The Itch

"Oh God, Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh Parsons Yes!"

As one hand scratched, the other guided her out of the door way and closed the door. She wobbled a bit on her panties-bound legs as her head spun with the sheer pleasure of his relieving hands. He was guiding her now to the stairway, but here she could go no further and fell forward to her knees, away form his hand.

"Oh God, Parsons, Don't stop! Please don't stop! More!"

"It's all right, Erica," said Parsons, kneeling beside her on the stairs and resuming his ministrations to her itch. "Whatever you need, I'll try and give it to you."

"Oh yes!" mewled Erica. On her hands and knees, she was better able to arch her back towards his glorious healing hands. But still she needed more.

"Lower," she pleaded, "Lower."

"You need it lower?" he asked, hands moving assward.

"MmHmmmmmmm!" she answered. "Mooooooore. Looooooooowerrrrrrrr."

"Lower? You want me to scratch your ass?" he asked.

"Yessss!" she said, "My assssss itchessssss. Sssssscratch! Oh God yessssss!"

Her arms gave way and her face plowed into the stair, but she didn't care about her face right now. She was concentrating on thrusting her butt back at Parsons and the ineffable ecstasy that came from him scratching her ass.

"Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes..."

Parsons chuckled.

"I found the spot then?"

"Yesssss," she breathed. But the itch was moving again.

"No! Lower!" she cried.

"Lower?" he asked, his hands rounding the curve of her ass and heading downward.

"Lower!" she cried.

"Your legs?" he asked.

"No!" she cried. The itch wasn't headed down her legs. It was tunneling between them to...

"Here?" he asked, a single finger scratching the patch of skin between her asshole and her pussy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she shouted. She pushed back up on her hands.

"Deeper!" she cried as the itch penetrated her dripping sex. "Deeper! It's in my pussy!"

A thick finger slipped inside her.

"Oh yes, Parsons, Yes!" she cried, pushing back against his hands, squeezing the meaty digit that probed her.

"Deeper, Parsons!" she cried, "Fuck me! Fuck me deep!"

"You're sure that's what you want, Erica?" he asked as he pushed down her constricting panties, helping her out of them.

"Yes!" she cried. "Fuck me, Parsons! Please! I need it!"

"You're the boss," said Parsons and then the finger was replaced by a prick and he was pounding it into her from behind.

"Deeper! Deeper! Fuck me deeper!" she chanted, pushing back, sweat dripping off her hard nipples.

And then she was coming, over and over again. Her orgasm shook her consciousness and blurred her vision, igniting happy bright flares on the staircase before her. At last, she collapsed on the stairs, her tongue hanging out, her ass in the air, jism and quim running down her thighs to stain the carpet.

"Let's get you to bed, Erica," said Parsons.

"Bed," she repeated, not sure what the word meant but thinking it must be something nice. She let herself be led upstairs and indeed it was nice. Nice and soft and warm.

"There you go," he said after tucking her in. "Oh, I meant to ask you something. I've been getting these weird pages. Do you recognize this number?"

He showed her his pager and she somehow managed to focus.

555-0101

"Sleep time," she said and then she was gone.

***

Erica awoke feeling more content and refreshed than she had in years. She snuggled into the warm mass beside her.

Then she came fully awake with a shock. She was in bed with Parsons. She had slept with Parsons.

No. There was no place for euphemisms here. Parsons had fucked her silly. She had asked him to come here and then begged him to fuck her and he had. On the stairs no less. From behind.

Her mind reeled while her body quivered at the hazy memory.

"Hrmmmm!" growled Parsons, waking."Morning, boss," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Um...Good morning," she said. "Parsons last night was..."

Words failed her. What had she been thinking last night?

"Yeah, it was, wasn't it?" he said. "Must say, you took me by surprise. I had no idea you were even interested."

"No! I...I had an itch," she tried to explain.

"Hey, call it what you will, I'm just glad to be the one to scratch it," he said and stretched.

"No, really...." she tried to explain but since she had no idea why she had done it or what was happening to her, words failed.

"I had an itch..."

"Oooh, ... so this was a one time thing?" he asked.

It was hard to read him. Disappointed? Disbelieving?

"Yes," said her mouth. NO! shrieked her body.

"I...it would make work so...complicated."

