My hand instinctively moves from your left hip, fingertips caressing the flesh beneath, to cross the flat of your stomach and cup your right breast. A...ainst the night air, your bosom is a furnace, weighted and full from our on-going love making. My thumb traverses the outward swell of flesh to cosset firmly yet slowly the pointed bud that peaks your breast. My remaining hand shifts from your right hip and along the nearby valley to search for your mons. Finding its target, my middle finger. That's what his buddy said at least. He flipped an old van over while making a delivery. Samuel was some kind of courier, according to the friend. He was the kind who paid no income taxes. The man who explained that also handed me an envelope filled with cash. I never bothered to ask what he had carried in the panel vans he drove.I graduated high school shortly after Samuel went into the ground, after a closed casket service, I might add. My mother and even my dad seemed to be broken after that. More

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