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Dear reader,
This is the fifth installment in the “Life of Anne” series. It doesn’t stand alone, so if you’d like to truly follow along, I’d recommend reading parts 1 through 4 first. You can find them on my author page.
This chapter contains a moment of coerced intimacy, as well as references to mental health struggles. For me, these elements make Anne’s story feel real, but I understand they can be triggering. I want to mention it up front, without letting it overshadow what I believe is a story worth telling.
I hope it won’t keep you from reading. Anne’s journey is raw, flawed, sometimes painful, but deeply human. And I believe it’s worth following.
NightAelf
********
My first real grown-up job was official. I’d landed a position as an account manager at a mid-sized print company, and I took it very seriously. Maybe even a bit too seriously. Fresh out of school and full of ambition, I felt like I had something to prove. I’d worked my ass off for four years, so why wouldn’t I be able to make a real difference?
Most of my colleagues were fine, but the older crowd didn’t quite know what to do with me. It wasn’t about what I did, but how I did it. Too fast, too sharp, too precise. Still, I was open to feedback. Even when it stung a little, I wanted to grow.
In the beginning, I got the easy clients or new ones nobody knew what to do with. But after a few months, the more difficult ones started showing up in my inbox. Clients other people avoided. I didn’t mind. I saw it as a challenge. Some conversations were awkward as hell, internal meetings could be tense, but there was always one thing that grounded me at the end of the day.
A tiny girl running toward me with her arms wide open screaming “MomAnne”.
She babbled in her own little language, but I understood every word, following me up the stairs to my floor and telling me all about her day. Sarah usually came to pick her up after half an hour or so. We’d talk for a bit, sometimes about serious stuff, sometimes about nothing. There was still a quiet intimacy between us, even if we didn’t sleep together anymore.
She once told me she missed that bond. That, strangely enough, she didn’t even have it with David, even though the sex was good. It sometimes felt like we were Amy’s real parents. David loved his daughter with all his heart, no doubt. But when it came to the day-to-day things, he usually left those to Sarah and, well, to me too.
I kept myself in check when it came to that part. Amy deserved peace, not friction.
At work, though, things started to go sideways. A few colleagues who didn’t love the way I did things began to push back. I hadn’t seen it coming. My manager pulled me aside about mistakes I couldn’t explain. I figured I’d just been careless, promised to improve. But something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t quite place it, but I knew something was off.
My clients were satisfied, even the difficult ones hardly complained anymore. I listened carefully, stuck to their budgets, and if something wasn’t feasible, I said so honestly. They appreciated that. My numbers improved faster than expected. It wasn’t until much later that I realized this was exactly the problem. Some colleagues had labeled those clients as ‘difficult’ for years, and then I, the newbie, came along and suddenly made things work. That started to cause friction.
The little teasing turned meaner. The ‘jokes’ sharper, more targeted. It didn’t stop at snide remarks by the coffee machine. Files went missing. Notes on jobs were mysteriously altered. Deadlines I’d clearly met were suddenly “forgotten” or “never received.” There was always just enough ambiguity to make me doubt myself. To make me look careless. And it worked.
Back then, internet was still in its infancy, at least for most industries, just like ours In the printing world, things were shifting fast. We were among the early adopters, ahead of the curve, because we had to be. High-res files, tight deadlines, constant proofing, last-minute corrections, we needed speed. Internet made that possible. Or, it would. In theory.
We used ISDN, a digital upgrade from dial-up. It was faster, but also clunky and expensive. You needed special lines, special modems, special software. And every minute online ran up the bill. There was no such thing as “always on.” You logged in, held your breath, sent your files, and hoped the connection held. Every wrong click risked a virus or a crash that could take down the whole server.
So yes, we were pioneers. But not everyone came with us.
Most of our clients, design studios, marketing agencies, old family businesses, weren’t ready to make the leap. Some couldn’t afford it. Others didn’t have the infrastructure. Rolling out a data network cost money. Training staff took time. And let’s be honest: some simply didn’t trust it. They stuck with fax machines. With handwritten notes. With a phone call and a scribbled PO number. We were ready tokat escort to jump; they were still lacing their shoes.
