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.’ 

I’m a little uneasy about this but decide to go ahead. I pull out the large roll of  pallet wrap from my rucksack. He strips off. I change into my black rubber suit and mask.  I love to wear this when I play.  When the soft rubber mask slips tight over my face, I feel different, energised, horny.  When we’re ready I stand him up and start wrapping the plastic wrap around his shins. I work my way up. I keep his cock out. I wrap his arms separately before strapping them tight to his sides. I’ve done this many times before. The plastic screeches softly as it peels off the roll. Soon he’s tightly wrapped and shiny all over. I wrap many layers around his head, keeping his mouth and nose unblocked. I feed him poppers, holding one nostril closed and placing the bottle up close to

the other while he sniffs. I take a lung-full myself, screw back the bottle top and start rubbing his cock. His stiff body flinches, the plastic crackles softly. 

I slap his tight shiny ass, I squeeze his nipples through the layers of plastic…

I lay him gently down onto the sofa. I use more pallet wrap to bind his feet, so he is totally enveloped in plastic. I tear off another bit and for a while I cover his breathing hole with it. He likes that. He writhes as much as the stiff plastic layers allow, and then when he starts to panic I pull it off. 

I pull out roll of clear plastic bags and some rubber straps. I slip a bag over his head and seal it tight with the straps and watch him suffocate. I give him air when he really needs it.  We play like this for a long time. I keep us both edged, the poppers are irresistible and for a while I am lost in blissful pleasure. 

The phone rings. We both flinch. He mumbles something. I take off the plastic bag. 

‘It’s my wife! I have to answer it.’ 

There’s no way he can pick up the phone so I quickly tear the plastic away from his head and then reach over to the table by the sofa, pick up the phone and hold it close to his ear. 

‘Hi, love..’ he says, as calmly and nonchalantly as he can. 

He’s out of breath but disguises it well. He blinks, trying to squeeze out the sweat running down into his eyes.

‘Oh nothing much. Just doing the accounts and watching tele. Kids are fine. Fast asleep…’

The conversation continues. I’m perched on the edge of the sofa, covered in sweat, dizzy from the poppers, holding the phone to this guy’s ear, unable to make a noise.  

I can just about hear her voice. She’s at a nightclub. She chits and chats about who’s there and who’s bringing her home. I glance at the shelves beside me. 

There’s a card with a family photo stuck on the front, of him standing posed in a cheap blue suit, baby in arms, with the wife and two small kids around him. 

I reach over to move the card, so I can see the message written inside. 

‘Happy Birthday Alan. You’re a weirdo but I still love you. Carole. xxx’

A while later the phone conversation ends with, 

‘Yeah, see you soon, love. Bye.’ 

I put the phone back on the table. 

‘OK. You need to get me out of this now. She’s back in an hour.’

So I cut him out of his plastic cocoon. He fetches a towel. We get changed and dressed in silence. He’s nervous. He gets a bin liner for the plastic, opens the window, puffs up the cushions, checks the carpet for marks or stains, then looks around the room for signs of our activity.  I tell him I can’t find the top of the poppers bottle. He gets agitated by this so we both get down on our hands and knees, and start feeling around the soft toy animals, under the sideboards and chairs till eventually it is found. 

My stuff all packed, we say a brief goodbye and I leave.  It’s about two am. 

On my way home I stop at the side of a country lane. It’s a warm clear summer night. I’m still reeling from the poppers. I roll a joint, and sit on the bonnet looking up at the stars. I laugh out aloud to myself at the delights that can be found in life. 

I see him again a few months later. This time he comes to my flat late one afternoon. I dress again in my black rubber suit and mask, while he strips naked and lays down face up on a clear plastic sheet draped over the bed. I tie him tight and suffocate him with plastic bags. I ride his cock. We have a good time, but he can’t stay long and after an hour he tells me to stop. I untie him. 

He showers and dresses like he’s in a hurry.  

As he is leaving his phone rings. He stops and answers it. 

‘Hi, love. Yeah, sorry, I know I’m late. I’m on the train now. I’ll be home in twenty minutes… Yeah, yeah I know, I’m sorry…’

At that moment my telephone rings. It’s an old landline phone with a loud brash old fashioned ring. 

He freezes. I hear her shouting at him. 

‘Where are you!? You’re not on a train. You’re lying to me!’ 

She knows she’s caught him out and carries on at him.  I go to answer the phone and it stops before I get to it so I come back, to listen to them argue. 

He’s trying to lie his way out with a story that he’s actually having a drink with his mate Pete from the football team. She doesn’t believe him and he’s so desperate to believed, he tells her he’ll bring Pete over to verify. 

In the end she hangs up. He looks up at me pale and afraid. He tells me I have to come back with him to his house and explain to his wife we were having a drink this evening. I hardly know the bloke. I barely remember his name. But in the end he’s so anxious I feel sorry for him and agree to go. I follow him in my car. I feel ridiculous. I think about what I am going to say to her. I know fuck all about football. I pull up outside his house. He goes in first and a minute later he comes out and tells me it’s fine and I can go home. 

Months pass. I forget about him. I see him on-line, but I’m happy enough meeting other guys. Then out of the blue he gets in touch. He wants me to look after his pink ballet shoes. It’s a long story but it seems he’s also go a fetish for these shoes but must hide them from his wife. So I end up agreeing and the following day we arrange to meet in a nearby lay-by. We hardly chat. He’s in a rush. I take the shoes. He says he will collect them one day, when he’s found somewhere safe to keep them. I put them under a blanket in the boot of my car. 

Two years later I’m in a relationship with a young, innocent girl called Sophie, who thinks she’s in love with me, and since I’m completely enchanted by her, I’m starting to think seriously about settling down.

I’ve given up my life of cruising and fetish and thrown away my rubber gear. 

I had ticked the boxes I needed to tick and picking up guys was getting harder the older I got.  Everything is going well with Sophie. The novelty of being ordinary hasn’t yet waned. Then one day she comes into the flat holding the pink ballet shoes. 

‘Erm… I’ve just found these in the boot of your car…’

I had completely forgotten about them and it feels strange to see them again. 

I mumble for a moment while I think up a plausible lie to justify them being there. Then for some reason I decide to tell her the truth. I tell her all about the bloke, the roll of clear plastic pallet wrap, the kids, the photo, the telephone call, everything. I even tell her about the sex we had, the poppers and the suffocation games with plastic. 

‘But that’s all in the past.’ I say. 

She doesn’t reply. She packs her bags and leaves, and I never hear from her again. 

Daniel Guy.