trash day

Our driveway is some several hundred yards long, sloping in an arc to the front road. The “trash pit,” as we call it, is set on a hard-clay space in from the road, bearing an enclosure that houses our trash cans. The pickup is Wednesday mornings.

Mistress Amanda had ordered me to be topless as I greeted the trash men when they arrived today.

This was a consequence of my hissy-fit last Saturday, which I reported here. As full of spit and shit as I was then, I somehow kept from mounting a full-scale Les Miz, and so Mistress Amanda did not prescribe a “punishment” but opted instead for this, which she calls a “consequence.”

I have the feeling she may have done this to me anyway, without my transgression, but I played into her hand with my little uprising.

Normally the trash guys come just after eight o’clock, and they’re usually punctual — our house is early in their rounds for the day. To be clear, we’ve never met them — from the house we just hear the big trash truck rumbling along the road and screeching when it stops at our trash pick-up.

I had coffee on a tray for Mistress as always right at 7:15. She took her first sips at 7:30.

She had me wearing a white skater skirt, which was short (mid-thigh), and not much else. She put me in white canvas shoes, not heels for some reason, and I wore one of my heavy metal collars around my neck. From my O-ring hung the now-common half-leash. Its heavy chain-link slipped through my cleavage and dangled to my waist.

Amanda said something about my nipples being “especially perky this morning,” and referred to the morning’s event as my “date with a trash man.” I said nothing, absorbing her verbal teasing.

Since Saturday, I’ve been docile and acquiescent with her, more relationally submissive than usual. This isn’t some strategy on my part, but my auto-response to being handled by her Saturday, as I was readily put in my place by her dominance. I had risen up but was conquered, and in the aftermath I have felt especially subservient, as if I am a spoil of war.

At 7:45 this morning after coffee, she leashed me, attached to my half-chain a pink(!) dog-tether, and she walked me down the driveway, my breasts bared to the breeze.

Now, as you all know, being partially undressed in the front driveway is not a new experience for me. And indeed, Amanda has sometimes walked me topless along the front road. But that has been rare and has been in a “zone” of the neighbors’ homes who know us, the few who have seen me before in some form of undress. So being seen bare-breasted outside, while still a “thing” for me to experience and its own version of low-key humiliation, would not be so much of a big event as it once was.

However, this was different: I would be looked at by strangers stopping at the end of our drive, workers on the job staring at my tits, and men riding away making comments about me to each other. This felt like a major humiliation in the making.

A big event, perhaps, though likely to be short-lived: the trash men do their pickups in just sixty seconds or less. Last night, we’d put out in the trash pit a half-dozen boxes of refuse from the dining room cleaning, so that was extra work and would take them an additional thirty seconds. So I figured. Yes, I wwas counting seconds. I guess I was hoping it would be over quickly.

Sometimes the anticipation is as much the feeling as the actual event. This felt like that to me. We stood there waiting, with me on the leash and my nipples perky for my “date” with the trash men. Amanda chattered about work and meetings, and I stood silent, docile, aware that I was a half-naked female slave standing in a trash pit. Sometimes life is just absurd.

Amanda said, “I imagine they’ve seen a lot of things along their route. But probably not anything like yours.” Yours, of course, meaning my boobs, an intentionally objectifying comment.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” I said. “I’m already humiliated just by the thought of it.”

“I’m not trying hard,” she said.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Slave girl, you have no idea.”

We heard the growl of the truck at the other end of mountain. It stopped first at the Millers around the corner. It soon enough revved up again from there, and pulled into view.

Amanda walked to the other side of me, my leash in hand, so the truck driver could see me clearly as he drove to us.

Slowing down in his approach, the driver saw me and honked the horn twice,. I was already red-faced and my chest splotchy with shame.

The truck pulled past us, positioning to align the back of the truck with our trash pit. Two men jumped off from their perches at the back of the truck, stopping just as suddenly as they landed, now with wide-open eyes, taking me in.

Amanda, queen of woo, started talking, asking about whether the extra boxes would be taken, as she “hadn’t had time to call the office to request this as an extra service.”

One, a husky Latino man, answered in a thick accent, “We’ll take them.” As he spoke, his co-worker, a lanky teenager, stared at me with a big smile.

“You’re very kind, thank you,” Amanda replied.

By now the driver, who normally stays in the cab, had gotten out to “help.”

Amanda had every intention of prolonging the conversation, but the driver helped her effort by asking, “What’s the problem?” The Latino man explained to him about the boxes, and the driver nodded and repeated what the Latino man had said earlier — “we’ll take them this time,” he said. “But in the future you should call it in.”

