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Description
You never gave the trash can a second thought before.

Support me on Patreon for exclusive content and commissions: (www.patreon.com/boonstf )

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had never imagined that I could experience something so utterly degrading, so utterly repulsive. It started out as a normal day, or as normal as any day could be for me now. As a trash bag inside a trash can, my existence was far from glamorous. But as time passed, I began to take a perverse sense of pleasure from my degradation. It was the only thing that kept me sane in the midst of this madness.

I was a sturdy plastic bag, the kind that could hold a substantial amount of waste without tearing. The trash can I resided in was located in the kitchen, a focal point of my family's daily activities. Breakfast, lunch, dinner - each meal led to a fresh round of waste being dumped into me.

Being filled with trash was a strange, uncomfortable sensation. Eggshells, coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, empty cartons - I could feel them all pressing against my inner surface, a disgusting mixture that was both cold and slimy. The sensation was not just tactile - I could smell the decay, the sour, putrid stench of decomposing organic matter.

And then, there was the matter of my family. They didn't know I was here, didn't know that I had been transformed into a trash bag. They went about their day, throwing their waste into me without a second thought. The casualness of their actions added to my humiliation. To them, I was just a trash bag, a receptacle for their unwanted garbage.

As my new reality unfolded, I found myself in a state of anticipation every time someone approached the trash can. The sound of footsteps, the scraping of a chair, the clatter of dishes - these were the cues that I had come to dread and yet also anticipate.

This time, it was my mother. The sound of her footsteps approached, softer than my dad's but unmistakable. A shiver went through me, my plastic body rustling slightly with the motion. This was it. Another round of degradation was about to begin.

I heard her humming, a light, carefree tune that contrasted sharply with my current predicament. It was a melody that had once brought me comfort, a symbol of her love and nurturing care. Now, it was just a cruel reminder of what I had lost.

Her hand appeared over the trash can, holding the remnants of what appeared to be a cooked meal. I braced myself, my plastic body tensing as I awaited the impact.

The food remnants hit me with a soft thud, followed by a sharp, vinegary stench. It seemed to be a mix of cooked vegetables and fish, now cold and partially mushed. The smell was strong and unpleasant, a sharp reminder of my degraded existence.

Following the food, she dropped in some used tissues and an empty milk carton, each one adding to my burden. Her hand, encased in a thin plastic glove, briefly touched my surface as she pushed down the trash. The contact sent a shiver through me, a strange mix of disgust and yearning.

With a final push, she made sure the lid of the trash can closed, trapping me in darkness. The sound of her retreating footsteps echoed in the quiet kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the stench of garbage.

Her actions were mechanical, almost unconscious. There was no malice, no deliberate intent to degrade me. She was simply going about her chores, completely unaware of the living being inside the trash bag.

The unmistakable clattering of my younger sister's approach signaled another impending delivery of waste. She was always more energetic, always louder, always less careful. I could practically see the impish grin on her face as she approached, the mischievous glint in her eyes that always spelled trouble for me when I was human.

There was a violent jerk as she threw open the lid of the trash can, much less gentle than our mother had been. I could feel the sudden exposure to light and air, as if I was gasping for breath. But I had no lungs now, no body to breathe with. All I had was a sense of anticipation.

Her hand descended, holding what appeared to be a half-eaten apple and a crumpled up school paper. A sudden impact, and both were added to my growing burden, adding their unique stenches to the already foul mix.

But she wasn't done yet. A moment later, I heard her giggle and the unmistakable sound of liquid splashing. She was emptying her leftover soda into the trash. The sugary drink spread through my plastic body, soaking everything and leaving a sticky residue. The sound of her laughter echoed in my ears as she discarded the empty can into me.

She gave the pile of trash a careless push before shutting the lid, cutting off the light and leaving me in darkness once more. The trash can echoed with her retreat, her laughter gradually fading until I was left in silence.

There was no way my sister would ever have done this to me if she knew it was me she was doing it to. The thought brought little comfort. My family was unknowingly subjecting me to these humiliations day in and day out, and there was nothing I could do about it.

With the gentle creak of the backdoor, my older sister made her presence known. Her footsteps were more measured, carrying a certain elegance that was characteristic of her. My plastic form tensed up, expecting another load of trash to be dumped into me.

The lid of the trash can opened with a screeching protest, the sound echoing in the cramped space. A wave of fresh air rushed in, providing temporary relief from the sickly-sweet stench of rot that clung to my form.

She was carrying the remnants of her lunch—a half-eaten sandwich, an apple core, a crumpled napkin—and with a casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them into me. Each new addition to the trash heap brought its own unique texture and scent. The sandwich was slightly soggy, still moist from the condiments that soaked into the bread. The apple core was crisp and slightly tart, while the napkin was coated in a layer of grease from the sandwich.

A shudder ran through me as she gave my plastic form a pat. I could imagine her perfectly manicured hand, the same hand that had smacked my back in congratulations when I made the school’s football team, now patting me in my new, pitiful form.

