I live in a modest home, in what's considered a shitty neighborhood, in a medium-sized city in New England. I'm the only homeowner on the street where I live, and mine is the only single-family home. Everyone else pays rent (or more accurately, has their rent paid for them by the state) on what the state euphemistically calls “town houses.”
My neighbors are mostly welfare mothers who usually are too drunk or stoned care very much about their children. The kids are paychecks. The moms use them to get more welfare, more food stamps, more SSI, and more of whatever the fuck other government programs they're milking. Having kids guarantees them a steady stream of income so they can stay drunk and stoned without having to actually work (although most of them supplement their incomes by turning tricks on the side).
As for me, I used to be an engineer. But after being “downsized” out of three jobs in five years, I started looking for a more dependable way to make a living. I settled on technical writing. I could do it from home, which saved me a fortune on commuting costs; and it pays well enough that I can live a pretty good life without working very hard, especially if I keep my expenses under control.
That's why I elected to live where I do, amongst the drugged-out welfare moms. It's cheap, the taxes are low, and no one bothers me. At least, that's what I tell people who are brazen enough to ask why a middle-aged, self-employed white guy with a Master's degree lives where I live. And it's true. But I also have another reason.
Living in the middle of a tribe of welfare mothers means there's a steady stream of unsupervised kids running around. The moms make sure the kids get up to go to school (wouldn't want some nosy truant officer coming around to check up on things, after all). But other than that, most of them don't give a damn what the kids do once they got home – as long as they do it outside. So they send the kids out to play minutes after they return home from school, and then lock their doors to keep them out.
In fact, quite often the doors are already locked when the kids get home from school because mommy's still stoned, passed out drunk, or otherwise too incapacitated or apathetic to let them in, no matter how hard they bang on the doors. It was exactly such a situation that convinced me to buy my home.
It was a warm, early spring day when I first went to look at the house with the lady real estate agent. It was in the afternoon, and the kids were just coming home from school. While the agent was blabbing on about some bullshit or another, I was looking out a side window at a little girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old, banging on the door of the house next door, shifting her weight from leg to leg and touching her pee hole through her pants, obviously desperate to pee.
While the agent was still babbling on, the little girl dropped her books and ran into the overgrown yard attached to what would be my home, which was the only semi-private yard on the block. I casually walked to a rear-facing window and looked out just in time to see the little girl position herself between two trees a few feet away from the window, completely pull off her shorts and panties, squat, and let loose. She'd had to go so badly that the pressure in her bladder propelled the pee stream several feet in front of her, where it formed a little puddle in the dirt.
When she was done, she just sat there for a moment as if catching her breath from the strain of holding it in for so long. Apparently she thought the trees shielded her from view, or maybe she just didn't care who saw her. Whatever the case, I stared at her hairless cunny until she got up and put her clothes back on.
Then I turned and said to the real estate agent (who had finally shut up) and said, “I'll take it.”
The title search, survey, and all that other horseshit took only a few weeks, and I was in the house before school was out for the summer. One of the first things I did was install several motion-activated hidden cameras facing the yard, to record the little girls who used it as a toilet. There were quite a few of them, actually, and I got to know their routines pretty well.
But the little girl next door was the most regular customer. She was a stunningly beautiful child, apparently of Hispanic descent, with long, curly brown hair and olive skin. She was slim and athletic-looking for such a young child, with very strong looking legs. She also had the cutest little pussy I'd ever seen. Almost every day, she peed in my yard, in the exact same place as she had the first time I'd watched. And my camera caught in all, in living color and HD quality.
I spent about a week jerking off to videos of that cute little pussy before I decided it was time to see it close up and in person. A few minutes before the kids would be getting home from school, I went into my yard with a random collection of garden tools and waited for the school bus to arrive. When I heard the hiss of the air brakes, I positioned myself in front of the two trees she used as her toilet, and started casually digging a little hole with a hand spade.
I heard her bang on the door, then bang again. My cock started to swell as I visualized her crossing her legs and touching her pussy, trying to will the pee to stay in for just another few moments. Then I heard her book bag drop to the ground, and her little footsteps running toward me. In a moment, she was standing there in front of me, pants and underpants already removed as she prepared to squat.
When she saw me, she let out a little scream. I looked up and smiled, as if greeting half-naked little girls in my back yard was the most normal thing in the world for me.
“Hello,” I said with a smile, “I'm John. Who are you?”
“Um, my name is Cathy,” she answered, still crossing her legs and squirming, her bladder begging for release.
“Glad to meet you, Cathy,” I said as I reached out to shake her tiny hand, and then went back to digging.
Cathy just stood there squirming, her desperation obviously too great for her to put her pants and panties back on, but not quite sure whether it was okay to pee right there. So I decided to help her along a bit.
“Hmm. You have your pants and underwear down,” I said, stating the obvious. “Are you just hot, or do you need to go pee?”
