tagMind ControlThe Itch

The Itch


Author's note: This story is a work of fiction, written for the entertainment of stable adults, describing activities that would be illegal, immoral, and probably impossible in real life. It is authorized for posting at www.literotica.com and may be downloaded or printed for individual consumption. Publication on any other site or in any other form without the author's consent is strictly prohibited and will result in some seriously shitty karma.

* * * * *

Erica Davenport weaved through traffic on her way to the office, her Jaguar handling like a dream through the L.A. traffic. Things were going great! INSIGHT, the magazine she had started just out of college was about to go weekly! This would quiet all the critics that said it was just a vanity piece for the heiress of the Davenport real estate fortune! It had taken plenty of sweat and over 20 years, but she had done it, making the publication a financial success with only her father's initial investment to get the thing started!

If only daddy had lived to see it. He had been very skeptical when she decided to go into journalism, having plans of his own for his only child. But she had wanted to succeed on her own terms, just like he had, and the real estate tycoon had supported her decision to study journalism, provided that she minor in business.

Upon graduation, he presented her with her magazine. She had been so angry with him! Like she couldn't see his plot to drive her into management so she could take over his empire! But Erica resolved to show him she could both manage the Davenport fortune and her magazine and still be the best damn editor in the business. And she had done it! Her father's fortune continued to grow under her guidance and now INSIGHT, her baby, was going weekly!

[beep beep beep]

Her pager went off. She grabbed the little device while deftly avoiding the asshole in the Chevy that had just cut her off.

343-3727 Dale Brett

Dale, her old schoolmate, was a correspondent for the society pages of the Los Angeles Times. With her wealth and striking beauty, Erica was a bit of a minor celebrity and Dale delighted in exposing the soap opera that was her life. Erica thought about answering her, thinking a plug for INSIGHT might be worth the aggravation of an interview with the insipid woman, but then decided to blow her off. That article on her divorce from Corbet last year still smarted. 'After marriage number 5 self-destructs, Ms. Davenport must be asking herself, Maybe it's me?'. Bitch!

Well, that's why she had the pager. She had a cell phone, of course, but only her personal assistants had the number. Her third husband, a heart surgeon, had referred to himself as a page-slave, but Erica considered her pager to be her guardian not her master. Any supplicant who wanted to speak to her had to beg admittance through her electronic doorman. If she wanted to, she would get back to them at her convenience. If not, she would hit the 'clear' button and forget about it. It saved the callers the embarrassment of having to be told that they weren't worth her time.

She pulled into her reserved spot at INSIGHT's office. Her magazine. Actually, the entire Davenport fortune was hers, but not like the magazine was. This she had built. Let the gossip columns call her a poor little rich girl if they must, no one could claim that INSIGHT had been inherited. She had built it from the ground up, owner and editor-in-chief from day one. She had nurtured her magazine from 5000 copies distributed quarterly to L.A. newsstands to 5,000,000 copies distributed throughout the English speaking world every month.

And next month, they were going weekly! God, it felt great!

She checked herself in the Jaguar's vanity mirror--she prided herself in always looking professional. Her soft auburn curls were held perfectly in place in a style that was professional while still being very feminine and bordering on glamorous. Her make-up was understated but enhanced her piercing green eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that perched on her aquiline nose. Her ivory suit was Armani and her jewelry was expensive but not noticeably so. She would much rather be known as the owner and editor-in-chief of INSIGHT than one of the wealthiest women in California. That didn't mean she had to look like Lou Grant though.

Everyone tried to look busy as she walked in to the office. She projected an air of confidence, leadership, doing her level best to hide her nervousness about the jump to weekly. This next issue was key. Yesterday they had sent off the March 1st issue to the printers, the first issue ever to have a date instead of a month on the cover. Now they had to put together another issue to go out March 7th and have it be spectacular enough to demand that the readership buy it. Once they had gotten over the hump of buying it more than once a week, they would be hooked.

And they would be hooked! She had a top notch reporting staff. People with all sorts of connections, including the kind you didn't talk about in polite company. She would put her reporters up against anyone that Time or Newsweek had. Actually, that was exactly what she intended to do. She cheerily greeted all of them there in 'the bullpen' outside her office and then let Marcie know that she wasn't to be disturbed--she had a cover story to pick!

