Compassion of Tara-Ann /pedo/Janus

Please note: All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.

Please keep in mind the difference between fantasy and reality.

You could say it all happened because of Girl Scouts. And because of lemonade. When I was nine years, like so many other girls, I was a Girl Scout. I wanted to get my Civics badge and my troop leader suggested helping out an elderly person in my neighborhood for a month. When I told my mom of the idea, she suggested Mr. Dawson next door.

We had known the Dawsons for a long time, even before I was born. When I was younger, around four or five, we often had the Dawsons over for dinner on the weekends. They were an old couple whose children had moved too far away to visit often. Mom said it was important to be sociable and neighborly, especially since they only had each other for company. Besides, this was the 70s and people did this sort of thing more often back then.

When I was eight Mrs. Dawson died, of old age I think. My mom started visiting Mr. Dawson more often, almost every other night. When she couldn't go, my dad would visit. "Hi there, Mr. Dawson," he'd say, "what are you up to tonight?" Mr. Dawson would say hello and they would chat for a few minutes. I remember once when my dad came home from visiting and my mom asked him how it went. My dad just shook his head and my mom looked a little sad.

It made sense then when my mom suggested I spend time with Mr. Dawson to cheer him up. I didn't mind, Mr. Dawson had always been nice to me but after Mrs. Dawson died, he seemed distant even with me. He used to smile a lot and play catch with me in the backyard but not anymore.

After school one day, I knocked on his door. He answered after a few knocks but I noticed he still had that distant look on his face, a sort of dazed expression that indicated he was hearing my words by not listening to them. It had never occurred to me how old Mr. Dawson was until then. I always thought of him as an adult, but certainly never elderly. His hair was much thinner now, and graying too. His posture was slightly stooped over as if his cardigan were too heavy.

Most days we would just sit in Mr. Dawson's backyard. Homemade lemonade was my specialty so I would make some in his kitchen and bring it to the gazebo. He seemed content to just listen to the crickets humming. I would sit for twenty minutes or so, trying to make small talk that he rarely responded to. Other times he would tend to his garden and I would help, handing him his tools or untangling the water hose.

One evening, we were sitting in his backyard as usual sipping my lemonade and waiting for the sunset. I was wearing a summer dress, nothing fancy, but I must have been sitting in a very un-ladylike fashion because when I glanced at Mr. Dawson, he was looking at me very intently. Not at my face but between my legs. I had my left foot propped up on the lawn chair as I picked at a mosquito bite on my knee. My hemline had risen sufficiently to give Mr. Dawson a clear view of my underwear.

Self-consciously, I took my foot off the chair and flattened my dress against my thighs. Before doing so, I made sure to look away from Mr. Dawson because I didn't want to embarrass him by catching him in the act.

Suddenly, he cleared his throat. I looked at him and he was gazing steadily at me, something he hadn't done for a long time, probably not since Mrs. Dawson was still here.

"So Tara-Ann," he said taking a sip of his lemonade. There was a short pause. "... How was school today?"

It wasn't much but that was more words than he had spoken for the entire first week.

The next night, though, we returned to the same old routine. I made some lemonade in his kitchen and the we sat in the backyard. I tried to get him to talk some more but it was like before, just quiet answers that would drift to nothing. I went home that night feeling disappointed. I wanted to help Mr. Dawson, to make him happy but I didn't know how.

Several days later, we were sitting in his backyard again listening to the wind rustle the trees as only seems to happen on a summer evening. I was sitting on the lawn chair, straddling it really, because my legs were flung apart as I lay down and stared at the sky. I heard Mr. Dawson shift in his chair but when I raised my head to look at him, he curtly turned his head.

That was when the light bulb when off. I was only ten years old at the time, just a little girl really, and I didn't understand the first thing about grownups. I vaguely knew about pornography and understood the human reproductive system but I never really put two and two together.

The light was starting to dawn though. I noticed how Mr. Dawson was sitting up straighter now, not slumped down in the defeated way he usually sat in his chair. I also noticed him stealing glances at me. It never occurred to me that a grown man would find me attractive. I felt I was rather plain looking. I was of average height for my age, about 4'6" and my long brown hair was nothing special, I just let it go straight and it fell below my shoulders. My arms and legs were slim but muscular from years of gymnastics. I was completely flat, of course. And my behind, while pert, was likely indistinguishable from a boy's.

