GIG JOB PILL DISPOSAL GIRL
by Vivian_Burning
Content warnings for intoxication, really graphic descriptions of illness and overdose symptoms, snuff, substance abuse, non-consensual voyeurism, and maybe the grossest thing I’ve ever written involving boofing opiates.
Reader beware on this one, it’s very discomforting.
Names all drawn from an excellent Gawker piece (RIP Gawker): https://web.archive.org/web/20220914135049/https://www.gawker.com/5988377/blue-ivy-here-are-the-names-that-get-you-into-yaleor-keep-you-out
Inspired by my time being young, queer, and with a debilitating substance abuse problem that I barely survived.
Thanks for reading! Mind the CWs and follow me at: https://bsky.app/profile/vivianburning.bsky.social
The worst part of the job is having to convince them that you’re ok. That you aren’t being abused. That they shouldn’t feel guilty, shouldn’t feel bad, shouldn’t feel anything negative at all about the fact that their unwillingness to drive to a pharmacy means the rest of my day (week? month? life?) is spent in agony as my body tries to fight off a profane mix of overdoses and adverse drug interactions.
My entire life revolves around it: taking it in, riding it out, recovering from it.
But hey, the pay is good, and the insurance is even better. They promised me that after six months they’ll cover my bottom surgery and breast augmentation. Free pussy and fat tits! Uber and Doordash might not kill you (usually) but it sure isn’t making you more fuckable.
When you boil all the bits and pieces of your life down…is there really anything more important than good sex, readily available?
Abigail’s voice in my earpiece is reciting the statement I make when they ask that question: ‘Are you ok?’ Like they care. They just want that moral balm, that salve that lets them walk away without feeling like they just poisoned me. I have it memorized. I think she just likes saying it in my ear because she likes reminding me that she’s there as my supervisor. Always. Watching. Listening. Making sure that I’m not hiding anything.
Any delay or hesitation is a sign that I could be pocketing the pills to sell later. I think Abigail just gets off on being a creep. But it’s hard to deny that she’s very good at watching me. Even if I wanted to cheat and steal I’d never get away with it while she leers over every inch of my body.
I recite the memorized corporate statement in a chipper voice, well-honed from the voice therapy (that they also cover!): “Benesoma Corp has no higher priority than the safety of its employees and consumers.” Nevermind that I’m not an employee, just a contractor, as Abigail likes to remind me anytime questions of legality and compensation come up.
The assholes that order my services never bother asking about details like that. “Any substances ingested as part of our convenient new Doorway Disposal program will be harmless due to the training and skills of our expert staff.” I point at myself. “This is all made possible by the new state-of-the-art stomach, liver, and kidney implants developed and offered by Benesoma Corp. Now in clinical trials at select rehab centers! Contact your nearest rehab to ask if you can experience the comfort, safety, and pleasure of augmented organs.”
It would probably work better if this bitch saying it looked like a well trained and highly skilled expert. When people imagine that? They’re not usually picturing a tranny in booty shorts and a cropped tank-top with stubble and last night’s makeup still on her face. But they didn’t provide me with a uniform. So fuck it.
The next part always got them to shut up and just give me the pills: two solid minutes of legally required disclaimers and anti-indemnification clauses said as quietly and quickly as possible. The more I slurred my words together the better. By the end they’re ready to just give me whatever drugs they’re too lazy to get rid of themselves and watch the show.
The lady who hired me today (at Abigail’s insistence I’m trying not to refer to them as assholes, even in my head) is your normal suburban house wife. Probably has a degree in art or business or something banal and worthless like that, perfectly displayed in a frame in her ‘office’ now that she has a husband and can laze around all day.
She’s in yoga pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt with her favorite tourist trap museum on it. Probably from some city she dragged her husband to for a vacation. White (of course), blonde (even more of course), thin, pretty, cis. She has something nice for me: sleeping pills.
The best days are the ones where someone digs out the fun downers. The kind they don’t prescribe anymore because they ruin lives and land you into a rehab center (maybe one where you can experience the comfort, safety, and pleasure of augmented organs!). Someone once had quaaludes. The cash was just a bonus that night.
