Miss Anderson's IBS

But, perhaps she had developed a rash psychologically. She recalled as an undergraduate reading in psychology that persons can develop rashes through stress. Maybe she had in fact developed one on her anus? Goodness, imagine going to a doctor about that! What could be more embarrassing!

Heck, she couldn't even imagine herself checking, bending over in front of her bedroom mirror to inspect her anus. Of course, that wouldn't likely work as she wouldn't be able to look very closely.

She suddenly realized that she had never before in her life ever seen her anus. How weird is that! Is there any other part of her body she hadn't yet seen? Not really. Even her back she had seen many times in a mirror, as well as in photographs of her when swimming or sunning.

She had seen her butt. She in fact felt she had a pretty nice bottom. She had looked at that in the mirror a few times. But, never for very long. She embarrassed herself by doing something like that for too long. She didn't feel so bad about admiring a lovely new hairdo, how pretty she looked after putting on her make-up, or even the firm, round shape of her breasts. Admiring her bottom though seemed a bit silly, if not rather inappropriate.

In any case, she had never bent over in front of a mirror so that her cheeks might part, and she most certainly had never spread them herself so that she could see her anus. It would be so weird to do that, but yet it also seemed so weird that she had never even seen it before. She did now wonder what it looked like, but blushed at having such a thought.

When she got home she rushed to the bathroom, unclasping and unzipping her skirt as she did so. It wasn't to take a look at her butt hole, it was to apply some moisturizing lotion. That might help with the irritating sensations.

She tossed her skirt into her bedroom as she sped by, then tore down her panties when she got to the bathroom and reached for the lotion.

She hesitated before she applied it, looking at herself in the mirror. Perhaps this was an overreaction. There really wasn't anything wrong with her anus. It was obviously all in her head, just compulsively intrusive thoughts.

Perhaps, but it wouldn't hurt to at least apply some lotion, and it might in fact help. She chuckled as she recalled her application of Calamine lotion to her hand when she thought she might have poison ivy. That had been a false alarm, and this most certainly wouldn't be any different.

She watched herself in the mirror, squatting down to the point that her face was out of sight, which was fortunate as she imagined that she looked rather silly, if not obscene, squatting like that, naked from the waist down.

She applied some moisturizing lotion to her index finger, a nice big glob, and then while holding onto the towel bar with her left hand she reached underneath herself to apply the lotion to her anus.

She gasped as she felt her finger touch her there. It was, after all, the first time she had directly touched her finger to her anus (without the protection of bathroom tissue). It was really quite surprising.

She hadn't realized how sensitive her anus was, how so many nerve cells must be there. Of course, she had wiped it a number of times each day but it never felt like this before. This time was strangely different.

She rubbed in the lotion, hoping that it would heal the itch.

It did feel good. It was like that sensation one has when one scratches an itch. It feels so soothing, so relieving. She didn't want to stop.

It was even more than soothing, as it was in fact distinctly pleasant. There was this tingly, ticklish, titillating sensation. Really very, very nice. She closed her eyes, her breathing deepened, her heart rate accelerated.

She spent much more time applying the lotion than she really needed. She wondered if perhaps she should get some of it inside. If there was a rash on her anus it could have also spread to inside her rectum, couldn't it?

That was absurd though and she knew it. She quickly removed her finger. She knew she was just about to discover what it would feel like to stick her finger up her butt. She felt ashamed of herself for having such an impulse and she got back to her feet and immediately washed her hands, that offending finger in particular. She couldn't even look at herself in the mirror.

She went to her bedroom to put on a fresh pair of panties and sweat pants.

The lotion though did seem to help, although she also wondered if it was the massaging of her finger rather than the lotion that relieved her distress, her urge. Whatever the reason, she went to sleep that evening with a sense of calm, of resolution, and she felt so good about that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Her doorbell rang. Someone was at the door. There was nothing unusual about that, but she had an odd premonition as she approached the door. She only opened it a crack, lodging her foot against it, just in case it was a home invader.

But, it wasn't. It was instead a rather friendly, good looking salesman. A salesman?

