Bimbo Overdose

There are no pain receptors in the brain. You can't actually feel the neurons burst and die. With the right medical equipment to visualize the electrical activity, someone can watch the parts of your brain that briefly light up and then go dark as terrible damage is done. Yet it won't hurt. Not that part of it anyway.

Lois Lane spasmed, the back of her neck braced against the chair as her spine suddenly stiffened. Muscles tensed throughout her body as mixed signals flooded her body as higher functions flared and ceased. Experientially, it wasn't too dissimilar to an orgasm...and Blaze held the reporter's thighs and her tongue slathered over the spasming cunt in front of her as bits and pieces of Lois were lost forever.

Then the reporter's body began to process the other effects of the overdose.

Her breasts were already swollen from 32A to 32D, taut fluid-filled half-spheres like ripe tomatoes...but as her body struggled to process the strange chemical, fluid and fat melted from the reporter's form. The flat plain of her stomach shrank down to well-defined abdominal muscles; the lean limbs became tight and willowy, veins like rivers mapped out on thighs and forearms...and her tits, quivered as more fluid was **** into the tissues and they began to expand outward, slowly as the skin stretched, nipples hard and aching but slowly receding into the tit, areola stretching out to be less well-defined.

This part did hurt, and Lois would have screamed if her jaw and tongue were working, but the long pink tongue hung out of her mouth like a panting dog over her now impossibly beestung lips, and the involuntary shudder of her body made her hump the ****-dealer's face as the tits swelled like bloody water balloons, sagging beneath their weight as 32Ds became 34Gs...and any more than that and perhaps they would have burst open.

The bimbo sank back, violet eyes rolled up in her head as further changes wracked her body...the pale skin darkened to a kind of bronze, platinum-blonde roots showed as her hair raven hair grew out, nails pressed out millimeter by millimeter from fingers and toes. With the great tits and and the thin waist she looked like a perfect beach bunny...and as Blaze stood up, her hands explored that tight body. All the excess fat had surged to Lois Lane's tits, which looked almost like implants in their near-spherical shape, sagging and dragging at the skin only because of their immense weight and volume compared to the palmable titties the reporter had walked in here with...and when Blaze placed a thumb against those swollen lips, each thicker than the ****-dealer's index finger, some instinct acted in Lois as they closed around it and began to suck.

"I like you like this, Lois," Blaze said, though she didn't expect the bimbo before her to understand. "Not a thought in that empty head. Just a slut. A part of me wants to keep you for myself...but another part of me says it would be good business to let the black men downstairs run a train on your bimbo pussy."

Lois Lane couldn't answer. Her lips sucked at the thumb, her wet pussy dripped.