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 usually never was. And the new friend knew of 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 and smiled 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 imagined him insisting, she is too embarrassed she let you call her that for so long.

 

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. Her punishment must be unearned.

 

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.

 

Yes. 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, then if she changed her mind later, she would be stuck forever. 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 were back with the doctor. 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, her hand over her mouth, both of their eyes wide. The doctor had her re-perform 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 small-ly. 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 repeated her question, and she looked through the door and he shook his head. He muted the television, 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 bedsheets 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 he had missed something. 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 apologetically in the tiny peeping whine that all her apologies would from now on sound like. 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 him the exact solution that would solve the customer's problem.

 

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 when she said something, he wouldn't reply, 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. And say nothing, 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 about it, he said sometimes. 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 at least one of them always somehow managed to be, and dropped in. 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 they laughed together about it.

 

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. I'll make it up to you when I'm definitely healed, I promise, she peeped and he had smiled down at the face between his legs and stroked her hair.

 

She had blabbered, talking too quickly, she wondered aloud 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 unstopped mouth, and she smiled for him and the camera and he 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 she realised she was day-dreaming and they were trying to get her attention. 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. There was no risk of her going completely mute, but with daily exercises, performed correctly, she would lose less than a person usually would expect to over a lifetime.

 

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 sure 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, angling an ear in her direction 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 any further than that over 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.

 

No matter which of them wanted to say something to the other, it was always her who had to go to him, he could always stay where he was. 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, not at first. 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 even 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, very bad. It had felt terrible. 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.