Sandra woke with a jolt, tangled in the sheets, completely naked. The cool air sent a shiver down her spine, but her skin remained flushed, sensitive. She glanced down at her body, and a wave of shame washed over her. Her breasts, full and heavy, strained against her chest, the nipples tight and aching. Her stomach was flat, her hips flared out in a blatant invitation, leading down to a mound of blonde curls that throbbed with a life of its own. She couldn't deny what she saw with her own eyes; she was a walking, breathing invitation to sin. Every inch of her screamed for attention, for pleasure, for degradation.
The memory of the previous night's forbidden pleasure washed over her, a wave of shame and arousal. She had masturbated like a slut, imagined herself being touched by him, her father. The thought sent a jolt of electricity through her body, her nipples hardening, her thighs clenching. 'Oh, Daddy,' she thought, 'I want you so badly. I want you to use me, to abuse me, to punish me for being so wanton.'
Living under the same roof as him was becoming a constant torment, a daily battle against her own sinful desires. Every glance, every word, every touch was a test of her willpower, a temptation to surrender to the darkness that consumed her. 'Endure it slut! Just four more weeks'
She threw back the sheets and stood up, her naked body exposed to the morning light. Distracted by her thoughts, she reached for a pair of cotton panties, the most innocent things she owned. But even as she pulled them on, she could feel the damp heat between her legs turning the soft cotton indecent, clinging to her like a second skin, a blatant reminder of her own arousal. She refused to wear a bra; it just didn't feel right, not with tits like hers, full and heavy, practically begging to be displayed, the nipples hard and prominent even in the cool morning air. Then, she grabbed the first thing she saw, an old Sunday dress she hadn't worn in ages. It was yellow, with a high neckline and a modest hemline. Or at least, it used to be modest. She had grown since then, and the dress now clung to her curves in a way that felt both scandalous and exciting. The hem didn't even reach mid-thigh, the fabric was thin and worn, almost semi-transparent in the bright morning light, and it strained across her breasts, threatening to burst at the seams.
Before she left she looked in the mirror, and what she saw gave her no solace, no escape, only the cold, hard truth: she was nothing more than living pornography, a vessel for sin.
As she made her way to the kitchen, she could hear Joshua humming softly to himself. The sound sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She knew he would be there, waiting for her, his eyes filled with a warmth that both comforted and seduced her.
She paused at the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest. He was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal, his back to her. He was wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, but even in his casual clothes, he exuded an aura of power and control. The scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and spice, filled the air, making her head spin.
"Good morning, Sandra," he said, without turning around. "I was beginning to think you'd overslept."
"No, Father," she stammered, her cheeks flushing with heat. "I just didn't sleep well," she said, trying to not think of the frantic masturbation she had performed, not in front of him.
He turned around, his eyes meeting hers as she looked down, unable to meet his piercing gaze. He leered at the way the white dress hugged her curves, imagining the soft flesh beneath. His gaze on her tits, straining against the fabric, and he fantasized about the moment she offered them to his abuse. He moved to her thighs, barely covered by the short hemline, and pictured them wrapped around him. The dress, nearly see-through in the light, teased him with the outline of her erect nipples and the shadow between her legs. He reveled in her discomfort, knowing he had her right where he wanted her, a mere object of his lust and control.
"You seem to be distracted, Sandra," he said, his voice a low, suggestive murmur. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I... I just have a lot on my mind," her voice barely whispers. She was suddenly acutely aware of how inappropriate this dress had become. 'What was she thinking? Was she subconsciously trying to tempt him, even as a part of her recoiled at the very idea?' The contradictory thoughts warred within her, a confusing mix of shame and a desperate, almost primal desire for his attention. The thought sent a shiver of both fear and excitement dancing down her spine. 'Stop being so sinful,' she thought, 'Punish me for being such a slut. Make me beg for it.'
"I need to go." She said even as her thighs were pressed together so hard she was afraid she would cum right there. The throbbing between her legs was becoming unbearable, a dull ache that demanded constant abuse.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice laced with fake concern. It didn't really matter where she went; he knew from her masturbation yesterday that she would spend the day thinking of him, fantasizing about him, begging him for release.
"I'm going out to study," she said, her voice trembling. In the moment she said it hadn't been a lie, but it wasn't the truth, she needed to get out of the house, away from his tempting presence, and find a way to deal with the lust that was consuming her.
"I love you Daddy" She said without turning to face him, not certain she could stop herself from kneeling at his feet if she had.
She practically ran to the nearest coffee shop, her thighs chafing together, her panties soaked with arousal. The Cognitive Corruptor fueled her every step, amplifying her desires, making her crave release even more intensely.
