Stashed, Smashed & Trashed! Written by Dex O'Donald

Stashed, Smashed & Trashed!

Written by Dex O’Donald

Story by Devin Dickie

© 2019-2055 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, DM me here.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Contents

Part 1

Dear Diary: 10/01/2022

Where to start? Life is at one of those crossroads. I can’t see it but I can feel it. Things are changing. The next chapter is starting for me. But to move forward I’ve got to let go - and that’s always the hardest part.

Piper is pushing to move in again and this time she’s serious. I’m walking a thin line with her. Keeping her at bay any longer might risk losing her and I doubt I’d make another catch like her for as long as I live. So why am I so hesitant? What am I holding on to? The answer is simple enough – secrets. What is this entire diary if not one big collection of them? I’m not dumb enough to write these things down here, in specifics, where anybody might find it. Say I’m crossing the street tomorrow and get blasted down by a city bus – what then? Everybody says ‘oh poor Tristan he was a great guy’ until they read THIS diary and find out otherwise. No thanks. Some things are best kept from the pen.

But those things I won’t write about are the things I need to say goodbye to if Piper is going to live here with me. It’s the next step in our relationship, in my life, and this is where paths diverge. I’ve got to let go. I know I can. And I will. It’s not really about what I want anymore, is it? It’s about what’s good for me. At least I have the sense to know that much.

So tonight I’ll have one last dance with my secrets. Then I’ll let them go. Let them sink to the bottom of the pond and drown. Not a real pond of course, probably just the garbage bin out back, but that will just have to suffice. A final resting place for the OLD me. Making plenty of room for the new one.

Piper really is an amazing girl. I’m lucky to have met her. And that’s why I won’t take the risk of being honest with her. Better to just rip these things out of me and never look back. There were other girls, as previously mentioned in this diary, who I tried opening up to about these things. I was heartily rejected. I won’t risk losing Piper for this thing of mine. It just has to go. And that’s it. 

This diary has been good for me. The next few weeks will be busy ones but I’ll try my best to log as much of it as I can. I’ll let you know how my LAST DANCE goes. But not in too much detail, of course.

Signed,

Tristan B-

1.

Piper pushes the front door open with her ass and hugs two boxes to the top of her chest. Her immense breasts act as extra limbs to support the awkward moving boxes. Tristan is right behind her with his own set of boxes shaking in his skinny arms. Though his own chest has grown in volume as of late (he jokingly calls them his ‘D’ cups, as in D for Domino’s Pizza), he doesn’t get nearly the lift his girlfriend’s glorious breasts provide.

They drop the boxes in the living room, cluttering it even more than it already is, and give each other a giggling high five. 

“Only about a thousand more to go,” Piper sighs, her penetrating blue eyes staring out from between messy locks of her chestnut hair. Her 34 F cups are bundled up inside of a white sweater and Tristan knows that she hates it when he stares at her chest but right now he just can’t help it.

“We’re getting there,” Tristan takes her by the waist and pulls close, “it will all be worth it.”

“And tonight?” Piper lets a touch of nosiness christen her innocent features. “I can stay?”

Tristan balks. “I’m up early for work tomorrow babe. And do you even have any clothes here yet?”

“Half my wardrobe is here already, Tristan. What gives?”

“Nothing gives I just don’t think it’s the best night. Why don’t we get the rest of your important stuff over tomorrow and we start then? Make a thing out of it. One more night separate before we kick this off could really make it special. Don’t you think?”

Piper pulls from his grasp and pretends to busy herself unpacking some books. Her sudden coldness stings because she’s just – so - beautiful. Not even beautiful, Tristan thinks. She’s a fucking miracle. And not just as gorgeous as she is, with that incredible body and PERFECT tits (how they sit so high on her petite frame, with that small ribcage, nipples spongey pink torpedoes on goddamn CANNONS), but how much she truly likes Tristan as a person. How she never makes him feel self-conscious for having an unsightly, uncircumcised four-inch prick with a mushroom head just big enough to stick out from its hood and provide Piper with some modicum of pleasure. How she always builds him up – even when the weight started showing in his chest and ass. How understanding and forgiving she could be of his need for ‘space’.  This is as good as he will ever get and he knows it. A religious girl with no appetite for forbidden pleasures or even a penchant for promiscuity. A dime piece that has been with a total of three men including Tristan. Tristan sometimes thinks of her as his Gift. And he’s ready to make all the necessary changes in his life to accommodate her. 

But he just needs one more night to himself. One. Last. Dance.

“It’s one night,” he says his thoughts aloud. Piper pauses placing hardcovers on the bookshelf. “One more night. That’s it. Trust me it’ll be special…” And then on the fly, without thinking it through, Tristan adds: “Honestly, I’ve sort of got something special planned but it’s not ready tonight.”

When she smiles it’s the sun rising. Piper is on the floor, legs folded under her small frame and sitting back on her heels. Her breasts in the high-neck sweater are so enormous and squished that they almost become one single organism. Two quarter sized nipple points press the cotton. And in that small glittering moment suspended in time, when he can read her expression and know her mind and celebrate her beauty, Tristan thinks honestly about calling off this last dance and telling Piper to stay the night. He can throw it all away tomorrow – it’s certainly hidden well enough that she won’t find it. Why take another night away from this angel for an admitted deviancy he plans to burn in effigy?

With the words on the tip of lips the beast below calls to him and he says nothing.

“You didn’t have to do anything special,” Piper stands and comes back to him. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. You’re sweet like that.”

“I am?”

“You’re right about one more night,” Piper kisses his delicate mouth. “It’ll help to make it extra special…sorry for being moody about it.”

She’s apologizing to me! What did I do to deserve this? I most certainly do not deserve this!

“Never apologize, Piper Edgewood. You. Are. Perfect.”

Because of their similar statures her demanding breasts push into Tristan’s chest flesh and he can feel her flower-petal nipples poking him sternly. They kiss. He can tell Piper is in the mood because her tongue is getting clumsy and adventurous. But she stops herself.

“I won’t have to feel bad anymore,” she whispers against his mouth. “About, you know…doing it and not living together. I want to know what that feels like, Tristan. The pleasure without the shame.”

This is profound enough to render Tristan speechless. She kisses him once more and he can feel her holding back. She collects her purse off the kitchen counter and he walks her out. Just as she turns to go he stops her. Tristan retrieves the housekey he had cut for her and brings it to her.

“It’s really happening,” she says, her blue eyes somehow prettier when she tears up. “I love you, Tristan. One more night.”

“One more night,” he repeats. 

Then she turns and goes. He watches her take the short stone walkway to the street and get in her car and drive off. The feeling of nagging regret eats at him. He can still feel where her nipples prodded the flab of his chest and he wonders if he’s made a mistake not taking that precious, perfect woman into his bedroom. 

But then the door is shut and locked. He chains it too – just in case Piper forgot something and comes back unexpectedly. Tristan never takes chances with his secrets. And knowing the laws of averages and all the horror stories, this one the perfect time for him to slip up. To make some final mistake that lands the bank robber in jail. No. Not this time.

Pleasure without shame…

He locks the bedroom door and draws the blinds. He pins the bottom of the blinds to the windows with some books so not a peep can be had. The exterior walls are thin here, bordering the alley behind the house where trash pickup is, and where occasional night owls or homeless roamed in passing. The house is on the outskirts of the city so the threat of ne'er-do-wells is always present. No chances. No mistakes. Nobody peering in. Tristan puts music on at a loud volume so that he’ll not be distracted by any drunken babbling or dumpster divers from beyond the windows.

With the LED lights drawn down to a dim purple glow he strips out of his t-shirt and jeans. Down to absolutely nothing.  Tonight, Tristan decides, he is going to take his time. A farewell, as it were. He takes a shower and shaves himself down top to bottom. Chest smooth. Not a single pubic hair, revealing his strange and small penis for what it is: two inches soft, the pink of his disproportionate mushroom head defying its hood. Tristan shaves his legs, too, a quality that made Piper giggle the first time she learned about it but one she now claims to love because he is just ‘so smooth’. He soaks for a while and plays with his nipples in the suds, tugging them until they’re hard - testing them with a pinch and twist. He towels off. He comes into his room and gets down on his knees to go under the bed. He pushes aside extra bedding vacuum sealed in plastic, and then, with both palms pressing into the sides of a storage bin heavy with an old drum kit and all its hardware, he leans forward and digs his knees into the hardwood floor and shoves as hard as he can until the case budges exactly 24 inches closer to the wall. By pushing in under the bed, he is now fully extended below it. Below Tristan’s face is a 24x12 false wooden panel. He digs his fingernails into the slot and is able to move it aside. This next part is tricky but well-practiced. Tristan backs himself out from under the bed until his outstretched arm can hook at the elbow and reach down into the hole created by the floorboard’s removal. Slowly, he finagles an old leather suitcase out of it.

Excited, panting just a little, he stands the suitcase up in the middle of the room. It’s red leather, worn, and fitted with a small golden lock through both ornate zippers. Tristan grabs a step ladder and stands on it beneath the light fixture attached to the ceiling fan. With outstretched arm he digs his hand into a slot molded by the fixture’s shape and retrieves a small key.

Tristan slips the key into the lock and removes it. He places the lock and key carefully atop his dresser before returning to the suitcase on the floor and opening it.

He touches every article of clothing as he tenderly pulls them from the suitcase and lays them out across the bed. He takes the makeup kit out last and places it on his desk nearby. He lets himself drift down memory lane, taking in each outfit from over the years – not a ton, but enough. The purple short shorts paired with a tummy top with no sleeves. One of his early favorites. Then there is the miniskirt – that came later, once his confidence increased. He liked to wear it with the red panties beneath, the sparkling glitter bra up top and stuff it with liner. But tonight, for the last hurrah, he was going to go with the newest of his collection and easily his most intoxicating: A hot pink dress that was skintight, wrapping around the bust with no sleeves or ties, a hem that would sit just inches past his privates. The bust was flattering for his chest and it required no filler for him to feel like he filled it out. But the coup de grace of the outfit was also the biggest secret in his bag. Pinky lacey panties. With the white hem. They belonged to Piper and she’d only asked him once if he’d seen them before forgetting altogether. There are other panties here, ones he loves, cotton and silk and the lot, but there is something about these panties. The way they hold him. The way they kiss his skin.  And not just that - they were the only pair of panties he’d taken from someone and not ordered online, so they were noticeably a size smaller. Piper had a booty, but other than her breasts she was shaped small. And that extra grip really did something for Tristan. That and the fact that they once belonged to his girlfriend.

Not after tonight. Tonight it all goes. But not before out Last Dance.

Tristan steps softly through Piper’s lacey panties and drags them slowly up his legs. He pulls to stretch it over his thicker thighs and get his smooth-shaven dick and balls snugly into the crotch. He adjusts the hem against the back of his ample ass. He plays with his dick over the top of the fabric, rubbing in a clitoral dance and letting his clumsy dick push this way and that against it. When he is fully hard he lets his fat mushroom tip push straight into the crotch, the lace playing tickle tease with his sensitive prick. 

Then comes the dress, wiggling inside, fighting the fabric, really feeling the transformation as it situates to his form. The bust is small but perfect for his flabby chest, the wire inside pushing what little ‘breast’ he has upward and together. If he stands just right Tristan has cleavage. This makes his dick strain harder against the panty prison. Shaking, he takes the makeup bag into the bathroom.

In the mirror he doesn’t have to do much. His sandy blonde hair has grown to his ears and when he flairs it with hair spray it comes to life with shocking buoyancy and lift. Tristan’s natural features, full mouth and almost bug-like eyes, are cute and boyish, but become something else entirely when he applies garish lipstick and tawdry blue eye shadow. His elvish appearance becomes feminized. He puckers his lips and embraces it. He gives himself a nice spray of French perfume. His eyes are so large and filled with all white sclera that, paired with the cloudy blue of his orbitals, look shockingly womanlike. 

