Brain Transplant

*Author's Note*

Literotica Edition 2021/11/22

This is an extremely explicit erotic novella written by FrigOfFury. You should not read it if you are not of legal age to read graphic depictions of sex.

Erotic content: Breast expansion, body swap, bimbofication, F/F, futanari, some lactation and pregnancy, public sex

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----Brain Transplant----

-Desperate Measures-

Vat People

In the States, Congress called it the Human Dignity Act, and similar laws around the world had their own names, but most people called them all "vat-person acts" or something similar. I supported them, of course. I didn't think brainless human bodies grown in nutrient vats were people, but I also had a sort of nebulous idea that it set a bad precedent to let corporations to manufacture and sell human bodies. It was a bit academic to me because they were far more expensive than I could afford, and the body I'd been born with wasn't severely disabled or terminally ill.

Even when I got cancer, I still didn't change my mind, because there were plenty of excellent treatments, and they were over 90% effective. But events reminded me that "over 90%" is not "100%", making me fall back to more radical measures, such as lab-grown organs to replace those that would have to be removed because they were riddled with inoperable tumors and I was in the unlucky 6% for whom none of the approved gene-based treatments could target the particular mutations of my cancer.

Almost 2/3rds of those who have to resort to modern replacement organs grown from their own stem cells survive and become cancer free. I was one of those for whom the cancer infiltrated their spinal column before the lab-grown organs were ready. The doctors gave me a few weeks to live, and perhaps days until the tingles I was feeling graduated into ever-growing paralysis.

Then I started rethinking my stance on vat-grown whole bodies, fast. I hadn't had to pay for so much of my first rounds of treatment, but lab-grown organs weren't yet standard-of-care, so I had exhausted much of my savings paying for it. One bright spot, if you could call it that, was that my confirmed terminal diagnosis meant I was allowed to take my life insurance to pay for end of life care.

Maybe, if vat-people had never been invented, I would have just accepted my fate, but they had, and I didn't. I withdrew all the money my policy would allow and added it to the remnants of my life savings, and I got on a one-way flight to Honduras.

Now, growing vat people wasn't any more legal in Honduras than anywhere else, but my hasty research showed that it had the most affordable and competitive black market in the Americas. I knew it was incredibly risky, but it was my last option. I was going to get my brain transplanted into a vat person or die trying.

Luck

After my string of bad luck, I finally had some good luck. Well, it looked like bad luck at first, but as I rapidly learned more about the vat person trade, I learned that just showing up for a last-second transplant usually didn't work.

Ideally, of course, one had a vat body grown from their own genome: that was what the legal corporations had done, and if what I was doing was ever re-legalized, it might allow me to resume my original identity without going to prison. But of course that took far longer than just vat-growing organs. First the body would have to be grown from a blastocyst all the way to puberty - an accelerated process that would nevertheless complete approximately ten months after I was dead - and then complex motions would need to be imprinted on the body's rudimentary nervous system so that I wouldn't have to relearn to walk, talk, hold a spoon, and everything else. When legitimate companies had done this, they imaged the behaviors of the original person to allow those same movements to be trained into the new lower nervous system as it continued growing toward adulthood. Obviously there was no time for that, either.

Accordingly, my only hope was for a body that had already been grown and trained, but then not used by its intended recipient for some reason. Further, it had to have a certain level of genetic similarity to the brain being transplanted. Before the whole technology was banned, people who needed bodies more different than their natal ones got around this limitation through a course of gene therapy to close the gap between their brain's somatic genetics and that of their new bodies, but that took months. Without it, I needed a body with broadly Northern European ancestry like mine. I was just as screwed as ever unless someone had ordered and paid for a body just like that and then not "taken delivery" so to speak.

The other portion of my seeming bad luck is that there had recently been a major crack-down on the vat-person trade and the near-reputable sourcing services were all shut down or laying low. I hired a young lad who claimed to know where there were still some bodies to be had, but I didn't half believe him. Once again, though, it was trust him or accept death, so trust him I did. At least my money would go to a poor Honduran kid than some hospice owner.

