My wife is the coolest woman on this planet.

My daughter is the hottest one.

How else do you describe two women - one who gets her own husband to screw their daughter and the other who lets him? I am Dipak Dorba, and I happen to be thirty-nine years old. My wife, Shanti, is an even thirty-eight, and we have a very lovely daughter Neha who is twenty. Like me, my daughter got married at the age of nineteen, but unlike mine, hers wasn't a love marriage. Besides, my early marriage to Shanti can be attributed to her pregnancy, but Neha's early marriage didn't have that kind of excuse too.

So I guess it is no surprise that barely a couple of years after they got married, Neha packed her suitcase and returned home from the States. Let me defend the arranged marriage system at this point - I have known thousands of other couples who fell in love after their marriage. It just wasn't meant for my daughter though, and the fact that my son-in-law was a practising gay hastened their divorce. Oh, well, other parents must have thought, back to the marriage bureau.

Not us. We decided that at least for now, Neha needed some time alone. We told her we wouldn't rush her, that all she had to do was come home and we would be there for her. So, on a fine May morning, we watched as our darling child came through the door at the local airport. As soon as she saw us, she gave a squeal of delight and ran towards us, almost running over the people on her path. I was the first to reach her and she jumped onto me, hugging me until I felt my neck break in a couple of places. "Daddy," she almost shouted in my ear as she kissed my cheek. For some reason, I turned my neck at the same time and her kiss ended up on my lips.

The contact, made innocently enough, should have been quickly forgotten, but neither of us were that innocent! She shut her eyes and let her lips linger there for a moment, and I for my part, did everything I could to make her feel welcome. My tongue peeked out and I guess, by way of introducton, touched the tip of her 'organ.' Her eyes sprang open, and for the briefest of time, I could see into their depths. They were burning with lust, or at least I thought they were. Before further retrospection could be made, however, my wife was alongside us and I graciously let go of my daughter. The two hugged like they hadn't met in years, and started to talk at a mile a minute. I smiled. Things were getting back to normal. So was my crotch.

For a month, nothing happened, and I had already convinced myself that the 'kiss' had been nothing but a mistake, something that arose to disguise the awkwardness that we would have felt otherwise, for we were seeing each other after a long time. Besides, there had been plenty of opportune moments that either of us could have taken advantage of but didn't. Incest was the farthest thing from my mind.

Even when Neha dropped her bombshell - I had asked her whether she wanted to go in for higher studies, and she had replied that she wanted to have a baby of her own - I had never thought of her as sexy. She was my daughter, so she was beautiful, but I wouldn't go so far as to admit that she was sexy. Oh no, I wasn't going to make that mistake. I just figured that she had some ex-boyfriend in mind whom she wanted to reestablish contact with, and then have his baby. I couldn't have been more wrong.

After a fortune in share markets, I was now living my dream - of being a freelance journalist. While other 'colleagues' were out in the thick of the battle, I roamed the less offensive fields of art. My speaciality was paintings, and pretty soon, all I had to do was type my name at the end of anything and the newspapers would publish it. To me, they were - are - insensitive buffoons, who are guilty of every hypocrisy that they condemn in others (can you believe the balls of the media guy who hired prostitutes to entrap some middlemen - he defended it as part of the investigative process!) I had a flat in the city, a country-club membership, a car and a computer, and let me tell you, for a guy who's got his only child married off, it doesn't get much better. At least, I didn't think so.

So here I was, living my own life with the one woman I cared enough to share it with, when all of a sudden, things start spinning out like crazy. It began innocently enough - my daughter wanted to buy a flat of her own, with her own 'severance pay', as she called it, and since her mother couldn't come, we decided to go about it alone. The decision was quick, sudden, and an hour later, my daughter and I were ready to hit the market.

It was the time of the real estate boom, and my daughter and I had a lot of potential sites to choose from. The waterfront seemed like a good choice, but since neither of us had a lottery ticket, we decided that it would be good only for window-shopping. Another was near the heart of the city, but as Neha pointed out, too noisy for anybody's comfort. I was seriously beginning to doubt that she was planning to move in with someone, when she turned to me and asked me to consider this as seriously as if I were choosing an apartment for myself. I guess she mentioned something about this being pretty close to the truth, but by then, she had already herded me off to another venture.

For a couple of days, we just popped in and out of apartment houses. Neither of us had found anything even worth discussing, when an offer caught my eye. It was for a penthouse on the outskirts of the city. The location seemed right, so we decided to pay a visit. With our luck, I mused, the sale would have been made already.

"Welcome, Sir, you must be Mr.Dorba. How do you do?" greeted the old man warmly. "And this must be the lovely Mrs.Dorba." Ah, the common mistake. We were used to it, though, for in the past two days, over two dozen people had made that mistake. I was tired of correcting them everytime and decided to leave this chance to my daughter.

Surprise!

