Chloe's side of the bed is empty in the morning. I find her in the kitchen, talking curtly on the phone.

"...in the folder marked monthly performance indicators... the excel sheet... no, excel, with an E... for god's sake, you're thinking of clothes again..."

"Hey, babe." I kiss her on the cheek but she bats me away.

"If your girlfriend is going to be staying with us, she can at least learn to reset the autocloset after use," she says acidly, her commanding tone beneath the sweetly feminine voice like steel wrapped in silk.

"Dad?!" I groan. "She did it again, didn't she."

He nods. "And it wasn't your mother whop was the unlucky one to follow her in the closet this time. Not exactly the work attire I expected it to dress me in this morning," he says with a gesture at his resplendent, 22-year old body.

I point at the phone. "So that means she's-?"

"- Mr Frank Mitchell, team leader at Anetly Plastics. So she's your father, at least until my body heals enough to use the autocloset again. I'm talking her through the staff appraisals." He turns back to the call. "Look, it's not complicated, you silly girl, just fire a third of them... No, I don't care which, just put the fear of god into them."

Lithely perched on the stool, wearing nothing but a pair of his thick spectacles (I guess the autocloset left the eyes untouched) he seems remarkably comfortably in her young body.

"So why are you naked?"

He hangs up the call with a jab of one perfectly manicured nail. He smiles at me, spreading his legs to expose his perfect pussy.

"I just thought you might want to eat breakfast when you woke up," he grins.