Yukiko's Awkward Homecoming
The door lock beeped three times as it unlocked. The front hall, usually echoing only with the slap of my Crocs, now filled with the sharp click of women's heels—a jarring contrast.
"The passcode is 5188."
"Understood."
I pressed the 'home' button, and the lights in my bedroom, kitchen, and living room flicked on all at once. The other countless rooms remained as dim and unused as they'd been since I moved in.
"That's the bathroom, the shower room, living room, kitchen. Pick any empty room you like."
Yukiko glanced around silently before stopping in front of the room closest to mine. No nameplate marked it, but light leaked from the door crack—easy enough to spot.
"I'll take this one."
"Let me see..."
I opened the door. The room was completely bare. I'd never planned to use it, so there was nothing to be done.
"You'll need a pillow, blanket, bed at least right away... Guess there's no helping it. Sleep in my room tonight, and we'll go shopping tomorrow."
What else? Air conditioner, fan, computer, wardrobe. I didn't know much about women's clothes, but surely she'd need more than what fit in that tiny carry-on. We'd have to buy new ones.
"First things first... You must be tired. Go wash up and rest. Sleep in my room tonight."
"Understood."
As Yukiko entered my room, I heard the soft rustle of clothes slipping off, then a thud as she settled. Standing there listening wouldn't look good, so I headed to the living room—but once there, I had nothing to do and just sprawled on the sofa, staring blankly.
My computer and gaming console were in my room. The sofa and TV in the living room felt like mere placeholders, furniture that had to be there.
Someone new was moving into my home, and I hadn't prepared a thing. I felt ashamed. I should've gotten ready during the drive back from the slave market, but I'd been too tense watching her every move in the rearview mirror to think about what awaited us here.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a wave of steamy air laced with a faint, feminine fragrance. Footsteps padded a few paces, then a door clicked shut. It was the lavender scent of my usual body wash, but somehow different today.
Realizing she hadn't brought a change of clothes, I opened the dryer, grabbed some underwear and pajamas, and headed in. For some reason, this shower felt a little special. Maybe because the bathroom was already filled with warm steam before I even entered.
/////
Used to staying up until dawn, I had no choice but to kill time on the sofa. I flipped through TV channels, but even after scanning hundreds, nothing held my interest.
Drowsiness crept in, but I'd forgotten a pillow. The sofa was wide enough to serve as a mattress, but the armrest was too high for my head.
I had spare pillows and blankets, but they were all in my room. No way around it—I'd have to go in.
I cracked the door open quietly and tiptoed inside, shining my phone's light around for a pillow or blanket I'd stashed somewhere.
"You've come."
Her icy voice snapped me alert. No idea when she'd woken, but there she sat on the bed, kneeling in revealing underwear that left little to the imagination. Her pale skin was mesmerizing; I deliberately looked away.
"Oh, you're awake? Sorry. I was trying to be quiet. Go back to sleep."
"Aren't you here to claim me?"
Her tone sharpened like an accusation.
"No, that's not..."
I wanted to say I had no such intentions, but doubt crept in. Why had I brought this woman home? Out of all the slaves at the market, each with their own stories, why her if I truly wanted to help her?
If I claimed I had no desire to take her here and now, could I trust myself not to regret it? Could I walk away from this one-sided power, where I could violate her on a whim?
"You're just tired, right? I'm tired too. Sleep."
I mumbled an excuse and fled, slamming the door behind me. My heart pounded as I rushed to the sofa, tossed the pillow down, and buried myself under the blanket up to my eyes.
The lights were off, but I didn't want to see anything anyway. Still, I caught a glimpse of the blanket's pattern in the dimness.
/////
A fragrant aroma wafted over. Hearing a faint clatter, I forced myself out from under the blanket.
"You're awake, sir?"
The woman's voice jolted me fully upright. Yukiko was in the kitchen, cooking.
"Yeah. Working hard since morning..."
Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at her back—and froze. Skin-tight leggings hugged her hips perfectly, accentuating the voluptuous curves. The thin fabric barely veiled her skin tone, outlining every contour like an obscene statue of a goddess's mound. I stood there dumbfounded, as if seeing a woman for the first time.
