Sandra's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as she lay in bed, her body aching from the evening's exertions. The memory of her father's intense gaze, roaming over every inch of her exposed flesh, sent shivers down her spine. She had posed for him, each movement calculated to accentuate her most intimate places, her fuckholes on full display. It was a performance, a dance of degradation and desire, and she had reveled in it.

The shame was overwhelming, a burning embarrassment that made her cheeks flush even in the privacy of her room. Yet, amidst the shame, there was a perverse sense of pride, a twisted fulfillment in pleasing him, delighting in knowing he would never again see her as a person, but as fuckholes, as his pornography.

The sky was a sickly sweet pink, like the cheap lingerie she had seen so many bimbos wear on porn, instead of clouds there were images of women being raped and abused used, their bodies twisted in humiliating positions that enhanced male please and female suffering. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and the sound of moans, a constant reminder of their inherent worthlessness as women, and Sandra's own desperate yearning for her fathers sexual attention. The images flickered before her eyes, showing women being double-penetrated, their mouths stuffed with cocks, their asses and cunts stretched wide, all while they begged for more, their faces a mask of desperate lust and self-degradation.

The ground wasn't her home, but the cold, polished marble floor of a church, littered with broken rosaries, discarded crucifixes and defiled hymnals, scattered amongst discarded pornographic magazines and obscene clothes, a testament to the triumph of lust over faith, a mocking reminder of her shattered aspirations to become a nun, and the inescapable truth that sin was inherent to female nature.

The pews had vanished, replaced by a swirling vortex of writhing bodies, each contorted in an act of desperate, fleeting pleasure, their faces masks of vacant lust and self-degradation, each one a distorted reflection of her own yearning for her father's touch. Some knelt before the male statue, their heads bowed in supplication as they pleasured themselves, their fingers slick with their own juices as they rubbed their swollen clits. Their moans echoed through the unholy space like twisted prayers, each orgasm a further surrender to his forbidden desire and a rejection of the unattainable ideal of purity.

Some more were being double-teamed by dildos and vibrators, their bodies spread wide as they were filled with pleasure and pain, their screams echoing through the desecrated space, their only value being their capacity to endure and to provide a spectacle of degradation. Some were using rosaries as anal beads, their faces contorted in a mixture of ecstasy and blasphemy, their bodies reduced to mere instruments of pleasure and pain. Their faces were blurred, indistinct, yet Sandra knew, with a sickening certainty, that they were all reflections of herself, fragmented pieces of her own shattered identity, forever trapped in this cycle of sacrilege and sexual depravity, worshiping at the altar of her father's forbidden image.

Sandra's clothing in the dream was a perverse fusion of a nun's habit, a schoolgirl uniform, and a maid outfit, designed to mock her former aspirations. She wore a nun's wimple, the white fabric stark against her blonde hair, but it was tattered and stained, a grotesque parody of piety. Her top was a cropped, sleeveless ripped apron in white see-through lace, that failed to conceal her nakedness and outlining the curves of her 36D tits. The skirt was a pleated, micro-mini version of a school uniform, so short that it failed to cover her most intimate places, her ass and the wetness between her thighs revealed for all to see.

Around her neck, she wore a dog collar of thick, black leather, studded with tarnished silver spikes. Engraved on the collar, in crude, gothic lettering, were the words: "Fuckmeat Daughter."

Where a crucifix should have hung, a crude effigy of her father's engorged cock dangled from her neck, a constant reminder of her incestuous desires and her complete subjugation to his will. The effigy, carved from bone and polished to a sickening sheen, swung between her breasts, a grotesque mockery of faith and purity.

Sandra tried to defend herself, her words tumbling out in a desperate rush, a pathetic attempt to cling to some semblance of innocence.

She had reveled in the attention, had craved his gaze, his touch, even when it was laced with contempt. She had enjoyed every moment of her degradation, had secretly thrilled at the power he held over her, even as she pretended to resist.

Sandra's hand trembled as she touched her burning cheek, the pain a perverse pleasure, a brand marking her as his. She couldn't meet his gaze, not yet. Not until she fully embraced the depravity that simmered beneath her skin.

