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pomeloandtv · 19 days ago

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Part of her wanted to cry. An older part of her, a once more dominant part of her, now shackled and bound, locked away in a safe, too small to be comfortable in, buried in the moors in an unmarked spot. Not gone. Not dead, yet. Still there. But with no influence. The faintest of whispers intertwined with the wind blowing in from the sea. Easy to ignore. She could only perceive it if she consciously turned her ear toward it and chose to perceive it. So she didn't cry. And she had no trouble in not crying.

She pressed send. Done. Well, at least she had told them, that was something. At least they wouldn't be surprised when she didn't clock in tomorrow. But no notice period. She was just walking out. After over 4 years. The sad thing, said the voice on the wind, one of the sad things, was that a year ago, maybe more than a year ago, her old boss would never have accepted her quitting without a fight. He'd want to keep her.

But no one was going to contact her now to get her to change her mind. At best, or worst, depending which part of her was doing the accounting, maybe they would contact her because they might be short-staffed tomorrow, maybe. But not because they believed she had a future at the company.

Her new boss didn't even realise who she was. What she had done. How much she knew. He just thought she was a legacy hire forced on him, someone that he should maybe think twice about disciplining without checking upstairs to make sure no one would get upset.

When had it started?

Three years ago, opening up to her new boyfriend? No, four years ago? Discovering that one aspect of her new role in the company? The aspect that did things to her?

No, earlier. Much earlier. Forever, even. Maybe this was the path she was always destined to walk, just requiring the right set of circumstances to divert her from the road she had originally planned. An aspect of her that once discovered could not be suppressed, and would only grow stronger.

She had gone to all girls schools, so it was only in college that she had started spending more regular time around men, and she discovered the strange sensation of being ignored "because" she was a girl, of being taken less seriously, of having things explained to her that she didn't need explaining, of being talked down to by a supposed peer.

Probably she was already like that before college, but with such infrequent time spent with men, she hadn't had the opportunity to observe the emergence of that pattern in her behaviour. So, in college she figured it out; "Oh, this does that to me? No! Why?"

Not every man treated her that way of course. She hadn't counted, but probably the great majority didn't. What she knew for sure was that some did. And she avoided those men, not out of worry for the extremely worrying way she reacted to that kind of treatment, but because she believed any woman should avoid men who treated women that way. So she learned this about herself back then, but learning it hadn't been important, hadn't required action, because avoiding the people responsible was already her behaviour.

When she dated, it was men who never had anything less than 100% respect for her. Because that was what she deserved anyway, not out of fear of exploring that sensation.

Majoring in the traditionally male-dominated domain of Computer Science might have been thought of as a threat multiplier, but it was still a university, one known in the popular culture as a particularly liberal one, and a large university, with enough people that she could avoid the people she wished to avoid without isolating herself.

Then her masters, then a job, designing the new product around the identified gap in the market, meeting with potential customers, triangulating their needs, contributing to the build, all the time trying to remind the other engineers specifically what it was that the product should do, who it was for, keeping them focused on the purpose of the product. What features customers wanted, what performance, and what was superfluous.

And then the product was ready and she had presented it to potential customers, helping them set up the trial version, troubleshooting the various local network issues, showing them how it worked, what they needed to do, writing the tutorials, the example templates. Some tasks that could have been handed off to someone more junior, but she had wanted to do it. Ensuring satisfaction. It was a rewarding part of the job.

And the product had been a success and the customer base was growing and the company needed to streamline customer service processes. She had submitted a proposal to her boss about what those processes should look like, and it had been accepted and she had directed its construction.

And then she had her pick of what roles she wanted with the new product, but she wanted to stay working with the customers, so she requested to remain with the customer support department she had helped build. So she could always have the full picture of how customers were using the product, what they needed from it, what was missing, and so she could influence future development, even if she was reducing her code contribution. Plus it was a work from home job, no more commuting!

Naturally, given her expertise with the product, she was in the top tier of customer support, Level 3, the person who was called when both the Level 1 and Level 2 agents couldn't succeed. Or the person that the biggest, most important clients had direct access too.

One of the many systems she had put in place was customer service agent key performance indicators, the KPIs. These were automatically generated and sent once a month to each agent, telling them how they performed in the last month, and how their performance compared to the mean of all other agents at their Level. At year end, there was another mail summarizing yearly performance. There were now too much agents at each of the three levels for people to be able to reverse engineer how other individual agents were doing from the mean values. They only had access to their own data, and how they were doing compared to everyone else.

And if the her from back then had known what this was going to do to her, she would have dismantled that system or quit or requested reassignment.

She would open her KPI mail at the start of the month and her mean of all KPIs, a single number summarizing everything was ... between good and very good? And usually closer to good. Never closer to very good. And nowhere near excellent. She was above the mean of all other agents, true, but not significantly above, not a standard deviation. Surely she should be top? Or at least one of the top, just hovering around very good? No? Why?

No one else had her experience with the product, had worked directly on the code base, knew exactly what they were digging around in. No one else had been at the company longer. No one else had seen more issues and could resolve those issues quicker. No one else could diagnose original issues as quickly and as accurately. She was the agent every other agent came to when they couldn't resolve something. This was her team. Everyone knew it, even the boss, who treated her as a first officer.

Something was wrong.

There were now too much customers that they would know her by name, or that she would know their representatives by name. Every interaction was a new interaction with a new person. No established relationships. She had declined to be a main point of contact for one of the big customers which would have allowed a relationship to develop. But it would require less time for other clients, less time surveying the overall landscape that the product existed in, which she wished to be master of. And also it would involve travel or commuting to the client office, if they demanded it.

So, most of her interactions with customers were anonymous, without the benefit of an established relationship. Could that be hurting her numbers? Well, maybe, but those agents with big clients and established relationships dealt with less issues, so some of their KPIs would be hurt by that. So, maybe that wasn't it? But what could it be?

And then one day while working on some improvements to the KPI system, she had seen the numbers for the other agents. She hadn't planned to do it, or she hadn't planned to do it for that reason. That is, she had accessed the database for a particular and legitimate reason related to the work she was doing. Not that particular, illegitimate reason. And some numbers caught her eye and she understood.

There were a dozen male agents at Level 3. She was one of only three female agents. On the screen, the numbers for the other two female agents had stood out. Hard not to miss. They were two of the worst performing agents, in purely KPI terms. But that's not right? They are good! Maybe not the best, but absolutely not the worst! They're both better than ... she scanned the screen ... him? How is he that much higher?

