Brain Transplant

I also wasn't sure what I wanted the truth to be. On one hand, I liked the look of the bigger breasts, and even my occasional swollen lips were kind of sexy as long as I kept them from getting chapped, but on the other, I was worried that it meant there was something wrong with my body. After all, I'd gotten it in a dodgy warehouse operation performed by a chain-smoking surgeon in debt to the mafia.

Given that I would otherwise already have died an agonizing death, however, I was determined to enjoy what time I had. I suppose you could say I was even a bit reckless, though probably no more so than any college-age girl exploring her sexuality. In my case, this translated into such adventures as skinny dipping in the ocean with a bunch of drunken sorority girls, and, separately, having sex with a boy for the first time.

Living as a hot young woman was diverting, but once the novelty started to wear off I didn't feel very interested in repeating most of those experiences. I felt bad about turning down the many invitations I got from my new friends, but they were at a time of their lives when new acquaintances came and went quickly, so when I put them off, they mostly let it go easily. The boy I fucked was visiting from someplace in the midwest, so I didn't have to worry about him, either. That was especially good because I didn't want to have to tell him that he was very bad in bed. Which he was, though I didn't blame him too much; I reckoned he hadn't had much previous experience.

I did find a few girls I fancied, but for some reason I felt weird about trying to date anyone Staci's age. My body looked young, and my affect was that of a naïve party girl, but my mind remained stubbornly that of a middle-aged adult, scarred by a quasi-fatal encounter with cancer. I wanted something different and more substantial, to get started on the rest of my life.

Yet, whenever I thought about this, I was blocked by the many uncertainties facing me, chief amongst them the possibility of rekindling suspicion amongst the investigators who still expected me to remain at their convenience, and who occasionally still asked about what I remembered.

Another uncertainty arrived with the third month, when my belief that the changes would slow down and stop soon enough was severely challenged. Once again my breasts got about a cup and a half bigger, then shrank by about half a cup during and immediately after my period, leaving me with an all new set of bras to handle Ds and double-Ds. My nails were looking sort of wavy and my sex drive surged stronger than ever. How long would this weird sort of puberty continue? I quit the surf shop job to avoid questions I couldn't answer, and though I was able to simultaneously replace that income and indulge my heightened libido by opening up a SuperFans account and gyrating for the Internet, I otherwise became a bit of a recluse. If someone asked the wrong questions about why my body was changing, it might lead to my exposure and imprisonment.

In a way, though, I felt like I was already in a prison of my own making.

-Breakout-

Discovery

As trapped as I felt, though, the more concrete signs of legal peril continue to recede.

During an interview conducted via video call, I asked if I was still prohibited from selling my house or leaving the state without permission, and the investigator seemed to be unaware that any such prohibition existed. After some checking around, she discovered that some of my documentation had not been transferred between agencies and so the court orders had all expired months ago without anyone knowing to take action.

My by then F-cup chest couldn't breathe a sigh of relief right away because she said she had to check to see if they needed to reinstate the order, but then I got a text the next day saying that I was free to do whatever I wanted as long as they retained my contact information.

After that, of course I decided to investigate moving someplace else, for a variety of reasons, ranging from wanting to get away from anyone who had known small-boobed, thin-lipped Staci, to my desire to make the remote chance of someone from Almacén de Acero showing up on my doorstep even more remote. Because Staci had no credit history, unimpressive earnings history, and no obvious career prospects, I would have to sell the bungalow before buying anything else, and I didn't think I could rent a place with no credit history while I was between houses, either. So, I decided I would have to find a house being sold by someone willing to wait for the bungalow to sell to get their money.

That resulted in a trip to Oregon to inspect a house in Portland, and also an opportunity to go to a clinic across the state border in Vancouver Washington. I reckoned that this would minimize the chance of an overly perceptive doctor successfully bringing any suspicions to the attention of relevant officials.

"When did you get the implants?" he asked, examining my swollen upper lip through a sort of magnifying glass.

"Pardon?"

"You got pseudocartilaginous orolabial implants, correct?" he said, as if this was well established.

