Witless Protection Program

Author's Note

Literotica Edition 2021/01/18

This is an extremely explicit erotic story 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, M2F, F/F, bimbofication, lactation, human livestock, futanari (toward the end), impregnation, light bondage

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--Witless Protection Program--

-Witness-

The Crime

It was arguably a privilege to witness the first proof of the therapeutic efficacy of a world-changing new biotechnology, but I wasn't as proud of it as you might think because it was in the form of a crime spree. More immediately for my own wellbeing, it gravely imperiled my life because I constituted the sole surviving witness, besides the perpetrator. Technically there were other surviving witnesses, but they wouldn't be testifying to anything.

I should back up and explain a little. The new technology afforded the ability to not just correct errors in somatic cell DNA as has been the original goal, but completely rejuvenate the tissues. It was something of a holy grail of biotechnology, given its promise to do everything from reverse aging to curing cancer to curing inherited genetic diseases. Being just a junior research assistant transitioning from a career in the Army, I didn't understand all the science by any means, but I did know that something changed about the atmosphere of the place when it was discovered that it could also cure some congenital birth defects in mice, implying that it could radically remodel whole organs to fit the new genotype.

Being an enthusiastic newcomer I didn't quite grasp the disquiet of the more senior researchers in our tiny laboratory. I thought they were just trying to impress on me how far they had left to go to master the techniques - many mice died or suffered brain damage amidst their Cascading Heterogeneous Autophagic Neoplasms for Genetic reExpression, or CHANGE. The patient's body essentially eats itself to produce a new body according to a revised set of genes. It could be looked at as a sort of extremely aggressive, organized oncoviral cancer. If it didn't kill you, it made you good as new, or even better. Even those mice who suffered brain damage were "good as new" but were too new: they'd forgotten things they'd used to know and had to re-learn. Obviously that would count as a very severe side-effect in humans, which would limit the application of the therapy only to the otherwise terminal, which in turn adequately explained to me the sober response to the breakthrough.

But of course people would kill to obtain a fountain of youth, however imperfect, and the senior researchers knew that straightaway even if a newcomer like me did not. The heightened security measures weren't only for protection against industrial espionage, they were protections against outright burglary and assault. Not that they helped, because someone on the inside figured out how to dose us all, even the guards.

Within hours, we had all developed pyrexia characteristic of the CHANGE, but by then it was too late; we all knew antibodies to slow or prevent the oncoviral spread needed to be administered well before the patient became febrile: without them our test mice were likely to die, and never escaped without severe memory loss. We couldn't call for help, either: no mobiles were allowed in the lab and the few computers connected to the outside world were locked down to allows only very specific authorized communications. Nor could we escape physically: Dr. Deandra Clarke, our youngest and most brilliant chief scientist, knew better than any of us how unlikely we were to survive such an extreme onset CHANGE, but duty obliged her to use her final moments to trigger the bio containment alarm, dooming us all but saving the world from the risk of what we thought then was accidental contagion.

At least, that's what I expected would have happened, if I hadn't made a mistake some weeks prior and jabbed myself with a needle containing the oncovirus. It was a 'null package' virus with a flaw in it, so it didn't really do anything except confer a small amount of immunity, just enough to slow the CHANGE slightly. Unlike the others, when I regained consciousness, I still mostly remembered my identity.

The FBI

"I'm Special Agent Robbins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Counterintelligence Division" a serious man in a biohazard suit introduced himself to me in a windowless hospital room cleared of other personnel.

"Counterintelligence?" I asked in husky bewilderment. I hadn't forgotten everything, but confusion abounded in my recollections, and I couldn't think of any reason counterintelligence would be involved. For a moment I thought perhaps I was misremembering just what counterintelligence was in the first place. "Isn't that for catching spies?" I wheezed through acutely asthenic vocal chords.

"More or less," he confirmed, "We have reason to believe that a nation-state actor may have been involved in the incident at your lab, and I've come to interview you about everything you remember."

"How many of us made it?" I asked.

