The Itch

"Fuck discretion, just fuck my asshole! Please! If you don't I'll just die!"

"I don't know," said Parsons, spreading her cheeks, "I really don't know if I can manage to fit in there."

He stroked the rim of her anus and she moaned.

"You're a notorious tight ass, you know."

"Please, Parsons," she sobbed, "Please. I need it so bad! Please try!"

"Well, we're gonna need some sort of lube," he said.

Relief, or the hope of it, flooded her. He would do it. She lunged across her desk, sending papers flying, and took out a bottle of rose-scented hand lotion she kept in the drawer.

"This will do!" she cried, "It has to!"

"Yes, this could do the trick," he said, squirting a generous amount into his hand. Erica just then noticed that his trousers were already down and he was already hard--Thank God! She couldn't take much more waiting.

"Grab tight to the desk, Erica," Parsons instructed, "This will take some work."

She dutifully obeyed and then moaned as he slathered lotion all over her asshole, a finger slipping in oh-so-close to the itch. And now, his cock was there between her asscheeks, pushing, probing, prodding. It would never fit. But it had to. She needed it! It was the only way to scratch the itch!

She bore down and pushed back.

"Oh God!" she cried out, "Oh God Yes!"

His cock had pushed inside her. Pain mixed with pleasure, humiliation with ecstasy. And over all, relief! Sweet relief! He was scratching her itch!

"Oh yes, Parsons, yes!" she whined, "More! More!"

She pushed back, he pushed forward. His pubes were tickling her ass. She could almost feel his cock in her throat!

"That's it, Parson, that's it!" she cried, "Fuck me, Parsons! Fuck me hard! Fuck my ass! Fuck me forever!"

And now he was pumping hard and deep in her asshole. Her glasses fell unheeded to the desktop. Her pussy was dripping and singing, her mind was exploding. Speech was no longer an option but she squealed, moaned and grunted with abandon. She didn't know where she was or who she was, only that she was being fucked up the ass. She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't being fucked up the ass or ever wanting anything but to continue to be fucked up the ass.

At last, she collapsed, sprawled across her desk, drooling on a report she would never read. There was a slurping noise as Parson worked himself out of her and Erica made an inarticulate sound in the back of her throat.

"Well, so much for discretion, hey Erica?" Parsons observed. "I think everybody knows about our little affair now."

Erica giggled. She wasn't sure why but she didn't care.

"Come on now, Ms. D. Up you go," he said, pulling her gently to her feet and pulling her skirt down to cover her ass. Her head wobbled about and she slumped against him, smiling at him in unconcerned confusion.

"That's it, Ms. D.," he said. "Say, while I've got you here, do you think I could get you to look at something?"

"Look at something..." she said.

"Gee, thanks," he said guiding her to her chair and pointing her face towards her computer.

"It's right here on this CD," he said, opening a file.

Erica blinked and stared, leaning forward until her eyes could focus.

Oh.

3 months later...

Erica awoke in her bed. Parsons was gone. So was the prostitute he had brought home last night. Her left breast still hurt from where she had bitten her.

She should do something, she supposed, but it was hard to know what. Even when an inkling of an idea crossed her mind, she couldn't motivate herself to finish thinking it, let alone executing it. Had she always been like this?

Her bladder was full. She should do something about that.

She waited.

beep beep beep

A chorus sang out from the dozen different colored pagers on her nightstand. She lunged for the nearest one, saw the code:

555-1212

Exercise time! Erica grinned. She had a purpose! She had to exercise! She had to keep fit and sexy! She shed the shredded white negligee from last night and donned a bright unitard the colors of rainbow sherbet, clipping her raspberry colored pager to the belt. She pulled on sneakers, leg warmers, and sweatbands and rushed to her home gym.

It was exercise time. That was all that mattered. That was all she thought of. Stretches, aerobics, stationary bike, calisthenics. Feel the burn. The burn in her thighs, her calves, her lungs, her bladder. She must keep fit!

