Flowers for Madisyn Ch. 01bymsmeh©
Note: This is a revised version of Chapter One with more description, as advised by the original commenters.
If you ask a thousand women whether a man was involved in the stupidest decision they've ever made, ninety percent of them will say yes. And the other ten percent—they're lying.
Take me, for instance.
When my doctor asked me why I wanted to join the first clinical trials for Nymphemme™, an experimental drug that was predicted to be the female Viagra, I said it was because I wanted a more fulfilling sex life. I said I wanted more self-confidence and "a better, more sex-positive relationship with my body."
Yeah, I actually said that.
Dr. Phillips didn't buy it, though. She narrowed her eyes brown eyes at me and said, "So who told you about the Nymphemme™ trials? Doesn't your boyfriend work for Priapus Pharmaceuticals? Did he tell you to ask for this?"
I didn't answer right away, but I did blush. That was answer enough. I always blushed back then. I couldn't talk about sex or anything related to it without turning pink.
I miss those days.
Dr. Phillips asked me what was really going on.
I told her that Connor was dissatisfied with our sex life. He was annoyed that I didn't like giving blow jobs, and didn't come when he fucked me (his words, not mine).
Dr. Phillips asked if I had any problem having an orgasm when Connor preformed cunnilingus or used a vibrator on me.
I turned beet red.
"He doesn't...we don't...He wants me to—that is, I want to come the normal way. From sex."
Dr. Phillips laughed outright at that. "There is no 'normal way,' Madisyn, there's only what works. Every woman's body is different, but the truth is that most women don't achieve orgasm from penetrative intercourse alone—it's just physiology. There's nothing wrong with you or your body that a functioning vibrator or a competent lover can't fix. Why don't you try talking to your boyfriend about what you enjoy?"
Then she started telling me about the importance of trust and open communication between sexual partners. She suggested we try mutual masturbation, erotic entertainment, and toys.
I turned even redder.
This was not a conversation I wanted to be having, but I nodded like I agreed, and left as soon as I could. The instant I got outside, I was on my iPhone searching for a doctor who could get me into that Nymphemme™ trial. It took me a couple of days of web searches, but I finally found Dr. "Nick" Nichols on the Upper East Side.
Dr Nichol's posh waiting room looked like he'd lifted it from a Town & Country spread. The patients in his waiting room looked like extras from an after-school special on adult Adderall addiction—all skinny, blonde, botoxed helicopter moms with designer purses and iPhones clutched in their claw-like, manicured hands.
Pot, meet kettle. Looking back,I had no business pointing fingers at them. Except for my age, brunette hair, and lack of an addiction to prescription stimulants, I was a lot like those women. I wasn't as skinny, of course (see above, re: my lack of Adderall addiction) but my purse was a petite Louis Vuitton that I hadn't worn outside until the leather straps had aged to a deep brown because I didn't want anyone to think it was a fake. My shoes were Ferragamos, my stylish-but-demure skirt and blouse were Prada, and the single strand of blush-colored pearls at my neck had been given to my grandmother at her debutante ball.
I came from an old, "good" family and had gone to old, good schools. We were the sort of people who would never admit to being rich because it was vulgar to talk about money. Instead we'd say we were "comfortable." In addition to never talking about money, people in my family never talked about religion, politics, feelings, or sex—especially sex.
Which was probably why I was sitting in the waiting room of a posh prescription mill to get a pill that would allow me to have orgasms without ever having to actually tell my partner what I enjoyed.
If I'd known what I was in for—all the things I would do for Nymphemme™, and all the things that damned pink pill would make me do—I would have run for the hills and never taken so much as an aspirin again.
Dr. Nichols was a fat, ruddy-faced, white-haired man in his mid fifties. He insisted on performing a pelvic exam before he would even discuss the Nymphemme™ trials. I should have been suspicious when he didn't ask a female attendant to observe the exam, but I was so eager to get that prescription and save my relationship that I just put my feet in the stirrups, closed my eyes, and thought of the Tiffany's two-carat, princess-cut, platinum-set solitaire Connor would give me when he proposed after our first night of amazing, Nymphemme™ aided sex.
But not even visions of a Tiffany's two-carat, princess-cut, platinum-set solitaire were enough to distract me from the feeling of Dr Nick's thumb rubbing my clitoris.
