Witless Protection Program

"Wanna go to the mess later?" a Latina woman asked me after we'd finished a workout together.

"Is that allowed?" I asked, confused.

'Danielle' rolled her eyes. "Just put your name on at 1743."

"Oh, and you'll..."

"See what happens," she said, putting a finger on my lips to stop me from talking.

Obviously this was at least against the spirit of the rules, and I thought it was pretty risky to do what she said. I thought it might be a trap, but you have to understand: she was hot. And funny. And, most important, I thought she might be into me. Maybe she was just looking for a wingwoman to pick up one of the undeniably flaming hot special forces soldiers, but even that would be a joy to behold.

So, I waited until 1743 precisely, then I signed up to go to mess. We feigned surprise to be paired up again, and off we went.

"That fits you perfectly," temporary-Danielle complimented me.

"Thank you! I thought it might be too tight, honestly," I admitted. My powder blue sheath dress had seemed fine when I tried it on at the wardrobe, but I thought the padding on the satin-finish bra I'd chosen for the night caused a bit more stretch in the bust, maybe people could see the shade of my bra underneath.

"As long as no one can tell if it's a bra or a cami, it's not too tight," she pronounced with a smile that let me know that my bra was definitely showing at least a little bit, and she approved of that fact.

That look made me happy I'd chosen the padded bra for three reasons: because she liked how it looked under my dress, because I thought maybe she'd also like how it looked with my dress off, and because the padding hid my hardening nipples at the thought. Being a beautiful woman was so reassuring. Whoever had stolen my old life was a very bad person, of course, but I felt like it was probably all for the better. As hazy as my memory of my previous life had become, I was fairly certain the experience of being proud of my body was unique to this one.

I suffered a check when Danielle introduced me to two musclebound young men who were both gorgeous and charming. True to the rules of the place, the introduction told me very little about them except their temporary names and that they were in the same training program at the compound. And that they were all good friends. Once I brought my expectations back down to earth, I was able to enjoy the unobtrusively appreciative way 'Andrew' and 'Charles' looked at me. It helped that their flirting, such as it was, remained very circumspect and complimentary rather than being too direct or trying to fluster me. It made it easy to return their regard in kind; they were undeniably attractive, and surely not desperate for female approval.

The compound had strict limits about how much alcohol could be consumed per hour, so 'two drinks' lasted an hour and a half and four relatively competitive games of billiards after I discovered that I'd played before after all. To my relief, our 'dates' remained perfect gentleman, stealing no more than the occasional glance at cleavage or bums while Danielle and I made our shots.

"Well, I've got some work to do before bed tonight, so I have to call it early," Danielle announced. "I can sign up for another partner if you want to keep going."

I didn't quite manage to prevent my slight feeling of social panic from showing, and Andrew quickly put in, "Actually, I should get some gym time in. Don't know about you, but I haven't had a real workout since I arrived."

I only had to worry they were trying to set me up with Charles for a second before he echoed Andrew's complaint, and the foursome broke up unanimously.

"So, which one did you like best?" Danielle asked me as we walked back to our housing block.

"Uh, I don't think I should..." I started, but she shushed me.

"I mean, if you were, though."

"They're lovely, of course, but I'm not looking for that sort of relationship."

"Of course you're not looking for a relationship here. That's definitely against the rules."

"Any sort of fraternisation is against the rules," I pointed out, then steeled myself slightly to add, "And even if it wasn't, I'm not looking for any sort of male companionship right now."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What about female companionship?"

I stumbled slightly and avoided looking at her. "Uh, that's against the rules too, isn't it?"

Danielle stopped me and used my elbow to turn me to face her. "I think the way the rules are written, there's arguably a loophole. But honestly, I don't give a shit. You're a transient here, right? I don't think anyone has to worry about renting a U-Haul in the next couple days."

"Pardon?" I asked.

"Do you want to come back to my room, or what?" she simplified for me.

"Well, when you put it like that," I said, looking down as my desire warring with my anxiety. Down directed my eyes at my padding-enhanced, clear-skinned cleavage. I was pretty hot, wasn't I? I nodded wordlessly.

