THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION INVOLVING INTERGENERATIONAL
RELATIONSHIPS AND URINATION. THE AUTHOR HAS NEVER PERFORMED AND
DOES NOT CONDONE THE ACTS PORTRAYED. IF THIS SORT OF STORY
BOTHERS YOU, THEN PLEASE DON'T READ IT.

This is a work of FICTION. The author does not condone the acts
depicted in the story.

**********************************************************

My Little Neighbor Cathy – Part 2 (Mff*, ped, cons, ws)

The next morning after I met Cathy, I waited until I heard the
mail arrive, and then walked next door and looked in the mailbox
to see if I could learn anything about Cathy's mother. It was
only a few minutes after ten, so I wasn't worried about being
seen rifling through the neighbor's mail. None of my
welfare-queen neighbors would be awake for hours.

Aside from the usual junk mail from payday loan companies and
cheap furniture stores with easy credit that everyone in the
neighborhood received, there were only two pieces of mail in the
box: a letter from a law firm, and the electric bill. Both were
addressed to “Rosa Baerga,” I noted the name, as well as the name
of the law firm, and then walked the five blocks to the Western
Union office – the only place in the neighborhood that still had
a working pay phone – to call Oscar.

Oscar and I had gone to high school together. We'd also had
belonged to the same Boy Scout troop. Oscar made it all the way
to Eagle Scout, which is when both of us learned that we shared
an attraction to little girls.

Oscar's Eagle Scout project consisted of running a “Water Safety
Program” at the local YMCA, during which we taught younger kids
how to swim, “drown-proof,” and so forth. Oscar, of course, was
in charge, and about half a dozen of us in the troop helped him
out.

One day, after we were done and Oscar thought everyone except him
had gone home, I realized I'd left my wristwatch in the locker
room and went back to get it. I walked into the boys' locker room
and caught Oscar naked in the shower with a raging hard-on,
“helping” a 6-year-old girl get washed up, paying special
attention to her hairless little cunny.

I guess he couldn't hear me over the sound of the water because
he didn't even notice I was there until I said, “Hey, that looks
like fun! Can I help?” Oscar almost jumped out of his skin, and
immediately tried to play it off.

“I was only, uh, helping her get cleaned up,” he stammered,
trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant as he stepped out of the
water. “She lives next door to me and, uhhh, I drive her home
after class. She's like, umm, you know, an adopted little sister,
right Kerri?” The naked little girl nodded and giggled, then
said, “Uh-huh, Oscar's my 'dopted big brother! He takes good care
of me!”

“Uh-huh,” I said as I reached out and gently stroked Oscar's
boner. Oscar jumped at my touch.

“You always get this excited over your little sister?” I asked
with a smile, as I continued to play with Oscar's dick.  Oscar
looked into my eyes, and then down at the bulge in my own gym
shorts, and his expression changed to one of understanding, then
relief, as he realized I wasn't going to rat him out.

“Hee hee,” the little girl chimed in, “He's playing with your
wee-wee like I do, Oscar!”

“Why don't you play with it now, Kerri?” I suggested as I pulled
off my gym shorts and started stroking my own swollen cock.

“Okay,” Kerri said, and took hold of Oscar's cock, skillfully
stroking it while I looked on and pleasured my own, until both of
us shot our loads all over naked little Kerri.

“Hee hee,” she giggled, “That was fun! But now I need another
shower!”

“Yes you do,” Oscar said. Then he looked at me and asked with a
smile, “You want to help?” Of course I did. So both of us spent
the next half hour or so making sure that Kerri would have the
cleanest little cunt in the first grade when she went to school
the next day.

That happened more than three decades in the past, but Oscar and
I have remained friends through the years. He chose law
enforcement, eventually working his way into a leadership
position in the Sex Crimes Unit; and I chose engineering, and
ultimately wound up doing technical writing.

I got to the Western Union office and dialed Oscar's cell number.
He recognized the number and answered after only one ring. “Hey,
John, what's up?” he asked.

“Can you talk?” I asked.

“Yeah, what's the matter?”

“I would appreciate your checking someone out for me,” I said,
and gave him the information about Cathy's mother.

I didn't tell him why, and he didn't ask. I also didn't tell him
about what happened the day before. He was my friend, but we had
an agreement that I wouldn't talk about anything that I did in
his jurisdiction unless someday I needed him to try to fix
something. That day hadn't come, but some day it might.

“No problem,” Oscar answered. “I'll get back to you later.”

I thanked Oscar and walked back home, occasionally fighting off
that uneasy feeling that a pedophile always has after the first
time with a new kid. I didn't think Cathy would tell; these kind
of kids rarely do. Drugged-out mothers and absentee fathers make
for lonely children who are desperate for any sort of affection –
especially male affection. They're not stupid, and they know that
if they open their mouths, it'll all be over.

