Job Fair pt. 2

I don’t know how much time had passed before I was awakened by an intense, searing pain from my groin. I opened my eyes and saw a pair of boat-shaped flat shoes stepping on my forehead. Someone was also standing on my right chest—a girl with glasses, plain-looking, appearing slim and petite, probably weighing only about 80 jin (roughly 88 pounds). She was still dressed in a professional outfit, with black trousers. As she lifted her foot, I caught sight of a brown, lace-up high heel, with a heel no thicker than a centimeter. She was turned slightly to the side, talking to her friend behind her.

Her friend, meanwhile, was stepping squarely on my lower abdomen, and the heel she was putting her weight on was pressing directly onto my glans. The contrast between the two girls was extreme. The one standing on my stomach had a beautiful face and long, shiny shoulder-length hair. I couldn’t tell how high her heels were, but she was well over 1.8 meters tall. Because of her height, she wore a beige-gray trench coat, black pantyhose, and had a perfect figure—high, full chest and strong, well-proportioned thighs. She looked like she weighed at least 130 jin (around 143 pounds). The heel of her shoe felt barely a centimeter thick, and I was sure it was the pressure of that heel on my glans that had jolted me awake.

The sudden burst of pain made me want to scream, but I had been unconscious for a while, and the air in my chest had long been stomped out. Plus, there was still a girl standing directly on me, so I couldn’t make a sound. Since she was talking to the girl standing on my chest, she leaned back slightly, shifting her entire body weight onto the heel pressing into my groin. Every so often, she would even rotate her foot slightly. I felt like her heel was pressing down on a sealed sausage—the glans burst open, skin and flesh torn apart, and then mashed into a lump of pulp under her grinding heel. It took all the strength I had just to stop myself from making a sound.

There was another person standing on my knee, but her body was blocked from view, so I couldn’t see her clearly. Her heel was stabbing into my kneecap. Thankfully, it wasn’t too sharp, and as someone who had already endured plenty of trampling, I could still manage that level of pain.

I endured the pain and tried to assess my body. There were now several deep little dents in my abdomen—some even oozing fresh blood. Maybe I should be grateful for the abdominal muscles I’d trained so often; they had protected me while I was unconscious, preventing any serious internal injuries. The same went for my chest and thighs.

My hands and arms had also been stepped on a few times, but luckily they were positioned at my sides, so no one was standing directly on them. My lips were probably in the same state as my glans, which was still being ground under a heel—completely drained of blood. Sharp pain continued to radiate from my nose, and I wasn’t sure whose heel had landed on my left cheek, but it had nearly pierced through.

I could hear the voices of the girls standing on me. It was still midday—I hadn’t been unconscious for very long. Maybe that was a good thing. Had I remained passed out while my body was completely limp and the girls continued to step on me for an extended time, perhaps I would’ve never woken up at all.

Two people came out of the restroom, and the line moved forward two spots. The tall girl took two steps ahead. I finally got a clear look at her shoes—they were a pair of tan high-heeled sandals, with slightly conical heels that flared out into a one-centimeter-thick horseshoe shape at the tip, looking extremely sturdy. With each step she took, she placed all her weight onto her heels, pressing them solidly into my body.

When one step landed on my chest, I felt like she almost broke one of my ribs. Then her heel stomped directly onto my upper lip—there was a sickening crunch as my front tooth snapped off under the force. She seemed to notice she’d stepped on something, as the sole of her shoe felt something hard beneath it. She placed her left foot on my face—her sole covering my eyes—while the heel nearly pierced through my right cheek.

Then I saw her sole lift just in front of my left eye, hovering about 20 centimeters above my face. In a moment of sheer terror, I shut my eyes. Then came an unimaginable impact—once, twice, three times. My head was ringing, and I almost blacked out again. One of the stomps landed on my lower jaw—I felt like the bone cracked from the force. The other two hits landed squarely on my face, and I could feel my cheekbones shifting out of alignment.

Then she adjusted her position slightly. The balls of her feet rested on my forehead, and the heels were pressing into my face. Occasionally, she would lift both heels and then bring them down hard again, sending waves of even more excruciating pain through me.

The girl who had been standing on my knee moved to my chest, and a new girl stepped onto the base of my thigh—thankfully, she wore flats. Another girl replaced the one on my knee. She turned slightly to glance toward the restroom door. I caught a faint glimpse of her: she wore glasses, was dressed in a black business suit, and had a delicate face marked with urgency. Her feet kept shifting restlessly, clearly anxious to get inside. The thin heels of her shoes repeatedly landed on my knee and thigh, sending sharp pain through me every time.

