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Was he crazy? He didn't think so. How could one man be insane if he loved what Cecil did? Certainly Cecil accepted that his particular love was one looked on with disgust and scorn by most people, and he cared at least as far as it affected his social life, such as it was. Privately, though, he couldn't have given a crap.

Rail-thin and sleepy-eyed, Cecil Van Albergaster stood a little over five feet tall, a feline with large eyes cool brown in color, pale gray fur and center-parted light hair straddling the fine line between red and brown.

Although he held the job title of assistant manager, Cecil may as well just have been a member of the wait staff. He didn't mind. Hard work tended to help him focus, which was a good thing since his mind tended to wander, and when Cecil's mind wandered, unpleasant things happened. To him and to others.

At twenty-seven, Cecil was hardly what you would call successful in life. He'd only barely graduated from college, and now he was working at his father Jackson Van Albergaster's restaurant. Jackson was since four years in his grave and Blake Townsend, his friend, was now the manager, with his wife Patricia the owner. Cecil was the only remaining evidence that the restaurant had been started by someone named Van Albergaster. Jackson had made it plain he didn't want his good-for-nothing son involved in running the restaurant but after he died and Blake and Patricia gained ownership, the couple, who grudgingly looked upon Cecil as some kind of nephew, almost, had elected to give him a purely honorary assistant manager position.

For Cecil this meant various menial tasks he knew a real assistant manager would never perform. He hated it. Regardless of what his asshole father felt, he was a Van Albergaster, damn it, and should really help run the restaurant. Alas, all Blake ever found for him to do was kitchen stuff. Occasionally he was allowed to wait on customers but his odd behavior tended to get complaints. And he'd been tipped exactly once. But it was easy enough work and so he never complained, himself. Besides, there was one task he always looked forward to.

One Thursday evening as the restaurant was closing, Blake Townsend came into the kitchen where Cecil sat on a stool by the counter, his nose in a particularly a trashy horror paperback novel. It was filled with gruesome death and lusty sex. Just his cup of tea. Cecil was his in work clothes consisting of a white dress shirt, dainty bowtie, loose slacks and a tidy apron. His nametag was clipped to the shirt. An opened and half consumed bottle of blueberry-flavored soda pop sat on the counter beside him.

Blake was his usual unpleasant self, a large bull with thinning blonde hair and a silk tie that cost more than Cecil's high school education probably. "Cecil," he said, "get off your ass and quit reading that filth. I want you to take the trash out."

"Okay," Cecil said, hoping he didn't sound too eager. Everyone at work considered him strange enough. He didn't need them thinking he was any stranger.

He dogearred the paperback and set it aside. After watching Blake leave, Cecil began gathering up the garbage. He couldn't contain his eagerness.

Most people, when facing something they'd rather avoid, would just swallow the bad medicine and get it over with. Cecil, however, was always just a little too happy to take the trash out. Because it wasn't something he'd rather avoid in the slightest. He was generally considered a procrastinator when it came to work, but when faced with the task of taking the trash out every evening, his work ethic suddenly seemed to come out in full force. Nobody ever directly asked him about it or even mentioned it, beyond Blake once mentioning he wished Cecil was as enthusiastic about his other duties as he was about taking the trash out, but he knew they wondered about it behind his back.

He bagged everything up nice and tight in the neat white plastic bags the restaurant kitchen provided. A pity, he thought. He preferred black ones. He took them, four in all, into the back alley behind the restaurant. It was, he mused, a stark contrast to the restaurant's front. Dim and litter strewn, lit in the growing darkness only by one lonely streetlight. At the opposite end, he saw a tall male iguana in a leather jacket leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

The dumpster hadn't been emptied for days. That made him smile. Maybe not today, but probably this weekend, he'd have to rummage around in there to see if he could find any goodies. There was no telling what was inside, and he certainly liked surprises.

But it wasn't the dumpster he took the bags to. It was to the employee parking lot, which was thankfully empty of people. He went over to his plain-looking sedan and popped the trunk. A stench wafted free from it. Although it was empty, it smelled horrible because it'd frequently been used for precisely what he was using it for now, not that he minded the smell, personally. He hardly noticed it. One by one he put the trash bags inside, grunting and squishing them in so they'd fit, but being extra careful not to rupture any of them. Once they were snugly secure, he shut and locked the trunk, wiping his brow.

As he turned and headed back towards the restaurant, his mind wandered to the bags. He couldn't wait to add them to his collection! Calm down, reminded himself, adjusting his package to make the growing erection less obvious.