I though I was going to die in the dingy warehouse where he took me late in my second night in Honduras. My hand was already going numb, though, so I was mostly hoping that my death didn't involve being raped first. That's why when I saw a strung out man wearing a blood-spattered apron like a butcher, I was flooded with relief.

"Francisco," I addressed the boy in a low tone before going in any further.

"Is okay," he said, thinking I must be frightened by the gore, "He is very great doctor."

I didn't want to take the time to try to correct him, so I just handed him a bundle of cash. "Thank you. I'll give you more if I live."

He looked a little surprised, but stowed the cash deftly. "It is nothing. Everything will be good." He gave me a wink and turned to explain things to the 'doctor' in rapid Spanish. It sounded like a negotiation.

"You pay crypto?" Francisco asked me on the doctor's behalf.

I had thought about using cryptocurrency but when I tried to read up on how make sure I didn't get fleeced, I got uneasy at how much I didn't know about exchanges and ledgers and all that, so I'd reverted to what I knew. "Uh, I have some cash

"How much cash you have?"

"$8000, but I have another $24000 in the bank I can wire here," I promised, hoping that this would be acceptable.

My anxiety grew as I listened to a bit more back-and-forth, then Francisco asked, "Are you sure? That you can get the money. It would be better to die then not get the money."

"What do you mean?" I asked, slightly reassured that I hadn't been turned down, but very uneasy at this allusion to dire consequences.

"These bodies belonged to la mara... some bad people. They not here now because the policia got them, but they... escape?" He shrugged to show this wasn't the right word and continued on as best he could. "They come back, ask the doctor about the bodies. You don't pay the doctor, they think the doctor sell and keep the money. He have to give you to la mara or he die bad. Very bad."

He didn't have to tell me that it would be very bad for me to be given to "la mara" in lieu of payment, but I had only been lying a little bit about the wire transfer. I actually had a bank check made out to cash because I was worried I wouldn't be able to arrange a wire transfer in time, but since anyone could cash it, I didn't want to reveal its existence. "As long as I still have my things, I'll be able to get the money to the doctor," I assured Francisco, and through him, the man who was about to cut off my head.

Waking

There were intensely unpleasant moments in the transplant operation, but almost no actual pain. The worst part was the period of time I spent as a literal brain in a jar, being kept semi-conscious by a fluid cocktail being pumped through my cerebrovascular system in lieu of blood. I can't say much about it because I don't remember the experience directly, only my lingering impression afterward that it had been the most awful experience of my life, like a nightmare forgotten except for the fear.

It also wasn't great to find myself mostly unable to move for a long period. On the other hand, I did retain enough wits to know that the breathing I could feel but not control meant I was still alive: a very promising sign.

I got control of my eyes first, though there was a delay before I could open an eyelid enough to do more than enjoy the sensation of having any motor control whatsoever. This allowed me to view my headless (former) body, sitting on a metal table that had been uncomfortable for the twenty or so seconds I could remember laying on it. Beyond it the doctor stood smoking a cigarette and messaging someone on his phone.

"Hhhh" I breathed as loudly as I could.

"Muy bien!" he exclaimed, putting down both cigarette and phone to come over and inspect me. This took the form of him performing various actions to elicit trained responses from my body, such as tossing a ball to me, making my hand jerk away from the jab of a pin, and a hasty series of similar semi-instinctual movements.

"Cipote!" he called Francisco over, and gave him a rapid series of instructions.

The exact sequence of events after that were a little hazy because my first hour or so of learning to make my new body respond to my commands somehow interfered with my memory, but I can at least infer that I was able to pay them with my cheque, because Francisco got me back to my hotel room in one piece.

He didn't leave after dropping me off, either. At first I think he didn't have any motive except to continue helping me to achieve control over my body, because, though his help naturally meant he had to touch me somewhat intimately and he did get a little flirty, he didn't take advantage. I had the vague idea that my new body was very cute and much younger looking than my old one, so I felt sure he was tempted.

