Brain Transplant

"We did not find any signs of any implants or other sorts of interventions in her brain stem or cerebrum. The interface is, well, complex, as you would expect of someone who has been through this sort of radical transplant. I don't see any signs that are clear examples of attempts to reduce cognitive function, and indeed she appears to me to be very well integrated. I do not think there is any physical reason she couldn't retain complete cognitive function."

"What does that mean?" the less-patient investigator asked.

"Just that no one has operated on her to cause any cognitive deficits. However, her hormone levels are off the charts. I would not be surprised to find she has an elevated libido."

I couldn't help but laugh at that understatement, but fortunately I wasn't the only one, so I could play it off as laughing because everyone else was.

"My biggest concern is actually that lingering auxomastic implant. She already has borderline hypertrophic mammary glands. They don't appear that large because the overall breast size is so big, but I think the interactions between placental lactogen, existing active tissue, and auxomastic implants may have impaired the tissue's ability to inactivate. I also suspect the implant is part of why her mammary glands are already so big. They may allow for another round of hyperplasia, and, given her overall hormone levels, she may have difficulty ending lactation without medical intervention."

"So she'll just keep making milk forever?" the man asked, fascinated.

"That's okay! I like it!" I said, bouncing my milk factories a little.

"This pregnancy may dramatically increase your production further," the doctor warned, but I just shrugged. Once she could drag her eyes from the resulting surge of my breasts, she continued, "Otherwise I don't see specific signs for concern, nor could I support any sort of involuntary intervention."

The investigators sighed, but didn't try again.

I decided not to share the results of my exam with Biana because I didn't want to worry her, and also because I thought it might make a nice surprise if the doctor turned out to be right.

The doctor was not wrong. At all. It wasn't so obvious over my increasingly pregnant belly, but I though I could feel the warmth of rapid growth as my breasts tightened up perceptibly. My milk production increased as well but not so much that it was really remarkable. Then, shortly before my babies were born (twins again, courtesy of ovaries that both released every month), supply dropped to a trickle, and I thought nothing was going to happen after all.

The first day of nursing the newborns seemed very much the same as before. I produced noticeably more colostrum, but again, nothing really remarkable. The second day, I noticed I was already producing milk behind the colostrum, and by the third, I was producing almost as much milk as I'd made before the dip. But it kept increasing as all that additional tissue got into the action, and soon I was making, four, five, then six liters a day. By the end of the fortnight since delivery, I felt like my overwhelmed breast pumps were working around the clock.

Even so, I was eager to get back into assisting Biana in her social events, so something had to be done. The solution, of course, was to get some agricultural machines that I could just pop into for a quick milking then go about my business for a few hours until I filled up again. They also never choked if I had a major spurt like the breast pumps sometimes did. After some experimentation with both teat cups and rhythm, Biana also found that if she matched the tempo just right, she could make me come so hard that saying she'd fucked my brains out was almost literal truth.

My confusion as I came down from my post-coital high was useful in establishing me as a vapid cum dump and a human dairy cow, depending on Biana's needs of the moment. Of course I didn't need to be stupid to be happy to contribute fresh cream to anyone's coffee, White Russian cocktail, or anything else, but it did lend my affect an extra layer of verisimilitude, so even the especially perspicacious guests would conclude that I wasn't pretending. Then, a little later in the event when I got my wits about me again, people would say things near me that they wouldn't if they'd thought I was smarter than a post.

Also, if I embarrassed someone, they could hardly get mad at someone so intellectually impaired and ready to please. One of my favourite tricks was to spurt milk all over someone whilst in the throes of an orgasm, which I could do nearly on command, producing copious gouts of thick cream as if my tits were ejaculating. Even when it didn't upset the target, it was occasionally useful as a way to force someone difficult to withdraw to go clean themselves up.

And then there was also some guests who felt complimented by my orgasms while administering a titfuck, or eating them out, or whatever sexual service I was providing. Usually one of Biana's other bimbos would have previously explained that my lips and nipples were so sensitive that a sufficiently skilled or endowed partner could make me climax just by playing with my boobs or allowing me to go down on them, which was half true. It did feel very good, but what really got me over the line was thinking about have fucking perfect I was for my role.

I know that some of the other bimbos started out pitying me when they first met me, before they'd really become bimbos. They thought they were using me to get a paid vacation to Biana's private island without any strings attached. But if they stayed long enough, they'd start to see how Biana respected and valued me even when when I was acting as her personal sex doll. They'd start to see that I could also spend any money I wanted, and sometimes Biana would describe an issue about which she wanted advice at the same time I was tongue-deep in her pussy. I was her fuck toy and her closest partner at the same time, and if the other bimbos had more independence, they also enjoyed a smaller share of Biana's trust and support.