He went back inside and washed his hands, then resumed helping Blake close up. They made small talk, or, rather, Blake talked and Cecil mostly just went "Uh-huh" a lot. Eventually they were done and the task of locking up was left to Cecil. He took off his apron, drained his soda, then grabbed his book and left through the back entrance, shutting and locking the door behind himself. The night as cool and pleasant and he didn't feel like heading home just yet, so he went and leaned against the dumpster and thumbed through his book a little, reading it in the dim glow of the streetlight.

He glanced up from the book. The iguana was still there. He was a slim reptile in a leather coat with an upturned collar, a fishnet shirt, and, Cecil was a little surprised to observe, extremely short cutoff shorts. Daisy Dukes almost. His long, fit legs descended down into old military boots. He was young, too, around eighteen or nineteen, although Cecil had to admit he had difficulty telling the age of reptiles. A cigarette dangled languidly from his lips.

Cecil managed a little smile as he liked what he saw, but kept his distance for the moment. He hadn't anticipated seeing someone else out here, and although he'd noticed the iguana earlier he'd hoped he would've been gone by now, and, although the cat could occasionally be extremely misanthropic towards other anthros. His one true love awaited him back at his house. But occasionally he did seek the company of others, enjoying the warmth of another's embrace, even if it usually did end the same way each time.

Nevertheless, being the timid sort, it took a lot of nerve for him to approach the iguana. He closed his book. "Hello there..." he said, so softly that initially he was unsure the lizard would hear him.

The iguana glanced over. He smiled as he came closer, flicking the lit cigarette away and exhaling a little bit of smoke. He tilted his head coyly to one side and pointed a finger at himself. "Are you talking to me?" he asked.

Cecil nodded.

"Well, hello to you, too, heh," said the lizard. "I'm Erik. And you're...?"

"Cecil."

"Well, Cecil, what're you doing out here all by your lonesome?" asked Erik. He cocked his body at an angle to make himself appear more sexually attractive. "I bet you could use a bit of company, hmm? You look like you need someone to help you warm the sheets, am I right?"

Cecil smiling, liking where this was going. A prostitute, huh? He'd thought as much, with those skimpy little shorts on him. The small, thin, unassuming little cat was skilled at pretending to be unthreatening and seeming like easy prey, which he otherwise would be but for his cleverness.

"C-Company?" he parroted, pretending he had no fucking idea what the iguana was talking about. He affected a blush, which on him stood out! "I, uh, I guess... assuming of course you're of a... certain... um..." He trailed off as though unsure of whether to say it aloud, but he knew deep down it was a prostitute he'd encountered today.

"Profession?" Erik finished for him in a sickly sweet tone. "Well, pussy cat, I'll tell you what... I need a nice, warm place to lay my head tonight." He came closer, leaning over Cecil. "So how 'bout you let me come home with you. And I'll ride that ass all night if you let me."

"That sounds like a marvelous idea," Cecil said, managing a smirk. "Shall I, uh, pay you now or later? And how much?"

"Tell you what, pussy cat, I don't do it often, but for you, I'll make an exception. You can pay me when we're done. A thousand. You can worry about paying me when it's all said and done, sugar."

Cecil blanched a little at the cost, but decided that since it wasn't going to be up front and he had no intention of paying him anyway, well, it didn't matter, so he agreed and motioned for Erik to follow him, and the two walked through the alley towards the employee parking lot and Cecil's waiting car.

~*~

Cecil parallel parked, easing his underneath the branches of an old oak between a soccer mom's SUV and some asshole's oversized Dodge pickup. Luckily the smallish economy car fit. Erik looked out the window at the enormous three story townhouse looming above them, nestled between identical dwellings that ran up and down the tree-lined street. Worn concrete steps with black iron handrails led up to a very forboding front door. All the windows had their curtains drawn, blinds down.

The townhouses looked like they'd been built sometime around the turn of the century - that is, the twentieth - and although they were kept up, they nonetheless gave off an aura of supreme unhappiness Erik couldn't quite shake. It looked like a depressing place to live.

For a moment they remained this way until the "click" of Cecil's seatbealt becoming unbuckled drew the reptile's attention away from the passenger window to the driver's seat. He started to comment on the townhouse Cecil cut the engine, opened the door and got out without a word. He slammed the door, then went around between the vehicles towards his home. Erik, still sitting buckled into the passenger's seat, frowned a little watching the feline as he mounted the steps.

"Jerk," he said under his breath, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out.

He stood there holding the open door, watching Cecil. The cat simply stood there on the stoop, facing the door, not moving or saying anything. He didn't even take his keys out of anything. "What a weirdo," said Erik, shaking his head.

