Job Prep Channel (Middle)
I'm fucked.
This really wasn't an interview room I had any business walking into.
They hadn't even thrown a single question his way yet, and Chanseob had already conceded defeat in his heart.
People say you can gauge someone's diligence just by looking at how clean their desk is. In much the same way, you could gauge the caliber of an interview just by listening to the questions they fired at the other applicants.
"Applicant number fourteen, your self-introduction says you're a virgin pussy girl? Still a virgin pussy at your age—doesn't that just mean you're a no-flavor pussy? How is a girl who can't even manage her own cunt supposed to handle company work properly?"
The question was so far beyond anything he could have imagined that Chanseob doubted his own ears.
For a pussy girl, there was no insult more lethal than being told her pussy tasted bad. And the interviewer who'd asked it was a pussy girl herself.
If a man had actually tasted her and said something like that, she might have taken it as a sharp little jab and moved on. But another pussy girl saying it out loud?
It was only because this was an interview that things stayed civil. Out in regular society, that kind of shit-talk could easily end in knives coming out, and nobody would bat an eye.
Common knowledge held that the only time one pussy girl got a free pass for talking to another like that was when they were fighting over the order of service for the same man.
The question hadn't even been aimed at him, and already it felt sharp enough to leave him short of breath.
He'd heard rumors that pressure interviews were a thing of the past these days. Complete bullshit. If this wasn't a pressure interview, what the hell was?
Even the people sitting nearby felt like the air had been sucked out of their lungs—and the girl answering didn't so much as blink.
"Whether my pussy tastes good or not is for the men who've used it to decide, not another pussy girl. Declaring a pussy that's never even been used 'no-flavor' is jumping the gun, if you ask me."
She led with solid logic and protected her honor as a pussy first.
"I'll admit I'm still immature as a virgin pussy in a lot of ways. It's true that I pour a huge chunk of every day into comforting my pussy with my fingers. But flip that around—it also means that even while wasting time on pussy-fingering, I still managed to build a résumé good enough to pass this company's document screening."
She took her own weakness and flipped it into proof of her value.
"I may be a virgin pussy right now, but as you all know, virgin pussies get casually popped all the time. You see it everywhere—guys treating it like a little boredom-killer and peeling the virgin sticker right off. Doesn't everyone know someone like that?"
She leaned on everyday experience anyone could recognize, stressing how easily her flaw could vanish.
"So my pussy carries the constant possibility of stopping being virgin at any moment. In other words, it's overflowing with nothing but potential for future growth—and that's no exaggeration."
After all that careful buildup, she hit them hard with her value proposition.
"Of course, if you decide my virgin pussy would be a liability to the company, I'm fully prepared to go do compensated dating right this second and dump the virginity."
And she didn't forget to close with a display of loyalty to the company.
If Chanseob had been the one evaluating that pussy applicant, he would have given her a perfect hundred without a second thought. An outstanding answer.
Pussies often got a bad rap for being emotional, bad at judgment, and less intelligent than men. But that only applied when there was a chance they might get to serve a cock. The rest of the time they put on performances that held up just fine against any man—and this was exactly one of those moments.
If a question that sensitive had come flying at Chanseob, could he have handled it as coolly and rationally as that pussy girl? Probably not.
The interviewers seemed just as impressed as he was; their expressions had brightened considerably.
And then, to his misfortune, the very next person called on was Chanseob.
When the person right before you nails their answer that hard, the contrast effect makes it nearly impossible to leave a good impression with anything merely average. On the flip side, being halfway resigned already made it a little easier on the nerves.
"Applicant number fifteen, your self-introduction lists your hobby as pussy training? Roughly how many hours a day do you spend playing with pussy?"
"Huh? Uh?"
Where had the razor-edged questions from a moment ago gone? Now it was this kind of personal small talk?
He was so thrown that even he thought the sound that came out of his mouth was pathetic.
He couldn't see the point, but it was still a question from an interviewer, so it had to mean something, right?
Chanseob decided to just answer honestly.
"Uh, well, I don't exactly keep track of the time. But I don't really have any other hobbies worth mentioning, so… yeah, I figure I mess around with it for a few hours every day."
