The Air that Kisseth Thee {Redman} {MF Obsession}
(c) October 2000

Author's note: Always interested in comments or 
corrections. Reach me at redman@seductive.com.


No, no, the utmost share 
   Of my desire shall be 
Only to kiss that air 
   That lately kissed thee.

- from "To Electra" by Robert Herrick



                 The Air that Kisseth Thee



   "Bob, would you mind dropping me off to pick up my 
car? I had it serviced today and the place just called 
and told me it was ready."

   "Of course, Susan. I'd be happy to. What time do 
you need to leave?"

   "I know you like to stay late, but the manager said 
they closed at 5:30 today."

   "Hey, I didn't even realize it was after 5:00 
already. Sure we can go right now."

   After we got in my car, Susan asked, "How's 
Margaret and Katy doing?"

   "Well let's see, Margaret's doing well. She's 
liking her job a little better now. She got a new boss 
that actually seems to want to try and make things 
work. Katy? She's still sixteen, so what can I say. 
She's insane but we can't lock her away."

   "Is she still dating 'that boy'?"

   "Oh yea, they're still inseparable. Thank goodness 
he goes off to school next year when she's a senior. 
At least we'll have one year of high school without 
'that boy' hanging around every night."

   "Here we are. Thanks for giving me a lift. I'll see 
you tomorrow, OK?"

   "Sure you don't need me to wait?"

   "No, they said it's ready. Thanks again! See ya!"

   I stayed anyway, just to make sure everything was 
fine. Susan must have known I would, because she came 
out, waving her keys to let me know the car was ready. 
I pulled away, but only for a little ways down the 
road until I could safely turn into a parking lot out 
of view. 

   There, I lay my head down into the passenger seat 
and smelled her fragrance. I had left the air off, 
just so it would linger in the enclosed space. It 
wasn't as strong as in her office, as in her chair 
where she sat for hours every day. But, if I closed my 
eyes, I could almost feel her.

   With my eyes closed I could see the splash of light 
freckles that are on Susan's cleavage. I can taste her 
earlobes on my tongue and feel the warm, firm shape of 
her ass as I pull her tight against me. I can feel her 
nipples harden against my belly and taste the soft 
underside of her tongue with my own.

   It's as close as I would ever get, these lingering 
scents of Susan. It's been this way for me for three 
years now. 

   When she first came to the company, we had been 
instant friends. We shared common interest, a common 
approach to our jobs. Susan quickly found out that in 
the politics of our office, she could count on me to 
shoot straight with her and never stab her in the 
back. That's a rarity in my company. 

   We started going to lunch frequently. Mark used to 
go with us, but only six months after Susan started, 
Mark quit. After that we went out together, just the 
two of us. We became good friends.

   Not that I didn't find Susan attractive from the 
first, God knows she was. She was younger, but not 
obscenely younger, thirty-two to my forty. She had 
that dark hair and light skin thing going. Short and 
fit, Susan still taught dance in the evenings. She was 
more cute than beautiful, but cute in a mature, 
sensual way. 

   She just had an effect on men. More often than not 
when she would walk away from a group of men, the guys 
would just shake their heads and sigh. The cruder ones 
would make some lurid comment. 

   But, it was an unconscious thing with Susan. She 
wasn't a flirt or a gold-digger. In fact, she hated 
those kinds of women. She was hopelessly in love with 
her husband, Reggie.

   As I am with Margaret. Well, maybe I'm not 
hopeless, but I love my wife nonetheless. I've never 
cheated on her and I detest men that do; though there 
are plenty of those in my business. It's not as though 
I haven't had the opportunity. I still keep in shape 
and women, especially, seem to like my personality. We 
have a lot of social functions at work, cocktail 
parties and that sort of thing. It's not unknown that 
after some lady has too much wine, she might start 
hitting on me. But, I've never been interested in 
anyone else.

   Until Susan, that is. 

   There were really two things that started me down 
this path, her husband and my wife. First, Reggie is a 
class A jerk. Not to hear Susan talk about him of 
course, but if she talks long enough she can't help 
but describe him accurately. He's always buying stuff 
they don't need and just generally never considering 
her in anything he plans. It's almost too cliche: 
devoted, attractive gal with thoughtless moron for a 
husband.

   Then there's my wife. My wife is damn near perfect. 
In fact, objectively speaking she's more perfect than 
Susan is. But one of my wife's few faults is a touch 
of jealousy.

