I’ve always wanted to have sex with an F.B.I. agent

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.”