"I don't know for sure, and to the degree to which I know anything, I'm not currently at liberty to say," he told me apologetically.

"So it wasn't an accident," I said to myself, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. Figuratively; otherwise my body felt like it weighed a ton.

"Perhaps not. If you can tell me in detail what you remember leading up to the event, that gives us a better chance of piecing together exactly what transpired."

I did my best, thinking that I owed it to my coworkers to help the authorities achieve some kind of vengeance on their behalf, but it was frustrating because it was so difficult to speak and there was so much to explain to a non-scientist. I had to end it long before I got the whole story out, and he said he would be back later to get more. I don't precisely recall how many times he returned, but it must have been a half dozen in total. Sometimes he brought specialists with him who would ask more detailed questions about the virus, or the autophagy, and I was never sure if I couldn't answer their questions because I never knew or because I'd forgotten. Based on their questions, I got the idea that they didn't have access to the laboratory data, and indeed it was confirmed that all the computers had been wiped. Forensic recovery techniques were being leveraged, but it would take time.

As this progressed, my voluntary muscle control slowly returned, but something was wrong; my voice sounded higher and younger. I hadn't seen pictures of myself, but I had an impression that my body had been reset to a radically younger age; smaller, slighter of frame, softer of skin. Yet even accounting for that, it didn't fit my admittedly-hazy recollection of my adolescent self.

"How are you feeling this morning, Miss Doe?" a cheerful older nurse asked me one day.

"Pardon me?" I asked.

"How are you feeling?" she repeated herself.

"Did you refer to me as Miss Doe?" I asked.

She looked slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, that is a little old-fashioned of me, isn't it? I don't mean anything by it."

I was silent for a moment as pieces fell into place. She thought I was a girl. I wasn't even sure if I was allowed to correct her, given that Agent Robbins had instructed me not to tell the medical staff anything that would reveal the nature of the CHANGE. "It's okay," I said, wanting more time to think.

When she'd left, I felt tentatively at my crotch, which I hadn't done since I'd awakened, not wanting to disturb the catheter. What I found there was worse than my fears: not only had my penis lost its adult size, it was gone altogether, replaced with unmistakably female equipment.

"Why don't the nurses and orderlies seem to know that I used to be a man?" I asked Agent Robbins at the start of our next interview.

He paused for a moment, then said, "I didn't know that, either. Do you mean that you transitioned before, or?" He trailed off in discomfort.

"No, I never transitioned," I said, then added with an uneasy laugh, "Not intentionally, at any rate!"

"You're taking it well," he said with a smile, and when I didn't respond he explained, "You've been moved through several medical teams: the first-responders were local medical in biohazard suits who probably never knew who you were, then the CDC had you for a bit until the Pentagon took over. Based on what you've told me so far, I'm guessing that you were male before the event?"

I couldn't shrug very well yet, so I gave the most noncommittal verbal confirmation that I could. Despite my military career, I'd never felt comfortable with the obligatory hypermasculinity culturally expected of male service members. When I had let myself contemplate any kind of alternative to continuing on as my masculine self, I dismissed out of hand the possibility that the harrowing journey to being anything besides the man those around me expected could be worth the cost. My face wasn't built for androgyny, let alone femininity, nor did I fancy my chances with women as anything but a bloke. Now, it seemed, I was at least outwardly female, and the prospect of living as a woman was actually quite an attractive one. At least, I hoped it was.

"Can you show me what I look like?" I asked.

He looked around for a mirror, but ended up having to show me my face by replaying some video footage from his official interview recording, which was actually a violation of protocol. Once I saw myself, though, I could understand why he was susceptible to my plea: I was cute.

Not just a little cute, either. I had expected to look like a younger, female version of myself, hopefully with a smaller nose and less pronounced chin, but I hadn't been prepared to see a doe-eyed pixie whose resemblance to my old self was shockingly weak. It was easy to foresee that it would be a long time before the CHANGE could be reversed, but at least I would enjoy an exemplary appearance for my sojourn into femininity.

