[005] The 1% Privilege

I. The Reversal of Value

The year is 2216. The world is saturated with a quiet, sterile beauty.

AI has claimed every sector of production, rendering "labor"—a concept that allegedly existed until the 21st century—completely obsolete. In this post-work society, people have become obsessed with the "Un-AI-ed." The economy now breathes through the pursuit of anything untouched by algorithms.

Every citizen is born with "Bio-Aesthetic" gene-editing; the streets are filled with an endless parade of homogeneous, perfect specimens. However, this manufactured perfection eventually grew stale.

Today, the ultimate currency is "The Original"—a state of being entirely free from AI intervention. Art is ranked by its "Originality Level": AI compares a work against the creator's lifelong personal database (every sight and sound they’ve ever recorded). Level 0 signifies a pure original; Level 5 is a derivative hack. Only Level 0 artists are crowned with the title of "Authentic" and worshiped by the masses.

This cult of the original completely transformed my life. My name is Yuri.

Ten years ago, as a fifteen-year-old, I was a ghost. My parents had refused Bio-Aesthetic treatments for me on principle. While I was slender, my features were considered "substandard" by the world’s refined metrics. Matching apps, which calculated the "optimal" partner with terrifying precision, never sent me a single "Like." My lack of visual "polish" made me invisible.

But as the trend toward "The Analog" and "The Untouched" surged, the tables turned.

Women who haven't undergone genetic augmentation—especially those who remain fertile—now make up a mere 1% of the population. As a holder of "Natural Genes," I began to receive state protection and a status akin to a rare national treasure.

II. Gates of Paradise

"Yuri, your skin... it has such a 'raw' texture. This slight graininess, without any digital smoothing... it’s intoxicating."

Every weekend, I am pursued by Level 0 artists and the sons of high-ranking officials—the "Elite Studs." To them, I am a rare natural resource; a piece of living, breathing art. I am currently basking in a worldly paradise.

That night, Yuri was at an exclusive "Originals Only" club. It was a haven where authentic artists who loathed AI intervention gathered for visceral, flesh-and-blood interaction.

Ren, a "Dimensional Designer," approached her. His features followed the Golden Ratio to a fault, and he carried an aura of absolute refinement.

"Yuri, tonight, I want to experience your 'wild' charm in private. I want to taste the real thing."

Ren’s seduction was blatant, but I didn't mind.

(I’ve been turning him down just to keep him on the hook, but honestly, I’ve been suppressing my own urges too. I think I’ve teased myself long enough. It’s about time I let him have a taste.)

"Fine. If you can keep me entertained, that is."

I took his hand, and we headed to a private room he had reserved within the club.

The room was minimalist: a large sofa, a side table, and a king-sized bed. A stark white space stripped of any AI-generated décor. The walls themselves acted as light sources, emitting a dim, soft glow. It was a space designed for nothing but the pursuit of "The Raw."

He gently pressed me back onto the sofa.

"Yuri, can I touch your skin? I want to feel your heat directly, without any 'noise' in the way."

"Heh, go ahead. But in exchange, I want you to fill me with your 'unfiltered' emotions."

Ren buried his face in the soft curve of my chest. To him, my un-augmented skin and modest bust represented a "heterogeneous beauty"—the kind of imperfection that was now the height of luxury.

He slowly peeled away my clothes.

"Who decided that 'flat' wasn't enough? These small swells... this is God's own architecture. It’s magnificent."

His voice washed away my old complexes, distilling them into a potent sense of superiority. Every time his tongue traced a line from my ear to my neck, flicked the tips of my small breasts, moved across my toned stomach, and reached the entrance of my slick, aching folds, a bolt of electric pleasure shot through my entire body.

"Yuri... Can I go inside? I want to feel your pure interior."

"Wait. You can... but I won't give my precious genes to a 'processed' product like you."

He took the insult as the highest compliment.

"That arrogance... that's another emotion the world has lost. I love it!"

Ren’s face contorted with excitement as he pushed his hot, rigid, throbbing length into my wet garden.

III. The Superiority of "Raw"

He might have been a product of manufactured beauty, but the power of his rod was the real deal.

"Ah... Yuri, you're so tight. This is so much more vivid than the virtual sensations... it's driving me insane!"

"Yes... deeper. Go ahead and ruin me. Your synthetic seed can't knock me up anyway, so just focus on making me feel good."

We played a game of dominance and ego, with contraception acting as our boundary line. Protected by the absolute defense of my pill—knowing his processed sperm could never violate my precious eggs—I was able to unleash my carnal desires even further.

He gripped my hips, his rhythm becoming frantic and violent. His breath was ragged, and his perfect muscles shuddered with every thrust.

"Yuri... your heat... it’s drawing me out. I want to release everything inside you... Please, Yuri...!"

"Fine. Give it to me. All of it."

The moment his reason shattered, I reached my peak. His hot seed flooded my interior, but to me, it was nothing more than a harmless liquid. His "processed" legacy would never mingle with my "natural" one.

IV. The Garden of Eternal Bliss

My life in paradise continued. I was pampered by a rotating door of elite men, all craving my "raw" body.

I never accept the genetic legacy of these augmented men. For me, sex is nothing more than recreation—a means of self-gratification.

Sometimes, I find myself remembering the old me—the girl who was rejected by the matching algorithms. That old pain has been completely erased, traded for this intoxicating sense of superiority.

My life has become a garden of pleasure, all thanks to a reversal of values triggered by a technology that evolved too far.

I check my messages again, looking for the next "Elite Stud." This playground of pleasure will last forever, or at least until my genetic clock runs out.

As long as the AI—which exists everywhere like the very air we breathe—continues to believe that my genes are precious...

(The End)