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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Two Cent Whore
by Peter Pan (uds3@hotmail.com)
***
I should warn that this is a tale steeped in sadness.
It doesn't hurt to be aware that for some young girls,
the path to adulthood was never planned to be one of
easy-going and protective simplicity. (Mg, ped, nc, rp,
inc, v)
***
Author Note: Many readers at another site have
vehemently disliked this story because I believe it
questions and challenges their collective consciences.
That being the case, I am content, because it is
evidence the story STANDS for something and poor little
Emily's experiences weren't ultimately for nothing.
I would be interested to receive any sensible and non-
abusive feedback from guests after they have read this
quite short story. Personally, abuse doesn't bother me.
It is simply that this particular tale I think,
deserves better. Of all the many stories I have
written, THIS one has always meant a great deal to me.
Something impelled me to write it!
***
Emily was just twelve and at an age when most any
little girl has a right to expect to be happy. Fate
however pays little heed to one’s "rights," any more
than it cares about fairness, parental loss or
innocence. It holds all the aces and plays them like a
pro!
Emily’s mother died as she would have wished – saving
her daughter’s life. Being on the crossing just outside
the school gates doesn’t count for much when you’re
talking high-range drink-driving and the man who
carried her mother sixty-three yards down Brooklyn Way,
wedged dying, three quarters through the windscreen,
didn’t count for much either.
Annie Clarke had less than half a second to push her
daughter to safety before the impact. It had been
enough. In as much as she had fallen forwards, Emily
had been spared the sight of her mother’s body being
tossed airborne, driven into and butchered by the
glass...but she heard it! She tried to scream...but no
sound came out.
Medical opinions varied – don’t they always?
Jonathan Clarke sat upright in the ergonomically
designed piece of extruded plastic, masquerading as a
chair. The equally sterile sign on the desk read "Dr
Peter Browning – Speech Pathologist." The man lowered
his glasses.
"You must understand Mr. Clarke, your daughter has been
severely traumatised."
Jonathan had understood that much twenty minutes after
the accident – when he arrived on the scene and his
daughter had been unable to speak to him!
"Well yes doctor, I realise that," he replied, wanting
desperately to snap that fucking sign in pieces and
shove it down the specialist’s coat pocket. How many
years had this guy trained? How many exams? for him to
sit there and tell him his daughter was traumatised?
Jesus Christ!
"But can you give me something a little more concrete
to go on? How long might it be before she can talk
again?" he added.
Dr Browning returned his gaze, seemingly figuring if he
could still make that golfing appointment.
"Well Mr Clarke, all tests show there is no
physiological damage – it’s just a case of Emily
herself coming to terms with this er, incident. Quite
frankly, time is really the best healer."
Jonathan got up. This conversation, like the dozen or
so which preceded it, was going nowhere. "Thank you
doctor," he said unemotively, turning on his heel and
leaving the consulting room to collect Emily from
reception.
People react differently to stress and loss. Some
handle it, some seek to blame others. More than a few
suffer emotional and personality melt-down.
Unfortunately for Emily, Jonathan Clarke fell into the
latter category.
Whilst her schoolwork did not appear to suffer
initially – after all, she could still hear quite
normally and besides long periods of being withdrawn,
she was able to fulfill working tasks set for her. Few
of her circle of friends were prepared to put
themselves out to extend any emotional support and one
by one withdrew into their own little cliques. Emily
became a figure of solitude – that "poor girl who
doesn’t want to talk."
Her father began to drink and in his irrational and
alcohol-fuelled state, he eventually arrived at the
warped conclusion that if Emily had just gotten the
school bus that day, instead of having her mother drive
her – he would still have a wife and female companion.
Emily sensed a change but at twelve could hardly
understand why her father didn’t seem to love her as
much. She felt it was something she must have done but
had no idea what it could be. Whereas once he would
help her with homework – she used to point-out the
items she needed help on, now he stayed away and left
her to her own devices. He rarely even kissed her
goodnight any more. She missed her mother so much she
would cry herself to sleep most nights!
Heading up towards thirteen now, Emily was a most
beautiful child. Although still not yet menstruating,
her body was developing in all the right places. Her
hips had slimmed down and become quite pronounced. Very
finely rounded young breasts that were already well
past the services of a training bra.
Only five-two, she could have passed for sixteen easily
with a little make-up. Shoulder-length light brown hair
complimented an angelic face, home-base to a cute
slightly upturned nose and smooth, flawless high
cheeks. She looked out at her sad and lonely little
world through pretty hazel eyes that if you looked hard
enough, betrayed the pain and anguish of her loss.
What her father was increasingly looking at however was
something quite different. Many months now since the
accident, the enforced role of being a single parent
was not much to his liking. Emily’s rather sudden
transition however, in his eyes at least, from gawky
kid to curvy in-house tease, began to stir a lot more
than simply his memories. All may not be lost, he
reflected. The situation most definitely had
possibilities.