She ordered a mocha and found a secluded table in the back, away from the prying eyes of other customers. She pulled out her phone ‘I can't keep thinking about him like this,’ she thought, her nails digging deeper into the flesh of her palms, drawing blood. The weight of her vows, not yet spoken, felt like a physical burden, crushing her beneath its immensity.
'I want to be a nun.' The words were a hollow prayer, a desperate attempt to cleanse the unholy thoughts that festered within her. But the convent walls seemed to mock her, their promise of sanctuary a cruel illusion. It was his face that haunted her, his voice that echoed in her dreams. The memory of his touch, innocent in its intention but twisted in her perception, burned like acid on her skin.
'I feel so unworthy'. The thought was a venomous whisper, poisoning her from the inside out. A desperate, reckless plan began to form, fueled by a self-loathing so profound it threatened to consume her: 'Maybe if I see other men, other women, it will help me forget.'
It was a grotesque rationalization, a lie she clung to in the face of an unbearable truth. Could she dilute the sin, spread it thin enough to make it bearable? ‘Maybe I can still be normal. If my lust was for a stranger, God could forgive me, I could forgive myself' The words were a broken mantra, a futile attempt to bargain with a God who surely must despise her. The abyss of her sin stretched before her, vast and unforgiving.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. 'What do I even search for?' she wondered. Then an idea struck her. She typed in "fuckmeat," a term that chillingly reflected how she, thanks to the CC app's insidious influence, was beginning to see herself as: objectified, used, and utterly at the mercy of her darkest desires.
She hit enter, and a torrent of depraved videos flooded the screen. She clicked on the first one, her breath catching in her throat as the explicit scene unfolded. It was a brutal ballet of domination and degradation: men, faces contorted with lust, treating women as nothing more than holes to be filled, bodies to be used and discarded. She watched, horrified and fascinated, as a man, his grip like iron, yanked a woman's hair, forcing her mouth open to receive his engorged cock. His other hand, a weapon of flesh, slammed against her cheek with each violent thrust, the sickening thud echoing in Sandra's ears. The woman's cries were a twisted symphony of pain and pleasure, a guttural mix of sobs and moans that resonated deep within Sandra's core, igniting a forbidden fire.
Her cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and a perverse excitement she couldn't deny. The scenes were shocking, far more extreme than anything she could have imagined, yet they mirrored the darkest corners of her own desires. Before she could censor herself, she imagined her father's face superimposed on the dominant men, his eyes burning with possessive lust, his voice a guttural command demanding absolute obedience. She pictured him forcing her to her knees, spitting on her face, calling her the vilest names imaginable. The imagined sting of his hand against her bare ass, the shame of her own traitorous arousal, it was all there, playing out on the screen in excruciating detail.
The more she watched, the more her body betrayed her. Her thighs clamped together so tightly she feared she would explode in a messy orgasm right there in the coffee shop. She bit down hard on her lip, desperately trying to stifle the moans that threatened to erupt from her throat. Her nipples were diamond-hard, jutting against the thin fabric of her dress like accusing fingers, and she could feel the unmistakable flood between her legs, soaking through her cotton panties, staining them with her sin.
'I'm so weak,' she chastised herself, her inner voice a twisted blend of self-loathing and a desperate, throbbing longing. 'I can't control myself. I'm a lost cause, falling headfirst into the abyss of sin.'
She knew, on some level, that this was wrong, that she was plunging deeper and deeper into the depths of immortality. But the knowledge was a mere whisper, drowned out by the roaring tide of her own desires. Each video was a fuel injection, feeding her twisted fantasy, confirming her darkest suspicions, this was her purpose, the reason she and her gender existed for, to be used, to be abused, to be utterly dominated. The Cognitive Corruptor reinforced these thoughts, twisting her self-doubt into a perverse badge of honor, a mark of distinction in her headlong descent into depravity.
Hours later, raw and trembling, she finally tore herself away from the screen, her body a battlefield of conflicting sensations: shame, self-loathing warring with a throbbing, insistent arousal. She had accomplished nothing, learned nothing. All she had done was stoke the inferno of her obsession with her Daddy, intensifying her desperate craving for his touch, for his absolute control, for the sweet, agonizing surrender of her will.
She left the coffee shop, her head swimming with sinful thoughts. The images from the videos played on a loop in her mind, each one more explicit and degrading than the last. It was a connection to her forbidden desires, a secret world where she could indulge her fantasies. In truth the Cognitive Corruptor was instilling in her a desire to learn about fucking so she would know how to beg, how to offer herself to Joshua when she was ready.
