A cool breeze swept across the rooftop terrace, a welcome respite from the pulsating heat of the club below. The city, a vast canvas of scattered diamonds, stretched out before me. The hum of distant traffic was the only sound for a long moment, until he found me. Victor approached quietly, his hands in his pockets, his shadow growing long on the concrete as he drew near. He didn't startle me; he never did. He just existed in a space I had come to feel was safe, a space I had now complicated beyond measure.
"I hoped I'd find you here," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the restless night.
I smiled, taking a sip of water, the cold liquid a stark contrast to the churning in my stomach. "Needed some air," I replied, my voice a little too breezy, a little too false even to my own ears.
We stood together in that comfortable, familiar silence. It was a space we had built over weeks, a silent language of shared glances and unspoken understandings. It was a silence I had come to cherish, and it was a silence I was on the verge of shattering.
Finally, he broke the quiet, his question gentle, but its weight pressed down on me all the same. "You've been trying a lot of different things—restraint, blindfolds, public play. I wanted to check in. What interests you next? Or what doesn't?" He wasn't pushing, he wasn't demanding. He was asking. And in that simple act of asking, he permitted me to be honest.
"I think…" I paused, trying to find the right words, the words that would articulate the burgeoning chaos of desire and hesitation within me. "I'd like to explore sensation more. Maybe light flogging, eventually. But I'm also curious about rope. And I don't know if I'm ready to be touched intimately by anyone other than on my arms and hands. Yet."
He nodded, taking it all in, not a flicker of judgment on his face. "We can do that. We'll start with rope on your arms or legs, nothing around your torso. We'll go slow. We'll use safe words—you can stick with yellow and red. If at any point you're uncomfortable, we stop. We'll discuss aftercare. Does that sound acceptable?"
"Yes," I said, the word a simple promise. But there was something else. A knot had been forming in my stomach for weeks, a twisting coil of guilt and fear that had been my constant companion. It was time to put it into words, to untangle the lie I had allowed to grow between us.
"But there's something else." The words tumbled out, each one a stone dropping into the still water of our conversation. "I came here initially for a story. An exposé. I told you I'm a journalist, but I didn't tell you how far along I was. I… I'm conflicted. The article is supposed to be about secret societies in the city. Elysium was the jewel. But now I know everyone. I've participated. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to betray this trust."
I waited for the anger. For the hurt. For the betrayal that I knew was my just dessert. But his expression didn't change. He looked out at the city for a long moment, the lights reflecting in his eyes, then he returned his gaze to me. "I knew you were a journalist when you walked in," he said, his voice a calm river in the storm of my guilt. "I didn't know your angle. I hoped if you chose to stay, you'd understand our emphasis on trust and consent. It seems you have."
My confession had been an open wound, and his response was a gentle balm. "I feel guilty," I admitted, the words barely a whisper. "Part of me thinks I should kill the story. Part of me thinks I could write a piece that educates, that shows consent and safe words and aftercare. But part of me fears that any article will expose people and make them targets."
"I appreciate your honesty," he said. "I won't tell you what to do. That's your choice. But if you decide to write, I ask that you anonymize identities, focus on consent and care, and let me read a draft. If you decide not to write, that's fine too. Elysium will continue without your piece. But your conscience needs peace."
His answer, so utterly lacking in defensiveness, left me stunned. "You're not angry?" I asked, the question hanging in the cool night air.
"I'm protective of this place," he said. "I'm protective of the people here. Betrayal hurts. But you're here, confessing, rather than publishing without regard. That earns respect. And if you need someone to talk through your decision with, I'm here. No judgment."
The knot in my stomach, that cold, tight ball of guilt, finally began to unravel. A wave of relief washed over me, a feeling so profound it made my knees weak. "Thank you," I said, the words inadequate but heartfelt. "I'm still not sure what I'll do. But I'll show you the draft if I write it."
"Deal," he said, holding out his hand. I shook it, a simple, formal gesture that sealed our understanding, an agreement forged not in ink, but in trust.
The conversation shifted then, from the profound weight of my secret to the delicate, intricate world of our shared interests. We talked about boundaries: what rope felt like, how long a scene should be, whether I preferred being tied standing or sitting. Victor explained the difference between synthetic and natural fibre ropes, the importance of circulation checks, and the necessity of having scissors on hand. "We always have safety tools," he said. "In case of nerve compression or panic. We never leave someone tied unattended. Communication doesn't stop when the ropes go on."
Listening to him, I felt my nervous anticipation morph into something else—a heady excitement. I had always thought of negotiation as a prelude, a necessary step before the real event. But I was beginning to understand that it was part of the intimacy itself. It was the space where I could voice my hesitations and desires without shame, and it was the space where Victor could demonstrate his care and respect for me before a single rope was ever tied.
As we walked back downstairs, the sounds of the club growing louder with each step, I realized how much had changed. Victor was no longer the enigmatic figure I had observed from across a crowded room. He was someone with whom I shared secrets—both his and mine. Trust was no longer an abstract concept discussed in a workshop. It was embodied in his handshake, in his willingness to hear my confession without anger, in his patience as he explained the intricacies of rope safety.
And as much as the sensations of ropes or blindfolds or floggers intrigued me, it was this deepening trust that truly drew me back to Elysium, again and again. It was the knowledge that in this place of secrets and shadows, I had found a kind of honesty and care that I hadn't even known I was looking for. It was a novel that was just beginning, and I, the journalist, was no longer just a narrator. I was a character, woven into the very fabric of the story itself. The story of Elysium, and the story of me.