Sneak Peek: Workplace Harassment (Patreon)

As David slips further under Julia's control, they have increasingly different visions of who Cindy really is. An unpleasant encounter at work highlights this for our feminised protagonist. This exerpt is from chapter 4.

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            Tuesday played out similarly, but already I could feel her adjustments creeping over me. It’s difficult to precisely define what changed. It’s not like I performed some limp-wristed caricature of femininity. Rather, it was something—subtle—a tilt of the head, or the way I stood; the way I held my hands or gestured with them as I spoke. Holding objects differently—not just because of longer nails, but with a gentler grip, less controlling, less possessively. More eye contact. More hedging in conversation, more listening; and the light touch, subtle affirmation as someone else spoke.

            Even the things I wore came under scrutiny. Before, I’d slip on a necklace or bracelet because—well, because that’s what women wore; but under the AI’s supervision I better incorporated these objects of femininity into the performance—a low-key pantomime of gentle touches, fiddling, confirmatory fidgeting with accessories that confirmed my girliness.

            The tug of an earring, or the roll of fake pearls between forefinger and thumb; absently twirling a bangle during conversation, or the subtle tuck of hair beneath a hairband under watchful male eyes: these were the forgotten gestures that helped complete Cindy.

            And when I got it wrong, the pain of each correction proved remarkably effective. Somehow, I came to both yearn for and dread the sharp sting of each error—at times cringing in anticipation for a shock that never came, other times finding relief in having a recognized and accidental slip up corrected.

            And I wonder, had everything not gone so necessarily, disastrously wrong between Julia and me—what would the long-term effect of this training been? Between the affirmatory pleasant tingles of acting like Cindy, and the warning jolts of David-like actions, even a single short week of her regime changed the way I behaved, even in those all too rare times when I was alone and away from the gaze of judgmental observation. Another month—or two—and would Julia’s vision for Cindy have seeped into my unconscious sense of self? Fake it to make it: how long before the act becomes reality?

            Julia caught up with me during breaks that day, both to check up on me and to explain some of the AIs more baffling corrections. “Here,” she said, picking out an incident from the morning, caught entirely on camera:

Cindy in high-definition video, standing in reprographics, collecting a ream of copies to distribute around the floor. Oh, the irony of a sustainability report printed on paper: dozens of pages thick, in multiple copies, a heavy stack waiting in a box on a shelf for the young girl to haul back to the office. She stood there non-plussed and looked around, twirling a bang around her finger. She looked every centimeter the classic secretary: black pencil skirt, tall pumps, tight white bloused buttoned low over red push-up bra. For a moment, she seemed to consider the suitability of pretty nails, tall heels and a short skirt for manual labour. Then, just as she shrugged and reached for the reports, sliding her hands beneath the box, a man entered the room.

            “Hey, Cindy,” the man said.

            “John.” She twitched, as though from a static shock. “Um, Sir.” She grimaced and tested the weight of the box of printed report.

            “You look good today.”

            “Uh.”

            Just as she went to lift the box, John moved closer. He stepped in directly behind her. His hands held her by the hips. “Hey, let me help,” he said, even as he pulled her back into his crotch, grinding into her. “I can get that for you,” he added, and as he reached around her for the box, he took her by the breasts. She went immediately stiff under his touch, even as he groped her tits, briefly.

            John leaned close, burying his face in her hair. He took a deep breath. “Mm, you smell good, too.”

            She dropped her elbows, knocking his hands from her chest, and twisted within his arms to face him. Trapped between the man and the shelves behind her, she glared up at him. Loathing crawled across her face, and she visibly trembled. For a moment, it looked as though the diminutive girl would throw a punch.

            He didn’t seem to notice, pushing past her to pick up the box. He grunted with the weight and smiled at her. “Where do you need these, little lady?”

            Cindy didn’t answer.

            “What?” John asked, as she stalked out of the room, face contorted with pain as she clutched her wrist.

Frankly, I deserved a medal for not killing that bastard. John was a known pervert; every girl on the floor had a story to tell. These stories ranged from pats to the bum and pinches to the thigh, to being cornered at office parties and mauled—or worse, according to Mel.  Many girls laughed it off; for many, their laugh hid tears. But John was a manager, and well-liked by the powers that be. Everyone said they’d raised a complaint with HR, but nothing ever happened. One girl went as far as to threaten legal action; she no longer worked for Volumina International.

            “Jesus, what’d I do wrong?” I asked, munching on a high-protein, low-carb bar that passed for a breaktime snack. Emma had gifted me a box of these things. She was always commenting on how much I ate and drank and seemed genuinely worried I’d start putting on weight. Honestly, I’d rather be fat than live off these things. “These f—” I took a deep breath and tried again. “These things—” I indicated the corrective bracelets, “—were trying to fry me alive. I didn’t kick him in the nuts. He got off lucky.”

            Julia shook her head and sighed. “Listen, Cindy, God knows he deserves it. John’s a pervert and an asshole. But he’s also a manager, and technically one of your bosses. You’ve got to think like Cindy—what would she do in that situation? How would she react?

            “She can’t go to HR. She can’t hit him. And she can’t afford to put her job at risk. So, what does she do?” She directed my attention to her software’s recommendations, where sliders running from ‘demure’ to ‘bold’, ‘compliant’ to ‘assertive’ and ‘accommodating’ to ‘confrontational’, in shades running from pink to blue, were highlighted. “We need to push these way over to the pink side,” she said.

            I raised an eyebrow. “Is this really the kind of Cindy you want?”

            To her credit, she looked pained even as she answered, “Yes.”