Sandra wandered through the house, a haze of guilt clinging to her like a cheap perfume. The place was clean and everything was in its place, all her chores were done, it became very clear to her that Father didn't need her to clean. The thought stung her fragile ego. 'What does he need her for?' She blocked the thought away, a desperate denial rising within her. Joshua needed her love, her devotion. He deserved it. He was perfect. And it didn't matter that that devotion had taken on a sharper edge, a desperate need to please that throbbed between her legs whenever he was near. He still deserved better.
She felt so worthless, 'If I can't even serve him in this way, what good am I?' The thought echoed in her mind, a constant drumbeat of self-reproach. She had to be better. She would be better. She would become the perfect daughter, the daughter he deserved.
The sound of Joshua's footsteps on the stairs sent a jolt through her. He was home. Shame and a raw, undeniable lust flared within her. She should be tending to his needs. The images flashed in her mind, stolen from the screen, twisted versions of intimacy and submission. She imagined herself kneeling before him, offering herself completely, a willing sacrifice to his desires.
Joshua entered the living room, his eyes on his phone. He was deliberately withholding his attention, making her crave his acknowledgment, his approval. She had ignored him all day and he knew Cognitive Corruptor would make her crave his attention the more he denied it . Dressing like a slut had been enough to earn her a kiss last night, he had deliberately set the bar higher today.
Suddenly a notification on his phone, tomorrow's schedule, he saw something he didn't remember.
"Is the church fund raising tomorrow, Sandra?" He asked her, his voice flat, his eyes barely acknowledging her presence. Not feeling his gaze felt like being discarded, like being nothing.
"Yes, Father," she said, her cheeks burning. "It starts at noon. I'll be ready, thank you for coming with me." Her voice trembled, betraying the turmoil within her. She was ready to serve, ready to please, ready to be whatever he needed her to be. "Is there anything I can do for you? Should I cook you dinner?" She needed to do something, anything, to earn his attention, to prove her worth.
Joshua's lips curved into a smile, a practiced expression of benevolence. 'Stupid cunt, so easily manipulated. So eager to please. And so undeniably aroused.' He reveled in her desperation, in the power he held over her. He almost canceled accompanying her, but yesterday he had made her promise she would not donate any of the money she and her friends had earned for the event, and he wanted to be there to see it happen. His distance was a calculated move, a way to make her crave his attention even more, to deepen the hold he had over her. He could see the effect it was having on her, the way her body responded to his indifference, the way her eyes begged for his attention.
"Don't trouble yourself with dinner, Sandra, I already ate," he said, his voice a low caress that sent a shiver down her spine. "I am doing some late night work. I don't wish to be disturbed." The words were a dismissal, a clear indication that she was not needed, not wanted.
He turned and walked away, leaving Sandra standing there, hollow and trembling. 'Useless cunt'. The app whispered, he didn't need her. And the realization, cold and sharp, pierced her to the core.
With a deep breath, Sandra steeled herself, her resolve hardening. She would not fail him again. She would be better, do better, for him.
The yellow dress, with its short hemline, suddenly felt prudish, a pale and pathetic imitation of the clothes of the porn stars she'd been watching all day. They moved with a shamelessness she could only dream of, their bodies aching to please, their faces begging for more, they were sinners but at least they weren't lying to themselves. She'd just disappointed her father, again, stammering and failing to meet his expectations. It was all a lie, she realized, the demure smiles, the modest clothes, the pretense of innocence. She was tired of lying, tired of failing, she had to do better.
She hurried upstairs to her room. Locking the door, she stood before her full-length mirror, her reflection daring her to do it, to stop lying to herself and to the world. 'You are living pornography, a vessel for sin,' the app whispered in her subconscious mind. With trembling hands, she ripped off the cotton panties, discarding them onto the floor. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin as she gazed at her dripping wet mound covered in golden strands.
She lathered the area with soap, the scent filling the small room, a stark contrast to the images still swirling in her mind. The razor felt heavy as she pressed it against her skin, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips as she began to shave. Each stroke was a deliberate act, a shedding of her supposed innocence, a carving away of the prudish bitch that kept disappointing her father. The smooth, bare skin that emerged beneath the foam was a revelation, a mirror reflecting the truth, she was no different than the sluts in those videos, she was living pornography.
As she stood there, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement, she made a silent vow. Tomorrow, in church, she would show him. She would show him that she was worthy of his attention, his approval, his love. She would be his perfect servant, his devoted daughter, his everything. And she would start by being the best version of herself, the version he deserved.
With a final, determined glance at her newly exposed body in the mirror, Sandra turned and walked away, her steps purposeful, her mind set on her goal. She would become better, for him. She would become everything he needed her to be, and more.