Sadly all this lady has for me is normal fare: Trazodone. As she hands me the bottle with a sheepish look on her face and some long story (about having depression but now she’s on peptides which fixed everything and have you tried peptides they’re really good you should try them I bet they’ll be so good for you when you have to take all these harsh chemicals they put chemicals in everything you know) I hear the sound that’s like my own personal death toll: the rattle of a mostly full bottle of pills.
I’ve gotten really good at counting pills just based on the sound the bottle makes. This is thirty, maybe forty if I’m unlucky. Jesus. The bitch has been hoarding them. Maybe selling them on the side. Maybe intentionally missing doses when her husband didn’t notice.
Whatever.
Her life matters to me in exactly one way: how many pills it’s led to being in the bottle that’s my professional responsibility to drain.
I’m in a good mood today. I do the magic trick, even though this lady doesn’t deserve to have her day brightened like this. Tilting my head back, I stick my tongue out as far as it can go (at least four inches of dangle), flex the edges of the end of my tongue to turn it into a little bowl, close my eyes, and upend the bottle.
My tongue fills with dry little discs that start bouncing off each other. The trick is catching them in my mouth once they start to overflow. The little taps of them hitting together along with the half-gulp of a suppressed gag reflex is the perfect score to the whole thing. I let the pills hang there for a couple seconds, drool running from my tongue down my chin.
With practiced smoothness I pop the little metal water bottle off the carabiner that hangs on my belt and wash them all down with a cascade of water heated lukewarm by the sun. I did it with vodka when I started but learned the limits of my fancy new guts pretty quickly.
My mouth tastes like poison. Downside of the trick is how some start to dissolve in your mouth. “Ta-da” I choke out. The lady looks horrified. Like she just watched an execution. I bow, which doesn’t help. I let the moment linger for a few seconds then pull out my phone and turn the screen to her. “Can you please fill out a quick survey to verify that all medications have been successfully disposed of?” My voice is raspy from chemical burns.
Her mouth twists into a frown. “Can’t…did you have to do it like that?” She looks at me with barely disguised disgust. Abigail giggles in my ear. I can practically hear her getting wet. She loves when the customers get grossed out.
I scratch at my chin stubble and take another drink of water. “Sure, but it’s more fun this way. Plus you can see that I didn’t hide any. That’s really important, you know. I’m not really disposing of them if any go missing.”
The lady is still frowning. She told me her name at some point but fucked if I even tried to remember it. “You missed one.” She points with the toe of her house slipper to a pill laying on the concrete of her entrance patio (bigger than my apartment). “Better get that one too.”
I grin. Yeah. That’s the other reason I make a show of it. 100% success rate that all these people are perverts like Abigail. No one would order a human drug disposal without getting off on it at least a little. They pretend at dignity but really what they want to see is someone worse off than them.
They might be going through their own shame-spiral for being hooked on pills or whatever but at least they don’t need to eat drugs for a living.
Whatever. Jokes on them; I’m into this shit.
I get down on my hands and knees and press my face to the concrete. I could just pick up the pill, but where’s the fun in that? Abigail’s breath hisses in my earpiece. She’s getting a perfect view from the little drone that follows me when I’m on the clock.
I hold the pose for a few seconds, letting Abigail and the blonde house-whore get a good look at my ass sticking in the air, hanging out of the too short shorts. I poke my tongue out, sticking the errant pill to the tip.
I slurp it up like a frog catching a fly.
Swallow it dry.
Bounce back to my full (very full) height.
Grin at the flustered asshole that’s paying a couple hundred for the privilege of watching.
I turn my phone back to the Stepford wannabe for her to verify I ate each and every pill.
She taps and my phone asks her to rate me.
Five stars.
No tip though.
Fuck her.
Prude.
***
The drive back to the Benesoma office is less pleasant than the show I put on. Driving sucks when you can barely see straight, feel like your stomach is dissolving, and are so hard it hurts. Weird side-effect of Trazodone: uncontrollable erections that never go away. I’m juggling between grinding my cock between my thighs and trying to get my shitbox car up to highway speeds.