"Uh. I'm not sure what I got," I said as stupidly as possible.

"But you got implants, correct?"

"Um, they did something to my lips like, five months ago."

"And what did they say when you asked them about the tenderness?" he asked.

"I haven't asked them. They're kinda hard to get in touch with."

"Where did you get the procedure? Was it in the United States?" he asked with a sigh.

"No," I admitted.

He nodded as if he'd surmised as much, and gave me a short lecture on how you get what you pay for and how seemingly inexpensive cosmetic surgery by foreign doctors of unknown skill and respectability could end up much more expensive in the end.

"I really think you need to go to a specialist no matter what. For now I can do some X-rays to make sure the implant hasn't shifted dangerously. It's not too likely, but if it has, you'll want to go to the ER before things really go wrong."

That didn't seem very likely to expose me, and the clinic's prices were surprisingly reasonable, so I agreed to it.

When he brought up the images, he looked confused, then concerned. "Where did you say you got this done?"

"Did I say?" I said, confused.

"Maybe you didn't," he said absently, studying the image, then bringing up some others to compare them with. "Does 'Nutrastem' sound familiar?"

"Um, maybe?" I said noncommittally. I had noticed the capitalized word in the handwritten Spanish portion of the instructions I'd been given in Honduras, but it hadn't meant anything to me at the time.

"I think you were given an old Nutrastem implant. They were originally developed for use with vitrosomatic clones, what they call vat-people. After those were outlawed, unscrupulous clinics tried using them on people directly, but they can't be safely used that way. They cause serious complications, including inflammation, serious disfigurement and even cancer."

My eyes widened in fear, and he nodded, satisfied that he'd gotten through to me. "I'm not completely sure I'm correct about this. In their original usage, they were removed after anywhere from three weeks to three months depending on the desired effect strength, and clinics that used them on regular people remove them after even less time in an attempt to avoid really serious reactions. If you've had Nutrastem implants for five months and all you've got so far is inflammation, then either you're incredibly lucky, or I'm just mistaken. Either is possible. Not everyone has such terrible reactions, just the overwhelming majority. And also, your x-rays don't look completely typical. I think this is because you've metabolized a lot of the implants by now, but it could be that it's some other implant that just looks like a partly-metabolized Nutrastem implant."

"So can you take it out?" I asked, hoping that I could get the incriminating thing out of me there and then.

"Oh no!" he said quickly, before correcting himself. "I mean, it would probably be a very simple procedure to remove the implants, but I think it would be very inadvisable."

"Why?"

"Given that your symptoms so far are relatively minor, I don't want to disturb the capsule around the implant, which would give the altered cells another bump that could provoke an autoimmune reaction or,"

"Altered cells?" I interrupted him.

"Yes, the implants alter the cells as they metabolize the matrix and..." he seemed to realize that I wouldn't be able to follow him and changed his conclusion to, "The reason why those implants are so dangerous is that they try to sort of reprogram some of the cells in your body. Sometimes they don't get reprogramed properly and turn cancerous, and other times your body thinks they've gone cancerous and tries to kill them. Neither is good. The first can kill you and the latter can cause serious disfigurement. You absolutely need to go to a specialist to look into this. You might be one of the lucky ones, but you can't count on it."

Something seemed to occur to him, and he asked, "Can I see your driver's license?"

"I don't have one," I said, worried that he had somehow found me out.

"Or your ID card. Whatever you presented at the front desk."

"Oh," I said, and, being unable to think of another dodge that wouldn't raise more suspicion, I showed it to him.

He looked back and forth between my lips and those on my ID. "Hmm, your lips actually haven't gotten that much bigger. You know, maybe this is a false alarm after all. I'm starting to lean toward the hypothesis that it's an implant that looks like a Nutrastem, but is actually something else. It could even be a counterfeit, which in this case might have saved your life." He nodded as if this made much more sense, and I felt as relieved as he seemed to think I should, though for almost the opposite reasons.

