My name is Helen Black. I grew up in an orphanage in the outskirts of New York, in a small town called Sylvania. I wasn’t like the other kids there. Even amidst the dirt and scabs, I was what most define as “beautiful”. The other girls hated me, spat on me, called me slut. The boys leered at me, crept into my room at night, and tried to finger bang me. No parents. Seen only as an object of contempt or lust. Yeah, I’d say I had a pretty normal upbringing.

There were two things my childhood taught me. The first, to find a sense of calm in the midst of chaos. I would meditate for hours a day. Hiding in the attic or some other dark corner where no one could find me. I would sit silent and motionless for hours. Then one day, something happened.

It began as a rustle. Dust being pushed along the old wood floor. Then a crash. I didn’t move. The rain came in hard and fast. The lighting split a tree just outside the window. Half the old maple came crashing down into the house.

That is when I first heard the voice of the dead. And it hasn’t stopped since.

The second thing was much less dramatic yet equally effective. And that was how to kick some ass.

I went through high school hiding my secret. I played the role of the dumb blonde extremely well. The girls still hated me and the boys still just wanted to fuck me. So I let them.

In college, a lot of things changed. For one, it was an all girls college so I didn’t have to worry about the constant leering of the male students. The professors, now that was a different story. I could imagine the seedy old men with patched elbows and wrinkled lips on their knees in front of a toilet, using me.

But then I met him, Professor James Devlin.

He was new to the school and seemed more fascinated with his subject, the occult, than the girls in short skirts and unbuttoned blouses trying to get at his cock.

I was his most attentive student. I raised my hand every question. I stayed after class, holding my book close to my breasts, and never blinked when he spoke. Of course it led to more, and I don’t blame him. Unlike any of the other men before, I wanted him to touch me. So when his hand slid up my leg and to my panties, I pushed back into him.

He kissed so deeply and so passionately. Goosebumps rose on my flesh. My nipples hardened and a wetness appeared between my legs. He slowly unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my bra, letting both fall to the floor. His right hand cupped my naked breast while his left stroked my pussy through my panties. His tongue worked magical circles around my hard nipples. I pulled my panties to the side, giving his fingers access. He split my pink lips and began to pull out more of my wetness.

I begged for him to fuck me, to throw me on the desk and use me like I’d been used so many times before.

But he stopped. I looked down to see what was wrong, if he’d cum already, like I’d had some boys do once their hands and mouths had been on my tits. But there was only a small bit of wetness from his precum.

He pushed me back, then picked up my bra and blouse and held them out to me. “I can’t,” he said.

I asked, “Why not?”

“I’m your professor.”

And just like then, now I’m interrupted by what he’d call “duty”.

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