"I... am really inexperienced," I warned her after she celebrated with a little fist pump.

"Perfect, love teaching baby gays."

"How did you know I was gay?" I asked, wondering how gay I really was. I had appreciated Andrew and Charles' bodies, even if I wasn't nearly ready to involve my new body with theirs.

"Oh, I didn't. I wanted to see how you reacted to J... Andrew and Charles first. They're pretty much the hottest guys I know, and really fun to hang out with, so I figured if you were straight you'd be all over them.

"You thought I'd just ignore the rules for some D?" I said with mock anger.

She laughed. "I'm just saying, your nips would have stayed at attention for more of the games."

"You could see my nipples?" I asked in mortification.

She laughed harder. "Only when you rested your boob on the pool cue, Kenzie. So adorable and sexy to see how you didn't even realize what you were doing. You're so innocent"

I blushed with pleasure. And desire. My nipples were definitely as hard as they could be at that moment.

She had me out of my clothes within seconds of closing her door. "I knew you had great tits," she said, assessing me.

"Thank you!"

"And you're a natural blonde. Tell me, do you have more fun?" she asked, running her fingers along my somewhat downy bush.

"I do now," I breathed.

"Fuck, you're so hot. I'm not usually attracted to younger girls, but your rack makes you look more mature," she said as she stripped out of her own clothes.

"Um," I said, when her own, significantly more impressive curves came out to play, "Your tits are better than mine."

"They're pretty great, aren't they?" she said, placing my hands on her breasts. "Yours will get bigger as you get older, I promise."

"How old do you think I am?" I asked.

"Only enough to get assigned here, meaning you're not a minor, which is all that really matters," she said before kissing me. She stopped. "That makes you uncomfortable?"

"Just... is this supposed to be semi-anonymous sex? I guess kissing feels so..."

"What are you, Pretty Woman?" she said, rolling her eyes. "But fine, I'll kiss other things." She knocked me back onto the bed and kissed my other lips.

"Oh my God," I gasped.

"I've hardly started!" she laughingly complained. "You can't be this easy."

"I'm not about to come!" I protested, "I was just a little surprised. But aren't you going to teach me, too?"

"Oh, I'll teach you alright, Blondie" she said with a saucy smile before returning to demonstrating how to make my new body hum with ecstasy.

Over the next several days, her nightly carnal classes improved my ability to please her with my tongue and my fingers, but after my initial gains, I felt I plateaued a bit, at least partly because she got impatient with my fumbling and finished herself off if I took too long. She was actually quite justly conceited about her sexual prowess, and I could hardly complain about her controlling our lovemaking, but after a few days it became a little too plain to me that she viewed me as a bit of a project rather than a worthy partner. It was perfect for the necessarily temporary nature of our time together, but it left me wishing I was both better at sex and maybe just a bit more physically mature.

Regardless, when it was time for me to transfer to the next phase of establishing my witness identity, I was deeply appreciative of the greater understanding she'd given me of my own body and carnal experience of at least one other woman's. Maybe my sojourn as Mackenzie Cummins or whomever wouldn't be quite so awkward and furtive as my naturally introverted inclinations would otherwise lead me to be.

The Honey

What with all the compartmentalization, I hadn't expected to be put back in with my former coworkers for the witness protection process. But, when I encountered a bevy of gorgeous young women all clearly in a similar predicament, I reflected that, given the surely extreme classification of the whole process, it did make sense that handling us all together would reduce the number of WITSEC agents with the need to know.

Not that I could be sure it was only my former coworkers. There were really only a couple whose original identities I could infer from certain mannerisms they'd retained, but even they of course had no idea that we'd ever met before. Of all of them, I was the only one with any memories predating the CHANGE, and I was meant to act like I didn't.

At first I thought this was an excess of caution, but watching the two agents in charge of identity creation, I began to get the idea that the older, dourer, slightly sweaty one was observing us more intently than the other. Well, the younger seemed to be paying us plenty of attention in an eye-candy sense, but his appreciation seemed to be that of a heterosexual man entertained by a passing opportunity to interact with a harem of nubile young women. Agent Sweaty, meanwhile, appeared to be a conservative Catholic who didn't approve of his empty-headed young charges, as if we'd chosen to make ourselves vapidly pretty. Something about the way he kept plucking his cross necklace out of his shirt made me wonder what sins, exactly, he was contemplating.

