Rewiring a Recalcitrant Daughter Ch. 01

I started three mind control stories at about the same, interring one about two-thirds of the way through. It was, well, let's just say it's best interred. I'm still working on the other.

As to this story, there is another chapter in the works.

I've read a slender magazine named Science News for years. Recent articles about the brain's pleasure centers and neural progenitor cells were the inspiration for this story. Not that you asked, but I highly recommend Science News to any Literotica layperson interested in science.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activity are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * *

Kahili was watching Linda peck at her salad. Both had just tried out, unsuccessfully, for the new dance revue at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Kahili had begged off ordering lunch, saying she'd already eaten. The truth: she was out of money.

Linda, who had recently been in the same circumstance, recognized Kahili's hungry look and thinking that Kahili was just the kind of desperate girl Rico had told her to be on the look-out for, the kind who, if they worked out, would earn Linda a crisp $100.00 bill, slid the salad across the table.

"My eyes were bigger than my stomach, do you want some? It won't sit well in the frig and I hate wasting food."

"Sure, thanks" said Kahili, who ate just enough to dull her hunger and then, worrying about her weight - how many calories were in that salad dressing Linda had gooped all over the lettuce - pushed the plate away.

"C'mon, why don't you come down tonight. They're looking for new girls and the money's great."

Kahili was depressed, friendless and lonely, about to be booted from her filthy boarding house because she couldn't pay the rent, out of money, no job prospects, no place to go. While the thought of a roomful of drunken men staring at her as she stripped was repulsive, it was better than living on the streets or returning to her father.

* * * *

It was 3:00 A.M. Henry Jamison, for the thousandth time, reviewed his life, while Bill Quigley, his friend and head of security at Jamison Enterprises, worked several computers and a couple of phones.

Henry had loved Camille. They were cut from the same cloth, high school sweethearts from middle-class families. They'd married young, she'd had Kahili right away, and then became his biggest cheerleader as he, harnessing the power of the internet before his competitors even knew it existed, turned the family florist shop into a national delivery service. With costs at near zero, profits poured and Henry expanded into an array of down-market products that other on-line retailers ignored.

But success had a price. Henry told himself that if he was faithful, and he had been, and made a lot of money he was a good husband. He was usually on the road or at the office and, when home the job came with him. Living in a world of money and society wholly new to him, infatuated with his own success, he was the was king of the hill, the hot new thing. His wife, a small town girl, was uncomfortable in this new world and, isolated and lonely, lived for two things, their daughter and, increasingly, a dangerous drug habit.

Quigley had tried to warn him, but Jamison, too busy to pay real attention, would accept his wife's bland assurances that everything was under control before scurrying off to the next deal. Then he got the phone call, Camille was in the hospital. She never got out.

Kahili blamed him; he blamed himself and, mired in depression and self-loathing, he was unavailable to Kahili when, grieving the loss of her mother, she most needed him. Instead, as he had with Camille, he substituted money for care, further widening the rift between them. When Kahili declared she wanted no part of his world and threatened to drop out of high school, she was sent to an expensive boarding school. When she got herself kicked out of it and said she wanted to be a ballerina, she was enrolled at the best school in the country. But while talented, she'd started far too late to succeed in one of the most competitive fields in the world.

She developed an eating disorder, the expensive treatment facilities had temporary successes.

By the time Henry understood his mistake it was too late, his attempts at reconciliation still-born in the face of Kahili's unremitting hostility. At eighteen she declared herself independent, took her mother's maiden name Blondell, and moved to Las Vegas to make it as a dancer.

Through it all Quigley kept close tabs on her. And so far, he'd reported, she'd avoided drugs. But Quigley was not optimistic.

Sitting there, Henry recalled his friend's words: "Boss, so far so good, but she's got an addictive personality: impulsive, sensation-seeking, parades her non-conformity, socially alienated, compulsive. We should be worried."

* * * *

Quigley put down the phones, turned to his friend.

"She auditioned at the MGM, didn't get the job We talked to the hiring guy, he was like all the rest. Says she's a good dancer, but she dances like a ballerina and they want something more..."

