Chapter 2

The late afternoon sun slanted through the suburban home’s windows, casting golden streaks across the foyer as Mark pulled into the driveway. His shoulders ached from a day at the biotech firm, his flannel shirt damp with sweat, his calloused fingers lingering on the steering wheel.

The morning’s image of Leyla—reeking of whiskey, her thong peeking from ripped jeans, her brassy smirk—haunted him. He wondered if she’d be home now, sprawled in a hangover nap, the headband she wore religiously glowing on her forehead, or if she’d already vanished into another night of chaos. Guilt gnawed at him, the headband’s misfired suggestion turning his brilliant daughter into a creature of dive bars and lowlifes.

He stepped inside, the house eerily still, the hum of the air conditioner barely audible. The spacious foyer, with its polished hardwood and framed photos of Leyla’s college graduation, felt like a relic of a fading life. He dropped his keys on the console, his ears catching a faint sound—rhythmic, growing louder. A thumping, punctuated by sharp cries, echoed from the hallway. Leyla’s room. Mark’s throat tightened, dread and shameful curiosity tugging him toward the noise like a current.

The sounds swelled as he crept closer—grunts, moans, the unmistakable slap of flesh on flesh. Leyla’s sex appeal burned in his mind: her full breasts straining that neon crop top, her toned waist bare, her rounded hips swaying in low-rise jeans, a black thong’s strap brazen against her pale skin. His cock stirred, a betrayal of his fatherly instincts, as he reached her closed door, the wood cool under his trembling fingers. The headboard slammed against the wall, a relentless bang-bang-bang shaking the house. Leyla’s voice, raw and desperate, sliced through the din.

“Fuck me harder, you bastard!” she shrieked, her words thick with lust and liquor. “Come on, tear this pussy up!”

A man’s voice, deep and gravelly, answered with a sneer. “You fucking slut, you love this cock, don’t you? Beg for it, whore.”

Mark’s breath caught, his ear inches from the door, Leyla’s crude plea hitting like a fist. Her moan was eager, a throaty gasp. “Yes, yes, give it to me!” she cried, the headboard’s tempo quickening, the wall shuddering with each violent thrust.

Another slap rang out—skin on skin, sharp and deliberate. Leyla’s gasping cry followed. “Harder, fucker! Make it hurt!” Mark’s cock hardened painfully in his jeans, his hand hovering near the doorknob, trembling. He should walk away, but her transformed allure—those stilettos clicking, her smeared lipstick, her reckless giggle—rooted him.

The man’s voice growled again. “Nasty bitch, taking it like this. You think this pussy’s worth a hundred bucks? Overpriced piece of trash.”

Leyla laughed, wild and unhinged. “You’d be lucky to find pussy this good for double, asshole—just out of prison and you’re already hooked!”

Mark’s blood froze. The thug fucking his daughter a fresh ex-con. The headband, still pulsing its warped suggestion into her sleeping mind, had drawn her to this—a criminal who paid for her body. Guilt surged, a blade in his chest. He’d twisted her into this damaged, slutty creature chasing degradation.

Another slap echoed, Leyla’s shriek louder. “Faster, you prick, make me cum!”

The man snarled. “Greedy whore, you’ll get your cash—now take this dick.”

The headboard’s slams turned frantic, Leyla’s cries peaking. “Fuck, yes, I’m cumming!”

The man’s roar matched her. “Take it, you cheap slut!”

Their shared climax filled the hall, raw and unrestrained, Leyla’s moans fading into breathless gasps. Mark’s cock was rock-hard, throbbing against his zipper, his body a traitor as his mind reeled with horror. He’d turned her into this—a girl fucking criminals for money, her “deserving” warped into this filthy transaction. He stumbled back, his face burning, and hurried to his bedroom, the sounds of their fucking echoing in his ears.

He slammed his door, his breath ragged, and fumbled with his belt, his hand wrapping around his cock. He jerked off in desperate strokes, Leyla’s shrieks—”Tear this pussy up!”—and her cum-soaked moans looping in his head. Her image—pale skin, thong-bared hips, that provocative smirk—drove him, his arousal a sickening pulse. Guilt and shame drowned him—he’d broken her, betrayed her trust with the headband’s failure, creating this degraded version of his daughter. Yet he couldn’t stop, his cock pulsing as he came, the release sharp and empty. He slumped against the bed, sweat beading on his brow, the silence deafening. Leyla was his creation, and he’d ruined her, his shame as undeniable as the arousal still smoldering in his veins.

The house was shrouded in midnight’s hush, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock in the hall. Mark sat in his home office, the cluttered space illuminated by the sterile glow of his laptop screen, casting jagged shadows across bookshelves. Tonight his focus was singular. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he stared at the headband’s interface software. The display showed Leyla’s brainwaves, a steady waveform confirming she was deep in REM sleep, the headband still snug on her forehead.