"Holy shit," I said, "Not too bad, huh?"

Agent Robbins blushed and backed away as if he suddenly realized he was in my personal space. "It's not something someone in my role should be discussing with you," he said, scrutinizing my expression as he wrestled with what to say. "But, yes, you look like quite an attractive young lady. I hope that's not too terrible a shock for you."

"It is quite a shock, but I don't know that I'd call it terrible," I said, trying to summon a complete memory of my pre-CHANGE appearance to compare against what I'd just seen. Surprisingly, the face in the mirror was already coming to me more easily than my old face did, which I could only summon in bits and pieces. "Could I see myself again?"

"I shouldn't," he said, "But it doesn't seem fair at all that no one has shown you your own face since the event," he said, and once again let me gaze on the feed.

Looking more carefully, I thought maybe I recognized more of a resemblance, though I couldn't be sure that I wasn't just becoming more accustomed to my new face.

"Thank you Agent Robbins," I said, and with a big smile that felt half sincere. I was unsettled, but I didn't want him to think I was ungrateful for his consideration, and there was definitely a part of me that felt that this might turn out to be the best thing that had ever happened to me.

"You were really a man?" Agent Robbins asked, trying to hide his discomfort. "I believe you, but I'm having a hard time believing you, if you take my meaning."

"Well, I was definitely male," I said. "I also lived as a man, I guess. But this is already feeling more natural to me than that ever did."

"I'm glad you're pleased with the outcome," he said, recovering his embarrassment a bit. "So, ah, this is going to be our last interview, most likely, so I'm going to be just a bit unprofessional one more time to make sure you understand that smile of yours is going to get you loads of male attention from here on out. And especially get attention from guys who hope to take advantage of younger girls. And you're a lot smaller than you used to be."

"I know," I said, having no trouble understanding his warning. "I'll be careful. And thank you."

That interview was indeed the last time I ever saw Agent Robbins.

As far as I know.

"Your retention of your memories is an extremely closely held secret, and there are multiple levels of cover story around your new life. On witness protection program paperwork, you're going to be Mackenzie Cummins," my permanent counterintelligence case officer REDOWL explained, but I interrupted.

"Oh no, what happened to her?" I asked, alarmed. Mackenzie Cummins had been as sweet as she had been pretty, which was quite a lot. She had been very friendly to me once she found out that her first name was my last, though I think she was just friendly to everyone.

REDOWL pursed her lips, reminding me that she couldn't tell me about the fates of my coworkers. Probably poor Mackenzie had died. "You as Mackenzie will be given another new identity, which is the next layer. Because Mackenzie has forgotten her past, her new identity will be the only real identity she knows."

"What is that?" I asked, somewhat relieved to hear that Mackenzie hadn't actually died, even though I felt she may as well have if she had no memory of her former self.

"I genuinely don't know," REDOWL said, unbending a little at the look of relief on my face. Perhaps my big innocent eyes were working even on her. "These things are compartmented for good reasons, and we're going to make it as hard for any adversary who finds out that one of you has retained your memory to figure out which of you is whom."

"Anyone who stole the technology would be able to perform a genetic test to eliminate most candidates," I pointed out. I wasn't sure just what genetic payload I'd been given, but the mimivirus we'd used could only alter or replace a few hundred genes at a time.

The officer smiled cryptically. "I'm sure you're correct, and perhaps it's the paranoia of counterintelligence officers, but I have to keep in mind the possibility that our adversary has someone placed someplace close to this. Regardless, over the course of the process, we will need to make some additional changes that will further confuse the issue, such that it would require a more careful clinical examination to establish who is whom. As long as you don't give it away yourself. After today, it would be best to forget that you were ever anyone else."

"Additional changes?" I asked uneasily, "And I thought you needed my testimony or whatever."

"Naturally, I don't know the details," she said with her characteristic lack of candor, "And we do need your testimony from time to time, so someone will arrange for you to stay in touch with me from time to time, and keep your mind fresh. I won't ask and you won't tell me anything about your new identity; only answer questions directly relevant to the investigation. Other than that, embrace your new identity as thoroughly as possible, for your own protection, not to mention the success of our counterintelligence operation."