As I kept praying silently, someone finally came out of the restroom about ten seconds later. The girl standing on my face walked in—I was certain that if she had stayed on my face for just thirty seconds longer, I would have blacked out again. The line continued to move forward. The girl who had been standing on my chest missed my face this time and stepped onto my forehead. The girl in flats moved onto my chest, and that delicate-looking girl stepped onto my crotch. Her feet moved back and forth across my groin, and several times she nearly stepped on my balls.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my testicles, followed by waves of unimaginable agony. The delicate girl placed one foot on my hip bone, while the other stomped again and again on my crotch, her full weight behind each step. The sharp, narrow heel was hitting my balls dead on. Each strike brought a fresh surge of pain that defied belief. My body instinctively tried to curl up, but thankfully the other girls standing on me kept me pinned down.

All I could do was lie there, tense every muscle in my abdomen, and brace for the next stomp. She stomped a dozen times in total, and I felt like my testicles had split apart. I cried silently in my mind, regretting ever coming to this place. I started to doubt whether I’d even be conscious in a few hours, or if I’d be able to leave here at all.

I continued to endure this inhuman torment. My gaze drifted forward and landed on a fashionable and striking girl who was chatting beside the girl standing on my knees. She wasn’t in the line, just off to the side talking. She had an oval “duck-egg” shaped face, with finely drawn eyebrows, soft eyeshadow, and a layer of light lipstick. Her face seemed lightly powdered. She wore a tan suede jacket over a yellow plaid shirt, and her long, smooth hair hung naturally—part draped behind her back, the rest falling over her shoulders. She was wearing an ultra-short skirt, and from my low vantage point, I could almost see the center seam of her nude-colored pantyhose.

After a moment, the line moved again, and the delicate girl stepped onto my chest. She continued to stomp down on me. When she lifted her foot, I caught a glimpse beneath her skirt—she wore black pantyhose under her suit skirt, and her feet were in black high-heeled sandals. Combined with her black nylons, the look was sensual and striking. The silver heel of the sandal was thin like a chopstick, just seven or eight millimeters wide. The carpet, long worn down from repeated trampling, had grown soft. Her heel plunged deep into my chest, leaving fresh wounds.

The girl who had been standing on my chest in flats shifted her footing, placing her sole directly over my face, plunging me into darkness. I felt the girl who had been standing on my knees now stepping onto my waist. The soles of her shoes were hard yet cushioned—probably boat-shaped flats. Thankfully, she missed my testicles. Since balls are slick and slippery, sometimes a stomping high heel might actually glance off and spare them, but if a flat shoe came down directly, the outcome would be a total disaster—literally a case of “balls flying, eggs broken.

Since I couldn’t see anything, the sudden, terrifying pain in my hand caught me completely off guard, and I couldn’t help but cry out. Fortunately, the flat shoe on my face muffled my voice, and the noise of the surrounding crowd masked what remained of my groans.

It must have been that fashionable girl from earlier—her heel had stepped on the back of my left hand. Her heel was incredibly thin, like a needle, and stabbed straight into my hand. I felt the tendons and bones on the back of my hand being forcefully separated as her heel pierced down between the metacarpal bones of my hand and the bones of my ring finger. My skin tore instantly.

Perhaps she noticed that what was under her heel didn’t feel like sand, but something more resistant. Every time she pressed down, the heel sunk deeper. She shifted her full body weight onto that foot, and the pain in my hand exploded. The heel burrowed into the narrow gap between my bones, and then, unbelievably, she began twisting it. The carpet couldn’t withstand that kind of pressure—there was an audible snapping sound as the fibers gave way and her heel pierced straight through. My hand wasn’t protected by any red cloth like other parts of me, and as she twisted, her heel followed the hole in the carpet and stabbed directly through my palm.

Maybe she felt the resistance under her foot collapse and found the sensation amusing. She pulled her heel out, then placed it back down right next to the hole—this time targeting the space between my index and middle finger bones. Another cruel twist, another puncture through both the carpet and my hand. Even though I couldn’t see what was happening, I could hear her cheerful chatting with her companion the whole time. She likely never even looked down—everything she did was completely unintentional.

But while her oblivious amusement continued, I was left in unbearable pain. And yet she didn’t care in the slightest, her heel kept ruthlessly grinding into my hand.

Half a minute later, the line moved forward again. A new wave of stabbing pain shot through the root of my thigh—likely another high heel hitting that tender spot. The delicate girl who had been standing on my chest now stepped onto my face. Perhaps after waiting a few minutes, she was feeling more impatient. Her black high-heeled sandals—wrapped around her feet in sheer black stockings—stomped on my face over and over. The thin heels nearly pierced through the carpet with every blow. Each stomp seemed to leave a new dent in my face, and I nearly passed out again from the repeated impact.

The only silver lining was that the fashionable girl who had been stepping on my hand also took a step forward. I caught a glimpse of her wearing a pair of brown leather ankle boots with square heels, perfectly matching her outerwear. The boots had a heel height of 7 to 8 centimeters, yet the heel itself was only about 7 millimeters thick.