On the floor of the bedroom Tristan humps the floor. He sticks his ass out back behind him and shakes it to an audience that isn’t there. He wriggles whorishly across the floor of the room, touching himself, moaning, raising his voice to a womanly pitch and embellishing his sexual coos. He lets go. He is free.

Creeping into his fantasy is a faceless giant with black skin and rough words. He manhandles Tristan as he softly breathes ‘no’ over and over again. He relinquishes control to the dark figure – but only for a moment. He’s played with fantasy before but he doesn’t dare go there for too long. He’s assured in his ‘straightness’. 

And then all at once he’s finishing inside Piper’s panties, knees buckling, moaning loud and proud as it all comes rushing out. The flood of shame is instantaneous. The clarity of his mind now attacks him with all it has and he’s pulling the panties off and shoving them into the suitcase. The dress too. All of it. It has to go. The makeup kit too. He slams the case shut and zips it closed. He’s reaching for the lock and key when he hears his phone ringing.

“Piper what’s up,” Tristan answers, voice cracking as it readjusts to normal pitch.

“Hey there,” her voice is like cool mint to his hot ears. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing at all. Just going to bed. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say that you made me really…horny tonight,” her giggles are music on a spring day. “And I wanted to tell you that I can’t wait for tomorrow. And for the day after that and the day after that. I love you, Tristan.”

Tristan rolled over and fell into pillow talk with his girlfriend. His shame and his guilt melted away in the warmth of her voice and he believed that everything could be okay now that he had this incredible girl in his life. 

They talked late into the night. Until neither one of them could keep their eyes open any longer.

2.

The rumble of the garbage truck through the thin exterior wall wakes Tristan from a dead sleep. He checks the clock. 4:30 AM.

Fuck. You forgot to take it to the trash!

In the fumbling darkness he flicks on a lamp and realizes he’s naked. He loosely wraps a bathrobe about him and ties a quick knot. The squeaking of bad breaks accompanies the garbage truck’s rumble and Tristan judges its down the alley about three houses. He grabs the suitcase and rushes out.

Exiting the back of his house he walks a short path to the detached garage and goes in. This is the quickest way without unlocking the gate beside it that leads directly to the alley. He opens the garage door and waits, suitcase in hand, as it folds upwards. He can feel the early morning coolness on his privates. The skin of his dick is a little sore from all that lace rubbing against it.

The sun throws its first eerie orange glow as Tristan comes out into the alley and turns to the bin marked with his address – 23 Hemlock Ave. He lifts the top off of it and raises the suitcase. He pauses.

“Guess it’s goodbye then,” he says. “Thanks for the memories.”

High beams like dirty spotlights start at his feet and rise to engulf him as the lumbering garbage truck ambles down the alleyway. In his sleepiness, Tristan freezes for a moment, realizing that the truck has parked and the two garbage men are servicing the house next door. 

He drops the suitcase into the can.

When Tristan looks up he sees a silhouette against the blinding white light. The figure appears to him all black like some demon walking straight out of a portal to hell. The man is huge and earthly shaped. He does not move as his coworker loads trash behind him. From where Tristan stands it seems as though the figure is looking directly at him.

“Mornin,” the silhouette speaks like gravel and follows the word up with a smoker’s laugh. 

Tristan can’t see anything about the man except for his mountainous shape cast by the backlight.

“Good morning,” Tristan replies. He slams the lid down on the trash bin and goes back into his garage. Just as the garage door settles back down in its closed position, Tristan can see the big green garbage truck rolling up to his bin. 

Tristan decides there’s no getting back to sleep so he heads into the bathroom to get ready for work. It isn’t until he reaches for his toothbrush that he sees himself in the mirror – he’d forgotten to wash the makeup from his face. All that blush and lipstick and eye shadow were still there.

Did he see it? Is that why he laughed?

Frustrated at himself for the inconsequential lapse in judgement, Tristan got in the shower and scrubbed his face raw. Then he got dressed for work. He froze in the act of retrieving his wristwatch from the top of his dresser.

Sitting there was the golden lock and the key beside it.

3.

Tristan, to his friends at work, describes his first week of living with Piper as “literally drowning in titties.” 

Upon her arrival it was like a switch was flicked inside the repressed religious girl’s mind. She was ready for him in a way Tristan hadn’t seen before. Her giant, pale tits that had not fully seen the light of day in her entire adult life but they were now his playground. And she loved to let him play. Tristan found himself in a state of bliss that he had not anticipated. Breakfast made in the morning. Laundry washed and folded. Sex every night. How the soft flesh of her endless breasts yielded to his eager groping. Oh, the way her nipple felt as it came alive against his tongue. The way she made him feel like a man. The week Tristan became Icarus. 

On Wednesday evening he comes to the back alley with the week’s trash. Garbage day is tomorrow. Tristan takes the top off the bin off and tosses the bag inside but stops when something yellow grazes his periphery. He looks. Under the garbage bin’s lid, which he holds at eye level in his right hand, is a piece of yellow lined notepad paper. It’s stuck to the inside of the lid by a great sloppy amassing of scotch tape. It clearly had writing slashing through its thin blue lines.

Tristan stands there a moment longer – dumbfounded.

He takes the note and goes inside the garage. The paper feels strange in his hands. Like it isn’t his. Like it wasn’t even the person who left it. Like a curse that could only work if he unfolded and read what it said. His balls shrink painfully into his stomach and he opens the note.

It’s stained. Brown and black and more. Crinkly, too. Like someone balled it up and then unwrapped it. The handwriting is black sharpie smudges from a hand that pressed too heavy. The message takes up most of the page in capital letters.

I FOUND SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO YOU.

NEXT TRASH DAY – YOUR GARAGE – MEET AT 4:20 AM.

DON’T BE LATE.

OR WE MIGHT COME KNOCKING.

Tristan reads it and feels suddenly sick. It’s vague. But he can read so much into it. He thinks of the lock and key. Of throwing it away, out of his car window, over a bridge. Why there? Why not just in the alley with the rest of the trash?

Because you had a feeling…

Those words. OR WE MIGHT COME KNOCKING.

Tristan swallows in a dry throat. The last week of his life plays vividly in his mind and he can see Piper’s innocent face opening in orgasm and whining softly as he penetrated her. Gone. All gone. If the trash man thought what Tristan thought he thought, then Tristan might be doomed.

Could it be anything else?

NEXT TRASH DAY – that was tomorrow. The note was dated a week ago. Tristan stands there a long time, alone in the alley, thinking about 4:20 AM. Thinking about his girlfriend. His life. About the secrets that came back to sink him where he stood.

Because what else could the note mean?

4.

The garage door hums and squeaks as it slowly rises. Blasting orange light follows the door and gradually saturates the garage. Tristan is standing in a grey house robe tied tightly to his waist. He sees two men silhouetted against orange fog as they wait for the garage door to clear their high heads. His stomach is clenched like a phantom limb fist.

The sound of the garbage truck’s idling engine is a backdrop to a snarky chuckle that belongs to the man with the wide body. The fat one. The huge one. And from the sound of it, the old one. Next to him is a man slightly shorter, sinewy, and slim. It isn’t until they step inside, and the door rattles closed behind them, that Tristan can finally look them in the eyes. The hum of the truck outside is muted. A single white bulb flickers incessantly above two black faces. One is indifferent, the other malevolent.

“Gimme me that stool, boy,” the fat one croaks. “Go on now bring it here.”

Tristan is barely breathing. The big one wears a huge grey sweatshirt splattered with coffee stains. It cannot conceal the girth of his great belly. A mass of a man. Fat and tall and imposing. He has a scraggly beard flecked with grey. Tristan guesses he is in his 60s. His teeth are crooked and his eyes are crazed yet calm. The other one is younger. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Not as tall as the other, he still dwarfs Tristan. 

When the fat man speaks his voice is a hoarse drone of sharp syllables and impatience. 

“Deaf or somethin’ pretty boy I said pass me the got-damn stool!”

Momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer strangeness of the reality he finds himself in, Tristan grabs an old bar stool from his left side and brings it over to the giant stranger. He snatches the stool from Tristan and sets it down. He sits atop it and the old wood splinters and groans beneath his weight.

Tristan backs up. Somehow the very presence of the two garbage men repels him.  Their sweaty stink. Their nocturnal insomniac eyes. The way they look at Tristan makes him feel like fish bait.

“What’s this about?” Tristan says as firmly as he can muster. “Why are you leaving threatening notes in my trash can?”

The big one breaks into a smoker’s guffaw, dry wheezing, fat jiggling as he cups his hand to his mouth trying to stifle his laugher. The other laughs along but never takes his eyes off of Tristan. 

When the big one gets it together he fixes his cold eyes on Tristan and says: “You ain’t seen shit yet boy. You thought that was a threat then you got yo’ self a rude awakening uh’ commin’. Oh lord yes you do.”

Tristan feels their threatening nature like a physical wind. He wonders what would happen if he screams or tries to run. The big one doesn’t look fast. But his buddy is the athlete. Tristan is trapped.

“I want you out of my garage,” Tristan says.

“Bet you do muthafucka,” the lean man in the jumpsuit snickers.

“Are you threatening me?”

CRACK! The fat man claps his hands together and Tristan flinches. He leans forward on his haunches and points at Tristan trembling near the door. “Time to open yah ears and shut yah mouth boy. Shut it quick and shut it good cus I got some news for you right now.  My name is Bruno Whitaker. This brother here is Leon Patterson. We are your friendly neighborhood garbage men.”

Tristan stays silent.

“Now tell me yo’ name boy.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“What was that now?”

Tristan clears his throat but when he speaks his voice sounds weaker than before. “I’m not going to tell you my name. That’s private.”

The black rhino comes charging from the stool so suddenly that Tristan partially screams in terror before remembering what time it is – how important it is that Piper doesn’t wake up and see this!

Bruno stops just short of plowing him over but bumps Tristan formidably with his great fat belly. Tristan is between the door and the belly. Bruno sneers down at him, sweaty, and gross.

“Tristan,” he whispers. “My name is Tristan.”

When Bruno’s greasy palm lands gently on the back of Tristan’s neck, Tristan’s knees buckle slightly, and for a moment he’s sure he’s going to pass out. Bruno’s breath is hot on his face as he speaks.

“Got yah suitcase boy. I think we both know what’s in there.”

“So what?” Tristan is audibly trembling now. “Those belonged to my girlfriend and she didn’t want them anymore.”

“Was that yah girlfriend’s makeup on yah face last Thursday? Got-damn boy you wore enough ladies’ perfume to stink up the whole damn alley. With yah lipstick and what not. Or how bout these, boy? I can tell this one was real special to yah.”

Bruno digs his pudgy huge hand down into the pocket of his stained grey sweats. He fishes something out of it, something clutched in his giant palm. He opens his fingers and puts it an inch from Tristan’s face. 

“These ones smaller than all the rest,” Bruno snickered. “Got yo’ nasty load all stuck up in em’ too.”

Tristan dripped sweat staring at the crumpled pink panties with the white trim in the middle of Bruno’s hand. 

“Now I asks myself,” Bruno continues, “Bruno – whys the boy shootin’ his spunk in THESE ones? What’s so damn special bout’ THESE. But then I remembered that pretty little girlfriend you got runnin’ round’ here sometimes. I says to myself, these must be hers. Ain’t that sumthin’, boy? Like a detective or some shit.”

Tristan shakes his head back and forth and tries to deny it. But it’s clear Bruno’s made up his mind about it.

“Then I’s askin’ myself – why that little pansy man throwin’ all this stuff away? But that one didn’t take no genius to figure out, boy. Not when I seen that big tittied bitch movin’ all her stuff in here, seein’ all them empty movin’ boxes out by the trash. You was tryna’ lie yo fagget ass out of trouble! Can you believe that shit?”