In fact, joining Baina's small but growing harem of bimbos afforded the opportunity to chase their ambitions, whether of motherhood, fashionability, business, or anything else they pleased, and which pleased Biana and myself.

Some, I knew, thought that they were joining for mercenary reasons, but I didn't admit them unless I could see they would eventually become devoted to Biana. We made a big investment in them and I would be failing in my duties if Biana didn't get a good return on that investment.

A duty I never failed, both because I chose carefully and because I could be very persuasive.

-Epilogue-

I'm not sure it was strictly necessary any more once Biana had established firm legal and social control of all the assets she'd put in the name I'd accidentally acquired instead, but I still enjoyed my job of collecting the best bimbos and sluts for Biana's collection. It was of course very pleasant to have more coparents to share the load, but I could easily afford to hire as many nannies as I pleased, so that wasn't it. Maybe I was really doing it for my own glory, so I could boast of being the biggest and best bimbo of her whole harem.

Regardless of any intra-harem competition, there were few things I loved better than walking down the street on her arm, shocking everyone with my ridiculous face and body.

My lips hadn't really gotten dramatically bigger, but they did get tighter and therefore a bit more round and glossy, making them poor enunciators but excellent O-rings for Biana's big beautiful cock. I loved how obvious this was both because it tickled my fancy to make people wonder if lips so reformed for sexual purposes could support speech at all, and because it gave me an excuse to not join in discussions that didn't interest me.

Below that, past the tastefully tawdry earrings and and playfully pet-like collars, my breasts had kept growing. Their growth had gradually slowed, but by the time we could freely return to California to shock the people of Rodeo Drive, my milk tanks were not only big enough for Biana to bury her head in my cleavage, I could as well, with sufficiently supportive garments. That is to say, if I wore a bustier with a lot of lift, the tops of my tits rose higher than my shoulders. I will forever remember with fondness the day I noticed that I had to squash my boobs a bit in order for even the tips of my long pink nails to touch when wrapping my arms around them. There was no getting around them, no angle from which their vast arcs were less than plainly visible.

Well, there was one angle: a picture taken from blow and a bit behind me would result in most of me being blotted out by the vast roundness of the bum that provided me a nicely padded counterweight in the rear to my chest in the front. I had actually gone back to get another Nutrastem implant, both because I didn't want my boobs to be forever tipping me over, and because I thought Biana would enjoy watching it wobble when she pounded me from behind.

Don't get the idea that I wore immodest clothing over all this, though. That would have been boring. Far better to take clothes that might have been conservative on anyone else, and force them to be lewd, to dominate the fabrics with my flesh. I could take a perfectly traditional ball gown that some respectably stylish celebrity had worn and make it fetishwear just by having it tailored to my proportions.

I was a byword by the time Biana had managed to legitimize herself well enough that the FBI abandoned its investigations. My visits prior to that had been chaste and discreet in a relative sense, so it wasn't my behavior in the States and Britain that earned me my reputation, but rather the stories coming from Biana's infamous parties. No pictures or video of those carefully-guarded social events had leaked, but dozens of people could corroborate my most outrageous sexual and culinary contributions, given how many of them were performed in the open. I did occasionally grant interviews with the specific goal of making clear my enthusiastic consent to, and pride in, my participation.

With her legal jeopardy behind her, of course, Biana could parade me and any other girls anywhere she liked. She still couldn't just fuck us in public all the time like she could at home, but I did get better at waiting. And sometimes she did fuck us in public; just not where we could be arrested for it. It was amazing how many places there were that would allow it when it was someone like Biana doing the fucking, and I loved to try to manoeuvre Biana into taking me to them. I knew it appeared to many commentators as if Biana's sudden decision to debauch me in front of everyone was due to her own eccentric power trip, but more often it was the result of my careful attempts to tease her into it. And the more brash and dominant Biana appeared, the more powerful it made me feel to be the one who could demand her full, rock-hard attention at any time.

Nor was it an ersatz power. Biana ran a business empire, but of course it was always my money as well, and she never attempted to tell me what to do with it. Thus I was able to thank Francisco and the doctor by funding a laboratory for them to work at in the Dominican Republic, where our lobbying and other influence managed to re-legalize brain transplants. Then I sponsored scores of cancer patients, trans people, and of course, people who wanted to join Biana's bimbo collection.

Maybe it reflects poorly on me that I was glad none of them dared go as far as I had with their bimbofication. Granted, I hadn't intended to go nearly as far as I had, or really to be bimbofied at all, but in retrospect I was deeply grateful that I had.

In a way, getting terminal cancer was the luckiest break of my whole life. It killed off my very uninteresting and unloved former self so I could live as Kimberly Anastacia Mink, bimbo extraordinaire.