"What did you do in this neighborhood when you were growing up Mr. Dawson?" I must have asked him that question a million times in the past two weeks. My mom told me had grown up around here and that this would be a good opening question. The difference was that when I asked him this time, I had laid my head back so I was staring at the sky again. I had also propped up one foot on the lawn chair to let my hemline creep up a bit.

"Well, Tara-Ann," he began slowly. I didn't dare look up. I could feel him staring at me again but I wanted him to talk. "We used to dig play ball in the field, right over there where the Sanderson's house is."

We talked for half an hour. I didn't sit up until the end when I was ready to go.

I made sure to wear a dress each time I visited Mr. Dawson after that. I wasn't stupid, I knew it was wrong but it wasn't hurting me or Mr. Dawson so what was the problem? My mom told me about the dangers or strange men but this was Mr. Dawson.

Mr. Dawson and me really started to gell. Sometimes I would even just lie down on the grass and enjoy the green earth smell as we chatted. I got to know him really well too. He told me how the towering pine trees in the corner of his yard were planted when he was a teenager and the trees were barely a foot tall. How he and Mrs. Dawson drove around the country in the 50s in an old Buick and lived on five dollars a week.

I learned about all his kids: who fell from what tree, all the broken bones in the family, who failed algebra. He told me about how he met Mrs. Dawson at college and how frantic he was when she had an appendectomy a week into their honeymoon.

Through all these stories, my legs would be uncrossed and my hemline riding high. Sometimes I would look at Mr. Dawson out of the corner of my eye and I would see him staring at my underwear as he spoke. I noticed though that he still had that distant look on his face though, a sort of private sadness.

I admit I did feel a little thrill of showing my underwear to Mr. Dawson. It must have been pre-pubescent hormones because I discovered I liked doing it. I began to pick and choose which undies to wear, trying to decide which ones Mr. Dawson would like best. I even saved up my allowance to buy prettier lacy underwear that I could wear for Mr. Dawson. It was our little secret and I wanted to please him.

After a while, I didn't even need to avoid eye contact with Mr. Dawson as he checked me out. We would sometimes just sit at his patio table and chat. Eventually I would notice him glancing at my midsection and I would casually spread my legs for him. Then we would go on chatting. Mr. Dawson wouldn't stare at my crotch like some pervert, instead he would make eye contact as we talked, only occasionally letting his eyes dip to my underwear. It began to feel like the most normal thing: talking, hearing him reminisce, having a good time, spreading my legs a bit to give him a good view. Even so, Mr. Dawson's expression never changed from that faraway look. He never smiled.

It had been getting dark earlier so I had asked Mr. Dawson if I could stay to watch the stars come out. He said yes, of course. It had gotten quite dark, too dark to see much of anything but I was still lying on my back, my knees bent and my feet apart facing Mr. Dawson. I was beyond modesty at this point really. I must have dozed off because when I came to, it was much darker than before and the crickets were singing in full force.

My eyes adjusted to the light. I made out the form of Mr. Dawson, sitting next to me on the grass. I froze at that point. Sure, I had played the tempting Lolita up until now but I never guessed it would lead to this. For me, it was just a naughty game of peek-a-boo. But it was unmistakable: Mr. Dawson's probing hand as he fondled me through my underwear. I didn't know what to do so I let him continue for a few minutes. Finally, I cleared my throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mr. Dawson said. "Did I wake you Tara-Ann?" I sat up as his hand stealthily backed away from my crotch. Even in the dim light, I could see something that made my heart skip: Mr. Dawson was smiling.

"Not long," he said. He still had this grin on his face, it was so strange to see his usual glumness replaced by this radiant beam. "Were you dreaming?" he asked. He stood up and held out his hand to help me to my feet.

His smile looked like it would split open his face. He reminded me of a puppy wanting to be praised. This turned in my mind as I pondered my response. "Yes," I replied. "It was."

"Good." We stood there for a moment longer. He still had that goofy smile on his face.

The next evening I wondered whether or not I really should go back to see Mr. Dawson. I was old enough to know the difference between "good touch" and "bad touch" but I just couldn't bring myself to believe that Mr. Dawson would do anything bad. Part of me wondered if I had dreamt the whole thing.

I went over at the usual time and he was already sitting in the backyard, waiting for me. The goofy smile was gone but he seemed much more chipper than usual.