The ride had been tedious. For starters, the car smelled. All throughout the drive, a vague, sickly sweet odor had been wafting in from behind them. Cecil hadn't seemed to mind, but it made Erik's nostrils flare in annoyance. Every so often, as they passed underneath a streetlight which illuminated the car interior, Erik, as casually as he could, would glance back to see what the source of the smell was. And each time, he'd discerned nothing. Eventually he thought it was of no importance, and figured that there had recently been something smelly in the car, but Cecil had gotten rid of it, the odor lingering. A little annoying but not unusual.

Conversation in the car had been sparse. The iguana had done most of the talking, with the cat seldom having much to contribute. Erik guessed his john wasn't big on chit-chat. That was fine. What bothered him was how Cecil had simply gotten out and walked to his house. No "We're here" or "Come on, this way." He simply got out, shut the door and went to his front door. Erik had half a mind to just walk off down the sidewalk and out of Cecil's life forever.

"Well?" Cecil suddenly said over his shoulder. "Are you coming or what?"

Erik frowned and shut the car door. That walk down the sidewalk was looking better and better... but then, he needed the money, and so he shrugged and decided to put up with this weird feline's behavior a little while longer. After all, it was only for one night. He walked up the steps, paused, and waited as Cecil took out a single key and unlocked the door.

They stepped into total blackness. Cecil shut the door and there was a "clunk" as he shot the deadbolt. Then suddenly yellowish light surrounded them as the cat found and flicked a light switch. They were standing in a narrow, low-ceilinged hall with three arched doorways. Lining the wall closest to the door on the left were several bulging black trash bags. Evidently Cecil hadn't taken his trash out yet. They stank, but not too much, thankfully. An open box of new bags sat on an antique table by the door, one hanging out limply.

"Kitchen on the left, living room on the right," Cecil said, pointing.

He didn't elaborate on what was through the doorway at the end in the middle, but Erik figured it led to something most houses had on their first floors. A den, a study, a laundry room, something like that. In fact... Cecil didn't elaborate on anything at all, instead dropping his house key and the ones for his car noisily into a decorative glass dish on the table by the door and heading off down the hall, swinging left and disappearing into the kitchen.

Erik didn't follow him. Instead he went into the living room. On his way, a fly flew in his face. He grumbled and swatted at it in annoyance, and it flew away. Entering the living room he turnd the light on and found it plainly furnished, spotlessly tidy, and sat on the couch, which was old-fashioned leather adorned in a clear plastic protective covering.

As he sat there waiting for he knew not what, he noticed a fly, possibly the same one, settling on a hardcover book on the low table set before him. Another buzzed by his arm and he reflexively swatted at the air, missing it. Fucking bugs, he thought. Hadn't this guy ever heard of a fly swatter? At least the couch was comfortable. He settled in. The same cloying, sickly sweet odor that he'd smelled in the car permeated the air here, but it wasn't as noticeable, and he decided it was due to the garbage Cecil hadn't taken out yet.

In the kitchen, Cecil didn't bother turning the light on. He knew his way around his own home in the dark, and in fact often went without lights altogether. His electric bill was the envy of his neighbors as a result, or it would've been if he ever conversed with them. Ever since his parents died, leaving him the townhouse, he'd cut all communication with the Van Albergaster neighbors, wanting nothing whatsoever to do with them outside of the occasional forced smile and wave when he came and went.

Like the living room, the kitchen was spotlessly tidy. Antiseptic, even. Clean enough that you could eat off of the floor. And it reeked of disinfectant and air freshener. Apart from the way in and a side door into the laundry room, there was the basement door, but Cecil kept this shut at all times. A week's worth of pine-scented car air fresheners hung from the doorknob, which was locked with a padlock. Other than this, in the dim light shining in from the hallway, it looked like a perfectly ordinary kitchen.

Cecil opened the fridge. He retrieved a can of beer from the fridge, and, turning, noticed subtle movement at the bottom of the basement door. Frowning, he flicked on the overhead light and walked over. A dozen or so oozing white blobs were crawling out from under the door, some of them even beginning to make a valiant attempt to scale the flat vertical surface of the door itself. Maggots. In addition, fully grown flies darted in and out of the space beneath the door, flitting this way and that.

"Darn things," he muttered, putting the beer can on the floor, and retrieved a key that he kept hidden in a cheerful-looking cartoon bunny cookie jar, "why can't you stay downstairs like you're supposed to?"

The maggots' only response was to wriggle and crawl everywhere, of course. They were maggots. He unlocked the door, opened it, and, using his hand, gently brushed the wiggling little larvae back inside and over the edge of the topmost step. He then flicked the ones crawling on the door onto the floor and swept them back inside as well, repeating this until all the wriggling maggots were out of sight. The grown flies he could do nothing about. He shut the door but left it unlocked, and set the key on the counter, then retrieved the can of beer.

