The night after my first scene, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open and my notebook spread across the kitchen table. The city outside my window hummed its usual mechanical lullaby, but inside my mind, there was a roar, a conflict of loyalties and a confusion of identity. The blank document stared back at me, the cursor blinking like an impatient heartbeat, demanding I start, demanding I explain, demanding a story.
*How do I write this?* I asked myself. *Should I?*
I'd come to Elysium to capture a story—some exposé on the city's secret erotic underworld. What I had found instead was a community built not on shadows but on trust, negotiation, and care. The sensational headline that would've sold clicks now felt like a betrayal, a cheap shot at people who had shown me nothing but honesty and respect. I thought about Victor's warning that night in his office, his eyes sharp and serious: "There's a difference between observing and experiencing. I don't encourage people to cross that line lightly." And yet I had crossed it. I had felt the silk, the blindfold, the gentle pressure of his touch. I was no longer an observer; I was a participant, and my hands were no longer clean.
I scrolled through my notes. The phrases I had underlined now glowed with new meaning, imbued with the personal experience that made them more than just words. *Traffic light system. Safe word. Aftercare.* I thought about how a safe word is a predetermined term or signal used to communicate an urgent need to pause or stop. In mainstream narratives, people often ask why safe words are necessary, viewing them as a sign of weakness or a punchline. But I now understood that they allow people to play with power dynamics safely, to explore a fantasy without ever crossing into a dangerous reality. They create a clear, unambiguous line that everyone agrees not to cross, a lifeline to the self in a moment of surrender.
I typed, my fingers moving with a newfound sense of purpose: "In the BDSM community, consent isn't implicit; it's explicit. Before any scene, participants negotiate what they want, what they don't want, and how to communicate if something feels wrong. Safe words—often colour-coded like traffic lights—are a tool used to immediately pause or stop play. They ensure there is no confusion between role-play and reality." The words felt accurate, honest. They were a truth I had earned, a truth I felt a responsibility to share.
I paused, reread, and nodded. That, at least, was factual. I continued, the memory of the Red Room flogging still vivid in my mind: "Unlike depictions in mainstream media, scenes are not spontaneous acts of violence but carefully crafted exchanges. The motto 'safe, sane and consensual' means that activities are based on informed consent of sound-minded adults. Pain is not inflicted for punishment but for pleasure, catharsis, and the forging of deep trust." I thought of the man's face, not in pain, but in blissful surrender. The reality of it was so much more complex, so much more beautiful than any of my old assumptions.
My fingers hovered over the keys as I thought about aftercare. It was more than a drink of water or a blanket. It was a gesture of profound respect that bridged the intense, altered state of a scene back to everyday reality. It was Victor's steady heartbeat against my cheek, his quiet presence, his tea and cookie. "Aftercare is the period after a scene where all participants reconnect and provide emotional and physical support. It can be as simple as a cuddle, tea, and conversation or as practical as bandaging a rope burn. To abandon a partner after a scene is considered unethical in the BDSM community. Aftercare differentiates consensual BDSM from abuse by emphasizing that care does not end when the sensations stop."
I stopped typing and stared at the words. They were accurate. They could educate. They could shatter stereotypes. But would they expose? Would they invite ridicule? The people I had met—Marco with his disarming smile, Lena with her shy voyeurism, Leo with his quiet strength, Victor with his commanding presence—had trusted me. Victor had restrained my wrists and blindfolded me, showing me how surrender could feel safe. Could I, in good conscience turn them into characters in a story that might be sensationalized, a story that might be twisted and exploited by outsiders?
I closed my eyes and imagined what I would want if someone wrote about me, if my secrets were laid bare. Empathy. Nuance. Privacy. I thought about Jennifer's demonstration, about the man in the Red Room dropping into subspace, and about the tears in my own eyes during aftercare. These were not things to be sensationalized; they were things to be respected, sacred moments of vulnerability.
I took a deep breath and wrote in bold, a vow to myself as much as a conclusion: "BDSM is not abuse when practiced ethically. It is an exploration of trust built upon mutual consent, communicated through negotiation and upheld by safe words. It is followed by care that honors the vulnerability given and received. Without these, it is not BDSM; it is exploitation."
Then I saved the document and closed my laptop. I still wasn't sure whether I would ever submit this article, whether I could write it without betraying the people who had let me into their lives. My old life as a journalist, where I sought out stories, felt a million miles away from this new one, where a story had sought me out and had changed me. I knew I wanted to educate—to dispel myths. But I also knew I didn't want to feed the curiosity of readers looking for scandal. I was a gatekeeper now, not just a writer. I had a duty to this community.
I poured myself a cup of tea and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, comforted by the familiarity of aftercare in my own home. It struck me that aftercare wasn't just for scenes—it was for processing difficult emotions too. The cup warmed my hands as I stared at the night sky. Tomorrow, I would return to Elysium, not just as a journalist, but as someone who understood the ethical imperative behind safe words and aftercare. And I would continue to grapple with my dilemma: to tell a story and educate without betraying a community. For now, I allowed myself to simply feel grateful for the trust that had been extended to me and to honor it by sitting with my words a little longer before sharing them with the world. The story was no longer just an article; it was a part of me.