I tried to make the usual small talk with him but it didn't work. Everything seemed to lead to an uncomfortable silence, mostly from me. I just didn't know how to interact with him anymore knowing that he had felt me up.

I think Mr. Dawson sensed it too because after a few more long silences, he asked, "Would you mind mixing up some more of your lemonade, Tara-Ann? There should be some lemons in my refrigerator."

I was happy for the diversion. I headed to his kitchen and pulled out a cutting board and a sharp knife. The lemons were in the usual drawer in his refrigerator and I carefully washed and dried them. I was slicing lemons when I heard him come inside. I suddenly felt foolish for acting so childish and immature. Accusing Mr. Dawson of being bad was like scolding a puppy.

"Would you like some extra sugar in yours, Mr. Dawson?" I asked. Though my back was to him, I felt him come up behind me. And then I felt his hands on my waist. I froze.

"Mr. Dawson?" I began. But then before I could continue, he pulled up the hem of my skirt and slid his hand inside my underwear. His touch was rough against my skin. His finger delved deep between the puffy folds of my crotch and against a spot of me that no one had ever touched before.

"Mr. Dawson," I repeated. My hands tried to grab his hand, hidden underneath my cotton underwear. It was no use though. His free arm clenched me tight against him and there was no escape. I stood immobile as he fondled my hairless valley. On the countertop, the lemons lay forgotten but their fresh scent still filled the kitchen.

Though I didn't like what he was doing, I let him touch me for several long minutes. Finally, I cleared my throat and said, "Mr. Dawson, I think I should finish making the lemonade. Don't you?" Abruptly, his hand and fingers stopped moving inside my underwear. We stood still for a moment like that before he removed his hand and shuffled back outside.

I took a deep breath. It wasn't until I picked up the knife that I realized how much I was shaking. Willing my nerves to calm down, I finished making the lemonade and brought it outside in two tall glasses. He was sitting in his chair as if nothing had happened. But now he had a silly grin on his face.

"Thank you, Tara-Ann," he said, taking his glass and beaming at me. I sat down across from him with mine but I wasn't thirsty. There was a long silence. Whenever I looked at him, he would just smile back at me. His wide, wide smile. I didn't know what to do so I finally got up and excused myself.

"Already?" he said, surprised. "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow evening, right?"

I didn't know how to respond so I just left. Once I was safely in my own bedroom, I tried to understand what had happened. He had definitely touched me this time, there was no doubt about that. And it was wrong, I knew that as well. But what was I supposed to do? Tell my mom? And then what would happen? Mr. Dawson would probably get in trouble. Big trouble. Despite what he had done, I just couldn't picture the thought of something bad happening to him.

And that's what I did. The next evening, during my usual time allotted for Mr. Dawson, I just stayed downstairs and watched TV. I had almost forgotten about it until bedtime when I glanced out my window. What I saw almost broke my heart.

Mr. Dawson was sitting alone in his gazebo. Every so often he would look around, as if he were searching for something, but then his gaze would return to nothing at all. I watched for several minutes until he finally got up and trundled into his house. He walked slowly, with a hunch in his shoulders. He closed the door behind him and I observed as the lights went out inside his house.

I just wanted to stay home and watch TV again the next night but I couldn't push the image of Mr. Dawson's lonely life from my head. When it came time, I headed over to his yard.

"Tara-Ann," he said at last, "would you mind going to the kitchen and making some lemonade again?" His eyes seemed brighter when he said this. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

I hesitated before saying what I had rehearsed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dawson," I told him. "I like sitting with you in the gazebo but I don't want to be alone with you in your house after last time." I said this all quickly and was staring at the ground when I said it. When I looked up, Mr. Dawson looked like he had the wind knocked out of him.

"No, no..." he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "It's not okay. I shouldn't have done that. I just... couldn't stop. Do you... forgive me?"

I just nodded. Mr. Dawson nodded too, but he couldn't look me in the face anymore. Instead, he just stared off into space. After a few minutes, I stood up and excused myself.

The next evening I went back only to find Mr. Dawson missing from the gazebo. He wasn't working in the garden either. I waited to see if he would show but he didn't so I went back inside.