That meant the distance between client and printer was often still physical. Orders came in by fax. Confirmations needed blue ink. Final approvals were signed in person. Color proofs, the real ones, not a JPEG in an email, were printed on Chromalux, or if the budget allowed, as an IRIS proof. That last one was a true color simulation, sprayed dot by dot by an inkjet plotter that cost more than a mid-range car. They were treated like relics: wrapped, labeled, sent out by courier like secret diplomatic mail.
But before we even got to color, we sent out diazo prints on translucent paper, developed in a fuming machine that hissed ammonia gas like a wheezing old beast. It stank. It bit your throat. But it gave you clean, violet-blue lines, every fold, trim, and cut laid out in cold precision.
I loved that part. That chemical sting, sharp and urgent, like vinegar and adrenaline. The smell of finality.
So when my boss called me in one morning and said my internet usage was “excessive,” I froze.
There had been flagged downloads. Data spikes. Suspicious traffic. And that wasn’t all. He also brought up some delays with color proofs, said the Chromalux and IRIS samples hadn’t been properly archived, that some had even gone missing, which had pushed back client approvals.
“If this continues,” he said, “we’ll have to take action.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The implication was clear: I was careless. Maybe even dishonest. I felt the blood drain from my face.
I didn’t browse. I didn’t download anything. I followed the rules closely. And if a proof was delayed or missing, I wanted to know who had handled it last. Because it wasn’t me.
But I said nothing. I just sat there, nodding, silent, stunned. I couldn’t believe it. The ground seemed to shift beneath me. I had been trying so hard. My loyalty had never been questioned until now. More and more I felt like someone was messing with me and my work.
But I had nothing concrete. No proof, just that vague, elusive feeling. And as long as I couldn’t prove it, I stayed polite, professional, and careful.
When I closed the door of the company behind me at the end of the day, everything fell away. All I wanted was to go home, to Amy. That little girl who ran to me with open arms and followed me upstairs like I was her hero. Then I was human again, safe again. Her bedtime stories kept me going, even when it felt like everything around me was falling apart.
Every now and then I still went out with friends. I’d kept in touch with a few people from my studies, and in The Hague I had some familiar faces too. I had decided I didn’t want a relationship for a while, but every now and then the warmth of a woman’s body pressed against mine was welcome. In The Hague, I often went out with Marley. Usually I stayed over at her place or at my aunt’s.
Marley and I had a complicated history, full of physical attraction, but her fascination with the BDSM scene often put me off. It was a world where jealousy and old grudges sometimes weighed heavier than desire. Everything seemed tangled up. I still believed in connection that started somewhere and did not begin with a fight.
She told me about a café downtown. Open minded, warm, exactly what I needed. That’s where I met her. Melanctha. Not exactly beautiful, but she had something. Eyes that seemed to undress me with softness. A presence like she already knew me. Like I would leave a piece of myself with her without regret.
She wore a tight black dress, an open back, high heels. Her voice was clear when she whispered what her name meant. “Black flower”. I felt a flutter in my belly, not just desire, but that strange elusive feeling you do not meet often, attraction yes, but also a kind of threat with no name yet.
We danced like we already knew each other. Like teenagers. I lost myself in her scent, her skin, the way her body molded to mine. When we walked to the bar and she gave me one look that made it clear what she wanted, I knew I would go with her. Of course I went.
In an alley near the café she pressed me against the wall. Her lips found mine, her hands slid under my coat. Everything tingled. Everything begged for more. But somewhere beneath the burning desire, that tingling alertness stayed. Not fear, but something else.
We laughed. She whispered, “My bed is close.”
On the way there we kept touching, like we were afraid to lose something. When we arrived and she was about to put the key in the lock, I turned her to me one last time. Her warmth, her softness, her body pressed to mine. I did not know if I wanted to hold her or undress her more.
Inside it was warm. But the atmosphere shifted. The interior was unexpectedly bare. Impersonal. Almost sober, like a set that did not fit the woman who had just swept me into a hurricane yozgat escort of excitement.
Just as I took off my coat, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. Melanctha did not seem bothered, but I suddenly did not feel comfortable anymore. The vibe had changed. Something was off. I broke free from her embrace and turned around.
