And while this had all been going on, she had been dating but suddenly she was wondering if her standards were 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, deciding to play dumb. You had something to say about the movie, a theory, he said. Oh, nothing, she said, smiling, as if shyly, can you tell me yours 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 than this guy.

 

And so other men came and went, and now 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, as she couldn't describe it in words. She had mental concepts but no language for it. And the concepts weren't fully formed; just 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 anyway. When he did those things. Sometimes. If the two of them 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. She said nothing, but lay back and stretched and smiled and sighed, wordlessly assenting. But slowly, she then said as an addendum, and he smiled and they kissed and they enjoyed the afternoon sun coming through the windows onto their bodies.

 

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 that.

 

But she wanted to open it and he was still sleeping deeply, neither the noise of 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 team mean, 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, then touching her arm, and then touching her hand between her legs. She froze, not breathing. 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 her database and dashboard, and they would look at the trends, and he would inspect 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 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 strangers at work were taking 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 moaned and smiled, betraying more of herself to him.

 

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, condescending 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 not only smiling at this treatment, but 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 that 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 personality. 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 since the surgery ... Would he like that?

 

The idea had been in her head for a few weeks and the fantasies 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 would have repulsed her a year ago, had it occurred to her at the time.

 

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 over to him and sees that he is looking at her chest. And she says nothing, but she realises she is now making that face, the one she always makes when he is treating her this way. The one he has forced her in front of a mirror on several occasions to show to her. To prove to her what she is. 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. They jiggle in front of her as she works her hands on the chopping board in front of her.

 

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 her actual work output to remain as high as it is, higher than anyone in the team. And she wants the numbers to hide it, to punish her, because she is a woman. If she stops trying, then a fall in her numbers would be deserved. It wouldn't be as hot 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 conscious 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. Something implicit.

 

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 the email 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 application, and turned the laptop in her direction. She turned her head to face it on the desk beside her, and he opened the settings, and now the footer setting.

 

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. That was a pity. She said to him that she wished she knew what the different effects of each cause were. He had 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. Her lead over them wasn't what it had been two years ago. 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 continued without looking up, I think it would be a wonderful act of devotion if you offered to get 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 make the offer to him, or to refuse. She didn't know. She wanted to do both. She thought about it differently. Which would be more disappointing to her? If she refused or if she offered? 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 of you, but 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 the torment she had inflicted on herself these 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. She loved it. But she also hated how fake it made her look. This was a nose that had been 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 an apparent decline in performance, 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.