Scratching an Itch

{Author's Note: This first-person story was inspired by a stray, aggravated comment from a friend, who shall remain thankfully nameless--well, that, and she knows where I live...}

***************************

Oh, god...I can't believe I woke up feeling this way! I can't believe I've suffered this incessant need ALL day! I tried everything this morning to ease this need in my panties. Rubbing, stroking, scratching--I took a shower and rubbed the soapy, slippery scrubby between my thighs for what felt like half an hour, trying to relieve this burning need. Trying to scratch this desperate itch deep inside!

How many different settings did I try on the shower massager? Geez...I don't know; spray, slow pulse, then fast and hard, and back again, all trying to get some sort of deep, intense relief. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

All I did was take the edge off for a little while, leveled the top, but within ten minutes of drying off, it was there again, mocking me, taunting me, climbing right back up to an unsurmountable peak.

Because of it, I debated, dress slacks for today, or nylons and a skirt? I chose the skirt, in the hopes that the lighter material covering my crotch would air out the dampness, maybe even dry up the need...but I wasn't that lucky. I squirmed in my car, shifting gears, changing lanes. I squirmed in my office chair, reading emails, typing reports.

I bit my lip through a meeting, then hurried off--no, I *escaped* to the ladies' room, as soon as it was through, and I did things with my fingers in there that shouldn't be done in an office bathroom stall. I touched myself over and over, each time I visited the loo, prodding and poking and seeking a finger-based relief, but it still wasn't enough. It was hard to stifle my moans and present a polished, professional façade, and I was hungry for something that my lunch of chicken salad and a soda simply could not satisfy.

I know my co-workers looked at me askance a few times through the; they knew there was something going on with me, something I was trying to hide. But not one of them had a clue as to the throbbing itch I desperately needed to satisfy.

About an hour before the end of work, I knew I was defeated. There was no way I could focus, not with IT, between my legs, ruling supreme over body and mind. It was all I could do to pretend to work; the client I spoke with on the phone no doubt thought I was insane, breathing a little too heavily, pausing between replies as I gnawed on my lip, holding back the urge to shove my hand up under my skirt and go at it for all I was worth. With only ten minutes to go, I nearly did just that, then Thompson came in and wanted to go over the Hong-Wu file for some last minute changes, and I had to pretend my hand wasn't already up at the top of my thighs, trying to dig a convenient hole through my pantyhose.

I didn't go straight home, however; instead, I swung by the drugstore. I had to get some relief, so I picked up a tube of my favorite creme, the one that was the most effective at quelling this deep of a need, and took it home. But, I had to wait.

I squirmed. I crossed my legs and uncrossed them. I hobbled and bobbled and bounced with my knees, like I had to pee, but was unable to get into an occupied bathroom. I ate dinner with a grimace, shifting and wriggling my hips with impatience. I tried to watch t.v., but it was no good. My cunt--and by this point, there was no mincing words--had complete control of my concentration.

So back into the shower I went. Soap and water, scrubby and massager. Oh, the relief was only temporary, but how GOOD that slick, slippery lather felt! How incredible was the pounding of the spray, as it beat the throbbing need into utter submission. Who would have thought a shower massager could become a Dominatrix of the Deluge? All I cared was that it was an utter delight. I played that water spray over my pussy lips, sighing and groaning and rolling my eyes back in my head. I did not leave until the water turned cool, but even that felt good, too.

Shivering, I toweled off. Grabbing the box that contained the creme, I ripped it open with all the frenzy of a lusty barbarian on a bedslave raid, tearing the clothes from some terrified maid. I grabbed the plunger, filled it with creme, and shoved it into that crevasse of need. My finger squirted the creamy stuff deep inside, and I couldn't help it--I pumped the applicator in and out, in and out, desperate for relief!

Finally, I turned down the lights and crawled into my bed, and did my best to try and get some sleep. Waiting for the yeast infection creme to work.

Gah, I miss sex...