The Hundred-Million-Won Brand

It was ten o'clock at night. A suffocating tension hung in the musty air of the rooftop room. On the desk lay a single sheet of paper I had printed in advance and a ballpoint pen; beside them, a smartphone screen glowed.

One hundred million won. The lifeline Yura's father needed to put out a fire that was about to swallow him whole — and the price of mortgaging Yura's life to me, permanently.

Footsteps climbed the stairs. Not the usual bright, haughty click of her heels — heavy, slow, the reluctant tread of an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse.

Knock. Knock.

"Come in. The door's open."

The iron door creaked open, and Yura stepped inside. She had the collar of her beige trench coat pulled tight all the way to her chin. A pale face stripped of makeup. Hollow eyes that looked like they hadn't seen sleep in days, the pupils flickering with anxiety. And just visible between the coat's lapels — a strip of black leather. The choker I had ordered her to wear.

"I'm here..."

Her voice was parched, cracking dry.

"Lock the door."

Yura locked it without a word. A heavy click. The sound of being cut off from the world — irreversible.

"Come here and sit."

I jerked my chin toward the floor in front of the desk. Yura approached slowly and sank to her knees across from me. Her gaze locked onto the paper on the desk — the Slave Contract.

"Read it. You need to know exactly what you're selling. I don't want you changing your story later."

"......"

Yura bit her lip and began to read.

The further she read, the more her hands trembled. The paper rustled in her grip. This wasn't a contract. It was a waiver of human rights — no, a waiver of her own body. But she had no right to refuse. Even now, debt collectors would be tearing through her house, and her father would be on his knees, begging.

"Sign it."

I flicked the pen toward her. Yura took it with a shaking hand. The tip hovered over the paper for a long time. Three syllables. A name. The weight of it pressed down on her wrist like a shackle.

"Hurry up. I'm not a patient man. If you don't do it now, the deal's off."

At the prod, she squeezed her eyes shut and signed in a rush. Scratch, scratch. Choi Yura. Her hand shook so badly the letters came out crooked. A single tear dropped onto the signature and smeared the ink.

"Good girl."

Right then and there I worked the smartphone and transferred one hundred million won. A single finger on the send button decided her fate.

A chime sounded from the phone in Yura's pocket. She snatched it out and checked the screen. A deposit notification.

The moment she confirmed the number, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yura's shoulders sagged. The tension drained out of her, relief and despair crashing in at the same time.

"Haa... thank god... thank god..."

She crumpled to the floor, clutching the phone to her chest, and sobbed. She had saved her father. She had saved the house. And in exchange, she had sold herself — down to the very bottom of capitalism.

"You got the money. Now let me inspect the merchandise. Gotta make sure it's not defective." ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I leaned back in the chair. "Take it off."

Yura's crying cut off at once. She rose slowly. With trembling hands she undid the belt of her trench coat, her fingers lingering on each button. A rustle. The coat slid to the floor, limp.

I'd known what to expect, but seeing it in the flesh hit my brain like a slap. She really wasn't wearing a thing. Not a single thread. Completely naked, the black leather choker around her throat the only thing stealing the eye against all that white skin. The silver ring set in its center caught the fluorescent light and flashed cold.

"You came here like that? In a taxi?"

"...Yeah."

She answered with her head bowed low. Shame had flushed her whole body crimson. Every time the cab driver had glanced at the rearview mirror, the knowledge that she was naked under nothing but a coat had driven her all the way to my door. It would have felt nothing like the other day, when she'd stripped of her own free will and come to me like that.

"Come here."

I spread my legs and sat. Yura hesitated, then crawled between my knees and knelt. A doll that moved when you told it to. But the light in her eyes wasn't dead yet. She looked up at me with a complicated mix of misery and resignation.

I hooked a finger through the ring of the choker and yanked hard.

"Ghk!"

Yura's body jerked toward me. She gagged, choking, but I didn't let go.

"What's with that face? Toward the man who just saved you for a hundred million. You should be on your knees thanking me." I tapped her cheek. "Smile. Don't ruin the customer's mood. I paid good money."

Yura forced the corners of her mouth up. A twisted smile, one breath from tears. It was the best she could do.

"Get on all fours. Face away from me."

At the command, Yura turned and dropped onto her hands and knees. That lush, white ass was laid bare right in front of me, completely unprotected. I pulled a black permanent marker from the drawer, prepared in advance.

"We signed a contract today, so I need a receipt. A mark that says you're mine."

"A... a stamp? What are you going to..."

Yura twisted her head around, uneasy. The sound of the cap popping off rang loud in the room.

"Stay still. If you move, it'll come out crooked. I was going to give you a tattoo that lasts forever, but I'm going easy on you."

