Shortly after my father died in July 1953 an older couple at our church, Deacon and Mrs. Maxwell, took an interest in us. They’d come over with dresses, slips, socks and underwear which we were told to model. The underpants were those frilly, thin nylon ones you could see through so I refused to lift up my dress for the fat, bald old man who kept licking his lips.
Mom would, of course, spank me for being rude but I didn’t care. Mr. Maxwell loved to cuddle us and frequently pulled us into his lap for ‘rides’. I could feel him throbbing, growing in excitement as he drooled on our necks and cheeks.
I’d spent so much time with Dad that it was obvious that this man wasn’t normal--he was a creep!
Helen and I both told Mom that he couldn't keep his hands to himself.  He touched us where his hands had no business being but Mom refused to listen to us.
I’d turned six, began kindergarten, and Christmas came. Most of our new things came from the Maxwell’s, of course, but I wanted nothing except to have my dad back. Mom was furious when I climbed in Santa’s lap at the mall and said, "Keep your toys.  I have enough!  Please just tell God to send Daddy back.  I miss him SO much!"
When we got home Mom lathered up a bar of deodorant soap, thrust it into my mouth and made me swallow. Then she gave me a sixteen ounce glass of water to drink. Afterwards it took forever to quit throwing up but, alas, I was getting used to this ‘punishment’.
Why didn’t I tell? Tell who? Everyone thought Mom was a saint raising six kids under the age of eight. Besides, Mom said if I ever told there were people who did much worse things . . . and I’d go there to live never to see my brother and sisters ever again. She said they’d put me away behind bars because I wasn’t right. Dad never lied to me. It never occurred to me that Mom would.
When she sent us one fine day to the Maxwell house to fetch cookies, I was reluctant to go. Mom, however, refused to take ‘no’ for an answer so with Dee Dee, 4 and 1/2 years old in tow, we took our time getting there.
I rang the doorbell.
The old man came to the door wearing his T-shirt and a pair of jockey underwear! We were both surprised.
He’d asked Mom to send our eight year old sister, Helen. His disappointment was obvious though he was still ‘in heat’--his poker stuck straight out at us.
“Mrs. Maxwell left some fresh cookies in the kitchen for you.” His grin was sinister. “You’ll have to come with me to fetch them.”
“No, no way!”
I tugged at Dee Dee’s hand but the smell of the cookies was too much for her. She grabbed his extended hand and went inside with him.
Thinking I’d follow, he left the front door ajar.
Instead I ran around the house peering in the windows, watching, as he led my sister through the living room and into his bedroom. He picked her up, stretched himself across the bed and sat her astride his hips.
“Let’s play horsy first.”
Easing her dress up, he clutched her little fanny to bounce her up and down.
Gasping, afraid of what he’d do, I banged loudly on the window with my fists but, though our eyes met for an instant, he seemed in another world.
I ran around to the still open front door, burst into the bedroom and, with a strength beyond my years, pulled my sister off of him. “RUN!”
Shocked by my demeanor, she ran out the door as he struggled to get up.
I shook my finger at him and shouted as loud as I could.  “Stay away from us you dirty old man! I’ll call the police and tell them what you did.”
I kept shouting, "Leave us alone," back at him as I scurried outside knowing that he would have to dress.
Still, I feared he’d run over us with his car so kept us to the side of the road and, when a car came, we'd hide in the bushes. We arrived home breathless and without cookies.
Mom was furious!
I told her what happened, Dee Dee too, but Mom said I had a dirty mind.
Mom marched me, harshly pulling me by my hair into the bathroom and soaped my mouth again while Dee Dee tearfully watched.
“You are a sick, sick girl! How dare you tell such stories! Mr. Maxwell is a Christian!”
As if on cue, the phone rang. “I guess your girls have no gratitude.” Mr. Maxwell fumed. “Don’t bother us and we won’t bother you!”
Mom tried, in vain, to apologize for my conduct.
I steadfastly refused to apologize despite repeated soapings as well as beatings from the buckle of Dad's wide leather belt that Mom wore around her neck ... always.  She used it freely.
Deacon Maxwell was a bad, bad man and we didn’t need him in our lives. It didn’t matter if Mom chose not to believe me. What did matter to me was keeping my sisters away from him!
The Maxwell’s told another version of what happened, of course, and his wife hardly seemed as mad as Mom was. I do believe Mrs. Maxwell knew.
After Sunday School the next Sunday, I went to see Preacher Sammons and told him what Deacon Maxwell did, how he was dressed and how he came with a bulge in his shorts.  Preacher Sammons said HE believed me and he would take care of the situation.
When Mom heard that the Maxwell's had not only left the church but had moved out of their house, she cried uncontrollably.  Mom seemed to care MORE about the decadent chocolates they brought her  (which we kids weren't allowed to touch let alone EAT) than the welfare of her children.
You see, Mom and Mrs. Maxwell were in the room when we were 'modeling in those see-through underpants.  When he'd beckon the one who just finished modeling to come sit in his lap, if we didn't go directly to him, Mom would pick us up and sit us in his lap. 
Helen would model but she would absolutely throw a FIT ~ hitting, biting and screaming ~ after the first few months. 
Mom exempted HER from having to 'thank' him & Mrs. Maxwell. 
I wasn't exempt, she'd soap up my mouth and I'd puke for at least the next 24 hours.  However, I put BOTH my hands between my legs so he couldn't stick his finger where it didn't belong. 
Even after they moved, I was sure he would come back to harm me so stayed in the yard for a long time after that.
Sometimes it's not the strangers one needs to beware of but the people whom one sees day in and day out.  
If not for Mom, he would NEVER have laid a hand on us.  Shame on you!

****Be aware that this story has also been published under the name of ROBERT J. MAY despite my copyright.
That is why I'm no longer posting stories on Authorsden.com.