"Oh, well, yeah. I guess it might," Parsons conceded. "Still, if you ever 'get an itch' again, I assure you, I can be discrete. I never reveal my sources."

Erica was forced to smile. He was being so sweet and understanding. She was trying to find a reason to blame him for all this, but she couldn't. It had all been her crazy idea. A need she could neither resist nor explain. She kissed his cheek.

"Thank you."

"No problem, Ms. D.," smiled Parsons, "Can I buy you breakfast on the way into the office?"

"Ah, no," she said, "I really think we should avoid arriving together. Discretion, like you said."

"You got it, Ms. D.," he said with a conspiratory wink. "I'll go ahead now--arrive early. Who knows, it might give me brownie points with the boss. You take care of yourself, ok?"

"Thanks, Parsons. I'll be fine."

It was a relief and yet not to see him go. Erica curled up in her bed and wondered what was wrong with her. With Parsons gone, she was better able to focus. She didn't know why she had done what she had but Parsons seemed to be willing to not make an issue of it. He would brag about it, no doubt--men always did--but he would make a show of being discrete so when the story spread it would be treated as one of many rumors that circulated about her. She had long ago mastered the art of casting doubt on rumors, especially the ones that were true.

She got dressed and headed for the office. She had to make up for the time wasted yesterday with her little problem. Once the first weekly went out, she would find a discrete therapist to help her keep from doing anything so stupid again.

As she was driving towards the office, her pager went off and instinctively she checked it.

555-3838

Oh, that reminded her: She needed to go shopping! She needed to buy something sexy! She cut across 3 lanes of objecting traffic and headed for a boutique she had once visited at the urging of her second husband. Luckily, it was still there. She needed to buy something sexy.

She told the saleswoman about her need. The bright-eyed Persian woman smiled and nodded. She would help her. That was good. She needed to buy something sexy.

The saleswoman showed her an assortment of clingy, low cut dresses. She took one that was shorter than most in a leopard print.

"I think this would look lovely on you," she said.

"But is it sexy?" asked Erica. It needed to be sexy.

"Oh yes, Miss. Very Sexy," the woman assured.

Erica sighed in relief.

"Good. I need to buy it."

"Don't you want to try it on?" asked the confused saleswoman. "Make sure it fits?"

"Oh...Yes. I should try it on." said Erica. "Make sure it's sexy."

She rushed to the dressing room and stripped down, then wiggled into the dress. It only stretched a third of the way down her thighs and displayed all the cleavage she had to offer. She was pretty sure it was sexy but she decided she should check with the saleswoman.

"Is this sexy?" she asked.

"Oh yes, Miss," said the saleswoman. "Very sexy. The men will go crazy over you in that dress."

Men. Parsons was a man. She wanted to look sexy for Parsons.

"I need to buy this," she insisted.

"Of course, Miss," said the saleswomen. "Do you need shoes to match the dress? It will look more sexy with the right shoes."

More sexy. The woman was brilliant. She set her up with a pair of black heals with faux-leopard fur across the toes and around the ankles. She also presented her with fishnet stockings, a black leather belt, matching hand bag, a pair of dangly gold earrings and topped it all off with a leopard skin pillbox hat, assuring her that each item made the outfit more sexy.

At last, she could buy her sexy outfit. She tottered to the dressing room and grabbed her purse. She gave the woman her credit card without bothering to ask what the total was. She signed the credit slip and was done. She had bought her sexy outfit.

Why?

Why was she shopping? She was supposed to be at work. She couldn't wear this outfit to work. She couldn't wear this outfit anywhere! It was indecent!

"This was a mistake," she told the saleswoman, "I can't wear this."

"But Miss," said the confused woman, "It is very sexy--like you wanted."

Before she could respond, her beeper went off. The beeper she had held in her hand ever since it went off in the car, never putting it down even when she changed clothing.

555-2929

She had to go to the office. Now. She rushed for her car as fast as she could, not bothering to retrieve the clothing she had left in the changing room. There wasn't time and it didn't matter. She had to go to the office. It was important.

The sense of urgency continued as she tore into the parking lot, rushed into the building and made her way through the bullpen. She could think of nothing else until she had stepped into her office. Only then did she register all the amazed stares and derisive sniggers that had followed her all the way here. Oh God, how could she have worn this dress to work?

She called her secretary, whom she had just walked past oblivious.