She knew some people expected less of women, or would not trust her expertise. Surely, that couldn't be it? Is the effect that pronounced? In this job where the very best thing to happen to a customer would be to have their email or call assigned to her, ensuring the speediest resolution? And she thought about previous times where customers had seemed unhappy or untrusting of her and re-evaluating those occasions now, ... was that it?

She felt funny. She went for lunch. She occupied her mind with other thoughts that day. But she would have to return to "the" thought at some point, at the latest, at the start of next month.

She experimented. The next few times she noticed a customer seem to be impatient or to be curt or to not be paying attention to what she was saying, she suggested if they would like her to "promote" their issue to a more "experienced" agent. A lie, there was nowhere to promote their issue to, she was the most experienced agent. But they always accepted and seemed relieved. And in these cases she always asked one of the male agents, always a different man, of different levels of competence, to take the issue. And she always told that man exactly what she believed the problem to be, but something else has come up, can you take this off my hands please? And later she would ask him how it went, and he would say, yes, easy, you were completely right about the problem, the customer was happy. Happy I could help.

And each time the experiment concluded, she felt funny. No, I don't like this.

And she told her boss what she had learned, that sometimes customers rejected help from female agents, and he said he knew, it was a recognised problem, one he hadn't been surprised to see here. But it was OK. He accounted for the effect in staff evaluations. He wasn't judging her just by the numbers. He wasn't judging any of the female staff just by the numbers. There were some things that the numbers hid.

And he showed her other patterns in her numbers that she hadn't noticed before, hadn't had the management theory to recognise, how when you went beyond the summary KPI number, you could see the particular KPIs she was most underperforming on were the ones which would be harmed if the customer wasn't giving the agent a fair chance. It was a recognised signal of sexism or racism or homophobia or transphobia. Not enough evidence that you could say any one customer was guilty of these things, because maybe that customer was having a bad day and that was going to be how they treated everyone that day, but enough evidence that you could say that within a society these effects existed.

And for the first time she had really felt it in her bones how sometimes she would have to work harder than a man just because she was a woman, not because she was incapable, but because others so firmly believed her to be incapable, that they would not give her the opportunity to disprove them. She felt funny again.

In college, these feelings never festered in her. She'd just avoid the person involved. But now, how could she avoid it? Quit her job? She loved her job! This job was the perfect job for her. She was uniquely experienced, qualified and talented for it. No, she would not go.

And the next month, the email came again. She opened it, and looked at her figures, lower than they should have been. She stared at them for a few minutes. No longer questioning why they were down there. Just thinking about the fact that they were down there. She closed her laptop and went outside for a walk. She came back, worked for an hour, then looked at the email again. She went to bed. For half an hour.

And the next month she did it again. And the next month she experimented with the vibrator she never used. And the next month she stayed at her desk touching herself as she looked at the email, and reread the email chain she had had with a particularly impatient customer. But it wasn't enough anymore, so she got the vibrator and used it at her desk, legs up on the table in front of her, either side of the screen, various work paraphernalia moved out of the way to give her space. Later a cup with pens got knocked over.

And the next month she touched herself as she compiled all of the monthly emails she had received so far into a local, lightweight timeseries database, and she built a dashboard with her various KPIs, and the team mean KPIs and with time-series graphs, and yes, the change hadn't been observable before, but she appeared to have been trending down.

Why? Was there an explanation. The effect of societal sexism should be a constant. Was there a reason her numbers might go down? She thought about it some more. When she first started working as an agent, some of the customers had still been known to her by name, or at least she was known to the customers staff by name. Now, none of her customer interactions were backed up by her reputation. She had become more anonymous, and the effect of a latent sexism that a man might have for a woman, a sexism that he might not even be aware of, had become more dominant. So she assumed.

**********************************************************

And while this had all been going on, she had been dating but suddenly she was wondering if her standards were too high, or too low, or just miscalibrated? She'd had boyfriends during this time and it had been good and fine, and with the right man, sex could be deeply spiritually satisfying, but maybe no longer as physically or mentally satisfying as she now suspected might be possible for her.

And now she was having dinner with this one man and she had been about to explain a theory she had about the movie, an idea she had developed while watching it with him. But he had cut her off to explain his theory. And she listened to his theory, and well, yeah, she had figured that out instantly, hadn't it been obvious? Sure the characters in the film hadn't said it, but the film makers hadn't been subtle. Her point had been more interesting, deep, raised questions to be explored further. And she got interrupted, for that? And it turned out it wasn't even his thought? He'd heard it on the radio, on the breakfast show?

Usually that would be the end of it. She wouldn't be seeing this guy again. Time to bring this evening home. But she wanted to explore these sensations more, and no-doubt the subject was willing.

What were you going to say, he asked. Huh, she said? You had something to say about the movie, a theory, he said. Oh, nothing, she said, smiling, as if shyly, can you tell me that again? I'm not sure I understood it. And he repeated, emphasizing the important yet obvious points. And she had smiled for him as he spoke, and played with her hair, and as he had finished she had leaned forward and said, oh my god, I hadn't thought of that, and she had smiled her best smile for him, and transitioned that into the biting part of her bottom lift, and then looking away, as if embarrassed, and then slightly looking back up at him, to see if he was looking at her, and of course he was, and then laughing bashfully for him. And she pulled her chair closer to the table and leaned closer to him and asked him questions and smiled as he answered and and and and

And that night had been fun, but he hadn't worked out because if she was going to occasionally pretend to be less for her own sexual gratification, then she should at least be doing it with a man who was capable of being more.

And so other men came and went, and there was this new guy, who was interesting and generous and made her laugh, and who gave every reasonable outward appearance one could expect to give of having nothing less than the absolute respect for women that every single woman deserved, and in particular this woman sitting in front of him. But there was something else? Something in his eyes. Something occasionally betrayed? Different. Dangerous? Not quantitative. Not even qualitative. She had no words for it, only concepts without language, and even then, not a fully formed concept, an outline of something, vague shadows that vanished when she directed her mind's eye to them.

And sex with him had been great, sometimes fulfilling her spiritual needs, as other boyfriends had, and certainly it covered more of the territory of her expanded physical and mental needs.

So she told him how she liked it sometimes. When he did those things. Sometimes. When they acted those ways. Some of the time. And he had told her that he had already suspected that about her, and had taken her that direction, and she hadn't pushed back yet, and so he had planned on going further with her, and she said nothing, but lay back and stretched and sighed. Can we still go slowly, she asked, and he smiled and they kissed and they enjoyed the afternoon sun coming through the windows onto their bodies, and she knew he wanted to do this for her.

