Sex Act


The handcuffs clinked against the metal headboard.

“Come on, let me up.”

“Oh, you’ll like this. Trust me.”

“I don’t get into this kind of shit.”

“No? That’s not what I heard.”

“I don’t who you’ve been talking to.”

“I heard you like a little bondage. That you like being . . . naughty.”

“Look– ah– I, uh, heh, I like to have fun, you know, but . . .”

“You don’t like this?”

“Yeah. This really isn’t my thing. We could do–”

“What about the photos?”

“What photos– oh.”

“Yeah. Not very clever to hide them in your sock drawer. I found them when you were in the restroom. Kinky shit.”

“You’re not here– you’re not here to . . . play, are you?”

“Funny, you don’t seem to be able to talk about sex, but you don’t have any problems with using a camera. Maybe it’s because you’re not actually in any of these pictures. At least your face isn’t. But that scar on your wrist gives you away.”

“There’s nothing illegal here.” The handcuff scraped against the bed frame.

“No? Consent.”


I selected one of a series of six photos and held it out. “This girl here– she’s not old enough to consent.”

“That– that law doesn’t apply–”

“What because you didn’t fuck her?”

“I didn’t!”

“Glenn– she’s twelve fucking years old! She’s too young to consent to a sex act!”

“I didn’t know she was only twelve! She doesn’t look it!”

I went through his pants pockets and found a business card for Bo Fexler, private investigator. Mine. Given to him at the bar, as introduction, in hopes I could get him to take me home. A few drinks and a few pick-up lines later, he did. A few carefully worded persuasions and he was handcuffed to the bed.

“You don’t believe me? Come on– I don’t like kids. I brought you home, didn’t I?”

I looked at him. “You told her not to tell her parents. You even paid her. Which, of course, is how her parents found out something was up.” And hired me to find out.

“I– I mean, most parents don’t want their teenage daughters having sex. I just figured.” He swallowed, and looked away.

“What was it you whispered in my ear? It was right after I gave you that line about how I’m still a virgin. Oh, that’s right. You said you like virgins best. And that it’s hard to find a girl who’s still a virgin.” I shrugged into my shirt and bra. I pulled my long blond hair out of the shirt collar and grabbed my keys. I was tempted to lighten Glenn’s wallet, but that would have been wrong.

His face paled. “Wait– are you gonna leave me here?” His voice rose to a shrill pitch.

I just smiled. The same flirty smile I’d used in the bar.

His shouts could be heard from the driveway. But in his swanky subdivision, he would have to yell a lot louder for the nearest neighbors to even hear.





~ fin ~

Clair Dickson is a writer of everyday evils, when she's not working one of her many part time jobs or chasing after her toddler son.  Visit for links to other short stories.