Trying your best to be polite, you nod and smile as your boss and wife laugh about some sort of story from
their past, whatever they were talking about however, you had no clue.
The itching became persistent, almost a throbbing under the sleeve of your suit at this point that you can no
longer ignore, "Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry but, I, I need to take some tylenol, I have a terrible
headache."
Before your boss could say anything in response, you find yourself running to the bathroom, closing the door
forcefully behind you, locking it. The bathroom is small, one of those cheap designs containing a single
toilet and a sink with mirror.
With a dreaded sigh you pull up the left sleeve of your suit, thinking what the hell could be causing such an
irritation. A startled gasp escapes your lips as you see a thin coating of black hair coursing your thin arm,
hair that had not been there an hour ago while you were preparing for this extremely important dinner.
You run you left hand over it, feeling the hair, your lips unconsciously forming an "o" as the light gliding
seems to turn you on. You ignore the bulge that begins to form in your black dress pants as you feel the
familiar itch on your left arm now, only this time more intense.
Becoming irritated, you throw the suit off your torso, tossing it onto the sink beside you, leaving you in
your white, short sleeved undershirt. Your left arm is completely covered in black hair, no fur. It's so
thick, yet so intriguing, and you find yourself rubbing across it again, a soft stain forming at the tip of
your bulge.
As your eyes flutter from the erotic sensations being experienced from stroking your fur, you hear a knocking
at the bathroom door, "Yes? Occupied."
"I know," the person on the other side of the door says, "I saw you run in here, scratching your arm. I think
I know what's happening to you."