© Russell Hoisington 2003

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 well 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 (remove the "BOGUS" from the address line) at: 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 Denver and went to those twin porn theaters on West Colfax, over by the Bronco's stadium.

Norman couldn't go down to any porn movies 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 all right. "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 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 curve of that firm, smooth, rounded...

"Hey, mister?"

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!"