We were quite variably vapid, I found. None recognized their names or could recall why they were here except that they were the victims of an accident, but some had clearly sustained more damage than others. I had no way to test their knowledge of microbiology without giving myself away, but some seemed to struggle to read and write, or grasp simple maths. Those, I noticed, seemed to drop from Agent Sweaty's notice before the others, and I began to wonder if he was the mole REDOWL suspected.

I congratulated myself on my successful effort to present myself as one of the more brain-damaged girls, but it was extremely ill-advised. Agent Sweaty's attention moved on, but in the meantime I lost any control over my future identity.

"You should be Honey, because of your hair,," the smoking hot girl who had once been Deandra told me excitedly. I struggled to smile, devastated to discover someone so brilliant brought so low. An incalculable loss to humanity, I thought, despite the instinctual part of me that exulted at having a beautiful girl's attention. "And you're sweet."

I blushed and couldn't think of anything to say.

"Why are you so quiet?" she asked with concern.

I shrugged and mumbled that I didn't know.

"We should definitely be together," she said, and my eyes widened. Deandra had been attractive as well as brilliant even before her recent CHANGE, and I had admired her in all sorts of ways. But of course, she wasn't proposing we date, she was simply suggesting that we be allocated to the same living arrangements. Because the ability of the simpletons amongst us to obtain and and maintain employment was in considerable doubt, several affordable shared living arrangements and halfway houses for former sex trafficking victims were being arranged.

"So, Honey?" Agent Sweaty asked impatiently.

I really didn't want a stripper name like Honey, but neither could I think of an objection or an alternative while remaining in character, so Honey I became. After that setback, I asserted myself as best I could during the phase of the identity creation process where we were ostensibly allowed to choose how we would like to look. No explanation was offered as to how this change would be effected, nor did the blankly compliant girls around me ask, which made it impossible for me to ask without drawing undesirable attention.

I dutifully made changes on the tablet passed to me for the purpose which allowed drawing sliders back and forth to select shapes, sizes, colors and so on for our various physical features. A 3D model of our appearance displayed the effects of the changes with an impressive level of detail. I was happy with my appearance as it was, but for our protection they insisted on us making a minimum number of additional changes. We weren't supposed to show anyone our changes, but the rule wasn't enforced amongst ourselves, and it quickly became a convocation of aesthetic critics which split into friendly factions regarding the best size and shape of breasts, lips, and bums. Happily, Deandra's group was not one of the 'biggest is best' factions, and while the app indicated I would gain a cup size to the imposing-sounding size of "28DDD", some of the others were advocating impractically huge sizes.

When giving us such choice it was impossible for them not to implicitly expose bombshell secret technological powers with some very silly, talkative girls and I wondered how they managed the risk of us gossiping about it. I overheard my answer when the younger agent asked that very question of the elder.

"When they already got recent X-25-associated memory loss, it makes their minds even more susceptible to further memory loss. Those bimbos won't remember any of this," Agent Sweaty said with contempt, "Especially with these sluts turning themselves into pornographic sex toys."

The younger agent's brow furrowed. "How do you know they're doing that?"

"I can just tell," the older agent grumbled. "You wait; they'll all be shameless bimbos when this is done. And anyway, even if some remember something about it, no one will take them seriously."

This seemed like a judgmental man's exaggeration to me. Though my new form could certainly do fine in porn, it seemed firmly within the better-endowed end of the Instagram model range rather than the more extravagant forms some of the other groups had advocated.

Apparently the younger agent agreed. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't their fault what happened to them, Bob, and if they make themselves a little, you know..." he mimed bigger breasts, "Curvy, well, that doesn't make them bad people."

"We'll see."

"No we won't, Bob," the younger agent responded firmly, "Because we won't see them again."

"I bet you will, on the Internet," Sweaty Bob shot back, and that was the last I heard from them.

