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.

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 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. 

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