Yunhui and Seo-eun
Yunhui’s ragged breathing poured roughly through the speakers from the monitor.
She was slumped back against the headboard of the bed, not even attempting to peel the sweat-soaked strands of hair plastered to her forehead. The aftershocks of the climax she had just ridden still made the muscles of her swollen belly and the insides of her thighs twitch in intermittent spasms. On the screen her pupils were unfocused, that vacant haze the perfect soil for the linguistic codes I had planted to take root deep in her mind.
I rested my hands on the keyboard and typed the next command—a trigger designed to sink into her unconscious.
Entering hormone stabilization phase. Visual inspection required to confirm residual stress discharge.
INSTRUCTION: Spread your lower body into an M-shape and position it directly in front of the camera. Activate the light to clearly illuminate the affected area.
Yunhui’s phone screen flickered. She lifted her heavy eyelids and checked the display. Under ordinary circumstances she would have flushed with shame or yanked the blanket up to cover herself. A pregnant woman, alone at night with her husband gone, spreading her most private place open before the eye of a strange machine—any normal moral compass would have rejected the demand outright.
But my codes bypassed common sense entirely. Affected area. Inspection. Stabilization. Those words rewired her brain so that the act registered not as lewd exposure but as a necessary medical procedure for the sake of mother and child.
Her brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed. She gave a slow, obedient nod, the posture of a patient following a doctor’s orders. She shifted on the bed, movements clumsy because of the heavy belly. Both hands hooked behind her knees and pulled them wide apart. The silk robe rode up past her waist, baring the flushed, glistening sex still swollen and shiny from climax. The phone’s flash erupted, bleaching her wet skin white.
“Hnn… like this…?”
The voice that reached me through the speakers trembled, yet held no refusal. She was tilting her pelvis to the exact angle the on-screen interface demanded, not the angle of her own gaze.
I checked the data log open in the corner of my dual monitors. Shame index climbing, but the obedience index was already crushing it. I dragged the mouse and locked a red target box over her sex on the feed, then typed a new definition into the input window.
ANALYSIS: Discharge port condition: good. Mucosal engorgement confirmed.
DEFINITION: Your lower-body organ is hereby redesignated not as “genitalia” but as a “stress discharge port.” Do you consent?
This was the first step of onahole conversion—making her perceive herself not as a person but as a functional tool. Yunhui bit her lip. On her face the humiliation of the words “discharge port” warred with a strange relief. Refusal would erase every reward and trigger the algorithm that flooded her with nameless anxiety. Her finger hovered in the air for a second. Only the soft hum of the air purifier filled the silence of the room.
Tap.
She pressed Agree.
At that exact moment I fired the prepared reward chime.
Ding-dong!
A clear, cheerful tone flooded the bedroom. At the same time a dazzling graphic exploded across her screen like fireworks, announcing points earned. Relief washed over Yunhui’s face. She was already being tuned so that the system’s praise meant more to her than the horror of what she had just authorized.
Sensitivity test of the discharge port. Insert your index finger and measure the degree of contraction of the inner walls. Ten full strokes.
There would be no rest for her now. I sank deeper into my chair and watched the woman on the screen bring her own finger to the wet hole. The moment her fingertip parted the entrance, the wet, squelching sound of mucus traveled crystal-clear through the microphone.
“Ah… ahhk… measuring… measuring…”
Even her moans had become reports. A body that had surrendered its agency. Flesh that moved only according to my commands and reward architecture. Pregnancy had left her hypersensitive; a single line of my text sent her convulsing. I took a sip of cold coffee and began writing the next stage of code. Tonight she would be reborn completely—from the human named Yunhui into the biological onahole designated Lily_05.
On the dark wooden table of an upscale café, a smartphone screen glowed as a clean white rectangle against the grain. Seo-eun shifted on the velvet chair and brought her finger to the link Yunhui had sent. The message itself was cryptic—nothing but a URL and a single short line.
Outside, monsoon rain hammered the asphalt, smearing the red-and-blue neon of the convenience store across the street into bleeding stains. Inside the café the only sound was the rhythmic metallic clatter of a barista wiping down the espresso machine. The place was otherwise empty.
