash can.
Part Four: A Quiet Meal
It has been two days. The lights are off when he comes in. She has been stirring in the most humiliating position of her life -- yet -- for two days. Two days and two nights, what felt like four nights in the dark. She is still frogtied, still naked, still in a trash bag. The residue of the trash -- her trash -- is caked on her skin. His semen long spilt is hard on her forehead.
When the lights turn on, she is scared. She screams a little. The man approaches her, calmly, and says, "I didn't tell you these walls were soundproof? Probably wouldn't make a difference if I had told you -- a cunt like you would scream anyways. That's what I don't like about you, you scream and scream, and think just because you scream someone will help you. Meanwhile, our planet screams, cries out to us and what do we do?" He loudly slaps her. "We slap her in the face."
He spits in her eye.
"You've completed the first step -- you've gotten to know your trash and your own wastefulness. You've completed the second step too, realizing that you yourself are nothing but trash. Soon, it will be time for you to complete the third step -- to help others realize their wrongdoing. But, for now, you must be hungry?" She nods enthusiastically. "When I ask you a question," he responds, angrily approaching her, "I expect an answer."
"Yes, I am hungry," she says, fearfully. She is hungry, though -- after two and a half days, she was dying for some sustenance.
He grabs her breasts and twists them. "Yes, master." He corrects. "I am your teacher, the one putting you on the path to salvation and I demand your respect."
She howls in pain and answers, "Yes, master!"
"Good." He brings forward a plate, which he has covered with a white cloth napkin. He begins to untie her, one leg at a time. Once she moves around, she feels awkward (anyone would, after two days of restricting bondage). She starts to get up. He lays a hand on her ass, and says in a low voice, "Stay on your hands and knees." He begins guiding her over to the plate, gently pushing her ass in its direction. He stops her when she gets in front of it, and takes the indulgence of sticking a finger in her cunt. Then, he moves in front of the plate and pulls off the white cover.
Underneath, on the plate, are the following foods, all mixed together: week-old Lo Mein, some mushy peas, half of a bottle of Thousand Island salad dressing, and a slice of moldy bread. The man takes a small carton of milk, and empties it on the plate.
"You... you want me to eat this?"
"Bon Appétit," he says jovially. She stares into the face of the plate, miserably, and wonders how she can eat it without throwing up in her mouth. She is, after all, hungry. She tries to pick out the peas, first, from the rest, and plops each one into her mouth.
After about half a minute of this slow, meticulous process, the man grows tired watching her grapple through his 'meal'. "That is completely rude!" He says, "Out of the kindness of my heart, I bring you a meal I made for you. And this is how you treat it!"
He comes up to the plate, and steps on it. He grinds his shoe back and forth, about twenty times maybe, and then steps off. The whole thing is all mixed together. He lifts up his shoe, and puts it to her face. "Clean it off!"
She does nothing at first, and he pushes it towards her face, nearly kicking it. "Clean off my fucking shoe, bitch!" She takes her tongue and starts gently licking the disgusting mess off his soles. The soles were already pretty dirty to begin with -- slurping noodles and picking milk-soaked peas off it only made matters worse. He takes off his shoe, and moves it back and forth over her face. "Open wider!" He tells her.
Not yet content when she's done, hungry for more, he takes her plate and empties it on the concrete floor. He goes behind the woman, her body still kneeling on the floor, and begins repetitively pushing her face into the mess. "EAT IT ALL!" He tells her, angrily.
She begins eating it. It is, as one might expect, disgusting.
Part Five: The Beginning of Her Employment
She is once again in the trunk of his car. Now that he fed her, the man decides it's time to begin the third phase of her rehabilitation. She is in his trunk, locked in (yes, he's the kind of man who can lock his trunk). He is listening to a Billy Joel CD.
The must have driven for two and a half hours. The car ride is long. She hears a muffled rendition of "We Didn't Start the Fire" four times.
He put her in a large trash bag before they left his torture chamber. The trash bag has two holes cut into it, one for each of her legs. He has wrapped black duct tape around the holes, which ends up a little above her knees. She is wearing each one of the loop-ties (the things that close the bag) as a strap, tied tight around her shoulder. This bag is white, not black. It is covering everything from her knees to well above her breasts.
When the car stops, when she is once again brought into the light, she finds that he has taken her to some mall, somewhere she's never been. He pulls her out of the trunk, and she finds that she is in the somewhat sketchy back parking lot of the mall.
"If you breathe a word to anyone about me," he warns her, looking her in the eye, "if you try to tell anyone about our little situation, if you try to escape, I'll come to you one day and murder you in cold blood."
He walks toward a back door, her following him, feeling the slight wind flap around the plastic she's wearing. He pushes on the metal bar, and they walk through a hallway until they reach the mall's operational manager's office. The man knocks, and a resounding "come in" is heard.
The man steps into the office, politely beckoning for the woman to follow. She does. The man explains to the manager that the two of them are members of a local environmental activist organization, and that they had planned a performance art piece to get people to think about how much they waste. The manager remembers; he's gotten plenty of e-mails from the man before.
"What about you, sweetheart?" The manager asks, chuckling, "How'd a girl like you end up in the trash bag?"
"We drew lots," the man explains, "and our Anna just happened to be the one who got stuck with it."
"All right," the manager says. "I'm all for being environmentally friendly. Sure, why not, you can use the food court. Just be safe -- don't let anyone put any glass or sharp objects in that thing."
"Thank you," the man says.
"Thank you," the woman near-whispers.
The two leave his office, and make their way out of the back of the mall into the main shopping area. The woman, whose name was never Anna, is humiliated. She is walking through a mall, passing Forever 21 and Aeropostale, wearing not Hollister but Glad. Every action, which might be considered normal, garners embarrassment from her and stares from the people hanging around the mall. Riding the escalator is the worst.
They take two escalators up to the third floor, and head to the center, where the food court is. The two settle in front, near one of the hundreds small plastic tables. The man takes out a marker from the bag he has been carrying. He holds her head still, and writes two words on her face, one on each cheek, each one in bold red capitals. On her left cheek, "TRASH"; on her right, "CAN". He takes out a collapsible sign from his bag, opens it up and sets it upright to her right. He slips a piece of paper into it, one that reads in large, friendly letters: