Chapter 5

The home office was a shadowed purgatory, the laptop’s glow carving stark lines across Mark’s haggard face, his calloused hands clutching the headband like a cursed relic. The clock ticked past 2 a.m., the house silent, Leyla’s bedroom empty—she was out stripping, her “Diamond” persona grinding for cash. Mark’s flannel shirt clung to his sweat-soaked chest, his eyes bloodshot, the moral dilemma before him a fucking guillotine. The headband, his biotech brainchild, had ruined his daughter, the girl he’d raised alone for years. His suggestions had warped her into a coked-up pornstar, her “Slut” and “Daddy’s Girl” tattoos branding her descent. Her OnlyFans empire, her “Nastiest Slut on the Internet” title, her molly-fueled fucks, all screamed his failure.

Mark’s mind churned, guilt a vice around his heart. Leyla’s brilliance—her climate analyst dreams, her sharp wit—was gone, replaced by silicone tits, pink and blue hair streaks, and “Daddy” moans as she rode his cock. He’d cum inside her, her “perfect for fucking” taunts echoing, her joy in her pornstar life a knife. Could he save her? Rewire her back to the girl who’d hugged him at graduation, not the one who’d known about the headband and loved her “nasty, writhing, horny slut” self?

A new suggestion—”You want to be a scientist again”—might undo the damage, but her glassy eyes, her “Daddy’s Girl” tattoo, her cum-soaked pussy haunted him, his cock twitching at the memory of her blowjob, her grind, her Daddy-worship. Embracing her meant surrendering to depravity, fucking his daughter, maybe joining her OnlyFans shoots. Saving her meant fighting her happiness, her millions, her “Daddy” purrs. The headband sat heavy in his hands, a Pandora’s box—use it again, or destroy it? His soul tore, lust and shame a fucking inferno.

The front door slammed, and Leyla strutted in, fresh from the strip club. A moment later she was at the door of his office, her smirk wicked as she saw the headband. Her sex appeal was a goddamn apocalypse: jet-black hair with neon pink and blue streaks fell past her waist, framing her glassy hazel eyes, smudged with glittery teal eyeliner. Her glossy purple lips curled, her barbell tongue stud glinting. A silver bikini top barely held her silicone tits, her pierced nipples outlined, paired with a pleather mini-skirt, slit to her hip, a red G-string flashing. Her “Slut” tattoo glowed across her abdomen, “Daddy’s Girl” cursive stark on her collarbone, a new barbed-wire tattoo circling her bicep, her rose and thigh ink vivid. Thigh-high latex boots clicked, her rhinestone nails clutching a vape pen, her silver choker and chandelier earrings gleaming, her glitter-dusted skin reeking of stripper perfume—sweet, musky. Her molly-high sway screamed filth, a coke-dusted nostril betraying her night.

“Second thoughts, Daddy?” she purred, her voice slurred but sharp, sauntering closer, her boots creaking. “Gonna wimp out on what you fucking created, like a little bitch?” Her laugh was throaty, her “Daddy” taunt a blade, her glassy eyes locked on his.

Mark stood, heart pounding, but she pushed him back into his chair, her nails digging into his shoulders, her strength surprising. “Leyla, this was a mistake,” he rasped, guilt choking him, the headband glinting on the desk. She slid onto his lap, her firm ass grinding his bulging cock, her pleather skirt riding up, her G-string brushing his jeans, her perfume drowning him.

“Fuck that, Daddy,” she moaned, her silicone tits pressing his chest, her nails raking his neck, bangles clinking. “Wasn’t no fucking mistake. You made me a slutty goddess. Now tell your little girl how this toy works.” Her grind intensified, her “Daddy’s Girl” tattoo inches from his face, her latex boots creaking.

Mark groaned, his cock throbbing, her heat a fucking spell. “We can’t, Leyla—I fucked you up,” he protested, his voice cracking, shame flaring—her coke binges, her stripper nights, his fault. But her smirk, her “no mistake” echo, crushed him.

“Please, show me, Daddy,” she purred, her lips grazing his ear, her grind relentless, her “little girl” taunt unstoppable.

He couldn’t say no, her spoiled-nasty will breaking him. “It’s ... the laptop,” he stammered, pointing to the screen, his hands trembling. “You type a suggestion, set parameters—language-center stimulation. It rewires neural pathways during REM.” His voice was weak, her grind scrambling his brain, the round ass against grinding his cock through his pants driving him mad with lust.

Leyla nodded, her glassy eyes sharp, leaning to the screen, her tits brushing his arm. “So, I just type what I want you to be, Daddy?” she asked, her voice clear, her drugged haze no match for her cunning. “What’s the range—how fucking deep does it go?” Her questions were precise, her mind cutting through molly and coke, proving she was no dumb slut.

Mark’s breath hitched, his cock pulsing, her control terrifying, arousing. “Deep—permanent, if you max it,” he admitted, guilt screaming as he realized what she had in mind. He’d rewired her, now she’d rewire him. Her smirk widened, her nails stroking his bulge, her “good girl” act clearly a fucking trap, her headband plan a depraved mirror of his own.

