“Next,” the aide says, looking at her clipboard.
I stand and walk toward her on shaky legs.
“Koichiro?” she asks.
She motions me onward, and I press through the door. The paint is flecking off and the hinge squeals. The shrill noise echoes into the huge airplane hangar I step into. My breath catches in my throat as I see her. Yumi. The giantess. She sits casually in a corner of the warehouse, one leg over her knee, browsing on her phone. She’s young, a college student. Her hair curls around her collarbones. She’s wearing a long, white sweater, a short, pleated skirt, and white stockings. I am barely five inches tall to her.
Beside me, the aide says “Ok, so you ordered the ‘Shoe Step On’ with the white sneakers right?” Still awestruck at the giantess, it takes me a while to realize what she has said. I nod. Yes.
She taps her headset and says, “white sneakers.”
After a moment to finish on her phone, Yumi puts it down and reaches for the shoes. Her movements are graceful. I watch mesmerized as she slips on the sneakers.
“See the ‘X’ in the floor?” The aide says. “Lay there and don’t move.” The X is spray-painted on the floor amidst several blocks of concrete, all about a foot high. I swallow, and do as I’m told, barely able to keep my eyes off the giantess.
Then Yumi stands and takes my breath away as I look up at her full height. Almost full height, she’s still a little bent over to avoid hitting the roof.
The aide says, “Ready? Ok.”
Yumi’s eyes meet mine for a second, and she smiles politely, briefly, and my heart pounds. Then she looks away and puts a hand gently against the ceiling for balance, and raises her foot. My head reels and my chest feels about to explode in excitement as I watch the sole of her shoe descend slowly over me. The adrenaline makes it even hard to focus on the pattern of her tread, or on her face so high above me. Soon all I can see is the bottom of her shoe, and it gets so close I can smell the rubber, feel the dust falling against my face. There’s only a light sound as the shoe touches the concrete blocks, and the descent stops, inches above me. After only a slight hesitation, I remember I’m on the clock and I crane forward and kiss it.
One of the restrictions included in this event is that we have to be fully clothed. Touching the shoe is allowed however, and a popular tip of former patrons, cited in the online comments, is to wear a condom and thin pants or shorts. I had followed this tip, and after my sloppy tongue worship, I arch my back and press my hips into the shoe, and hump it awkwardly. I can’t even tell if I’m hard or not, my mind is racing. I know my time is limited and I try to do everything I can but I can hardly feel my own body.
Then the shoe rises, and I collapse, limp and suddenly sweaty as it swings away from me. Yumi is looking down on me, and gives me the faintest of polite smiles before turning away and going back to sitting with her phone.
The aide says “Your time is complete,” and motions for me to get up. As I walk shakily and embarrassed past her, she throws a side-eyed glance at my crotch to see if I’ve came in my shorts. I look down myself and see nothing, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Before exiting the door, I take a longing look back over my shoulder at her. She’s just swiping through her phone again, and her shoes are sitting sideways amongst all her other pairs. I notice a man in a white jumpsuit, boots, gloves, and facemask begin to sanitize the massive bottom of her shoe with a spray bottle and cloth. He seems to sense me looking, and gives me a wave. Ashamed, I turn and quickly leave.
* * *
After jacking off in the men’s room, I wait over three hours until I can participate in the next event. Me and all the other men, and a few women, are led back into the main hangar. Yumi is standing in the centre, still on her phone, one hand on her hip. We are separated into those who paid for a private booth and those who did not. I am led, slightly embarrassed, to one of many nondescript booths lined up in the hangar, while the others lean against a guardrope or sit in folding chairs. I push aside the curtain and find my own folding chair inside the tiny room, along with a box of tissues and a wastebasket. The opposite wall has a small window, just a slit that allows the occupant to see outside but doesn’t allow anyone to see inside much.
