Chapter 1: Serendipity

Editing my story was proving to be difficult yet again. Welcome arousal flowed through me like warm heat penetrating a winter-chilled body. I tried to focus on the words and ignore the imagery. Were they spelled correctly? Did they express the emotions inside me?

Like an angel, my daughter watched me with warm amber eyes so full of young love, so full of sweet yearning, the slightest blush on her cheeks revealing a beautifully attractive shyness at being almost naked in front of her father. Her delicate blue bra teased me, the small cups bashfully hiding her blossoming youth from my eyes. Her slender body stretched out on the bed, long, lean, still an adorable adolescent girl, her hips narrow and stark. Blood pulsed in me bringing with it a slight roar in my ears, and my erection, straining inside boxers, felt thicker, so hard it ached. Cute pastel pink panties with white elastic shielded my young girl's pussy from sight, the cotton gathers teasingly hinting at the incredible, sensual shape of her adolescent mons underneath, ripe, succulent, intensely desirable. I had a sudden, desperate urge to kiss my daughter's pussy. With a gentle smile to reassure her, I succumbed to the powerful desire, bending and pressing my lips to soft cotton, her lush pussy yielding. I inhaled and caught the dizzying...

Yeah. Those were the right words. My erection flexed in agreement, boxers damp. The story had the right effect. Tonight I'd read it in bed, lose myself in another of my fantasies, and find sweet release.

After a quick review of the formatting, I opened an FTP client and connected to an online story site. One minute later, the story had been added to my site for others to read, enjoy, or criticize.

The front door slammed shut. With a few fast clicks the FTP client history was cleared and the program closed. The HTML editor was shut down, the browser was closed, and, with a few keystrokes, my private folder was once again safely hidden behind unbreakable 256 bit AES encryption.

"I'm home, Dad!"

"How was it?" I yelled.

"Fine," Sasha said casually in a more normal voice, strolling into the study and around my desk.

Turning my face, Sasha leaned over from beside me and kissed my cheek.

"No hug?" I asked.

"I'm all sweaty. I'm gonna shower," she announced.

"What do you want for dinner?" I called out, my nose full of her scent; lemony with a hint of pear and an enticing trace of exertion lingering from her dance class.

"Anything you want," she announced, gracefully ascending the glass and metal staircase to the second floor of our condo; one of eight expansive apartments created by an old four-story garment factory conversion with retail space at street level.

Glancing out through the large multi-paned study windows I checked the weather. Darkness had fallen. A cold autumn wind gusted. Rain sprinkled on the windowpanes. It made me shiver. I loved living in New York except for cold autumn weather. It made the city appear dreary at twilight before lights were turned on and the magic of the night city emerged; alive, bustling, its energetic frenzy adding excitement.

A few clicks of the mouse and the draft of my latest novel opened. I tried to concentrate. Chapter twenty-four. I couldn't. My mind was back on my other story, the illicit, erotic one I'd uploaded. Like every other time I'd completed one, I knew my legitimate writing was finished for the night.

Opening the anonymous TOR browser, I navigated to ASSTR.ORG and to my site. Fifty-eight stories were now listed; almost three years of fantasies. I clicked on the latest, Serendipity, the story of a hidden attraction between a father and a daughter, sexual desires held by each but unknown to each other; a journey of sweet discovery, passion, and raw pleasure. A familiar wash of arousal flowed through me. I might be a very successful author with several bestselling novels to my name but my other stories - the illicit stories - satisfied deep desires that had been with me since I became aware of sex.

With a satisfied nod, I closed the Internet browser and stood up, stretching my back. Another glance at the dreary weather outside confirmed we weren't going out for dinner. I'd cook.

Leaving the study, our large open plan apartment greeted me, familiar and comforting; distressed dark brown leather furniture, a flickering gas fire in a freestanding circular iron and stainless steel fireplace, an extensive home entertainment center surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with well-read books. To the right a simple smoked glass and chrome dining table sat near the open plan kitchen. Warm solid wood floors met cool cream-colored terra cotta tiles on the kitchen floor. I was proud of our condo. It represented success, the reward for hours of hard work.

Moving to the fridge, I pulled out a half-consumed bottle of white and filled a wine glass with the light amber wine. With the fridge door open, I took a sip of the dry Robert Mondavi Fumé Blanc and sighed. Perfection. Smokey and light, delicate floral notes, cool and silky. While taking a second sip I studied the contents of the fridge. Ahe tuna steaks. I could blacken them and serve them with a squid ink pasta tossed with a lemon reduction sauce. Maybe add an Asian inspired salad on the side.

Cooking was one of my true pleasures. Writing books took time and effort, the payoff slow in arriving. Cooking provided me with immediate gratification. Besides, I loved food.

Another sip of wine and I got to work.

SASHA WRAPPED AND TIED the huge blue bath towel around her and left the steamy bathroom. Her body ached pleasantly from dance class. She loved the feeling - a sense of achievement, of having stretched herself to do slightly more, be slightly better. Tilting her head she dried her long dark-burgundy hair with vigorous rubs using a second thick towel. Her blood pulsed, bringing a special tingle of excitement. It was Friday.