She wasn't finished yet. In her other hand, she was carrying a tampon applicator, the remnants of her monthly cycle. She paused for a moment, likely debating if she should discard it here or in the bathroom bin. Apparently deciding it didn't matter, she let it drop into me.

The object's unique scent, the metallic tinge of blood mixing with the scent of the feminine product was a shock to my senses. This was an intimate part of her that she had just discarded, a part of her that I, as a trash bag, was now privy to.

She gave a satisfied sigh before shutting the lid, the dull thud echoing in my hollow form. The darkness was suffocating, the stench stronger than ever. My senses were filled with the remains of my family's day-to-day lives. Their trash was my world now.

The darkness of the trash can was suddenly banished as the lid was forcefully thrown open. The familiar face of my mother, slightly creased with age but still remarkably beautiful, peered down at me. In her hand, she held a small, delicate clipping - a discarded piece of her toenail.

With a soft sigh, she released the clippings into me. The tiny fragments clattered against the pile of garbage already residing within me. Every discarded piece of my family was a new texture, a new scent, a new experience. But above all else, each addition was a stark reminder of my humiliating reality.

My mother then decided it was time to take the garbage out. The bag I had become was tied up, the knot pressing into what I could only liken to my 'head'. With a swift tug, she yanked me from the confines of the trash can, the sudden rush of fresh air doing nothing to ease the embarrassment that washed over me.

Held aloft by her firm grip, I could see the familiar surroundings of our home for the first time since my transformation. The sight of my old room, the kitchen where we'd all shared meals, the living room where we'd spent countless evenings watching TV and laughing together, all came into view. But now, I was seeing them from the outside, from a place where I no longer belonged.

The journey to the curb was brief. My mother, the woman who had raised and cared for me, dumped me unceremoniously amongst the other bags of garbage awaiting collection. There I was, in the middle of our quiet suburban street, reduced to nothing more than a bag of waste.

As my mother retreated back towards the house, I could hear the distant rumble of the garbage truck. The metallic scent of the truck, mingled with the foul odors of rotting refuse, washed over me. A new wave of fear washed over me, the reality of what was about to happen settling deep within my plastic form.

The truck lumbered to a halt in front of me, the automated arm reaching out to grab my form. I was hoisted into the air, dumped into the back of the truck, and squeezed amongst the mass of other garbage bags. The sounds of the hydraulic compactor was the last thing I heard before I was compressed, my senses overwhelmed by the crushing pressure and the stench of rotting waste.

My existence, once filled with hope and joy, had been reduced to this. A bag of garbage, discarded without a second thought, my family none the wiser.

Description
You never gave the trash can a second thought before.

Support me on Patreon for exclusive content and commissions: (www.patreon.com/boonstf )

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had never imagined that I could experience something so utterly degrading, so utterly repulsive. It started out as a normal day, or as normal as any day could be for me now. As a trash bag inside a trash can, my existence was far from glamorous. But as time passed, I began to take a perverse sense of pleasure from my degradation. It was the only thing that kept me sane in the midst of this madness.

I was a sturdy plastic bag, the kind that could hold a substantial amount of waste without tearing. The trash can I resided in was located in the kitchen, a focal point of my family's daily activities. Breakfast, lunch, dinner - each meal led to a fresh round of waste being dumped into me.

Being filled with trash was a strange, uncomfortable sensation. Eggshells, coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, empty cartons - I could feel them all pressing against my inner surface, a disgusting mixture that was both cold and slimy. The sensation was not just tactile - I could smell the decay, the sour, putrid stench of decomposing organic matter.

And then, there was the matter of my family. They didn't know I was here, didn't know that I had been transformed into a trash bag. They went about their day, throwing their waste into me without a second thought. The casualness of their actions added to my humiliation. To them, I was just a trash bag, a receptacle for their unwanted garbage.

As my new reality unfolded, I found myself in a state of anticipation every time someone approached the trash can. The sound of footsteps, the scraping of a chair, the clatter of dishes - these were the cues that I had come to dread and yet also anticipate.

This time, it was my mother. The sound of her footsteps approached, softer than my dad's but unmistakable. A shiver went through me, my plastic body rustling slightly with the motion. This was it. Another round of degradation was about to begin.

I heard her humming, a light, carefree tune that contrasted sharply with my current predicament. It was a melody that had once brought me comfort, a symbol of her love and nurturing care. Now, it was just a cruel reminder of what I had lost.

Her hand appeared over the trash can, holding the remnants of what appeared to be a cooked meal. I braced myself, my plastic body tensing as I awaited the impact.

The food remnants hit me with a soft thud, followed by a sharp, vinegary stench. It seemed to be a mix of cooked vegetables and fish, now cold and partially mushed. The smell was strong and unpleasant, a sharp reminder of my degraded existence.

Following the food, she dropped in some used tissues and an empty milk carton, each one adding to my burden. Her hand, encased in a thin plastic glove, briefly touched my surface as she pushed down the trash. The contact sent a shiver through me, a strange mix of disgust and yearning.

With a final push, she made sure the lid of the trash can closed, trapping me in darkness. The sound of her retreating footsteps echoed in the quiet kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the stench of garbage.