"Hold all my calls, Marcie, and reschedule any appointments for tomorrow. I'm busy."

"Yes Ms. Dav..." said the secretary as Erica switched off the intercom. She had to figure out what was wrong with her! She would have liked to have gone home--anywhere but here--but she just couldn't bring herself to walk through the bullpen again dressed like she was.

This was crazy. Was she going insane? Why was she acting like this? Why had she bought this outfit? Why had she worn it to the office? She had realized it was a mistake in the boutique--but then she got that page and had to rush to the office.

That page. It hadn't been from anyone. None of them had. Just numbers that didn't correspond to anyone's phone. God, that was it. Her pager was doing this to her.

"Ah the life of a page slave!" her third husband had said as he was called back to the hospital. But he hadn't meant it literally.

She stared at the pager in her hand and tried to turn it off. She really tried. But she needed it. She just couldn't be without it.

This was silly. Why should she turn off her pager? It couldn't make her do anything. It was her tool, not the other way around. She was a busy woman. Before her pager she had been swamped with phone calls. Now her cell phone number was a closely guarded secret that only her secretary knew. Her pager gave her control over whom she talked to and when she talked to them. She wasn't about to give up control just because some idiot kept dialing the wrong number!

Maybe it was just the beeping that was setting her on edge. She resolved to put it on vibrate. It took an effort but she did it. She clipped the thing to the belt of her slutty outfit.

That resolved, she focused on work. She would work long and hard until everyone else had gone home then rush to her car and go burn this dress. Tomorrow, she would come in her usual business attire and fire anyone who chose to comment! For now, though, she would try to ignore what she was wearing and make up for the time lost to her erratic behavior yesterday.

She still had to decide on a cover story. There was Johnson's review of the president's economic policy--not terribly interesting but definitely showed that they were serious. Sherman's report on the under-the-table lobbying by religious organizations--definitely hard hitting but it risked alienating a number of readers. Hartman's interview with Pakistani-Canadian singing sensation Aysha--bound to be popular but much too fluffy since the girl refused to talk politics or religion.

And then of course there was Parson's. Involuntarily, she looked up. He was there at his desk looking at her. She immediately looked down, blushing furiously. Damn! Well she couldn't pick his story now--if word ever got out it would be assumed that she had given him the cover in exchange for sex. She'd never be taken seriously again.

But oh God, what sex!

No! She couldn't think about it. It was humiliating, degrading, oh so very hot! She looked back up. He wasn't looking at her so her eyes lingered. What was it about him that was suddenly making her knees turn to jelly? He turned back to her and smiled. Again she looked away. She had to stop this! She got up and closed the blinds, blocking her view of the bullpen and Parsons.

Back to work. Parsons' story. What was it on anyway? It was an exposee of some sort. Something about Cybersoft. Everyone hated Cybersoft, so it wasn't likely to offend anyone other than the higher-ups of the company itself. Powerful enemies, since they were the force in software and now telecommunications since their recent merger. But Erica had never hesitated to step on the toes of giants. She wasn't particularly puny in the financial world herself.

Yes, an exposee on the hated monopolistic company would be well received. If only it hadn't been written by Parsons. And what was he exposing anyway?

This was crazy! She was sure that she had given him the go ahead to write the story. Just like she had given him the go-ahead last night to fuck her there on the stairs The memories of it flooded back. She was so warm. Warm and wet...

No! She had to focus. Something was wrong here. First, there was the thing with Parsons. Virile, potent Parsons. No! Focus! O.K., what else was strange recently. Well, there was the uncontrollable itching. Yes, that's what had led to all the weirdness with Parsons. It was connected!

What else? Parsons story. The story she still hadn't read. The story whose subject she couldn't remember. But she had tried to read it. Several times. Why hadn't she? It was important! She was sure of it. It was on...Cybersoft. Something about Cybersoft.

She couldn't remember. She wanted to read his report but no...That was how all of this had started. She was sure of it. She tried to read his report and...nothing. She just couldn't remember.

OK, she'd come back to the report. Something else had been weird. What was it?

Something vibrated against her hip. Her pager. She grabbed hold of it to see who was trying to contact her.

NO! She pressed the little device tightly against her hip. But she couldn't let go. She wanted to see the number. She needed to see the number.