Behind the wall of Bruno, Leon laughed. Bruno’s greasy grip tightens on the back of Tristan’s neck and Tristan realizes this is no conversation. This was no debate. He is being intimidated. Which means extortion is on the way.

But what the fuck do they want?

Bruno’s grip tightens even more. He takes the crumpled and ruined panties and shoves them straight into Tristan’s face. Tristan instinctively thrashes but the hand on the back of his neck is severely strong. On top of that, the fat man is pressing his full belly and body weight against Tristan’s small body – pinning him to the wall. The crusted panties reach his mouth he pursed his lips.

“OPEN!” Bruno hackles in his face. “OPEN BOY!”

Terrified that Piper might be alerted by the struggle, and even more terrified of what these men might say to her, Tristan gives in. He stopped struggling but remains stiff. Bruno’s fat fingers dig the lacey panties into his mouth and he doesn’t stop until he pushed every last inch of the fabric inside. Tristan stands with tears in his eyes, lips parted an inch, and cheeks protruding to accommodate the sour panties soaking in his mouth. Bruno is all over him. And now, those huge, awful hands, are holding Tristan’s elfish face. A face white and terrified and humiliated.

“You a damn sissy boy,” Bruno grunts. “And that girl you got in there don’t know it. But I can sho’ as hell tell her. Lord believe me I will wake her up in her bed right now and tell her.”

Tristan whines through the panties soaking his mouth. He can feel Bruno’s dirty fingers massaging his face. In this moment he doesn’t know how far these men will go. How dangerous they are. He only knows what is on the line, and all he feels is an overwhelming desperation to protect it. Protect Piper. Protect their love.

“Now, yah lil’ girlfriend don’t gotta know nuthin. Me and Leon real good at keeping secrets. Not like you, boy. You stupid. And yah face like a fuckin’ girl.” He pauses in his talking to squeeze Tristan’s cheek in a painful nudge. The panties in Tristan’s mouth are soggy with spit. “But if you don’t want little miss pig tits to find out about yah faggetry, you gon’ have to do somethin’ for me and Leon.”

By now, Tristan is covered in the sweat sloughing off Bruno’s huge body. He can only nod – yes – eagerly and hope that Bruno will remove the panties. Finally, Bruno stops caressing his face and plucks the soggy underwear out of Tristan’s mouth.

“What do you want from me!” Tristan gasps.

Bruno lets off. Removes his belly so Tristan can breathe. He unhands him altogether and steps back. He crosses his arms over his giant gut and Leon comes to his side. They peer at Tristan with pure amusement in their eyes.

“Go on and empty this boy’s trash, Leon,” Bruno scratches his belly. “Wait for me in the truck.”

“Come on Bruno let me watch this one,” Leon begs his case. 

“Next time. Now go on. Get.”

Leon gives Tristan a wide grin. “Open it now boy.”

Tristan snaps himself out of his terror to grope for the button and open the door. It rolls upwards for an eternity as Bruno towers above and waits. Leon goes outside. 

“Close it up,” Bruno growled.

“Aren’t you going with him?”

“Close. It.”

The slow fall of the garage door is in time with the drop in Tristan’s stomach. Crawling fear takes hold as he’s left alone with the fat man under a single flickering bulb. 

“Come here boy.”

Tristan is frozen to the ground.

“If I gotta come getcha’ things gon’ be a whole lot worse.”

Tristan takes sharp breaths and short steps.

“Closer…closer…”

When he’s an inch from Bruno’s belly Tristan finds himself gripped once more in Bruno’s greasy palm. Pulling him flush against him. Bruno’s digging in his pocket again. There’s a bow clip in his hand and when he slides Tristan’s sandy blonde locks through it the boy flinches downward and away but Bruno’s grip keeps him still enough.

“You remind me of this bitch I had in the can once,” Bruno grumbled down at him, like the giant caught Jack, only his eyes are glazing over now and there is a haunting privacy in them that terrifies Tristan. “Look just like her. We used to smear kool aid on her lips and put a bow in her hair. After that it was fair game.” Immediate, coughing laughter. Spittle splashing Tristan’s grimacing face. “We gonna have some fun wit’ yo ass boy. And you just gonna deal with it. Been at this a long time. I’m old. Sometimes I just needs somethin’ to amuse myself.” That cackling cougher’s laugh again and now Tristan is trembling once more.

“Please,” Tristan begs as Bruno shoves him down, until his knees are pinned to the concrete floor. Bruno is grabbing himself over the sweats, a handle on a thing wide and shapely. He shakes it like a warning stick. 

And then he shoves Tristan’s face into his crotch. Tristan’s groans are muffled tightly against the thing Bruno’s sweats. Two grubby hands in Tristan’s hair yanking and shoving and smothering him into the dank cock and balls just the other side of cotton. His chin nudges out the separating space between the undershaft and the top of the balls. His chin digs lower and separates the weight of two lemons. Upwards and to the side and he senses the thumping pulse of penis across his mouth and nose. It smells musky. Body odor. Unwashed and hairy enough to prickle through the pants. 

No not now, Tristan’s mind whirls in panic. Don’t do this…don’t do this…He’s talking to his own body. To his own chemistry. To the betrayal in his boxers.

“Get a good whiff boy,” Bruno rasps flippantly. His eyes are rolling back, almost trance like, his internal pleasure seeping to the outside. “I’m yah daddy now boy. And you gon’ learn. Mm – mm – mmm. Yes you will rightly boy.”

Tristan struggles for breath and drowns in Bruno’s animal scent. 

“Look up here boy,” Bruno drawls, yanking Tristan out of his sweaty crotch and forcing his gaze upwards. The pink bow in his messy hair is stilling hanging on somehow. “You gon’ meet us here again next week. And the week after that. And every damn week till I get bored. Now, just so you know I don’t take no back talk…”

Bruno has a bundle of Tristan’s thick hair in his fist. He reaches into his sweatpants and hauls the extra limb out and over the waistband. Tristan’s eyes go wide and he flinches back but his hair is taut against his scalp and all he can do is whimper. It’s one continuous block of black wrinkly flesh swollen and hooded. Like a prehistoric worm the size of a small armadillo it swings in Bruno’s grasp. The pubic hair at its base is a roving forest of grey and black. Tristan can smell it. Pure testes sweat.

“Look at me boy.”

Tristan’s traumatized expression turns upward and Bruno spits a bubbly wad of white spit into the center of his face. It splashes with force. With perfect aim. And Tristan cringes as the drool runs down his cheeks. And then Bruno is slapping him with it. Whipping him that big sweaty cock. It grows larger whipping off his nose and eyes and laying long across his face. Bruno smothers Tristan into his fat hairy sack and the sweat accumulated there spreads across Tristan’s face like jam. The pubic hairs tickle and get caught between his pursed lips.

All at once it’s over. Tristan is on the floor curled up in a ball and Bruno is exiting the garage. Tristan rolls over onto his back and sees the garbage trucks amble further down the alley. They’ve left.

In shock Tristan ambles back into his house like a zombie. Unable to process what he just endured he sulks into the bedroom where Piper is still fast asleep. The sun is starting to break through the blinds. He gets in bed. Piper wakes and rolls over to kiss him good morning.

She stops short of his cheek and makes a face. Then she sniffs him.

“What’s that smell?” She asks sleepily but waking rapidly.

Tristan is mute.

“Tristy? You smell funny. Were you up?”

“I took the trash out,” he replies meekly.

“Didn’t you do that last night?”

“Forgot some things.”

“Okay…well were you playing in trash?”

Tristan snaps from his trance and looks her in the eyes. “What?”

“You smell funny Tristy,” she wrinkles her nose. “You should take a shower.”

“Sure…sure thing.”

Tristan can think of no excuse at the moment. In the shower he scrubs his face. And scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.

Part 2

Dear Diary: 10/28/2022

They came for the third time. This morning. Bruno and Leon. My hand trembles to write that because it’s supposed to be Mr. Bruno and Mr. Leon. I’m hesitant to write down what they’ve been doing to me but I’m afraid that if no one EVER knows then I might never be cleansed of it. So here goes nothing. If the wrong person finds this and reads it, please know this – I tried to stop them but I just don’t know how.

The week after they assaulted me in the garage I met them again at the same time. Mr. Bruno told me how to refer to him and Mr. Leon and things started calm enough. Mr. Bruno asked me to get him his stool and go find another chair for Mr. Leon. I had to go to the patio and be super quiet not to wake Piper. Then, once they were sitting, Mr. Leon started to roll some pot up into a joint. I got nervous. It stunk. I asked them if they could please smoke it outside. This was a mistake. Mr. Bruno grabbed me by the neck and made me wait on my knees. Then he asked me to take off my robe and my boxers and undershirt. It was chilly in the garage and I was naked and Mr. Bruno and Mr. Leon just kept blowing skank weed smoke all over me. And they were laughing and making jokes. I remember feeling very weak because Mr. Bruno’s big boot was to my left, and Mr. Leon’s sneaker to my right. 

Pansy dick, they said. Bitch. Freak. Loser. Just laughing and smoking and stinking me out with all that smoke. Telling me my ass was fat. That they could make me look pretty enough to fuck. Then they started talking like I wasn’t there…talking about what to ‘do’ with me. You have to understand that every second in the garage with them isn’t just my own confusion and fear – but sheer panic that Piper might find us. This is always in my mind. And I’ve learned now that the quickest way to get rid of them is to just take it. 

They kept ashing the joint in my hair. Mr. Bruno thought that was especially funny. Things got bad when Mr. Bruno used me as a footrest. I was on my hands and knees and his leg was SO heavy against my back. My knees hurt from the concrete. My wrists were locking up. And he’ d adjust and shift and chat with Mr. Leon until I was shaking with sweat and I finally fell over. So he punished me. Mr. Bruno pulled me into his lap and clamped his sweaty armpit down over my face as I gasped for breath. Mr. Leon was laughing and I realized I would have to soundproof the garage if they were going to keep coming over. Mr. Bruno told me to clean his armpits with my tongue but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. When Mr. Leon started yanking on my nipples I did as I was told. The whole time this was happening I squirmed in Mr. Bruno’s lap and I could feel that horrible thing pressing against me and I just didn’t want to wake it. I didn’t want it to come out again. 

Mr. Bruno put me over his lap and started to spank me. It was strange – to no longer feel like a grown man. To feel so small again. He smacked me hard and over and over I knew I couldn’t scream. Mr. Leon kept my head in his lap while my bottom half was in Mr. Bruno’s. When Mr. Leon started smothering in his crotch it was almost helpful because I could let go some of the pain that was stinging my backside. Mr. Bruno just keeps spanking. Kept telling me how fat it was. Spanked me till I was numb. 

Before they left Mr. Leon told me to bring pictures of Piper. I won’t tell you the awful thing they refer to her ass. But needless to say I didn’t dare show up the following week without a picture of her.

That brings me to this morning.

Let me state here that I’m sincerely sorry for everything. I should have never taken Piper’s underwear. I shouldn’t have hid who I was. And I shouldn’t have brought them that picture. I can’t make an excuse for it so I won’t. But please try to understand that it’s my love for Piper that makes me so irrational. I’m actively doing anything I can not to lose her. That’s what all this is. That’s what I’m telling myself. Because she’s worth it. And she doesn’t need to hurt because of MY mistakes.

I just wish there was a way to pay the price without involving her further. 

It was a physical photograph that I printed in secret at Kinkos. I didn’t want to text it to them because I don’t want a digital trail of this. And it sucks, because I know this is just more blackmail for them. More ammunition. What is the end game and how do I get out? I don’t know. There’s got to be one though. 

Anyway, Mr. Leon was more interested in the picture than Mr. Bruno was. It was a rare shot of Piper in a bikini, one I took shortly after she turned twenty-one. Total bombshell. It physically stung to see the way Mr. Leon drooled over it. 