Just woken, my erection strained against my thin pajamas. Not wanting her to see, and fearing she'd misread it, I spun around and ducked into the bathroom.
/////
Breakfast was neat and delicious, like a course at a fancy Korean restaurant. The ingredients were whatever I had around the house, but the new slave had transformed them into something exquisite.
The food was so good that only midway through did I notice her staring blankly at me eating.
"Did you eat already?"
"No, sir. Slaves cannot eat without permission, so I awaited your allowance to join you."
"What? Come sit. It's delicious—eat with me."
"Understood."
It felt oddly like a cliché from fantasy novels about handling slaves. The overgrateful slaves serving devotedly at their master's 'natural' kindness. Those tropes always hid a master with no intent to free them, twisted by a desire to be loved for basic decency.
Entertaining as a reader, but now in the role, it wasn't funny. We ate in awkward silence. Her table manners were flawless, forcing me to self-consciously mind mine.
Despite joining midway, she finished first and stood watching me eat, just as before.
/////
Boarding the bus drew stares. The driver's seat, once occupied by some uncle, now held a young woman who looked startled to see me.
"What the—slumming it? Bus date with his girlfriend?"
"Nah, not girlfriend—a slave, right? She's super deferential."
Whispers rippled from young women around us. In this society, men were upper class beyond old chaebols, typically traveling by private car, helicopter, or plane.
"You're drawing too much attention. Better go straight to a nearby dealership..."
"Eh, a few stares won't hurt."
I rarely walked far anyway, and when I did, it was official business with a civil servant driving. I could've called one today, but bothering a hardworking official for personal shopping felt wrong, so public transit it was.
"Um, sit here..."
A high school girl offered her seat to me, standing by the handrail. My legs weren't sore, and the department store wasn't far, so I declined.
As we reached our stop, no one approached the door where I waited to exit. Despite the crowded station-connected stop, they avoided me—fearing accidental contact and misunderstanding.
The only one in the circular void around me was Yukiko, a step behind. The bubble held until we disembarked.
/////
Inside the department store, we headed straight to furniture. I told Yukiko to pick a bed, but unlike her usual decisive clarity, she hesitated, unable to choose.
"It's your bed—shouldn't you pick?"
"Even if it's mine, it's the bed you'll hold me in while using, sir. It would be an honor if you chose."
Choice fell to me. I picked a pricey, luxurious set with an Eastern pattern that suited her.
"One down. Air con, wardrobe... Right, phone—you have one?"
"Yes. Here."
She offered it politely with both hands. Japanese-made, decent but outdated compared to modern ones. War-era surveillance fears had destroyed foreign phones in Japan, forcing local production. Even now, only the wealthy had Korean or American models.
"I'll get you a new one. Phone store next."
Handing it back, our fingertips brushed. Her soft touch lingered faintly.
For the wardrobe and AC, she deferred again. Clothes, though—I wanted her to choose. Her suit, casually modified, was as stunning as first sight. Any outfit would look good on her beauty, but fashion-blind me didn't want to pick.
We rested at a café. Facing her, I sipped coffee I'd chosen for her—she hadn't ordered until I did.
"Anything else you want? Pick whatever."
"No. I've received more than enough already."
Only after careful thought did her passivity click. I held absolute power over her. A single frown at her spending could feel like a death threat.
It felt stifling, hopeless. I'd brought her hoping to help more than others, but it wasn't working.
"Anything you want to do?"
"No personal desires. I only wish to serve you to the best of my ability, for as long as possible."
Gazing at her across the table, I realized I'd hardly met her eyes before. Staring at her noble face, I lost myself, forgetting how I must look.
Averting my gaze from her radiant features, her shapely breasts came into view. Not monstrously huge or overly exposed, but proudly prominent.
Our eyes met, and shame hit. Caught ogling by the icy beauty—a plain guy busted staring at her face and chest. Pre-war, she'd report me; I'd kneel begging mercy.
Post-war, perceptions and laws had flipped. Staring at my slave's breasts was fine; groping or taking her here wouldn't be stopped. Even non-slave staff—I could take any without issue. She'd likely anticipate post-sex benefits or rare pregnancy perks.
"Let's go buy clothes."
Sometimes I wondered if the old world wasn't better. No meeting someone like her, no fretting if my actions were harmful.