Mr. Logan moved in next door about three years ago and in a short while we got to know him fairly well. He was single but seemed to always have a pre...ty woman hanging around. My dad used to call them eye candy, mom called them gold diggers. Mr. Logan was a damn good-looking man, about 6’2, 220 pounds, with a deep chest, broad shoulders, narrow waist, solid-looking butt, and long athletic legs. To use a much-used cliché, he looked like a Michelangelo statue. We would see him jogging almost. He circled a couple of times, then he pushed his hand back down again, fingers hard against my skin. There was a momentary pause as his fingers encountered my underwear, and then with firm pressure, his fingers dipped down to slip underneath. His hand carried on down, under my underwear, now in direct contact with my body. Deep in my mind something was screaming out that this was very wrong. But I was completely helpless now, and his hand was by far too involved for me to try to stop what was. More

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