Chapter 4

The living room was a cocoon of shadows, the only light the harsh glow of Mark’s laptop screen, casting his haggard face in blue. The suburban house was silent, the clock ticking past midnight, Leyla—”Diamond”—passed out in her bedroom after a molly-fueled filming session with Jade. Mark’s flannel shirt was unbuttoned, his calloused fingers trembling on the trackpad, his stomach churning with guilt as he clicked through her OnlyFans page, the red banner screaming Diamond’s Den of Filth. His cock was rock-hard, a traitor to his fatherly instincts, the shame of rushing to her content the instant Jade’s boots thudded out the door a knife in his gut. He’d heard them earlier—moans, shrieks, Leyla’s crude taunts—through her bedroom door, the makeshift studio’s ring light seeping under the frame. Now, alone, he couldn’t resist, hating himself as the hardcore set loaded, Leyla’s sex appeal a fucking sledgehammer.

She knelt on black satin sheets, her platinum extensions trailing past her waist, her “Slut” tattoo bold across her abdomen, a lacy black thong pulled aside, her pussy glistening. Her full breasts bounced, pierced nipples glinting with silver barbells, her pale skin slick with sweat, her hazel eyes dilated, rimmed with smudged eyeliner. Cherry-red lipstick smeared her lips, rhinestone-studded nails gripping a thick silicone dildo as she fucked Jade’s pussy, her finger buried in Jade’s tight asshole. Jade’s dragon tattoo flexed, her jet-black bob thrashing, her shrieks filling the speakers. Leyla’s voice, slurred from molly, taunted, “You love this nasty shit, don’t you?” to her fans, her bangles clinking, her six-inch platforms sinking into the mattress. Mark’s cock throbbed, his breath ragged, her nastiness—her grin, her “Slut” tattoo, her filthy enthusiasm—igniting a heat he couldn’t quell. But his heart sank, the realization hitting like a brick: his latest headband suggestion, “You want to be famous and successful,” had misfired, twisting her ambition into this pornstar empire, not the TED Talks he’d dreamed of. He’d broken her again, his guilt a crushing weight.

A creak behind him made Mark jump, his heart lurching as Leyla’s voice, husky and teasing, cut through. “Like my latest video, Daddy?”

He nearly knocked the laptop off the couch, his fingers fumbling to close the tab, his face burning. “Leyla, I—I wasn’t—” he stammered, but she laughed, a throaty, mocking sound, sauntering closer. Her sex appeal was relentless: a sheer pink crop top barely contained her pierced tits, the barbells visible, paired with a black leather micro-skirt, her rose tattoo peeking above a red thong. Her platinum extensions swayed, her glassy eyes gleaming, her cherry-red lips curled in a smirk, rhinestone nails glinting. Her platform heels clacked, her gold choker and hoop earrings catching the laptop’s glow, her perfume—cheap, cloying—flooding his senses as she leaned over him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her head nuzzling beside his, her tits brushing his back.

“Keep watching, Daddy,” she purred, her manicured fingers seizing the mouse, her bangles clinking as she clicked a new video. The screen flared with Leyla, naked save for her platforms, double-teamed by two rough, muscular, tattooed thugs, their huge cocks—thick, veined, obscene—pounding her pussy and mouth. Her moans were raw, her “Slut” tattoo stark as she took them, her platinum hair tangled, her pierced nipples bouncing. Mark’s cock pulsed, his shame screaming, but Leyla’s voice was relentless, her lips grazing his ear.

“I’m so fucking famous, Daddy,” she said, her tone filthy, dripping with pride. “Top 0.1% on OnlyFans, millions jerking off to me. They voted me ‘Nastiest Slut on the Internet’ last week—fuckin’ love that shit.” She giggled, her nails trailing his neck, her perfume choking him. “My fans eat it up, Daddy, begging for more in the comments—Fuck her harder, Diamond! This is real fame, not some bullshit desk job.”

Mark’s throat tightened, his voice a rasp. “Leyla, please, stop this,” but his cock betrayed him, straining against his slacks, her closeness a torment. She laughed, her fingers deftly unzipping his pants, pulling out his cock, her rhinestone nails wrapping around it, stroking slow, deliberate. “Those huge cocks felt so fucking good, Daddy,” she taunted, her voice low, her grip tightening. “I don’t fake my orgasms on camera—every scream’s 100% real. That’s why I’m a star.” Her words were a blade, her “Daddy” a twisted knife, the incestuous heat suffocating.

She clicked another video, her fingers still stroking, her bangles clinking. The screen showed Leyla on her knees in her bedroom, this very house, skull-fucked by an obscenely large cock, its girth choking her, tears streaming down her smudged face as the thug savaged her throat. Her gags were wet, desperate, her “Slut” tattoo flashing, her platforms wobbling as she took it. “This one was so fucking hot, Daddy,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, her hand pumping faster. “Shot it right here, in my room. Came so many times just from how he fucked my throat. Wanted to do anal, but that monster wouldn’t fit.” Her grin was audible, her pride in the filth searing Mark’s soul.