And then a few months later the 1st of the new month had been a Saturday. She had woken first and as he was still asleep and she didn't want to wake him, she made herself a coffee and settled in with her phone. And she saw the mail and she wanted to read it, but he was there, and he might learn about that, how bad she was, and maybe it was too soon to tell him everything.

But she wanted to open it and he was still sleeping deeply, neither the coffee machine nor the smell of coffee had woken him. She studied the mail. Something was very different. Her KPIs were unchanged. But the mean KPI of the team had risen. A lot. She was now officially below the mean now, by about as much as she had previously been above it.

Assuming symmetric distribution, and ignoring latent societal sexism, more than 50% of the team were outperforming her, some substantially. Even though she was the one they all turned to when they couldn't solve a problem.

And now she realised what had happened. How had it not occurred to her weeks ago that this was coming? One of the two other women in the team had left five weeks ago, and her replacement was a man and of course the team mean rose significantly when one of the two lowest outliers was removed. So it was just her and one other woman now artificially deflating the rest of the team's performance.

She started thinking. What would happen now if the other woman left? The team mean would rise again, and it would just be her, an anchor around their necks, holding everyone else back.

She couldn't help herself. She started to touch herself. She was quiet, and didn't move, but after 10 minutes she sensed his arm moving under the covers, and then touching her arm, and then her hand at the end of it between her legs. She wondered if the smell had woken him.

And the sex had been incredible, but he had held back, denying her release. She'd been very, very wet for him many times before, but she had cum twice last night so she shouldn't be as wet as this. He wanted to know what was different, and batted her hand away every time she went to touch herself, even slapping her once, not too hard, but enough to surprise her. And she shouldn't tell him, but she wanted to tell him, it would be so hot, but she shouldn't, but she did. Not everything, just the main bullet points, quickly, now please, I'm ready. And he had understood and laughed powerfully at her as he held himself above her. He gave her her legs to hold so she couldn't touch herself, and he went to work, demanding she beg more, and that she tell him how much of a freak she was. And oh that look in his eyes, this was it. And the orgasm he gave her had been the greatest of her life.

In the months to come her KPI mails became an event. She could only open it in his presence. She would update the database, and her dashboard, and they would look at the trends, he inspected her wetness. Sometimes he instructed her to use toys, but she couldn't cum, just make herself wetter. He demanded to know what her hopes were. Did she want the number to go up? Or down? Or stay the same. Even though she'd told him before many times, she always fought it, but by the end of evening he'd have her screaming, and panting and crying that the thought of her number going down, relative to the team, did things to her that she couldn't resist. She wanted it.

Then she wasn't allowed to open the mails, she had to send them to him, and she transferred the database and the dashboard to his computer, and he would update them, and then he would drip feed the information to her, driving her insane with heat, begging to know whether strange men took her more or less seriously than before.

And two months later, is he being more cruel than usual? Denying her release? No. The number went up. That had happened before, but now he is punishing her. She wailed and said it is just statistical fluctuation, it is not significant, sometimes it goes up, you've seen it go up before, and he slapped her and this time it stung, but she had smiled and knew that he had seen it. Where did you learn that, he said. What, she gasped. What do you think those words mean? Statistical fluctuation? And she said, she didn't know. She heard it somewhere but didn't understand it. It seemed appropriate, but she didn't really know what it meant, she was sorry. It wouldn't happen again.

But it would happen again. Statistical fluctuations are like that. Either way, the sex was great; either the humiliation of being a victim of sexism when the number went down, or his play-punishment if the number went up. But now she really wanted the number to go down, not because she feared the number going up but because it would be hotter.

Their roles in the bedroom had long begun bleeding into their relationship roles. Sometimes they were equals, sometimes they were not. And sometimes she would have chosen for him to act that way because its fun, and sometimes she would have preferred he did not because it wasn't the mood she was in. Either way, it wouldn't matter, because he knew how her body would betray her and later as she stroked his back, she would thank him and tell him how good he was, no matter that an hour earlier she had been resisting this path.

The shock she felt the first time he corrected her in public. She had said nothing. And when they had a moment alone she said she felt cold and she wanted to go home, she didn't want to be here anymore. And she realised it was now their home he was taking her back to, and oh god she'd moved in with him, with "this".

They said nothing to each other in the taxi but when they arrived home he forced her over the arm of the couch and removed her skirt, and the part of her mind that felt cold didn't want to, but her body was hot so she let him thrust away and tire himself out so he would sleep and she could plan what she would do now. And he was taking his time, as he did when he was really enjoying himself, and if he was going to take this long, she may as well slip her hand under her self and up between her legs, and he slapped it away, and now it had been another minute and she had planned on being silent for whatever remained of the evening but she had to ask him if he would make her cum, and she knew she would beg and say anything he told her to say, and that she would love it, and if it was going to be easier and funner to just do that, then she may as well just do that, and she felt so weak thinking that but there was nothing else to think. She reached for the discarded skirt and covered her head with it so she didn't have to see the world and have it see her as she accepted a new low.

The next day they don't talk about it, she doesn't want to talk about it, but throughout the morning her gaze and her touch linger on him just that bit longer than is already usual, and his smile, that knowing smirk, all morning long. She brought him coffee as he read his phone, and sat herself on his lap and didn't say anything but just held him.

A few weeks later he is talking to the waiter, and the waiter says something to which she makes a further inquiry, and with a hand motion and a look, he quiets her and he continues talking, and oh god, she was smiling and averting her eyes, why am I like this. I should fight it, a part of her thought. But a different part of her laughed and said ok, good, fight, you'll just make what's to come even better.

And now - how much time has passed? - she is talking to his friends and he quiets her and starts talking for her and she smiles for him and lets herself listen to him, he's so smart, and so am I but it is fun to pretend not to be, let others believe I am not.

And by now they have talked about all these things they feel, and she has consented for more, and he suggests she go light blond, if she enjoys being mistaken for less than she is, certainly some people will be more likely to treat her a certain way if they have certain expectations about hair colour. And she does it and she loves it. And she hopes some people do think less of her for it, though she would never do that to someone else. And it looks so good, and the style he pointed at on a woman in a magazine was gorgeous on her, and she wondered if she should get it styled more often, go to the hairdresser more regularly than just her usual four to six month visits for a cut.