Popping the tab, he poured it into a glass. He went into the living room where the iguana waited.

"I thought you'd like a beer," he said with something he hoped came off as friendliness. He smiled, having glass to the reptile.

"Thanks," Erik said, sipping it lightly.

"You finished that, while I take my trash out," Cecil said impersonably, "and then we'll go upstairs. Sound okay?"

Erik nodded. Turning, Cecil went and took the bagged garbage that was sitting in the hallway, three bags in all, and dragged them into the kitchen, and thereafter into the basement. Whump, whump, whump, they went heavily as he lugged them down the creaking wooden steps. He released them and they rolled the rest of the way down to lie bulging blackly on the earthen floor at the bottom. A lovely, putrid stench flowed up from the depths of the basement, making his eyes water, and he decided he ought to check on his friends before heading back.

Turning, he groped for the doorknob, seized it, and quietly pulled the door shut. In the darkness he found the switch, and a naked light bulb, the only source of light in the entire basement, shone on the stairs. With a heavy sigh, the thin feline descended the stairs languidly, undoing his bowtie as he went. He got it off once he reached the bottom, and slid he undone garment into his pants pocket.

Floor to ceiling, an enormous mound of garbage rose up before him like a mountain. Everthing was neatly bagged, tied up tight, filled nearly to bursting with every conceivable sort of putrid, rotting vilness. Rotten, moldy food. Empty cans and bottles. Old clothes. The same sort of every day household garbage that was currently bulging inside of the three bags Cecil had just dragged downstairs. But others... others had more unusual shapes. Large forms curled into fetal positions, silent and unmoving. Cecil's best friends. Visible in the dim, sickly yellow light from the stairs, a veritable cloud of flies buzzed this way and that, and thickly wriggling white maggots crawled over very nearly every available surface.

This was his most treasured secret. The stench could be smelled from upstairs on particularly humid, rainy days, hence the air fresheners he had dangling from the doorknob, and anyone who was unaccustomed to going down there would be overcome by the horrible smell and either pass out, vomit uncontrollably, or both. Cecil found it pleasant and spent much of his time sitting on the basement steps, so he could just sort of stare at the trash, among other things. He liked to do more than just look. Occasionally he'd choose a bag that looked nice and, well...

Flies lighted on Cecil, crawling over his shirt, his shoulders, landing in his hair and even getting in the fur of his swishing tail as he crossed the dirt floor over to the pile and stood in awe of his collection. His greatest accomplishment. He smiled. He came down here to think. To be by himself. Sure, he could do that anywhere in his home, but only here, where he stored his favorite things. It was humid down here in addition to stinking to high heaven. Hot and moist, which aided in the decay of the pile. Cecil panted a little and undid the first few buttons of his shirt, and was overcome with a sudden desire to go further, to strip nude and peform his nightly ritual, but managed to rein himself in. No, no, he thought, he had a guest waiting upstairs.

Brushing the flies away, he went and carried the new bags over, tossing him merrily into the pile. Dusting his hands off, he grinned, and then turned to the nearest of the bagged bodies, a male figure lying curled up sealed with a black plastic shroud. Pursing his lips, the lean feline nudged the form with his foot. Nothing. Smirking, he gave the bagged body a swift kick that sent the maggots covering the outside of the bag flying, loving the satisfying feel of the hard tip of his shoe crunching into the yielding contents of the bag. The body lolled limply, but then settled back into position and moved no further.

Then he remembered Erik. Yes, he'd have a new friend soon enough. Swatting away the flies that had again seen fit to roost upon him, he turned and trotted up the stairs. He left the light on, opening and shutting the door, and, taking a moment to compose himself, brushing himself off to ensure no evidence of where he'd been remained, he put on his very best friendly smile and returned to the living room.

Erik was still nursing the beer when Cecil returned. The cat had taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, and appeared a little sweaty. What had taken him so long? It occurred to him he hadn't seen him go by with the trash bags and eventually concluded that Cecil had taken them out of the house. Eager to get this over with, he slid effortlessly into "seductive mode" and smirked at the feline with lidded eyes.

"Shall we head upstairs?" asked Erik.

"Great!" said Cecil.

The lizard rose and followed his host out of the living room and upstairs. The hallway they went into was dark and narrow. Erik stumbled over something and almost fell. He could just barely make out Cecil's form ahead of him. "Don't you have any lights?" he asked, leaning against the wall and groping blindly.

"Sorry," Cecil apologized from somewhere ahead of him, "but the whole upstairs electrical system is broken. None of the lights work."