With mounting anticipation she pulled her iPad from the backpack she'd dropped on the bed and turned it on, opening the Internet browser. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she perched on the edge of the bed and typed an address into the browser. Yes! A new one! Another Renpet story!

Smiling with satisfaction she turned the iPad off. She'd read it tonight in bed when she could enjoy herself. Excitement almost made her body vibrate. Rising, she selected panties, sweats, and a top, her mind drifting. She didn't understand why. She'd never figured it out. But since forever, since first discovering sexual pleasure, she'd had a guilty secret. There'd only been one guy in her dreams, one fantasy sexual partner - Dad.

She didn't understand why she was so attracted to him but she was. She knew how inappropriate it was, but like an addiction to chocolate - something else she had - she was incapable of dismissing it. It was just there. Every romance book she read, every romantic movie she saw, it was always Dad that she pictured instead of the leading man.

She'd never dated anyone, never wanted to. Smiling to herself, carrying her clothes into the bathroom to dress, she thought about Dad trying to probe. She knew he thought she might be a lesbian since she'd never had a boyfriend. It was cute watching him try to be supportive without really saying anything, not wanting to assume or invade her privacy.

Sasha remembered the thrill of finding the online erotic sex story site on the web, and the stories of daddy-daughter incest that excited her so much. And then she'd stumbled upon Renpet's stories. They were so different, so immersive, so loving. She'd immediately sympathized with the girls in his stories and dreamed they were her, so many sounding a lot like her. She'd understood their feelings, the yearning and longing, the desire and erotic excitement for the forbidden. She'd understood how living with someone you wanted was so hard at times yet something you'd never give up. Renpet could get into her mind and manipulate her thoughts, take her away, and let her live her fantasies.

Brushing her now almost dry hair, she pictured Dad leaning over his desk, typing away, a lock of dark brown hair falling over his forehead. She'd studied him when he was writing. He'd get so involved he was oblivious to the world, to the need for food or liquids, or to any distractions except for one. It seemed he was hard-wired to know when she was around. No matter how she tried to sneak up on him or sneak away, he'd notice her. Atom bomb exploding? Nope. Her passing the open door to his study? Yup. Was it a dad thing?

Didn't matter. She loved it. She adored his dark chocolate eyes, and the slow smile that would emerge when he'd look at her would create a vacuum around her making it difficult to breathe. A full on smile from him, the one that exuded pride and love, would magically pluck thoughts out of her mind leaving her speechless and giddy. His perpetually unruly hair made him look younger. She harbored a desire to muss that hair, something she didn't dare do, the gesture too intimate.

Unwrapping the bath towel, Sasha slipped panties on, adjusting the legs with a finger under the elastic and a wiggle. She pulled on a ratty old T-shirt and soft pale pink sweats - her comfy clothes. The hair dryer was loud in the bathroom. Waving it at the mirror, she cleared the mist and studied her face, pleased to see no new acne. With her brush in hand Sasha set about trying to straighten her naturally wavy hair.

I CHECKED THE OIL. It shimmered in the scorching frying pan just a couple of degrees below the smoke point. Purple-red tuna steaks waited, their sides covered in blackening spices. Water boiled vigorously, steam rising, black squid ink pasta cooking. Behind me on the kitchen island that functioned as an eat-on counter and divider to the living room were two place settings and a bowl of buttery soft Boston and crispy iceberg lettuce waiting for the Dijon rice wine vinaigrette dressing, just a couple of drops of toasted sesame oil adding an exotic Asian flavor.

I drained the last of the white wine and went to the fridge to get a refill. Out of the corner of my eye Sasha emerged and descended the staircase.

Tuna steaks hit the frying pan with a loud sizzle, smoke rising as blackening spices were seared. A silent extraction hood drew the smoke away, sending it outside to join the other myriad of aromas that made New York air so distinctive.

"Fish again?" Sasha asked, climbing onto a bar stool at the island counter and setting her ever-present iPhone at her side.

"Yup. Tuna. How was dance class?"

"They're really pushing us," Sasha answered, slipping off the stool to fetch a Diet Pepsi from the fridge.

"Aren't they building up to the auditions for Julliard?"

"That's for the seniors, not us."

"Then why are they pushing you?" I asked.

"Dunno," she answered with a shrug. Her cell rang with the sound of some song. She glanced at the screen and then at me, her eyes questioning.

When I nodded she picked it up and answered. We had several rules in our home, one of which was no calls during meals. Flipping the tuna steaks, another cloud of smoke billowed up, the smell of blackened spice almost acrid. I sipped wine and studied my daughter.

She'd straightened her hair again. Why? She'd inherited my wavy hair and her mother's very dark, rich burgundy color yet she always straightened it. I thought it might be just one of those things; curly-haired girls wanting straight hair, straight-haired girls wanting curls. Personally I liked her waves more than the straight look. It gave her hair thickness and bulk.