She thinks about what she enjoys about sex now versus earlier, and whereas before it was between two equals, now their differences are not only emphasized, but exaggerated, and the exaggeration makes sex better.

Was there more they could exaggerate? What about physical exaggeration. She finds herself wondering if he would enjoy her with bigger boobs. She imagines they are at a restaurant with another couple and he is speaking for her so there is no need for her to say anything with her words, but she can speak with her presentation, with her back straight, shoulders back, tight dress, (revealing maybe?), perfect make-up and hair. And at home he would grab her and pull her down and tear off her clothes and stare at her chest that way he does ... Would he like that?

The idea had been in her head for a few weeks and the fantasys were getting more insistent. She asked him what he thought of her getting breast implants. He loved it. And she wanted to ask for his opinions, any specific ideas, what would he like, even though she knew that was the worst thing anyone should do. What if they broke up? But it would be so hot to let a man decide. At the very least, find out if he had opinions? That couldn't hurt? That wasn't the same as letting him decide.

And now it was done, and people looked at her more. She wonders if, when people, when they see my blonde hair and big boobs, do they have lower expectations of me? Why didn't I do this earlier? Because it had never been something she had ever wanted before, the idea had repulsed her until two months ago.

And one day she is talking to him in the kitchen as they prepare dinner, chatting about this and that, and he is saying nothing, is he paying attention even? And she looks at him and he is looking at her chest and she instantly she is making that face, the one she always makes when he is treating her this way, the one he has shown her so often in the mirror. He reaches over and gives one breast a playful slap and she yelps at the sudden sensitive contact, and he laughs and pulls of her top and bra and directs her to continue chopping.

She thinks of the KPI mails. The customers never see her blonde hair or chest. Her contact with them is either by e-mail or voice-call. Video-call is used for the big customers, the established relationships. But she doesn't do that work. So, only e-mail and voice-call. How can I fall farther? She could work less hard? But that wouldn't be the same. She wants to work as hard as she does, that is, more than anyone else, and be punished for it just because she is a woman. If she stops trying, then a fall in her numbers would be deserved. It wouldn't be the same as an undeserved fall.

Voice calls? Nothing she can do there, that she can think of. Maybe she could project a certain type of voice. But no, that would be extra effort, effort taken from actually doing a good job, effort taken away from focusing solely on customer's problem. Her act of sabotage, her attempt to appeal to men's prejudice, should be something that she cannot help but be.

What are the things that customers see of her, that provoke their prejudice. Her name, in emails, on voice-calls, a woman's name. An appended MSc, her rank, "Senior Level 3 Support Agent". It would all have to go. No qualifications. No rank. Not even a reduced job title.

She didn't tell her fiancee. She wanted it to be a surprise. And when he opened his present the next month, he was so proud of her, and she felt so loved. And she cooed happily as he kissed and caressed her form, bound over her work desk.

And he asked did something change, and she explained what she did, and he said, oh, we could go further. He opened her email, and turned the laptop in her direction. she turned her head to face it on the desk beside her, and she directed him to where the footer settings were.

He looked at her name. How often do I call you Fionnuala? Never, she said. What do I call you? Fifi, she said. No! We can't do that. And he played with her exposed holes, and unbound her right arm and moved the laptop closer to her so she could reach. She backspaced Fionnuala, one letter at a time, breathing heavily, enjoying each reward he gave her. She wrote "Fifi". And he stopped rewarding her and said, but when I call you that it's spelled capital f, e, e, hyphen, capital f, e, e. So she back-spaced again, and now she was Fee-Fee Connell.

All these changes were not actually allowed by the company, but she had written some of the structures that wrapped the objects in the systems, she knew how she could get her usual name and title to appear for people in her company, and her new name and title for people outside the company. It wasn't fool-proof, a customer might forward a mail that she was chained in to one of her colleagues, and maybe they would see. But maybe not for a while.

And her KPIs fell again. The name change happened too quickly after the removal of title and credentials to fully be able to quantify what effect each change had had. She said she wished she knew what the different effects were, and he looked her in the eye and told her how unhappy it made him when she made herself unhappy with smart people thoughts. And she laughed for him, and played up to her role.

And now they were married and she had taken his name and what only recently had been "Fionnuala Connell, MSc, Senior Level 3 Support Agent" was now "Fee-Fee Cheeky" thanks to her husband's Scottish roots.

In the end the changes to her name and title caused her to fall well over a standard deviation and a half below the mean. Most of the Level 3 agents had been there long enough now, that - though she was still the most experienced and knowledgeable - they didn't need to turn to her for help as often as before. Whatever theoretical lead she might originally have had on them in a perfect world would have been diminished by now. She wasn't the only person capable of diagnosing original problems anymore.

She wondered for the first time if she was expendable. Certainly the amount of customers who asked her if they could speak to someone more senior, who rejected her help, had increased. Her boss would want to talk to her at some point. Too much of her assigned customers were getting bumped to other agents. Was she becoming a bottleneck preventing efficient throughput?

And now her nose job, her husband's supreme control of her will meaning he just asked her, would you offer to get a nose job for me? He actually just asked it? How dare he! Why? What's wrong with my nose? Nothing, he said instantly, its a perfectly-shaped and proportioned nose, not looking up at her, his eyes as fascinated as ever with her breasts. This morning he was examining the different ripples and waves of dense water he could summon by moving or touching or hitting her breasts in different ways. But, he said, I think it would be a wonderful act of devotion if you offered to have a nose job for me, just because maybe I would like it.

And he didn't say anything about it again, but the idea was in her mind now and she didn't want a nose job, but now she couldn't think about anything else. Would he prefer a different nose on her face? Would she do it, just because he asked? She certainly hadn't refused to do it yet. Did she want to refuse? What did she want more? To encourage him, or to refuse. She didn't know. She thought about it differently. What would disappoint her more? If she encouraged him or if she refused. That was an easier question to answer.

A few weeks later and she came to him and asked him was there a kind of nose he wanted? Not committing to anything, she said, she was just curious. And he had said, no nose in particular. I just want you to give me the option. And she had asked, but what would you want? And he shut down the conversation: you said you weren't committing to anything so there is nothing to discuss.