   Toward the end of that first year, Margaret 
attended one of our company's banquets. She met Susan 
for the first time, saw our friendship and rapport, 
and instantly disliked her. It didn't much matter that 
they were so much alike. It mattered more that she was 
cute and that Margaret felt threatened.

   From that night on Susan was known in our house as 
"the little, dark-haired girl." It wasn't every 
conversation or every day, but often enough I heard 
that phrase to imprint it on my mind. When Margaret found 
out we went to lunch together, it upset her even more. 
When confronted, I did what any man would do, I lied.

   "No dear, we only go out occasionally." In fact, it 
was more like three times a week.

   "No dear, we only talk about work." In fact, we 
only talked about work when either of us just had to 
blow off steam. Usually work was the last thing we'd 
wanted to talk about.

   Eventually it was "No dear, I went to lunch by 
myself today," or "No dear, I haven't talked to her in 
a while."

   I didn't have to lie every day. Just often enough 
over three or four months, maybe longer. Gradually I 
started thinking about Susan not just as a friend, but 
as someone that made my wife jealous. Eventually my 
wife's jealousy became justified.

   I began to notice little things about Susan I 
hadn't seen before. I noticed that she washed her hair 
every other day. I couldn't decide if I liked it 
better the day after she washed it when it was perfect 
or the next day when it tended to by more unruly. On 
the former days I could image how a husband would be 
proud to show her off. On the latter, I could image 
how it would look after an afternoon of passionate 
sex.

   I noticed Susan's perfume. It was never heavy, just 
a hint, but slightly more potent behind her. I tried 
to determine whether she sprayed it behind her ears or 
on the nape of her neck. For the life of me I have not 
yet determined a way to find out except to put my nose 
against that lovely, thin neck and breathe her in. 
Breathe her in while I run my hands along her firm 
belly and over her lovely, soft breasts.

   I noticed that the shape of her bottom looks 
delightful in her blue satin pants and that the 
freckles on her decollete contrast best with her black 
scoopneck sweater. I noticed that she played classical 
music when she had a lot of detail work to do, light 
jazz when she was feeling more romantic and reggae 
when she was horny.

   But just as my wife's jealousy made me reassess my 
attraction to Susan, my attraction to her made me 
reassess our friendship. I felt guilty about lying to 
Margaret and guilty for not being able to tell Susan 
why I became increasingly more uncomfortable being 
alone with her. Whenever she would tell me about 
Reggie, I found myself wanting to force her to see 
what an ass he was.

   The more attracted I became to her the more distant 
I felt I had to be, for both our sakes. That in itself 
was bad enough. My real problem came when the more 
distance I achieved, the safer the attraction became 
as well.

   So in the evening when everyone is gone, I enter 
her office and experience her from a distance. I lay 
my head on her chair, smelling her lingering 
fragrance. A year ago I found a pair of panty hose in 
her trash can that still retains her scent.

   But even these small tangible pieces of her are not 
enough. The lingering smell of her soon becomes 
overwhelmed by my own imagination. After orbiting 
around her on the periphery all day, when everyone 
leaves and the office is quiet, I can dream and 
imagine what life would be like for us together.

   After work we would share a glass of wine and I 
would fix her salad the way she likes it, with cherry 
tomatoes and just the right sized croutons. She would 
play her jazz, or better yet her reggae, and afterward 
we would take a long bath together. I would wash her 
back and massage her feet. Every other day I would 
wash her hair for her.

   Applying a large, fluffy towel to her body, I would 
caress every part of her dry. I would coax her to our 
bed, kissing and caressing every inch of her body. I 
would spend hours licking and touching the parts of 
her I have longed for: her breasts, her hips, her 
thighs and her cunt.

   On these days spent daydreaming of her, I find 
myself going home horny and frustrated. But, the 
feeling of guilt when I think of Susan while I'm in 
Margaret's arms troubles me. I try to think of 
anything else but her; try to concentrate on my wife 
and her needs, try to think about any other woman at 
all. Sometimes I even succeed. Often enough though, 
it's Susan I end up imagining.

   The worst part of my guilt is that I feel I've 
cheated both of these trusting women when this 
happens. It's bad enough to dwell on another women 
when I'm with my wife. It's worse to feel like I'm 
cheating on Susan when I'm making love to my wife.

   How long can a man want what he can't have? How 
long can a man's hands long to hold that which he 
cannot touch?

   Susan's fragrance lingers with me: in her office, 
on my car seat, on a pair of discarded pantyhose. For 
as long as I can see her, for as long as I can taste 
the air that she's walked through, my desire will last 
at least that long. And maybe longer.