I pressed the cold tip of the marker to the plump swell of her left ass. Yura flinched, her flesh tightening. Scratch, scratch. The cool seep of ink into skin. Shame must have been flooding her all the way to the roots of her hair. She clenched her fists and raked her nails across the linoleum. I wrote the letters large.

"Here. Take a look."

I brought over the full-length mirror and angled it at her ass. In the glass, black letters stood out sharp against her white skin. Park Dohun's Exclusive. Like a barcode stamped on a product sitting on a supermarket shelf. The precise moment a human being was stripped of personhood and reduced to a thing.

"Ah..."

A strangled sound tore from Yura's throat. Letters so insulting, so vivid, they looked like they'd never come off. It was a visual death sentence — the proof that she had been sold, completely, with no way ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out.

"Well? Now you won't forget whose you are. Remember it every time you shower."

"......"

Yura couldn't answer. She just stared blankly at the brand in the mirror. Tears fell one after another, wetting the floor.

"Don't cry. We're just getting started. Time to inspect the holes."

I slathered gel generously over my cock, then lined it up with that tight rear hole nestled between the ass cheeks I'd just branded.

"Master... not there... that hurts..."

Yura instinctively tried to pull her hips away.

"What? A slave telling her master no? That's a breach of contract. You want to pay a billion-won penalty?"

"No... I'm sorry... please, just... slowly..."

Yura pushed her ass back out. I gripped her waist tight and shoved in all at once.

"Kyaaaaah!"

Yura's scream filled the cramped rooftop room. Far tighter and narrower than her pussy. Her inner walls clenched hard, trying to reject the invasion, but I forced my way through. Her sphincter stretched as if it would tear.

"It hurts! It hurts! It's going to tear! Hwaaang!!"

"Deal with it. That's the hole you sold for a hundred million. Better make it worth the price."

I moved my hips with cold precision. The tight passage gradually slicked with gel, her cold sweat, and her own juices. Thud. Thud. Thud. The slap of flesh grew steadily harder. The words Park Dohun's Exclusive written on her ass danced obscenely in time with my thrusts. Every time I saw those letters, a sadistic sense of conquest surged up my spine.

I smacked her ass and asked.

"Whose is it? Say it. Whose ass is this?"

"Hngh...! Park Dohun's...! It's Oppa's...!!"

"Don't call me Oppa. Call me Master."

"Master...! It's Master's...! I'm Master's toilet...!!!"

Yura screamed it through her tears. Pain and shame, and the weight of a hundred million won, crushed her down. She had lost even the will to resist. She just rocked, a vessel taking my desire.

"That's right. You're my personal toilet for the rest of your life. Whenever I want to take a dump, you spread and take it."

I picked up the pace. The mattress screamed. Yura's moans climbed higher. The ring of the choker clacked against the floor, keeping rhythm.

"I'm coming! Don't spill a single drop!"

I poured everything I had into her deepest, filthiest, most secret place.

"Hwaaaaang—!!!"

Yura's body convulsed like a live fish and collapsed. I slumped over her back, panting. My trace leaked out between her ass cheeks, running down over the words Park Dohun's Exclusive. The harmony of milky white and black letters. Filthy. Perfect. Proof of ownership.

I got up and wiped myself off roughly with a tissue. Yura lay sprawled on the floor, not moving a muscle. Her face was a wreck of tears, snot, and drool, her eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. The look of a soul destroyed.

"Get dressed. You need to go home. Your father's waiting."

At that, she staggered to her feet, standing awkwardly, the space between her legs clearly hurting. She picked the coat up off the floor and put it on. Then she gathered her bag and started to leave — and stopped, looking once more at the full-length mirror by the door.

The girl in the glass. Tangled hair. Swollen eyes. And the choker visible between the coat's lapels. She reached back and touched her ass. Even through the fabric, she could feel the marker.

"......"

She bit down on her lip. She shuddered with shame, but she made no move to wipe the brand away. No — she seemed to have understood, instinctively, that she couldn't. This wasn't just writing on skin. It was a scarlet letter carved into her life.

"I'll be going... Master..."

Yura said it in a voice with no strength left. There was no life in it. No pride. An empty shell with the soul scooped out.

"Yeah. I'll call you when I need you. Pick up."

I lay back on the bed and waved a hand. Yura fled the room. The door slammed shut.

I opened the window and watched her go down. Her receding figure disappearing into the unlit dark. Clutching the hem of her trench coat, limping — it was a wretched sight. But I knew. Tomorrow, the day after, whenever I called, she would come. The shackle of a hundred million won, and the memory of pleasure and humiliation carved into her body, would never let her go.

I blew a long stream of cigarette smoke and looked up at the night sky. Yura had broken completely. She was a slave. Jisu was already in the palm of my hand. But I was still hungry. This wasn't enough.