A week later she told him how much she wanted him to be happy with her, to understand how strong her devotion was to him. If you wanted to get me a new nose, you could. And they had kissed and he had said, that is so sweet, you don't have to offer me that. And they kissed again and she told him, but "if you wanted to", you could. Anything you want. Is there anything you'd prefer? And he had said, that's a generous offer, a beautiful act of commitment. But, he continued, I've never actually thought about it before, whether I'd like you to have a different nose. She wanted to gasp at the brazenness of this statement, after all that had come before in the last few weeks, but she could see he had more to say and waited. Let me think about it for a few weeks, he said. And maybe we keep your already-perfect nose, or maybe I can think of a better nose for you.

And she had waited, and she fantasized about what he might choose, if he might choose anything. Oh, I hope he does pick something, just so I can show him that I would do it for him. And suddenly she was thinking a lot about what kind of nose she wanted, no, that he wanted.

How! How does he do this to me, she asked herself as she examined her newly healed and petite nose, slightly upturned, with cleaner lines, and a sharper, paired down ridge. She turned this way and that, admiring herself, trying to stop herself from smiling, so she could examine it's form against an expressionless face. This wasn't a nose that looked like it had been grown, this was manufactured.

Her boss called her in, actually into the office to talk, and well, her wardrobe had changed since last she worked in the office. She didn't recognise anyone. They didn't recognise her. They looked at her though. And she enjoyed them looking. She had displayed some midriff in the office before, but never cleavage. Still her outfit looked expensive, and the cleavage was part of the look, and it wasn't like cleavage wasn't allowed in the office, so she hadn't crossed a line. She enjoyed herself pretending not to notice the guys looking at her as her heels clicked by. She made sure they saw her keycard dangling from the lanyard wrapped around her finger. That's right, she thought, that's not one of the visitor keycards. I work here, and you're hoping you see me again.

Her boss said it wasn't her fault, it was just necessary to have a talk, because it was standard procedure in the case of such a decline, but he knew that her success rate among clients who did accept her help was still among the best. Everything was fine. But! It would be great if we could figure out why so much clients ask for someone else. By cycling so much clients from you to someone else, we are reducing productivity.

**********************************************************

And now it was the evening, and she was with her husband and his friends at their traditional meeting at their favourite bar, in their usual snug. And there was a new friend there that day, who sat beside her, and he asked how her day was and she had mentioned she had actually been in the office that day, even though she never was. And the new friend knew her company and presumed she was reasonably knowledgeable in the domains that that company was known to excel in, and so he started a conversation about those topics, and she had listened attentively, smiling for him to continue, like her husband liked her to do when one of his friends was talking, but when it was her turn to say something, she just said, I don't really know anything about that, and laughed apologetically, like her husband also liked her to do. I'm just customer service.

But surely even customer service has some knowledge ...? the new friend left the question hanging for her to catch. I'm just entry level support, she explained. We have a script and checklists but I don't really understand it, she lied, talking about the decision tree procedures that she herself had designed and implemented for the first level agents. I just ask questions and put the answers into the computer and then the computer tells me what to say to the people. Sometimes I make mistakes though, she pouted. It's hard.

And she saw now that he understood, and he changed the subject for her, asking was she planning any holidays, and now here was a subject that her husband believed would be appropriate for her, and so she yapped about this place and that place, and she didn't know which would be better, so she asked his opinion, touching his leg as she did so. And she played with her hair as she listened to his answer, and she saw her husband's approval out of the corner of her eye and she felt warm and mushy.

And later that friend was talking to the friend on the other side of him and they were talking to each other and not for the table, but she thought they were talking about her, and did the friend she already know say, "yeah, dumb as rocks", oh she hoped so!

And as always, when the friends were getting past her to go to the bar or the toilet, they'd touch her shoulder, and the friend she did know sitting on her other side would touch her thigh as he talked to her and she would smile for him and touch his leg or arm back as she talked to him, and she played with her hair for all of them as she listened. And when she got up to go to the bathroom, if she passed one of them, they would always touch her as they walked by, brushing her waist or hip, or if walking in the same direction through the crowded bar, they would guide her with a hand on her waist or at the tops of her hips.

All his friends called her Fee-Fee now. Her husband had only occasionally called her Fee-Fee around them in the early days of their relationship, but slowly he called her Fionnuala less around them, and then not at all, and they followed his lead. His family also called her Fee-Fee. It had been sudden with them. Up to a point they had always called her Fionnuala. Then one time they visited and everyone called her Fee-Fee. No one asked if she minded or what she preferred. She wondered what he had said to them. That she preferred to be called Fee-Fee, but was too embarrassed to correct them after so many years of being called Fionnuala? And maybe he insisted, put his foot down, do not ask her about this, she is mortified.

And now she was still working as diligently as ever but her KPIs had held steady for a while, and then disaster. Two new female coworkers. For so long there had only been two women in the team. Now there were four. Her KPIs remained the same, but societal sexism ensured that the team mean fell, reducing her gap to it. Just a standard deviation under now. Could she do anything else? Work less hard? No. Not an option. She craved unearned punishment.

What else could she do. Her husband suggested she get longer nails. She wanted to do that. Her nails were already longer and more often manicured than she used to keep them, because she knew he preferred it. And now he suggested she go longer, but she couldn't. Her nails were about as long as they could be before it would start affecting her typing and productivity. No. She must work as hard as ever.

But where does it all end? What is her goal here? To work forever, forever craving that more and more men misjudge her abilities? But to work this diligently forever? That had once been her plan. Now it didn't sound as good. It would be nice to work less, or to work less hard, or to not work at all. And then she could do other things. Like have longer nails, she smiled to herself at the thought. To have longer nails for her husband and to not worry about anything.

She decided. She would escalate her career-sabotaging project, bring it to some forced conclusion. Force her boss to take action against her. Get fired or even demoted. She needed something she could change. Some aspect of her that the customers would reject. Ideally something she couldn't undo, even if she wanted to. Permanently condemn herself to endure the hot, dismissing opinions of men.

There. That was it. This was the change she could make that would do it. This option had occurred to her before, but it was just too extreme. And now that she thought about it more she realised how hot it would be and how much she wanted it.

The doctor suggested that there were non-surgical alternatives. She said she wanted to explore those too, but she absolutely did want the surgery anyway. She would explore the alternatives after, if she wanted more.

The doctor objected. Non-surgical alternatives must be investigated first. No, she wanted the surgery first. That was that. She didn't tell the doctor, but the non-surgical alternatives would require effort, effort that would distract her from trying to do good work for the customers. But she didn't say that to him. Just that she wanted the surgery.