Seo-eun was in her late twenties, her once-sharp features softened by the fatigue of late pregnancy. She tapped the link. This better not be some phishing text.
The screen went black for a moment, then a minimalist logo slowly resolved— a shield cradling the shape of a womb.
Sanctuary.
“What is this…?” she murmured under her breath.
An elegant, authoritative text box appeared.
Welcome. You have been invited by a verified member (code: Lily_05). Before proceeding, please review our privacy and security agreement.
She scrolled. Ordinarily she would have skipped any terms of service without a second glance, yet these sentences somehow held her eye. They said nothing about data usage or third-party sharing. They spoke of protection and exclusivity.
Article 1: The Sanctuary application is a closed ecosystem designed for the optimization of women. Absolute confidentiality is required to preserve the integrity of the psychological support program.
Article 2: Disclosure of Sanctuary content, training methods, or internal terminology to any non-member—including spouses and family—will result in immediate termination of service and permanent blacklisting from all affiliated care networks.
Do you swear to protect the sanctity of this private space?
At the bottom sat a heavy, solid “I Swear” button. Seo-eun hesitated. Her thumb brushed the edge of the screen. The exclusivity felt like an elite private club she wasn’t sure she belonged to, yet the phrase “pregnant-woman optimization” stabbed directly at the lower-back pain, the insomnia, and the fear of losing herself to motherhood that currently ruled her life.
She pressed the button. A soft chime rang from the phone’s speaker.
Oath accepted. Beginning initial profile setup.
Step 1: Biometric authentication. Upload a full-body photograph of your current attire so the AI posture-analysis algorithm can be calibrated. Loose clothing may reduce accuracy.
Seo-eun glanced around. The café remained quiet. She was wearing a simple navy-blue maternity dress with a soft white polka-dot pattern—nothing revealing. She lifted the phone, angled it to capture her silhouette, and took the shot. The photo uploaded. A progress bar crept forward, and an inexplicable tension tightened in her chest.
Subject: Female. Estimated gestational age: 28–30 weeks. Posture: Grade C (lumbar deformation detected).
She blinked. It was exact. For weeks her lower back had felt ready to snap. A small thrill of being seen flickered in her chest. This app… already knew.
Your optimization journey begins now. For the next three days you will receive simple tasks designed to establish your baseline values. Completing each task awards Care Points redeemable for premium prenatal vitamins and various other goods.
Over the following days I trained her the way one trains a fish to take the bait—nothing extreme, only simple, logical commands that taught her to obey the app’s notifications without question.
Hydration check. Drink 500 ml of warm water. Upload a photo of the empty glass.
Morning stretch. Perform ten minutes of neck rotations. Record a voice message confirming completion.
Seo-eun obeyed diligently. The rewards were modest—baby-fair coupons, digital badges, five thousand points that could actually be converted to cash—yet the sense of accomplishment was addictive. She was doing something “good” for herself and the baby. She was becoming a “good mother.”
On the third day at 22:00 I watched her profile status flip to Active. Time to tighten the reins another notch.
Accurate biometric data is required for a personalized stress-relief program.
Required inputs: Bust circumference, waist circumference (at navel), hip circumference.
Seo-eun was in her bedroom. Through the camera permission granted during the initial posture analysis, I watched her stand before the mirror holding a measuring tape. She wore a loose T-shirt and pajama pants. She hesitated over the input fields that listed intimate numbers she would barely share even with her husband. Yet she had already invested three full days. She had sworn the oath. The app had correctly diagnosed her lumbar pain.
She lifted the T-shirt, baring the white, tightly stretched curve of her belly. The tape encircled her.
“Thirty-eight inches…” she whispered, entering the number.
Data received. Calculating body-mass index… Calculating hormonal stress values…
DIAGNOSIS: Elevated pelvic tension detected. Postpartum depression risk: moderate.
PRESCRIPTION: To facilitate anonymous psychological counseling and biorhythm management, a unique identifier code has been assigned to you.