Noise: A Forbidden Flowers Story Read online

  Noise

  A Forbidden Flowers Story

  Donya Lynne

  Noise©

  Forbidden Flowers, book 5

  Published by Phoenix Press LLC

  Copyright 2020 Donya Lynne

  Cover by Megyn Ward, MW Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-938991-53-0

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].

  References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Books by Donya Lynne

  Find Me

  Chapter One

  Dr. O’s Office . . .

  Poor Eve. She plucked that apple off the tree and must have held Adam at gunpoint to make him eat it for all the grief it caused womankind.

  Has anyone ever stopped to consider that Adam took a bite of his own free will? That Adam played an equal part in bringing about the fall of humanity. Yet women still suffer as if Eve, and Eve alone, was responsible.

  Don’t get me wrong. We’ve made tremendous progress from when women were considered property. Now, women have the right to vote, work outside the home, and speak their minds. But there’s still a long way to go.

  Take women’s sexuality, for example.

  A man can have sex with a different woman every weekend and be admired for his prowess. No one tries to slut-shame him or pile on the guilt for sleeping around. Quite the opposite. He’s seen as more of a man, only sowing his wild oats. It’s just “boys being boys.”

  But if a woman had sex with a different man every weekend, she would be labeled easy, promiscuous, or even a whore. Other women would look down their noses at her and accuse her of having no self-respect. Men would feel entitled to take inappropriate liberties with her. And if she happens to tell this or that man no, they might call her a cocktease or some other equally insulting moniker. Or, worse yet, they might not take no for an answer, then blame her by saying “she was asking for it” after the deed was done, because, after all, look at how many men she’s had sex with. What’s one more added to the list? And those same women who looked down their noses would nod their heads piously. “Yes, yes. She was a Jezebel, and this is what happens to women who sleep around.”

  The double standard pisses me off. As a PhD who works in the field of psychology, I probably shouldn’t say that, because I’m supposed to be Switzerland and remain unbiased. But I believe that even hookers have a right not to be sexually violated against their will.

  And don’t even get me started on how single women are treated when they get pregnant, because in my practice, I’ve seen all the emotional and mental damage these women suffer at the hands of not just strangers, but those who should care about them most, such as their parents.

  My name is Dr. Ophelia Jusczyk, and I want to change those prevailing opinions. One reason I became a psychologist specializing in women’s sexuality was because I wanted to bring greater awareness to the fact that women can enjoy sex too. They have every right to have sex for pleasure and to control who they have sex with, when they have sex, where, and how. If a woman wants to have a one-night stand for no other reason than the guy is hot and she feels like it, she should be allowed to partake and not be labeled a whore.

  I’m hoping my next book, which focuses on the best sex my interview subjects have ever had, helps to normalize the idea that women are sexual creatures too. Because, sometimes, a woman just wants to get laid. Like men, women have urges. Why should she be labeled a slut, trashy, immoral, or damned to hell simply for exploring those urges the same way men do? The right man comes along, everything falls into place, and bam! “Your place or mine?”

  That’s basically the story of how my next interview subject, a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Taylor Ann Riley, found the best sex of her life.

  “So far,” she’s quick to add, raising her index finger as if making a point. “It was the best sex I’ve had so far.”

  Some would say that what she’s doing with this man is amoral or impudent. That she’s a bad example for other women. I disagree. I think she’s exactly the type of example women need.

  Despite her impressive résumé, which reads more like that of someone nearing the end of a long, exceptionally successful career rather than just starting out, Taylor is still young and free enough to know she’s not finished discovering everything that sex has to offer. And she’s not ashamed to sample all the dishes at the buffet of sexual opportunity to learn what she likes and doesn’t like, as well as what she wants second helpings of. Maybe even thirds and fourths.

  I smile at being corrected. “What would you say makes this sex stand out above and beyond other sex you’ve had?”

  “First of all, there aren’t any strings attached, so we can be ourselves without any expectations to live up to. We just fuck.”

  Her directness is refreshing. So many women struggle to talk about their sexual experiences. They hem and haw around the language, which sometimes makes it challenging for me to fully understand what they’re saying. They’ll call it “loving” instead of “fucking” or use other vague or misleading words. One woman I interviewed even called her vagina a “kitty.” At first, I thought she was talking about her cat, which didn’t make any sense, then I figured it out.

  “Are you in an open relationship with this man?” I ask. “Or is this something else?”

  A self-satisfied expression crosses her face as a naughty twinkle flashes in her vividly blue eyes. “It’s definitely something else.”

  “Would you like to elaborate?”

  She inhales, her gaze dancing up to the ceiling as her grin grows into a delightfully knowing smile. This isn’t the kind of smile that says she’s smitten or cock-whipped. This is the kind of smile that says she’s got this man wrapped around her finger in a way both of them can’t get enough of.