But the surgery is irreversible, the doctor objected. And she loved the idea of it being irreversible. If it was irreversible, she couldn't change her mind later, and she was stuck. And how men, all people even, perceived her would permanently be altered. She could never escape. Warmth spread up her body thinking about it. But she didn't say any of that to the doctor. Just that she wanted the surgery. You aren't close to the type of candidate that this surgery is for, the doctor insisted. She knew, but she didn't care. She wanted the surgery.

The doctor refused to work with her. She found a new doctor. The surgery went well, the doctor was happy. Her husband was proud. She nodded and smiled to both of them, at the doctor, then her husband, who squeezed her hand. They had to wait two days before she would be healed enough to see roughly what the results were, and another month to see how the changes settled.

Two days later they came back. She tried for the first time in the doctor's office, first drinking a big gulp of water and clearing her over-dry throat. Just the clearing of her throat had sounded different. She looked at her husband, both their eyes wide. The doctor had her reperform all the tests he had done before the surgery, evaluating where her metrics were now. The doctor explained what it would mean. Still too early to know for sure though. She would come back next month and redo the tests. That would confirm it.

She remembered saying something in the car on the way home. Her husband looked over at her, smiling, then laughing, a hand reaching to her thigh, gently squeezing. She had laughed too with her new laugh, and he had reached over and held her chin as if she was the cutest thing, and she had squirmed in her seat for him.

He fucked her when they got home. She wasn't allowed to cum. No loud noises for her for now. Doctors orders. So no cumming for you during recovery. But I can cum silently, she had squeaked. He ignored her. She thought about saying it again. She didn't.

Later she had been in the kitchen and he had been in the sitting room watching television and she had asked out if he wanted anything before she came back. No response. She went out to him and asked again. Didn't you hear me? No he hadn't, genuinely surprised. He hadn't heard anything. Do it again, he said, smiling at the realisation. She went back and called again and she looked through the door and he shook his head. He muted the video and she went back and tried again, and this time he heard her but only just.

This of course was what she had wanted. The doctor had scarred her larynx, but only the part responsible for the deepest tones, permanently removing those tones from her voice. Formerly in the average range for a woman her age, her pitch had been raised by an octave and a half. She sounded ridiculous, and she knew it.

But the rise in pitch hadn't been the only effect. The volume of the voice is a sum of all the tones. Removing some tones reduces the volume, and the deeper tones tend to be louder. She wasn't just higher pitched, she was quieter too. The doctor had told her that she had lost 5 decibels. She didn't really understand exactly what a decibel was, or what it measured, or on what scale it did that measuring, but she planned to edge at some point while she read more.

And she sat quietly beside her husband as they watched a film, and she would have to go back to work in two days and she was feeling so horny and she wanted to cum but she wasn't allowed, but she breathed deeply and gripped her husbands hand, and he rolled her over and admired the wet patch she had massaged into the sheets with her bare bottom, and he helped himself to her, and she whimpered in her new voice at the pleasure and at the torment of not being allowed to take herself to conclusion, or even just to moan loudly.

Walking down a busy, noisy street with her husband, she had said something, but found that he hadn't heard her at first. He looked at her, realising now. It was still too soon to start putting her larynx under strain. I'd prefer if you didn't raise your voice to be heard, he said. She nodded, and they continued on. What she had to say wasn't too important. He didn't need to hear it now. If it was in anyway important, something he must eventually hear, then she would certainly remember to tell him later.

And now her first day at work again. Only one week til month end, so any changes may not be detectable in the next KPI mail. Her first customer immediately got impatient with her, and eventually asked if there was anyone else he could talk too, of course, I'm so sorry, I'll find someone who can help you, she said in her new peeping whine. She groaned to herself at the experience, or she attempted a groan. She wasn't sure if groan was an acceptable term for the noise she had just made. Of course, sometimes customer interactions went that way anyway. No way to tell if her new voice was the cause. More data needed. She passed the call to a co-worker and e-mailed the solution for that customer to that co-worker.

The next months KPI mail arrived. Her numbers were down, but not significant. But it had only been a week with her new voice. That week had certainly felt less productive than before, but she wanted to see the result of a whole month. She wanted to see the big drop, all at once.

Outside of work, her life was immediately different. She had irrevocably altered her interactions with people. When speaking to strangers for the first time, there was always a moment when she would see her voice register in their face. Sometimes they hid it well, but it was always there. As if to say, what? You sound like that?

And as for men, specifically? They had always smiled at her. Before she started wearing more makeup, but more after. Before her then-boyfriend's modifications to her wardrobe, but more after. Before the boob job and the blonde hair, but more after. And now she opened her mouth to speak and she would see their smile would alter, adopting a "oh you dear sweet thing" character, had it not already had that character. What it did to her, that reaction! How it made her feel!

Her husband had that reaction. More often than had previously been the case, he wouldn't answer a question, or respond to her, but would just pull her in and keep her warm and kiss her and let her go, maybe giving a boob or ass cheek a squeeze. But then not say anything, just carry on doing what he had been doing. Ignoring her more. Not ignoring her needs, never, not once. Just ignoring her words. Don't worry he said on one occasion. If it's important I'll take care of it, always. And as he held her, looking at her with the deepest condescending affection she could imagine, she believed him, and knew he would take care of it, and maybe it wasn't so necessary to say things that he was probably already ahead of her on. Or at least, it was fun to pretend that he was probably already ahead of her on.

One of her husband's friends was in the neighbourhood during the work day, as they usually always managed somehow to be, and came over. This was the first time since the surgery. Obviously her husband had told them she was available again. Before letting him in, she ensured the door to her office was closed. They weren't to know she had a smart person job. And he had told her she sounded sexy as fuck and she had felt reassured and he had asked to hear her speak more and she had indulged him and had enjoyed his attention and petting.

And then he had hugged her just that bit too tight, too possessively, like all his friends did, so they could feel her large breasts press against them, and he had kissed her, and she took him to the couch and first sat him down and then knelt down herself, and she told him she wasn't fully healed yet, so he couldn't take charge this time, she would have to lead. And he asked, but her husband had said it was ok now? And she smiled and assured him it was ok for him to come over now, but he just can't be rough with her this time, even though it probably wouldn't be a problem, and she does really enjoy that, but just in case, not this time.

She was blabbering, talking quickly, she wondered if she was less intelligible with this voice at this speed. He laughed at her and she laughed back. "Fee-Fee Squeaky" he said, and she tried not to laugh too loud because she wasn't supposed to yet, but she did laugh, and she started undoing his belt.