Mr. Bruno had a trash bag with him today. He came into my garage with it slumped over his shoulder. While Mr. Leon rubbed himself and looked at Piper’s photo, Mr. Bruno dumped the bag out all over the garage floor. It was collected trash. Obviously. It was dirty and torn and dusty. He said since it was Halloween in a few days he was going to dress me up. Getting naked for him this time was easier, I guess.

What happened next is hard for me to put down here. But it has to do with that secret I tried to bury. The one that started all this. Mr. Bruno forced me to wear Hello Kitty underwear. Cotton and soft…it…brought me back. He had this itchy, trashy Disney dress he put on me. Frilly, purple, pink and blue, with a tight collar at the top and long sleeves that ended in hemmed frizzy lace. It was absurd and stupid. But somehow THIS was preferable to the other things. I think, if I’m being honest, comparatively, Mr. Bruno’s acts today to forcibly feminize me were preferable to CLEANING him. Perhaps, whoever you are reading this, you’ll agree with me on that one point, yes?

 He fish hooked me the way you do a bass and I knew not to move or fight him. He snatched this nappy red thing from the trash pile and stuck it to my head. The hair was long and stringy and cheap. Around this time I noticed Mr. Leon. He was standing a few feet away, cock out, stroking off to Piper’s picture. It was horrific. And his penis was wildly elongated so when he stroked there were always inches left over on either side of his clutching hand.

Mr. Bruno sat down and laughed at me. Took pictures with his old flip phone. Mr. Leon started grunting and he FINISHED all over the cement floor. Mr. Bruno saw how horrified I was and told me to go clean it up. I didn’t want to get near it but I knew it had to come off the floor so I went for a rag on a workbench but Mr. Bruno told me no rags. He said I had to clean it up with my hands. 

I didn’t know where to put it all so I had to wipe my hands on my dress. Mr. Bruno got angry and said I ruined the dress he brought me. That’s when the belt came out. Mr. Leon pinned my head to the floor and my face under his sneaker and I had a cheek in his cum. Mr. Bruno whipped my ass welted with my ass back behind me. The Disney dress was the only shield I had and the cheap fabric started to come apart with the force of Mr. Bruno’s whipping. He said ‘if you want to behave like trash we’ll treat you like it’. Mr. Leon went out and got the trash bin. They dumped me inside it along with all the ‘presents’ Mr. Bruno brought. They closed the lid.

I was in there. Covered in Mr. Leon’s mess and my ass on fire. Then I heard a sound and I didn’t know what it was, or at least, didn’t want to believe what it was. A sprinkle and then a stream muted by cloth. I expected they were pissing on my clothes. The ones I needed to wear back to my house. I was right.

The last time they opened the bin was to drop my robe, boxers, and undershirt into the bin with me. All three garments were soaked in urine.

I waited until I heard the truck amble down the alley and crawled out. 

There’s more I want to say but I haven’t a lot of time. Namely, I think Piper is starting to suspect something. When will this end? When will they be finished with me? I want my life back.

Signed,

Tristan B-

1.

Tristan wears reflective red running shorts with a tank top tucked into it as he comes into the garage on Thursday early morning. New sneakers with ankle socks. This at least takes an ounce of stress away from the process, though not nearly enough to right the crooked ship of his relationship. But if Piper believes he is going for a run at 4:20 three days a week, Tristan will take what he can get. At the very least it keeps her from waking up and going to look for him.

Thankfully, Piper’s sweetness makes her naive. His strange stench was explained away when he said bugs had gotten into the cans. He admitted to taking a toke of weed in the garage because there was no other explanation and she’d been disappointed in him for several days after that but he promised not to do it again. Then the stinking wet clothes soaked in piss. In a panic he told Piper that he’d been going for an early morning jog and stopped in a porta-potty. That the porta-potty fell sideways somehow. He yelled all of this from inside the bathroom with the door locked, assuring Piper that she didn’t want to come inside. 

And somehow, it worked.

But it doesn’t change the way she looks at him lately. Or the fact that since this secret has sprouted, they’ve only had sex twice, successfully. Sure, they tried a bunch. But Tristan’s stress levels are cataclysmic. His pile of secrets is a weight that keeps him penis pinned down.

And he knows Piper is patient. But how patient? 

Now, Tristan stands before them in his new outfit, bearing their snarky laughter and crude, restless tones. 

“What’s with the clothes boy?” Bruno chuckles. 

“I told my girlfriend I’m going for a run.”

“You ain’t runnin’ nowhere. Not today no siree. Get them clothes off.”

Tristan notices an added, unusual sort of excitement in Leon’s shifting posture. His eyes were bloodshot. Like he hasn’t slept or maybe he’s drunk. Wired. It makes Tristan more nervous than usual as he takes his clothes off, folds them, and sets them away on tool shelf. He says a prayer they won’t end up like last week, but knows better than to ask it of Bruno and the other.

“Dingaling look like it gettin’ smaller every week,” Bruno cackles. He’s dressed in his usual slobbish affair. Leon is in a city jumpsuit. “No way little miss pig tits gettin’ off on that.”

Tristan flinches. He hates that name. When he asked Bruno the week prior why they kept calling Piper that horrible name, Mr. Bruno had pulled his hair and spit down his throat. Then he told Tristan it was because it looked like she had two piggies stuffed up under her shirt. Tristan knew this was somehow better than the term’s connotation but still the sound of it still chilled him. And because he’d let on that it hurt him, Bruno Whittaker continued to use it.

“Don’t worry about it one bit boy,” Bruno rambles on. “We got somethin’ special planned for you today, yessiree. Gonna give you some bitch tits of your own. Yes we will. But first you gotta hold up your end of the deal.”

It occurs to Tristan that something is up here. Both men are acting stranger than usual. Drunk. High. Maybe both. Maybe something else. 

“Mr. Bruno brought you breakfast boy,” he breathes fast, an insane smile tinging the corners of his unsightly mouth buried in grey beard. “Matta’ fact we gonna make sure you get yah breakfast every day from now on. Ain’t that special of us? Yessiree it is. Hehe. Get the donuts, Leon.”

From amongst the items they’ve brought with them today Leon picks out a long, tan colored pastry box with the name Jelly Fillers on it. He opens it in front of Tristan, who stands there naked and perplexed, staring into a box of twelve large, powdered donuts.

“Day olds we got a nice little thing there with them folks,” Bruno rants on. “Gonna plump you up boy. Grow them titties out old fashioned way. Yes we will.”

Tristan can’t comprehend what they’re asking him to do. Bruno barks and he grabs a donut. It’s sweet and messy and filled with lemon crème filling. White and thick. Sweet. So, so sweet. He finishes one and Bruno demands he takes another.

By the ninth donut he is covered in powder and his lips are glossy with sugar. Tristan is full but he isn’t done. He realized what they were doing four donuts ago. So he eats faster. Faster so his stomach won’t catch up. He eats until all the donuts are gone.

“Dozen a day boy yessiree! We’ll drop a dozen everyday boy. Like I said – we real special on you. Just come on out in the mornin’ and it’ll be in yah trash bin waitin’. We make rounds all week and we got plenty of time to get them day old’s for you. Yes we do. And you know what else, boy? You’re gonna take yah fancy phone and you’re gonna record it. All twelve, down the hatch, every day. Then you gonna send that over to Mr. Leon for checkin’. Hehe. Oh yes you will. Cus if you don’t…we’ll see if little miss pig tits wants them instead. HEHE!”

A sleepiness comes over Tristan as the weight of the food settles on him. Leon sparks a joint and forces him to take several long drags of it. He coughs and his head spins until he’s high out of his mind and being hastily dressed by Bruno. A skirt salvaged from a dumpster, short and sparkling purple. No panties today but a C cup bra that Bruno stuffs with half-popped discarded bubble wrap. The top they put on him is cut away at the tummy and loose enough to let his fake breasts push it outward. A new wig, pink pigtails, stuck to the top of his head by way of some chemical smelling spray Bruno douses his real hair with. Quickly and clumsily comes the makeup. Tristan thinks he could apply it better but banishes the thought as soon as it comes to his mind. Whorish smeared red lipstick, clumsy blush, pink eyeshadow. 

Bruno’s rough today. Hands holding him steady by the throat at all times. Pushing Tristan’s nose up and oinking in his face. There is something unhinged about this that makes Tristan more afraid than he’s been at any time with them.

He physically tries to run when the handcuffs come out but Mr. Leon is happy to subdue him. On the floor in full drag Tristan gives up and they cuff his wrists at the small of his back. Bruno’s boot comes up under his chest and slowly rises to help Tristan balance on to his knees. When he looks up at them, he knows.

“Nuff’ uh this silly shit,” Bruno grunts. He shuffles his sweatpants down to his knees. His huge belly hangs far over but the giant cock below it is still visible. Tristan screams when Bruno grabs him by the back of the head and jerks him closer to it. His pink pigtails sway like wind chimes. “Been a garbage man for forty years boy. You don’t know nuthin’ bout’ life till you deal with everybody else’s garbage every damn day of the week! It gets so bad that sometimes, you gotta make yah own garbage. And let somebody else throw it away for a change. It’s whatta’ they call it? Circular. Hehehe…”

On his knees and cuffed, in a mini skirt and tiny top, Tristan tastes the old fat man. It’s unreasonably large. It blocks his windpipe at the back of his throat. Makes his mouth drool incessantly. It comes at him so fast that he has no time to adjust before Bruno is smacking him in the head and telling him no teeth. Tristan’s jaw is open uncomfortably wide. Bruno tastes like old cigarettes and sweaty balls. He’s rough enough to get it so far down Tristan’s throat that Tristan can feel Bruno’s belly squishing against his forehead. 

“Just like I had back in the can too,” he growls. “But you prettier boy. You real pretty.”

The attack of Tristan’s throat is fast and immediate. He is allowed one deep breath before Leon takes over. His piece isn’t the impossibility Bruno’s is, but that almost makes it worse. A thick black pole that can go further down his throat than Bruno’s could. They are crazed and savage as they ravage his face. Tristan’s makeup runs in droves. His knees ache.

“Go on and get the boy on the floor. Bend him over one uh’ them tires.”

Leon moves to get an old tire stacked in a corner of the garage. Bruno takes a few more stabs at Tristan’s throat before he turns around and lifts his leg up onto the old stool. This puts his backside directly in Tristan’s face. Cuffed and on his knees as he is, Tristan has limited mobility. No possibility of retreat. Bruno reaches back behind him at an odd angle, almost too fat to pull it off, but finds Tristan’s pink little head in the void, and grips it like a grapefruit.

Tristan feels the pull and watches Bruno’s giant crack until he’s blinded by it. Cleaning. Licking. Being used as a washcloth.

“That’s right where that faggy lil’ mouf’ belongs,” Bruno grunts the words in long sustained rasps. “Riiight where it belongs. Mmhmmm. Lick it. Lick it boy. That’s right. Clean my muthafuckin’ ass. I take out yo’ trash. You can sho’ as hell take out mine!”

Leon’s laughter fills the garage as he rolls the tire over. Bruno is jerking his laborious cock and his balls flail wildly as he shakes Tristan’s face between his cheeks. Finally, he lets the young man go and he falls over hard onto his shoulder. His face is a mess of spit and shock.

Bruno kicks him in the ass and tells him to get on the tire. Leon helps Tristan by grabbing his ear and pulling him so that he raises on his knees and flops over at the stomach along the laid out rubber tire. His ass is now elevated, his face to rubber.

“Gots a long way to go before you can take it where yeh’ suppose to,” Bruno mumbled from behind him. “Gotta train that little fagget hole so we can have some wit’ it. UH-HEHEHE…”

Tristan’s instinct is to scream but Leon shoves a sweaty stinking sock into his mouth. As he gags against it, Tristan glances sidelong and sees that Leon is missing a sock on his right foot. 

That’s when he feels the spit against his asshole.

Tristan moans long and muffled. 