After 2 hours, her pager went off again:

555-1818

Shower time! Breathing hard, she entered the shower. As the warm water hit her and the importance of cleanliness was forefront in her mind, she realized what she needed to do to relieve the raging agony that was her bladder. Urine gushed out of her, splattering on the tile. It was good to be clean she reminded herself as she worked up a lather. She kept forgetting to pee. Maybe she should ask Parsons to remind her. He could page her or something.

It was important to be clean.

She was clean. She was dry. She was pretty. She smelled nice. The urgent need to bathe and primp passed. She sat there in her robe and stared at the perfumed, made-up woman in the mirror.

She looks like she hasn't a thought in her head, Erica observed. What kind of life is that, always waiting to be told what to do. She should do something about it...but what?

Her pager went off. She grabbed the nearest one--the one she had worn during her exercises:

555-2727

Time to clean the house.

Even the muted, confused inner dialogue she had during exercise and shower time fled. She was a cleaning machine. She removed her robe and retrieved her little French Maid lingerie. Clipping her shinny black pager to the apron, she gave herself the briefest of checks in the mirror to assure her proper appearance and proceeded to clean the entire mansion.

When conscious thought returned, she was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a lavender peignoir with matching heals. Lunch was before her, a seared-ahi salad with a roasted pumpkin seed vinaigrette. She was dimly aware that she herself had made it, but had no idea how she had become such a gourmet. Never the less, she was ravenous and the meal was exquisite. She ate with gusto.

All her pleasures lately seemed to come from the physical. Eating, exercising, fucking. She had considered herself an intellectual once; ages ago it seemed.

But some things had to be sacrificed. She couldn't remember why but it was probably important.

Her pager went off:

555-4341

It was time to go to work! At last, something to occupy her mind! But she had to dress for it. She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom and selected a work outfit. She donned canary yellow stockings, an ivory silk miniskirt with matching jacket and only a push-up bra underneath. Pearl earrings and choker, big ivory-framed glasses, high healed pumps, and her bright yellow pager completed the ensemble. She tottered off to her home office to get to work.

Parsons now managed her financial holdings and the magazine, but Erica still had an important role to play! She had to do her work every day or the whole Davenport fortune would come crashing down in financial ruin! It was essential that she be up to date on everything.

Luckily, Parsons had used his connections with some computer guys to summarize everything on a daily basis so she could go over everything in the comfort of her home office. She shared everything with Parsons, of course, but her office was all her own. After all, Parsons wouldn't use anything made by Cybersoft--it was one of his endearing little eccentricities--and her office was Cybersoft heaven. It was completely decked out with nearly everything they made and a few things not even available to the public!

It had been a wedding present.

And here was today's disk that Parsons had so thoughtfully placed there for her. She slipped it in, clicked it open and let her mind be filled with everything she needed to know.

Her jaw went slack and she drooled a bit on the silk jacket.

beep beep beep

555-3423

Erica turned off the computer. Work time was over. Parsons was coming home. She never knew what time Parsons would be home or what he did all day or all night, but he was always thoughtful enough to page her so she could get ready for him. She could feel herself getting wet already.

beep beep beep

555-8731

Oh good. Parsons wanted her in lingerie. That usually meant he would take her as soon as he got home. Waiting for her husband always made her so horny. She hurried up stairs, discarded her suit and donned thong panties, push-up bra, garter belt, stockings, platform heals, glasses and pager, all of them a shiny royal purple. She tied a purple ribbon around her neck. Sort of like a collar. It seemed appropriate somehow.

She touched up her make up, going for the slutty look, brushed out her hair and then hurried off to the door to wait for Parsons. She stroked her labia in anticipation as she stood by the door. Waiting for Parsons always made her so horny.

"Welcome home, darling! Please fuck me like a whore!" she exclaimed when he came through the door. She always felt compelled to greet him like that when he came home unaccompanied. It was degrading, yes, but it often worked.

Not this time, however.

"Maybe in a little bit, sweet cheeks," he said, slapping her on the ass. "For now, get me a martini."

"Of course, darling," she said, trying to hide her disappointment and giving an exaggerated wiggle to her posterior as she went to the bar, Parsons following.