She hadn't seen a door-to-door salesman since she was a girl. She recalled the visits by the Avon salesmen her mother used to get, or was that her grandmother? "Yes, can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am, a very lovely day, isn't it?"

She sighed with frustration. Salesmen never get straight to the point, probably knowing that customers will then immediately express their disinterest in their product. They first tried to establish some pleasant relationship, making it harder to break it off. "Yes, yes, it is. What is it that you want?"

"If I could just have one minute of your time, young lady."

Young lady? Nobody had referred to her as a young lady for years. "Well, I am a bit busy," but she couldn't recall precisely what she had been doing just before the bell rang, nor what she might do once he left.

"This won't take any time at all, ma'am. Please, if I might? I promise you won't regret it."

"Yes, well, alright, just a minute." She was surprised that she was letting him inside. Wasn't that dangerous? Well, not likely. He clearly did have a large traveling case. It was really quite big, obviously filled with samples of his many products.

"I'm sure you will find it to be a minute well spent, young lady. In fact, I guarantee it."

Miss Anderson smiled. How could he guarantee that? She opened the door all the way and led him into her living room.

She sat down on the couch. He stood by his case, introducing himself as Mr. Stagliano, expressing the usual pleasantries about what a wonderful house it was and how lovely she kept her home. He did then get to the point. He opened up his case, unzipped the covering on the right hand side, and displayed his wares. It was an array of cleaning products.

Betsy smiled. It was like she was in an episode of The Twilight Zone, going back some thirty years. Nobody did this anymore, did they? The only door-to-door salesmen she met these days were kids selling things for a school trip, or handymen offering to do yard work or home repair. Cleaning products?

The gentleman went through a series of products, none of which she really needed. He would at times even provide a demonstration, intentionally spilling something on her coffee table, or even her rug, much to her apprehension. She was impressed though at each respective product's effectiveness, reminding her of those infomercials on television. But, even if this gentleman's products were as good as those on TV his prices were much worse. He apparently did not have the wide customer base that television provided.

Betsy felt sorry for him, and she considered buying at least some of his products just to be nice, but she just didn't need any of them. Plus, they were so ridiculously expensive. She was apologetic, but there just wasn't anything she wanted to purchase. Plus, she was feeling quite uncomfortable as she was experiencing another "anal attack" and was occasionally squirming her bottom on the couch.

"Well, alright, alright, I understand." He looked resigned to a sorry fate. "I s'pose I should just give it up. I just can't push the product anymore, just can't develop a client base."

Betsy again felt sorry for him. Perhaps the stain remover? It was impressive what it did with the ersatz stain he had created earlier.

He looked at her hesitantly and added, "I do have another line of product."

"You do? Oh, well, I suppose..." That was disappointing to hear. She had felt that she was finally rid of him. She was going to buy some of the cleaning fluid and have him be on his way, becoming a burden for some other woman. But now he was going to start all over again? It certainly hadn't been a minute; well past that in fact.

"Um, these are rather, well, a bit more personal."

"Personal?" He's not going to offer some feminine hygiene products, is he? She would most certainly just cut him off if that was the case, and then purchase the cleaning fluid.

"If I might ask, ma'am, have you been suffering from any irritating, frustrating burning, itching, or tingling?"

"Excuse me?!" What a question for a man to ask a woman? It was uncomfortable enough to see those feminine hygiene adds on television when she was watching with a gentleman friend. She was now having a man, a stranger, asking her directly about it? "Most certainly not."

"Oh? Oh, well, I must have misunderstood."

"Misunderstood? Excuse me?"

"Well, you were squirming there a bit when I was showing you the cleaning products. That's often a sign of a problem."

Betsy blushed. Was she that obvious? Apparently she was. She wondered what her colleagues, and students, might have been thinking the previous day. The itching and tingling had bothered her during a late afternoon meeting with the Dean. Her face grew a bit red.

"Is it an anal or a vaginal irritation? I specialize in the treatment of anal irritations, but I do have a few products for the vaginal."

