My Real Life 50 Shades of Grey Experience February 18, 2017
“Get some ice for your room.”
That's the text message I received from King Noire, a well-endowed fetish trainer and porn star. We interviewed Hasan for our blog a year ago and I had wanted to explore submission training ever since. We were both at the Sex Down South conference in Atlanta and made plans to do a session later that evening. As I filled up the ice bucket, I briefly pictured me soothing my sore skin from being spanked. What do you wear to submission training? I hadn’t shaved and I felt awkward about it. Someone else feeling me up while I am prickly is my idea of vulnerability.
Two glasses of wine in, I answered the door wrapped in my hotel sheets. He walked in with his massage table and a heavy black bag. Hasan King, also known as King Noire, is average height, but has the presence of a man much taller. He stands squarely like a man who is keenly aware of his surroundings. As he unpacked the table, I nervously made chit chat, hoping he would not get around to the survey I didn’t fill out. Before our session, he emailed me a list of exhaustive fetishes to choose from. I laid on my side on the bed, not sure how to drape my legs. I felt like Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights when he awkwardly moved his hands for press interviews. As he lit candles, our conversation turned to my banking career and how I wanted to dedicate myself full time to my business.
I chose the music (the Weeknd, of course). With a deep voice made for late night radio, he stated "You did everything I asked you to do, but the survey." I paused. I hadn’t thought that mind fucking would be part of the experience. We went over what I wanted to experience. Just plain vanilla bondage, handcuff restraints, thanks. I was struck by how it was no different than telling a masseuse how much pressure you like.
Next were the commands. I was to respond ‘Yes, King sir’ and ‘No, King sir.’ Between the commands, the candles, and the non-descript hotel furniture, it started to feel like the beginning of a bad porn. I wanted to laugh, but I nodded in agreement. When I responded incorrectly, the smarting spank on my ass reminded me this was real. Naked with my face down and my limbs spread, I felt the finality of the handcuffs against my ankles.
What proceeded after a soothing massage was an assault to my senses. He dripped candle wax on my skin and then rubbed me with ice cubes. I squirmed as ice water dripped down my waist. I hated it, then loved it, and hated the sensation again. Anticipating the heat and then hating the cold repeatedly created sensory overload. Deeply aroused and confused, I started to buck against the restraints to feel in control. As he put pressure around my neck, he whispered in my ear about living my dreams, which surprisingly brought me to tears. Mind fucking, indeed.
As he packed up his fetish bag of tricks, we spoke about nothing I can remember. No longer buzzed, every inch of my body was alive. I was coated in massage oil and candlewax, but I didn’t want to shower the feeling of empowerment off. We exchanged goodbyes and I crawled in bed in all my sticky glory.
In the morning, I woke up in a haze I couldn’t attribute to the wine. On the dresser was a pair of handcuffs. I texted him, thinking he left them by accident.
“No, that’s for next time.” Let the mind fucking begin.