Still, there's always that chance; and until Cathy got home from
school, I couldn't be sure how she'd reacted to our games. I
threw myself into my work, taking rambling discourses written by
other engineers and translating them into coherent,
understandable documents that others could actually read without
losing half their brain cells.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, about half an hour before Cathy
would be coming home from school, my cell phone rang. I
recognized the number of the pay phone in the bar by the police
station.

“Hello,” I answered. Never can be too careful.

“Hi John,” Oscar replied. “I have some information for you.”

Oscar gave me the run down on Rosa Baerga. She was a legal
immigrant from El Salvador who had been injured at work several
years prior, and had hired the law firm, who apparently
advertised heavily on the local Spanish-language radio stations.
Ultimately received a workers' compensation settlement that paid
her about $1,400 a month for life, plus ongoing medical care. She
probably also received food stamps, a rent subsidy, and so forth,
but Oscar didn't have access to that sort of information.

But he did have access to police records, and he was able to
learn that about six months before I met Cathy, Rosa had been
arrested for prostitution and drug possession, either of which
could have been grounds for deportation if she were convicted.
But the arresting officer rescinded the complaint, claiming it
was a case of mistaken identity; and no formal charges were ever
filed.

Oscar theorized that Rosa probably gave the arresting office a
blow job in return for being cut loose.

“These things happen all the time,” he explained, “especially
with non-citizens. They're all terrified of being deported, so
they'll do anything to make the arrest go away. And the cop
doesn't care because what difference does one drug-addicted whore
more or less make, anyway?”

Oscar didn't know anything about the law firm except that it was
a storefront operation run by two recent law school grads, and
that they advertised heavily in the Hispanic community. Probably
they were trying to get her to re-open her worker's comp case, he
speculated.

I thanked Oscar for his help and started considering the
implications of what I'd learned about Rosa Baerga. She received
enough income from the comp settlement to barely exist, but
apparently she also had a drug problem and needed to supplement
her income by turning tricks and possibly doing some small-time
drug dealing. She also was a non-citizen, which made her
vulnerable, and therefore less likely to open her mouth if she
ever stopped using drugs long enough to get suspicious about me
spending time with her daughter.

On the other hand, she had been savvy enough to hire a mouthpiece
when she got hurt at work, so she was at least a notch or two
above the average neighborhood dipshits when it came to her
awareness of how the court system worked. That was problematic,
but probably could be managed by occasional gifts of cash, drugs,
or booze, to insure that she stayed stoned as much as possible.

My thought were interrupted by the high-pitched sing-song of a
child outside, in that universal melody of derision used by
children all over the world:

NAAA, NAAA, NAA NAA, NAAAH!
CATHY IS A BABY!
SHE PEES HERSELF LIKE CRAZY!

I looked out the window and saw another little girl, a little
older than Cathy, taunting her about having peed herself and
pointing to the tell-tale wet spot on Cathy's shorts as Cathy
pounded on the door to her house.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Cathy sobbed, but the older girl just kept
pointing and laughing, as a small crowd of neighborhood kids
started gathering and sharing in the taunting. I decided to
intervene, opened the door, and went outside.

“Hey, what's going on here,” I asked as I approached the
children.

“Cathy peed herself like a little BABY!” the older girl said. She
looked like she was about eight or nine years old. Cathy looked
down at her shoes, as if she was ashamed to look at me.

“Oh, is that all?” I said, “That happens to everyone sometimes.
It's no big deal.”

“It never happens to ME!” the older girl taunted. “She's just a
BABY!”

“Who are you?” I asked, “And how old are you?”

“My name is Jessina and I'm nine. What's it to you?”

“My name is John,” I answered. “and I live right here.” I pointed
over my shoulder to my house. “I just like to know who the people
in the neighborhood are. Are you in Cathy's class in school?”

“Yes, she is!” Cathy sobbed before Jessina could answer. “She got
left back TWO TIMES! That's why she's nine years old and she's
still in the SECOND GRADE!”

Jessina turned about ten shades of red, which secretly pleased
me. But I looked at Jessina and said, “That's okay, honey. Some
kids just take a little more time to get used to school. I'm sure
you'll catch up and do fine.”

Jessina looked at me curiously, like she was about to say
something; but then the door opened, and there stood Rosa Baerga
in all her drug-addled glory. Narcotics, if I had to guess from
the look in her eyes. Probably started with Oxycontin from the
work injury. She had that tired, confused, tortured look about
her, like someone with a really bad pain, but who was too fucked
up to know for sure what was hurting.

“What the FUCK is going on here?” She demanded, louder than I
would have expected from a junkie. All the children except for
Cathy ran away, but Jessina stopped at the sidewalk and watched.