Henry saw his friend pace, understood why, and said, "C'mon Bill, you can say it."

"... sexual. She's been starving herself again, he said she had the build of an eight year old boy. My guys thanked him, let him know we'd make it worth his while if he hired her for the next show.

"After she was cut she ate lunch with a fellow dancer named Linda Johnson. We couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation. Kahili went back to the boarding house, told the land lady she had a job that night and would be able to pay the rent. She went to a strip club named Heavenly Bodies, met Linda, they went backstage."

* * * *

Kahili had been dancing in stilettos for six hours. She was exhausted, everything hurt; the men were fat and ugly, the place stank, and her tips, especially compared to the other dancers, scant. Linda suggested she try looking happier on stage and when asked for a lap dance, put her heart, soul, and rump into it, but Kahili couldn't fake it. She hated the place, the men, hell she didn't even like sex.

She said she was leaving, but the manager, backed by a heavily-muscled bouncer, said he promised his public an even dozen dancers and he'd deliver an even dozen dancers.

During a short break Linda laid out a line of cocaine.

"Hey Kahili, take a hit, it will get you through the night."

Kahili, haunted by the memory of her mother, had never tried the drug, but tonight, depressed and desperate, she did.

At the end of her shift the manager said she needed a better attitude, she should show some enthusiasm, and then pawing her breasts, suggested a clinic that could turn those tiny titties into a happy handfuls that would make Kahili real money. High on the cocaine she slapped him and stormed out, leaving most of her tips behind.

* * * *

The manger was sitting with Rico, the bouncer, counting the take.

"You sure she'll call."

"Yeah, I gave Linda top-of-the-line shit. Kahili will be coming down from it any minute. When she does she'll be desperate for more, call Linda, who'll give her another hit. She'll be hooked and the only way she'll be able to afford it is to run drugs for us."

The door to the office opened. Two imposing uninvited gentlemen stepped in.

* * * *

Quigley said, "She's had other opportunities to dance topless, but turned them down. That she was willing to do so last night, well, Henry, she's at the end of her rope, she's worn out.

"Heavenly Bodies was a typical operation, it hooks the dancers on coke; the drug keeps them in a good mood, let's them dance all night, and the girls spend the money they make dancing buying drugs from the club or, if they fail as dancers, run drugs in exchange for a daily fix. Kahili snorted some, then left the club after a fight with the manager. When she started to come down she texted Linda, looking for more, then called her ninety seconds later - she must have been desperate - and found the line disconnected. She called the club, got the same result. We'd shut the place down."

"Boss we can only do so much. Kahili is not coming home on her own and there's a million sources of drugs out there. She'll find another way to get then, it's only a matter of time."

Jamison leaned back, studied the ceiling, recalled the image of his wife in the hospital.

"And you're confident that Wong's getting the results he advertises?"

"We punched through his computer's security, checked his raw data. It looks real good."

"Okay, call the hanger, get the plane ready, let Wong know we're on our way."

* * * *

Quigley's operative entered Kahili's room, rendered her unconscious.

During the flight Jamison studied the purloined information. Quigley was right, Wong's results were as good as advertised.

* * * *

Kahili was squirming in bed. She couldn't focus, her skin itched, she needed a hit, just one, to clear her mind, then she'd quit, she wouldn't end up like her mother. She texted Linda; when she didn't immediately respond Kahili called, odd, Linda's phone was disconnected. She called the club, same thing. Was there something wrong with her phone? She could get dressed, go to the club, but what kind of reception would she get? She tried to sleep, but she wanted another hit. She didn't hear the man enter her room.

* * * *

The next morning the landlady found Kahili's room empty. That a tenant had disappeared in the middle of the night was not unusual, many of the girls who came to Vegas looking for fame and fortune snuck away, out of money, dreams broken. What was unusual was that Kahili left the place spit-spot clean and an envelope with a nice note giving the required thirty days notice and enough fresh $100.00 bills to pay both the back and next month's rent.

Everything being in order, the landlady didn't report the disappearance to the police and so didn't notice that the lease, with her tenant's picture and background information, was no longer in her files.