"What are you doing?" I squawked. "That's not normal."
"I'm testing your sexual sensitivity," he said. "It's standard procedure when prescribing medication to fix female sexual dysfunction. And so far, I can see why your boyfriend is concerned. A normal woman would already have produced at least some vaginal lubrication in response to expert clitoral stimulation. You're just crabby and tense."
"You'd be crabby and tense, too, if a stranger had his fingers on your hoo-ha."
"Shall I stop? We can end the exam, and you can try to find another doctor to get you into the Nymphemme™ trial."
"No." I shook my head and gritted my teeth. "Just, get it over with."
After Dr. Nick probed my vagina and my anus, he took off his gloves and moved on to a breast exam. "They're nice," he said, as he pinched my small, pink nipples, "but not really big enough to inspire optimal sexual response in most men. Have you ever considered augmentation?"
"No!" I crossed my arms over my breasts. I'd always liked them, and I'd always thought fake breasts looked tacky. "Are you done, yet?"
"For now," he said. "Though you do realize that because Nymphemme™ is still in the early trial stages, I will have to perform similar exams as your treatment progresses, don't you?"
I almost got up and left right then. I should have left. But I didn't.
Connor was fit, handsome, and successful, and he drove a BMW. My friends all envied me for snagging a man like him, and I was pretty sure he was "the one." Plus, if I didn't fix my sexual problems, we'd have to break up and I'd have to move out. And there was no way I could pay the lease on our luxury Tribecca loft on my own and still afford to shop at Bergdorf's, Barney's, and Prada. If I endured this exam and got the Nymphemme™, my life would get better. But if I left now, things could only get worse.
After Dr Nick had finished, he asked me questions from the Nymphemme™ Patient Qualification Questionnaire. The questions were intrusive and obscene. He asked about all the ways I'd ever had sex. He asked about all my sexual partners. Had I ever watched porn? (No!) Done anal? (No!) Enjoyed rape fantasies? (No!) Participated in a ménage or a "gang bang"? (His words, not mine, and, again, no!).
He asked if I'd ever had sex in public (No!) and if the thought of sex in public or exhibitionism excited me (No!). Had I ever performed sex acts for money? (No!) Did the thought excite me? (Hell, no!) Had I ever had sex with a stranger or strangers? (No!) Visited a sex club? (No!) Participated in an orgy (No!). Did I enjoy sexual domination? Bondage? Humiliation? (No, no, and no!) Had I ever had an incestuous relationship?
"No! And no to every other dirty question on your list!" I said. My face felt like it was on fire, and if I had to answer another filthy question, I was going to burst into tears.
"All right, Madisyn," Dr Nick said. "I can tell this questionnaire is upsetting for you. I already have enough answers to know that you'll qualify for the study—you're practically frigid."
He reached into his desk drawer, and set a pink box with a very suggestive drawing of a flower on the front. It also bore the words, Nymphemme™ Starter Pak / Priapus Pharmaceuticals on the front.
"Here's a month's supply. Why don't you take this home and get started today. When you come back next month, we'll have completed all the paperwork to get you formally enrolled in the study."
All of my anger at Dr. Nick evaporated, and I said, "Thank you!"
I started reading the Nymphemme™ pamphlet in the cab home. It said Nymphemme™ was "a revolutionary new treatment for female sexual dysfunction that addresses the physiological, psychological, and neurological roots of the disorder." The drug had components that worked on patients' brain chemistry to "block neurotransmitters associated with performance anxiety, sexual shame, fear, and low self-esteem, while at the same time raising dopamine levels to increase a woman's pleasure during sex, and sexual situations."
I didn't quite understand everything in the pamphlet, but by the time I'd finished reading the Nymphemme™ & You! section, I was certain it was exactly what I needed to fix my problem. The only bad thing was the (very) long side effect list that included mild symptoms like "breast tenderness and swelling, and increased sensitivity to touch" as well as scary symptoms like "aneurism, stroke, and heart attack."
The Rare Side Effects Include section also said "patients should consult their physician if they experience the following side effects with Nymphemme™: sleep disorders, anterograde amnesia, sexual parasomnia, hallucinations, delusions, altered thought patterns, euphoria, increased appetites, uninhibited extroversion/exhibitionism in social or interpersonal settings, addictive behavior, thrill-seeking behavior, increased impulsivity, and impaired judgment or reasoning."