His guilt roared—he’d turned her into this, her OnlyFans stardom a warped echo of his suggestion, her brilliance reduced to tattoos and cumshots. But her hand, her voice, her “Daddy” taunts, were too much. His cock pulsed, the pressure building, her fingers slick with precum, her perfume drowning him. The video looped, Leyla’s gags filling the room, her tear-streaked face a mirror of her debauchery. “Fuck, Daddy, you love this, don’t you?” she purred, her pierced tits pressing harder, her strokes relentless.

Mark’s climax hit like a freight train, his cock erupting, high arcs of jizz spattering the laptop screen, splattering Leyla’s digital face, her “Slut” tattoo now streaked with his cum. He gasped, his body shaking, shame flooding him as Leyla giggled, her hand slowing, admiring his cock. “Nice size, Daddy,” she said, her voice sultry, still stroking lightly. “Perfect for fucking, and damn, that’s a great cumshot.” Her “Daddy” was a taunt, her approval a twisted validation, her bangles clinking as she released him.

She kissed his cheek, her cherry-red lips smearing, her perfume lingering as she stood, her micro-skirt riding up, her thong’s red strap stark. “Need a beer,” she said, strutting to the kitchen, her platform heels clacking, her ass swaying, the rose tattoo a taunt of its own. The fridge door hissed open, the clink of a bottle sharp in the silence.

Mark sat frozen, his cock softening, the laptop screen still smeared with his jizz, the skull-fucking video paused on Leyla’s tear-streaked grin. Guilt and arousal warred, his stomach churning—he’d created this pornstar, her fame a grotesque mockery of his hopes. Her “Nastiest Slut” title, her fans’ worship, her real orgasms, all his fault. Leyla strutted back, beer in hand, her glassy eyes catching his, winking as she sipped, her fishnet thigh brushing his arm. “Night, Daddy,” she purred, squeezing his arm, her bangles cold against his skin, her heels echoing as she sauntered to her room.

Mark’s hands trembled, closing the laptop, the living room plunging into darkness. Her voice—”I’m so fucking famous, Daddy”—and her cum-streaked digital face haunted him, his mortification a tidal wave, his arousal a shameful pulse. He’d failed her, his headband twisting her into this filthy star, and yet his cock twitched at the thought of her next video, his soul torn between despair and depravity.

The home office was a fortress of shadows, the only light the sterile glow of Mark’s laptop screen, carving harsh angles across his drawn face. The house was still, past 2 a.m., the faint hum of the air conditioner a distant pulse. Mark sat hunched, his flannel shirt damp with sweat, his calloused fingers gripping the desk’s edge, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the headband’s interface software. The screen showed Leyla’s brainwaves, a steady ripple confirming she was deep in REM sleep, the device pulsing faintly on her forehead. She’d crashed after her OnlyFans shoot with Jade, molly and beer knocking her out, her bedroom a chaotic studio of ring lights and discarded thongs. Mark’s chest tightened, desperation clawing at him—he had to fix this, had to save his daughter from the pornstar abyss he’d created. But her image, “Diamond,” burned in his mind, her sex appeal a relentless torment.

Leyla’s allure was a fucking blade: her platinum extensions trailing past her waist, her “Slut” tattoo bold across her abdomen, her pierced nipples glinting through a sheer pink crop top, her red thong flashing under a leather micro-skirt. Her glassy hazel eyes, smeared with eyeliner, had locked onto his as she leaned over him last night, her cherry-red lips taunting, “Like my latest video, Daddy?” Her perfume—cheap, cloying—had choked him, her rhinestone-studded nails stroking his cock, her bangles clinking as she played her skull-fucking video, her tear-streaked face gagging on a monster cock right here in their house. His climax had been explosive, jizz spattering the laptop, her “Nice size, Daddy” and cheek-kiss searing him. That moment, her “Nastiest Slut on the Internet” brag, her top 0.1% OnlyFans status, haunted him, his cock twitching even now, shame a lead weight in his gut.

Mark’s mind churned, searching for a way to pull her back. The headband’s failures mocked him. First, “You are drawn to men who give you what you deserve” had twisted her into fucking lowlifes for cash, her “deserving” a hunger for chaos. Then, “You’re dedicated to your career” birthed her stripper obsession, her ambition warped into sequins and pole dances. The third, “You want to be famous and successful,” had spiraled into her OnlyFans empire, her brilliance reduced to “Slut” tattoos and fan comments begging Fuck her harder, Diamond! Her coke-snorting, her Xanax pops, her double-teaming by tattooed thugs, her throat savaged in her bedroom—all his fault, his neural tampering betraying her trust. He’d turned her into this drugged, exploited wreck, her nonprofit dreams dust beneath her platforms.

