Sandra hummed softly as she arranged the silverware on the table, the cool metal a stark contrast to the inferno raging within her loins. Each clink of the cutlery against the plates was a symphony of anticipation, a countdown to his arrival. The aroma of roasted chicken filled the air, mingling with the faint, musky scent of her perfume, her heart hammers against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for freedom. 'He will be home soon,' she thought, her breath hitching with each beat. 'He'll see me and he'll enjoy me.' The thought sent a shiver of apprehension and excitement down her spine, making her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her dress, aching for a rough caress.

A sudden wave of guilt washes over her, threatening to drown the fire in her belly. The memory of her earlier punishment lingers, a perverse reminder of her sinfulness. 'Whore,' the word echoes in Sandra's mind, a mantra of shame and desire. She could no longer deny the truth, she was a slut, a sinful creature consumed by forbidden longings. Her cunt throbbed with a dull ache, a constant reminder of her depravity, a pulse that matches the ticking of the clock, counting down to his arrival.

Of course, that wasn't the truth, unbeknownst to Sandra, the Cognitive Corruptor had instilled this lust, amplifying these feelings, reinforcing the idea that she is and has always been inherently sinful, desperately in need of her father's attention, desperate to be sexual around him, for him.

The thought of becoming a nun flickered in her mind, a frantic attempt by her conscience to escape the desires that threaten to consume her. Perhaps, within the cloistered walls of a convent, she could find solace, a refuge from the temptations that plagued her. But even as Sandra entertains the idea, a part of her knows it is a futile endeavor. Her desire for her father is a fire that burns too brightly, a flame that no amount of prayer or penance can extinguish. Still, she would try to pursue becoming a nun as a means of not succumbing to incest.

The sound of the front door opening shattered her reverie, sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. Her father was home. Her heart pounds in her chest, a mixture of anticipation and dread. She takes a deep breath, smoothing her dress and forcing a smile onto her face. The crimson dress she wears feels tight and short; it clings to her curves, the fabric stretched taut across her rounded ass, practically begging to be spanked. 'He will like it, he will like me,' she reassures herself, her cunt slick with anticipation, her soul craving his approval.

He entered the living room, his eyes immediately drawn to her. He understood immediately: the dress, the pigtails were a deliberate escalation, a silent invitation. A surge of desire, a primal urge to possess her, coursed through him, hardening his cock. She looked undeniably unshockable, but then again she always had. The only difference now was that she was no longer hiding it; no longer denying the incestuous bucktooth he knew she was born to be. 'A little less pretense, a little more willingness,' he thought, his gaze raking over her body. 'Soon, she'll beg for it.'

He knew the CC app was subtly working on her, amplifying her guilt and desire, pushing her closer to the edge. He reminded himself that such a process would take time. 'But the cracks are showing,' he thought with a predatory smile. 'And once she breaks, she'll be mine to use, to defile, to defile again and again.' He imagined her on her knees, tears streaming down her face, begging for his touch, his approval, his release. The thought sent a jolt of pleasure through him, a dark satisfaction that only the complete and utter domination of another could provide.

"Sandra," he said, his voice low and husky, his eyes lingering on the swell of her huge melons above the dress's neckline. "You look beautiful." He held himself back from telling her she looked like a whore and groping her like her body clearly craved. 'Patience. She will beg for it if you wait.' Instead, he watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. He could sense her internal conflict, her struggle between desire and guilt. It only strengthened his resolve to wait. 'Soon she will revel in sin, knowing how wrong her desires are, and craving to fulfill them all the more because of it.'

The compliment sends a shiver down her spine. Sandra lifted her gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of longing and apprehension. "Thank you, Father," she whispers, her voice barely audible. Her conscience is troubled by how easily she succumbs to his praise, how desperately she craves his approval. How her traitorous cunt is already so wet. 'Sinful whore,' part accusation, part acceptance of her true self.

He steps closer, his eyes lingering on her perfectly round tits, then drifting down to her hips, taking in the way the dress hugs her ass.

"That's a very feminine dress, it suits you," he says, the words heavy with unspoken meaning, his gaze intense and probing.