The problem was that my body, trained on the motions of an unknown other person, had its own reflexes. If you can call kissing someone a reflex. Nevertheless, that's what my body did.

I was fortunate that he was a lot more ethical than many grown men would be in his position, because he didn't didn't take my body's behavior completely at face value while I was as of yet unable to speak. When I made my arms stop hugging him to me, he got the idea that maybe something was wrong and backed up enough for me to wordlessly signal that I didn't mean to make out with him. I don't know what he thought had precipitated the episode, but he did apologize profusely before leaving in a hurry.

Exhausted by the incredible events of the day, I decided to go to bed instead of continue wrestling with my body.

Waking up in that body felt incredible. For one thing, I'd slept comfortably through the night for the first time in months. I was ravenously, deliciously hungry, and the taut, painful sensitivity of my former body was replaced with a soft, pleasant sort of sensuality.

All of this was especially evident to me because I no longer struggled to get my body to respond to my commands. I wanted to get up, so I did, as smoothly as if I'd lived in it my whole life. The doctor and Francisco had stressed to me that I wasn't to look at myself in the mirror or my phone's selfie camera until my body was more integrated, but now I felt completely knit together. I was going to finally get a good look at who I was to become.

-Delighful Measures-

Integration

I was still wearing the outfit that my body had come with, more appropriate to a night on the town than the operating table, but my legs had no trouble walking in the high-heeled booties.

Accordingly I was totally shocked to see an extremely hot blonde looking back at me in the mirror. Her face - now mine - looked very young, no older than Francisco, who probably should have been in secondary school rather than leading Americans to illegal medical procedures. But of course a vat-grown body would look younger than another body of similar physical development, and her - my - figure was definitely that of an adult woman. I placed a hand on my the flared hip accentuated by my clingy dress, feeling how wide my hips had become. I had a slight double-sensation as part of me completely expected the current slope of waist joining to thigh, and another part of me still remembered a bonier hip and straighter waist.

The girl in the mirror definitely looked like she expected to have wide hips and a plump ass, because her - my - walk from bed to mirror had been a practiced strut that showed off both. Now my pose also subtly made the most of my firm new breasts. They were broad but not very deep, and I might have been disappointed in them if they hadn't compared so favorably to the illness-deflated chest I'd just discarded. Besides, on my petite new torso, they didn't come across as flat so much as cute. I wasn't sure how I felt about looking so young, but I definitely felt my look made the most of it. Okay, my dress, makeup and some of the jewelry could be considered a little risqué, but it was all the expertly done work of an adult rather than a teenager still fumbling about.

I had a very slight smirk on my face. Was that a reflection of me enjoying how hot my new body was, or did I just have resting sultry face?

My first words aloud were, "She must have been, like, a model?"

I covered my mouth in shock. My humming the previous night had prepared me for my new voice's pitch, but I hadn't expected that my new body would also have an impact on how I spoke.

"Oh my god, she must have been a bimbo?" I exclaimed, ending on an inquisitive up-note without intending it. The expression on my face was also one of blank surprise, amplified by large eyes, thick lashes, and long acrylic nails.

"Nails, too?" I said, and finally put everything together. She hadn't been a model, or at least, she hadn't only been a model. She'd been some mobster's girlfriend or wife.

Or something less consensual. One of the objections to vat-people was the theoretical ability for companies to create reflexes and physical responses not modeled from the intended recipient. The focus had been on athletic performance, but some had speculated that parents might try to force queer children into bodies that had been programmed 'straight'. This had seemed farfetched, but after my body had impulsively kissed Francisco I feared that it might not be quite as far from reality as I thought.

On the other hand, I was still much more attracted to my body in the mirror than I could recall being to Francisco. Yeah, definitely still more attracted to femmes. Especially ones that looked like sultry little bombshells.

By concentrating on it, I could walk less sensually, but it felt weird and looked inelegant. Damn, I was going to have to be very careful until I got to the safety of the airport; I was sure I looked like a perfect target to sell to a sex trafficker, amongst other things.