Neither is going well. I hate my dick. It’s cliche: broke tranny who has serious bottom dysphoria but hey, sometimes you gotta be cliche if you wanna be a hot piece of ass like me. Cumming isn’t so much about pleasure as it is a relief from having to remember that particular piece of meat is still hanging off me.
And my car is just a piece of shit. Ford. Best I could afford (a blowjob, some stale weed, and about a hundred dollars of tip money mostly in singles and fives). A few more months of this job and I’ll be able to get something that doesn’t rattle and shake when it gets over forty-five.
I get distracted by that number. Wondering what shape I’ll be in when I’m forty-five. Barely halfway there right now. Maybe by then they’ll have the tech to undo the long term damage all of this is doing to me. Sure, the implants help, but really they’re just designed to keep me going. They blunt the worst of it (similar to the activated charcoal I guzzle before and after each job), but the Drs are pretty honest that the long term damage will keep piling up at the rate I’m taking these gigs.
Of course they’d be breaking company values if they told me to stop. Instead, that’s just more reason why I should go harder. Eat more drugs. The data they’re getting from me fucking my body is exactly what they need to make the drugs that will unfuck my body. Just keep eating drugs and everything will work out. Got me through high school (kind of, never really graduated but it did give me the skills to be the best human drug disposal in the world).
I just wish Abigail would shut up and let me hump myself in peace. I can hear her rubbing her clit. I think she made IT get her a better mic just to be sure I could hear that. She’s panting in my earpiece, moaning my name, going on like she always does. “Nicole, you’re such a good girl. You’re such a good little pill-dumpster aren’t you? Don’t you love swallowing other people’s trash? Nicole, you know what you’re good for?”
I roll my eyes. Almost swerve into the other lane as a result. “Abigail, how is this even dirty-talking? We’re not talking. I’m not responding to this. This is like…dirty-aural-sexual-assault.”
My supervisor continues like I haven’t said anything. “You’re good for this and nothing else. Remember what you put on your application under skills? ‘Best drug-puppy-girl in the world.’ And it’s so true. You’re built for this. Built for taking drugs.”
I shiver despite myself. Probably the overdose that’s getting more and more serious as I drive. I should have been assigned a driver for this job but it was the first gig of the day so I figured I’d be fine. We can’t know what’s being disposed of before we get there. HIPAA violation. Wouldn’t want to reduce the dignity of the valuable customer as they watch me guzzle whatever medications they can’t be asked to throw out themselves.
I’m seeing spots and the left side of my body feels light. The whole car is hot despite the AC cranked to max. I’m sweating. My heart is going faster than the EDM blasting over my speakers. And my cock is only harder. I squirm in my seat, trying to press my thighs hard enough together to cum, to get any kind of relief as more and more sensations and stimuli build in me.
Sedative OD is weirdly similar to bad uppers. Not nearly as bad as what happens when I have to finish off someone’s old ADHD meds but the way my body feels manic is the same. At least until I’m past the peak. I moan as my legs seize together. I can barely get a foot on the brake fast enough as the car ahead of me slows down.
Abigail laughs. The sound of wet fingers sliding in and out of her cunt gets louder. “I can see how horny you are.” Implants give her way too much data. She even gets to feed some of the sensations into herself, some fancy implant wired up to my own. Each sensation is toned down to make them pleasant. Wouldn’t want the CEO’s daughter getting upset or hurt. “You’re still waiting on that surgery, huh? I don’t know why any of you girls would want to get rid of that. Angel paying someone to rip her wings off…”
Of course she’s a chaser. What is it about cis women chasers that makes them so much creepier than guys? Don’t get me wrong, the guys are really only good for some free drinks and will kill you just as soon as suck your cock.
But the girls are always way, way sleazier. Like they know that the attention from them feels more validating than any ‘straight’ guy. At any moment that attention and validation can turn into gatekeeping and exclusion. Anything we do with them is already considered abuse by plenty of people.