"I want to look nice for you," she replies, her voice barely audible. She feels a surge of sinful pride, knowing that she has caught his attention, that he finds her attractive, that he could appreciate her for her body.

He paused, his gaze intensifying, lingering on the way the fabric strained across her breasts. "I can see you're trying, Sandra," he said, his voice laced with a subtle hint of disappointment. 'But you're not quite there yet,' he thought, his eyes hardening. 'You need to shed every vestiges of innocence, of dignity, of self-respect and embrace the darkness within you, to revel in the degradation and sin. Only then will you truly be mine. Only then will you be my perfect daughter, my fuckmeat daughter.'

Hearing his disappointment only made her want to work even harder to please him. 'Only by being his whore, can you truly please him', The Cognitive Corruptor added indistinguishably from her own conscience.

In desperation she pushed herself to be a good daughter. "Father," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "would you like a drink? Can I pour you some of your favorite whiskey." She said her eyes were downcast, a picture of submission and devotion.

As her father settled into his chair, Sandra rushed to the kitchen, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nervousness. She poured a glass, the amber liquid glinting in the soft light, and returned to the living room with a trembling hand.

He took the glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. The CC app whispered in her ear, 'You were born to serve him, to cater to his every need. To be his.'

Her father took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers, a predatory glint in his gaze. "Thank you, Sandra," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Keep this up, and I may never want to go to work" He joked, but Sandra felt a surge of pride and a deep, aching need to please him further, to prove herself worthy of his approval.

"Father," her voice filled with a desperate longing, "could we go shopping this weekend? Just the two of us? I'd love to spend some time with you, and buy more feminine clothes you would enjoy."

Sandra said, trying to deny the desires and lust coursing through her body.

"I'd love to, sweetie, but work has been demanding lately. I just don't think I'll have the time." He watched her face fall, a flicker of hurt momentarily dimming her eyes. 'Beg,' he silently urged, a cruel twist forming on his lips. 'Show me how desperate you are. Show me you're willing to debase yourself, to shatter everything you thought you were, just for a sliver of my affection.'

"Then, could I at least have some money to buy some new clothes?" she begs, her voice barely a whisper. She hated asking, hated feeling like she is taking even more from him, but the desire to please him is stronger.

He raised an eyebrow, a glint of cruel amusement in his eyes. "What about the donations you collected for the church, Sandra? Surely, that would be enough." He was pushing her, testing her boundaries. 'Let's see how much that precious little faith of yours is worth,' he thought, a predatory smile playing on his lips. 'Are you willing to betray your God for me, Sandra? Are you willing to damn yourself to hell just to earn my favor? Show me. Prove it.'

Sandra hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. The 1000$ she had collected were meant to help fix the church's roof. She had taken on the responsibility to make sure they got it. Her inherent goodness pushed her to say no, to defy the app's perversion at least momentarily.

"But Father," she began, her voice trembling, "that money is for the church. We need it to fix the roof. My friends and I worked so hard to collect it."

He shrugged, his expression nonchalant, almost bored. "You're absolutely right, Sandra," he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "That money IS for the church. And I know how important God is to you. I wouldn't want you to do anything that would jeopardize your relationship with Him."

As they sat for dinner, Sandra struggled to engage in conversation, his accusation making her feel weak, useless, worthless, her gaze repeatedly drawn to her father. His calm demeanor contrasts sharply with her inner turmoil. She yearned for his touch, to feel his skin, but knows it's forbidden. The desire gnaws at her, a constant, aching throb, a brand of sinfulness etched into her soul.

Across the table, her father imagined ripping off her dress, his hands rough and demanding as he pinned her against the wall. He sees himself slamming into her, his hips grinding against hers with brutal force, each thrust a claim of ownership. Her tits bouncing with every impact, her ass pressed hard against the plaster, her face a mask of pain and pleasure as she begs for more. The image sends a jolt of pure, primal lust through him. He's imagined this moment for months, and he knew it would come soon.

