The Indifferent Virgin Check
"..."
In fact, it was meaningless. I wasn't without sexual desire myself, but that could be satisfied just fine with masturbation. Dealing with another person felt like a hassle, and I had no desire to stare into someone's face for long periods. So whether my slave was a virgin or not didn't matter to me one bit.
...Sigh.
But I checked the 'virgin' box anyway.
I didn't want to get screwed over. And among women aspiring to be sex slaves, the proportion of 'normal' ones wasn't that high. These weren't war captives or anything—they were perfectly ordinary South Korean citizens who'd chosen this path. I didn't care who came, but I had zero interest in someone who might cause me 'potential harm.' There could be women who'd been used by other owners, caused trouble, and gotten kicked out. Or ones who'd toyed with men using their feminine wiles, then fled into slavery. Of course, being a virgin wouldn't filter out all such risks, but it might at least serve as a basic sieve.
Beyond that, countless other options scrolled by. Bust size, height, weight, skin tone, religion, smoking or drinking habits.
Weight... as long as it's not morbidly obese, I don't care. Bust, height—whatever. Skin tone... yeah, that shouldn't matter. No religion would be preferable...
It wasn't easy. After going through every item on the checklist, I handed the info over to the staffer.
"Thank you! And, um, there's something you need to confirm..."
"What is it?"
"Your asset evaluation came out a bit strange—"
The personal details she showed me on her tablet listed an absurdly high amount of assets—even to my eyes, it looked off. Come to think of it, I'd filled out this application right after meeting the tax accountant. I'd made some planned investments since then, but this form didn't account for those. Compared to an ordinary home and family, the balance was suspiciously massive. That must've piqued her suspicion.
"Looks like there might've been some typos. Weird. It gets verified through the bank, so errors shouldn't happen..."
"It's real."
"Pardon?"
"I got lucky and made some money."
Thinking I was joking, the staffer gave a faint smile.
"You have to be honest about this. The prospective slaves see it too. If you falsify conditions, even after their rights are stripped, we can sue on their behalf for fraud—"
"Want to verify it?"
She looked puzzled but ran the check again.
"Whoa... you do have a ton of money... but not quite as much as you claimed?"
That was odd. My assets should've made that impossible.
"Sorry. In this line of work, we see some truly insanely rich people sometimes. You're the first to come in with this much, but still not the biggest I've—"
"Hold on. Did you just check the bank account?"
"Yes."
She nodded casually. My pre-submitted asset list only had the bank account as significant, so it made sense.
"Can you check assets overall again?"
"Sure. One moment... Wh-what the hell?!"
She gaped, unable to close her mouth.
"It's really... at the level you stated—"
"I made some investments."
I nodded nonchalantly.
"Then, uh, well... you can pretty much pick whoever you want and take her home, right?"
But I couldn't hold back my curiosity.
"Is the owner's wealth that important?"
"Well... slaves can't use their owner's assets, of course. But being a slave in a rich household beats a poor one."
"Ah."
"Slaves don't care if you turn the house into a harem or ship us off to a slave camp—most owners don't go that far anyway. Too much hassle."
"True."
Cages cost money. They might offer visual satisfaction or security, but that's it. The rights owners have over slaves—and why slaves can't resist—are all legally grounded. Unless you're tormenting them so badly you're paranoid about one grabbing a knife while you sleep, there's no need to spend on restraints. Same for camps. Unless you're seriously wealthy, there's no reason to dedicate home space to a 'stuffy, depressing' slave quarters. Just give 'em an empty room. By that metric, living in a nice apartment beats some rundown rural shack. Quality of life changes everything.
"When one person unleashes all their lust... it can be intense, right? Could strain the body, leave you exhausted."
"Forgot about that."
Case by case, but if someone wants to avoid sex as much as possible, they'd prefer being one of many slaves over the sole outlet for one man or woman. If embracing the owner feels torturous, spreading it across more people is smarter.
"Plus, there's just the ego boost. 'I'm good enough to be chosen by someone like this.'?"
"...Got it."
"Anyway, this is a bit... overwhelming. Not sure how to process it."
"I'll tone it down. Say... assets over 2 billion won?"
I didn't expect to find my 'ideal slave,' so getting rejected by a few wouldn't sting. If anything, rejections were preferable. Anyone turning down a '2 billion asset' owner was better avoided from the start.
"That should suffice. Most slaves filter owners to dodge 'slave-poor' types."
"I see..."
I'd heard about it online. People who desperately wanted real sex but lacked social skills—or had a slave fantasy—scraped together cash somehow. Loans from loan sharks, illegal borrowing everywhere, just to buy a slave. Those folks never had proper homes. Sharing a tiny one-room with two people? Brutal. Meals? Lucky to snag a cup ramen or two a day. And maintenance costs aren't cheap. Those debt-ridden buyers can't sustain it. Soon enough, they sell the slave back. Can't keep her without repaying debts.
Me? Just scraps from the internet...
I got the other side too. Rich owners generally don't fuss over what slaves eat. 'Not fussing' means raiding their pantry of premium ingredients without a blink. Luxurious. Some chaebol slaves lived better than average office workers.
"Anyway, please wait a moment! I'll show you slaves matching your criteria!"
I let out a deep sigh. Call it selfish, but I didn't like that they evaluated me as much as I did them.
"We'll send them one by one—have a light chat inside!"
In one corner of the cafe were small curtained booths. I entered one, sipping my pre-ordered coffee, waiting.
Soon, the first woman entered.
She was pretty. An ordinarily beautiful face with a bright smile. She boasted about her strict Confucian upbringing, vowing to serve one master for life. She'd waited for her 'Master' since childhood, beaming at me.
I listened blankly, no emotions stirring.
Another story followed. Her hobbies were plentiful but mundane: cafe hopping, dining at trendy spots, snapping photos at scenic views. She chatted enthusiastically, hinting she'd love doing them with me. She asked about mine; I said gaming. As expected, my games had zero overlap with hers.
She even touched on sexual boundaries. Said she could adapt to any master, anything but truly dangerous play—she'd make him happy. College theater club experience made her confident in roleplay.
Having heard enough, I bowed calmly.
"Thank you. You seem like a great person."
"Th-then..."
"But this is my first time here, so I need to meet more before deciding."
She knew it was a polite rejection. But since I'd been polite, she had to accept gracefully.
"Call me anytime. Girls like me are rare."
She slipped out past the curtain. Soon, the next one entered.