Behind me stood a naked man, a leather mask over his face, a chain looped around his neck. His arms were hidden behind his back, and he was sporting an erection. He didn’t move. Just stood there, stiff and silent, like he was waiting for a cue.
I wasn’t afraid of him. Not really. It wasn’t disgust either. And it wasn’t about him being a man. I just felt nothing. No arousal. No curiosity. Nothing remotely magnetic.
What hit me instead was the atmosphere. That loaded tension, like I had walked into a private scene mid-performance. Like everyone had memorized their lines, rehearsed their marks, set the stage, and I had been dropped in as the lead without even knowing the plot. It felt like expectation. Like something was supposed to happen next. And I was the something.
“Who is this?” I asked quietly. “And what is he hiding behind his back?”
Melanctha laughed. Not cruelly, not even unkindly. More like she was already ten steps ahead. “That’s Pedro,” she said. “My little slave. He’s here for extra pleasure.”
I swallowed hard. Somewhere, deep in me, a part still wanted to stay. Call it curiosity. Call it desire. I won’t lie. A part of me wondered what might unfold. But the part that needed control, safety, dignity had already started packing its bags.
She tried anyway. She pulled up my skirt and bundled it up around my hips and slid between my legs. Her tongue moved the way it had before, confident and practiced. And my body reacted. Bodies are strange that way. But my mind stayed sharp, stayed on Pedro. I needed to know where he was. What he was doing. Why he was still just standing there like an actor waiting for his cue.
When she gave him a signal and he stepped forward, my breath caught. He was holding leather cuffs. I asked what their intentions were. She avoided the question. Gave me no choice. And then, like she was dropping a final twist in a story I hadn’t agreed to be part of, she said, “Pedro is my husband. And if he behaves, he might fuck you later. Maybe you’ll get to use him as a toilet after.”
Everything in me locked up.
It didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt like an ambush.
That was the worst part. Not the man. Not the cuffs. But the erasure of my will. The slow, creeping sense that I was no longer seen as a person, but as a prop. A scene partner who didn’t need a script because the plot had already been written without her.
I knew then undeniably that I didn’t want this. I wasn’t into this kind of thing. I’d learned that about myself long ago. And though the arousal still lingered in some corner of my body, it no longer belonged to me. It had gone cold.
I asked for a glass of water, mostly to buy myself a moment to breathe, to get my thoughts straight. Pedro brought it without a word. I took one look and saw something white floating near the rim. My gut twisted. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.
“This glass isn’t clean,” I said flatly. No room for argument.
Without waiting, I walked briskly to the kitchen. I didn’t want to give Pedro a chance to do anything else. I emptied the water in the sink, rinsed the glass, filled it again, and drank. Then I grabbed my stuff, calm on the outside, and headed for the door. Only when I stepped outside did I run. Into the night.
A few streets later, I completely lost it. I doubled over, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. Hysterical, almost. Tears streamed down my face, not from fear, not from sadness, but from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. What the hell had that been? Some kind of off-brand horror porn with audience participation? It was so insane, so beyond anything I could’ve imagined, that my brain short-circuited and decided laughter was the only way out.
And then I noticed my skirt. Still hitched up around my waist, like some drunken schoolgirl cliché. I hadn’t even realized I’d run out like that, bare legs flashing under the streetlights, adrenaline in my veins, sense of decorum left somewhere on that cold living room floor.
I started laughing even harder. God. What a scene. What a night. What a fucking mess.
At Marley’s place, it was quiet. I had the key, so I slipped quietly inside and curled up on the couch under the guest blanket, naked and still buzzing from adrenaline. My skin was clammy, my heart still somewhere near my throat.
The next morning I woke up with a hangover without the booze. Marley sat in the big armchair like a queen, also naked, a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. She didn’t even look up when she said, “How was your night?”
I told her everything. Every ridiculous, surreal zonguldak escort detail. She chuckled, but her eyes stayed sharp.
“I’m glad you listened to your instincts,” she said. “That kind of vibe? Nope. Your whole body was screaming nope.”
Later that afternoon, just as I was getting ready to leave, she casually suggested, “Shall we swing by Melanctha’s place?” I blinked. “Why on earth would we do that?”
