The Mercenary Captain and his Daughter Pt 1?
Thinking about a mercenary captain who is well known throughout a kingdom, a war hero who fought back a seige in the north.
Granted land and a titlefor his service and to serve as steward and lord of the north.
The people admire him, none more so than his daughter Clarissa.
The Captain, now Baron though heâd frown and swear it didnât suit him, a rugged man by necessity for someone once a commoner. He stands at just above 6â 2â, body more solid than lean, but muscle that has torn and frayed again and again only to heal and strengthen his form.
Tawny complexioned deepened by sun each passing year of another campaign, ashen brown hair just starting to gray in his 42nd year despite years of close calls with death. Storm gray eyes.
Clarissa, though not of age to take over as acting head in a permanent helps to make minor decisions and help with for the long harsh winter months the north suffers through as it is near buried in snow each season.
The people of the north adore her because of for hard she works for everyone.
A perfect and dutiful daughter.
It has been a near decade since the captain lost his lover, the mother of his child. and though he is an older bachelor in societyâs eyesâhe has no worries about finding a suitable spouse.
There are women and men who become increasingly more bold in their marriage contract offers, which frustrates him to no end. A serious man who carries his responsibilities like weights meant to anchor him to earth, keeping him grounded so he can focus on what must be done.
But he stops for Clarissa. He remembers to pause and notice the world and people around him and how happy they are and feel a since of gratitude that he helped build this. And in the center of it, an intense desire to build a world safe for Clarissa to continue as she is.
And the obsession that splits like a seed and roots. And he knows it like a terminal man approaching an expiration date.
Heâs not sure what does it. What final lever is pulled.
When his gaze bleeds from affection to desire and from that only an aching, gnawing chasm of hunger growing like deafening static writhing beneath the surface of every glance that lingers a little too long.
Maybe its Clarissa having long since grown out of calling him anything other than âfatherâ (though it retains the same air of fondness it always has), choosing to call him papa again like when she was more unawares of the complex nature of life.
Maybe its the way others look at her as the seasons start to change her too softness beginning to take more form, a promise of what is and what else is to come as time slowly moves forward, and still he curses it for moving too hastily.
But as he trains into the night, steel sword in hand, he cannot stop the way his mind always comes back to her. He has never been much of a religious man, war/conflict showing too much human cruelty for it to balm the mental wounds that have settled just as deeply as the physical scars lanced across his body.
And yet he finds himself desperate and near tears, teeth clenched and grinding as he clasps a hand embroidered handkerchiefâa gift from Clarissa for his safe return, around his cock with a iron grip as though fervent, impassioned prayer and firm hand will counteract the erratic and violent jerking of his hips as Clarissaâs name falls in broken, angry notes from his lips as the image of tainting her womb with his seed pulls a harsh curse from deep in his gut and one last strained thrust, his spend coats his hand, the wall and his daughterâs gift in his guilt.
And outside the training room on the floor, back pressed to the wall, hair wet & plastered to her forehead as her cheeks darken from exertionâ
Clarissa. Guilty tears as her eyes squeeze shut. young inexperienced fingers thrusting in time to her fathers pleas into her young cunt.
