Wrote this in a flash of inspiration last night. The images are AI but the text is not. Let me know if it's worth expanding into an actual story.

Here you are: young, beautiful and eighteen years old. You have everything you've ever wanted and everything you could ever want. Your life is almost picture perfect, albeit with only one small exception. Ever since your step-mom ran off with a younger guy (no great loss there), your 'daddy' has started treating your body like his own private amusement park.

Every night after you clear the table and wash the dishes, he sends you up to your room, ignoring your pleas and protests ("No Daddy, no, not tonight, I don't want to"). You know what comes next. Upstairs, you have to dress up in that delicious, silky lingerie he buys each week from Marks and Spencer (and makes you model it for him almost against your will, sometimes you think you'll practically die from embarrassment). It always includes a matching set of bra and knickers with a luscious pair of Dior stockings, the kind with reinforced toes and seams running up the back. The hosiery is perhaps the most important part of your ensemble: you have to be waiting on the bed in your panties and stockings by the time he walks in to start the evening's festivities.

And that's where the fun begins.

For him.

It's time for your tickling!

You wail and plead as he stretches you out on the bedspread in nothing but your flimsy satin underthings and sheer gossamer stockings, knowing that you're in for at least an hour of helpless, giggling torment. The ticklings are a treadmill of utter humiliation: no matter what you do, how hard you struggle, you simply cannot escape those questing, probing finger tips (and worse still, that torturous, wandering feather). Not an inch of your supple, pliant form is left untouched, the ordeal stretches long into the night, seeming to last forever. There's no escape, no negotiation, no reprieve. His expression never changes as he delves into your most secret, sensitive recesses. He's your Daddy, you're his daughter, and you're going to be tickled from stem to stern for as long as he chooses.

You twist and squirm on the bed, sobbing for mercy, literally weeping for just a moment's respite. He adds another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. His digits play your sleek, ivory torso like a musical instrument, the feather finds your tummy button over and over again. He tickles your soles right through the sheer denier of your Cuban heels and you suddenly remember that you're practically naked, that he made you slip on these lacy, gleaming intimates for his pleasure.

You can't believe this is happening again, the same way it has every night since your eighteenth birthday (that was his treat, his special gift for you, and weren't you so excited to finally be all grown-up and wearing suspender stockings!). Yet here you are, a nubile young thing only weeks from graduation, being held down and tickled in your bra and pants - No, Daddy, no, please, please stop, I can't take any more - and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

The nightmare finally ends somewhere around ten thirty, three hours after you stepped into your wispy thigh-highs and submitted yourself to this ritual degradation. You lie gasping and breathless with exhaustion, your entire body exposed to his unwavering gaze. He plays thoughtfully with your stocking tops, nodding in tacit approval of a job well done. You watch him through flickering eyelids, praying that he's had his fill for one night. Will he start again? He could if he wanted to; quite often, he ties your hands and feet to the bed rails and finishes the main course with an after-hours aperitif. These grand finales always leave you so weak, so defenseless, so vulnerable. If he decided she hadn't had enough...

But no. Not this time.

Maybe next.

He straightens up, adjusting his suit and tie, his face a mask of professional ambivalence. He's done what he needed to do, seeing to his paternal responsibilities and fulfilling his filial duties. He gives your stocking top a final, absent tug - a subtle reminder that he can have you whenever he pleases - and tells you that tomorrow is a school day. Get a good night's sleep. He leaves without another word, secure in the knowledge that your tender young girl flesh is always on hand to satisfy his every whim.

You snuggle up on the bed, grateful to have a Daddy who devotes so much care and attention to your intensely feminine needs. After all, how many other 'girls' get to dress up in expensive designer lingerie and surrender their lush, teenaged bodies to hours and hours of shrieking ecstasy? Not many, but you do. And let's face it: at the end of the day you have nothing to complain about. As you often repeat to yourself in the early hours of the morning, you have everything you've ever wanted, and everything you could ever want...

with only one small exception.

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