Message-ID: <47041asstr$1079230205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm@aol.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Turntable
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Date: Sat, 13 Mar 2004 21:10:05 -0500
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                           Turntable

                     by Vivian Darkbloom

    She sat at the table in Baskin-Robbins, in her pink
    sweater, sipping her vanilla milkshake, waiting for
    the pedophile. The song on the radio reminded her of
    one she heard once from her father's old collection
    of phonograph records, and it reminded her of the
    slow rotation, the lopsided reflection off the
    surface of record undulating 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.

      but 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 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 stop
    herself from gently leaning the same way again,
    sending a tingle of yearning through her 11-year old
    body. She felt juices forming inside her vagina.

    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. The touch
    that sent the same juices flowing. She shouldn't have
    laughed 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 in the bible:

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

    They were dressed in black suits and shiny black
    dress-shoes, she naked except for her panties.

    "Guess who has the biggest collection of child
    pornography anywhere?" the agent had quipped.

    "Who?" she replied.

    The agent grinned. "We do!"

    Sinful wickedness. Where was that naughty pedophile?
    She watched curiously as a girl about her age pushed
    open the door to Baskin-Robbins, holding in one hand
    what looked like the printout of an email. She
    glanced over at the girl waiting, saw the pink
    sweater the email had promised to the pedophile so
    that he might recognize her in the crowd. (only there
    was no crowd). The girl who had just entered smiled
    and walked over to the table, sitting down across
    from the girl in the pink sweater.

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

    The girl in the pink sweater was taken aback. "Who
    are you?" she demanded. "I was waiting for a ..."

    The new girl looked askance at her. "Horny old
    pedophile? Gimme a break. Everyone knows that the
    only people pretending they're horny young girls in
    chat sessions are F.B.I. agents. Nobody's falling for
    that old line anymore. But," the new girl looked up
    and down the girl in the pink sweater. "You're pretty
    sexy."

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

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


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

   For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org
   http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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