Virginia K. G. Ryder

Little Emily's Family Depravity

CHAPTER 1

It was only a week after my 11th birthday when I was sent to live at Miss Hellview's Private School for Girls.

“Emily, this is best for all of us,” my mother said tearfully, giving me a hug. She handed me the small but expensive suitcase they'd just bought me. “We'll send you spending money every month.”

“I'm so sorry,” I answered, and I meant it. This was my own fault, after all. “Can I come home on holidays?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” my father answered, a little uneasily, I thought. But at least he was finally speaking up. “You'll only be two hours away.”

My father, normally not the openly emotional sort, had tears in his eyes as well. This wasn't easy for any of us. “We love you very much,” he threw in, to which my mom gave him an annoyed glance.

“I know you do, Daddy.”

Miss Hellview's was a boarding school hidden away in an isolated part of southern Alabama, a particular school in that only girls who'd gotten into trouble (not that kind of trouble) were sent there. Bad girls is what I mean, girls whose parents felt they simply couldn't be controlled any other way.

What used to be called wayward girls, I think.

I guess that would apply, though it was mostly my mother, surprisingly uptight at only 29-years-old, who considered me to be a troubled youngster. A child with far more energy than necessary, she said. Sexual energy, actually. In other words, she thought of me as a bad little girl who couldn't keep her legs together.

Which might or might not have been true. On the other hand, I didn't look anything like a bad girl.

I had one of those innocent faces that made grandmother-types adore me. A sweet angel's face I'd been told, with wide blue eyes and an easy smile, long radiant brown hair and braces still on my perfectly white teeth. That combination, and the fact I was only 4'8” and a skinny finally — beginning-to-develop 87 pounds, made me look even younger than I was.

Unfortunately, even my mother believed I was still a fragile little lamb. Or did, at least, which made her shock all the greater when she discovered otherwise.

“Oh, God!” she'd shrieked, going all-out hysterical in an instant. “I can't believe this! No! It can't be!”

But it was.

On the afternoon of my birthday, my very first day as an 11-year-old, she'd caught my father fucking me on the old couch in the basement. We were both so feverishly going at it, we hadn't heard her coming down the stairs.

“Fuck me, Daddy, keep fucking me!” I panted hoarsely, urging him on. I knew what he wanted to hear. My father loved filthy language from his adorable little girl. “You're fucking me so good! Uhhh! Yes, yes, yes! I'm your dirty little slut and I can't get enough of your big cock!”

Like that.

My father was a handsome man of just 30, tall with rugged features, dark-haired and blue-eyed like me and with a trim, athletic build. Trim build or not, though, his dick was far from it, fat and thick and at least 7” long every time I made it get hard.

And I'd made it get hard many, many times. I also knew how long it was because he'd let me measure it. More than once.

He'd fucked me endlessly on that battered couch, beginning a couple of years earlier, in every dirty position we could come up with. Part of the reason my father started fucking me in the first place, in fact, was because I'd try anything sexual, the dirtier the better.

And my mother-so straitlaced he said she squeaked when she peed-wouldn't.

I'd had his throbbing dick in my mouth, of course, and buried all the way in my slippery little-girl's cunt, and even half-way up my elastically puckered asshole. We'd always used a lot of flavored lubrication for that particularly filthy but fun act, and we both loved it. Anal sex.

My father would even lick me back there, in my anus and all around it, to get me relaxed and ready for the insertion of his stiff cock. Which was why it was always flavored lubrication he'd sneak into the house for us, usually peach or mango or something else tropical.

I liked it, too, the taste, often using it on his cock whenever I jacked him off while sucking him. I always did it until he came in my mouth. The added sweet tropical flavor was a great treat for me as I swallowed his erupting semen, my small hand eagerly jerking up and down in a blur to encourage even more of his spurting cum down my throat.

“Jesus, Emily,” he gasped that first time. “You swallowed it all!”

“I want to do it again,” I admitted. “It was fun.”

Even back then, I was an overly-excited 9-year-old. And it really was fun.

In other words, we'd tried every sexual thing we could think of, both knowing it was wrong, perverted, disgusting and even depraved, but loving every second of it: a father and his underage daughter secretly exploring the outer limits of their urgent but wholly unnatural needs.