Of course, I recognized all of this as blowing smoke and making pointless conversation to prolong their presence.

My instinct, of course, was to cover up, arms folding in front of my breasts, but Amanda would never put up with that, and my topless state was so obvious anyway as to make that superfluous. I left my arms to my sides.

Amanda spoke about “all the house cleaning we’re doing” (which was news to me): “…room by room. So we’ll have more to put out through the summer,” she said. “We moved in the end of 2019, then COVID hit…”

I half expected her to go into our whole life history. She could have — the men seemed perfectly willing to listen for a long time. Their eyes flitted from her to me, and back to her, though each time lingering on me longer.

In these moments, I become hyper-aware of everything. I stood partly in the sun. It happened to angle in such a way that one of my breasts was in sunlight and the other in shadow. I remember one of my breasts feeling warm and the other feeling cool. And I felt each man’s eyes on me, almost physically flicking my flesh, like butterflies fluttering my nipples.

“We just quarantined for so long,” Amanda was going on, “and for whatever reason didn’t do our spring cleaning as usual. So we are now finally getting this done.…”

The driver replied to her, “We’re seeing a lot of this now. People putting out more of their shit…”

This was just nothing talk, obviously, but I stood obediently, determined to endure my humiliation. Of course my obedience itself was part of my shame. They could see I wasn’t resisting. What woman would allow herself to be exposed like that in front of strangers? Though I was exhibited to these men, I was clearly not an exhibitionist. I was bare-breasted for their lust-hunger because I could do no other. I was obeying in my nakedness. I didn’t know how they put that together in their minds — if they saw me as the beta girl in a lesbian couple or if they knew enough to peg me as a submissive helplessly owned and humiliated. Either way, they kept staring, and I kept feeling excited and debased, knowing they were enjoying my arousal and my shame.

There was a brief silence, and then Amanda said to me, “Shae, we need to get out of their way,” leading me on my leash to the other side of the trash enclosure. As she moved me, I realized this had the visual effect of making my breasts move — sway and ripple. Which was her intent, obviously.

The men took the boxes.

The teenager was laughing.

Now Amanda moved me again, to the opposite side so they could get at our normal trash from the enclosure.

They rolled the trash cans out as they continued grabbing looks and leers. I felt their testosterone, their muscled manhood. I felt my own vulnerability, not as a fear of them, but in my own accessibility, my short skirt and underneath my bare pussy. I was glad they didn’t know about that.

When they were done, the driver came up to Amanda again, stealing glances at me. Again he went through the process so officiously: “Yeah, just call in the weekend before. Let us know what you’re putting out here.”

The two other men then came up beside the driver.

“You’ll bill us for the extra,” Amanda asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but we won’t bill you for these this time.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation seemed to roll round back to the start each time.

“It doesn’t have to be exact, you know, what you report against what’s out here. Just close enough. If there’s something extra, we’ll just take it.”

“Well, that’s good of you.”

“Our pleasure,” he said with a smile, looking once again at me.

The driver started up to the cab, and the two workers headed to the back of the truck.

“Oh!” Amanda said, “one more question.”

Oh. My. God.

“What if we have a piece of furniture?” Amanda asked. “An old easy chair. Or a small table.”

“Yes, we’ll take it,” the driver said again. “Call it in. Now, you have to get it down to the road here. But we’ll take it.”

“Good to know.”

They drove off, finally, the teenager and Hispanic man laughing from their back-of-truck perches, making hand signals to each other.

In total, Amanda managed to make their normal stop of sixty seconds into a stay of six or seven minutes.

We were still in the trash pit, and Amanda came behind me, wrapped her arms around and played with my breasts. She cupped them first, then squeezed them in little pulses.

“You did good,” she said into my ear.

I sighed. I had apologized to her before, but I did so again. “I’m sorry about Saturday.”

“Well, we’re done with that now.” Mistress extended my leash and started walking me back up to the house.

“The young guy,” I said, “wanted to fuck me. I could feel it.”

“Oh, slave girl,” Amanda said with a chuckle. “Don’t you know? All of them wanted to fuck you.”

All of that before 8:30 this morning.

8 thoughts on “trash day

  1. If one name one of these people break into your house and rape you or your mistress and say it is an invitation, what say you. I admire your lifestyle, I am a little kinky myself but this can be dangerous.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks for your concern. Your thoughts are well taken — I agree there is potential danger in this. We have a security system, but I know that’s not a guarantee of safety. Something for Amanda to think about. I’ll mention it to her… I’m glad you’re following me, BTW, jo1go, and I hope you find something in my posts that is interesting, maybe useful to your own explorations.

      Liked by 1 person

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