Not for the first time a confused mix of disquiet and excited anticipation beset me. Who and what was I going to be? I still looked like a cute girl in my early teens, which was not unexpected in light of the full-body reconstruction, but very unexpected of a person setting out on an independent adult life. "You're not going to shove me back in secondary school, are you?"

"To remind you, I am not doing anything. Every decision relating to your future with the witness protection program is going to be between you and WITSEC. And recall that your WITSEC identity manager would be surprised at an amnesiac Mackenzie Cummins resisting their suggestions, so you need to be compliant to avoid raising suspicions regardless of what they offer. However, I think I can assure you that they will help you to look a bit more... mature."

I knew a hard-bitten professional like REDOWL wouldn't get involved with a source in her own case, but it still bothered me a little that she seemed a little impervious to my appearance. Maybe it was because she knew that it wasn't my original appearance? But that hadn't stopped it from affecting others. I dismissed the idea that she was just straight; I could see the discreet labrys on her ring.

The Compound

Of course REDOWL didn't explain her ominous coda, but I discerned at least a partial explanation in a parting treatment at the Pentagon facility. I experienced very mild CHANGE-like symptoms, though the alterations in my appearance were likewise less extreme. When the process completed, my resemblance to Mackenzie was markedly heightened, and though my face didn't appear a great deal older, Mackenzie's sizable breasts on my small frame did present a very sexually mature silhouette.

The doctor wouldn't talk to me about the basis of the technology that had just changed me, but did reassure me that I would be given an opportunity to alter my appearance as part of the identity-creation process.

"Is that why no one is bothering to give me clothes that fit?"

"Part of the reason," he said, reminding me very much of all the times the military had presented cost-savings measures as a way to save the troops trouble. "You'll be provided with a wardrobe selection while you're in processing hold."

"Do you know how long I'll be in processing hold?" I asked. I'd heard the term several times.

"At least while you're in medical observation. Beyond that, I don't know and it's not up to me."

"How long do you need to observe?"

"Until a panel signs off that you're stable. Maybe a week, but don't quote me. I'm not even on the panel. Good luck."

"Good luck? Why?" I asked, a little alarmed.

"No particular reason," he assured me, "It's just a general wish, because unless something unexpected occurs, this is the last evaluation by a doctor. From here out the techs will just take daily cheek swabs. So, good luck on your adjustment to your new life."

He left without further comment.

During processing hold I was given a sort of freedom, being allowed to go on chaperoned trips to a specified list of recreational and shopping facilities provided to people living in the government compound. Based on how many exceptionally fit and relatively young people I saw, I had to assume that many of them were military or intelligence operatives, and it was clear that many of them were undergoing some kind of training. I never found out the details, because no one talked about what they were doing there even obliquely, and we were all issued name tags with false names we were required to use.

Mine was Kenzie, and I have no idea if others had names somehow related to their actual names, but either way I came to feel mine fit me well. At least, it helped me get used to my new presentation. It made sense of the appreciative glances that I got everywhere I went, and helped me to feel like the items I selected from the clothes library weren't a costume.

I felt strange the first time I wore a 30D bra under a belted sweater dress, and it wasn't just because I didn't have the fit quite right. However I might feel, though, the woman in the mirror appeared fit and stylish, and the warm reception of my cute and curvy Kenzie persona assured me that no one else thought I looked the least bit strange. Some reticence remained on my part, but overall I was more shocked at how natural it felt to go about in my temporary identity, as if the woman I saw in the mirror was as true to my identity as anyone's was in this oddly anonymous place.

It's impossible to know how many of my chaperones were explicitly detailed to watch me, but I wasn't the only person with a chaperone: everyone who wanted to go anywhere was matched up with someone else from the same residential area who wanted to go to the same place; we were all watching each other to make sure we were following the rules. Some of the people with whom I was paired were very obviously not doing so as an explicit assignment.