It was a lie, of course. Cecil just liked the dark. Dark and dank. Dark for dark business. As a cat, he, of course, could see just fine in the darkness, and he enjoyed the edge this gave him over the iguana, an edge he'd need very shortly. He just hoped the lizard didn't experimentally flick any switches and discover the truth. If he was exposed as a liar now, it'd make things awkward and Erik might want to leave. And Cecil didn't want that. Not at all. As he listened to Erik struggling along behind him, he mused on how he very much wanted the attractive reptile to stay.

Forever.

"Here we go," he said, gripping and turning the fake crystal knob of his bedroom door. He opened it. Dim light shined in from outside, casting the room in a bluish hue, but besides this, it was just as dark as the hall. Cecil entered and stood to one side, and waited for Erik to enter.

The lizard groped his way in blindly, beginning to feel irritated, once again wondering if the money was worth it. He squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Cecil's bedroom was sparsely furnished and immaculately clean. There was a neatly made king-sized bed, a dresser with a cracked mirror, an old TV, a laundry hamper, and a bedside table with an antique lamp and an even older-looking alarm clock. The clock was secondhand; more than that, it was garbage, or had been. Although Erik couldn't see so in the dark, the clock was rusted in several places and the glass face was cracked and moldy. Cecil had found it during one of his dumpster dives and repaired it. It ticked weakly.

Many different items throughout his house, in fact, had been "rescued" from the trash in the same manner as the alarm clock that ticked sickly away on the bedside table. Other such things included the dish he kept his keys in, quite a few of the lamps throughout the house, and even the cookie jar shaped like a bunny...

"All righty," said Cecil, rubbing his hands together, "why don't you get undressed while I get things ready..."

He thought happily of the dumpster from work, and how he'd much rather be doing this kind of thing inside of it. But he knew Erik would've run off the moment he'd suggested such a thing. Still, it didn't stop him from fantasizing. As he watched the dim outline of Erik disrobing, he envisioned what their encounter could've been like. He would've thrown opened the lid. The interior would've been about what was to be be expected, stinking to high heaven. A rank, foul odor. One that would've permeated every inch of them as they made love atop a pile of festering trash and vileness. Cecil felt his cock hardening just thinking about it.

That, and what he was about to do.

He had to act quickly. While Erik was getting undressed, Cecil went over to his dresser, keeping an eye on his guest in the mirror. Outwardly, he was the very picture of calm and composed. Inwardly, his mind was afire with the a feverish arousal and the near-madness of being so close to his goal, as well as a growing nervousness. No matter how many times he did this, he was always shaky and a little afraid at the start. A cold sweat broke over him slowly as he opened the top drawer of the dresser with shaking hands. From inside he withdrew a blunt wooden club, rather like an old-fashioned policeman's nightstick. Another treasure from his his frequent explorations of other people's garbage. Something else someone had thrown out, and which he'd seen fit to put to his own use. It was heavy, and had cracked its fair share of skulls. A faded loop of leather dangled from the bottom of the handle. This he lopped 'round his wrist. He gripped the handle tightly. He took a deep breath.

Glancing back up, he continued watching Erik in the split glass of the mirror. The attractive reptile had stripped down to his underwear, a pair of thin, smooth bikini briefs that reminded Cecil rather pleasantly of panties. By his time, Cecil's erection was pressing so forcefully against the front of his pants that it seemed close to popping the button, bursting through the zipper and erupting forth all on its on. But, no, as the thin feline stood there panting and sweating, his trousers, of course, held.

He half-turned, the arm holding he club raising. "Erik," he whispered, so low the reptile didn't quite hear him, "it's time to take out the trash..."

"Huh?" Erik said, paused, his thumbs slipped into the waistline of his underwear, about to slide them down. He never got to. "What was that about tr--"

He was cut off midsentence as, with surprising ferocity, the scrawny cat swung the club, hitting him in the back of the head. He issued forth a startled, pained grunt, and staggered forward, towards the bed. The club made a sickening wet crack as it connected with the base of Erik's skull, and following the blow, he briefly saw only white. Gradually, his vision returned, and he saw Cecil's immaculately-made bed rushing up to meet him. He fell face-first onto the mattress, his head pounding, his vision swimming, making him feel sick. He twitched, but couldn't seem to make himself get up.

Cecil stood there for a moment, arm still out, panting, letting his fear and nervousness slowly fade away now that the deed was done. "Ahhh!" he exhaled, lowering the club. He turned and set it on top of the dresser. It was splattered with a little bit of blood. Keeping an eye on the unmoving, half-naked form of the prostitute lying across his bed, took out a handkerchief and cleaned the blood off of the club. Ah, there, spotless. He returned the club to its rightful place inside the drawer, which he then shut, and pocketing the handkerchief, walked over to the bed.