* * * *

Henry Jamison and Bill Quigley were ushered into Wong's sumptuous private conference room, full of wood and leather, where Wong was waiting with his two stunning assistants, Misaki, from Wong's native Japan, and Lopita, an almost jet black Nigerian.

"Good to see you again Bill and a pleasure to finally meet you Mr. Jamison."

"Good to meet you Dr. Wong, Bill's been telling me about your operation here. He's impressed."

"He's very kind."

"He's also almost always right. Now, why don't you tell me me how all this works."

* * * *

"The brain has pleasure centers, areas that become intensely active when a person experiences something pleasing. One way to think about this is that the brain is reacting to positive external stimuli, but it's just as true to say that the brain creates the pleasure, then its person credits the stimuli. Let me demonstrate."

On a monitor behind Dr. Wong a group of mice dashed to a bowl of water, fleeing after a quick taste. The scene replayed itself, but this time the mice drank desperately.

"On both occasions the mice were equally thirsty and the water equally rancid. However, the second time a magnetic field was stimulating the pleasure centers of the mice's brains. When it did the mice," Wong gestured to the monitor, where the mice were still drinking, "found the rancid water delicious. In fact, right now they're drinking far past the point they'd ordinarily find comfortable. So in this case the water is not causing pleasure - the water is terrible - it's the brain that is causing the water to be pleasurable.

"The effect is cumulative. In response to positive stimuli the pleasure centers rewire themselves. The connections between existing neurons multiply and strengthen, additional neurons are created and go through the same process."

As Quigley placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and Henry Jamison, in a voice a tone lower than his normal speaking voice, said, "As I understand it, that's what happened to Camille. In response to the drugs her brain rewired itself, increasingly identifying the drugs as pleasant, until the craving for them overwhelmed everything else."

Wong, not naturally a compassionate man, did his best to act like one and said, "That's correct sir and, at the risk of sounding callous, let me show you what we've done with this fact."

Lopita and Misaki placed two trays of water and two cages of mice on the table. Wong dipped a fingertip in one bowl, tasted it, and said, "This is fresh water. Go ahead gentlemen."

Quigley, then Jamison, tried the water. It was light, delicious.

Wong dipped a finger in the other bowl, brought it to his mouth, and, with a frown said, "This is the rancid water, but don't worry gentlemen, it won't harm you."

Quigley tried the water, said, "He's right boss." Jamison did the same, agreed.

Wong continued. "These mice have not had anything to drink in twenty-four hours. The first group are the controls, we've not experimented on them. Watch what happens when I slide the water into the cage."

The foul water went in first, the mice sniffed the air, most backed away, a few brave ones approached it, dipped a tongue in, then hurried to join their fellows crouching on the far side of the cage. When Wong pushed the palatable water into the cage, a couple of the mice crept towards it, took a quick taste, and, joined by their compatriots, drank eagerly.

Gesturing to the second cage Dr. Wong said, "Over the past six months these mice have had the pleasure centers of their brains stimulated whenever they drank foul water, but we're not stimulating them now. Watch what happens."

When the pure water was placed in the cage the mice sniffed the air and, despite their profound thirst, backed away, instead feasting on the unsavory water when offered them.

"What I've shown you is widely known. When you stimulate the brain's pleasure centers not only does the brain register whatever it's person is doing as pleasant, the neurons of the pleasure centers rework and strengthen their connections. Eventually a person, even without stimulation, identifies the event as pleasant, looks forward to it, repeats it. As we did with the second group of mice, you can permanently change people's preferences, but it takes immense amounts of time.

"Our breakthrough is simple to understand although, I assure you, was immensely difficult to implement. We developed a mix of compounds which exponentially increase neuron growth. We pack this into buckyballs which Lopita perfected. Her buckyballs have two unique qualities. First, they're almost indestructible. If I injected you with ten million they'd visit every part of your body and flush out within a week. If we strained your urine we'd find every single one. Second, they're attracted to magnetic fields and, in the right kind of field, discharge their contents. What this means is that when we stimulate the pleasure centers of the brain with magnets the buckyballs flock to the area and flood it with a broth that accelerates neuron growth. You expose your subject to the stimuli you want, turn on the magnets, and you can practically watch the brain rewire itself to favor the chosen stimuli.

