Pink Ballet Shoes
One evening, as I am sifting through profiles on line, I find a breathplay lover like me, who loves plastic. He’s not bad-looking, skinny, balding and he lives 20 miles away. We chat for a while. I tell him I’ve just bought a roll of clear plastic pallet wrap and he’s keen to try it out, so I agree to visit him. I arrive about ten, park outside a house on an estate of ugly modern box houses. He comes out to meet me. As he leads me in through the kitchen, I hear a baby gurgling. I turn to him nervously. He points at a baby alarm. ‘It’s ok. The kids are upstairs asleep. Just give me a second.’ He takes me into the lounge and then disappears. The lounge is small, with toys, dolls and lego models piled up around the edges of the carpet. He returns and explains that his wife is out and won’t be back till four. ‘So we play here?’ I ask, my heart sinking. ‘Yeah.’ He jams a dining chair against the door handle. ‘Just in case the kids come down stairs. They won’t though.’