“Brought some good finds wit’ me today,” Bruno breathes. From a trash bag he pulls out a long-sectioned piece that collapses into one longer piece. “Damn tent was all tore up by the time we yanked it out the dump – but the poles work just fine.”

Tristan’s wrists grate into steel cuffs as his asshole spreads over the dime sized pole. He feels it going deeper at a rapid pace. The girth is uncomfortable but manageable. On accident, Tristan whimpers.

“Uh oh Mr. Bruno,” cackles Leon. “Sound like he likin’ it.”

Tristan tries to explain he doesn’t like it but a sweaty sock blocks his airway. Mr. Bruno starts fucking him with the tent pole. Five inches. Seven. Ten. Long digs in and out that force Tristan’s body to betray him. The hanging skirt covers his erection but he curses it! How could he do this to himself?”

“Boy can handle bigger that’s fo’ sho,” Bruno growls. He pops the tent pole out of Tristan’s tight anus and tosses it aside. He reaches into the trash bag and pulls out a long cylindrical piece of fruit. The core of a pineapple. Just the center, stripped away of everything. Shorter than the tent poles, but thicker. “Got this by the grocery store. Can you believe they be cuttin’ people’s pineapple for em’ now too? Boy pretty soon nobody gon’ be doin’ nuthin’ fo’ themselves anymore!” Then he spit on Tristan’s asshole and shoved the thing in. Bruno leaves it there.

“Don’t go takin’ that out until nature calls,” Bruno laughs. “Gonna get you nice and trained up boy. Alright Leon get him back up and let’s finish the damn thing. Late enough as it is!”

The last vial acts of the morning flood toward Tristan like he’s at the gates of some failing dam. With his sphincter clenched around a trashed piece of food (rigid and unforgiving, still fairly fresh), they resume the fucking of his trashy face. They tell him how cute he is and pass him from one to the other until Leon hoses Tristan’s grimacing face down in forceful splashing ropes. Hot and shocking they force Tristan to retreat to the left. This is where old man Bruno Whittaker groans like an invalid and lets his mammoth member drip and drool slow wads of fat cum onto Tristan’s face. Like magma it drags on impact and stretches slow and hot from Tristan’s brow to his gagging lips. Leon is still spraying youthful splashes into the boy’s face as Bruno manually pinches the last fat drop his hooded head and places it over Tristan’s left eyelid.

“One-eyed Trixie,” Bruno laughed.

The old man sits down exhausted. Leon finds his phone and takes pictures. This is when Tristan feels most vulnerable. Hands bound, on his knees, and only able to open one eye. The mess on his face reminds him of his place. He cannot speak for fear of tasting it.

Tristan waits for what feels like a long time. The cuffs come away at last and he lays down sideways to accommodate the makeshift plug in his ass.

Tristan is disassociating when Leon leads him out into the alley behind the house. It’s almost five in the morning and the sun is coming up. People will be awake soon. This doesn’t stop Leon from grabbing a bin off the back of the truck and wheeling it over to where Tristan limps, cowering, in the large entranceway of the garage. Leon takes the top off and helps Tristan inside. 

He closes the lid. 

Total destruction, Tristan thinks. Use me and throw me away.

But it’s not over. The bin is moving – back inside the garage. With first confusion, and then mounting terror, Tristan spots two holes cut into the side of the garbage bin. One is as wide as a two liter bottle, the other hole about the size of a coke can. 

Tristan can hear them snickering. 

“Please no more,” Tristan whines from inside the bin. “My jaw hurts…”

“You ain’t gotta suck no more, Trixie,” Bruno mumbles and his fat cock pushes in through the larger of the two holes. Tristan backs away with what little room he has. “Just gotta clean it up.”

Tristan doesn’t know what that means. Leon’s cock pushes inside as well. Neither man is totally hard – more half flaccid and slouching. But Bruno’s hooded monster is staring at him. As is Leon’s smooth black dick. He doesn’t want to, but Tristan realizes that the only way this will end today is if he just does it. One more time. Sucks them.

His jaw aches as he opens and goes for Bruno. But before his tired mouth arrives a waterfall of piss erupts from below the hood in a violent spray and hoses Tristan down. It gets in his mouth. His coughs and spits. His eyes close as the spray intensifies. Bruno moans. Leon lets loose. A second stream, faster and harder and hotter than the first – washing Tristan down.

He has nowhere to go.

“Now go on and kiss them tips clean boy,” Bruno cackles outside. The drip of his hooded member is marked by the puddle underneath Tristan. Leon’s cock sometimes springs to life with another jet of piss for Tristan’s face. “Run that lil tongue all along the inside of my shit and clean it good!”

In the darkness Tristan sucks the remnants away. 

Part 3

Dear Diary: 11/14/2022

I can tell Piper is getting to the end of her rope. We haven’t had sex now in weeks and it’s all my fault. I want to, don’t get me wrong, but the mounting weight of what’s been going on in my garage these last six weeks is getting to me. It’s frustrating because she is RIGHT there. Naked. Perfect. Wet. But I can’t do anything about it. It’s difficult to write it but I’ll just say it – I can’t get hard. Not with Mr. Bruno always breathing down my neck. Not with all the secrets hidden between Piper and me. I go down on her, I use my fingers and hands, I try every trick in the book…but Piper wants dick. She tries to not make me feel bad about it but I can see her mind wandering. And wondering.

She’s also started wondering about my ‘lack of appetite’ despite the fact that my ass and my chest are filling out at an astonishing rate. It’s no surprise since I’m eating nearly 5000 calories in fucking donuts every morning. Stale donuts. And I never want to taste lemon crème again for as long as I live.

I got so sick of Bruno and Leon’s antics that last Thursday I didn’t go down to meet them. I was angry and defiant and decided I couldn’t take it anymore. This was predicated by another failed attempt to make love to Piper the night before. I failed and she went to sleep. I stayed awake all night listening to her breathe and then held my own breath when I heard the garbage truck rumbling down the alley at 4:15. I laid frozen like a stiff board under the blankets, warm and safe, listening for them to leave. The truck idled for a long time. I was convinced they’d be leaving any moment.

But that’s when the banging started. Loud and metallic. It jolted Piper right out of her sleep and it pushed me out of bed altogether. ‘What is that’, Piper asked. I went to the window and looked through the blinds. I could just see the back end of the truck out in the alley. The mechanical door on the back was opening and closing, opening and closing – over and over again. And every time it closed it was with a deafening CLANK! They were calling for me. And clearly they were prepared to wake the whole neighborhood if they had to.

I told Piper I was late for my run and I’d give the garbage men a piece of my mind on my way out. Thankfully, she rolled over and went back to sleep. I rushed out through the backyard, into the garage, and flipped the switch on the door opener.

Mr. Bruno was pissed. Told me I was getting some bad ideas in my head and proceeded to whip my ass to welts as punishment. He had a belt that day, something fished out of a dumpster. It was thick and brown and must have been reinforced leather because it HURT. It was over the tire again. Leon kept me still while Mr. Bruno pulled my joggers down and whipped the pale flesh raw. He kept saying how nice my ass was filling out. After that they resumed their ‘training’ of me. This time it was with golf balls dipped in canola oil. They managed to shove three of them up my ass before I shot them out like baseballs at the batting cages. God how they’d laughed. After that it was the handle of a putter. I don’t want to write anymore about it but suffice it to say I sat funny all the rest of that week.

Before Mr. Bruno left that particular Thursday he had Leon go grab a bag out of the truck. It was all tied up at the top and he told me he needed a place to stash it this week. When I asked him what was in it he laughed his ass off. Told me it was none of my business. The bag felt weird at the bottom but I was confident there was nothing illegal inside. If anything it just felt like a bunch of papers. Maybe some books or magazines. He helped me pick out a place to put it which ended up being right there in the garage, on a shelf that was also home to a bunch of old antique Polish pottery. It was strange to me at the time, the way Mr. Bruno stared at that old stuff shielded in bubble wrap. Even though the black garbage bag was sort of out in the open there I didn’t object. I guess because I didn’t know what was in it, and because Piper never went in the garage. 

After that, Mr. Bruno made me clean his armpits and then he and Leon went on their way.

Before I go further I guess I want whoever is reading this to understand something. The time BETWEEN the Thursday morning meets was all I had. All I currently have. By now it’s become as if Thursday Mornings are just a recurring nightmare that I can forget about by eight o’clock. I felt secure in the fact that I always had another seven days to mentally prepare myself and cover my tracks. But what I’ve learned now is, you can’t predict a wild animal’s behavior. They can lash out and be unpredictable. They can also be cunning and diabolical.

I came home from work that following Monday and found Piper on the couch waiting for me. Her eyes were red like she’d been crying. And when she looked at me it was like she was starting to see some stranger in my features. She asked me if she was enough and I told her YES. She asked why I couldn’t get hard anymore and I told her it was work stress. I begged her to believe me. I could see that she wanted to. And then she asked me a question I wasn’t prepared for. One that made my stomach drop and my mind start reaching for explanations as to WHY she would ask it.

Are you gay?

I must have stumbled over myself trying to tell her what an insane thought that was. What an impossibility it was when I was SO attracted to her. But she looked at me like I was lying to her face and she started tearing up all over again. I couldn’t get through to her and it wasn’t until I saw a sheet of bubble wrap on the living room floor that I too fell silent. 

What did you find, I asked.

She pulled a stack of magazines out from under the couch cushion. Said she’d shoved them under there when she heard me pull in because she didn’t know how to go about telling me what she’d found. The covers of said magazines were shocking. Copies of FAT BLACK HOGS and PUCKERED TWINKS. Horrifying covers featuring naked black men and sometimes feminized white men. A stack of nearly fifteen porno magazines – all gay, all hardcore.

“They smell like how you smell when you get back from your runs sometimes.”

I didn’t have an explanation for that. It took me nearly a minute to realize that this is what was in that damned bag Mr. Bruno stashed. But how? And why the hell was Piper in the garage at all? Her answer chilled me to my core.

The city garbage men are holding an auction for the firefighters, she tells me. They are asking for old odds and ends, things like dressers, or any kind of furniture we no longer use. Maybe even pottery or kitchen appliances. Piper decided to let go of some of the old Polish pottery she’d put in the garage when she first moved in. She saw a trash bag and decided to look through it for any more items that might be good at an auction. And that’s when she found the porno mags.

When I asked her how she even heard about this ‘auction’, Piper said a man come to their door. An older black man who was quite jolly, she said. Told her all about the auction. Had even asked for a glass of water. His name was Bruno, she said. And he promised that anything we donated to the auction would go for a fair price.

In my shock I was unable to properly explain away the magazines. And I know now, when she looks at me, that Piper is full of nothing but doubts. About me. About our relationship. About everything.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got a few ideas but right it feels like I’m treading to far over the line. One misstep and Mr. Bruno will attack Piper with all the ammunition needed to put the nail in the coffin of our relationship.

But I need to act soon. Because I can feel my last chances slipping away from me.

Signed,

Tristan B-

1.

When the garage door rolls upwards and Tristan sees just a single silhouette in he becomes immediately nervous. It’s Bruno without Leon. Tristan took that as a bad sign. Sure, Leon was usually just the helping hand, the one laughing the hardest, the one holding Tristan down…but to be alone with Bruno is something else entirely.

“Where my magazines at boy?” Bruno starts, walking slowly across the garage so that Tristan can marinate in his approach. He smiles. “Or somebody find em’ who shouldn’t uh?”

Tristan practiced what he wanted to say so he could say it now: “You can’t come to my front door like that. Talking to my girlfriend... It’s too close. I thought we had a deal that if I…if I played along with what we do in here, you’d leave Piper out of it.”

“Keep doin’ whatchoo’ spose’ to and little miss pig tits ain’t gonna know nuthin’,” Bruno says, and clamps his big sweaty hand down on Tristan’s shoulder. “Now that was just a bit uh’ fun wit’ them porno mags. Dug em’ out a trash can behind a porno shop and had ourselves a lil’ prank. Don’t worry none though, I ain’t gonna punish yeh for losin’ em’. But you gotta do me a right old favor today, boy.”