I didn't know what half of those things were, but I figured I didn't need to worry about it because the side effects were rare. After all, Connor had assured me that Nymphemme's™ Food and Drug Administration approval was practically a done deal. The drug was as safe as aspirin, and its clinical trials were just a formality.
Besides, the government wouldn't let pharmaceutical companies test harmful or dangerous drugs on people, right?
I took the first pink pill right before going to sleep, just as the instructions said I should. The instructions also said that the Nymphemme™ took a few weeks to start working because it needed to build up in my system.
I was kind of hoping to feel something after the first pill, but when Connor tried to get frisky in bed with me that night, I remembered Dr. Nick's hands on me—in me—and ran to the bathroom to throw up. Since I'd probably thrown up the Nymphemme™ pill, I took another, and told Connor, "Not tonight, dear," before going to sleep.
As I fell asleep, I heard him mutter, "Well it better be some night soon, Babe, or we re over."
Despite my tough day and Connor's worrisome words, I slept like a baby and woke up an hour before the alarm went off, happy and full of energy. I used the extra time to make breakfast for Connor, and he forgave me for giving him the cold shoulder the night before. My work day at O'Keefe & Partners Advertising passed in a busy blur of meetings, art layouts, copy-editing, and spreadsheets. Before I knew it, I was home again with a Lean Cuisine meal watching Grey's Anatomy because Connor was out at a client dinner.
Conner was a successful sales representative for Priapus Pharmaceuticals, the same company that made Nymphemme™. His job was to wine and dine doctors in order to get them to prescribe drugs made by Priapus. That meant he spent a lot of time out at fancy restaurants with all sorts of people. Sometimes I worried that he would be unfaithful to me, but when I'd questioned him about it, he'd told me it was ridiculous. "And besides," he'd said right before he kissed me. "You're the one I want because you're the one I come home to."
"I'm the one he comes home to," I said as I got ready to go to bed alone at eleven that night. Connor still wasn't home yet. I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and swallowed my Nymphemme™ pill like a good girl. As had happened the night before, I fell asleep right away and slept soundly.
"Babe." I woke to the feel of clumsy hands moving roughly over my body and tugging at my clothes. "Come on, babe," Connor's words were slurred. He was drunk again. He smelled like liquor and expensive perfume. "That bitch was a fucking tease. She wanted to make out, but wouldn't put out and now I got some fucking blue balls. And she wouldn't even promise me any orders."
"No, Connor," I said as his hand wedged between my thighs. "Not like this."
"I gotta," he slurred. "And you smell so good. Did you know that? You smell good."
I tried to push him off of me, but he was bigger and stronger. I hated it when he got this way, but rather than fight him, I let him do what he wanted. I'd denied him yesterday. I owed him one.
When he forced his hard cock against me, I was surprised at how easily he slipped inside. And once he was inside me, it actually felt a little...good. My heart was beating. I felt afraid and ashamed, and, for the first time ever, aroused by the way Connor was using me.
"Yes," I whispered. "More, baby. Harder." But he didn't hear me, or he wasn't listening. He came and then rolled off me. A second later, he was snoring. I pushed myself out of bed and went to the shower. As I was washing up, I thought about what Connor had just done. I thought about how he'd treated me like I didn't matter. I thought about how he'd used me to get himself off, and then forgotten me like a discarded toy.
It made me so ashamed, I wanted to cry, but even as the tears rolled down my face, I began to touch myself. I began to rub my clit the way Dr. Nick had rubbed it in the examining room. I was pretty sure he'd enjoyed what he'd done to me, but instead of feeling angry about it, I just got more aroused and closer to coming. My thoughts became a circle of mean men and grabbing hands—first Dr Nick's, then Connor's. I rubbed myself harder and faster, and a moment later, I came harder than I ever had in my life. So hard I screamed. So hard I cried. I came again. And again. Each orgasm left me shaking and barely able to stay standing.
I turned off the shower and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I was glad I'd had such incredible orgasms, but I wondered why I had thought about such awful things while I'd been masturbating. I wasn't the sort of woman who got off on being used, humiliated, and mistreated...
The next morning, I overslept and had to scramble to find a space on the rush-hour subway train. My thoughts were muzzy, and I couldn't stop thinking about the night before. In the middle of the trip, a woman a few feet away screamed, "Pervert!" and slapped a well dressed older gentleman. He turned and ran off the train before anyone could catch him.