The cis female chaser is an ambush predator. Beguiling, but she ruins your life like the most natural thing in the world. Men might strangle me, but it’s social death that scares me more. That fear is what my supervisor gets off to.
She’s goading me. Pissed I won’t respond. “You know something Nicole? I was the one who pushed for you to get this job.” A whine enters her voice, “I thought you’d be fun. All the other gig-workers are soooo depressing. They’re miserable to be around. You can be fun when you want to be. You were earlier. Won’t you be fun for me? Maybe I can make that surgery happen sooner…”
There’s nothing I want more than to throw up. It’s building in the back of my throat. But I can’t. Implants. Can’t risk the pills being improperly disposed of. Have you ever been nauseous but unable to throw up? It’s hell. My stomach lining is peeling off, rats trying to flee a sinking ship. Every part of my body is telling me to get out this foaming sludge meant to soothe bored middle class Americans when taken in a dose that’s fiftieth of the amount currently churning inside of me.
But I can’t.
I’m close. Mechanically I respond to Abigail, “Please ma’am. Please approve my insurance claims. I need you. I need you to be good to me.”
Her breath hitches and then hisses out like a tire deflating. “Oh fuck Nicole. Oh fuck. Do I own you? Do you need me?”
I think my vocal cords are dissolving from the acid in my throat but I manage to respond, “Yes ma’am. I can’t find another job. Please, I need the money.”
She’s panting louder and louder. Close. I’m close myself. As disgusted as I am by her, the overdose is just making me harder.
I'm stuck at the light. On the other side of the intersection is my destination: the hospital with an entire ward owned by Benesoma. My vision is turning black. Abigail pants in my ear. “You whore. You tranny. You slut. You fucking…dependent. Fuckup.” Her last insult ends in a squeak as she cums. “Faggot-good-for-nothing-but-popping-pills-”
My hips shudder and I paint the inside of my shorts. I lose control of my legs. My foot slams on the pedal and I fly forward as fast as my shitty Ford can go. Horns blare and tires screech as I shoot through cross-traffic. I can’t see what chaos I’m causing but none of it reaches me. I drive over the curb, the lawn, and eventually come to a halting stop across three spaces.
Abigail is nonverbal. Loud panting in my ear. I hook my thumb into the seatbelt release and lean against the door. I don’t exit the car. I fall out onto my face.
I bite through my cheek as my face hits asphalt. Blood fills my mouth. I cough and feel the rancid mix of half digested sedatives bubble up into the back of my throat. I can’t throw up but I can choke on my own blood and bile. It’s so funny I’d laugh if I could get air in. My cum is dribbling down my leg, pooling in the pits of my knees. I can’t get them under me to stand. They’re numb. The only part of my body still rigid is my cock.
I’m not allowed to take any medication while I have this job. Including HRT. Which means I’m back to messy guy orgasms. They just won’t stop. Especially when I’m getting teased. I manage to clear my airway and breath again. I curl up on my side, cock straining painfully against my shorts, covered in my own fluids (cum, blood, spit, tears, fuck knows what else).
Abigail recovers enough to speak again. “Hey, Nicole? Are you ok? Do you need help?”
I don’t answer. Breathing is enough of a struggle. One of my eyes has gone dark. Something is making a wheezing sound. Like an accordion with a leak.
Oh.
That’s me.
Hah.
“Nicole? Oh shit.” The sound of things falling off a desk and a belt being hastily buckled come through the mic. In a much more professional voice, clearly talking to someone else, “hey, Taylor is down in the parking lot, someone get a cart there.” More shuffling sounds. “Nicole? Can you talk?”
Post-nut-clarity is hitting Abigail pretty hard. I gurgle back. Best I can do.
My supervisor sighs. “Alright. This is probably my fault. Help’s on the way.” Silence stretches. “Hey, you’re gonna be ok.” I gurgle again. “Yeah…ok. Um. Pizza party on payday?”
***
Check-ups are boring but these mandatory stays are worse. They wire me up to the fancy diagnostic machines and leave me to rot for a few days until the OD passes. My body digests itself. Enzymes, proteins, catalysts, whatever my organs need to function, pulled from wherever there’s some in plentiful supply. I’m in a shit mood. I usually manage at least three gigs before I get checked in for a long stay like this.