The next night it was the same thing. And so until a week later when I was at my desk doing homework when I glanced out the window and saw Mr. Dawson working in his yard. He seemed older suddenly. The hunch in his back was even more pronounced now and his shuffle had slowed considerably. I noticed he seemed to be aimlessly wandering his yard as well. I pushed my homework aside and headed for the door.

He stopped and turned to me. I could tell he was momentarily confused. "Hello Tara-Ann," he said after a short pause.

"Oh fine," he said slowly. "Just fine, I suppose." Even as he spoke, there was a certain dullness in his eyes and voice.

After another pause, he nodded. We sat down. I thought about how we used to do this before everything changed. It was less than two weeks ago but it seemed like forever. I tried to think of what we talked about but I couldn't remember anything. When I looked at Mr. Dawson, though, his expression was still just sad and despondent.

Swallowing hard, I asked, "Mr. Dawson? Would you... like me to go make some lemonade?"

He didn't answer. I got up and headed for his kitchen, my heart pounding in my chest. What was I doing? I wondered if he would follow me again. Once in the kitchen, I began going through the motions of washing lemons, slicing them, and then mashing them with plenty of sugar. All the while, I listened carefully for Mr. Dawson. He wasn't coming though.

I had finished the lemonade and was cleaning up when I noticed his dish rack. All it held was one knife, one fork, and one plate. For some reason, the sadness of this struck a deep chord in me. I was only nine years old but I could understand loneliness. I understood why my parents had been diligently checking up on Mr. Dawson all this past year, why they had encouraged me to spend time with him. Several tears rolled down my cheek.

I made up my mind. Wiping my cheek dry, I poured two tall glasses of lemonade. Before taking them outside, however, I took off my underwear and left them neatly folded on the countertop.

The cool evening air was refreshing against my wet cheeks but it felt even stranger as it swept up my dress. Even though my hemline reached my knees, I felt naked and exposed as I crossed the lawn. Silently, I entered the gazebo and handed Mr. Dawson his glass before taking my chair.

I watched him absent-mindedly sip his lemonade. We sat quietly for several minutes. I was nervous and unsure of myself. When his glass was half-empty, I took a deep breath and shifted position in my chair. My foot came up against the table as I inspected my knee, just like that first time I unwittingly exposed my underwear to Mr. Dawson. Except this time, there was no underwear to obstruct his view.

I could feel my ears turning red, embarrassed by what I was doing. "Is your lemonade okay Mr. Dawson?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

He nodded. I watched as he glanced in my direction. His head froze as he spotted my bare privates. He stared for a long moment. I swallowed hard as I let his eyes devour me. Finally I said, "Mr. Dawson? Would you like me to get you some more lemonade?"

Again he didn't answer. I stood up, took his glass, and headed for the kitchen. I wondered if I would regret my actions.

I was pouring another glass when I heard him enter the house. I turned to face him. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen but he didn't come closer. I met his gaze. His eyes were still sad but no longer full of that diffuse unhappiness that I had seen earlier.

He didn't speak though. I didn't know what to say either so I lifted the hem of my dress, showing my hairless slit. We stood like that for a moment: me, a nine-year old girl, indecently revealing herself to a man in his sixties. Then he finally stepped forward and dropped to one knee before me.

I bit my tongue as I felt his fingers gently caressing my puffy crotch. His finger brushed against my pleasure spot and I stifled a flinch. I patiently held up the hem of my dress as he stroked my privates.

"You're so... beautiful," he whispered to me. "Painfully... beautiful. Please forgive me."

I didn't know how to respond. He continued touching the soft folds between my legs. His fingers explored, this time they were bolder and I felt one probe my moist entrance. I knew what we were doing was wrong but I also felt that no one was getting hurt. So I let him touch me.

Suddenly he stopped and stood up. "Turn around please, Tara-Ann," he ordered softly. Meekly, I did as he asked, dropping the hem of my dress. "Face away from me," he directed. "Whatever happens, don't turn around."

I heard him unzip his pants. My face turned beet-red as I realized he had taken out his thingie. I couldn't see it, of course, but even I was old enough to figure it out. I could hear the ragged sound of his breath as I stared straight ahead at his kitchen countertop. He placed one hand on my shoulder.

"Tara-Ann," he said hoarsely. "Don't turn around. Bow your head down and part your hair, so I can see your neck."

I did as he instructed. Then I felt it: something hot and wet landing on my neck. His grip tightened around my shoulder, I couldn't have turned around if I tried. I admit that I had no idea what had happened. I thought he had peed on me.

