I'd installed a journal application which tracked exactly when someone used the PC, and which folders and applications they opened. At 3:15 p.m. this afternoon, my wife and I had each been at work, and besides, my wife, Wendy's mom, was completely computer illiterate. That meant that the only other member of our household, fifteen-year-old Wendy, must have been the culprit.

I'd suspected that something was amiss over the last several days - that's why I'd acquired the tracking tool. Items on my desk had been slightly out of place, my recent documents listing had been oddly purged, and even, somehow, the essence of my delectable stepdaughter had been evident in my private office. I'd been pretty sure that Wendy had been poking around even before proving it, and it seemed clear that curiosity must have been her motive -- she had her own computer for her email and homework needs.

So, if the cute little freshman had been searching on her stepfather's computer, what had she found?

Since you are reading my tale, you probably found it in some unsavory corner of the Internet. Therefore, I am sure you can imagine the sort of things one might find on my hard drive. The journal file looked like a laundry list of items I wouldn't want my boss, my pastor, or my wife to ever see. If you're anything like me, my directories will probably sound very familiar.

The journal chronicled an excursion through my extensive porn image and erotic fiction collection. She'd opened files in my "stories/bondage," my "pix/big boobs" and my "mpegs/facial" folders, just to name a few. She'd visited at least twenty more subdirectories, and the file lists indicated that she'd clearly not bailed out with a 'yuck" upon seeing the first image for what it was. It looked like she'd given many folders an extensive perusal. Was that eau-de-poontang I sensed lingering in the air?

The time signatures also told me something about the story files. Clearly she hadn't merely opened them - five minutes with that short one, twenty with that longer one bore witness to the fact that my young cheerleader charge had read the stories through, and quite avidly no doubt.

Near the end of the journal listing was evidence both frightening and inspiring. She had spent a great deal of time and energy working her way through two of my favorite folders: "pix/young/schoolgirls," and "stories/incest/daddy-daughter."

Frightening because, as the folder names suggest, they bore evidence of my particular fantasies and predilections. The image folder was chock full of girls Wendy's own age, or younger (or at least they looked young) in school uniforms, bikinis, or white cotton undies. Many models were topless, displaying perky little muffin titties just like the ones I knew Wendy's T-shirts hid. Some pictures showed pert little bare rumps, not unlike the sweet bubble butt Wendy's bikini bottom barely concealed. And a few jpegs tastefully provided peeks at adolescent pudenda, ranging from the hairless to those sparsely adorned with juvenile bush, a spectrum within which I was certain Wendy's own schoolgirl crotch must fall. Yes, if Wendy had any brains at all, and I knew she did, she hardly help but conclude that my collection of girls her own age might suggest an attraction to herself as well......(cont)