For Sandra, the meal ends far too soon. Each moment with her father feels fleeting, and she desperately seeks to extend the evening, to keep his attention and his eyes on her. But she's at a loss for how to do so.

"Father," she says, her voice trembling, "would you like to watch a movie? We could cuddle on the couch, like we used to." She knows she is being foolish, tempting fate, but she can't help herself. She needs his attention, his approval, to reassure her that he loves her.

He looked at her, his eyes unreadable, a mask of paternal concern carefully concealing the predatory hunger that churned within him. "I don't think so, Sandra," he said, his voice flat, but laced with a subtle undercurrent of disappointment. "I have a lot of work to do tonight. I need to catch up on some emails." He watched her face fall, a flicker of pain momentarily clouding her eyes. 'Good.' A necessary sting, a reminder of her place. 'You want my attention, little whore?' he thought, hiding the cruel smile playing on his lips. 'Then you're going to have to earn it. You're going to have to prove you're worth my time. And believe me, Sandra, the price is going to be high.'

"Oh," she says, her voice barely audible, a whisper lost in the silence of the room. "Okay." She pauses, gathering her courage, she had refused him earlier but his denials, the feeling she was failing him won out. "Father... I've been thinking. You're right. God is important, but so are you. And I want to please you. I want to show you how much I love you." She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she is about to say. "I'll use the money from the church, every cent. I'll buy some new clothes. And I'll wear them for you."

A flicker of satisfaction crosses his face, quickly masked. "Are you sure, Sandra?" he asks softly, his voice dripping with false concern. 'That’s it Sandra sin to please me' he thinks, barely containing his glee. 'The app is doing its job perfectly.'

She nods, her eyes filled with desperate resolve. "I'm sure, Father," she says. "I want to do this for you, for us. I promise I'll do it” Sandra said even as her conscience drowned her in guilt.

He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver of anticipation and dread down her spine. "That's my good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, husky vibration that resonated through her core. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, a seemingly innocent gesture laden with manipulation. 'Obey me, submit to me, and you'll be rewarded,' he thought, savoring the moment.

The kiss was a promise, a reward, a validation of her desires, more powerful than any threat or punishment. It was the key to keeping her on the path he had so carefully laid out.

For Sandra, it was her undoing. Confusion and a terrifying, undeniable pleasure clashed within her. Her mind reeled, a chaotic mix of conflicting sensations. 'Why does this feel so intense?' she wondered, struggling to comprehend her reaction. 'It's just a kiss... a forehead kiss. Why does it make me feel like this?'

Then, the horrifying truth struck her. 'It's me. I'm a sinful whore. Even a simple kiss becomes something dirty, something twisted, because I crave Daddy's touch, to be sinful with him.'

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He turns and leaves the room, leaving Sandra trembling with a mixture of fear and an excitement she can barely contain. She has made her choice, and there's no turning back. Yet, in his absence, she feels a profound emptiness, a sense of worthlessness that gnaws at her. A fleeting thought of following him into his office, of sitting in his lap, flits through her mind. 'Stop it!' She chides herself, but the command is weak, drowned out by the throbbing ache between her legs.

Her cunt pulses with a demand she can no longer ignore. She knows what she must do. She will retreat to her room, lock the door, and let her fingers mimic the touch she so desperately craves from her father. It's a poor substitute, but it will have to do for tonight.

As she climbs the stairs, her mind races with vivid fantasies of his hands exploring her body, his lips searing her skin. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and her cunt clenches with each step, the ache intensifying with every heartbeat. By the time she reaches her room, she is a quivering mass of need, her body screaming for release.

She locks the door, kicks off her shoes, and reaches for the hem of her dress, her fingers trembling with anticipation. Tonight, she will surrender to the altar of her own desire, offering herself as a sacrifice to the forbidden longing that consumes her. But as she starts to lift her dress, a sudden, overwhelming wave of shame and self-loathing crashes over her. Her hands freeze, and she stares at her reflection in the mirror, seeing only a sinful whore staring back at her.

The thought of touching herself, of giving in to this lust, fills her with a terror she can't explain. Yet, the ache between her legs persists, a relentless demand that refuses to be ignored.