Chapter 3

The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a dim glow through the living room’s wide windows as Mark trudged through the front door, his shoulders slumped from a long day at the biotech firm. His flannel shirt was creased, his calloused fingers loosening his tie as the weight of Leyla’s transformation pressed on him. The spacious suburban home felt hollow, the framed photos of her college graduation mocking him from the mantle. He’d expected her to be out, lost in the club’s neon haze, but there she was, sprawled on the plush sectional couch, a vision of trashy allure that stopped him cold.

Leyla’s sex appeal was a gut-punch: her full breasts strained a black lace crop top, the fabric sheer enough to hint at her nipples, paired with fishnet stockings that hugged her toned thighs, the mesh taut over her rounded hips. A red satin thong peeked above low-rise denim shorts, her rose tattoo vivid against her pale skin. Her platinum blonde hair fell in long, frayed waves past her shoulders, framing her hazel eyes, glassy and defiant, rimmed with smudged eyeliner. Cherry-red lipstick smeared her lips, her rhinestone-studded nails glinting as she counted stacks of twenties, rubber-banding them into neat piles on the coffee table.

“Hey, Dad,” she drawled, her voice lazy, slurred from whatever she’d taken. “Just sorting my cash for the bank deposit. Gotta keep it organized, y’know?” Her acrylic nails flicked a bill, her bangles clinking, her fishnets creaking as she shifted, one six-inch platform heel dangling off the couch.

Mark’s throat tightened, his briefcase hitting the floor with a thud. “Leyla, please,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’ve gotta stop this. Quit stripping. Put your resume out there, find a real job—something like your old one. You’re throwing your life away.” His plea was desperate, his guilt a lead weight—his headband had twisted her into this, her dedication to stripping a warped echo of his “dedicated to your career” suggestion.

Leyla laughed, a throaty, mocking sound, her glassy eyes rolling. “No fucking way, Dad. I’m killing it.” She leaned forward, her crop top slipping to bare more of her taut stomach, and grabbed a polaroid from the table, tossing it at him. “Check this out—me on Tony, the car dealer. Y’know, from those cheesy commercials? Dropped over a grand on me a few nights ago.” The photo showed her straddling a suited man, her thong barely covering her pussy, her rose tattoo flashing, her platinum hair wild. Mark’s hand trembled holding it, his cock twitching despite the horror sinking in his chest.

“I’m Diamond now,” she said, grinning, her fishnets snapping as she stretched, arms above her head, breasts straining the lace. “You should come see me sometime, Dad. I’d give you a free lap dance—bet you’d have fun.” Her tone was teasing, her lips curling into a provocative smirk, her invitation dripping with incestuous heat.

Mark’s face burned, his voice hoarse. “Leyla, stop. This isn’t you. You’re better than this.” But his eyes betrayed him, tracing her fishnets, her thong, the way her platforms arched her legs. His cock hardened, a shameful bulge in his slacks, and Leyla’s gaze flicked to it, her smirk widening.

She slid off the couch, sauntering closer, her hips swaying, her platforms clacking on the hardwood. “Gonna get my own place soon,” she said, twirling in a slow, teasing stripper move, her hands sliding down her thighs, fishnets taut. “Gonna install a pole, practice my skills. I’m the fucking queen at the club, Dad.” She bent slightly, her shorts riding lower, her thong’s red satin stark, mimicking a lap dance as she hummed a club beat. Mark’s cock throbbed, his mortification drowned by the heat pooling in his gut.

“Nice tent, Dad,” she said, giggling, her glassy eyes catching his. “No big deal—I know I’m a hot piece of ass. Totally natural you’re getting hard, even if I’m your kid.” Her bluntness was a knife, her confidence slutty and unashamed.

Mark stammered, his face flaming. “That’s not—I’m not—” he choked, stepping back, but Leyla just laughed, turning to the coffee table. She grabbed a baggie of coke from a clutter of paraphernalia—a rolled-up bill, a Xanax bottle with her name scrawled on it—and tapped out two lines on the glass surface. She snorted them fast, her head snapping back, a low moan escaping her smeared lips.