He was no longer nervous. No longer afraid. No longer the meek, socially awkward, weird assistant manager everyone took him for. Now, he was the lord and master. He held this lizard's life in his hands and he was going to take it here in the dark privacy of his own home. After tonight, Erik would be added to his beautiful collection, and it made him feel powerful.

He stretched and cracked his knuckles. He eyed Erik. He was unsure if the blow had been fatal or had merely dazed the reptile until he saw Erik moving weakly.

He knelt down and drew a box from underneath the bed. Inside of this were a box of large black trash bags, a roll of green duct tape, another box containing large ziploc freezer bags, and several lengths of thick, heavy rope. One by one, in an almost ritualistic fashion, Cecil removed these items from the box and laid them out on the floor. He carefully arranged them, and pondered on what to do first. Deciding he didn't want his dazed subject going anywhere, he took two pieces of the thick rope and bound the iguana hand and foot: he tied him at the ankles and lashed his wrists together behind his back. He left him lying on his stomach like this, then stooped back down and grabbed the duct tape. He yanked out and tore off a piece a few inches long and secured it over Erik's mouth, nice, tight and sticky.

To test how well of a gag he'd made, he grabbed Erik's shoulder and shook him until he made some sounds. They were sufficiently muffled to Cecil's liking. The iguana was awake now. Groggy, but awake, glancing around in confusion and fear. Grinning widely, he then snatched up a freezer bag and climbed onto the bed, planting one knee firmly against the small of the reptile's back as he pulled the clear plastic bag over Erik's head, clenching it tight around his throat. Erik wiggled fitfully underneath him, but due the combination of the severe head wound he'd just suffered as well as the ropes binding him, he couldn't get free.

Through the bag, Cecil could see every detail of his victim. Erik's bulging, terrified eyes, his flaring nostrils, his sealed mouth working uselessly against the strong duct tape sealing it shut.

It drove him mad. He went wild. Fuck it, thought. Now, kill him now! NOW!!! The cat clenched his eyes shut. Fuck, his cock spasmed inside of his pants, his body stiffening, locking up in orgasmic bliss. He was cumming! Yes, yes, yesss! He opened his eyes again and stared directly at the bagged head of his barely-moving victim as he came. As Erik sucked air in through his nostrils and screamed muffledly through the tape, the plastic was pulled in tight against his handsome reptilian features as though a vacuum had sucked all the air out. He exhaled and the plastic fogged, obscuring Erik's terrified visage. God, it was amazing, thought Cecil, taking in every detail as he filled his underwear with his semen, pressing his knee harder into Erik's back.

He groped for the roll of duct tape mid-orgasm, almost falling off of Erik, but he stopped himself. No, he thought. Erik had survived the blow from the club for a reason. He grunted and kept the bag squeezed tightly 'round the iguana's throat, letting him suffocate as he rode out the rest of his climax, but after his cock shot the last bit of jizz and he'd come down from his sexual high, Cecil pulled the bag off and threw it aside. The lizard took several great breaths of air in through his nose and sobbed gratefully, mistakenly believing his tormentor was going to spare him. But he was wrong, Cecil knew. He was sparing him. But only so he could live longer and suffer the way good garbage should.

"Time to get you bagged up good and proper..." he whispered, panting.

Getting down off of Erik, Cecil sat on the edge of the bed to catch his breath, kicking his shoes off one by one. He stood and undressed. He neatly folded his shirt and pants and set them on the dresser. His cum-stained underwear, a pair of blue briefs, he took off, wadded up and threw into the nearby hamper. He was now naked but for dark gray socks and black leather sock suspenders, his cock hanging semi-flaccid and coated with drying semen. Ick, he thought, he'd need to have a bath in a minute. As much as he loved garbage and filthy things, he held himself to a very high standard where personal hygeine was concerned.

He turned and made to walk back over to the bed, but then paused, remembering something. Returning to the dresser, he retrieved the bloody handkerchief from his pants pocket and tossed that into the hamper as well. Then he went back over to the bed to resume his work.

He pulled a shining black trash bag from the box on the floor and unfurled it with a great flourish. Grabbing hold of Erik's bound, fiercely wriggling form, he struggled and managed to work him into the open top of the bag feet-first. He had some difficulty with the tail, and gave a small, startled cry as it came loose about midway down its length. He let it fall to the floor where it lay wiggling like a blind snake. Those damn lizards and their detachable tails. He grabbed the tail and stuffed it into the bag along with its owner, yanking the bag up along the prone reptilian body until it was chest-high. Damn. He'd need a second bag from above to get the reptile fully encased. Using duct tape, he secured the top of the bag tightly around Erik's chest, biceps and upper back, so that he couldn't wiggle free of it. From the chest down he was completely encased in the tight black plastic.

