This is NOT the Handbook itself. It's a story in which the Handbook is just a character.
This story is a FANTASY. That means it is NOT REAL. People in fantasy stories do not suffer the consequences of their stupid decisions (AIDS, pregnancy, jail time) unless the writer WANTS that to happen. In the real world, you DON'T have a writer protecting you from yourself -- you screw up and you're toast. (I'm sorry that I had to be the one to tell some of you that. As long as I'm bursting your bubbles, there's no Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, or Tooth Fairy, either.)
You should NOT read this story if:
1) You are not of legal age to read it where you are. If you don't know, then this means YOU.
2) You are of legal age, but your age plus your IQ is less than your underwear size. If you can't do the math, this means you.
3) You cannot distinguish the difference between reality and fantasy. (Sorry, but you Born Again thumpers have to stop reading now. You probably should have stopped at Number Two above.)
4) You think that it's okay to molest children, and especially if you are looking for tips.
5) You think that there is no risk in ordering by e-mail illegal materials advertised by strangers in kiddie porn groups. You should have stopped at Number Two above.
The rest of you: I hope you enjoy this.
Oh, yes. One final thing:
This story is copyright 2003 by Russell Hoisington. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration.
SUBJECT: USED COPY OF CHILD MOLESTER'S HANDBOOK FOR SALE FROM: TinyTwatTwaddler@BOGUStwaddler.net (Tickle Puss)
Norman's jaw fell open, imitating the largemouth bass mounted on the wall behind him. He could not believe his luck. He had just downloaded a complete new set of "West Virginian Virgin Vaginas" pictures, the first new pictures in over a year, from his favorite newsgroup, alt.binaries.fuckable.young.pussy, (there was a pile of used kleenexes that gave mute, if wet, testimony to the amount of time that chore required on a dial-up connection) and refreshed his headers. There, at the bottom of the page, was that posting. Somebody was actually selling a copy of *The Handbook,* the pedophile's bible that hadn't been published in forty or fifty years. The book had to be at least as old as he was, which was why nobody EVER saw copies of it any more.
It had a whole section on unwilling victims. Norman liked "unwilling victims." There was no joy to be had if they weren't unwilling, like when they were thirteen and his cousin Selma was so unwilling that she hit him in the head with a big stick while trying to get away from him in the woodshed. That was right before her family moved away suddenly and his father kicked him out of the house without a word of explanation.
His favorite fantasies involved unwilling young girls who were only vaguely aware of sex -- until, that is, he arrived to (depending on his mood at the moment) stir their curiosity, or awaken their first forbidden longings, or frighten them with the sight of his awesome manhood, or thrill them with the sudden discovery of the thrills he could coax out of their bodies, or ....
"Oh my god!" he cried as his mind began to process what he'd seen on the screen. "There's already two answers in the thread." He opened the message and read it as fast as he could, which took between one and two minutes. More like two than one.
"For Sale," he read aloud. "One average-condition used copy of The Child Molester's Handbook. One Hundred Dollars ($100.00) cash ONLY. E-mail me: TinyTwatTwaddler@BOGUStwaddle.net and I will hold it for you. Names will be saved in the order they are received. You have five days to get the cash to me or I will sell it to the next name on the list after yours."
Norman was stunned. "Only ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for something worth its weight in GOLD?"
"This is NOT spam, a scam, or a police sting."
Norman leaned back and rubbed his chin in thought. "Well," he said to nobody in particular, "that's good to know."
Nobody in particular responded with silence, except for the female half-Doberman, half-Rottweiler asleep beside his chair who whimpered as she chased a dream-rabbit. Norman had named the dog "Kitty," after his mother. She was a bitch, too.
Fearfully, he opened the first response and slowly read, "Die Spammer!" Norman laughed and shook his head. "Fuckin idiot. He said right there in the message that it wasn't no spam."
He opened the next response. "Nice try, officer," he read -- again aloud. Norman read almost everything aloud, to include the credits at the movie theater. Norman didn't go to many movies now, except for when he drove up to the Denver and went to those twin porn theaters on West Colfax, over by the Bronco's stadium.
Norman couldn't go to any porn movies down in Colorado Springs any more. Not after that incident that he didn't ever want to think about again. The theater manager had called him a pervert and said they'd call the cops if he ever came back. They even took Polaroid pictures of him to put in the ticket booth and to give to the other theater and bookshop owners.
"Nice try, officer," he read again. Yep, that was what it said alright. "I guess you wore it out down at the precinct and decided to offer it as bait for a trap."