“Good, that’s all I fucking need to know, Daddy,” she purred, snatching the headband, her bangles clinking, her latex boots creaking as she leaned in. With a wicked grin, she slid it onto Mark’s temples, the cold electrodes biting his skin, her rhinestone nails grazing his scalp. “Time for us to go to bed, Daddy,” she moaned, her voice slurred but commanding, her G-string grinding harder, her perfume drowning him.

Mark’s heart lurched, panic surging. “Leyla, no—please, it was a fucking mistake!” he pleaded, his voice cracking, hands grabbing her wrists, the headband’s weight a guillotine. He’d ruined her—stripper, pornstar, “Nastiest Slut on the Internet”—his suggestions twisting her brilliance into cumshots and coke. “Don’t do this, I’m begging you!” His guilt roared, her “Daddy’s Girl” tattoo a brand of his sin, their father-daughter bond defiled.

She laughed, throaty, spoiled-nasty, her glassy eyes blazing. “Oh, Daddy, I’m making sure you wear this fucker,” she taunted, her silicone tits bouncing, her grind relentless. “Gonna sleep in your bed, right next to you, after riding your dick for hours. Stripping worked up a good fuck-thirst, and your little girl needs to let off some steam.” Her words dripped filth, her mini-skirt riding higher, her G-string soaked.

Mark begged again, “Leyla, stop—this isn’t right!” his voice desperate, shame flooding him—her drugged haze, her “Slut” tattoo, his fault. But she slid off his lap, dropping to her knees, her latex boots squeaking, her nails unzipping his jeans, pulling out his cock, already hardening despite his protests. Her glossy purple lips wrapped around him, her tongue stud dragging along his shaft, a slow, wet suck that made him shudder, her bangles clinking, her pink and blue streaks swaying.

She popped off, her smirk wicked, spit glistening on her lips. “No fucking way you’re saying no to blowjobs like this, Daddy,” she purred, her hand stroking his cock, her tongue stud flicking the tip. “Your slutty daughter sucking you off daily? You’re too fucking weak to pass that up.” She sucked again, deep, her throat tight, her gags deliberate, her “Slut” tattoo flashing as her head bobbed, her chandelier earrings swaying.

Mark groaned, his hands gripping the chair, his cock pulsing, her mouth a fucking furnace. “Leyla, please,” he rasped, his plea hollow, guilt screaming—he’d turned his daughter into this, her OnlyFans millions, her Daddy-worship his doing. But her tongue stud, her “slutty daughter” taunts, her relentless suction, broke him. His hips bucked, her glassy eyes gleaming triumph, her blowjob a weapon of coercion, her “Daddy” roleplay unstoppable.

She popped off again, stroking faster, her nails slick with spit. “You love your little girl’s mouth, don’t you, Daddy?” she moaned, her latex boots creaking, her G-string visible as she knelt. “Gonna fuck me all night, then sleep with this headband on, ‘cause I’m your nasty slut forever.” Her filthy promise, her “daily blowjobs” taunt, sealed his surrender, his groans drowning his protests, his lust consuming his shame.

Leyla stood, her mini-skirt falling back, her G-string snapped, her lips kissing his neck, smearing gloss. “Let’s go, Daddy,” she purred, tugging him toward the bedroom, the headband tight on his temples, her “fuck-thirst” a fucking vow. Mark stumbled after her, his cock throbbing, guilt a faint pulse under her spell, unable to resist his depraved daughter, her plan a dark mirror of his own.

The warehouse was a festering pit, its air thick with rust and sweat, the concrete floor strewn with broken glass and condom wrappers, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Mark stood behind a tripod-mounted camera, his flannel shirt open, his calloused hands tweaking the focus, his voice barking orders. “Slam that pussy harder, Diamond!” His daughter, whom he’d raised alone from a little girl, was “Diamond,” a pornstar goddess, her jet-black hair with neon pink and blue streaks flailing as she rode DeShawn—a paroled felon, all muscle and skull tattoos—on a stained mattress, her pussy grinding his massive black cock, her moans ricocheting off the walls. It had been a month since that night when Leyla had taken control of the headband, and things had hanged drastically.

Leyla was obscene perfection: her jet-black hair, streaked pink and blue, stuck to her sweat-drenched back, framing her glassy hazel eyes, smudged with black eyeliner and gold glitter. Her glossy red lips, barbell tongue stud flashing, spewed filth for the camera, her silicone tits—now grotesquely massive, upgraded last week—bounced like pornographic orbs, her pierced nipples’ diamond studs glinting. A shredded fishnet crop top clung to her implants, her “Slut” tattoo stark across her abdomen, “Daddy’s Girl” cursive bold on her collarbone, a barbed-wire tattoo circling her bicep, vines and skulls on her thighs, a rose on her lower back. A leather micro-skirt, bunched at her waist, bared her shaved pussy, a new silver ring piercing glistening as she rode, her thigh-high vinyl boots creaking, rhinestone nails digging into DeShawn’s chest, her silver choker and hoop earrings gleaming. Her molly-high sway, coke dusting her nostril, screamed chaos, her musky stripper perfume choking the air.