“Just for fun,” she said, grinning. “Think of it as spiritual revenge.”
We giggled like kids on a dare, barely able to contain ourselves as we walked to the street I had pointed out. Just two grown women, acting like mischievous teenagers up to no good. As we rounded the corner, Marley suddenly pulled me back by the arm. “Wait,” she said with mock concern. “Your skirt. Still up?”
I glanced down, flushed, and smacked her arm. “Very funny.”
When we reached the house, the silliness peaked. On the wall next to the door was a tiny, perfectly ordinary nameplate. “Pete & Karen.”
We both froze. Then burst out laughing. “That’s it?” I gasped between giggles. “Pete and Karen?”
“No candle wax. No whips. Just Pete. And Karen.”
Any last shred of mystery around Melanctha vanished in that moment. Marley leaned in, pressed the doorbell. Once. Twice. Three long times. Then we ran like hell, shrieking with laughter as we bolted down the street.
“Pete and Karen had to wake up someday,” Marley said once we caught our breath, wiping tears from her eyes.
And for the first time in a while, I felt completely, stupidly light.
At work, I started finding naked pictures of women saved to my desktop. Once, there was an anonymous package on my desk. Inside was a giant dildo. I thought it was pathetic, really. But I chose to ignore it. I figured if I didn’t give it any attention, it would blow over.
It didn’t.
It got worse.
The photo of Sarah and Amy on my desk was destroyed and replaced by a printout of a shemale. The background on my computer, which used to be a sweet picture of Amy, had been digitally altered. Her little head, pasted onto the body of a porn actress.
I sat at my desk in tears. Not because I felt caught, or defeated. But because it was no longer about me. They’d found the line and crossed it. They hadn’t just messed with my workstation, they’d dragged something sacred into their filthy game. Something from home. Something that was mine. Ours.
The world I had carefully kept separate from the rest, the part that grounded me, was pulled in through one small photo. And that felt like something pure had been touched in a way that couldn’t be undone. It wasn’t teasing anymore. It wasn’t just a stupid joke. It felt like a violation. A rape without hands, without noise, but with a cold that settled deep into my bones.
I didn’t know if I was crying out of rage, fear, or heartbreak. Probably all three at once.
Then came the summons. Another meeting with my manager. The door closed behind me for the first time.
He slid a piece of paper across the table. A formal warning.
Apparently, a large amount of pornographic content had been found on my computer. According to him, I had violated company policy and endangered the network with potential viruses. He spoke of serious risks and reckless internet behavior. As if I was the one poking holes in their leaky system.
But that was the whole issue, the system was leaky. It was the early days of the internet, when security wasn’t really a thing yet. Hiring someone to properly set up and maintain the IT infrastructure? Way too expensive. No one wanted to pay for that. There wasn’t any real sense of long-term thinking. If a problem popped up or someone had doubts, they’d call in a freelancer on an hourly rate. Quick fix. Patch the leak, move on. Prevention? Structure? Protocols? That was seen as overkill. Unnecessary.
There wasn’t any visible return on investment when it came to well-maintained networks or clear security policies. The only thing they really cared about was the internet usage. That was where the real costs showed up. Time online meant money out the door, so they tried to control that as tightly as possible. Everything else was secondary.
There were manuals floating around on how to manage your data usage, how to avoid going over time, but barely anything about protection. Passwords were seen as a hassle. Something that just slowed you down when you needed to check something on a colleague’s machine. Most workstations didn’t even have login screens. Anyone could sit down and access whatever they wanted.
The virus scanner was a joke, the firewall flimsy at best, and if you knew where to click, you could bypass most of it without anyone noticing. Everyone knew that. Still, I was the one being pointed at when things went wrong.
In their minds, as long as everyone stuck to the rules, things were manageable. That was the whole philosophy. Keep it cheap, keep it moving, and deal with problems when they show up. Until they do, assume everything’s fine.
My boss wasn’t a mean man, and I could see he was uncomfortable, but he said he had no choice. This warning was official. One more slip-up and I’d be out. I sat there stunned, trying to speak, but only a sob came out.
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