"I don't want to be a nun," she continued, her voice gaining strength with each syllable. "I can't be a nun. It would be a lie, a pathetic attempt to deny the truth of what I am..." Her words were a prelude, a confession of her deepest desires.

Finally, she shifted, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of her backside, the curve of her ass a silent invitation.

Her nipples were hard and erect, aching for his touch, her 36D breasts heavy with longing and a deep-seated sense of worthlessness.

"Please," she begged, her voice barely audible, "Use me. Degrade me. Punish me.Let me defile this body with every breath I take. Let me be your sacrilege"

Joshua's lips curled into a cruel smile, his hand shooting out to grasp her throat, fingers digging into her flesh, nails threatening to break skin.

"Admit the truth! Don't make me ask again." He leaned closer, his breath hot and stale on her ear, a violation in itself. "Beg to be raped! Tell Daddy you want to be his little fucktoy, always ready and willing, a hole just waiting to be filled and ruined."

Sandra opened her mouth, the words poised on the tip of her tongue, a confession of her deepest, darkest desires, a complete and utter surrender. The shame was still there, a faint, flickering ember in the darkness, but it was being rapidly consumed by the overwhelming fire of her lust, a sacrifice to the inferno of her need.

But as the words formed in her mind, the last vestiges of her shame, the final shreds of her dignity, screamed in protest, a desperate, primal warning, protecting the last of her self-worth. A jarring intrusion that shattered the dream and left her gasping for breath, his fingers still tight around her throat, the taste of ash and blood on her tongue.

For a moment, she lay there, disoriented and adrift, the lingering sensations of the dream clinging to her like a phantom lover, a touch that both repulsed and ignited her. The memory of his hand on her throat, the pressure, the power, sent a fresh wave of shivers down her spine.

The guilt and shame were a crushing weight, a suffocating blanket that stole her breath, a constant reminder of the abyss that yawned within her.

With a sob, she reached for her rosary, the familiar beads cool and smooth against her trembling fingers, a symbol of hope and redemption, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of her emotions.

'Why, God, why?!' the question screamed in her mind, a desperate, accusatory cry that clawed at her throat. 'Why had He made her this way? Why had He cursed her with these desires, with this insatiable hunger for the forbidden? Why had He sculpted her body into a walking temptation, a beacon of sin? Why had He given her such a spankable ass, such abusable tits, such a craven cunt, a face that begged for the slap of a dominant man? Why had he made incest a sin when it felt so right, so natural, so inevitable?'

With a cry of rage, she hurled the rosary across the room, the beads scattering like fallen tears, a broken symbol of her shattered faith, a final, defiant act of rebellion against a God who had seemingly abandoned her to her darkest impulses, a God who had created her to be rapemeat.

Sandra took a deep, shuddering breath, her mind a twisted landscape of shame and desire, a battlefield where faith and lust waged a brutal war. The dream had left its mark, a lingering residue of lust and a chilling acceptance of her true nature, a realization that she was, perhaps, beyond redemption.

If she was destined for damnation, she would at least try to earn her father's attention, his approval, his favor. She would be a better daughter, a better daughter for her father. To fulfill his every whim, to acquiesce to his every desire, perhaps that would quiet the rapetoy within.

She desperately wanted to please her father, to be everything he desired, but the fear of the unknown, the fear of the depths of degradation and incest she would beg for, held her back. She wasn't ready to cross that final line, to fully embrace her role as a vessel of sin, even though every fiber of her being ached to do so.

It was, in a way, her version of a nun's habit, a uniform of service and devotion, but instead of serving God, she would serve her father. In her twisted mind, he had taken God's place, becoming the object of her unwavering loyalty and obedience.

With a final glance in the mirror, a fleeting glimpse of the lost, confused girl she had become, she turned and made her way to the kitchen, ready to prepare her father's breakfast, ready to serve him in any way she could, hoping that somehow, in some way, she could finally earn his attention, his approval, his love.