* * *

Erica started back into consciousness. Her spectacles hung out of the corner of her mouth. She was thinking of Parsons--Why? She was in her office, sitting at her computer. She blinked. Her computer. That was it! She was trying to open the story Parsons had e-mailed to her. There was some problem--probably due to that damn Bartlett he insisted on using not jiving with the Cybersoft word processor on her PC. It had crashed her computer and she had rebooted and then...what?

She must have dozed off. She had been working awfully hard lately. INSIGHT was rising fast, giving Time and Newsweek cause to sit up and take notice. The pressure to keep the magazine's popularity building was enormous. Understandable that she should lose track of time. She put her glasses back on and checked her hair.

Parsons...Well, she'd better tell him about the problem. His desk was right outside her office. With the blinds open she could see he was there. She gave him a quick call and saw him pick up.

"Parsons, come to my office please," she said before he had even spoken.

He looked up at her through the glass, smiled and said "Be right there."

It occurred briefly to Erica that she would normally have either stepped over to his desk or explained the problem over the phone but before she had a chance to puzzle over this her beeper went off. In an instant, it was in her hand. Years of use had made the motion reflexive.


That was odd. The 555 prefix was reserved for television and movie phone numbers--it didn't correspond to any number in the real world.

She surmised that it must be somebody's code and that they had dialed her pager by mistake when she first noticed the itch. It was right below her bra strap. It was barely noticeable at first, but once she noticed it, it was impossible to ignore.

It also seemed impossible to reach. And she was desperately trying to reach it. She took off her jacket to try and get better access but without luck. She was trying to get it with her straight edge when Parsons came into her office.

Parsons! Thank God!

"Parsons, can you scratch my back?" she asked. "I've got an itch."

"Um, sure Ms. Davenport," said the reporter.

She turned her back to him and placed her hands on the side of her desk.

"It's in the middle, just below my shoulders. I can't seem to reach it."

"Right here?" he asked, finding just the right spot. Such sweet relief!

"Yes, that's it!" she cried, "That's it! Oh yes! Harder!"

He scratched harder. It felt so good! But now the itch was moving. He had to follow it!

"Lower, Parsons, lower!" she cried and he moved lower, scratching her lower back. It was bliss, pure bliss.

"That's it, Parsons, that's it! That's the spot!"

But it was moving again, lower. Parsons had to follow it.

"Lower, Parsons, lower," she pleaded.

"Lower?" he questioned.

"Yes! Please! Lower!"

"OK, Ms. Davenport," he said and his hands moved lower, scratching her itchy ass. The relief, the pleasure, the utter, ineffable joy.

"Oh, thank you Parsons," she said, panting, "Thank you!"

She stood from her bent-over position and saw the bemused look on her employee's face.

Oh God--what had she just done? She struggled to regain her composure.

"Thank you, Parsons," she said. "I...couldn't reach."

"Was that all that you needed Ms. Davenport?" he asked.

Was it? There was something else, wasn't there? Maybe there were a lot of things--things she couldn't let herself think about right now.

"Yes, um, that's all Parsons," she said. "Back to work."

"Right, back to work," he said and left, to her relief. She looked out to see several heads quickly turn away out in the bullpen. She blushed furiously.

What had she been doing? A report...She had been reviewing a report by...Parsons. She blushed and turned back to her computer. There it was on her desktop.

Erica started. Her computer was rebooting. When it was done, the monitor clock read 2:30. Damn! She checked her watch--it was accurate. Where had the time gone?

Parsons! His damn report had crashed her computer. Where was he? He wasn't at his desk. Probably went outside for a smoke. She should just wait for him to come back, she thought as she headed out of her office and up to the roof to find him. He was there with Freidmann and Higgins. He was smoking with one hand and talking on his cell phone with the other.

"Parsons" said Erica, not willing to wait. He pushed a button on his phone and looked inquisitively at her. "The report you sent me crashed my computer. You've cost me hours..."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Davenport. I'll fix it right away."


"Um, what was that?" she asked.