Mercifully, Leyla hadn’t gone back out after that afternoon’s horror. Mark had heard the ex-con leave, his heavy boots thudding down the hall along with Leyla’s heels, followed by the pop of another beer bottle and her unsteady footsteps heading back to her room. He’d checked on her an hour later, peering through her cracked door to see her sprawled across the bed, her neon crop top askew, the headband’s blue glow pulsing faintly from her temple.

Her sex appeal, even in sleep, was undeniable—her full breasts half-bared, her toned waist curving into rounded hips, her pale skin stark against the tangled sheets. The image burned, joining the day’s worse memories: her thong peeking from ripped jeans, her shrieks of “Tear this pussy up!” as she fucked a criminal for cash. Mark’s cock twitched at the thought, a shameful reflex he fought to bury.

His guilt was a crushing weight. The headband, meant to draw her to “men who give you what you deserve,” had warped her into a slutty, damaged creature chasing chaos—dive bar hookups, transactional sex with lowlifes fresh from prison. Her job, once her pride, was crumbling; her boss’s voicemails about missed deadlines piled up. Mark blamed himself—not just for the headband’s misfire, but for failing her as a father, letting her restless spark chase men who degraded her. She was ruining her life, and he’d pushed her there, betraying her trust with his neural tampering. He had to fix it, refocus her before she was lost forever.

Mark opened the suggestion field on the software, his breath shallow. The first attempt had been too vague, twisted by her mind into a craving for raw thrills. He needed precision, something to anchor her to the driven, brilliant woman she’d been. His fingers typed, deliberate and slow.

You’re dedicated to your career.

The words glowed on the screen, a beacon of hope. He pictured her back at her nonprofit, leading policy briefs, her desk piled with reports, her ambition reignited. Her career—her junior analyst role, hard-won with near-perfect grades—was her foundation, the key to pulling her from this abyss.

His hands trembled as he moved the cursor to the “Activate” button. The weight of his deception pressed harder—another lie, another untested pulse into her sleeping mind. But the alternative was worse: Leyla spiraling deeper, fucking thugs for coke, her life wreckage. He clicked.

The software hummed softly, a progress bar ticking as the headband’s language-center stimulation engaged, beaming the new suggestion into her brain. The laptop screen flashed a confirmation: Suggestion Active. Mark exhaled, relief flooding him, though his chest still ached with guilt.

He closed the laptop, the office plunging into near-darkness, the desk lamp’s faint glow outlining his tense frame. Images of Leyla’s slutty persona—her smeared lipstick, her stilettos clicking, her crude moans for more—clung to his mind, her transformed allure a torment. His cock stirred again, the memory of jerking off to her cries that afternoon a fresh wound.

But he clung to hope. This new suggestion would restore her, bring back the healthy, focused daughter he’d raised. Once she was herself again, these shameful urges—the incestuous heat her degraded state ignited—would fade. They had to. Mark stood, his chair creaking, and shuffled to bed, the confirmation’s glow a fragile promise against the darkness of his guilt.

One month later...

The strip club locker room thrummed with chaotic energy, a haze of perfume and cigarette smoke curling under flickering fluorescent lights. Dancers crowded the space, their laughter and curses ricocheting off chipped tile walls, their sequined costumes flashing as they elbowed for room. Leyla stood before a tall, vertical mirror, her reflection a siren of raw, unapologetic allure.

Her full breasts strained a glittery silver bikini top, the tiny triangles barely holding her curves, tied with thin strings that bit into her pale, sallow skin. A matching thong rode high on her rounded hips, the fabric vanishing between her toned cheeks, a fresh rose tattoo blooming across her lower back. Her hair, now a platinum blonde cascade, fell past her shoulders in loose, grown-out waves, the ends frayed from late nights.

Her hazel eyes, bloodshot but blazing with excitement, were framed by thick black eyeliner and shimmering blue shadow, her full lips glossy with cherry-red lipstick. Long acrylic nails, neon pink and studded with rhinestones, glinted as she adjusted her jewelry—a chunky gold choker, oversized hoop earrings, and a clinking stack of bangles on her wrist. Her six-inch platform heels, silver and scuffed, gave her a wobbly, defiant swagger, her smooth legs sparkling with body glitter. Leyla’s sex appeal was magnetic, a trashy confidence that screamed hunger, her body a canvas for her new life.

She primped with restless precision, her mannerisms twitchy—a bitten lip, a quick hair-toss, a tap of her nails against the mirror’s frame. She swiped more gloss across her lips, smacking them with a smug grin, then leaned forward to dust glitter onto her cheekbones, her bikini top straining with the motion. Leyla had quit her nonprofit job weeks ago, trading policy reports for the pole, the VIP rooms, the cash-stuffed nights of stripping. She fucking loved it—the rush of hungry eyes, the power of her curves, the money piling up.

She twirled a bangle, checking its gleam, then spritzed cheap perfume, the cloying sweetness clinging to her skin. Dancers bumped past, one grumbling about a lousy tipper, another cackling as she adjusted her thong. Leyla tuned them out, her focus on her reflection, her platinum waves catching the light as she tilted her head, smirking. She was a queen here, thriving in sequins and stilettos.