Norman laughed and shook his head again as he opened the e-mail connection in his news reader. "Fuckin idiot. He said right there in the message that it wasn't no sting."
The next morning Norman put five twenty dollar bills in an envelope and mailed it to the address that Tickle Puss had sent to him in a reply message. Norman couldn't believe that he was lucky enough to be the first to respond.
For the next six days Norman was waiting down at the mailbox cluster when the postman arrived. The fourth day was Sunday, but fortunately he remembered that around mid-afternoon, long after Clete should have been there, and went back to the house. Finally, on the sixth day, it arrived.
"Here you go, Norman," Clete said, thrusting a box marked "BOOK RATE" at him through the window of his vehicle. "I hope this'n's the one you been waitin for. Wait a minute! Don't rush off. You got some bills here, too."
For the next two days Norman read the book -- aloud -- to Kitty, who ignored him and went to sleep, and to himself, who fortunately had enough fervor for the two of them. He used bits of colored paper to mark pages with ideas he wanted to try. He also used up a small mountain of kleenexes studying the pictures.
SHOCK TREATMENT: THE INNOCENT VOYEURS
Norman parked his car at the curb, eased down into the seat to a comfortable position, which didn't require much easing down since he was only five feet six, and then adjusted the mirrors so that he could watch for cops or other interfering adults. He didn't want any of them to catch him, no siree. He knew that this was the best spot because he used to drive around after school let out and fantasize about the girls he saw. This place met the book's criteria: a route kids walked after school, but not too many at one time; few adults on foot; a minimum number of vehicles passing by.
He saw the first one approaching in the rear view mirror. A fourth-grader perhaps, with short brown hair, dressed in a loose blouse and baggy shorts. He slid down his zipper and fished out his already-hardening cock. He pounded it furiously and had it at full erection when she walked past. Without looking inside the car. She was listening to music on a set of headphones and half-walking, half-dancing to the beat.
Well, the book said that most wouldn't look in out of concern for individual privacy, and that he would have to depend upon one "seeing the action with her peripheral vision and having her eyes inadvertently drawn to the action."
Another girl was following a hundred feet behind the first, this one a blonde in a skirt and thin sweater. She watched the ground as she walked past, looking like she was about to cry.
More were coming, but in groups of two to five. The book was very specific about not exposing himself to more than one at a time. In addition to the possibility that group courage might create an incident, they could back up each other's statements if they turned him in.
After the seventh solo girl passed without looking in, Norman began wondering if he should have brought Kitty to attract their attention. But no, the book said that the children should "notice" what he was doing, and then they would "stop and watch from a discreet distance." If they came to the window to see or pet Kitty, then they would "make their presence known and feel obligated to retreat, albeit in horror," when they saw him lopeing his mule. They wouldn't hang around and watch, which is what he wanted more than just shocking them. No, something shiny hanging from the mirror and catching the sun was what he needed. Tomorrow. There were no more kids today, so....
"Hot damn!" His luck was still with him. The rear-view mirror showed Myndee Holder turning the corner. Sweet little Myndee Holder. Norman knew her father and had seen her with him, though he'd never been introduced to the girl herself. She lived closer to the school, and she wasn't carrying books. She'd stopped at home and was now on her way to a friend's house, perhaps, and she was looking at everything about her as she walked.
Myndee was a rather plain-faced sixth-grader who always wore tight clothes that drew attention to the nicest young little ass Norman could think of. Whenever he thought of playing with a young little ass in his masturbation fantasies, Norman almost always thought of Myndee's.
He thought of it now, as he stroked his cock and waited for her to reach him. Those firm thighs were lightly sculpted -- not the curves she would develop as a woman, but not the straight pipe stems that she'd had a year earlier, either. His mind's eye pictured that ass in those tight black shorts, standing in front of him as she slowly slid the shorts down to show him how her thighs flared gently outward as they rose, and then thrust outward with the round curve of that firm, smooth, rounded....
He opened his eyes and jerked his head around to look at the passenger window. Myndee was resting her forearms through the opening and looking in with sparkling green eyes in her ordinary round face. She flipped up a finger to point at hand still beating his meat.
"Y'know, a lot of boys, instead of wrapping their hand around it that way -- like it was in a hole y'know? Well, they think it feels better to put their thumb on the top and rub those nerves on the bottom with just their fingertips. You might want to try it that way. Bye!"
SHOCK TREATMENT: FLASHING THE INNOCENT
Norman lowered the handbook and rubbed his chin in thought. He had started too far into the book. Perhaps he should start with "Flashing" and then move up to letting them be "Voyeurs." That made sense he decided -- walking before he started running. "Okay, Kitty, let's try this."
