Professor, May I Become Your Exclusive Bitch?

Having safely completed my first real duties as a professor—selecting my personal students and holding their first interviews—time had quietly slipped by. The lingering late-summer heat of August finally broke, and early September arrived with a genuinely cool autumn breeze beginning to drift through the air.

Humming a tune under my breath, I strolled into my private research office in the Special Devotion Talent Department building at Saul University.

Sinking my ass deep into the plush cushioning of a top-grade leather chair, I gave the nameplate sitting on my desk yet another fond stroke.

Kang Jinwoo, Assistant Professor of the Special Devotion Talent Department at Saul University. Kya... this is insane.

Barely days ago I'd been a student on leave from some no-name third-rate college, mindlessly scanning barcodes at a convenience store — and now I was a professor at the most prestigious university in the country.

Now this is what you'd call a genuine life reversal.

And this impossible miracle had been possible entirely thanks to the discreet help of the anomaly-reporting app installed on my smartphone.

The one-time items I'd bought from the app shop after shaking every last point out of my savings — and among them, this particular ability had been pure gold.

With that single ability, I'd transformed from a nobody who'd materialized out of nowhere into a foreign-educated assistant professor who fit the Special Devotion Talent Department like a glove.

I'd briefly puppeteered the department head into issuing my appointment letter, and with this identity stacked on top, not a single soul found anything strange about it.

Better yet, I'd been dressed up not as some parachute rookie who'd slipped in through the department head's connections, but as a genuine overseas-caliber talent — to the point that people hung on my every word, whatever I happened to say.

Something along the lines of: a top-tier recruit who'd completed his doctorate at some famous university abroad, and whom the department head had only managed to bring in after begging three separate times, hat in hand.

Every time I walked down the corridor and caught other professors or TAs shooting me glances steeped in equal parts envy and admiration, it took everything I had not to burst out laughing on the spot.

"God, this is a sweet gig... Now then, what should I suck the honey out of today?"

If I'd been packaged up as that kind of talent, you'd think I'd have to work hard at least — but the very nature of an assistant professorship meant there was remarkably little for me to actually do.

Until the semester opened, my only obligation had been stopping by the Saul University affiliated hospital for a health checkup, so enough said. Of course, the semester had now begun and real work had started — but that didn't mean my workload had grown dramatically or anything.

Most of the practical duties were handled for me by my assigned TA, and all I had to do was pour my full attention into managing my personal students.

"Now then, shall we take a look at today's work?"

I pulled my smartphone from my pocket and discreetly opened the app before giving a light tap to the three file folders of my personal students laid out in a row on the desk.

"Haah, this thing is sneakily strict, isn't it."

This was the critical work I had to take care of — the follow-up quests I'd received a few days ago, after reporting this deranged department as an anomaly.

Quest one hadn't been all that hard to clear. I dug through the department intranet and fished out what Saul University's Special Devotion Talent Department had put forward as its official list of "achievements" — which was, in practice, a catalog of fucktoy training records — then scraped up a pile of internet articles documenting how matter-of-factly society treated sex work these days and uploaded the lot to the app. It cleared on the spot.

The problem was quests two and three.

"Yes, yes, I hear you. Fine... it is what it is."

There it goes again, this insane application.

Still, it was a mercy that the solution the app proposed wasn't particularly difficult to carry out.

If it had demanded, say, a photographic record of ordinary student life instead, honestly, my head would have been pounding.

Just yesterday I'd walked the campus with my camera out, but every picture of students simply strolling along got bounced right back.

In the end, meeting the conditions apparently meant photographing a scene like the vigorous "practical training" I'd gone through with TA Kim Minjeong, and then collecting testimony to go along with it.

Which leaves exactly one way to pull this off.

I turned my gaze back to the desk.

Starting this afternoon: one-on-one private interviews with my three personal students. The official line was that they were held after the orientation period, before the semester truly swung into gear, in order to set the direction of each student's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠education going forward.

No matter how I looked at it, though, it read as nothing more than a cue to start devouring them in earnest now that classes had begun.