I wait for the show to begin. A man is issuing orders, and I hear things being moved about. He looks very normal, maybe thirty years old in jeans and a suit jacket, his hair slightly disheveled and wearing tasteful sunglasses. He is usually behind a large camera, checking the viewfinder. Must be the director.
Soon the show begins. It starts with a house. It’s a mini home that they have wheeled into the hangar. It looks almost like an oversized dollhouse but apparently large enough and with everything necessary for someone to live in comfortably. I hear the director give the order to begin, and Yumi puts her foot on the roof. She’s wearing black, knee high boots now, with stiletto heels. The house groans and bits of the roof collapse under her weight. I start stroking myself, rock hard before even realizing it. I cum in my hand as she steadily destroys the small building.
After that she crushes a variety of objects while wearing various shoes, and I masturbate lightly throughout it all. After the house comes many cars, mostly cheap junk, but she takes special care with an antique restoration, wearing elegant dress heels. I realize somebody must have brought this in specifically. The man in the white jumpsuit drags them all in with a small tractor. Sometimes I notice him in the back, brushing down the shoes and prying bits of debris from the treads with a crowbar.
Yumi steps on lots furniture, and a full water bed which is nice to watch stretch and burst. I lose it again and cum a third time, painfully, when she crushes some mannequins under patent leather pumps, smashing them and grinding them into bits. I imagine myself as them, remembering what it was like to be beneath her. Lastly, I still manage to get erect and stroke myself lightly as she tramples a crowd of twelve-inch dolls she can probably barely even see.
Later as I leave the booth, my body stiff and sore, the cleaning man passes me, heading inside with cleaning supplies, humming to himself. He catches me staring at him, and he says cheerfully, “It’s hard work but it’s a living.”
* * *
Outside the hangar, I walk around the building realizing I’ve gone the wrong way, and coming around a corner I almost bump into the director. He’s smoking and texting. I mumble an apology and turn around to leave quickly, but then stop. After a moment, I turn back, and wait for him to notice me. Eventually he looks at me. I bow deeply and thank him earnestly and respectfully for this opportunity. He just stares at me from behind his sunglasses, and I can’t tell what kind of expression he’s making at me. After a while, he takes another drag of his cigarette and says, “So what are you going to do now?”
I tell him I’m going to go home and probably kill myself. I don’t know why I tell him this. It’s entirely true, but I’ve never really told anyone this except for the suicide pact group online. I find the words flowing freely from my mouth, and I’m uninterested in stopping myself. I tell him I’m a hikikomori, and that my family has disowned me and cut off my allowance after finding that I had spent years worth of it on the ticket to this event. I have not left my room in literally four years except at night to get groceries. I had told my family I was programming for a large project that would get me lots of money, but in honesty I had given that up years ago. Afraid to confess my failure, I had hidden myself away for years, the shame and lies building up in a self-perpetuating downward spiral. I know many others doing the same thing from online groups. I know I will never be able to afford another ticket in my current state, and having experienced as close to my fantasy as possible, I have achieved something in my life at least. I probably will never be this happy again, so it is with comfort that I end my own life at this point. I thank him again.
He stares at me a long time before taking another drag. He nods finally, and says, “Well. Goodbye then.” I turn and leave, feeling calm. In fact I have not felt this light in years.
* * *
It takes over three hours of public transit to get back to my tiny, messy apartment. The phone rings. I let it ring for some time, considering whether I should pick it up. Eventually I slip the noose off of my neck and step down from the chair.
“Hello?” The male voice on the other end of the phone says. “Is this Koichiro?” It’s the director. “You’re still alive then.” He tells me got my number from the ticket information I had submitted. He says that if I want it, he has a job for me. It’s not much but it would pay for an apartment and groceries. After he tells me what it is, I think for a minute, and I hear myself reply.
* * *
The businessman waddles out of the booth, forehead sweaty, pulling up his fly. He looks down and curses at the wet stain on his suit pants. He looks up as I walk by him, and realizing what my job is, frowns at me. From behind my cleaning mask I shrug and say, “It’s a living.”