“Fuck, my new dealer’s got the best shit,” she said, wiping her nose with a rhinestone-studded finger. She popped a Xanax, swallowing it dry, her nonchalance a gut-punch to Mark’s horror. Her drugged, exploited state was his fault, his headband’s failure carving her into this wrecked, slutty creature.

Leyla stood, grabbing a black leather jacket from the couch’s arm, slipping it over her outfit, the fabric barely hiding the crop top and leaving the fishnets totally exposed. “Gotta hit the bank, deposit this haul,” she said, scooping up the rubber-banded stacks, her bangles clinking. “Then I’m doing a private party for some finance bros—gonna clean them out.” Her grin was wild, her pupils dilated from the coke, her platforms steady now as she strutted to the door.

She paused, turning to Mark, and leaned in, kissing him on the cheek, her nubile body pressing against his through the jacket, her perfume—cheap and sweet—flooding his senses. “See ya, Dad,” she purred, her cherry-red lips brushing his skin, her fishnets grazing his leg. She pulled back, her smirk knowing, and sauntered out, the front door clicking shut behind her.

Mark stood frozen, his cock throbbing painfully, his breath ragged. Her image—fishnets taut, polaroid’s thong, that teasing kiss—burned in his mind, his despair at her drug use and stripper life drowned by lust. He stumbled to his bedroom, slamming the door, and fumbled with his belt, his hand wrapping around his cock.

He jerked off in frantic strokes, Leyla’s voice—”I’m Diamond now”—and her slutty stretch looping, the polaroid’s erotic flash searing him. Guilt and shame choked him—he’d broken her, turned her into this exploited, drugged wreck—but his climax hit hard, the release hollow, his concern no match for the incestuous heat her trashy persona ignited. He slumped, sweat beading, her name a curse on his lips, the living room’s silence a mocking echo of his failure.

The house lay cloaked in midnight’s silence, the only sound the faint hum of the furnace in the basement. Mark sat hunched in his home office, the cluttered space awash in the cold blue glow of his laptop screen, casting stark shadows across stacks of biotech journals and circuit boards. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned, his calloused fingers gripping the edge of the desk, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. T

he headband’s interface software glowed on the screen, displaying Leyla’s brainwaves—a steady, undulating waveform confirming she was deep in REM sleep, the device snug on her forehead. She was home tonight, a rare night off from stripping, passed out in her room after a beer and a Xanax, her fishnet stockings still tangled on her floor. Mark’s heart ached with desperation—he had to fix her, had to pull her back from the abyss his headband had pushed her into.

Leyla’s sex appeal haunted him, a vivid ghost from the previous evening: her full breasts straining that black lace crop top, fishnets hugging her toned thighs, her red thong flashing above denim shorts, her platinum blonde waves framing her glassy, defiant eyes. Her cherry-red lips, smeared from coke, had taunted him as she kissed his cheek, her body pressed against his, leaving his cock throbbing. That polaroid of her grinding on Tony the car dealer, her rose tattoo stark, burned in his mind, as did her snort of coke, her casual “I’m Diamond now,” her offer of a free lap dance. She was a slutty wreck—drugged, exploited, counting stacks of twenties like a queen—her nonprofit career abandoned for the pole. Mark’s guilt was a vice, his headband’s failures—first warping her to chase lowlifes, then making her a stripper—proof he’d betrayed her trust, broken her brilliance.

He leaned back, his chair creaking, and searched his mind for a way to save her. The first suggestion, “You are drawn to men who give you what you deserve,” had twisted her into fucking thugs for cash, her “deserving” a chaotic hunger for degradation. The second, “You’re dedicated to your career,” had misfired into her stripper obsession, her ambition now tied to sequins and VIP rooms. Her glassy eyes, her Xanax bottle, her brassy taunt about his erection—”Totally natural, Dad”—flashed through him, each a wound.

He needed a suggestion broad enough to redirect her restless spark, precise enough to avoid another disaster. Fame, he thought—her old dreams of making a mark, of being known. Success, tied to something grander than the club’s neon lights. His fingers trembled as he opened the suggestion field, typing slowly.