"You should definitely still see a specialist, though. Even regular inflammation needs to be managed, probably through removal of the implant. They'll know better than I do."

I was definitely not going to see a specialist. I was just going to let my body finish up metabolizing the implant until hopefully there was nothing left. He said it was already pretty much gone, right? Nothing bad was going to happen except getting bigger lips and, after my research on Nutrastem implants led me to conclude that they were also the reason for my growing breasts, bigger boobs. I had successfully determined that I would just need to wait it out for a few more months and then I could start a more or less regular life.

Riding It Out

The rest of my trip was also successful. I charmed a fellow who believed I was simply stupid rather than a scammer or desperate, and once I retained a local realtor to handle the purchase I managed to get a deal signed in which I paid more than the house was really worth, but otherwise avoided exposing my vulnerabilities. It was a nice house, too; a bit dated but large and in excellent shape. I put the new Oregon realtor in touch with the my California realtor who was selling the bungalow, and they got to work.

Perhaps because they both thought I was a charming idiot, they didn't follow my instructions to discard all the furnishings at the bungalow. They arrived the same day as my new appliances were being installed, which my Oregon realtor was kind enough to facilitate when I claimed that I had a unspecified emergency that would call me away for the day. I thus achieved my goal of avoiding being chatted up by the installers, at the cost of returning to a bedroom once again dominated by the ridiculous sex bed and surrounded by mirrored walls.

My realtor never said a word, and perhaps she hadn't even known of it, because she had only been out front for part of the time rather than closely supervising, but it was also possible that she had known, and had deduced that I was embarrassed.

Which I was, obviously, though my predominant sensation was of exasperated inconvenience. It would be a lot of work and another round of embarrassment to get it all removed. I decided not to bother, as the deed was done and it wasn't as if the bed was uncomfortable or anything. It was just not something I'd want to have to explain to anyone I brought into my bedroom. And because that wouldn't happen until the ongoing changes ran their course, I could afford to procrastinate.

There was one final consideration that I had a little more trouble admitting to myself, which was that I had grown to really like the bed, and the mirrors, and watching as I got myself off with my toy collection. Not only that, but it gave me psychological permission to resume my erotic streaming rather than finally starting on the work I'd need to do in order to get back into my respectable and well-paid profession from my former life. I had daydreamed about how much further I would go, starting so apparently young but with almost two decades of experience secretly under my belt, but the longer I waited, the less of a head start I would get, and the more out of date my experience would be.

But being praised and paid for basically masturbating on camera was really easy, and I could do it even when I was depressed, which I sort of was. You may wonder why I was depressed, but after the initial euphoria of beating death and the excitement of my initial weeks exploring my new life, I'd then felt forced to set it all aside and wait, and not even make any friends to whom I'd have to tell dubious and implausible lies. Even the tremendous boosts of both being able to move away and knowing that my changes would end somewhat soon gave way to the uncertainties of how much longer I would have to wait, and what I would look like once it was over.

Because my changes did keep going. It was relatively easy to disguise my G cups under jackets and minimizing tops, but what if they grow for two more monthly cycles? Or three? Surely it wouldn't go longer than that, but J cups sounded unreal, and the examples I saw online were all on big-bust porn stars, not regular people. I definitely masturbated to the fantasy of getting that big, but I felt sure that fantasy becoming reality would present J-cup-sized challenges to me achieving my more practical professional fantasies.

My lips presented their own worry. I was definitely beginning to strain at the boundaries of what was natural, and I was sure many people who saw my face suspected I was getting injections or something. Still, plumper lips were fashionable enough that I could carry them off as long as I didn't have an extreme presentation in other ways. If they kept getting fatter and more taut, though, it wouldn't matter what else I did; as soon as anyone looked at my face they'd immediately take me for some kind of plastic bimbo.

