CHAPTER 1: GOOD GIRL GONE BAD
Rolling out of bed, Anna goes straight for the black coffee and a fistful of Advil, and wishes fervently that she had a cigarette; a recent craving, since she’s only just taken up smoking in the last week. However, headache aside, she feels lucid enough, and what had happened last night was what it was. Self-doubt is for the little people, right?
Anna’s different. She can do what she likes, now.
Mrs Fluffy is mewling for milk and rubbing herself on Anna’s ankles affectionately. Anna gives her a sharp kick and she skitters away, squeaking in that detestable way kittens have. Ridiculous animal. Tomorrow, she thinks, she’ll dump it by the side of the road somewhere out of town, and see how it feels about that.
She dwells on a few pleasant details of the previous evening. She’d been in the mood for the full-on dominatrix look, last night; leather and heels, hair tied back tight. And it had paid dividends. She’d very quickly spotted a likely candidate, and that candidate had done exactly as instructed, according to the natural order of things, really.
The female object had willingly acquiesced to Anna’s demand to take her back to her place, although looking at her in that get-up, who wouldn’t have? When she’d told it to strip, and kneel, it had complied with no objections. When she’d bound its hands behind its back, and then to its ankles, it’d moaned gratifyingly and had begged to be her slave, as instructed. It was only when she’d begun to whip the thing, gently at first, but then harder and harder, the strokes of the lash getting ever more vicious, that it’d started to beg properly, and loudly, for Anna to stop—please, please, for God’s sake, please!—but by then she was well into her stride and it was far too late for that.
By the end, it had finally begged her in the way she wanted, and had worshipped her as she deserved, and eventually Anna had let it go. She almost felt a little sorry for the female object as it stumbled off. It’d really had no idea what it was getting into.
Sipping on a double espresso, Anna eyes her apartment and thinks that given her recent adventures, it’s high time for a little redecoration, in a less conventional style. Too much pastelly sweetness, here, for her taste. It’s all too girly-girly by far. What the hell had she been thinking with that pink?
She shakes the bottle of Peachy Yellow. Only one pill left; she needs to get some more, later. Anna swallows it dry, and at once feels calmer, stronger, clearer, more certain, more focused, more in control of everything; in short, more herself. She throws on some clothes from the pile in the corner of the bedroom, whatever isn’t too dirty, and heads for the door before she’s physically sick over the scatter cushions.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Arnheim is lurking with her shopping.
“Good morning, dear,” she croaks. Honestly, thinks Anna, the old hag is getting more hideous by the day. “You’re looking very, ah—different today. A brave departure, if I may say so.”
Admittedly, she might well be surprised to see Anna leaving the house dressed in a low cut stretch top, mini skirt and six inch heels. But who the hell does she think she is to comment, thinks Anna, given the other woman is dressed, as always, in the style of an unreconstructed bag lady?
“Morning,” grunts Anna. “I suppose you want a hand upstairs with your shopping?” It’s been a traditional Saturday morning ritual between them, since she’d moved in there.
“Ah, yes, thank you, dear, that would be lovely. I’m not getting any younger.”
“Well fuck off. I’ve got more important things to do.”
She’s absolutely not in the mood for niceties this morning. Pushing past Mrs A before the old bat can reply with one of her ancient homilies, Anna’s gratified to catch a glimpse of her toothless mouth dropping open in astonishment.
As she sashays down the road, making sure she steps on all the cracks in the sidewalk, a ping on her phone. Another message from pathetic ex-friend Kathleen (R.I.P.). And then Stephan again, vomiting sweet nothings by text. Anna decides to ignore him until he gets the message. No point in actually dumping him—let him suffer.
The drugstore has cigarettes, of course, and while she’s at it she grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels. It is, after all, nearly noon.
Life had all been so different just two short weeks ago.
Stephan had been away on some boys’ trip, and she’d been at a loose end, so that same Friday Anna had hooked up for a few drinks with Kathleen. Her friend was a kind and timid little sweetheart, they said, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and so was Anna, then, to all appearances, a fact that had been starting to worry her.
Why did she always feel she had to please people? Her parents; her bosses; Stephan; her friends. All her so-called friends except Kathleen, in fact, who trailed after her like a wide eyed puppy, and had often borne the brunt of her frustration. Anna knows she hadn’t been that much of a sweetheart at all. She’d just been repressed, that was all. Dutiful: that was the word.