Her actions were mechanical, almost unconscious. There was no malice, no deliberate intent to degrade me. She was simply going about her chores, completely unaware of the living being inside the trash bag.

The unmistakable clattering of my younger sister's approach signaled another impending delivery of waste. She was always more energetic, always louder, always less careful. I could practically see the impish grin on her face as she approached, the mischievous glint in her eyes that always spelled trouble for me when I was human.

There was a violent jerk as she threw open the lid of the trash can, much less gentle than our mother had been. I could feel the sudden exposure to light and air, as if I was gasping for breath. But I had no lungs now, no body to breathe with. All I had was a sense of anticipation.

Her hand descended, holding what appeared to be a half-eaten apple and a crumpled up school paper. A sudden impact, and both were added to my growing burden, adding their unique stenches to the already foul mix.

But she wasn't done yet. A moment later, I heard her giggle and the unmistakable sound of liquid splashing. She was emptying her leftover soda into the trash. The sugary drink spread through my plastic body, soaking everything and leaving a sticky residue. The sound of her laughter echoed in my ears as she discarded the empty can into me.

She gave the pile of trash a careless push before shutting the lid, cutting off the light and leaving me in darkness once more. The trash can echoed with her retreat, her laughter gradually fading until I was left in silence.

There was no way my sister would ever have done this to me if she knew it was me she was doing it to. The thought brought little comfort. My family was unknowingly subjecting me to these humiliations day in and day out, and there was nothing I could do about it.

With the gentle creak of the backdoor, my older sister made her presence known. Her footsteps were more measured, carrying a certain elegance that was characteristic of her. My plastic form tensed up, expecting another load of trash to be dumped into me.

The lid of the trash can opened with a screeching protest, the sound echoing in the cramped space. A wave of fresh air rushed in, providing temporary relief from the sickly-sweet stench of rot that clung to my form.

She was carrying the remnants of her lunch—a half-eaten sandwich, an apple core, a crumpled napkin—and with a casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them into me. Each new addition to the trash heap brought its own unique texture and scent. The sandwich was slightly soggy, still moist from the condiments that soaked into the bread. The apple core was crisp and slightly tart, while the napkin was coated in a layer of grease from the sandwich.

A shudder ran through me as she gave my plastic form a pat. I could imagine her perfectly manicured hand, the same hand that had smacked my back in congratulations when I made the school’s football team, now patting me in my new, pitiful form.

She wasn't finished yet. In her other hand, she was carrying a tampon applicator, the remnants of her monthly cycle. She paused for a moment, likely debating if she should discard it here or in the bathroom bin. Apparently deciding it didn't matter, she let it drop into me.

The object's unique scent, the metallic tinge of blood mixing with the scent of the feminine product was a shock to my senses. This was an intimate part of her that she had just discarded, a part of her that I, as a trash bag, was now privy to.

She gave a satisfied sigh before shutting the lid, the dull thud echoing in my hollow form. The darkness was suffocating, the stench stronger than ever. My senses were filled with the remains of my family's day-to-day lives. Their trash was my world now.

The darkness of the trash can was suddenly banished as the lid was forcefully thrown open. The familiar face of my mother, slightly creased with age but still remarkably beautiful, peered down at me. In her hand, she held a small, delicate clipping - a discarded piece of her toenail.

With a soft sigh, she released the clippings into me. The tiny fragments clattered against the pile of garbage already residing within me. Every discarded piece of my family was a new texture, a new scent, a new experience. But above all else, each addition was a stark reminder of my humiliating reality.

My mother then decided it was time to take the garbage out. The bag I had become was tied up, the knot pressing into what I could only liken to my 'head'. With a swift tug, she yanked me from the confines of the trash can, the sudden rush of fresh air doing nothing to ease the embarrassment that washed over me.

Held aloft by her firm grip, I could see the familiar surroundings of our home for the first time since my transformation. The sight of my old room, the kitchen where we'd all shared meals, the living room where we'd spent countless evenings watching TV and laughing together, all came into view. But now, I was seeing them from the outside, from a place where I no longer belonged.

The journey to the curb was brief. My mother, the woman who had raised and cared for me, dumped me unceremoniously amongst the other bags of garbage awaiting collection. There I was, in the middle of our quiet suburban street, reduced to nothing more than a bag of waste.

As my mother retreated back towards the house, I could hear the distant rumble of the garbage truck. The metallic scent of the truck, mingled with the foul odors of rotting refuse, washed over me. A new wave of fear washed over me, the reality of what was about to happen settling deep within my plastic form.

The truck lumbered to a halt in front of me, the automated arm reaching out to grab my form. I was hoisted into the air, dumped into the back of the truck, and squeezed amongst the mass of other garbage bags. The sounds of the hydraulic compactor was the last thing I heard before I was compressed, my senses overwhelmed by the crushing pressure and the stench of rotting waste.

My existence, once filled with hope and joy, had been reduced to this. A bag of garbage, discarded without a second thought, my family none the wiser.