Either way, I needed to steer the atmosphere carefully during these interviews and cook up a pretext for taking photos and recording testimony.

The other students will probably cooperate just fine. Baek Nahee, that bitch, is the one who's going to be a problem.

I stared down at Baek Nahee's ID photo at the very end of the roster.

Her conduct score had punched straight through zero and been buried underground, her overall grades crawled along the floor — a hopeless, lost-cause flunker whose expulsion wouldn't have surprised anyone.

How the hell was I supposed to tame this delinquent who still genuinely believed she was the queen? I didn't have the faintest clue.

Well, whatever. This is the Special Devotion Talent Department, after all. I'll just use my professorial authority to steamroll her.

Steaming her over amounted to abusing my position to do whatever I pleased, of course — but here, that wasn't much of a problem at all.

This was a place where women crawled in of their own accord, convinced that becoming the finest slave imaginable was what an elite life looked like.

If anything, wasn't it morally correct for me — her one true master and mentor — to step forward, awaken the nature she'd kept suppressed all these years, and guide her down the path of a genuine sex slave?

I'd get to enjoy myself in the process, clear the quest, and rake in points while I was at it — three birds with one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stone, really.

With my thoughts settled more or less like that, I waited for the round of private interviews scheduled to begin that afternoon.

Knock, knock.

"Professor. May I come in?"

"Yes. Come on in."

I'd been killing about an hour fiddling with my phone when a politely restrained knock sounded from outside the office, followed by a voice. The moment I gave permission, the door swung open and — exactly as I'd expected — third-year student Cha Suah stepped inside.

A slender 168-centimeter frame — the information sheet said exactly 168, for the record — a pure-white silk blouse buttoned all the way up to her throat, and wide-cut slacks that fell in a clean, unbroken line. On top of that, a watch that screamed money to anyone who glanced at it lent her whole look an even more dignified air.

And the truly insane part? A student like that flushing faintly whenever she looked at me, as if quietly letting her favor show.

The anomaly that makes every woman unconditionally adore me. God, this thing really, truly is the best.

"Good afternoon, Professor. This is my first formal greeting since the department term got underway."

"Ah, yes. It's a real pleasure to meet you properly as well, Cha Suah. No need to be so stiff — sit back, relax, and let's have our chat again today."

"Yes, Professor. Then..."

Cha Suah offered a small bow ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the waist, then carefully settled onto the sofa. Except something about the way she sat looked distinctly off-balance.

Last time, when I'd told her to sit comfortably, she had sat genuinely comfortably. Had there been some change of heart today?

If she stays that stiff, I don't see how we're getting anywhere near photo-worthy territory...

How was I supposed to make this cold, razor-sharp model student perform something obscene — and get the pictures on top of it? It was the kind of thinking you'd expect from a professor of this department, to be fair, but just as I was turning the problem over in my head, nagged by a strange feeling that I shouldn't be entertaining such thoughts at all—

Cha Suah lifted her head and looked straight at me.

"Cha Suah? Did you have something you wanted to say?"

"Ah, that is..."

She fiddled with the luxurious leather briefcase resting on her knees, then raised her eyes to me with an expression of utter solemnity and finally spoke.

"Professor. Today, I have a matter of great importance that I need to discuss with you in depth... Would it be alright if I brought it up?"

"A matter of importance? Of course. Go ahead — tell me whatever's on your mind."

What now? Was there some serious problem I knew nothing about? Granted, I'd picked her in the first place as a toy to amuse myself with, but she was still a student I was personally responsible for teaching, so a flicker of worry was only natural. Somehow I felt I ought to help her — but how was I supposed to do that, knowing nothing at all?

Right as I was chewing on that dilemma—

Click.

She flipped open the leather bag, drew out a single very thickly bound binder, and laid it respectfully on top of my desk.

When I looked back and forth between the binder and her face, puzzled, Cha Suah swallowed dryly.

And then, in a voice of dead seriousness, she delivered a line so outrageous I doubted my own ears.

"P-Professor."

"Yes, Cha Suah?"

"For the duration of this semester... would it be alright if I became your exclusive bitch, Professor?"

"...I beg your pardon?"