  “Ry and I aren’t a couple,” she says, bringing her gaze back down to mine. “So there’s not really a relationship at all. We just like each other. He fucks me the way I like to be fucked, and I don’t get clingy with him. We get together, have incredibly hot sex that melts the paint off the walls, then I go home. Or he does, depending on whether we’re at his place or mine.”

  “You never spend the whole night together?”

  “No,” she says with a strong shake of her head. “I like having my bed to myself. I can’t sleep with anyone else in it.”

  “And there’s nothing else going on between the two of you?” I say, crossing my legs and repositioning my legal pad on my lap. My digital recorder is already catching every word, but it’s my job to capture the nuances that my recorder can’t.

  “No.”

  “You don’t spend time together outside the bedroom? You don’t hang out with him?” In my experience, great sex like what she’s describing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. There needs to be trust for the physical connection to be this strong. “Surely, there’s more to this relationship than just wham,
bam, thank you, ma’am?”

  “Well, sure, he and I hang out. We talk. We might sit on my patio drinking a beer and watching the fire, or we might get together to watch a game at his place, but we don’t go out. We don’t date.” She pauses, then shrugs. “You have to remember, Dr. O, I came from an evangelical family. I wasn’t allowed to mingle with, date, or be alone with boys. There was a lot of repression, and while I’ve overcome most of it, there are some aspects of my upbringing that still bleed into my normal day-to-day life.

  “And while I’ve always been a sexual person—stealing away in the library to read dirty books my parents wouldn’t allow in our home and stuff like that—I didn’t have sex until I was almost twenty years old. And the sex I had in those early years wasn’t that great. I mean, I knew how it was supposed to feel—”

  “Because of all those dirty books you read in the library?” As if dirty books tell the real story about sex. And while such books do get a lot right, they exaggerate and embellish to the point where some things are downright false.

  She smiles. “Yes . . . and because a friend of mine started sneaking me her own dirty books, which I would stay up and read late at night, then stash under my mattress so my parents wouldn’t find them.

  “My point is, I knew how sex worked and how it was supposed to feel based on how those books described it. I also masturbated a lot. My friend taught me how when I was twelve years old, and it felt so good I started doing it every day . . . while I was in the shower, when I went to the bathroom, or after everyone had gone to bed. I would even sneak up to the attic and masturbate while reading the sex scenes in my books. I would time my own orgasms to that of the characters in the books so it felt like I’d been part of action.”

  In my experience, women who start masturbating at such a young age sometimes struggle to find sexual satisfaction when they grow up and start having sex. They’ve grown accustomed to how they get themselves off, but a man has his own way of doing things, and a lot of times, his style doesn’t match hers.

  “What I’m trying to say,” Taylor continues, “is that I knew what an orgasm felt like before I was even thirteen years old, so when I finally had sex, I expected something similar.” She waves her hand in front of her as if dispelling a bad smell. “Oh, I knew that first time would hurt—and it did—but after that I thought it would get better. It didn’t. And the next guy was awful. So was the next. I finally dated a guy who could make me come if I used my finger on myself while he fucked me, but none of those guys could make me come on their own. I’d gotten too used to how I made myself come, and nothing they did felt as good.”

  At least she recognizes the source of her frustration.

  “What about oral sex?” I ask.

  “Well, sure, that’s always been okay. What woman can’t come from oral sex?”

  I want to tell her I’ve interviewed plenty of women who haven’t been able to come during oral sex.

  She continues. “But I’d already had plenty of experience with clitoral orgasms. I wanted to know what a vaginal orgasm felt like.”

  I’m impressed that she knows about the different kinds of orgasms women can have. Most of the women I interview don’t.

  Taylor crosses her legs and settles back in the chair. “I’d read that vaginal orgasms were much stronger than clitoral orgasms, so I wanted to come during sex. I wanted to know what it felt like for a hard, hot cock to get me off. Those early guys couldn’t give me that. Their dicks couldn’t even give me clitoral orgasms. They couldn’t make me come at all unless they gave me oral. And half the time those orgasms weren’t as good as the ones I could give myself.” She sighs and shakes her head. “It was all very disappointing. I mean, I’d waited twenty years for that? What a letdown.”

  A secret smile that seems to be more for her than me touches her lips. “But Ry? I don’t need my fingers with him. Or my vibrator. He’s the only man who’s been able to give me more pleasure than I can give myself. His cock is like a magic wand. When he’s inside me, I can’t stop coming.” She laughs softly to herself. “I mean, Jesus, Dr. O, the first time we had sex, he made me come so hard I nearly fainted. I didn’t even know it was possible to come that hard. And after he made me come once, he made me come again. I’d never done that before. I’d never come twice like that, not even when I masturbated.” She sighs as she tucks a stray strand of shiny purple hair behind her ear. “Ry has shown me how sex is supposed to feel. He’s taught me what good sex is.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because there’s a lot of passion between us. A lot of passion. Sometimes after we fuck, we both look like we’ve been in battle. Scratches, bruises, bite marks, rug burns. Even when we take it slow, our passion burns through the mattress.”