Anna had got chatting with this guy, for no reason except that they were both at the bar at the same time, and he was good looking and charming, and she’d liked his nickname. “Call me Doc.” Serendipity; so things go. She’d had a couple of drinks already, that night; no hard liquor, of course.
What did they do, Doc and her? What did they talk about, last Friday? It’s all a little fuzzy now, but she remembers unloading to Doc about her stupid mousy life; and why not, who better to do this with than a complete stranger?
The salient points in summary: Anna was bored, she’d told him. She was boring herself. Everyone thought she was Miss Perfect, but inside she was dissatisfied. She felt her life was heading for a rut of normality. She needed stimulation, she’d said, new things, just something, she didn’t know what. There was something bubbling inside her, unfulfilled. He’d listened, nodded, encouraged.
“Here’s an idea, then,” he’d said. He’d produced a small bottle of tablets from his pocket. “Nothing illegal,” he’d added, “or maybe it is. Anyway, a good buzz.”
Anna’s old, silly barriers went up at once. Drugs really weren’t her thing. Mainly because she was just scared of them, she knew now, like a cringing little schoolgirl. She’d peered nervously at the bottle. It was labelled ‘PCL-R’, but whatever else was written there was illegible medical gobbledegook.
“PCL-R?” She had heard of PCP, but not this. “What is it?”
“Peachy Yellow, it’s called. Just a little wakey-upper, a mood enhancer, a disinhibitor,” he’d said. “All the benefits of all the best highs, they say, all at once. Empowering. Take one. It’s on me.”
“I don’t know,” she remembered saying. “I’ve never really been into drugs. What does it actually do, this Peachy Yellow?”
“Lots. Ever heard of a guy named Doctor Robert Hare?”
“No, I haven’t.” And she hadn’t. “Who is he?”
“He was a serious player, back in the day. Did a lot of work with people with—ah—psychological issues. He had a whole checklist, y’know? That’s what he called it. My people have been working through his list, and that’s where this stuff comes from.”
“What kind of issues?”
Suddenly Kathleen was back at her shoulder, concerned; she was saying something about wanting to get home, and what would Stephan think, and no doubt some other concerns, instantly forgotten. Anna had tuned out, and waved her to be quiet. She’d wanted to hear what Doc had to say. She was unusually intrigued.
Ping, ping, fucking ping.
Before she’s even managed to get two swigs of the Jack Daniels down her neck, more texts from Stephan. What, did he think he owned her? So what if he wanted her to move in with him and breed like ordinary people? That is his problem, not hers. She’s better than that. Fact! Furthermore, following that weekend with Doc, Anna’s concluded (entirely rationally, as far as she can see) that she is of a superior species entirely—and Stephan is just, well, ordinary. Hardly good enough for the likes of her. She digests his latest pathetic wheedlings:
Stephan: Hello? I miss u. Where have u been all week? X
Stephan: Where are u now? X
Stephan: Call me! X
Bo-ring. Anna decides it’s time to stop him clogging up her inbox with his snivelling.
Anna: Stop texting me. I just need some space. Forever.
She’s pleased with the phrasing. A suitably diplomatic and perfectly amicable way to get him off her back once and for all, she thinks. Anna’s sure he’ll feel better for a bit of real honesty, although who cares, really, what he feels?
Ping.
What the fuck does he want now? Is he as stupid as he looks? Does he not get the message? Anna’s beginning to see red. She makes a mental note to buy a gun, or maybe a big fat knife, in case he gets really annoying. She swipes the screen and prepares to go into thermonuclear bitch-rant mode—but she sees it isn’t Stephan at all, but her Peachy Yellow connection, and a very timely text it is too.
Doc: Long time no see. Meet at the club tonight?”
Anna: Yo Doc. Remind me.
Doc: Haha. At #here. 9pm. Dress appropriately. Your name’s on the door.
Anna: Done. L8rz.
Good. It’s all starting to come back to her.
Clicking on #here takes her to a googlemaps link, across town, and she recognises the place at once, because that’s where she’d met Doc two weeks back, and that’s where she’d had her first taste of the Yellow. As for ‘dress appropriately’, well, if there was a party to be had, and more Peachy Yellow, Anna was in, and she decides to err on the side of complete lack of caution. She’s in the mood, and Doc will have the Yellow, so why not.
Heads turn as Anna walks down the street, and not all of them male. Perhaps she should have worn a bra, she thinks, or panties, or both, and maybe a top that wasn’t two sizes too small, but then again, whatever. She could always get some later. Or not. What do the little people matter, with their so-called opinions?
Are they even people, really?
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