It wasn’t that Emily hadn’t been trying to regain her
speech. Most nights she would sit in her bedroom in
front of the mirror and will her throat to deliver some
sound...any sound. She could sense the presence of a
system inhibitor – the kill-switch was spliced-in
somewhere between her mind and vocal chords. She knew
also that she herself had brought this intolerable
existence into being and that she was the only one that
could deactivate it.
It was the first day of spring. Walking home quickly
from the nearby bus-top, she closed the front door
behind her and headed into the kitchen, to find her
father seated at the table reading the paper. Not only
was he home from work two hours early, he had been
drinking again. She could sense a distinct shift in
their interpersonal wavelengths. The person who turned
to look at her was a complete stranger.
"Have a good day at school Em'ly?" he slurred, "Oh
tha’s right, I forgot, you can’t fucking talk can you?"
He was staring at her, his eyes slowly taking in her
whole uniform and quite obviously, most everything
underneath it. Emily cringed and instinctively brought
her arms up protectively. The schoolbag afforded a
comforting amount of protection. He poured the
remaining contents of the bottle into the small glass.
The only sound in the room momentarily was the ice
clinking briefly against the glass.
"Curious as to why daddy’s home early Emily? Sure y’are
sweetie." He slammed the glass back down on the table.
"Well you’ll be proud of ya dad, see he got his-self a
raise at last." He looked at her almost beseechingly,
"Yeah... a raise alright... right out the fucking
company." He paused for an instant, his eyes filling
with tears. "So, what d’ya think of that sweet Emily? –
your old man got his ass kicked well and good. He just
sat hunched up at the table, an inconsolable pillar of
misery.
"Lost my wife, my job... but hey, I still got a
daughter that can’t talk... shouldn’t complain." His
voice trailed off as he studied her.
"Ya know Emily, you’re one beautiful little girl – so
like your mother, come and sit on my lap – give yer old
dad a cuddle."
She was torn between allegiance to her father and
wariness at his obvious insobriety. She had never seen
him slipping this far down into the ooze and yet the
alarm bells were pealing like the veritable old
clangers at St Martins.
Her love and instinctive trust of her father over-rode
her common sense and putting her school bag on the
table beside the empty bottle, she allowed herself to
be pulled on to his lap. For a while he just sat there
holding her round the waist. Inevitably though, the
immediacy of so arousing a young female body, daughter
or not, tested his resolve to the limit. He allowed a
hand to stray to Emily’s knee, just below the hem of
her school dress. She made as if to dislodge it.
"What the? " he looked up at her. "Can’t even put my
hand on my own daughter’s leg?" She started to get up,
but he pulled her back down.
"You stay put girl," he mumbled. "Day comes I can’t
touch my twelve-year-old daughter’s knee is a frosty
day in Hell." He made a point now of encircling her leg
just below her hemline. "See here kid, I used to have a
wife – remember? You decide you want a lift to school
one morning and suddenly I don’t have no wife, don’t
have no fucking life either!"
He was unmoved by her sudden flood of silent tears and
probably unaware of the cruelty inflicted by such a
devastating statement. All he could see was a red mist.
At its heart was a growing lust – no so much for his
daughter particularly as simply a female body. It had
been so long.
Through the thin school dress, he could feel every
curve of her bottom as she wriggled uncomfortably on
his lap and it had always been just a matter of time
before the blood commenced marshalling its resources at
that critical point between his legs. Emily herself was
only too aware now of her father’s arousal and
struggled to free herself from his grip. The hand on
her leg began to cross the line suddenly from
familiarity to indecency.
She stared in shock and disbelief as his hand rose up
her thigh, dragging the hemline with it. At the point
her little white panties were revealed, she began to
tug violently at his hands. Shaking her head in denial
and with the tears in free-fall she clawed at him as
her mind worked overtime to locate that elusive kill-
switch.
Maybe it was the arousing sight of her knickers
combined with the natural heat from her thighs. Perhaps
simply the fact of having a young girl in so vulnerable
a position on his lap. Whatever the catalyst, her
struggling served only to inflame his desire and
nuzzling her neck as he now was, the sight of her small
but developing breasts heaving just out of sight down
the front of her dress, tipped him over into fully
fledged bad-ass territory.
"What have you got down here then sweetheart?" he
mumbled incoherently, shoving his right hand roughly
down her school dress. She writhed in an agony of
despair, tears blinding her pretty face.
As his fingers pushed roughly beneath the thin bra,
tearing her dress and leaving it gaping, they
encountered a softness that he had never imagined.
Almost with the power to sober him up, he held her
breast within his hand, fondling and rubbing it lewdly.
