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The Air that Kisseth Thee
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 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
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 nonetheless. I've never
cheated on her and I detest 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 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 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 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 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
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 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.