The second the naive answer left his mouth, he regretted it.
Pussy training ranked among the least productive hobbies imaginable. In a country like Korea, where people measured even their hobbies by productivity, it was the classic loser pick—the kind of thing that earned nothing but dirty looks. Admit you poured several hours a day into it and the usual response was, With that kind of time you could at least be reading a book.
Was that a trap question?
Something like, Our company has no need for people who waste their lives on pussy training?
If so, he was about to cry tears of blood over his own innocence.
It sounded casual on the surface, but maybe it was the same kind of pressure question as the one before?
He was halfway into a panic spiral when the interviewer spoke again—in a voice that was suddenly very soft.
"My, is that so? Then, just for reference, how do you feel about a pussy girl's age? I've heard some people who like pussy training refuse to touch any pussy girl past thirty…"
"Huh? Ah… well, yeah, I'm sure there are guys like that. But for me what matters is whether the pussy looks fuckable. Age doesn't really register. One of the pussies I use regularly is my friend's mom—she's pushing fifty, you know?"
"My, my, my… is that right…?"
The pussy interviewer who'd asked the question was looking at him with strangely moist eyes.
She looked exactly like a pussy girl starving for cock… but they were in the middle of an interview. Had to be his imagination.
"For reference—if Applicant Fifteen were to play with my pussy, how exactly would you go about it?"
The interviewer sitting next to the previous one tossed him the question.
Okay, these questions have been getting weird for a while now, right?
No matter how he sliced it, none of this had anything to do with actual work. But he couldn't exactly say, This has nothing to do with the job so I'm not answering. He was the one who needed this more.
Ah, fuck it. Whatever happens, happens!
Chanseob decided to empty his brain. Just answer whatever they threw at him, straight and unfiltered. If something went wrong, that was on the people asking the questions—not him.
"Hmm, let's see. Interviewer, your pussy's one thing, but your asshole looks like the weak spot to me, so I'd probably have more fun playing around there. Just from the way you're sitting, that miso-barrel ass looks solid enough that slapping a rhythm into it would feel great too. And if your pussy turns out to be really sensitive, I might deliberately leave it alone and torment you everywhere else instead… that could be pretty fun."
"Huuuuu…"
Walking out after the interview, Chanseob felt completely drained.
Honestly he hadn't done much of anything—just answered the interviewers' questions exactly as they came. So why did it feel like it had sucked every drop of stamina out of him? It bordered on unfair.
"I got the answers out without freezing up, at least… but did it go well?"
Judging by the positive reactions the interviewers had shown, he wanted to believe he'd aced it… but every single question had been so bizarrely off-target that he couldn't relax even if he tried.
It might have been pure paranoia, but a thought kept creeping in: maybe they'd deliberately called in a guy with a mediocre academic background just to mess with him and put him through the wringer for fun.
"This is still a decent-sized company. Would they really waste time on something that pointless?"
He shut down the spiraling despair circuit with a dose of reason and pulled out his phone.
He'd posted hoping someone might say something encouraging. Of course the replies that came back were mostly negative.
He didn't need to listen to a bunch of basement-dwelling losers. That was something he told himself constantly—but seeing reactions like that still dragged his mood around whether he liked it or not.
Then, buried among the comments, one in particular caught his eye.
"……."
As if hypnotized, he typed a reply under that comment.
Overtime? Weekend shifts?
Without even realizing it, Chanseob frowned.
To a guy who'd grown completely accustomed to unemployed life—where every day might as well be a permanent day off—those were words that had nothing to do with him, words he was fully justified in treating like the plague.
…But separate from all that, if they were actually going to give him a job, he ought to welcome it with both hands open.
No job was perfect anyway. What mattered was having work at all.
I'm not even hired yet. Isn't it a little early to start spinning the hope circuit?
He tried to rein himself in, but once the hope circuit got going it wasn't about to stop that easily.
A little tune started humming out of him on its own, and his body refused to sit still from the sheer good mood.
Times like this, he needed something to help take the edge off the excitement.
And look at that—there was one right nearby.
"Excuse me—if it's not too much trouble, mind if I use your pussy for a bit?"