"God," she said to another woman. "I feel so gross. He rubbed his thing against my ass and I think he...he..."
"It's okay," the other woman said. "Just be sure to let the police know there's a sexual predator around. If you give them a description, maybe they'll catch him.
At work, my morning seemed to last forever. I had a hard time concentrating. I kept thinking about Connor the night before, and the pervert this morning. Both lines of thought left me wet and aroused.
I was so distracted, I almost forgot about the lunch meeting I had with Mitchell Molloy, the head of Adult Outlook Online, one of our smaller accounts.
Mitch was a leering, lumpen middle-aged Middle-American transplant who liked to squeeze my expense account and my patience for all it was worth. He'd always given me the creeps, which made sense because his company's main product was a sex-centered internet dating app called Secretz that helped married people cheat on their spouses, and I had a feeling he was not just the president, but a client as well. Still, I had to put on a good face. I doubted I'd get any new business for the firm out of him, but I had to maintain the appearance that we valued his account, and that called for a little flattery.
"Maddy," he said when I approached the table. I hated that nickname, but no matter how often I corrected him, he never remembered not to use it. "You look frazzled. Let's order you a glass of white wine."
Briefly, I recalled that I wasn't supposed to consume alcohol while taking Nymphemme™, but I wondered how much one glass of wine could hurt. And besides, I usually ordered a glass of wine at my lunches with Mitch—I really needed the help to get through two hours in that creep's company. I hated the way he looked at my body whenever he thought I wouldn't notice. And he always found excuses to touch me if I strayed too close.
That day he was his usual smarmy self, but something was different: me. I was getting turned on by the way he kept looking down my cleavage and complimenting my perfume (even though I wasn't wearing any). I fidgeted in my seat and giggled, and when he ordered me another glass of wine—on my bill—I didn't argue.
Somehow—I don't know how—Mitch and I ended up with our chairs pulled close together, and his hand on my thigh under the table. He motioned for the waiter to pour me another glass of wine while he explained that his wife didn't understand his needs. "But I'll bet you do, don't you, Maddy."
His hand slid up under my skirt, almost to the crotch of my panties. I think we were both surprised to discover how wet I was. His fingers wriggled higher and I moaned before I realized what was happening—what I was doing.
"I...uh, I need to go to the girls' room," I said. I downed my wine, grabbed my purse, and shot out of my chair, pulling my skirt straight as I power walked for the restroom at the back. The restaurant was small, and the lunch rush was long over. There was only one unisex bathroom at the end of the hall. I locked the door and used paper towels to clean myself up down there.
I couldn't believe I was aroused by a pervert like Mitch Malloy. What was wrong with me? Maybe a reaction of the Nymphemme™ and the wine? I had had two—or was it three?—glasses.
When I finally felt like I was thinking normally again, I unlocked the door intending to head back to the table, pay the bill, and get the hell out of there. But Mitch was standing in the doorway. "Don't think you're going to leave me hard and horny again, you whoring tease!" He pushed inside and locked the door behind him. After the lock clicked home, he leaned against the door, unzipped his pants, and whipped out his hard dick like a mugger whipping out a gun.
"I've been after you for months, but if you want to keep our account, you're going to have to get on your knees and prove it to me, you stuck up little cunt."
We didn't need his account. If I'd told my boss that the reason Malloy was leaving was he'd propositioned me and I'd turned him down, Ms. O'Keefe would have commended me for a job well done. One of the best things about working for a female-run agency was that no one expected me to use my sex appeal or my body to keep clients.
So why did I do it?
Why did I get on my knees on that filthy bathroom floor and suck Malloy's sweaty cock until he came in my face? I didn't know why, all I knew was that it felt good.
It felt good to get on my knees, like I belonged there. And even though his penis wasn't anything special, just the sight of it made my mouth water and my pussy throb. Some part of me knew that what I was doing was wrong, and that part of me was screaming at the top of her lungs that I should stop. But she felt far away and easy to ignore. Harder to ignore was the way I salivated when Mitch pressed the sweaty tip of his penis to my shell-pink lips. Harder to ignore was the musty smell of him, and the delicious combination of excitement and shame coursing through my veins.