The numbers of the pages. That was the other thing. The weird, nonsense pages she'd been getting since yesterday. But were was the connection?

It was buzzing again. Maybe it was important? No! She had gotten nothing but nonsense pages since yesterday. Who could they be from? How could she find out? Maybe the service department at Telecorp could trace them. That's it. She could call Telecorp. Even if they couldn't tell her who they were from she could at least get them to make them stop.

It was buzzing again. The urge to look at the number was tremendous. She was trembling! But she some how knew that if she gave in and looked at the number, she'd lose the mental trail she was following. And she was so close to puzzling out what was happening to her!

Where was she. Telecorp. The pager was from Telecorp....Which was recently bought out by Cybersoft! That was it!

The pager was from Cybersoft. The weird numbers came from them. She looked at the numbers and she got...the itch! The itch which drove her into the arms of Parsons. And Parsons was writing the article on Cybersoft--The article she couldn't read or remember. Full circle!

Parsons. Cybersoft. Somehow, they were doing something to her. Driving her crazy. But she was on to them now! She would get away--fly off to her vacation home in Barbados. Throw away the damned pager which she still clutched there at her waist. Then she could recover--stop longing for Parsons to fuck her. She would figure out exactly how they had done this to her and crush them!

And she would if only she could get rid of the pager and stay away from...Parsons.

The reporter was peeking through the door.

"Hey, Ms. D. Love the dress," he said.

Her stomach fluttered, but she scowled. He was making her feel this way. Somehow or another, impossible as it sounded, he was making her feel it.

"Hey, are you O.K.?" he asked, slipping into her office and closing the door behind him.

"No, I am not," she said coldly, trying not to show the conflicting torrent of emotions inside her. "And you're responsible for it. You and Cybersoft."

His face didn't reveal anything but there was a definite pause. A willful non-reaction. He was guilty as hell!

"What do you mean, Erica?" he asked.

"You know damn well, you son of a bitch," she growled. "You seduced me with this!"

She pulled the pager of her belt, but was careful not to look at its display, pointing it at him like a weapon.

"Erica, that's crazy," said Parsons. "That's your pager. A normal, everyday pager, just like mine."

He pulled a black pager from the holster at his belt.

"See," he said, pushing the 'test' button.

There was a beep and years of reflex action kicked in. She turned the display of her own pager and read:

555-6969

And now came the itch. She trembled as the skin of her back cried out to her, begging her for relief; The relief only Parsons could give.

But no! She would not be ruled by the urges and whims of her body. She was a strong-willed independent intellectual. She didn't need Parsons. She could have him tossed out of her office. At any moment she could stop him from slowly advancing upon her. Yes, she would stop trembling, tell him to stop, call security and bar him from the building. And then she'd scratch her own back.

If only she could reach it. She closed her eyes at the futility of it all.

"Here, let me help you with that," he whispered in her ear.

And oh, the sweet, sweet relief as she exhaled all resistance in one long sigh.

"Oh yes," she murmured. "So good....lower...please, lower..."

She placed her palms on her desk and arched her back. Her glasses slipped down her nose to hang precariously. His hands moved down, following the itch, bringing relief and obliterating worry. The itch was on her ass cheeks now and his hands followed, pulling up the short dress, slipping down her black panties. It felt so very, very good. No matter why, no matter how, the itch had to be scratched--that was all that mattered.

And the itch was moving again. Deeper. Deeper into her sex? No. The itch wasn't in her pussy, though her pussy ached and wept with arousal. No, it was headed...

Oh no...not that! Oh God, not that, not there.

"No," she whimpered "Stop...not that...I never...never..."

But the Itch was everything. It demanded satiation.

"Oh Fuck," she said, "Do it, Parsons, just do it! I can't take it anymore!"

"Do what, Erica?" he asked innocently, his hand dancing up and down her ass crack--so close and yet impossibly far from where she needed him. He knew. Of course, he knew. But still she would have to ask--to beg him for it. What else could she do? Her body was on his side.

"Please, Parsons," she begged, "Fuck me....Fuck me up the ass!"

"Erica, are you sure that's what you want?" he asked. There was a note of mockery in his voice now--she was sure of it. But it didn't matter.

"Yes! I need it! I need your hard dick up my asshole!"

"Right here, right now? That's not very discrete, Erica."