I hate spending this much time being reminded of all the ways this job is grinding me down. I’m thinner than I should be despite how much I eat. My eyesight is getting worse. My bones feel frail. If I were to press on them too hard they would shatter like plastic left in the sun. I ache, always. It’s in the moments of sobriety that I feel that again. I remember that I have a body.
My rest is occasionally interrupted by a Dr.
“Taylor, have you been exercising regularly?”
“Taylor, I know your arm hurts, but can you first confirm which biological gender you are?”
“Taylor, we’re having some trouble with your insurance.”
Nevermind that I’d get hate crimed in a gym locker room. Nevermind that my sex assigned at birth has nothing to do with the bruises on my arm from where I fell. Nevermind that the fucking hospital and insurance company are the same company wearing different hats.
Nevermind that my “preferred name” is on every single form they’re looking at, on the door to my room, Nevermind I remind the same Dr every single time what my name is.
A mind is a burden. A thing to be drowned in chemicals. A vestigial organ I’d sooner turn in for a refund.
They eventually let me go and I get a gig the same day. It turns out to be an easy one. Just a handful of expired dick pills. I wash them down with gatorade and a smile. I’m almost grateful to the anxious mousy little tenderqueer explaining how she got on t-gel and doesn’t need them anymore.
I break my habits and make small talk until they kick in. While we talk my bulge grows visible under my cheap skirt. In the awkward silence that follows she asks if I want to come in.
I burn off the five hour erection teaching her new positions. I don’t think the t-gel is working for her. She never gets hard once. I don’t bother telling her about my not-so-silent watcher, Abigail. If consent mattered to this bitch she wouldn’t have put the order into the app that brought me to her doorstep.
***
I get a date for my bottom surgery.
My hair starts falling out.
Abigail asks if I want to go on a real date.
She takes me somewhere nice.
Afterwards we don’t touch but she watches me use my wand.
I have to get new clothes because the old ones don’t stay on me anymore.
The hospital calls to say my bottom surgery date is pushed back six months.
My car breaks down on the side of the road.
I’m on a dozen Ritalin and even more Lexapro.
I piss myself in the backseat of the Uber to the hospital but the driver doesn’t notice.
I don’t tip.
Abigail gives me her old car.
That night in front of my phone cam I deepthroat a neon orange dildo shaped like a horse cock until she cums twice.
Implants mean non gag reflex, it can be kinda fun.
My dad calls and asks when his son is coming home.
The next day one of my molars falls out.
The rest follow shortly.
My lease expires and I move to a place without cracks in the ceiling and bugs in the bathroom.
Abigail drives the Uhaul.
She asks if she can have the second key, in case I OD alone.
I give it to her.
***
First gig of the day is the easiest it gets: not even prescription drugs, just vitamins and supplements. More than a human being should be putting into their body at once but I only feel a little sick after rather than hospital-stay-ODing.
I’m sober when I get to the second gig. Lamictal. Not fun. Doesn’t even get you high. A full bottle (which is what’s given to me to down) gives me the worst rashes. My hands shake all the time now. I don’t make a show of taking them. I just do my best not to drop any when I bring the bottle to my lips and tip it back.
I know better than to go for a third gig. But I’m thinking about the time off I’ll need after surgery. How I have to quit this job before they’ll operate on me. What the fuck am I going to do for money if I can’t do this?
Red patches spread up my arms from the Lamictal. There’s hardly any flesh on me anymore, just loose skin and bones. The rash looks all the more violent on my pale skin. I can’t seem to keep any color on me no matter how much time I spend in the sun. I itch. My clothes, soft and loose, feel like they’re grating me raw. The patches reach my throat. It’s a struggle to breathe. Like pulling air through a tiny straw.
I make it to the third house. Not a house really, more a mansion. The guy who answers the door is handsome, middle aged. He’s wearing a suit. It’s a Saturday afternoon. He looks me up and down. Stares at my Adam’s apple. His lips turn upwards into a vulture’s grin. I’m the roadkill he’ll feast on. I look into his eyes and see every guy on Grindr who sends me pictures of his dick.