"It was once thought that the brain stops making neurons when we become adults, but we now know that the progenitor section of the brain creates neurons throughout our lifetimes. These new neurons serve several functions, most importantly in memory. At night we stimulate this portion of the brain, increasing the generation of new neurons and so strengthen the memories of the day's events, further attaching the subject to the stimuli we designate.

Jamison said, "Bill told you that my daughter recently used, and enjoyed, cocaine. Will your process make her forget how much she liked it."

"Not exactly, she'll remember that she liked it, but it will be a fact, like recalling the name of your president. She won't recall the actual sensation and she'll have no present desire for it. Whatever addictive effect it had will be eliminated as we hard wire her new preferences."

The conversation turned to more mundane topics, schedules, progress reports, and payment, until Wong, surprised that Jamison had not yet raised the topic that most of his clients started with, looked to Lopita, thinking the inquiry best came from a woman. Lopita, understanding Wong's glance, said, "What physical transformations, modifications do you..."

Jamison interrupted her. "Bill will handle that. While he does may I tour the facility."

Wong said, "Of course, Misaki please show our guest around."

* * * *

Quigley handed Wong a disc providing the details of what was desired of Kahili. "I put this together with Henry, I believe it contains all the information you'll require but if there is any doubt or question, or if anything is unclear, don't guess, call me, I'll handle it. I know you must think he's a terrible hypocrite, willing to turn his daughter over to you but not discuss her with you, but he still blames himself, I think far too much, for what happened. He's ashamed. While I convinced him you're his last best hope, he'll never be ready to discuss his daughter's body with a stranger."

As he waited for his friend to return Quigley thought of the things he had not told Wong. Camille's death and Kahili's estrangement had left his friend tried and lonely, ready to step away from his company's day-to-day operations, to find a woman to share his life with, but he had loved only two women in his life. One was gone. Kahili remained.

* * * *

When Kahili sat up the motion detector engaged the lighting system, flooding the windowless room with harsh light. The room, white and antiseptically clean, featured the barest of necessities, bed, chair, small table, toilet, all metal and bolted to the floor. She got up, covered her naked body with a sheet, and walked to what appeared to be a door. There was no handle and while she could make out its frame, she could not force her fingers around it; it was sealed shut. What was going on? The only explanation she could imagine was that someone, having discovered her bastard of a father's identity, had kidnaped her and was holding her for ransom. Dear Daddy, wasn't he the gift that kept on giving.

As the hours ticked by Kahili, with nothing to do but contemplate her situation, began to allow fear occupy her mind. She searched her space, did it again, looking for anything she could use to escape or which would provide a clue as to where she was. Panic finally took over, she yelled for someone to come, but besides the echo of her voice, heard nothing. She pressed her ear to the door, but the only sound was the mechanical rumble of the place itself. She crawled back into her bed and cried herself to an exhausted sleep.

* * * *

The lights came on and Kahili, semi-dazed, heard what sounded like high heels clicking across the floor. Deciding it was best, for the moment, to observe, she cracked open her eyes.

Her visitor, a tall slender black woman wearing a beautiful long dress decorated with colorful African patterns, rendered even more striking by its contrast to the sterile room, placed a tray of food on the table.

Kahili looked past her. The door was open.

Kahili ran her hand down her body. She was naked, did she dare? She moved her head, scanning the room, checking to make sure they were alone, and felt a crimp on her neck. She was wearing some kind of metallic choker.

She looked back to the door. She didn't know if she'd get this chance again.

Kahili bolted from the bed, through the door, turned left. The heavy door before her opened and Kahili dashed through it. The door closed. Another door opened and she moved through it, more cautiously this time. That door closed. The hallway, like the others, like her room, was windowless and white, lifeless. Another door opened. After two more hallways Kahili was disoriented; she didn't know in which direction she was moving. When she entered the next hallway she noted that it, unlike the others, had a heavy metallic door on the side. Tentatively, she approached it and it opened; at the end of the barely lit hallway was a wooden door. She moved forward, carefully turned the handle, and stepped inside.