Extract - Evil Breeds Evil

 

Monday, 15^th July, nearly the end of Emily Parkinson's academic days - only three more to suffer. Up until now she had enjoyed school, she usually top of her class, but academia was getting in the way of her new-found enjoyment.

She slipped out of school early. To be precise, she attended Bartlebury Academy. What was the difference, school? academy? they were the same as far as she was concerned.

"God, I could do with another wank," she mumbled, partly under her breath, as she stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. This desire for sexual relief was in spite of the fact that she had just masturbated for the third time today, in the girls toilets. What had come over her, she idly speculated - she was starting to live for sex.

Rooting in her backpack, she produced her Gucci sunglasses and put them over her eyes. Retrieving her phone, she switched it on - academy rules said they had to be switched off and put away in pupils' lockers. Tapping out a message as she quickly walked, she sent, "With U in 5."

Outside the academy gates, she turned left whilst flicking through her messages, replying to a couple of them.

A few feet after the corner of the school railings, she did a three-sixty turn, checking that she was not being followed. All appeared clear so she stepped off the pavement onto the grassed and tree-dotted strip of land that separated it from the block of flats' car park.

Pressing the call button, she put the phone to her right ear and left a voicemail. "Hi, babe, see you later tonight. Make it eight, will yer. Got massive amounts of stuff to finish off," she lied. "Love you. Keep that cock of yours hard for me."

Pete Miller was her boyfriend. They had been dating for two years, ever since her sixteenth birthday party. He was an okay-sort who was currently somewhere on the academy's sports field doing athletics practice.

The block of flats was four-storeys high. Crossing the edge of the car park, she headed for the emergency exit. The end of the building was separated from the academy's railing fence by a paved path about a metre wide.

Pulling the door open, she stepped inside. Picking up the wedge that her lover had employed to stop the door fully closing, she kept it in her left hand as she pulled it firmly shut. Trotting up the stairs to the top floor, she put her phone and sunglasses back into her bag. Reaching the landing, she took a look over her shoulder, to see if she could spot Pete on the overlooked running track. She thought he was in a group of four talking to the coach.

Three knocks on the door, followed by two, then another three, was her signal that it was her. Not that Randy Jack required it, it her idea to add to the covertness of their liaison.

"Emily, baby, nice of you to come," Randy Jack oozed immediately after opening the door.

"I love to come," Emily uttered, words that were an understood inuendo. Stepping inside, she pushed the door too, whilst adding, "And come, and come, as you well know. I've been so fucking horny all day just thinking about you, Honey-bun."

Standing there in a silk dressing gown, Randy Jack stood 193 cm [six-foot-four] tall. Aged about fifty-five. Brown hair growing grey at the sides. Pale green eyes. Other than he being muscular, there was nothing really remarkable about his looks, except, as Emily well appreciated, his cock and testes was very big. However, he had this animal magnetism. He appeared to be very rich. Of late, she had come to really appreciate and crave sex and money.

Pushing her parted lips to his open mouth, she thrust her tongue into his orifice, the two oral muscles soon dancing with each other. It instantly fanned the flames of her lust, and she felt his already-hard manhood press against her clothing. There she was, aged eighteen, about to have wild passionate sex with a man older than her father. It was ever so naughty, but so what, it was only fucking sex ... and he was a very generous sugar-daddy, or should that be, a dirty old man. Either way it did not matter, she just craved his attention. There was simply something magnetic about his attraction.

There was something truly enticing about being naughty. From what little he had divulged, her womanly instincts told her that he was a dangerous, probably a shady business man - all of which added to the spice of their liaison.

Using both hands, she pushed away from him. "I need the loo! I'm about to poo!" she declared, knowing the signs that the enema she had slipped up her anus before leaving the academy was about to do its business.

That was one of the things Randy Jack had introduced into her life. Before him, she had not liked anal sex, but after his piledriving first lesson it was now second nature - well, doing it with him was.

Handing him the wooden wedge, she dashed past him into the master bedroom and on into the en-suite. Dropping her backpack to the floor, she lifted her skirt. Pulling down her thick, regulation, tights and white-lacy knickers, she sat down just as the rumble in her rear passage indicated that she was about to commence a loose defecation.

Once it felt like she was drained, she wiped her bottom before pressing the flush and moving to use the bidet that Randy Jack had apparently had specially installed for such occasions. Not specially for her - because he was clear he had had a succession of upper sixth girls from the academy ... and from other educational establishments nearby, as well as other women.

Having cleansed her starfish, she stood up and took a towel from the rack, drying her derriere. Hanging her white-trimmed-black blazer on the hook behind the door, she proceeded to remove her sensible shoes, tights, knickers, skirt, blouse and white-bra, placing them in a pile on top of the lowered toilet lid. From her pack, she took out the black suspender belt and the sheer fifteen denier stockings, and eased them over her shapely legs, pulling them tight and clipping the tops so they were halfway up her thighs.