And it was already a struggle to keep my presentation in check. There were a few other more minor alterations that likely traced to Nutrastem implants, but nothing too obvious. The bigger problem was that after half a year leaning into Staci's habits and mannerisms, they had become quite deeply ingrained. Really, I had almost stopped noticing how vulgar and ridiculous I was because there was no one else to see how I looked at home, unless I was streaming to patrons in which case I exaggerated rather than minimized Staci's mannerisms. After arriving in Portland I started wearing coats and so on, but I couldn't hide that I was wearing high heeled boots, and if I lost my focus during an outing, I'd resume strutting like Staci as well, which all the winter coats in the world couldn't fully disguise.

All of which meant I mostly remained in my home, getting delivery, and fucking myself for patrons as I waited for my illegal body to finish metabolizing my illegal implants.

Rediscovery

In time, the depression lifted. Not because by body stopped changing, which it didn't. Not because I finally got to working on my certifications and portfolio. And not because I had found a way to go out without looking like Barbie's cousin in porn.

It was because of the opposite of all that. By the time I was fitting into 28J bras special-ordered from Britain, my lips had surpassed anything a regular celebrity might dare have done and moved solidly into erotic model territory. No one was going to think for a second that my lips were natural, but paired with my huge boobs, the obvious answer would not be that I was in a vat-grown body, it would be that I was, in fact, a professional erotic model or something similar. Also, though the jump in weight from J cup to K cup was significant, it was much less visually obvious than growth had been when my breasts had been surging through the sort of sizes one might see at a Victoria's Secret.

Spelling it out, I gave up on the set of fantasies I thought I wanted most and let myself have the other sort of fantasy, in which I could enjoy thinking that my lips had gotten so pump and taut that they didn't easily close properly any more. The dumb-looking bimbo in the mirror was perfect for this other profession, and I was making good money without having to learn the business of fucking strangers or anything like that. I didn't even have to reveal my entire face.

I still wasn't ready to start dating seriously because a sexual partner would get close enough for long enough to notice the various odd things about me and possibly reach a dangerous surmise. But it couldn't be too much longer, I was sure. My lips mostly stopped growing the month after I came to my liberating abandonment of old ambitions, and I reasoned that my breasts wouldn't be far behind.

With mixed trepidation and hope, I ordered a 28L bra from one of the very few companies that made that size, and thought that I was receiving this delivery when I opened the door to Biana Caballo, Vicente Caballo's sister.

Now, I didn't know right away that what who I was looking at, but I thought right away that she was a gangster. She was just so incredibly confident, menacing, and assertive as she pushed past me into the house. "Dígame," she commanded.

I could tell it was a command by the tone of her voice, but I didn't know what command it was, so I just raised my hands. She wasn't holding a gun on me or anything, but the way she was standing allowed the grip of a pistol to peek out from underneath her blazer.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish," I apologized.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around. "You live here alone?"

"Yes?" I answered without lowering my hands.

"Who are you? And don't lie to me or I will literally kill you," she said with a little smile. I didn't know if it was meant to be reassuring or intimidating, but if the latter it was definitely working.

"I'm Kimberly Anastacia Mink," I said, which had long ago stopped feeling like a lie in any way.

"Obviously I already know that part. Who were you before?"

"I don't remember," I said, deciding to stick to the story I'd told investigators, and which I had such extensive practical experience pretending was true that it may as well have been true. Especially since I'd given up on my old profession, my links to my former life had grown legitimately tenuous.

She stared into my eyes for a moment, then down at my lips, and further down from there. "Wow, you really went all out. Or did he... I guess you wouldn't know that part. But you do know that you have Nutrastem implants, right?"

"Yeah, I do," I admitted.

For some reason she let out a short bark of laughter. "Vic would have shit himself to see you. Are you single?"

I blushed deeply, even though I couldn't imagine she was propositioning me. But a very real part of me was hoping she was, because she was gorgeous. Broad shoulders, trim waist, and powerful thighs, all kept feminine by the spread of her hips and the swell of her chest. Her hair was partly obscured by the baseball cap she wore, but I got an impression of glossy caramel curls from what I could see of her businesslike ponytail. And her face... She reminded me of a tigress: noble, powerful, beautiful, sculpted, and iconic. Also, it looked like the face of a woman who might devour me, and I would let her.