He paced the office, the floor creaking, his hands raking through his hair. How to fix this? A suggestion to restore her old self—her climate analyst hustle, her sharp mind? But her glassy eyes, her “Daddy” purrs, her cum-streaked digital face, kept intruding, his cock stirring at the memory of her hand on him, her “great cumshot” praise. He hated himself, his arousal a sick betrayal, yet the thought of her submitting to him, her pornstar filth turned inward, lingered. He needed control, a way to steer her without another misfire. Respect, obedience—something to anchor her to him, to pull her from the club, the camera, the thugs.

Mark sat, his chair groaning, and opened the suggestion field, his fingers trembling. He typed, each keystroke a rationalization.

You will obey and respect your father.

The words glowed, a double-edged sword. He told himself it was for her good—to make her listen, to guide her back to college, to a real job, away from molly and huge cocks. But a darker truth gnawed: he wanted her under his thumb, her “Daddy” taunts made real, her slutty devotion his to command. The suggestion was broad, dangerous—her mind could twist it, like before, into something fucked-up. Yet the image of her kneeling, calling him “Daddy” in that husky voice, her pierced tits bared, fueled his resolve, his guilt warring with lust.

His cursor hovered over the “Activate” button, his breath shallow. This was another lie, another pulse into her sleeping mind, risking her further ruin. He saw her snorting coke, tossing him that polaroid of her on Tony, her lips brushing his cheek, her hand pumping his cock. His failure loomed—her OnlyFans fame, her “Nastiest Slut” title, all his doing. But he had to try, had to believe he could save her, even as his cock stiffened in his pants, the thought of her obedience a twisted thrill.

He clicked. The software hummed, a progress bar ticking as the headband’s language-center stimulation engaged, beaming the command into her brain. The screen flashed: Suggestion Active. Mark slumped, exhaustion crashing over him, his body sagging in the chair. Fear gnawed—what would this unleash? Would she obey him, respect him, return to the daughter he’d lost? Or would her mind warp it, her “Diamond” persona bending his words into something nastier, her “Daddy” taunts a prelude to deeper depravity?

His cock throbbed, the memory of her stroking him, her “perfect for fucking” compliment, looping in his head. Guilt drowned him—he was a monster, twisting her mind for control, maybe for pleasure. Yet the confirmation’s glow held a flicker of hope, dimmed by dread. He closed the laptop, the office plunging into darkness, the lamp’s faint light outlining his trembling frame. Leyla’s image—platinum hair, “Slut” tattoo, that cum-smeared screen—clung to him, her “Night, Daddy” wink a promise of chaos. Mark shuffled to bed, his joints aching, his soul torn between saving her and the sick thrill of what she might become.

One month later...

The living room was dim, the late evening sun bleeding through half-closed blinds, casting slatted shadows across the worn leather couch where Mark slumped. A cold beer sweated in his hand, the bottle’s label peeling under his calloused fingers, his flannel shirt unbuttoned, his work shoes still laced. The suburban house felt like a cage, the silence heavy with his worry for Leyla. Her OnlyFans stardom—”Diamond,” the “Nastiest Slut on the Internet”—consumed his thoughts, her molly-fueled shoots with Jade, her double-teaming by tattooed thugs, her tear-streaked skull-fucking video all replaying in his mind. The headband, his biotech creation, had warped her, his “You will obey and respect your father” suggestion twisting her into this pornstar nightmare instead of the grounded daughter he’d hoped to salvage. Guilt gnawed at him—he’d broken her, pushed her into drugs and depravity—but her “Daddy” taunts, her hand stroking his cock, her cum-smeared grin haunted him, his lust a traitor he couldn’t silence.

The front door swung open, and Leyla strutted in, a vision of pure sluttitude that stopped Mark’s breath. Her sex appeal was a fucking apocalypse: her jet-black hair, streaked with neon pink and baby-blue, fell in long, glossy waves past her waist, framing her glassy hazel eyes, rimmed with smudged black eyeliner and silver shadow. Her lips, glossy cherry-red, curled in a sultry smirk, a barbell tongue stud glinting as she licked them. Silicone implants swelled her full breasts, straining a sheer red crop top, her pierced nipples pressing through, silver barbells winking. A black vinyl micro-skirt barely covered her rounded hips, a lacy purple thong visible above it, her rose tattoo vivid on her lower back, a “Slut” inked across her abdomen. New tattoos snaked across her thighs—vines and skulls—and a fresh one, “Daddy’s Girl,” glowed in cursive across her collarbone, the ink stark against her pale, glitter-dusted skin. Fishnet stockings hugged her toned legs, six-inch platform heels clacking, her rhinestone-studded nails clutching a vape pen, her gold choker and hoop earrings catching the light. Her perfume—cheap, cloying—hit him like a drug, her molly-high sway screaming danger and desire.