Tristan knows he isn’t getting through to Bruno. He doesn’t like the way the old man is shrugging off his concern. Tristan has to make sure Bruno knows that any contact with Piper is crossing the line. But how?

“Mr. Bruno, sir,” Tristan pleads. “I need your word that you and Mr. Leon won’t be speaking with Piper anymore. That you’ll deal only with me.”

Bruno’s hand tightens and Tristan wilts.

“I’m bein’ real patient wit’ you today boy but I’m about to lose it. Is that what you want? Want Mr. Bruno to get real nasty wit’ you? I been seen’ them little boners you get when I’m trainin’ that behind uh yers.  So maybe this what you want – to upset Mr. Bruno. But I’ll warn yeh now boy, I ain’t playin’ wit yo’ ass. So you better think again before you go rilin’ me up.”

Tristan wants to beg him again but he doesn’t dare push his luck. It’s as if the chance of Piper finding out about all this doesn’t really matter to the old fat man. Bruno is playing with matchsticks over Tristan’s life, but from where Bruno sits it’s more a game of harmless dominos. 

“Mr. Leon attendin’ to some otha’ bidness today so I’m gonna need yah help with the route, boy.” Bruno lets go of Tristan’s shoulder and retrieves the trash bag he’s brought with him today. “So go on upstairs and tell the girl what yah need to and then come back down here and change.”

Tristan isn’t sure if he’s heard Bruno correctly. “Did you say I’m helping you with your route?”

“That’s right.”

“What route, Sir?”

“The trash route boy! What else!”

Tristan’s mind races. He opens his mouth to clarify or argue but catches himself. He knows better. Mr. Bruno is already at the end of his rope. Tristan’s mind races for an excuse, something to tell Piper, and he settles on the only one halfway believable. Mr. Bruno takes a seat on his stool and crosses his arms over his big belly. Tristan slinks out of the garage.

Piper is even more beautiful when he stirs her from sleep. Her skin is warm and inviting and all he wants to do is slip into bed with her and make love.

“Work called I gotta go in earlier than usual today,” he says in a whisper. “Just wanted to let you know.”

“Wait,” she yawns. “The car. I need it today. Can you take an Uber to work?”

Tristan pauses. “What do you need the car for?”

“The auction drop off, remember? I’m going to take the pottery and some other stuff downtown. Last day to do it.”

Tristan nods slowly, as if understanding, but not quite. “Sure I’ll leave the car, Piper…can we hang out tonight? Maybe…you know…”

“Tristan it’s four thirty in the morning. Can I go back to sleep now?”

Tristan leaves the room and heads back to the garage. He’s surprised that this ‘auction’ is even a real thing but apparently it is. Piper must have looked it up online, must have seen where the drop off for goods was. Probably the fire station. But he doesn’t get a chance to flesh these thoughts out fully and see what is so wrong about them because now Mr. Bruno is demanding he change into the outfit from the trash bag.

In the garage Tristan strips naked under Mr. Bruno’s watchful eye. That dark, cloudy gaze eats every inch of Tristan up as the boy becomes something else. Tristan’s panicked mind tries to offer solutions to what he is being asked to do but comes up with absolutely nothing.

“You can’t expect me to go outside in this sir,” Tristan cried. “Please. I might be recognized. Or filmed!”

“Oh no now don’t you worry boy. See, Mr. Bruno knew you was gon’ be scared uh that. Yes he did. So I brought somethin’ extra special to make sure that don’t happen! But go on and finish gettin’ dressed up for Mr. Bruno first!”

Black pantyhose torn in strips cover his legs and roll over the pink panties he’s already wearing. Next is the abominable dress that Tristan has a hard time telling which end is up or down. It’s very ballet like, puffy like a tutu but wide like a Cinderella dress. It shows the signs of pre ownership or even an earlier fate at the city dump. The sleeves cling to Tristan’s wrists. The giant bottom of the princess dress makes it hard to walk properly. Bruno makes him stuff the C cup bra full of bra liners but it’s obvious that Tristan is filling out nicely up there.

The special surprise Bruno referred to is probably the nicest wig Bruno has dug out yet. It’s wrecked in certain places but that just makes it a bit more whorish. Thick, lush, and flowing all the way down to his stomach, Tristan is forced into a pink and blue princess wig. It is blindingly bright in those colors. For a horrible moment, as Bruno adjusts it on top of his head, Tristan can practically see Piper coming into the garage RIGHT THEN because she’s suspicious about the place now and sees HIM in a Cinderella dress, torn pantyhose, and this crazy fucking wig. But the moment passes and now Mr. Bruno is painting his face over with lipstick, blush, and mascara. 

“There now boy, I ain’t nobody gon’ know you,” Bruno laughs and laughs. “Make yo’ ass niiiice and pretty. Haha!”

When Bruno lets go of him Tristan can feel the weight of the moment. It’s almost as if Bruno is being deliberately quiet so that it really sinks in. Tristan is a crossdresser. A secret, closeted sissy. But for the first time in his life he’s about to step out. It is a confusing rush of emotions. As is the way his mind feels about Bruno’s bullying, compared to the way his body reacts. Nothing makes sense. But when Tristan runs his hands down the front of the dress he is hard inside the pantyhose within seconds.

“Ready to run the route old Trixie girl?” Bruno sneers. 

“Yes sir…”

“Good girl. But don’t you look so pretty today? Before we head out I’m thinkin’ we replace that breakfast with somethin’ else full uh’ cream fillin’. Ah-hehehe. Now bring that pretty lil’ mouf’ right here between Mr. Bruno’s legs.”

Tristan did as he was told and ten minutes later he was clinging to the back of a garbage truck as the morning air rushed up under his dress to kiss his stiff little prick.

2.

Along the streets of the old fourth ward residents are ambling out into the street for their morning paper, or to shoot the shit with a neighbor, or perhaps to start the corner work early and turn a profit. Unlike the rich folks on the other side of town, the trash cans are placed out in front of the houses here, making it easy pickup for their local garbage men to take away several at a time. 

The truck starts to slow down as it approaches the first house on Pine Avenue and the deranged Disney princess on the back of it has gone pale below the thickly applied blush. 

“Oh Jesus oh no,” Tristan breathes. There are at least twenty to thirty people along the street at different intervals and already they are starting to notice the site on the back of the truck.

Bruno leans his head out of the driver’s window and calls back to Tristan: “Dump em’ one at a time now boy! And don’t mind the nosy ones – everybody on this block knows who Mr. Bruno is! HAHA!”

Tristan is frozen to the back of the truck. He doesn’t dare move.

“MOVE IT NOW BOY!”

Tristan hops down and the dress billows around him. He stumbles like a crackhead to the first bin and grabs hold of it. It’s heavy. It takes serious exertion to get it to the truck’s claw arm that will lift and deposit the contents into the dumpster on its body. And while this is happening, the owner of said bin ambles closer with a riotous grin on his face.

“Oh hell nah what is this now,” the middle-aged black man laughs. “Bruno you fuckin’ wit’ another white boy, ain’t yah?”

Bruno’s laughter inside the cab can be heard on the street. Tristan avoids eye contact. The truck ambles forward and Tristan has to walk beside it, to the next bin, to repeat the process. But now, as they get to house five, then six, the entire block is alerted to the show happening out on the street.

“Oh shit everybody hide yah panties,” a rather verbose black woman cackles as the crowd surrounds and follows Tristan and the truck. “Sissy on the block! Comin’ fo’ them free undies!” The gathered crowd erupts at her joke and more join in.

“Sho’ got a fat enough ass to be a bitch!”

“Mr. Bruno done wrang out anotha’ honky!”

“Hahaha!”

“Hey girl you missed a spot!” A hoodlum of about twenty years old runs up behind Tristan with a two liter of knock off brand soda and proceeds to dump it all over him. The gathered crowd erupts into laughter as Tristan tries to dodge the dousing but the hood pins him to the side of the truck. Bruno continues to sit up in the front of the cab laughing. 

Tristan tries to maintain. The cola is sticky in his wig and now it’s sticky against his own face. His makeup is running. The insults are constant and distracting and sometimes some of the men lean in and smack his ass. I just as to get through this street, he tells himself. Just has to make it to the end. Block it out.

It truly is a living nightmare. Like he’s stepped into the pages of a Shirly Jackson book. These people were not expecting him today but surely this is not the first time such a ceremony has taken place. It’s the first time Tristan feels like he truly understands the definition of the word frenzy. Or rather, frenzy as a living, breathing monster with many limbs. But isn’t that what’s gotten him here in the first place? Frenzy. His own frenzied state. Perhaps this is all one long hysteria that started back the day Tristan tried to throw away his secrets. Maybe he never came down and the wave rides on still. Or maybe this is the only logical next step in a universe that can only exist within a system of ever escalating demoralizations. 

This is Tristan’s perception, at least. And it’s not far off.

“Fagget ass white boy!”

“Bet this bitch ass honky takes it up the ass!”

“Shit I’d try it wit’ a bag over her fuckin’ head!”

“HAHAHA!”

The hood’s altercation emboldens the crowd. At the next garbage can, one of the last bins on the street, men and women leap forward and pulls trash bags out. Tristan realizes at once what they mean to do and turns to run but the sparkly flowing Cinderella dress catches between his legs and sends him sprawling to the sidewalk. It is a modern tar and feathering. The garbage bags are turned upside down on top of Tristan and he curls into a ball to protect himself. Heaps of trash – food leftovers, spoiled milk, cans, bottles, paper plates, rib bones – cover him. Refuse and detritus. But that’s not enough for them. At the next bin they find a torn bag of flour. A neighbor pulls an endless gardening hose with a spray nozzle into the mix and washes the sissy down. The mob swarms. The dump of flour and the stick of it congealing.  

He is ruined.

Tristan manages, in a fog of laughter and pointing fingers, to find the garbage truck and climb onto the back. Holding on for dear life, dress and wig billowing out behind him, the trucks pulls away from the horrible street. The tenants run after them like children after Santa’s sleigh. They through things, tomatoes and oranges, taunts and screams. Some have cameras.

A cloud of flour billows out behind the truck. Tristan curls inside of himself. From the cab, window rolled down, Mr. Bruno’s laughter is wet with spit that catches on the wind and flies back to sting and splatter against Tristan’s face.

3.

Tristan’s mind is somewhere else when Bruno pulls up behind a house with foreclosure notices on its rotted doors. Windows are smashed out. It is an abandoned grey building with life ambling about in its shadows. Since it look likes a scene out of a horror movie, Tristan continues to grasp the hold bar to his chest, clinging to the garbage truck like a ship in deep waters. His hands are sticky with flour. It’s all over him. It’s even taken the place of his makeup for the most part.

The creaking of the driver’s door and then Bruno slams it shut. He ambles his jiggling frame to the back of the truck and sticks his hands in his pockets. He admires Tristan with a vague smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

“Dunno if you can tell by now boy but I got friends round’ here. Been in this town a long time. When you run the trash you learn things. Bout’ folks. Bout’ the worst in ‘em. Stuff they don’t want nobody to see, they think it all just goes away…but sometimes it come back. Sometimes it come back, don’t it now, boy?”

Sounds come from inside the house. Voices. Paranoid and masculine. Tristan looks around from the truck’s ledge, and he can see this neighborhood is the worst they’ve been in. 

“Fella I did time with back in the 80s been out on his luck,” Bruno rasped. “And when I told him bout’ you boy did he just brighten up. Think he gon’ be happy to see you. Even if you is just a lil’ messy.”

