At times like this—deciding just how he wanted to screw Emma Frost, literal royalty in the only monarchy that mattered outside of Asgard, if he didn't want to pass her up for another insanely beautiful woman—Scott found it something of a misnomer how introverted he was. He didn't consider himself a Casanova by any means... that was more Gambit's line... and yet, the Cajun womanizer himself was mixed up with Rogue exclusively these days. Logan was probably the biggest ladies' man in the X-men these days, and with him being unkempt, rude, and frequently smelling of things unmentionable, he was even less likely a charmer than Scott.
There was a curiously intimate distance that he kept women at, but he managed to relate to them that way. Perhaps that was why so many psychics seemed to enjoy his company—craving a break from the cacophony of unfettered emotions and strongly felt feelings that other minds carried. He could be tender, he did open up, but there was comfort in having boundaries, breathing room—even in having a sexual relationship where their passion could be expressed through slaps, biting, whips, and chains as much as kisses and embraces.
Emma, Jean, Betsy—they were powerful, almost ridiculously strong women, and they could have any amount of fawning attention they wanted... if that was what they wanted. So what was perhaps most alluring to them was a man who could resist their charms, a man they could respect, a man who could even take away their power and leave only the calm assurance of his command. Scott was under no illusion of being the most powerful X-man, but when it came to willpower, his mind was every bit one of the diamonds that Emma loved so much.
"Emma," Scott said gently, "do you really think you can dress up like that and not get fucked?"
Emma had a peculiar way of smiling, snarling while she was charmed. As frustrated as she was by his idealism—and other unsavory aspects of his personality—they'd long ago come to terms with each other being the way they were. She laid back and gripped the posts of the headboards. "You'd better make this worth my while, Summers."
She stretched out full length on the bed, flexing her prettily painted toes, showing off the white gold luster of her tanned yet perfectly pale skin, with a glissando of chimes from the tiny diamonds that were her only real adornment.
Scott climbed onto the bed on his knees, taking her left hand and kissing the pale wrist, then pushing it to the headboard and locking it there with a silk scarf, tying it in a stiff knot. "Boy Scout," Emma said bemusedly, though Scott didn't know if she was talking about the kiss or the knot.
He took her other arm and stretched it out in the opposite direction, tying it up so tight that its knot almost burned her skin, but the fabric was in the end too soft for that. She had chosen her materials exquisitely well. They wouldn't do the job for him; Scott would have to punish her himself.
She liked that. You weren't really a bad girl without being punished—every hero knew that. And if a good guy like Scott punished her, then that meant she'd really been naughty.
The knot cut into Emma's soft flesh, tighter, tighter, until Scott was sure it wouldn't release her at all. But he ran his sensitive fingers tenderly along Emma's wrist, making sure the knot wasn't so tight that it would cut off her circulation. He didn't want the materials to hurt her either—not when he could do it. Emma wondered sometimes if that was simple Scott Summers pride in his work or if he relished being cruel to her the way she hoped he did.
Tying Emma up, her arms outstretched, her breasts sprawled across her chest without a hint of artificiality besides the sheer unlikelihood of their massive heft, made her seem even more naked than she had been, vulnerable and wanting in a way most would never see her. It wasn't the first time they had experimented with bondage by any means, but before, Emma'd had the veneer of playing a part. She wasn't
really
submitting to him, only pretending, but now she couldn't maintain the lie that it was a lie.
He was the leader, the headmaster, the husband, and she was subservient to him—his right-hand woman, her mission in life to carry out his will. It was bracing to acknowledge that. This was no longer a marriage of convenience... it was a battle of wills that Emma had graciously lost. The pleasures of being Scott Summers' consort were greater than the pleasures of independence, and she indulged in them as greedily as she ever gratified herself.
"You know what I've heard?" Scott asked Emma, moving to tie her feet in the same spread-eagle configuration as her hands—forming an X with her body. "That psychologists must be psychoanalyzed themselves. Do you do that, Emma? Have someone get inside your head?"
"Oh no, most therapists are
far
too gauche to appreciate my mentality. If I am insane, I most certainly have my reasons," Emma said, supplely preening in her new confinement. She had the feline ability to make any situation seem as if it were her own idea and she was enjoying it immensely. Scott was so amused by this that he almost wasn't going to break her of it.
"As team leader, I'm pretty good at reading people." Scott pulled on Emma's left leg, stretching it out to its fullest extension, pulling his lover taut like she was on the rack before he began tying her ankle to the bedpost. "You're drawn to power. Almost entranced by it. Sebastian Shaw, Jean Grey... you're like a moth with a candle. You can't stay away."
"And now Scott Summers," Emma purred. "King of the X-Men."
"But at the same time, you resent anyone who has power over you. You refuse to submit. You scheme and plot to take power for yourself. Supplanting Shaw. Controlling Jean. Trying to be the power behind the throne with me." Scott finished tying Emma's right leg. She was helpless now, though her eyes shone with amusement. She still had her mind—the greatest defense of all. "In other words, you're a willful little slut."
Emma smirked. "If I made things too easy for you, you might as well be dating Betsy."
For a woman tied, naked and spread-eagled, across a bed, it was amazing how prepossessed Emma looked, how confident she was in her nakedness, her defenselessness, her invulnerable sense of self. In a way, it was flattering. Out of all the people in her life, the superheroes she palled around with on a daily basis, she trusted Scott not to hurt her—or to hurt her, but also to know how she liked to be hurt.
In another way, it was a challenge. She was showing him that it would take more than a little nudity, a few manacles, to get to her. She wanted him to break her, to take her to that level beyond love and hate that she would only let him bring her to, and Emma held him to an exacting standard on that account. She wouldn't settle for a few spankings, some choking, being called a whore or a slut. She wanted to be deflowered, not of her innocence, but of her cynicism and bitterly sardonic shell. She wanted to be his virgin, in pain if not in pleasure.
Scott, of course, had a plan for that.
