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.”