Virginia K. G. Ryder

Little Emily's Family Depravity


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.


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.

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