"I haven't even looked at my new passport?" I exclaimed to myself, and hurried to where my new identity documents lay atop the chest of drawers. I either hadn't bothered to ask who I would be becoming or had done so during the period I couldn't recall, so I only knew that my new given name was Stacy. Or Staci.

I breathed a sigh of relief to see a blue American passport amongst them. I'd be able to go home. Well, not to my literal home, from which I was due to be evicted in my former life.

"Kimberly Anastacia Mink?" I said, wondering where "Staci" had come from. Oh, from Anastacia.

The picture wasn't perfectly clear, being slightly washed out and crossed by anti-copying security features, but it looked like her - me - but with lots of makeup and somewhat vulgarly overlined lips.

Slotted into the back of the passport was an ID card with a nearly identical photo, as if they had been taken on the same day.

"Huh, nineteen years old, from Malibu, California? Like, a valley girl, I guess?" I asked, laughing at the situation. Giggling, really.

I don't know precisely why that was the moment when I finally accepted at my core that I was not going to die, but my knees buckled and I collapsed to the hotel room's somewhat uneven vinyl flooring and wept with relief. Deep, catching sobs, nose running and tears aplenty. But, a couple minutes into it I wondered what I look like when a mess, and I found myself laughing through the tears at how cute I still looked despite everything. My mascara wasn't even running.

Cleaning up afterwards I thought about the implication of Kimberly Anastacia Mink being an identity created for the new body of a mobster's girlfriend. Or even she was a mobster herself. Or himself. Theirself. Whoever it was, I had no complaints about the looks, though the mannerisms were going to be embarrassing.

Then I recalled the twin dangers of either being outed as the semi-random client of vat-person tech, or of the intended client seeking me out. I needed to get out of the country as fast as I could. There was a 30-day stamp in my passport, starting a fortnight ago, so presumably she had meant to go back to the States after the procedure.

I returned to looking through the paperwork. A lot of it was the sort of stuff I expected: birth certificate, Social Security card, an old fashioned cheque book...

I wondered if I would be able to sign my new name, and so tried writing it. It took me a couple tries to write anything intelligible, but as I let my new reflexes guide my hand, my signature resolved into a perfect match for the loopy, cutesy signature on my ID card, complete with a little heart over the I. Relieved that I'd gotten that far, I tried writing other things, which was almost as difficult at first as writing my name had been, but gradually the bubble-lettered style spread to everything I wrote. It looked ridiculous, but I had to admit that my new handwriting was actually much neater than my old had been.

That led me to read a little paper pamphlet that appeared to have been mostly copied from one of the major vat-person companies back when it had been legal. Or at least, not explicitly illegal. I flipped through to the English portion to skim. Most of what it said wasn't really news to me, though some of the advice had taken on a new meaning now that I had some experience with the process. Especially notable was the section on back-propagation.

Because your new body was trained on the reflexes and habits of your old body, most movements should feel very similar in your new body. However, because the training set can't be fully comprehensive of all life experience, some lesser-used skills and movements may need to be re-learned. Because your motor cortex is included in the transfer, however, you should find this process quick relative to learning anew, but you will still have to practice, and practicing soon after the transplant procedure will be more effective than if you wait. Conversely, if you intentionally excluded unwanted habits, then the longer you resist any urges to repeat them, the easier you will find it to continue resisting. Though the procedure is not intended as a solution to substance abuse or other problem behaviors, it does offer a unique opportunity to discard them permanently.

Another possible source of difference is if you elected to make any additive changes to your new body's training regimen. Examples include inculcating proper exercise form, or movements suitable to a body without the injuries and debilities of the old. In these cases, a phenomenon called backward propagation can actually train your brain to operate in the manner of the new body. For maximum effectiveness, you should strive to practice those new habits without thinking about them too much. Focusing on them too much may cause forward propagation to overwhelm the new body's training and ultimately reproduce the habits of the old body. The larger the difference, the more critical it is to avoid resisting it, especially because resisting or attempting to alter larger differences can result in various coordination problems. See the "indications" section for details.