“Jed!” came the reply. Sam? Sam who? Oh God in heaven no. Sam, the voice fitted. Sam the postman. Oh Jesus on the cross! Sam was over fifty, 5' ...0”, thin as a rake and had a pock marked face under a head of unruly pepper pot hair. Sometimes he acted the local yokel, sometimes it wasn't an act. He may have been tall and thin, but his appendage was short and fat. Sam had been delayed that morning by a flat battery in the van. With one thing and another, he was two hours behind, and getting. My father was Italian with very dark skin, as was this beautiful hunk of flesh, and even the tip was a darker shade of pink than Phil's. I couldn't take my eyes off it. I'm not sure of everything that went through my mind in those few seconds, but I do remember thinking that as wrong as it was, I honestly and truly wanted to touch -- and to taste -- that cock. It was like an uncontrollable desire. I wanted to walk over and lick it. My eyes continued to soak in the sight. I saw dad's eyes. More

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