A bootylicious Latina ... who is married to Daddy??

Lights flash. Images, moving too fast to discern individual frames, flit past your eyes. Pictures of a city you don’t recognize. A house in the suburbs. Skin-on-skin … people fucking … someone mowing a lawn … an office … a church … a blowjob.

My name is Isabel.

“My name is Isabel,” you mumble, having been told to repeat what it tells you.

I obey him. A picture of a hot guy–kind of a hotter version of your father.

“I obey him.”

He is my husband. He will take care of me.

“He is my husband. He will take care of me.”

I am a good wife.

“I am a good wife.”

This goes on for hours. Then you wake up.

Your eyes flit open, taking a moment to adjust to the lights in the room. You sit up. Everything feels … different.

The woman staring back at you from the mirror is … you. A name comes to mind and sends a chill down your spine: Isabel. That’s you–isn’t it?

You slide off the bed, your voluptuous body jiggling. You exchange your hospital gown for a set of clothes left for you: a lacey black thong, heels, matching bra that admirably contains and supports your tits, and a tight sheath dress in navy blue. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any makeup or haircare products around. You’ll have to make do with the natural look for now.

The door opens. “Oh good, you’re already dressed,” the orderly says. He escorts you into a common area. You’re the first of your family there, but soon you’re joined by the others.

A tall, well-built man walks in, and you spot your husband. His hair is closely-cropped, his beard trimmed into a neat goatee. You rush over to embrace him, then the two of you take a step back, looking at each other’s altered bodies. Then you step back, a memory intruding: this is your father!

“David and Isabel Murrow,” the orderly says, checking some information on his clipboard.

“No, no, no, there must be some mistake,” David says. His voice sounds the same as it always has. And it turns you on a little bit, as it always has since you were 15 or so. “This is my daughter. She can’t be my wife.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s the information I was given. For security reasons, I don’t know your previous identities. But the paperwork and IDs we have here say that you are David Murrow, and she is Isabel Murrow, nee Sanchez, your newlywed wife of three months. You’ll just be returning from a honeymoon when you move into your new house.”

You and David look at each other in shock. Part of you–the part of you that is Isabel, her memories of being Jessica tamped down–wants to believe it. He’s everything you’ve wanted. But a sliver of your former self is still there, railing against the idea of being married to your own father.

Of course, that isn’t the strangest part. Because the people who were formerly your mother and brother are entering now.