Neha just moved closer to me. I was waiting for her to point out his error, but with such an action notforthwithcoming, I started to open my mouth. "Actually," I began, "We are -" With an elbow to my rib, my daughter had effectively put a full-stop on my punch line. I shot her a dirty look, but the little devil just smiled at me. Fine, I thought, two can play at this game. She was wearing a Sari (a type of Indian dress) and her midriff was bare, only a small part of it covered by the cloth of her sari. I reached around her waist and pulled the cloth over her flat stomach, and with the slightest trepidation, pinched her lightly on her skin. She damned near jumped into the ceiling.

The man looked at us when she jerked, but she managed to regain her composure just as quickly. "It was nothing," she muttered to no one in particular, "I just tripped." As I grinned at her, she threw a light punch on my cheek, immediately following it up with a peck. I was pleasantly surprised at the touch of her lips, and even more at the cheekiness with which she gave it. Suddenly, I was full of love for my little girl again.

The apartment was excellent and within half an hour, I had already written out the advance amount. I had insisted on that - after all, it wouldn't have been very gentlemanly to let my 'wife' pay for it. She sat by my side as we worked out the details, and by the time we had finished, she could barely contain her excitement. We would - or rather, she would - be completely owning of this place by the next week, and I could see that she was really very pleased.

That night, after dinner, Neha recounted with pride how I had clinched the deal with 'finesse', as she put it. I watched with amusement as Neha imitated me and the manager in turn, but turned a tad red when she mentioned the part about the misunderstanding regarding our relationship. "Great," my wife said, rolling her eyes up in mock-disgust, "Now the next time he sees me, he's going to wonder how I have aged so fast!" Neha and I laughed at her expression. As I looked over at my daughter, I suddenly noticed how beautiful she looked when she laughed...

At an auspicious time the next Sunday, the three of us stepped into Neha's new palace. The place needed a fresh coat of paint, though, except for the bath and the master bedroom - these had been deliciously wall-papered. Having nothing else to do, I volunteered to paint the whole place, and I remember my wife making a crack about how I was going back to painting again, but of a different kind. Neha wanted to be my helper, but my wife, who is chronically allergic to fresh paint, wanted to stay away. "You two can brush all you want," she quipped, "But I'ld rather brush my teeth." That very same day, Neha and I went out and bought the necessary paraphernalia. Time to paint the hall red, I thought, as I dipped my wand (my, you people have a dirty imagination!) into the bucket of paint.

Neha and I would arrive at the flat by ten, change into our workclothes and then start painting. We had already moved a double-bed in, and were intending to transfer her wardrobe soon. My 'artist's clothes' consisted of a worn jeans and a torn shirt, and Neha, taking after her dear old Dad, would wear a similar attire. After washing up - the bath had a very enviable shower - we would go home.

On this particular night, though, my wife was out of station. Being a little behind our plan, Neha and I decided to spend the night at her place and catch up on lost time. But how long can a person stare into a bucket of paint and not get nauseous? Finally, barely ten minutes after when we would usually finish, I put down my pail. "Man," I groaned, stretching my back, "I think I deserve a vacation."

"Sorry, Dad," my daughter said. Seeing her sweet smile, I felt suddenly reenergised - or was it something else? As I picked up the bucket of paint, my daughter came walking over to me. "Put that down," she said, "I think we've had enough work for a day." Gratefully, I put it down and went over to sit on the plush sofa. I made a big production of arranging the cushions, then laid down on it. I surveyed our handiwork - only the outside wall remained. The apartment was fully furnished on the inside, though, and had a small floor over it. That was still unpainted - I figured that I would leave her something to get done when she finally met her man. As soon as I thought that, I realized with a twinge of guilt that I wished it did not happen, and the two of us could always spend time together like this. Somehow, though, I forgot my wife.

"Move over, lazybones," my daughter commanded, "This old woman needs some rest."

I guess the paint had made us lightheaded, so I replied, "With your body, you sure don't look old, honey!" Even before shock registered on her face, I was kicking myself in the groin. What an appropriate remark for a father, wasn't it? But before I could find a suitable apology, my daughter was lying on top of me. Her lips were dangerously close to mine, so I didn't trust myself enough to put my arms around her. "Guess you have looked at me good, right father?" she asked in a husky voice.

I guess I shoulda bolted, but I was frozen in place. My mouth opened but no words came - and she took that as a cue for a kiss. She leaned in, and almost fell of me. My paternal instincts took over for the barest of a second and I caught her before she fell down. Her lips closed in on mine, and I have to admit, I heave never tasted softer lips. Her tongue rolled out a red carpet for mine. I have always been taught ot be gracious to invitations, and I wasn't about to be a bad boy now. At least, my tongue wasn't. Torturously, the two taste sensors danced with each other, almost... savouring each other. I could taste her mouth-freshner, and I bet she could taste mine. If you ask me, I would say hers was even sweeter, even though we use the same brand.