“Hi cutie,” the creep says. “Got a little something for you.” He rattles an orange bottle at me. Then tosses it across the few steps between us. I try to catch it but I’ve lost those kinds of reflexes. My chest hitches and I wheeze as I bend to pick it up. Oxy. The kind they don’t give out anymore. A three month supply. Ninety pills, at least.
“Can I have some water?” I gasp out. Doable. I can ask Abigail to send me a pickup. I can leave my car in a neighborhood like this. I can do this. I accepted the bottle. I have to eat them now.
He shakes his head. “Nah. You’re not allowed in my house. We do this here.” He breaks eye contact, sweeps his gaze up and down the street at the people mowing their lawn, sitting on their porch, going for a walk. His grin sharpens. He’s loving this. A coughing fit brings me doubled around my knees.
My chest goes cold. There’s no way I can get these down my throat right now. “Abi…I.” That’s as far as I get.
She sounds almost sad. “Yeah?”
Abi knows what I’m about to ask for. I know what her answer is going to be. It’s perfunctory. “I can’t take these, I can barely-” another coughing fit ends my sentence. My sunken belly heaves, trying to force more air into my lungs.
“Yeah.” Abigail sighs into my ear. “Yeah. You’ve uh, you’ve gotta, y’know.”
Boof. That’s what she’s avoiding saying. It’s in my contract. It’s that or forfeit the job right now. Lose everything I’ve clawed into my life.
Unless.
“Hey, Abi, can you, would you, us? If I needed to like, move in just while I get something else like, lined up, or?” A sentence that long leaves black dots swimming in my vision.
She doesn’t answer but the mic picks up her shifting around in her seat. The creep is looking at me expectantly.
Fuck them. Fuck them both. Fuck them all. They want a show? They want to see shame? Degradation? What each and every fucking one of them did to me?
Cool.
I can do that.
I don’t even bother unbuttoning my shorts. A gentle push sends them around my ankles. I scrape my panties down my scarecrow thighs. The creep is practically salivating as he looks at my dick, more of a shower than I’d ever care to be but if I survive this it’ll make great material for a killer pussy.
“Can I get lube?” I croak out. That, unbelievably, he goes back into his mansion to get for me. I’m not worth a glass of water but hey at least I don’t need to put them in dry. The breeze feels nice on my bare ass while I wait.
The creep brings me cheap shit. KY Jelly. Who actually uses this stuff? Probably just on his pocket pussy. Whatever, not my problem. I pop my scrawny hips out, pucker up, squirt the lube into the bottle of Oxy and start fishing them out.
One by one. Gently I slide them into my tight little asshole. I’m careful with it. Don’t want a tear. But I need to go deep with each one to make sure they don’t fall out as I go. The lube runs down my hand as I fish the pills out of the bottle and pools at my feet. Cheap lube runs down my legs. I look back a couple times to see the crowd that’s gathered to watch me. Some are recording with their cameras. I shake my ass a little.
I am a show after all.
I get the contents of the entire bottle in my colon and toss the empty shell back into the creep’s face. He’s hard enough to rip through his slacks that probably cost as much as I made today. The creep tries to catch it but the lube makes him fumble. It leaves a wet streak on the front of his jacket.
I hitch my panties and shorts up and start walking back to my car, which I kinda like, a not too-old Corolla. I make it to the door before the Oxy dissolves enough to hit.
I fall face first into the window of my car as my legs turn to jelly.
I try to catch the handle, anything to hold myself up.
I miss.
Hit the pavement.
The crowd is watching.
No one helps.
Abi is screaming my name in my ear.
Oh.
Right.
The implants only work if the pills go through my stomach.
I forgot.
I wonder if Abi did?
I rest my cheek against the asphalt and close my eyes.
Wait for my supervisor to cum to me.
And maybe come for me.
Thanks for reading! Follow me at: https://bsky.app/profile/vivianburning.bsky.social