“I have to go pee, really, really bad,” she said, pushing her finger over her peehole, “But my door is locked and I can't get in. Is it okay if I do it here?”
“Well, if you have to go really, really bad, then of course, go right ahead and pee right here. I don't mind at all.”
Cathy lost no time squatting down in front of me, and I made no attempt to avert my gaze. She appeared to push a little, but nothing happened. As badly as she had to go, the pee wouldn't come out! She started to whine softly.
“What's the matter,” I asked, “does it hurt?”
“I can't make it come out,” she whined, apparently not realizing that it was the nervousness of peeing in front of a strange man that was causing her problem. I almost came in my jeans when she asked, “Can you help me make it come out?”
“Sure,” I said, with feigned calm, my dick straining against my pants so hard it was starting to hurt. I positioned myself on her left side, licked the tip of my right index finger and cautiously reached around her waist toward her beautiful little cunny. “Sometimes it helps if you tickle the pee hole a little bit,” I said, in order to let her know what I planned to do and to gauge her reaction. When she didn't protest, I started gently tickling the child's clitoris and urethra.
Cathy gasped and almost fell over. I steadies her by lifting her up a little and sitting her naked butt cheeks on my knee, so she was now facing my left with her legs still spread. I held her around her waist with my right hand and tickled her cunny with my left, and a second or too later, her urine starting flowing, just a trickle at first, and then a steady stream. I kept right on caressing her privates even after the flow stopped, and Cathy looked into my eyes with an uncertain expression on her face.
“They told us in school not to let anyone touch our private parts,” she said, but she made no attempt to stop me from masturbating her.
“Do you want me to stop?” I asked.
“No,” she said, not hesitating at all. “It feels good.”
“Okay,” I said, “but we can't keep doing it out here. Someone might see, and then we'd both get in trouble. So put your pants back on and let's go inside.”
The child reluctantly climbed down and put her panties and shorts back on, and followed me down the cellar stairs into the basement. I didn't want anyone to see me taking her inside. Even though the neighbors don't generally give a shit about their kids, why ask for trouble?
Once inside, we climbed the stairs to the first floor, and then the second, and stopped in the hall bathroom. Between my raging hard-on and my own full bladder, I needed relief of two different kinds. Cathy followed me into the bathroom and watched as I pulled off my pants and boxer shorts, and her eyes grew wide as saucers when she saw the size of my swollen cock.
“Do you have to pee, too?” she asked.
“Yes, honey, I have to pee real bad. But I can't make the pee come out when my penis is hard like this. I need to make it soft so I can pee.”
“How do you do that?” the child asked.
“Well, if you want, you can help me like I helped you,” I replied.
“Okay,” she said, and started tickling me right around my pisshole. I almost blew my load right then. I took her hand and wrapped it around my cock, and showed her how to rub it back and forth until I shot my load all over the toilet bowl, seat, and tank.
“Oh, Cathy,” I said, “You did that perfectly. I think I can pee now.” A few seconds later, the pee started flowing from my wilted cock, as Cathy watched attentively.
“Have you ever seen a boy pee before?” I asked.
“Yeah, lots of times, but never this close,” she replied as my bladder finally emptied itself. I gave my dick the customary squeeze and three shakes, which made Cathy giggle.
“Are you gonna make me feel good again now?” She asked.
“I sure am,” I replied, and reached out toward her. I grasped the bottom hem of her tank top, and she raised her hands above her head as if being undressed by a stranger was the most natural thing in the world. I then removed her shorts, and then her panties, and finally her sneakers and socks. I then admired her beautiful, slim body, without the slightest hint of puberty marring her flat chest or her beautiful hairless pussy.
I carried her into my bedroom, me still naked from the waist down, and laid her on my bed while I removed the rest of my clothes. Then I laid down next to her and gently started fondling her tiny nipples.
“Oooh,” Cathy said, obviously not expecting me to touch her chest. “That feels good,” she said, as she reached to caress her pussy with her own hand. I moved it away and said, “Just let me do this for you, honey. You just lay back and relax.”
I continued to fondle her nipples, and then made my way down her belly, and over her hips to her legs, carefully avoiding her pussy. She opened her legs and her little clitoris poked out from between her lips, and she reached down to touch it again. But I pushed her hand away again, and told her to relax.
I worked my hand up the inside of her other leg, and paused for a moment less than an inch from her pussy. “Pleeeease!” she cried, “touch me THERE!” I slowly moved my fingertip to her pussy lips, gently tickling her labia as I made my way to her clitoris. “Ahhhhhhh!” she cried as my finger hit its mark and started slowly, gently circling and fondling her clitoris. In less than a minute, she had her first orgasm, bucking wildly on the bed as little girls usually do their first time, and then relaxing, all of her energy spent, her face a picture of absolute contentment.
I let her lay there for a while, gently massaging her belly. Finally she looked at me and asked, “Can we do this again tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I replied, “we can do it as often as you like.”