To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
  please visit our website at:
 
    /~vivian

  Now offering over 100,000 words of pure prurience!

  --------------------------------------------------------


 

                                Turntable

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   Sipping her vanilla milkshake, she sat at the bright white
   formica table in Baskin-Robbins in her cheerful pink sweater,
   waiting for the pedophile. The song on the radio reminded her of
   a tune she had heard once in her father's antique collection of
   phonograph records. As she listened, the melody reminded her of
   the ancient playback device, the slow rotation, the lopsided
   reflection off the neatly grooved surface of the black record
   undulating as it spun lazily on the turntable:

   Come down on your own
   and leave your body alone.
   Somebody must change.
   You are the reason
   I've been waiting all these years.
   Somebody holds the key.

   And I'm near the end
   and I just ain't got the time
   and I'm wasted and
   I can't find my way home.

   She felt the wire connected to the microphone, leading down her
   back and around under her crotch, the microphone taped right next
   to her belly button, so each slimy word of the wicked pedophile
   would be captured by the F.B.I. agents hidden in the van outside.

   She winced as the wire pulled gently across her labia (through
   the thin, now-moist cloth of her panties), and involuntarily
   crossed herself. She knew from all of her Sunday school lessons
   that she would burn in hell for enjoying a feeling like that, but
   she couldn't resist the urge to gently lean the same way again, a
   gesture which sent a tingle and tremor of yearning through her
   11-year old body. The juices forming inside her vagina collected
   into a tiny droplet that she thought she could feel burst against
   the fabric surface of her panties.

   She crossed herself again, remembering how she shouldn't have
   enjoyed the touch of the agent, the kind, fatherly hands as they
   caressingly taped the wire to her young, silky soft smooth body.
   His calm, masculine touch had been the first that day to send the
   juices flowing. She shouldn't have laughed along as he jovially
   bantered with his partner in the small white room, a poster on
   the wall with the quote from the book of John:

   You shall know the truth
   and the truth shall set you free

   The F.B.I. agents wore neatly pressed dark suits and shiny black
   dress-shoes, but she was naked save her dainty white panties.

   "I bet you'll never guess -- who has the biggest collection of
   child pornography, of anybody, anywhere?" the agent had quipped.

   "Who?" she replied.

   The agent grinned. "We do!"

   She shivered and crossed herself once more at the very idea of
   such sinful wickedness. Where was that ugly pedophile? Of course,
   she had no picture of him, since the F.B.I. agents had only met
   him over the internet, while masquerading as kinky young girls in
   a chat session. All that had been agreed on was that he was to
   meet a girl in a pink sweater sitting at a table in the
   Baskin-Robbins.

   She watched curiously as a girl about her age pushed open the
   door to the ice cream parlour, holding in one hand what looked
   like an email printout.

   The new girl glanced over at the girl waiting, and saw the pink
   sweater the email had promised to the pedophile for recognition
   amid the crowd.

   The new girl smiled, walked over to the table, and sat down
   across from the girl in the pink sweater.

   "Are you the girl from the email?" asked the girl who had just
   walked in.

   Startled, the girl in pink sat back in a rush, heart pounding.
   "Who are you?" she demanded. "I was waiting for a . . ."

   The new girl looked at her incredulously. "Horny old pedophile?
   Gimme a break. Everyone knows that the only people pretending
   they're young girls seducing old men in chat sessions are F.B.I.
   agents." The new girl sized up the prim and proper miss in the
   cheery pink pullover. "On the other hand, you're pretty sexy."

   The jaw of the girl in pink dropped in stunned shock. "What in
   God's name are you doing here?"

   The new girl blinked at her wide-eyed, leaned in close, and
   whispered plainly: "I've always wanted to have sex with an F.B.I.
   agent."

  _______________________________________________________


  For more stories, please visit our site:
    /~vivian