Kitty responded with all the enthusiasm a sleeping dog could muster.
Norman fetched a box of old clothes down from the attic and pawed through them to find a pair of dacron trousers he liked but couldn't wear any more because he'd spilled fishing lure paint in the lap. He removed the legs and put the rest back in the box. He fetched some fishing line from his tackle box and measured the amount he needed by wrapping it around his leg a couple of times and leaving enough to tie the ends together in a bow.
"Uh oh," he said as he suddenly realized the flaw with this plan. He needed a long coat. Long, but lightweight because it was mid-April and warming rapidly. He didn't have one. Norman immediately drove up to the Goodwill Store on South Broadway.
Kitty somehow slept through that excitement, too.
Norman walked about City Park with his hands in the pockets of his lightweight long coat. It was a warm Saturday morning, and he was glad that the coat he'd found was lightweight. He was already sweating underneath it. The bottom of the right pocket had been slit open, and his hand was through it, stroking his dick while simultaneously holding the coat closed below the one fastened button. The coat was a little shorter than he would have preferred, but the pants legs were long and tied to his upper thighs with the fishing line, so he looked normal enough. For Norman.
The problem with tying smooth dacron cloth to constantly flexing muscles with nylon monofilament line is that the coefficient of friction, a term that would mean nothing to Norman by the way, is so low that you have to tie the line very tight to keep the pant legs from sliding right out from under the line. Norman's legs were starting to tingle, as if they were going to sleep, after almost forty-five minutes of trying to find a solitary girl to flash.
Oh, he'd had several opportunities to flash college age and older women, but he wanted to shock some young thing smaller than him who'd heard of, but never seen, a dick before, much less one in the full glory of erection such as his. The Handbook had talked about that under the "Maximizing the Shock Effect" subheading.
In truth, Norman was beginning to have trouble keeping his erection because of the discomfort, despite the fact that he was slowly stroking it with his hand -- well, with his fingertips, actually, the way Myndee had suggested he try it.
He had given up and had turned for the trip back to where he'd parked when he saw them coming through the trees. He surveyed the area with a hunter's eye. "There," he whispered. They would come past that tree. He could wait behind it and then step out as they approached. The low shrubbery and the contour of the ground would keep anybody else from seeing him pull open the lower half of his coat with the hands stuck in his pockets.
Norman didn't really want to flash two girls at once because of the Handbook's warning, but he HAD to get those lines off his legs DAMNED soon, and this was his only chance to flash SOMEBODY. ANYBODY! And these were the only girls he had seen who were not with an adult.
When he realized he would be visible to the girls while waiting behind the tree, thus alerting, if not frightening, them and perhaps causing them to take a different path, he slowed and began looking at the upper tree limbs as looking for birds or squirrels or whatever those yahoos a few hundred yards back had been looking for. His eyes kept flicking to the two red-haired girls, apparently sisters and about seven and eleven years old.
His timing was perfect: when he arrived at the "flashpoint," they were six feet from him. "Hey, girls? You ever see one of these before?"
They had stopped when he spoke, as immoveable as Mount Evans, but when he lifted aside the bottom flaps of his coat, both girls leaned forward and took another step toward him.
"It looks like my baby brother's penis," the smaller girl giggled, grinning broadly
"Except Tommy's is bigger," the larger girl added with a frown.
"Yeah," smaller agreed. Then her eyes widened. "They get bigger with a boner. Mister, can you make a boner?"
"It -- it IS a b... -- boner!" Norman stammered.
"Oh," smaller said, looking disappointed.
"It's hard to tell when they're that small," larger said with a knowing nod. "Maybe if -- hey, mister? Where are you going?"
The right leg came loose at the edge of the parking lot. He kicked it free. Some dried-up old busybody saw him do that and started screeching her fool head off. People were rushing at him as he fumbled his key into the ignition and started the engine. They ran for their own vehicles. He was halfway to the interstate before he lost his pursuers.
GROPING YOUNG GIRLS
Norman lowered the Handbook and leaned back in the chair. "Can you beat that?"
Kitty couldn't so she remained asleep as he again lifted the book in his left hand, this time reaching for his boner with his right. He lazily stroked himself while he studied the pictures that showed the way to position his hand and to screen what he was doing with his body while looking away from his target.
