Not every scene had to be hardcore. For Remy, D/s was about having a spot where he could open himself up, allow himself to be as vulnerable as the submissive he was about to suspend. He’d been looking for the right sub, the one who would relax him enough to allow him to be exactly who he was without self-consciousness or fear.

“You look perfect with my rope your only clothing, nothing between us. Do you want to fly, ma chèrie? Because I will take you there,” he said as he tied off the last rope that would connect her to the rope he would suspend her with. He’d attached it carefully, her safety his highest concern. It was attached at two points on her “flight suit,” forming a triangle that would hold her up and let her float.

“Yes. I want to fly,” she said, her voice tremulous.

He pulled on the rope and she was in the air, her lovely body hanging and dependent on his craftsmanship. He pulled her up so she was roughly at the height of his chest. He could reach down and touch her, caressing her skin through the ropes. She was facing up, unable to see what he would do to her, only able to hear his voice. “My ropes leave marks, tiny indentions to prove I was here, but they will fade to memory. No, my mark will not stay on this perfect skin because I would leave no scars to mar you. But remember the feeling, remember the care when you are alone. When I am far from you, remember how I lavished you with affection, with worship.”

He sighed, a blissful but bittersweet breath. He could smell her arousal and see the way she relaxed, giving over to the experience. He looked up at her, at the beautiful way her luscious cheeks pressed against the rope. She was safe and secure, and he’d done this for her. He reached up, letting his fingertips trace along her body, skimming from flesh to rope and back again, loving the shudder that went through her body.

“I have worked this rope a thousand times before, and yet this one is new. This one is fresh, and I want to hold it, too. I want the marks on my skin, to make them indelible so I do not ever forget this first night. This first night, one of a handful I will spend with you. One of a handful of nights, of scenes that will feed my soul for the rest of my life. Looking at my angel, flying. Not free for now, but safe and warmed and cared for in my ropes.”

He finished the poem that ran through his head by going on his toes and managing to capture her lips with his. He knew some of his counterparts would tease him for the poetry that he sometimes wrote down but mostly left in his head, but those words were as much a part of him as the way he fought or how he did his job. He accepted them, used them when he needed to.