Blinded with disbelief that this could be happening to
her, she had no recourse left but to continue shaking
her head while trying to break free of his grasp. She
may as well have been trying to escape the embrace of a
polar bear... let alone, one on heat!
"C’mon Emily, quit struggling girl," he railed at her,
"Yer dad just wants to have a little play with your
tits is all. Le’s see if we can get those hot little
nips to stand up for daddy?" As he slurred the words,
his hand cupped both breasts together as with his
middle and index fingers, he began pulling and
manipulating her nipples one after the other.
To her horror, she felt them becoming engorged and
beginning to protrude slightly.
"Now then, that’s a good girl," he muttered, "Jus like
your mum....she loved a good feel-up too." He began to
kiss her neck as she tried to evade his lips. Tiring of
her non-compliance, he slapped her hard across the back
of the head. Emily was stunned momentarily.
"What’s yer fuckin’ problem girl? Yer dad not good
enough for you?" Enraged suddenly he pushed her hard
off his lap on to the floor. He stood over her as she
got to her knees. Her dress having risen up as she
fell, it was now hitched high one side. The sight of
her three-quarters exposed panties only fuelled his
lust.
"Never too late for a spanking kid," he mumbled as he
delivered a hard smack across her rear end. She fell
forward again trying to cover her bottom with her
hands. Dragging Emily to her knees, he pulled her dress
right up and spanked her hard again. He was beginning
to like the sensation. Unable to make a sound or plead
for help, Emily had no option but to take it. A further
four or five spanks left her bottom stinging and her
pride in tatters.
A lull in proceedings gave her false hope that the
worst was over. That is until her father now standing
astride her, bent down, simply encircled her waist and
began fondling and rubbing both breasts with lustful
impatience. Her school dress was ripped open and
glancing downwards she watched with horror as he just
tore the flimsy little bra apart and left her breasts
hanging loose. She could not believe how erect her
little nipples were.
Jonathan got down on his knees behind his daughter,
although all he was seeing right about now was
something that shortly would be the panacea for the
raging fire needing to be quenched within the
turbulence that once passed for a loving parent.
His right hand moved ever backwards, seeking the holy
grail of incestual perversion. As he cupped her entire
vaginal area, for a moment or two he was unable or
unwilling to grasp the full implications of his
degenerate actions. So shocked was Emily, she knelt
there rigid with fear, unable to believe her father was
wreaking this psychological devastation upon her.
As the heat from between the girl’s legs blew his last
few coherent thoughts away, he tore the soft material
aside and began rubbing her slit furiously, it felt so
good, he could almost forget the ruination that was his
life.
In desperation to extricate herself from this untenable
situation, Emily kicked out blindly. Her unexpected
retaliation caught him unawares and as the heel of her
school shoe opened up a three-inch gash in his cheek he
clutched at his face in pain.
Freed momentarily, Emily took the opportunity to
scramble to her feet but seeing his quarry take flight,
Jonathan‘s self-defense mechanisms kicked-in and he
caught her before she could make the safety of the
hallway, maybe even the front-door. With her dress
ripped, her breasts and knickers exposed, she put her
hands up to defend herself. He slapped her hard across
the face and followed this up with a savage and
uncontrolled backhand that staggered her.
"You little cunt Emily," he screamed, hitting her
again. She fell backwards across the edge of the table,
which not being built for encounters such as this,
tipped over, discharging its contents as well as the
tablecloth across the girl’s prostrate body. She lay
there stunned, her back was hurt she knew and she could
feel blood running down her face from where he had
struck her.
Having but the one impulse-rending need now, he knelt
down in front of his distraught daughter and simply
ripped her knickers down. As her pussy was exposed,
framed as it was rather attractively by the dawning of
light brown hair, he unzipped himself with feverish
haste.
"Think you’re too fucking good for your old man huh
Emily?" He splayed her legs roughly as he pulled his
erection out. "Well girl, let me tell ya, you ain’t
nothin’ but a whore – a two cent whore at that. Now
spread those fucking legs and lets have no more of your
crap."
Through a veil of tears she saw him inclined towards
her, erection in hand. She looked around, desperate for
anything to stave off the inevitable. Amongst the folds
of the tablecloth something glittered.
As he gruntingly worked the head between the folds of
her soft labia, Emily’s mind re-played a collage of
those memories so dear to her. Her mother dressing her
for her first day of school. Dad kneeling by her bed
telling her a story. The Christmas she received her
three-wheeler bike. Sitting on the verandah watching
the first snow of the season... just then, she found
the kill-switch!
Even as he pushed hard into her, she screamed out "No
daddy, no," her small hand raised high above his back.
The first thrust didn’t kill him, the second one did!
© Peter_Pan http://www.lulu.com/content/106537
Other Erotic Tales: http://www.lulu.com/content/166938
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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 38