"I said, I'll fix the report and get it back to you."

Back. Her back. The itch in her back was back! She squirmed.

"Uh, Parsons, can you...could you...come to my office? Now?"

"You're the boss, Ms. D," he said and crushed out his smoke.

In the stairwell she stopped and turned to him.

"I've got an itch," she said, "Could you scratch it?"

"Sure, Ms. D. I'd be glad to. Where is it?"

"My back--right in the middle."

"Here under your bra strap?"

Erica blushed at his mention of her undergarment and was beginning to ask herself why she was asking an employee that she didn't even like to help her with such a personal problem, but then he started scratching and such thoughts fled. It felt so good!

"Oh yes, Parsons, yes!" she cried, grasping the handrail there in the stairwell. "That's the spot! That's the spot!"

But the spot was moving. Moving lower.

"Lower, Parsons, lower!" she pleaded. The need for the itch to be scratched was intensifying.

His hands chased the spot, bringing glorious but temporary relief as the itch danced slowly down her back and she begged his hands to follow. She pressed her face against the cold concrete of the stairwell, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she swung back and forth between the agony of the itching to the ecstasy of the scratching.

The itch reached her backside but it never occurred to her that she could probably reach her own buttocks. She just urged Parsons on his downward path.

"That's it, Parsons! That's it!" she cried in a frenzy. She struggled to undo her pants so he could scratch her bare ass.

"Oh yes, Parsons, yes!" she cried as at last she felt his fingers digging into her naked ass cheeks. The itch was gone and she was floating in a peaceful, ecstatic fog.

"Oh God yessssssssss," she murmured.

Then with a blink she came back to herself. Parsons was there, looking concerned, a hand on her shoulder as if he feared she might fall. She looked at him questioning, then down at herself. Down at her damp, auburn-thatched pussy.

"I'm not wearing any pants," she observed as she emerged from the blissful stupor. She had to say it to believe it.

Oh God, what had she just done? She scrambled to pull her pants back up, then looked sharply at Parsons.

"I'm not feeling well," she said. "Please refrain from mentioning this to anyone."

"Of course not, Ms. Davenport," he said, looking sincere. "Not a word. Can I help you to your office?"

That would be soooo nice!

"No!" she exclaimed too loudly, directing it mostly at herself. "No, I...I just need to use the washroom. I'll be fine."

She hurried down the stairs, trying to get away from him. Quickly away before she asked him to touch her again.

"I'll leave my report on your desk then," he called after her.

"Sure, whatever," she said as she escaped behind the heavy metal fire door. She headed straight for the ladies room, the dampness of her panties apparent with every step. She had to clear her head, figure out what was wrong with her.

She sighed as she sat on the toilet, her pants and panties once again around her knees. She blushed at the sight. She didn't need to pee but she didn't want anyone who entered the washroom to wonder why someone was in the stall with their pants up.

Of course, they were just as likely to wonder about the smell. Oh God! She was soaked! Her odor had always been strong when aroused but it seemed doubly so now. She reeked of pussy, of sex. Of hot, nasty sex with Parsons.

No! She had to stop thinking about Parsons that way. Thinking about him touching her, stroking her. Just as her own fingers were doing now. Rubbing the hot, moist, fragrant...Oh God! She was coming! One hand left her pussy to squeeze an aching tit as the waves of orgasm rocked her and the image of Parsons' naked self advanced on her.

Erica panted. Resisting the urge to cry out had taken what little will she could muster. She had got to get this thing with Parsons, whatever it was, under control. Sweet Jesus, they were going weekly! She didn't have time for personal issues!

And besides, she had never gotten involved with an employee. She had never even considered it! It opened itself to far too many problems and besides she had always been attracted to her social and economic equals--men for whom her money, family, and social status were respected but not coveted. Her ex-husbands consisted of three CEO's, a surgeon, and the state attorney general. That she would find herself stroking herself into a frenzy at work over a reporter was absurd!

It was the stress of the job--that was it. She had just been working hard for the jump to weekly and been ignoring her physical needs for too long.

