From: indexhtml@netscape.net   
      
   Story: 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."   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)