  She laughs again. She has a lovely, throaty, sultry laugh that sounds almost seductive. “The irony is that when I first met him, I hated him. He was infuriating. Obnoxious, loud, and inconsiderate.” She uncrosses her legs and pulls one toward her, hooking her arms around the shin. The heel of her bare foot presses into the chair’s cushion while her toes hang over the front edge. “But he was also persistent. When I finally gave in to his constant badgering and slept with him, I realized that strong emotions lead to even stronger orgasms.” She laughs. “Sometimes he intentionally pisses me off just so we can have really hot sex.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at herself. “I know that’s fucked up, and you’re probably wishing you could psychoanalyze me neuron by neuron right now, but Ry and I have bizarre, unexplainable chemistry. We can bicker and go back and forth like we hate each other, but it’s all just foreplay, and we both know it, because we both laugh about it. We make each other laugh more than we pretend to fight. And sometimes the sex after we’ve made each other laugh is better than the makeup sex we create by play fighting. We just . . . click. He gets me, and I get him, and that getting each other leads to some mythologically intense fucking.”

  She barely stops to breathe before continuing. “We’ve been having sex for just under a year, and no matter what happens, who else he goes out with, or how long we go without seeing each other—which could be a few weeks since he plays professional football and travels a lot—he always finds his way back to my door, or I find my way to his.

  “For example, he dated this other woman for about two months. I thought maybe he was getting serious about her and figured our tryst was over and that I’d never see him again.”

  “How did that make you feel?” I ask.

  She shrugs aloofly and averts her gaze. “It didn’t bother me.” Her eyes flick downward. “I was happy for him.”

  I don’t believe her, but I don’t tell her so.

  When she looks back up, the grin that spreads across her mouth feels slightly victorious, and maybe a touch relieved. “Then one day he showed up at my house, and without him even saying so, I knew it was over between him and that other woman.” That same grin widens, becoming more mischievous, like she had defeated her rival. “We didn’t use words to communicate with each other that night. We used our bodies. We’re good with our bodies. We can say things with our bodies while we’re having sex that there are no words for, whether we’re in bed, or he’s got me flung over the back of the couch, against the wall, or on the floor of the foyer.”

  Their relationship sounds intense and more devoted than I think either of them is willing to admit, and I think there are words for the things they want to say to each other, but they’re both too scared to say them, for one reason or another.

  “Do you think the two of you will ever take it to the next level and become a legitimate couple?”

  She huffs out a scoffing laugh. “God, no. That’s not his thing, and it’s certainly not mine.”

  “Why not?”

  She waves her long, slender fingers dismissively. “That’s a long story, but the gist of it is that after I watched my dad cheat on my mom for years, and watched my mom pretend she didn’t know—when I know for a fact that she did�
�I lost the stomach to make an attempt at the one-man, one-woman thing. In my world, men cheat on their wives and girlfriends. I would rather not have to worry about that.”

  Easier said than done, but it’s not my place to tell her that.

  “What about Ry? What does he want?”

  She shakes her head decisively. “He got burned by some woman who cheated on him, so he’s not interested in getting serious either.”

  I want to point out that he’s serious enough about her to keep returning to her doorstep even after his other relationships have fallen apart, but I don’t. Obviously, he likes her enough and is drawn to her enough to keep coming back. Maybe he’s only trying on other relationships because she’s keeping him on the back burner, and what he really wants is to be the main course in her life.

  I turn the discussion toward her business.

  Taylor isn’t my typical interview subject. At only twenty-eight, she is unbelievably successful. She has a net worth in the hundreds of millions, which makes her one of the wealthiest women in the world.

  She started building her first multimillion-dollar business when she was only eighteen. A shoe company called Rats. You can’t find a teenager or young adult anywhere who doesn’t own a pair of Rats. Comfortable yet stylishly fun, there’s a Rats shoe for everyone and everything. I even own a pair, and I’m forty-two.

  She sold Rats to Amazon three years ago for just under a billion dollars. She stayed on as CEO for a year, then resigned. “I didn’t like the feeling of working for someone else,” she says. “Besides, I’d come up with a new idea for a new company.”

  She’d been building TART, her second multimillion-dollar venture, for almost two years. TART, which stands for Taylor Ann Riley’s Tees, had started out as a line of T-shirts made from sustainable materials.