Categories

After a huge fight, my husband wanted to make it up to me. He said I could turn him into anything, giving me that little wink like he expected something sexy, like it was kinky opportunity for sexy time, maybe a pair of lace panties or some silky lingerie. I just smiled sweetly and led him into the kitchen. I pointed to the empty spot where our old plastic bin used to be. "Stand right there," I told him. He looked confused but obeyed. I didn't need any magic words or a wand. The power was all in my intention, fueled by weeks of his neglect. Slowly, his form began to shift and warp. His skin took on a dull, metallic sheen. His arms fused to his sides, reshaping into the smooth, curved walls of a stainless steel bin. A hinged lid formed where his head used to be. In less than a minute, my husband was gone, replaced by a brand new, shiny kitchen trash can. The best part is how useful he's become. Yesterday, I scraped a whole plate of slimy, week-old leftovers right into him. The greasy juices and rancid meat dripped down his inner walls. When my period started, I balled up the bloody tampon and dropped it right in. He has to just sit there and hold it all. When the bag gets full, I tie it up tight so the stench really stews inside him for a while before I take it out. Sometimes I'll press down on the garbage with my foot, squishing everything together so the old coffee grounds and rotten banana peels smear against what used to be his face. He doesn't complain anymore. He just sits in the corner, waiting for me to fill him up again. It's a much better use for him than he was before.