Bruno wanders around the house as if he expects Tristan to follow him. After a long moment of shaking doubt, Tristan gets off the truck and goes after him. It’s right now, this very instant, that the chance to run comes into Tristan’s mind. He’s wearing sneakers, pink and a size to small, courtesy of Mr. Bruno, but he can run. Whatever awful thing that lays in wait inside that house for him, he can get away from it. Bruno wouldn’t chase. And that truck was only going to move so fast. 

But Thursday morning is inevitable.

Tristan promises himself that if anything comes wildly out of left field he will do it. He’ll run. Damn the consequences. Yet, as he steps inside the squatter house, the feeling of total seclusion engulfs him. It is dark here. As if the sun doesn’t exist. Faceless bodies here and there. Like nothing that happens in this place is ever known to anyone. He is filthy and dressed like a woman but under this roof he gains some sense of anonymity.

Bruno’s giant sweating form leads him further into the house. Past cracked walls and caved in ceiling. Bedrooms off the hallway where people slept and fucked. At the back of the house was an open door and inside it an old man about Bruno’s age. He’s fat like Bruno but not quite as huge, mean, peppered in grey hair like snow against the black night of his skin. He’s sitting up on a mattress on the floor, smoking a skank weed joint and pouring himself a shot of cheap whiskey. 

The old man on the mattress eyes Tristan and hoots laughter. “The fuck is that thing, Bruno?”

“Dem’ folks over on Pine roughed her up but she’s fine,” Bruno chuckled. “Ain’t yah girl? Tell Clarence yah fine.”

Tristan’s eyes flick over the squatter room. It’s actually in decent order, if not a bit cluttered. There are trinkets on shelves, like things you’d see at a pawn shop, along with some clear cases with sports memorabilia.

“I’m fine,” Tristan mumbles. “Bruno maybe we should go –

“Bitch quiet down,” Bruno growls. The particular tone of enmity isn’t what Tristan is accustomed to. This growl has the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be defied in front of present company. 

“She a feisty one ain’t she?” Clarence’s eyes flicker from the bed. “How’d at golf set work out I leant you from the pawn shop?”

“Bitch openin’ up more every day,” Bruno assures him. “But she ready for somethin’ lil’ extra. Can’t take mine yet – no way. But she ready for you.”

Through the deafening pulse in his hot ears Tristan listens to them bargain over him. Ten dollars is too much she’s covered in trash. The bitch looks like a donut. But they settle on three dollars and the amount rings in Tristan’s ears like a broken cash register.

Bruno shoves him toward the old fat black man on the bed. Tristan has nowhere to run now. Slow and old or not – it’ll just be worse later. So Bruno blocks the doorway and laughs every so often as Tristan gets down onto his knees and blows old man Clarence. Clarence’s cock is an unruly thing. Shaped like a brick, fat and straight and meaty all the way to a curved smooth head. He fucks Tristan’s mouth until his own lap is covered in flour and then he’s flipping the young man over across the dirty mattress. 

Tristan is caught between two worlds. One urges him to cry for help. The other whispers from the dark to relax. But in another moment he’ll know the truth.

But Clarence is rough and no matter Tristan’s decision the old man makes it seem a struggle. Ruffling the dress up, pinning the smaller man down, and thrusting inside him with one quick spit for lube. Tristan screams. It’s not the first thick thing up his ass but it’s certainly the thickest. When Tristan convulses beneath him it eggs Clarence on and soon Tristan is wailing – somewhere between a moan and a groan. His dick is both lifeless and alive, tingling soft and threatening to spit at the slightest touch.

Clarence grunts and plays with Tristan’s long pink hair. Slaps his fat ass into a red oblivion. Tristan’s face is buried in the mattress. There is a mess of trash and flour and detritus across the mattress. Clarence buries himself as far down as Tristan’s body will allow and releases inside of him with an old man’s groan. Tristan looks up from the bed with Clarence gasping on top of him and sees Bruno smiling in the doorway.

“Makes me think uh’ that old sayin’, Trixie,” Bruno rasped. “You are what you eat.”

4.

Later, in the cab with Bruno, Tristan lies like a heap in the passenger seat. He is staring at Bruno as the old fat man drives. There is a lunacy in Bruno’s eyes that Tristan has seen from the beginning. In some way those eyes help to explain every last crazy thing the man has done. 

“Don’t worry now Trixie we gon’ get you all cleaned up,” Bruno laughs in his smoker’s cackle. “Just you wait and see.”

They pull into a dilapidated auto yard somewhere on the outskirts of town. The man at the chain-link gate, portly and drunk, waves Bruno through with a smile. Bruno drives deeper into the property until they’re between rows of smashed car frames stacked fifteen feet high. Bruno parks and they get out.

“Go on and take that off I got somethin’ fresh waitin’ for yeh in the truck,” Bruno motions with a fat arm to a spot in the dirt.

“Here?” Tristan says. His voice is weaker than he remembers.

“Gotta clean yeh off, hehe…”

With the sunlight like a spotlight on his flabby milky skin Tristan undresses down to absolutely nothing. Losing the wig doesn’t seem like such a win now that he’s coated in sticky old flour. Syrupy soda. Every bit of him tingles all over. His feeble penis is rolled in on itself in a way that Tristan has not seen almost ever. Usually his mushroom head, being disproportionately larger than the rest, found a way to sneak out from under the hood. But even that has been defamed into hiding. It is a clump of skin with no definition. From under the foreskin is a slick amount of pre cum that he discharged during his time with Clarence. He cannot understand the way his dick is reacting to these things…as if it can’t make up its own mind.

Tristan looks up at the sound of Bruno’s approach and the fat man has a hose in his hand. But it’s not the garden sort that Tristan was soaked with earlier on Pine Ave. This is more akin to a firehose, and when Bruno releases the nozzle the force of the spray nearly knocks Tristan down. The water is freezing. 

“There we go boy, get choo’ nice and clean!”

Tristan screams like a girl but settles in as the hose blasts away the gross all along his body. During the ordeal, Bruno makes him put his hands behind his back so he can ‘aim for the worm’. The blast is harsh enough on Tristan’s balls to crumple him at the knees. Finally, Bruno puts away the hose and grabs a bag from the cab of his truck. He motions for Tristan to follow him. Naked, vulnerable as he is, Tristan steps lightly across the dirt to the back of the garbage truck.

Bruno pulls a length of rope from the bag and goes about tying it around the hold bar on the back of the truck. He nods at the bag and says: “Put that on now, Trixie girl.”

Naked and dripping Tristan kneels down and peers inside. 

“Mr. Bruno sir, I’ve got to be home soon,” he pleads. “The makeup washed off and I’m afraid if I wear this people are going to see me…please, sir, I need to go home and at least have a chance of Piper not finding out!”

Bruno finishes a knot around the hold bar and holds the other end up. The length of rope is about six feet long. “You put that shit on boy or I’ll drive off and leave yah naked where you stand.”

Tristan began to dress.

5.

The garbage truck pulls onto the street where Tristan lives. It is midday and the chances of neighbors looking out their windows or mulling outside are a mixed bag. But Tristan is shaking on the back of the truck as it idles at the north end of the block. His hair is blonde and copped around his chin and he wears a two piece lingerie set in dazzling blue. The bust is frilly and soft and buckles in different directions around his chest. The bottoms are buckles and panties and a see through skirt shimmers on top. Bruno forced him into a pair of low heels so that’s why balances now on the back of garbage truck. But there’s also the rope, one end tied to the bar, the other around Tristan’s stomach.

It is a sight to see – the feeble blonde hanging on for dear life to the back of a big nasty garbage truck.

The engine stops and the rumbling under Tristan’s tight grip ceases. Bruno gets out of the truck and comes to the back. Even with Tristan up on the fender Bruno is still taller. A giant.

“Alright now Trixie listen here you got two choices,” Bruno gleams. “One, I’ll untie yeh and let yah run on home. But no using the damn alley! Hehe. Hope pig tits ain’t home. Or option two, you can stay right where you are and let old Mr. Bruno carry yeh home. But it’s gon’ be a slow ride, I can tell yeh that! But then again, them heels might just do yeh in. Hehe.”

Tristan’s mind races. His neighbors could be looking right this very instance. He needs to get home. As fast as possible.

“I’ll run home. Please, Mr. Bruno – before someone sees!”

“Alrighty well let me just grab my box cutter for that rope. Be right back, hehe.”

Tristan watches him go and then jumps off the back fender of the truck, the rope tugging at his midsection. He braces himself for the sprint to the end of the street. Passing six houses along the way, both sides, before his. In heels. He is too focused on these details to wonder why the rope was tied to him in the first place. It crosses his mind when Bruno doesn’t return and the engine starts back up.

“Bruno? Tristan calls. 

The sigh of the brakes comes in response. The truck starts to roll forward.

Clop clop got the heels.

Tristan calls out for Bruno one more time but he knows it’s useless – knows that he is once again the punchline. His bobbed hair do winces with his shuffling clopping feet as he ambles after the garbage truck. Soon, it takes all his balance and speed to keep up. Tristan is galloping past his neighbors’ windows in blue lingerie that is both frilly and provocative. He keeps his eyes ahead, his sole focus to get home.

Stumbling and recovering. Again and again. Until Tristan’s driveway comes into view and he does not see the car. Piper is not home. Thank God. He’s so close now. He runs now with his hands as visors to cover his face should anyone look outside their window but soon enough he’s using them for balance again. The truck comes to a squeaking stop in front of Tristan’s house. His feet are blistered.

Bruno comes around the side of the truck with a smile and a box cutter. He flips the blade and starts to saw at the rope connecting Tristan to the truck. Tristan is frozen with anxiety and impending doom. It looks like Bruno is cutting the rope in slow motion.

When it finally separates Tristan sprints off to his front door. Praying no one has seen a thing. Bruno lazily cuts the rest of the rope from his truck and drives off.

6.

Piper gets home around six and Tristan is waiting for her at the kitchen island. He’s composed himself, but now that he looks at her, he feels befuddled again. He doesn’t know how to reach her without any truth for a bridge. She’s wearing yoga pants and a flimsy tank top that actually allows for a touch of cleavage on her demanding chest. It’s as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Where were you all day?” The first thing Tristan asks. More accusatory than he wants to be, especially considering what his day has been like, but there’s a deep anger inside him now pushing him towards irrationality. “Thought you just had to drop some things off?”

“I did drop some things off,” Piper narrowed her eyes at him. “For the auction. Like I said?”

“So why are you just now getting home?”

Her pauses were dodgy. Slower speech trying to figure out how to put it. Tristan’s emotional state jumped to conclusions while he stared her in the eyes.

“Well there were some people from church there,” Piper says. “And like, this one new guy was with them. He’s thinking about joining the church. So we got to talking and I guess, I don’t know, I lost track of time.”

Tristan rubs hard circles into his eye sockets with the bottoms of his palms. “I’m sorry,” he coughs. “I don’t follow. It’s been a long day.” And it the truth of that statement stuns him. Suddenly he’s vulnerable wit her as she rubs his back. It’s a consoling effort but something is missing in the way of intimacy. God it’s been so long for them now, he thinks.

“You’re working a lot,” she says. “I know you’re stressed. Look it’s no big deal. I met a guy and we chatted about Jesus and the church and stuff. It’s really nothing. You know how I like to talk about that stuff. And I know you don’t really believe any of it so I can’t talk about it with you. You’d be surprised how interested people still are these days,” she begins to drone and Tristan’s focus fades. All he can seem to think of is the rumbling garbage truck in front of him, the length of rope tugging at his spine, his feet tripping over themselves. 

“And you should see how tall he is, I think he’d be great for that rec team we’ve been talking about putting together…”

Something needs to be done, Tristan knows. About the fat man. About his crony. But what? Maybe with Piper so focused at church it buys him some time. The police bring an aspect to this that Tristan cannot abide. Most likely, he would have to spill about everything to Piper. And isn’t that why he’d done what he did today? So that Piper never knew. So…how then?

“Anyways, I think Leon is going to make a great member of the church.”