“This is a huge sin,” I remember whispering shakily to my dad. This was as he was screwing the shit out of me, early last year when I was still a little 4th-grader at St. Katherine's Academy. “Really, Daddy, we shouldn't be doing this…”

My shorts and damp underpants were down around one ankle and his fervid thrusts into my tight, slickly-gripping cunt were getting faster and deeper with each pump of his hips. With my skinny arms wrapped around his neck, I had my bare thighs spread wide, my entire body alive with indecent sensations I found impossible to control.

Once I started fucking, I wanted it to never end.

“…but it feels too good to stop!” I admitted, groaning raggedly as the first spasms of yet another orgasm began within my crotch. I'd already come twice. “Ohhh God, I love fucking! I'm coming again! Ohhh! Fuck me faster, Daddy, faster!”

Which is why we kept at it.

And did it as often as we could get away with it. Right up to the time my mother caught us on the couch.

CHAPTER 2

The gentle bulge of my pubic mound was smoothly hairless back when my father and I first started fucking.

But my pink little pussy got very wet, very fast, even at such a tender young age. Much more than normal. At least, that's what my dad told me. He said I was super-slippery in there, with the most naturally-lubricated cunt he'd ever seen. Or ever had his dick in. And my clitoris, my clit, he'd informed me, was so overly sensitive he could almost make me come by just hotly breathing on it.

Which he did, that first time he put his face between my skinny legs, just breathing on it from so close I could almost feel his lips. And he did it until I was breathing hard myself, and swallowing even harder, my mounting excitement evident.

“Can I kiss it?” he'd asked me. “Emily…?”

And he gently spread apart the sensitive petal-like lips of my already-glistening young cunt with his fingers, holding me open down there, his continuing breath on my clit seemingly hotter by the moment.

My knees were sprawled open on our downstairs couch, my hands held somewhat nervously at my sides. I was a mere 9-year-old back then, but so sexually aroused I could barely think straight. I only knew I liked what he was doing (actually I loved it), and wanted more, more, more, whatever that meant.

“My pussy, you mean?” I asked, not certain I understood. “To kiss it?”

“It'll feel real good,” he promised. “If you let me…kiss you there.”

It didn't take a lot of thought on my part, even as naive and young as I was, to nod my agreement. In fact, it wouldn't be that big a leap. As he breathed on my clit, and held me open with one hand, he already had two fingers of his other hand sliding slowly in and out of my cunt, fingerfucking me, he'd said, probing into that slippery opening I'd first discovered myself at a far earlier age.

“I'm closing my eyes!” I told him with a little shiver. “Go ahead and kiss it.”

And I closed my eyes tight.

As a child I was always nervous at anything new or different, especially during those first few weeks of sneaking around with my father. After all, he and I were getting to know each other in a way hardly approved by any normal parent. Or by my mother, who apparently could be quite the bitch when provoked.

It was just a little scary, some of it, but exciting in so many sick ways.

When his lips first kissed my clit, especially that first time when I wasn't certain exactly what to expect, I jerked with a quick moan and began trembling so violently I swear I almost came right then!

It was that powerful a sensation.

I mean, of course I'd been using my fingers in bed every night to make myself come, but this was something entirely new to me, something far more pleasurable, a fresh experience I knew I'd want and need, over and over.

“Daddy!” I gasped, when he quickly went from merely kissing my clit to actually sucking on it. “Keep doing that! Don't stop, don't stop.”

I was suddenly squirming so wildly he could barely hold me down.

My skinny body jerked alive with pulsing sensations of pleasure so overwhelming I could not get enough of them. I pushed my crotch even tighter against his burrowing face, suddenly grabbing his hair with both small hands and pulling him into me as I worked my little pussy into his mouth.

And then I came so hard I couldn't breathe, my heart pounding in my ears and my cunt throbbing through one racking climax after another. Three in a row, actually. It was as if I was suddenly electrified, the shudders racing throughout my entire body knocking the wind out of me as my wildly tingling clit seemingly melted at my own father's expert attention.

“I think you killed me,” I breathed, finally, limply. “Daddy, my God, it felt so good in my cunt!”