Betsy looked away. This was really quite embarrassing. But, she had to admit, it was precisely what the doctor would order. Was it not a piece of good fortune for this salesman to stop by? Should she really pass up the opportunity? She was also within the privacy of her home. It might in fact be considerably less embarrassing to speak to him about it than to go through all the trouble of actually going to a doctor, speaking to nurses, assistants, and everyone else about it.

The salesman was apparently quite experienced at his work. He suggested in a very reassuring tone, "It's anal, isn't it, miss."

She nodded, keeping her eyes averted.

"Yes, yes," he nodded, sympathetically. "The anal irritations can be the most difficult but, rest assured, Miss Anderson, I will have precisely what you need." He then unzipped the other size of his case.

Betsy's eyes opened wide as she gazed upon the products. There were a variety of lotions, many of them probably much more effective than the one she had used the previous evening. That was rather encouraging. But, there were also a number of oddly shaped devices. Some were cylindrical, some were egg shaped, some were round, and they varied considerably in their size. Her face reddened as she considered what they might be used for. "Oh my," she softly exclaimed.

"Yes, quite an impressive selection, don't you think, Miss Anderson?"

"Um, well, yes, I guess," she acquiesced, not really knowing for sure what she was in fact seeing.

"Now, first, I think you might consider some lotions, ointments, creams. These can be really very, very helpful to a young lady."

She had to admit that she was curious about the creams and ointments. The lotion the previous evening had been helpful, but she could not help but think it was just her finger scratching the itch that did the trick. She said very softly, "Yes, well, um, if you have one to suggest, um, I would be willing to consider it."

"Well, precisely, ma'am, what is the nature of your sensations? Is it more of a tingling, an itching, or a tickling?"

Betsy blushed. It did make sense that it would be important to know the specific nature of the sensation but, frankly, she didn't feel she could describe it so precisely."Well, sir...'

"You can call me, John, Miss Anderson."

Actually, she would prefer to keep the appellations more impersonal, more formal, given the nature of the conversation. "Yes, well, um, I'm afraid, um...John, I can't really say which, you know, is more common. It's more like a mixture of all of them."

"Yes, yes, I understand," the man confidently asserted, as if he fully understood the woman's precise problem, as if her admission of ambiguity was itself highly informative. "I believe I have exactly what you need," he said, reaching into his case and removing a small vial of clear ointment. "I suspect this will do the trick."

Betsy reached for the product and tried to read its label, but she couldn't make sense of it. It wasn't that it was in a different language but the words seemed unintelligible. "Yes, well, alright, I'll try this. How much is it?"

The man chuckled. "Whoa! Don't be in such a rush. I can't have one of my customers purchasing a product that hasn't been proven to be successful. Let's see if it first works, alright?" He retrieved the vial from her hand.

"What?!"

"Certainly, certainly. I wouldn't want you to purchase a product that was in fact ineffective."

Betsy was mystified, although it was hardly any different than all of his other products, for which he had forthrightly first demonstrated their cleansing power. She supposed she could apply some of it, in the bathroom, and then let him know if it helped. It would be a but embarrassing but perhaps it was true that it might in fact be worthless. That would be good to know before she purchased it. However, she hardly wanted to go through a series of trials. Well, maybe the first one would work. "Alright then, I'll, um, give it a try." She held out her hand for the vial.

"Excellent! Kneel up here, on your couch, and we can give it a try."

"Excuse me?!"

"Oh yes, it's best that I provide the trial application. I can demonstrate the precise amount to use. Plus, I can observe for myself its effectiveness and, if it doesn't work, I will be able to diagnose the problem and offer a better choice that best matches your precise need."

"Mr. Stagliano."

"John," he corrected her.

"I really don't think I can have you do that." Was he being serious?

But, he just chucked, as if it was she who was being ridiculous. "Now don't be concerned. I have done this many, many times, and have never had an unhappy customer yet."

"Yes, well...," she continued to object.

But, before she could articulate her argument he added, "And, rest assured, we will only expose to view the anus. Your feminine modesty will be entirely protected."

Betsy rolled her eyes. It was certainly decent of him to keep her cunnie covered but that hardly diminished the embarrassment.

"It's not a sexual organ, ma'am, the anus. It's not like you're displaying your breasts or vagina, if I might be so bold as to say."