He was wrong to start out with visual shock effects, he concluded. He should start with tactile shock effects. "I'll use my hands to set up a strategic situation for the launch of my tactile sexual missile. No, my tactile sexual muscle!" He broke up in laughter at his joke. Kitty didn't laugh, but she issued an editorial -- a silent fart that made his eyes water and singed his nose hair -- without opening an eye.
Five minutes later the air was clear and Norman was again studying the pictures while caressing his cock. Too bad the girl in the photographs was clothed, but that's how they would be on the busses. She sure did look cute and innocent in that poodle skirt with that man's hand cupping her butt and her cootchie and brushing across the gentle swell of her sprouting titties. Soon he was no longer looking at the man's hands as he mentally undressed the girl, his own right hand slowly increasing it's speed.
Norman spent a week riding the rush-hour busses before his opportunity finally came. The bus was properly crowded with people standing, giving him the excuse to do so as well. The black-haired girl was alone, just tall enough that if he let his arm hang loose and cupped his fingers, they would just be able to slide under her ass or her pussy. At a glance she looked to be about fourteen, but a closer look showed that she was two, probably three years younger. Her worn knit blouse and too-short shorts indicated she was without question no higher up the socio-economic ladder than Norman, probably below him, and definitely as clueless as he was as to what that term meant. Like her hair, face, hands, and legs, her clothes were not "dirty," but they certainly weren't sparkling clean, either.
Her baby fat was slowly turning to lard, but she wasn't physically unattractive-- yet -- because of it. She reminded Norman of Becky Sue of the West Virginian Virgin Vaginas, but where Becky Sue had fresh young titties with tiny pink nipples pushing out from her chest wall, this girl probably had just a small roll of fat bulging her blouse.
The cuffs of her shorts were frayed, and if they'd been any shorter they would have exposed the moisture band of her panties -- hip huggers from the lines they made on the tight cloth of her shorts. "Tight cloth" was an accurate description: her shorts molded around the rise of her cunt, creating a beautiful camel-toe.
Norman allowed his fingers to brush lightly across the underside of her ass, rising and falling as the skimmed over the swell of her cheeks and dipped into the shallow valley between them. Norman thought about copping a second feel of that ass, but the Handbook had said that while he might get away with a first caress, she would move away after the second one. And he definitely wanted to feel that cunt.
He pretended to look around outside the windows as if orienting himself as an excuse to move until his hand was in front of her barely-covered pussy. She was standing with her feet slightly apart for balance. PERFECT! When he straightened, he used the opportunity to slide his fingertips between her parted thighs and touch her. He felt the cloth and then slowly eased upward until he was just able to feel the resistance of her body.
The bus hit a pothole. His fingers pressed harder against the young crotch for an instant. She didn't move, but Norman's hand did. When she didn't make an issue of the copped feel, he eased it back again. He was right! He did feel the smooth, slightly damp moisture band of her cotton panties with his little finger. His ring finger moved to join it. Her attitude remained oblivious, but he knew she'd felt it. Which was it: she was too frightened of him to say anything, or he'd awakened her first eager stirrings of feminine longing?
A minute later he had four fingertips on her panties atop her right cunt lip. It was firm and smooth, hairless under the cloth. When she still didn't move, he eased his middle finger between the panties and the thin narrow strip of the cloth of her shorts. He felt the groove between the pillowy outer lips and thought her panties felt a little wetter there. Still no reaction. He slid his fingertip slowly along the groove, imagining how she was feeling her first caress from a man and was too shocked even to stop him. Perhaps she was in awe of his overwhelming masculinity.
He stroked the covered slit with a gentle touch for almost a minute. He was considering whether he should try to slide a finger inside her panties, touching her directly, when the bus slowed for another stop.
She leaned forward then, whispering in his ear, "Not bad, but the next time you're fucking your mother, ask her to show you where the goddamned clit is located." She clenched her thighs to squeeze his fingers and then was gone.
SUBJECT: USED COPEY OF CHILD MALESTERS HANDBOOK FOR SALE FROM: 2big4herLittleBox@NOSPAMquest.com (Big Norman)
FOR SALE! ONE COPEY OF THE CHILD MALESTERS HANDBOOK!; SOME PAGES TORED OUT: SEVINTY FIVE DOLARS [$75.00}!; IN CASH ONLEY NOCREDET CARDS!!!! EMAIL ME AT 2BIG4HERLITTLEBOX@NOSPAMQUEST.COM AND I WILE SAV IT FOR YOU UNTILL YOU HAEV FIVE DAYS TO GET ME MONTY OR I WIL SELL IT TO THE NEXT NAMES; THAKN YOU BIG NORMAN
© Russell Hoisington 2003