From her makeup bag, she lavished her Maybelline black mascara onto her eyelashes, wishing she could be wearing voluminous false ones. Out of her pack, she retrieved her travelling jewellery case from which she replaced her regulation ear studs with the large 22-caret gold hoops. Four chased, broad, gold rings went onto the fingers of her right hand - all were little gifts from her lover. Her savings account balance had also been boosted nicely - God alone knew how she was going to explain that away if ever her parents found out?

The adornments made her feel sexy, a bit ... like ... well, a slut.

A hint of her pink lipstick was applied whilst admiring herself in the mirror. She had now stopped growing, she reckoned. She was one hundred and seventy-seven centimetres tall, [5 foot 8 inches, in proper measurements] firm bodied, but sadly she took after her mum and only had smallish breasts - C-cup heading towards Ds. Emily would love them to be like her friend Andrea's, they definitely D-sized. "That can easily be arranged for the right sort of naughty girl," Randy Jack had advised.

Her mane of chestnut-brown hair hung down to the middle of her back, her BaByliss Wave Secret Air was a godsend for putting some waves into her otherwise straight locks. Her eyes, like her mother and those of her sister were amazing, often commented upon, for they were an intense cornflower-blue. She looked gorgeous, she smugly conceded, looking every bit like a pervert's dream of a naughty schoolgirl. She had never really been naughty, not until she had been seduced by her lover - she had been a boring goody-two-shoes, an exemplary student.

Gathering her things, she re-entered the bedroom. Opening the in-built wardrobe, she put her clothes on hangers or shelves.

This bedroom was, like the rest of the flat, rather spartan. It only contained a king-sized bed with bedding and two fiddle-back wooden chairs, although the carpet was really thick Wilton.

The flat was simply used by Randy Jack to hold numerous clandestine trysts.

His dressing gown had been discarded, it draped over a corner of the bed - its wearer was, as she had anticipated, nowhere to be seen.

Emily knew that the second bedroom was devoid of any furniture., it a bit of a storeroom.

Heading to the main room, it a lounge-cum-dining-area-cum-kitchenette, it was all the same as in her previous visits. The vinyl tiled floor was mostly covered with white cotton sheets upon which was standing a basket swing chair and a modern-design chaise longue with a padded wave-shaped top that was neoprene-covered.

Going to the kitchenette, she found him standing behind the breakfast bar, naked. His penis was semi-firm, hanging there just waiting for her attention. The kitchenette only possessed a fridge, microwave and a couple of high stools, there some cutlery and crockery in the cupboards and drawers. After all, Randy Jack - Jackson Spears - merely kept the flat for some of his sexual activities so why clutter it up, he had advised.

"Vodka and orange," he said, picking up the large glass ewer and pouring a full measure into a highball glass. "Smoke?"

"Yeah, of course," Emily eagerly replied.

Due to her upbringing, her father repeatedly going on about the horrors of drugtaking, Emily had been cautious, but like all her classmates she had puffed cannabis a couple of times, and popped the odd E. Of late, she took the occasional line of coke. However, sex sessions with Jackson were accompanied by alcohol (although he drank little) and a spliff that was laced with something that certainly seemed to lower her inhibitions, make her randy as hell. She was not complaining.

Lifting the spliff from the heavy-glass ashtray, putting it to her lips, she waited whilst he lit it up. She took a deep, satisfying, drag. Taking her glass in her other hand, she wandered to the other end of the room, taking up a position by the window that looked out over the academy's playing field.

Glass in his hand, Randy Jack followed her. Coming to a stop behind her, he started rubbing his stiffening penis against her left buttock. His free hand reached around her, fingers stroking her pussy-lips.

"So, Baby, which one is the dipstick that you're shagging?" he asked.

"He's not a dipstick," Emily retorted, believing that she should defend her boyfriend. Holding the spliff so he could take a strong draw, she jerked her head towards the window, and continued, "He's that one on the far side of the track running the third leg."

"Moves well but must be a fucking dipstick if he wastes all that energy playing games when he could be sweating, shagging the arse off you. If you were mine, I'd be knobbing you every minute I could get my hands on you."

His upright cock was now rubbing up and down her bum-crack. Three of his fingers were easing back and forth in her wetting-slit.

Taking another puff followed by a mouthful of drink, she swivelled her head to look at him over her left shoulder, saying, "You do knob me every time you get your hands on me, you randy old bastard."

"Less of the old, please," he riposted, clearly not offended. Taking another suck on the spliff first, he leaned forwards. They met, both open-mouthed, and proceeded to French kiss passionately.

It made her feel warm and louche. The laced cannabis joint was making her feel hornier than she already was.

So why was she here instead of being on the side-lines admiring her boyfriend's physical prowess? After all, Peter Miller was the academy's finest sportsman - student - playing soccer, cricket, tennis and athletics for the institution and for the county.