"Hold still, Tara-Ann," he told me, "I'll clean you up." I heard him putting himself away. Then he stepped to the sink and swiftly returned. He knelt down next to me and began wiping me off with a damp washcloth. When I turned to look at him, he had that silly grin on his face again.

"There!" he said. "Clean as a whistle!" I touched my hair and the back of my neck. He must not have peed on me too, I reasoned, because it wasn't terribly wet back there.

"Thank you, Mr Dawson," I said shyly. He just smiled at me and kissed my forehead.

I spent several hours that night replaying what had happened in my mind. The truth was I didn't want Mr Dawson to touch me or pee on me. But it seemed to make him so happy. At school, we always made jokes about slutty girls and the things they did. I wondered if the joke was now on me and I was one of those girls.

I decided I wasn't because I clearly didn't enjoy the things Mr Dawson was doing. Even so, I started having anxiety dreams about being at his house and being trapped in his kitchen with him. Looking back, I was definitely unraveling. But each night I would see Mr Dawson sitting alone in his gazebo and I couldn't bear seeing him so alone.

Some nights we would just sit and chat. He had returned to his normal old self, the chatty person he used to be when I would innocently flash my underwear at him. Other nights, though, he would ask me, "Tara-Ann, would you mind making some lemonade? I would love a glass."

I would go to the kitchen and take off my underwear. He would follow a few minutes later and I needed to be ready. I would lift the hem of my dress and he would touch me. Some nights it ended there, other nights he would make me face away from him and then he would pee on me, or so I thought. He always cleaned me up afterward though, smiling all the time.

After several weeks of this, only one new wrinkle was added. One night, I was dutifully holding up my dress hem as he fondled me when he asked me to get on my hands and knees. I did as he asked.

"That's a good girl," he told me. "Now just stay like that and look straight forward." I knew that part of the drill well enough. I never saw as much as a glimpse of Mr Dawson's anatomy during all the times he molested me.

"Don't be afraid now," he said softly as he lifted the hem of my dress and hiked it up until my bare bum was showing. I heard him unzip his pants. I wasn't sure of his intentions until I felt his warm knob of flesh poking at my behind. He didn't try to penetrate me. Instead, he just probed the puffy flesh between my legs with his tool, stroking his rubbery head against my hairless slit. I was silent as his manhood explored my girlish valley. At last, he settled on rubbing his shaft between the cheeks of my bum, occassionally probing my puckered entrance. After several minutes, I felt the now familiar hot wetness as he sprayed on my backside.

Thus became my existence at nine years old. Part of it was still normal: school, friends, TV, gymnastics. But at least three times a week I would go over to Mr Dawson's house to let him molest me. I turned ten and the meetings continued. I was now used to it. I felt as if I were disconnected from my body, as if I were watching him do this to some other girl, but not me. I'm not sure when but I eventually figured out that he was ejaculating on me, not peeing on me. Not that it mattered. I would go to his house, he would touch me, and then he would either make my neck and hair wet or make my bum wet. When he probed my behind, I always noticed how it would get ever-so-slightly slick back there. It wasn't until I was much older that I learned about pre-come.

Ultimately, it was his semen that proved to be his undoing. I came home one night and my mom noticed something dried and clumpy in my hair.

"Tara-Ann," she said, touching my matted hair, "what is this? Whatever did you get in your hair now?"

"Oh, it's nothing mom," I told her. "I think it's dirt." It was a good thing my ears were hidden behind my hair or my mom would have seen they were bright red.

"You should go take a shower, honey," she told me. I shrugged and did as I was told. I probably should have realized my mom was the one doing all the laundry. She noticed the stains on my dress that night and went through my hamper to fish out other similarly stained dresses. Mom was no dummy.

There was a big hubbub when the hammer came down. Mom secretly followed me to Mr Dawson's one night and spied on us through the window. She watched me take off my underwear and hand them to Mr Dawson before charging in, furious. There was a lot of yelling and accusing, all by my mom of course. The police came and took Mr Dawson away that night. No one ever asked me what happened though. I think my parents were afraid to know.

I never saw Mr Dawson again. When it was all over and done with, I was glad he was gone and glad I didn't have to go over to his house anymore. But I did hope that, wherever he was, he was doing okay.

Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?
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