He took out his phone, and started filming her, and telling her what a good job she was doing, and once he was done, he lifted her head and part of him leaked out of her now unfilled mouth, and she smiled for him and the camera and he asked asked her what was her name and she had said for the camera "Fee-Fee Squeaky" in her impossible voice.

Later she watched the video that he had shared on the group chat, captioned "Wait for it. Sound on." She was so horny. It had been weeks since her last orgasm. She wouldn't choose this, but she could see a rhythm in how one might live like this. Surrendering oneself to the permanent feeling, living life in a misty daze, always thinking about sex, about pleasing others, but never thinking about her own release because that wasn't an option. What a nightmare. Fortunately there would always be some limits she could not break. But she would be returning to the doctor soon, and she would be allowed to raise her voice, and her husband would let her orgasm.

They returned to the doctor. He was delighted with her healing. The surgery had maybe removed more, just a little bit more, than the target, but not problematically so. They performed all the tests again and the doctor smiled warmly at her all the time, especially when she said something. And her husband asked the doctor all the questions she had told him that she wanted to ask, and the doctor answered her husband and she sat and listened, and she wondered if she had to listen. Could she stop paying attention. Surely if it was something she needed to know, then they would get her attention.

And then it was something she needed to know. The doctor gave her the name and number of a voice coach. Her husband took the card from the table in front of her. Oh right. She hadn't wanted to think about this. As you age, the doctor explained, the larynx ages too. The tones that degrade first are the highest tones. For most people this isn't a problem. But for her, with her already unnaturally quiet voice, the loss of more tones might see further degradation in volume. With daily exercises, performed correctly, she could prevent this degradation.

The doctor and her husband took turns talking to her, her husband repeating pretty much what the doctor had said, but in simpler language that she enjoyed, but didn't need. And she thought more about what they were telling her and she thought that's hot too. I've given myself a disability. On purpose. Made myself less capable. I can never undo this. I wouldn't undo this.

In front of the doctor, she asked her husband, will you come with me to the place where I learn the exercises, so you can see what I should do and then you can make sure I do them properly? He held her hand, squeezing, of course.

I sound so good, she said to herself in the mirror. She had finished today's exercises. Her husband hadn't been with her this time, but he said he would check how she was doing again later this week, just to make she wasn't losing form. She smiled for herself. Her delicate nose and pink lips seeming to match her high and soft voice. So girly, she thought. "So girly", she said, her voice impossibly soft.

So she could raise her voice now. Her larynx was healed. They went to a restaurant to celebrate, the music loud and the atmosphere thick with bodies and loud voices. He talked to her across the small table. She talked back. He leaned forward to hear. She leaned forward to help him hear, but also to give him a better view of her cleavage. He held her hand on the table and smiled at her, and she smiled back and they kissed, and he laughed and she laughed too, her new incredibly high pitched laugh. She drew looks from the people beside them, and raised eyebrows, but it hadn't carried much further than that in the din.

Another time, like a previous time, walking down another loud street. She says something but he doesn't hear. He looked at her, realising. Before she can repeat herself, louder, I'd prefer if you didn't raise your voice to be heard, he said, unless necessary. She nodded, and they continued on. What she had to say wasn't too important. Just a remark. He didn't need to hear it now, maybe ever. If it was in anyway important, something he must hear at some point, then she would certainly remember to tell him some other time.

A delicious asymmetry had been introduced to their home life. If she called out to him in another room, and there was any noise, music, television, whatever, he couldn't hear her. She had to go find him and ask or say whatever she wanted to ask or say. But if he called out to her in another room, and there was any noise, music, television, whatever, then she could always hear his deeper more powerful voice. And she could try and reply, but he wouldn't hear her, so she would have to come to his call.

If one of them wanted to say something to the other in a different room, it was always her who had to go, he could stay put. And she told him how hot she found it, and he had laughed as he fingered her and promised her he wouldn't abuse it, well, not too much anyway. And she had gripped the table edge and he was taking his time with her, making her more desperate, and she begged him to abuse it, as much as he wanted.

But there was more, because when she had done the various tests in the doctor's office, he had tried them too, just for fun, and now they knew that the decibel level of her shouting voice was barely louder than his normal voice. It was rare she raised her voice at him, but it did happen. And the first time that it happened after her recovery from the surgery, it was necessary for him to only slightly raise his voice above a normal speaking tone to drown her out. She was shocked at how weak and small it made her feel. And she knew he could see what effect it was having on her, and although the warmth spreading from below hadn't imprisoned her yet, she knew it would, and that this argument was going to end the way he liked it, on his terms, with her begging to be less, and with her thanking him afterwards and meaning every word of it.

And now the next months KPIs. A full month of her new voice. She knows its going to be bad. It felt very bad. More people than ever before refused her assistance. She hadn't told her husband how it had been. He wanted to go in blind. But I know what's coming.

He opens the mail. He double takes. Has she ever seen him do that? It must be bad. It is. Two and a half standard deviations below the mean. A huge drop. She must be the worst in the team now, and by some distance. She tells her husband she can check, access the KPI database. It's not allowed, maybe illegal, but nobody would know, she could do it, see how bad she actually is. He unties her and she sits on his lap and works, and she is in. There it is. Confirmed. She is the worst employee.

She curls up against him. She didn't know how she expected to feel. Happy, horny, sad, angry? She feels empty. Her stomach isn't there. Just a hole. Why did I do it, she asks him. Why did I waste so much time working. I could have quit years ago. And he strokes her hair, and tells her he wouldn't have changed the journey for anything. And she smiles and they kiss.

I don't know what's next, she says. I've never not known that.

**********************************************************

And that was six months ago. After three months her boss offered to reassign her. Back to working on the codebase, away from customers. It had been a while, but she still had the qualifications and the experience. No, she didn't want to leave customer service. Her boss told her that in that case he could only fire her or demote her to Level 2. She asked her husband what he wanted. Take the demotion, with reduced hours, so you have more time to yourself. But now a problem. Her manager came back and told her that the Level 2 manager didn't want her, didn't want to introduce a bottleneck into his team. She requested Level 1, with 25 hours a week.

And now she was Level 1, asking the customers the questions in the script that she had wrote. Always saying the thing that the computer told her to say, even though she had written the decision tree that the computer was following. The decision tree always either solved the problem without special contribution from herself, or directed her to pass the customer up to Level 2. Anyone could have done this job.