“Hi,” I said, “I'm John, you're next-door neighbor,” and held out
my hand. She took it, weakly, and looked more past me than at me.

“Mamita, este es el hombre que me permitiar su bano,” Cathy said
to her mother. She was telling her mother that I was the man who
had let her use my bathroom. A glimmer of recognition crept into
Rosa's eyes.

“Oh yeah,” Rosa muttered. “My name is Rosa. I was, uh, sick...
and sleeping... and I didn't hear her knocking,” Rosa said. “I'll
make sure she don't bother you no more.”

Shit, I thought. How do I turn this one around?

“It's no bother at all,” I said. “That's what neighbors are for,
after all. Cathy can come over whenever she likes, especially if
you're not feeling well and you need someone to keep an eye on
her.”

Rosa narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

“You got a woman?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I replied, not knowing whether she was offering
herself or merely checking on my domestic situation.

“Are you married? Or do you have a girlfriend, a ho, some kind of
woman?”

“Oh,” I replied, “Not right now. My wife passed away about a year
ago.” It wasn't a lie, either. I had married a Romanian woman for
money. But we decided to live together, both for economic reasons
and to make the marriage look legit. We even fucked a few times.
But she had been killed by a drunk driver a year prior.

“Oh, okay,” Rosa said. “I won't leave my daughter with a man
never had no woman,” she said. “That's not normal. But your wife
died. That's different. And I'm sick right now, so you can
babysit her now if you want.” She was getting fidgety, her
fingers starting to tremble and make random movements, and her
eyes starting to dart around aimlessly. She needed a fix, and it
showed.

“Okay, Rosa,” I said, “She can stay with me until you feel
better. Just come on over and get her when you're up to it.
Otherwise, she can stay all weekend if you need her to.”

“Okay,” Rosa said as she walked toward her door, getting more
fidgety with every passing second. “I have to work all night...
if I feel better, I mean, so maybe she can stay with you. If it's
okay, I mean.” Then she closed the door without waiting for me to
answer, leaving Cathy and me standing outside.

“Well, I guess we're bunking together this weekend,” I said to
Cathy. “Yaaay!” she responded, and threw her hands around my
waist. We walked toward my house and went inside, when she
realized I had no clothes for her.

“Wait,” she said, “What am I going to wear? These clothes are
all... you know...” she said.

“Don't worry about it, Cathy, I'll wash them, and then later on
or tomorrow we can buy you some new clothes.”

“YAAAAY!” she said, clapping her hands as we walked through the
door. “I NEVER get new clothes,” she said. “Mommy only buys me
old stuff from the Salvation Army!”

I walked her upstairs to the hall bathroom and started filling
the tub. She started undressing herself, as if I was her daddy
rather than some stranger she just met the day before. I watched
as she undressed. She was totally unashamed and unafraid, and I
felt almost guilty when my cock started to stir.

“How old are you, Cathy,” I asked.

“I just turned seven,” she answered, peeling off her piss-soaked
panties. When she was done, she stood up straight before me,
totally naked, as if she was asking for my approval.

“You're so beautiful,” I told her as I turned off the water, and
then lifted her naked body into the tub. “Let's get you washed up
before you get a rash.” I spent the next hour bathing Cathy,
paying special attention to her precious, pissy little cunny.
Then I stood her up to rinse her off.

“Why did you wet your pants?” I asked. Cathy looked down,
ashamed, and shrugged her shoulders.

“It's okay, honey. I'm not mad. I just want to know. Don't they
let you use the bathroom in school when you need to?”

“Yeah,” she said, “But the bathrooms are nasty in the afternoon.
They only clean them at night. And besides...” She hesitated,
obviously debating whether to say what was on her mind.

“Besides what, honey?” I asked.

She looked into my eyes, and continued.

“Besides,” she said quietly, “I wanted to save it for you. I
think you like watching me go pee.”

What a perceptive child. I lifted her up out of the tub, wrapped
her in a towel, and began drying her off.

“It's okay,” I said. “If you have to go pee while you're in
school, then just go. We can always make more pee. We'll just
give you a lot of water to drink. But don't wet your pants in
school. The kids will make fun of you, like they did today.”

After she was dried off, I gave her one of my tee-shirts to wear
– one that I chose because it was short enough that it barely
covered her pussy. Every time she moved, I got a glimpse of her
hairless charms. She wore it right up until I put her to bed.

While I was tucking her into the bed in my spare room, right
before she nodded off to sleep, she told me that she was still
mad at Jessina for embarrassing her. “I wish I could make her wet
HER pants,” Cathy said, “Then I would make fun of her, and then
we would be even.”

“Don't worry, Cathy,” I said. “We'll get even with her some day.”

--- END OF PART 2 ---