She made Parsons a dry vodka martini to his exact specifications. The vermouth bottle was to be waved over the shaker but never opened. It seemed a bit silly to Erica but Parsons knew best. He took the drink, sipped it, and nodded his approval. Her pussy grinned at having pleased him.

"Well, that little magazine of yours is finally going weekly," Parsons told her and her heart leapt. INSIGHT was still there, still hers. She had so much wanted to take it weekly but she had been so busy at home lately that she just wasn't able to make it into the office. Parsons had assured her that all was fine, that Phil Peters had taken over quite handily. Peters wouldn't have been her first choice, but Parsons knew best she supposed.

"I thought you would like to see the proofs for the cover story. Look who made the cover of the first weekly issue!" Parsons said, slapping down the printers proofs on the counter. There on the cover was Erica herself, blushing and beaming in that tight, short designer wedding dress Parsons had easily talked her into during one of her episodes when she was overcome with and urgent need to dress sexy. Her boobs looked like they were about to fall out of the thing as she tossed the bouquet.

They almost had, she recalled, but it didn't seem to matter at the time. All that had mattered was that she was doing what she needed to do more than anything. She was marrying Parsons.

She leafed through the article with a trembling hand. The cover story was written by Dale Brett. Dale Brett was writing for her magazine. She should have guessed that when Parsons set up that private interview with her after the wedding.

There it was in the article, Erica gushing and going on about how she had finally found a man that fulfilled her, who could give her what she needed, who could scratch where it itches. Oh God, she had actually said that hadn't she. Just before the part where she disparaged the advice of her friends, family and lawyers about marrying the reporter or at least getting a prenup. At that particular moment, she trusted Parsons completely.

It didn't matter whether she trusted him or not. A cold feeling in her gut told her that this marriage was going to last. Parsons had her number.

But why destroy her magazine too? Why this fluffy cover story? Why Dale?

"It's a little...light, don't you think?" she said timidly, unsure of herself.

"Oh, I don't know. People like the fluff. I say give them what they want. And it is your magazine, after all, so what better way to kick off the next phase of INSIGHT than by sharing our nuptial bliss with the readers?"

This couldn't be happening. This was more like something People or Jane would do, not INSIGHT. Not if it was going to compete with Time and Newsweek. Oh God, she had to do something to stop this! The first weekly issue had to be hard hitting! It just had to!

Maybe she could appeal to Parsons ego.

"But Darling, I wanted your story to be the cover of the first weekly," she said.

"My story? Which story was that?" Parsons asked.

"There....there was a story. I...I'm sure there was. It was about...."

She couldn't remember.

"Ooooooh, that story. The one about Cybersoft?"

Was that what it was about? Yes! Something about Cybersoft. Something important. Something bad.

"The one with the allegations that they were using subliminal mind control technology to corner the software market and sell all their shitty products?" Parsons continued.

God, was that what they were doing? That was horrible!

"Funny thing is, my chief informant changed her story. I think it was more of a lovers' quarrel with her boss. They've reconciled since then. She feels very sorry about the whole thing."

"Oh," said Erica, "Do you think maybe they somehow paid her off?"

It would explain so much if the story was true! But it couldn't be. No, it couldn't. Parsons confirmed it.

"I just really don't think Cybersoft has that kind of technology. Really, the rumors are probably just paranoid delusions of anticapitalist whackos," said Parsons.

"Oh. Yes, you're probably right," said Erica, looking down and adjusting a garter. "People just buy their products because they're the best available."

It was indisputable. Cybersoft could do no wrong. Everyone knew that. Even Parsons and he never even used their products.

"Of course, if they were using highly effective subliminal technology and someone had proof of it, they'd probably be quite anxious to keep that information out of the papers." Parsons observed, "They'd probably be willing to give a person anything they wanted in exchange for the evidence."

"Really? Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know..." said Parsons, pulling out his pager and pushing a button.

At that moment, her beepers went off.

12369

"Oh goody! Fuck time!" she said and started taking off her clothing. All curiosity about Cybersoft and her husband's story had fled. All that mattered was scratching the itch.

End
AMOWAT
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