“You came so fast,” he was surprised. “You're like a little sex machine.”

I was still trying to catch my breath, my heart pounding away in my narrow chest but finally slowing.

“It was the best feeling, ever,” I admitted.

My entire pubic mound and my bare inner thighs were still shiny from my overflowing juices. It seemed as if I'd gushed out a little river down there, right in his face. I was even soaked down in the crack of my bare little ass.

“I loved you sucking my cunt, especially at the top like that.”

Even at the beginning, we'd both used the words I supposedly wasn't even allowed to know, much less say out loud. Cunt. Cock. Clit. Cum. Climax. And those were just the C 's. I knew many, many more, with different letters. Little did my mom suspect.

“It's your clit, Emily,” he told me. “Your own little hot button.”

“Do it again,” I asked him, even before my breathing returned to normal. I spread my legs for him again, then used my own fingers to hold my cunt open. “Right now, Daddy. Please, do it again.”

He gave me a long look.

“Will you suck my dick after?” he asked, his idea of a fair trade, I guess. “I mean, really suck it?”

I'd been jacking him off by then, for over a week, a couple of times a day. Even in the car sometimes. I'd also put the swollen head of his cock in my mouth once, just as a little experiment to see what it tasted like. But, again, this was taking it to an entirely different level. And I had, after all, seen his cum going all over the place whenever I used my hand on him. A huge mess.

That was before we started using the tissues for me to aim him into.

“Okay, Daddy,” I told him. “But if it's too much to swallow when you come, I'm spitting it out.”

Like I said, I was pretty much agreeable to anything.

Anyway, over the last two years, whenever we screwed on the couch, we were always extra careful to listen for my mother. There were more than enough creaks in those basement stairs to warn us in plenty of time. But that afternoon of my birthday, we'd just been too involved.

“Emily, I love your sweet little cunt,” he'd been whispering to me, his big hard dick pistoning so far inside of me I swear I could taste it. “You're always so wet and hot and tight in there!”

We were doing it with me sort of half-sitting on the couch, facing forward, my bare thighs spread wide and my feet on the floor. My bare little ass was at the edge of the cushion, an old bath towel under it to sop up my never-ending juices and the eventual backwash of my father's load of cum.

It always poured out of my cunt, his semen, when he slid his thick cock back out of me, a sticky mess of opaque wetness that oozed down into the crack of my butt. He told me he always came a huge load when he fucked me.

“No one's ever made me come so much,” he'd said. “You just get me so damned excited!”

“I get just as excited,” I informed him. “That's why I come so fast.”

I was safe from pregnancy, though, because I knew my father had a vasectomy the very first year we started fucking. My mother thought it was for her, of course, because she'd decided early on that one child was more than enough for her. That I was more than enough for her, I guess.

But it was really for me, his darling little daughter, who he screwed every single time he could, that my father got himself fixed.

Anyway, that day we got caught, my dad was kneeling between my damp thighs, his hands on my narrow hips, jerking me forward with each of his rapid thrusts into my throbbing pussy.

At 11-years-old, I'd finally started maturing.

My underage cunt, bald two years earlier, was at last showing the faintest of emerging pubic hair, fine curly ringlets of it barely visible alongside the deeper pink slash of my slit. Even my tiny titties, ironing-board flat until recently, had begun to appear, two sweet handfuls (my dad said!) that I actually needed a training bra for. And my brownish-pink nipples were suddenly as big around as half-dollars, the even darker rubbery tips so highly sensitive they poked right out there at the merest touch.

In fact, while my dad repeatedly plunged his dick into me, I was pulling on both of my nipples, rolling them between my fingertips for every bit of extra pleasure I could get. It was as if there was somehow a wire, a direct current, straight down to my tingling clit from them.

“Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me harder!” I kept groaning, lost in the delicious sensation of it all. When he was buried to the hilt in my cunt like that, I just wanted to keep him there forever. “I love your hard dick in me so much! Ohhh God, I'll always be your dirty little slut! Keep fucking me!”

Like that.

Which I guess my mother didn't appreciate one bit when she heard it.

“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, but at my father. “Stop! You sick bastard, stop fucking your own daughter!”