"You might not believe this, but you look so wonderful like this," Cecil said with casual politeness.

Erik responded by screaming muffledly through the tape.

"And you'll look even better in a minute!" the feline enthused, unaffected by how angry and distressed the partially bagged up reptile was.

Climbing onto the bed once more, Cecil stood up on it, bouncing on the mattress a bit, and then with one socked foot, he grunted and shoved with all of his might, pushing the partially bagged form onto the floor with a dull thud. Erik struck his head against the floor and was rendered dazed and confused and stopped struggling and making noise for the moment. Good, thought Cecil, finally some quiet. He didn't like it when his trash made noise. Now to ensure that he'd stay blissfully silent permanently, he thought, getting down off the bed.

Hopping down to land deftly alongside Erik, Cecil pulled out a second bag and unfurled it, and then slid it over the terrified eyes of the iguana, tugging it down over his form until it was at wasit level, where Erik's head finally hit the bottom of the bag. The black plastic shroud inflated and deflated with each of the reptile's panicked breaths sucked in and out through his flaring nostrils. The feline turned and grabbed the duct tape, humming cheerily to himself, his cock hard and throbbing anew, and started to wrap it around Erik's middle, securing the bag's opening at the waist.

It was airtight, but that was okay. Trash didn't need to breathe. Grinning, he stood back, the roll of tape in hand, and watched as the trapped form wriggled and flopped like a fish out of water, making dull, muffled thumps against the floor.

Inside the bag, he knew that Erik, in his panic and terror, was using up all of the air and would soon suffocate. Setting the duct tape aside, Cecil sat on the bed and idly played with himself as he watched his new bag of trash perform its first and last dance for him. As the air ran out and the bag began to tighten around the lizard's form, the cat could make out every lovley detail of his form through the stretched black plastic, and was particularly delighted when he noticed the tent being pitched at just about where he knew Erik's crotch to be. It wasn't as defined an outline as it ought to be, though, and Cecil knew this was because the reptile's cock was stretching through both the fabric of his underwear and two layers of thin plastic.

"Still hard, are we...?" he asked. "Good, I like it when my garbage enjoys itself."

Erik's struggles died down as he did the same. Giggling, Cecil lifted one socked foot and poked at the bulge with his big toe, earning a muffled groan from the bagged lizard.

"Let's cum together, you an I," he suggested, "that'll be fun! But we have to hurry! I sense you're running low on air."

He pumped his fist along his own engorged length, panting, as he teased and rubbed Erik's cock through the two layers of trash bag and his briefs using his foot. Simultaneously, the two of them came. The cat loosed a high-pitched cry of delight as his cock spasmed and fountained forth its sticky bounty to splatter on the bagged form lying beneath where he sat, and he felt Erik's encased member twitch and pulse and his trapped form gave one last orgasmic wriggle inside the black prison as his cock squirted cum all over the inside of his bikini briefs. Cecil kept using his foot to rub along the cock as Erik exploded, and then watched in satisfaction as with a final, jerky flop, the body shuddered and then lay perfectly still.

He stretched, and slid off of the bed, and walked around the bag, inspecting it. He nudged it with one foot a few times and got no response. Just to make sure, he grabbed a length of the rope from before and felt at the end of the bag where Erik's head was, found his neck and looped it 'round his throat, and pulled it tight. Tighter. Tighter. He pulled the head up off of the floor as he yanked. He gritted his teeth, straining, once more using his knee against the lizard's back to brace himself as he tugged with all of his might to ensure the windpipe was completely collapsed. He held him this way for a few moments, his arms feeling as though they'd pop out of their sockets from the strain, his tail lashing behind him fitfully, until he was sure he'd squeezed all the remaining life from the garbage, and let go, allowing the head to thunk against the floor a final time. He panted and looked down. The form didn't move. Now he was well and truly gone. Well and truly Cecil's. Just like all the rest.

"Well, now, see? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Cecil asked, still panting a bit, his fur damp with sweat.

He slid the rope off of the bagged head and tossed it aside. A third and final bag was removed and unfurled. The unmoving form as bent at the waist and slid inside the bag butt-first. Cecil grunted with the strain of lifting the uncooperative dead weight, but once he got him properly bagged up, he knew his friend could be simply dragged downstairs easily. Once the body was in, he tied the top, and wrapped it with duct tape too just to be sure. He then stood back, leaning against his bed, and admired his new triple-bagged load of trash. Oh, he could wait to see how it would look!