It was indeed very bold of him to so openly say such a thing, but he did have a point there, didn't he? Or, was that the point she made to Bobby? Or was that Bobby's point? She felt terribly confused. "I really don't know."

He got up from the couch, apparently not going to take no for an answer. He took her hand and drew her from the couch, and turned her around. "Now, why don't you get on your knees here, on the couch. You can rest your face comfortably on a pillow, over here," he instructed, gesturing toward the left hand side of the couch, "your knees here," he gestured toward the center of the couch.

Betsy followed his lead, feeling a little dumfounded that she was doing so. But, he had apparently done this with many women before. Apparently what she was about to do wasn't at all unusual. And, it would be so, so nice to gain release from this burden, relief from the recurrent irritation. She got into the position he instructed, her face pressed down into a pillow, hiding within it to cover her embarrassment, her bottom up in the air.

The salesman observed. "That's a very fine skirt, Miss Anderson. Quite pretty and it rests along the curves of your derriere very nicely."

Betsy replied, her voice muffled by the pillow, "Oh, yes, well thank you." It seemed a bit odd for a salesman to compliment the fit of her skirt along her bottom, but hardly any odder than to be positioning herself like this for him.

"I must say, it's almost a shame to lift it out of the way," but he did precisely that, drawing her skirt slowly up her thighs and over her bottom.

Betsy lifted her face from the pillow, her eyes widening in shock. Of course, this was what he said he would do, but the distressing reality became more evident, more vivid, as it actually happened.

He rested her skirt over her back. How could she let him do this, she wondered. "Ooooooooh," she whimpered as she realized that her bottom was poking up high in the air, clothed only in her panties. She was grateful though that she was wearing one of her more prettier panties. They in fact matched her dress: white with daisies sprinkled all around.

"Oh, and very lovely panties as well, Miss Anderson."

"Thank you, Mr. Stagliano," she quietly whispered.

"John," he again corrected her, patting her bottom.

Betsy didn't respond. She just felt so mortified but also, she realized, very, very excited. She could feel her cunnie warming, perhaps even moistening, and even worse, or better, depending upon one's perspective, a tingling of her anus. She was reflexively squeezing her sphincter. Perhaps it was good that her anus was acting up when he applied the ointment. That would provide a good test of its effectiveness.

"Oh Mr. Stagliano," she moaned as she felt the salesman slip his fingers under the waistband of her panties. She squeezed the pillow against her face with her hands. Has he really done this with other customers? It just seemed like such a strange thing to consent to.

The salesman slowly pulled Betsy's panties down, very gradually drawing into view the sweet curves, the pale ivory skin, the delightful crack of her womanly derriere. He could not help but smile. It was not very professional of him but what man would, or could, not smile at such a sight: a woman's naked perky fanny poking up in the air. It just seemed to be begging for a spanking, or at least an affectionate caress. But, being the true salesman that he was, he didn't take advantage of the customer. He carefully parked her panties just below her anus. Her feminine slit modestly hidden from view.

"Well, let's first take a look at this little bugger," he suggested as he leaned over and reached for her cheeks.

Betsy turned her face, freeing it from the pillow. "Oh goodness, must you look at it, sir?"

John patted her now bare bottom with his right hand, chuckling at her embarrassment. "Well, gracious, Miss Anderson, of course. I must have a good look. Perhaps I will discover that you would be better suited for a different brand."

"Yes, yes, I imagine so. It just seems so shameful." She bit her lower lip and braced herself for the salesman's anal examination.

John held the ointment in one hand as he used the other to spread open Miss Anderson's cheeks. He nodded as Miss Anderson's puckered, brown curly hole came into view. "Yes, yes, I see the problem."

Betsy's face felt so hot, but she was pleased to hear that the man could see the problem. That was a big relief. "You can see it?"

"Yes, yes, I see it very, very well. It's most definitely a very active and excited anus."

"Excuse me?"

Mr. Stagliano deftly opened the cap on the small vial with one hand, still holding onto Miss Anderson's cheek with the other. He squeezed a small dollop of ointment directly onto Miss Anderson's pretty little brown star.