Often she guessed correctly what the problem was before finishing the questionnaire for the customer. She wanted to tell the customer but couldn't. The Level 1 agents were under much more surveillance. They weren't being paid to think creatively. Random calls were reviewed by the middle managers. If she started going off-script, she would be caught. It wouldn't matter if she actually solved customers problems faster.

And as she had always done her Level 3 as diligently as it was supposed to be performed, now she did her Level 1 job as diligently as it was supposed to be performed. It was easy. Boring. She found herself going into automatic pilot as she read the checklist. No longer thinking about what the customer was telling her, just passing it on to the computer and waiting for the computer to tell her what to say.

She wasn't being paid to think. So she didn't think. One day, as she painted her now-longer finger nails at her desk, between entering customer answers as well-practised, one-fingered sets of key strokes, she imagined what it would be like to lose all knowledge of the product. All expertise. Just have it cut out of her brain. It sounded hot. One of the most knowledgeable people in the company not just pretending to uncomprehendingly repeat a procedure with each customer, but changed to actually uncomprehendingly repeat a procedure with each customer.

She wanted to touch herself, but she still needed a free finger to type in the keyboard, and the nails of her other hand were still drying. And besides, she was sitting and she still hadn't even mastered masturbating while lying down with these nails. And besides again, her husband only occasionally allowed her to practise. So instead she pouted to herself at the various mirrors her husband had had installed around the room. They were expertly arranged using the odd angles of the room to allow her to see herself from various angles during her five hour day. Mmmm, her new lips looked good when they pouted like this, even if they were still bruised. Her husband loved them. All his friends had loved them when he had invited them over yesterday to see her latest change.

And her KPIs were still bad, measured as compared to the rest of the Level 1 agents, though she always expertly followed the checklist. Unless the customers didn't allow her to finish. And speaking of, the customers at this level were so much ruder, and said things to her, or behaved in ways that no one ever had at Level 3. She imagined the other Level 1 agents didn't enjoy it, but it was nice in that strange way, to have strange men - and even strange women - judging her incompetent, and to have their prejudice leak out in all manner of creative ways that targeted her, little her, just trying to her best. One time a customer even demanded that they be allowed to speak to an adult.

But now she was walking out. Her brain finally broken. If she was unable to convince people that she was capable of meeting their expectations, then maybe she should just do stuff where she would meet their expectations. Her husband agreed and promised a new career. What had he planned? He wouldn't say. But he promised her it would be easy, enjoyable, and with low hours. Further, her safety and security and happiness was his highest priority and would never be compromised. And she thought about it and she realised that was more than enough for her to be happy. She hoped she would make him proud.

But not yet, he said. First time off, a few months to acclimatise to being you, maybe a whole year, just to be sure we can kill off any remnants of the old you. And she wondered aloud what she would like to do with her time off, and he hushed her with his finger on her bee-stung lips and told her that for the next few months she is not to worry about deciding things. That's his responsibility. But she can help him make good decisions. When she likes something, anything, even a feeling, she should tell him. When she doesn't like something, she should tell him. That's her responsibility, to help him make good decisions for her. Otherwise she need not say much.

And they kissed as she sat on her lap, and they smiled at each other, and he removed her top and bra and kissed more as he played with her breasts and she thought about his instructions, and she said, I love when you play with my breasts. What else, he said. I love that you love to play with my breasts. What else, he said. And she felt his hard cock in his lap, and she said I love that I make you hard. And he had paused and asked, but you make a lot of other men hard too. Don't you like that? And she made a show of thinking about it for him, pressing a finger dumbly to her lip like she knew he liked, uhhhh, yeah, I love that too. But I love it best when I make you hard. Well, he said, that's good to know, and I promise I will make any changes to you that I can think of that will get me harder more often. Yay, she said, then holding him tight and giving him a deliberately long and wet kiss.

Later she woke up in the middle of the night and realised she didn't have to do anything tomorrow and she wondered what that would be and she wondered if thinking about what to do was too close to a decision, and she thought about how she would like to try following his instructions, so she would just get up tomorrow and do the things she usually might do on a day off, and if she thinks of things that she loves or hates, she will definitely tell her husband, and if she gets bored and doesn't enjoy that, she will tell him she doesn't enjoy that, and maybe he will find something for her to not be bored with.

In the morning she turned off his alarm clock and woke him up a different way instead. And after she was done she hugged him and told her how much she loved sucking his cock. And he grunted, still recovering, and stroked her back and hair as she lay on top of him. And then he asked, and what else do you love or hate. And she thought, and she said, I love that no one takes me seriously when they hear my voice. What else, he said. I hate that only some people I meet in a day will hear my voice and so most people don't have the chance to not take me that seriously.

And he rolled her off him and said he was taking a shower, and he said she could use the new underwear at a low setting, the pair she was supposed to use now instead of touching herself. She asked, can I cum? He leaned over her and slapped her, not too hard, but it stung. That was a direct request to do something, he said. That isn't allowed. You can say what you like and dislike only. I will decide what you will do. There will be a punishment, and it will last a week, and it will be cumulative. If you do that again, there will be a second week, and a third and so on. I will tell you what the punishment is when I finish my shower, for now think on what it might be, and don't cum. I want you wet today.

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pomeloandtv · 23 days ago

Text

When had it started?

Three years ago, opening up to her new boyfriend? No, four years ago? Discovering that one aspect of her new role in the company? The aspect that did things to her?

When she dated, it was men who never had anything less than 100% respect for her. Because that was what she deserved anyway, not out of fear of exploring that sensation.

And if the her from back then had known what this was going to do to her, she would have dismantled that system or quit or requested reassignment.

Something was wrong.

She felt funny. She went for lunch. She occupied her mind with other thoughts that day. But she would have to return to "the" thought at some point, at the latest, at the start of next month.

And each time the experiment concluded, she felt funny. No, I don't like this.

**********************************************************

Usually that would be the end of it. She wouldn't be seeing this guy again. Time to bring this evening home. But she wanted to explore these sensations more, and no-doubt the subject was willing.

And sex with him had been great, sometimes fulfilling her spiritual needs, as other boyfriends had, and certainly it covered more of the territory of her expanded physical and mental needs.

She started thinking. What would happen now if the other woman left? The team mean would rise again, and it would just be her, an anchor around their necks, holding everyone else back.

**********************************************************

I don't know what's next, she says. I've never not known that.

**********************************************************

#story

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