But first things first. He tidied up. The rope, duct tape, box of trash bags and everything else he'd used was returned carefully and reverently to the box he'd removed them from. Erik's shirt and pants and other things went into this box for now as well. Gently returning the lid, he slid the box back underneath the bed, then sat back on the floor and pulled off his socks and sock suspenders. The latter item he set on the bed, while the socks joined the rest of his clothes in going into the laundry hamper out in the hallway. He dragged the bag out of the bedroom, down the hall, and to the stairs. He lugged down, delighting as it bounced heavily down each individual step with muffled thugs, and, grunting, dragged it through the kitchen to the basement door.

Opening the door and allowing the delightful stench of rot and decay to wash over him, Cecil pushed the bag to the top of the steps. He gripped the doorframe and with one foot, shoved the form over the edge, and watched as the former iguana turned bag of trash rolled down the steps to lie unmoving at the bottom. His bare feet padding softly along the stairs, Cecil descended and grabbed the bag and dragged it with some effort, as he was tired by now, over the heaping mound of garbage that dominated one side of the basement. The flies crawled all over him, tickling his sweaty form. He swatted at the air, brushing them away, and, kneeling down, adjusted Erik's form to lie against the bottom of the pile in a manner more pleasing to him. He then stood back, and admired his handiwork. The iguana's black-shrouded form went so well with all the others.

"Rest well, my friends," he said. Noticing some hungry maggots already beginning to crawl over the bag, Cecil chuckled and added, "And you guys enjoy your dinner."

Despite making the bags airtight, the tenacious maggots always found a way to get inside eventually. He'd long since given up trying to prevent them from eating his garbage, but, in the end, he didn't mind. He often thought of the wriggling little larvae as kindred spirits. Like him, they thrived in rot and garbage, and were reviled by society. Daintily, he scooped one of them up and let it crawl over his hand for a while, before placing it atop the bagged form of Erik.

He yawned. He was tired. Being so short and thin, he didn't have much energy to begin with, and tonight's adventure had expended most of what he did have, so he decided it was time to head back upstairs and go to bed. Without saying anything else, he turned and left. The basement door shut and the light flicked off. Now only the sounds of flies buzzing filled the room.

~*~

Nobody would know where Erik or any of the others had ever disappeared to. But they were far from forgotten. Their love live with Cecil wasn't over just because they were dead, after all.

Cecil returned periodically over the next few days to bring down his more traditional trash from upstairs, or sometimes just to admire his collection. He sat on the bottom step and sipped a cold Coke, thinking to himself how perfect all of his friends looked the way they did now. Over time, maggots squirmed their way inside the bag through tiny openings and feasted on the iguana's corpse as it slowly rotted. It transformed into a rotten skeleton with liquid, mushy flesh peeling off of it. One night, Cecil came downstairs and felt the bag to see how far along Erik was. Satisfied, he then fucked the bagged, rotten corpse, grinding his achingly hard cock against the smooth, shiny plastic surface, feeling every detail of the body and the squirming larvae infesting it with his pulsing, sensitive maleness, grunting, thrusting those slender hips of his.

As he thrust, he allowed the maggots to crawl on his sweaty form. The more the merrier, he decided, finding the tickling sensation of them moving through his fur to be quite pleasant. He gathered up the entire bag in his arms to hold, cuddle and kiss Erik's face, feeling every detail of his features through the plastic as he humped feverishly, his living, health mouth meeting the dead skeleton grin through the plastic and with a loving passion most people would never know, he kissed him.

Then with a sudden, high-pitched cry, he climaxed, pumping a thick sticky load all over the exterior of the bag as he cuddled Erik closer to him tighter. A few more weak little thrusts and squirts and he was finished, panting softly, sweaty, smelling richly of both musky sex and the stench of the basement, and he gently laid Erik back down and stood. Gingerly he picked the maggots off of himself one by one, removing them from his fur. They were delightful little things, but he didn't need them getting anywhere else in his house. As he found the last one, a very tenacious little fellow that had wriggled into the crack of his ass, and flicked it away, he brushed himself off, smirked and then stood back watching his cum slowly drip off of the bag containing Erik's remains, enjoying seeing the maggots crawling through the oozing jizz.

"You're all so perfect this way, my friends," he said. "I love you all. Thank you so much for staying with me."

He deeply appreciated their staying with him and understanding him. Trash was the only thing that understood him and never judged him. He left, shutting and locking the basement door behind himself. He turned the light off, plunging that room into darkness once more.

The End.