Well, that itch had been scratched she thought with a nervous giggle. Now she should be able to just focus on getting out the special issue that would mark the move to weekly and then she could pay more attention to her personal life. She could work on finding a more appropriate person to meet her physical needs.

She took a moment to wash her hands and deal with the look of disarray her 'relief' had produced. Back on her game, she strode out of the washroom and confidently made her way back to her office to make up for lost time. She still had to choose the cover story for the first weekly issue.

There on her desk was a CD. 'Parsons' Cybersoft Report' said the attached post-it note. Parsons. Cybersoft. Hadn't he already given her that report?

Her beeper went off.


Time to go home. She grabbed her briefcase, jacket, and the CD and headed for her car, waving off the people who tried to ask her unheard questions on her way out of the office. She was halfway home before she realized she had left work early. Why had she done that? Someone had paged her. At least she thought so. She looked at her beeper.


She had to get home. Quick. She accelerated.

She pulled into her drive. She was home. Why had she come home so early?

Her pager went off.


She needed to read Parsons' Cybersoft Report. That must be why she came home early. She just didn't seem able to read it in the office. Something about her computer. Hard to remember. Didn't matter. She was home now and she needed to read it.


Erica started back into consciousness. What had she been doing? Her home computer was rebooting. She must have dosed off while working at home. That was it. She was reading a report on...

Damn. She had been working too hard. She needed a drink.

She left her home office and went to the sitting room. She sank down into her suede couch with a snifter of brandy. She drank deeply and exhaled in a long, slow whoosh. It had been an odd day. What time was it anyway? Mercy! 8:30. Where had the time gone? This entire day had been so...fractious. Indistinct. What had she really accomplished? She was going to make a decision on the cover story for the first weekly.

Let's see, she had read all the candidates except for...Parsons. Why hadn't she read Parsons' story yet?

Her pager went off.


Odd. It felt like she had been getting weird pages all day long. That and something else....

An Itch! Just like the one she had now! Oh God, and she couldn't reach it!

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! It was hell! She couldn't reach! She desperately rubbed against the couch. It didn't help. It was there under her bra strap. In a flurry she stripped off blouse and bra and rubbed her naked back against the couch--but still the itch continued. Why could she reach to undo her bra and not reach the itch? She was in no condition to puzzle it out. The only thing she was sure of was that she couldn't reach it and she needed somebody to scratch it for her!

No, not somebody. Parsons. Parsons could reach it. He had reached it before. She remembered that now. Parsons could make it stop. Twitching and itching, she struggled to get the phone and find his number. He had to come. He just had to!

Oh God, please let him answer! If he didn't scratch it soon she'd loose her mind!


"Parsons? Oh thank god! Parsons, please--can you c-come here? Now? Please! I need you!"

"Ms. Davenport, is that you?"

"Yes. Me. Erica. Erica Davenport. Come. Please. Help!"

"Where are you, Ms. D?"

"Home. Please. Come. Need you...Need you to scratch."

"OK, Ms. D. Just try and stay calm. I'll be right over."

"Stay calm. Stay calm." she repeated into the phone. She tittered hysterically. How could she stay calm? She had an itch! She collapsed to the thick shag carpet and squirmed about, rubbing her naked back against the carpet. It didn't help.

She didn't know how long she was writhing there on the carpet. At some point she had wriggled out of her slacks and her panties had made their way down to mid thigh in a tight roll as she scooted herself across the carpet, trying to deal with the itch though she knew it was hopeless. Only Parsons could stop it. And he had to come. He had said he would come. Where was he? She was weeping, weakly calling out to him.

There was a knock at the door. Parsons! Oh God, let it be Parsons!"

She scrambled for the door. It was awkward, as her rolled-up panties bound her thighs and it was impossible to pull them up or down while she staggered to the door. It never occurred to her to hold still and deal with the situation; She had to get to Parsons now!

She stumbled twice, but after a lifetime she reached the door and opened it, panting, frenzied to see her salvation.


"Your back itch again?"

The naked woman nodded furiously and turned to give him access to her demon.

"Scratch!" she pleaded.

And at last, his hands were there, scratching the itch, saving her soul, taking her from the blackest pit of hell to the highest heights of ecstasy.

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