-Witless-

The Hot House

I was conscious for both of the "X-25" treatments that I surmised to be the government's analogue to the CHANGE: the first I had already had, to make me look more like Mackenzie, and this second dose to turn into Honey. I couldn't tell if it was a difference in the size of the change, the fact that I'd already been subjected to prior treatments, or what, but I barely felt feverish at all. The confusion, however, was more severe than the first X-25 treatment, which had been so mild as to be hard to differentiate from slight inattentiveness.

Comparatively, however, I was entirely collected, because all the others were completely loopy. They also experienced much more dramatic changes in many cases. Because I was so confused, I couldn't be sure, but I thought maybe the changes were actually more dramatic than they had in fact selected for themselves. This seemed significant somehow, but I had to set it aside until I had my brain back together again.

"Miss Suckle?" a nurse addressed me, pulling me out of a reverie.

"What?" I asked.

"Honey Suckle?" she elaborated.

"Excuse me?" I asked, inclined to be offended, but her tone of voice had been of someone clarifying, not taking the piss.

"Miss Suckle, we're going to need for you to get dressed," she told me apologetically, handing me a shapeless gown.

"That's not my name," I objected, fumbling with the gown's drawstring belt because my fingers were too long.

"It is your name, honey," she said patiently as she tied the gown for me.

"No, it's not. I'm..." I belatedly remembered that I wasn't supposed to tell my real name. But she had gotten even my fake name wrong. "What did you say my name was?"

"Honey Suckle," she reiterated.

"Honey Sadler," I corrected.

"Yes, dear," she said, "Please hurry."

"What's the hurry?" I asked.

"There's been an incident and this location is considered compromised. We'll have to administer the last treatment immediately before we can leave.

I glanced at the surreptitious injection tracking marks I'd been scratching in a plastic fastener. "I've already had all three shots," I objected.

She looked taken aback. "My chart says you have one more."

"There's something wrong with your chart," I said, alarmed.

"We don't have time to argue about this. Please go out into the hall and I'll confirm with the doctor."

"Fair enough," I said, shrugging. The motion made my heavy breasts bounce distractingly, and and grasped them through the gown to hold them in place. "When will I get underwear?"

"Soon," she said, and stepped out of the room. The other bed was already empty. Evidently Heather... Heather whomever had already left. When had that happened? She was supposed to have one more, wasn't she?

The nurse, doctor, and a burly orderly returned while I contemplated the possibility that they were confusing their patients, a theory I shared with them to little effect.

"Miss, only an exact, numbered series of doses is manufactured for each patient," the doctor explained to me as the orderly established a grip on me that ruled out any chance of mounting a successful struggle, "And this is dose number three."

"Then you must have dosed me with Heather's last night!" I argued, trying to duck away from the dose despite the futility. Who knew what the effects would be, getting extra doses of this unknown treatment?

"For fuck's sake," the doctor said, looking at the nurse accusingly.

"I wasn't on duty last night!" the nurse defended herself, accurately.

"Yes, it was a male nurse," I confirmed, trying to keep someone on my side, at least.

"You have a good memory," the doctor told me. Something about how he said it made my stomach drop. "Nurse, please get the leftover shot we weren't able to administer to our escapee."

My memory breaks up at that point, but it didn't take any great leap of deduction that they not only injected me with my third dose, I got an extra from a another patient for the express intent of suppressing my memory of their mistake.

My next clear memory was of a busty quasi-goth girl explaining makeup to a small crowd of girls while using me as a demonstration dummy.

"But our lips aren't that big," a girl with striking golden eyes that matched her skin pointed out.

"It's the same process, though," the goth said.

I looked back and for the between the goth and the golden girl, who had almost opposite aesthetics in fashion and color schemes but were both magnificent in their own ways.

"I love the inflated look," another, more conventional girl said. She had the biggest, least-realistic breasts of all of them, which was really saying something. "I wish I'd gotten injections like Honey's."

"They're implants," someone corrected. Me. Why was I saying that? Someone had told me that.

"How much did they cost?" the conventional girl asked.