Tristan’s head spun so fast on his neck that he heard his own muscles stretch and pop. “Who?” he asked.

“The guy I met at the auction today, babe. His name is Leon. Babe? Tristan? HELLO?”

But Tristan had gone pale.

Part 4

Dear Diary: 12/25/2022

I feel like the guy on the Netflix documentary explaining how he fell for a cult or a pyramid scheme or some fucking rouse. You always say, NOT ME. I wouldn’t fall for that shit. But people do. I guess I have. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it all came undone because it was no one moment. Things just inched forward and now it’s too late.

They still don’t know who it was running after that garbage truck in lacey lingerie. Luckily none of the angles were good enough to ID me. But Piper laughed her ass off when they showed up on facebook. Couldn’t get enough of them, she said. On account of the fact she’s pretty sure it’s a guy dressed as a girl. Fuck me!

Thursday morning trash pickup continues. My tormentors appear out of the night to play games with my mind and my body. Then they release me back into the real word like a bird who has only ever known its cage. I can’t fly straight. I’m out of it all the time and Piper has given up on me in the bedroom. Completely. She started talking about the church, about how certain sects of the religion had practiced multi partner mating habits and I flipped out. I almost said the one word I’m not allowed to say. Not unless she says it first.

Leon. I’m NEVER to ask after him. Or say anything to Piper about him. Not unless she brings him up and even then only in a supporting way. Now, you the person reading this, may think it’s impossible to enforce that rule. What about when we’re alone at night and no one can hear? I would say you don’t understand what is at stake, and that my fear of these men is absolute.  And this was Bruno’s rule. Clearly, they had targeted her. Leon specifically. I can only gleam so much light about this auction church bullshit but I’ll give him credit – Leon did his homework. And now he’s in her life. Piper never brings him up but I know they spend time together. Bible study. Sundays. Church socials. All these things that Bruno has also instructed me to discourage myself from attending.

In a way, it’s like I have all the information of this web now, maybe more than anybody in it. But I’m still just as helpless as the fly trapped and doomed. My only fleeting hope is that Piper stays true to me. True to me until this is finally over. The thought of that monster, Leon, even breathing the same air is enough to make me shake with anger. 

It's time I did something about all this. I know that. It’s past due. But the only way out is letting Piper know everything, and then there is no more Piper. This is all happening in a landslide, like my decision is being made for me. Like the concrete will settle before I decide to make a move. I’m stuck. 

And as I write this, I really can’t say if there is a way out.

Signed,

Tristan B-

1.

It was February when Tristan finally decided to speak up. And by then it was far too late. 

“If you come back I’m calling the cops,” Tristan stuttered on that frigid winter morning. The thermostat in the garage said it was 32 inside. Bruno and Leon didn’t seem to notice. “And Leon…you need to exit my girlfriend’s life immediately. Or I’ll tell her about you too.”

Tristan tried to look tough but the truth was he was just dog tired. And it didn’t matter that his body had betrayed him so much those last few weeks, the things he’d taken and actually been secretly pleasured by…it had to end. Because Piper was on the verge of slipping away from him. The pamphlet she gave him, what it said…the way she made it sound like an ultimatum. Polyamory and God, it said on the cover of the pamphlet. The goal of every true Christian is to propagate the flock. And it had an entire section in it about allowing other partners to fulfill neglected duties. This, somehow, of all things, was the last straw. Tristan would never knowingly give his girl to another man. There had to be time to fix it. To prove to her that he was worthy.

And that started with getting Bruno and Leon out of his life. Because either way, if he didn’t act, it was over. At least this kindled some sort of chance. Maybe, just maybe, Bruno and Leon would go quietly. Hadn’t they done enough as it was?

“Boy gots his head all mixed up,” Bruno rasped. He was calm and nonchalant about the whole thing. “Thinks he the one givin’ orders. Thought we broke you uh’ that boy.”

Tristan held his ground. “I’m serious this time. We’re done. One way or another.”

Leon glared at him. Bruno said nothing. Tristan hit the button to raise the garage door and stood there shivering as it slowly rose. Then they were gone. Like apparitions. No trace.

Tristan stood there a long time in disbelief. He asked, rather, he told them to go. He didn’t wait for their permission. And he finally had taken that leap which terrified him for so long – the risk of truth. He wasn’t dumb enough to think it was over…but what if? It made sense, didn’t it? Neither of them had much money. If this got out they’d certainly lose their jobs. What Leon was doing was incredibly suspect…was it really so crazy to think that the two men saw the desperation in Tristan’s eyes? Did they recognize that white flag of everything? Had they seen it before? Perhaps. 

The week passed without incident. Tristan almost brought up Leon but stopped short. Things were still tenuous. He couldn’t help but notice the makeup she wore, the new clothes she was wearing. How provocative her breasts were wrapped up in shirts just a size too small. At church? Sure, strange – maybe. But Tristan knew that in was not within Piper to cheat. That was a sin. Which meant he still had time.

On Thursday morning he got to the garage early and sat down in the darkness, his ears perked. He waited for the truck to come. It hissed outside his garage and the doors opened. He heard heavy shuffling, someone spitting on the cement. Then the sound of trash being collected. Tristan held his breath and waited. More shuffling steps and then doors slamming. The engine hisses and the truck leaves.

Tristan left the garage and got back in bed with Piper. He put an arm around her in the dark and she did not move.

2.

Two weeks later Tristan paces the floor in his living room. It is 11:30 pm and Piper is still not home from bible study. He has not asked about Leon. She has not spoken about him. Part of Tristan believes he’s probably disappeared from her life. But 11:30 meant five hour bible study and the fact is, Tristan and Piper haven’t had actual sex in months. He’s almost there, but not quite. Some days it feels like she’s slipping. Tonight, he is certain of it.

But then headlights flash across the windows. Wheels turning into the drive. Tristan rushes to the blinds and looks out. It’s Piper. She’s home. 

He can’t keep the words from his mouth when she comes inside: “Where the hell were you, Piper?”

She is flushed. Her eyes have a far away look. “Church busted a pipe in the basement. I’ve been bailing water since six. I’m exhausted.”

Tristan’s worried lines break apart into relief when he sees she means it. He opens his arms and she comes to him. He can feel how spent she is just by holding her. No wonder she was gone so long.

“Gosh you’re so sweaty,” Tristan breathes in the scent of her hair. “You must have been working hard. Was anybody there to help you?”

“Just a few of us,” she yawned. “Look, I’m bushed. I’m gonna go take a shower and get in bed alright?”

“Sure thing babe.”

Piper moves off from him towards the stairs. She pauses at the bottom and turns around. “Oh yeah. When I was coming up the street tonight I saw the garage door is up. Were you in there or something?”

“Me? No. That’s odd.”

Piper shrugged. “Well maybe go close it so the bugs don’t get in.”

She turns and ascends the stairs. Tristan watches her go. She’s walking a little funny and he wonders if maybe she pulled something bailing out the church basement. Or if she’ll use it as an excuse not to have sex with him again. Piper, as of late, has dropped the poly talk. Tristan attributes that to the fact that Leon probably dropped out of her life altogether. He doesn’t know for sure because he won’t ask – but he’s sure enough. But even now, their sex life is devastated. But Tristan is finally starting to feel like his old self again, like he can pleasure her with what he has. She just has to give him a second chance.

Without another thought Tristan leaves to check on the garage.

3.

Even from the backyard he can tell the garage door is open because it is casting light out onto the back alley. Tristan’s yard slopes downward and gives him this vantage point. As he nears the single door entrance, he slips a key from his pocket, and goes inside.

Tristan makes a quick flash of his hand to the garage door button. The mechanism engages and the door starts to close. He’s just about to back out of there when he notices something out of place. It’s a stool. And that’s not where it was the last time Tristan was here.

He looks long, across the garage, to the two figures hovering in the corner. The garage door clicks into place.

“Go on and close that door behind ye, boy,” Bruno from the shadows. “We just need tuh talk at yah a sec’.”

Tristan trembles in their presence. He closes the door as if taking orders from the man is engrained into him. Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s something else. The three of them are alone in the garage now.

“What do you want?” Tristan asks meekly.

Bruno comes from the corner. Leon follows him. Tristan notices right away that Leon is quite sweaty. Perspiration on his face and at his pits. 

“Got somethin’ to show you boy,” Bruno chuckles. “Somethin’ you just gotta see tuh’ believe. Hehe.”

As always, Bruno has a trash bag. It’s hanging over his shoulder. The very sight of it makes Tristan break out in a fresh sheen of sweat. Leon is digging in his pocket, and he pulls out a smartphone. He flips a few times with his thumb and then grins. He turns that grin on Tristan as he hands him the phone.

“Just press play,” Leon snickers.

Tristan takes the phone. He presses the triangle in the center and things come into focus quickly. It’s pornography. Interracial. The longer Tristan stares at it the more he can make out. Missionary position. A dick that looks like Leon’s dick is slamming into some petite white girl with giant tits. When the camera pans up everything clicks into place. It’s Piper. Her eyes are rolling back in her head like she’s possessed but there can be no mistaking it. Her giant tits flop and flail and there is a black hand around her throat. It’s choking her red. 

Tristan is so frozen to where he stands that he neither sees nor hears Mr. Bruno unsling the trash bag. Doesn’t hear him taking the things out of it. Doesn’t notice anything at all except for what is on screen in front of him. Leon, fucking Piper’s goddamn brains out.

The boy falls to his knees in the garage but cannot peel his eyes from the screen. Leon is laughing at him, saying something or other about breaking her off, but Tristan can’t make it out exactly because all he can really focus on is the high whining of his sweet girlfriend. Of the pained expression on her face when the black garbage man went too deep.

“No,” Tristan says dumbfounded. “She would never…”

“But she sho’ did boy,” Leon laughs. “Took it every which way. Told her the Lord’s work don’t wait on nobody. High time she started, what do they call it there – strengthening the flock. HA! Got yo’ girl pregnant wit’ my little black baby! HAHA!”

Tristan’s eyes go dark and he watched the moment his girlfriend has an orgasm on Leon’s cock. Mr. Bruno starts to tug at his clothes and when Tristan tries to shove them both away they swarm him and pin him down. Strip him. He mumbles incoherently as he’s forced into red panties with a hole cut in the ass. A very big hole. A prosthetic top straight from the city dump, cheap breasts that look almost real. A pink bra on top. A flowery, bright pink dress and a long brown wig that looked made of straw rather than hair. He didn’t know where along the way he gave in but suddenly he was free of his shame. He no longer cared if Piper caught him. Or the neighbors. What did he have left?

Leon is careful to hold the extended video in front of Tristan’s face. Tristan is bent over the spare tire, his ass it out behind him, protruding from below a pink flowery dress. His ass is wrapped red like a present.

Mr. Bruno spits. It’s the only lube he allows. Then, he pushing the head of his directly against Leon’s puckered sissy cunt. That place that has had so much inside it, even another dirty old man (the pawn shop opener) but had never felt the sheer mass of Mr. Bruno Whitaker. When Tristan breaks, it’s in the form of a scream so loud that he’s sure Piper hears it upstairs in the shower. So what if she did, he thinks.

Mr. Bruno takes him savagely. Like the man is reliving his prison days. The one that got away, so to speak. The one he has now made out of Tristan. Tristan won’t allow himself to tug the stubborn erection between his legs, but then again, his mind is only barely hanging on from the force of Mr. Bruno’s shagging. 

“Proud uh you, Trixie,” Bruno grunts. “Finally takin’ the whole thang!”

Tristan moans below the fat old man. Piper moans on the screen. Mr. Bruno smacks his ass and tells Tristan that he’ll always be his dirty little trash slut. That things will go on just the way they’ve been. That Piper will be bred by Leon for as long as they both wish. That Tristan will still go to work and he will continue to support Piper and her new family. And that every Thursday morning the trash man comes for pick up. And that he better be ready for it.

At long last, Tristan thought he was.

THE END