Blizzard of Kink
by J.D. Savanyu
A frigid February 14
th
in the Fan District, four past midnight. A record cold Valentine's Day in central Virginia. (I'm far from a virgin.) A stiff breeze whips down Hanover Avenue, hitting our hundred year-old row house, piercing the leaky windows, and stirring the sweet smoke of
cannabas sativa.
My boyfriend bought this supercharged "Afghan Kush" from one of our crazy commie English professors at VCU, and it's got me feeling sublimely kittenish.
"Holy shit, this is some high-octane Mary Jane," I moan while tilting my head toward an ancient plaster ceiling with a hundred thousand cracks; savoring the angular dissonance of math rock music pouring out of my iPhone.
"Plucked from a magical reefer patch in Queen Mab's fairy garden, in Kandahar," Craig rambles, pleasantly stoned. "Professor Davis is an expert on Chaucer, and chronic."
"An Old British fart and a cash cow," I giggle. "Damn, good weed makes me horny as hell."
"That's exactly why I bought it, in a dark alley behind the English department."
The walls start to melt, and my pussy starts to drip. Five more puffs, and I'm on cloud nine. I exhale the piquant smoke and take off my Richmond Flying Squirrels T-shirt. No bra for my perky c-cups.
"Take me right
now,
my Valentine. I'm in the mood for some kinky fucking."
I take off the rest of my clothes in the blink of an eye, raising plenty of goose bumps.
"So am I. But it's rather cold to be naked, doncha think?"
"Not if we do it right next to the radiator."
I lie down on the dusty creaky floorboards, next to a warm antique radiator.
"Damn, Carrie, you're a raving nympho."
"Hell yeah, I'm a classy ho. Get those fucking handcuffs out and set me straight."
He goes to our box of BDSM goodies, grabbing two pairs of police-grade cuffs and a red ball mouthgag. I open my little mouth wide and stick my little hands up in the air. He puts one pair of cuffs around my wrists, and uses the second pair to bind the first to the radiator.
"You're under arrest for not paying taxes and tariffs on those Afghan herbs. And supporting the Taliban in the process. You have the right to remain silent."
He shoves that red ball between my lips and fastens the strap tightly around my red head. He gets right down to business, planting his lips on the lips between my legs. The pleasure hits me like a bolt of lightning in the dead of winter, making me groan and rattle the cuffs against the cast-iron radiator. He sucks my clit like a cherry Slurpee. 7/11 cunnilingus. Then he sticks his tongue deep in my pussy, sending me to cloud ten.
"Fuh yah! Fuh mee foo-fee!"
"What did you say, inmate?"
"Fuh mee eh mah foo-fee!"
"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
"Hum ma, fuh mah
foo-fee!
"
"Fuck your pussy?"
"Uh-
huh!"
"
Not yet, inmate. You haven't served your sentence yet."
He smacks my swollen cunt nice and hard. My entire body recoils in delightful shock. He smacks it six more times with the same result. Good weed turns pain into static electricity. A ticklish toke.
"Shit, girl. Look at those cute perky tits, just begging to get smacked."
He smacks them just as hard, making me groan and rattle the pipes even louder. He finally gets bored with smacking my boobies, so he slides his prick between them, squeezes them against the six-inch shaft, and thrusts away at full speed.
"Not too many classy ladies like getting titty-fucked on the floor in the middle of fucking February."
He bends over and chews on my pointy pink nipples. Our punk rocking neighbors can definitely hear me scream, but they probably don't give a shit. Rough sex is the only sex for me.
"Fuh-
mee!"
"
Good idea. I'm gonna clam-slam your tight little twat."
He rolls me over on my side, lifts my legs high in the air, and does his usual ramrod routine. The kinetic force surges right down my spinal cord, rattling my head against the floor and my teeth against the plastic ball. He spanks my flabby little ass over and over, and I beg for more incoherently.
"You like it rough, and I love redheads. A match made in heaven."
"Uh-
huh!
"
He fucks me even harder, and spanks me like hell. My petite body gradually slides backward on the floor, pushing the my head dangerously close to the hot metal pipes. I try to point out my discomfort to Craig, but my speech and body language are severely impaired. I break a sweat for the first since October. Fortunately, it doesn't take him long to reach the breaking point. I get there first, squirting all over the oak floorboards. Twenty seconds later, he drops my legs on the floor, and I shuffle away from the radiator. He gets down on his knees astride my shoulders and busts a nut in spectacular fashion, howling like an Arctic wolf. Half of it hits my pale freckled face, and the other half hits the metal pipes. The feel and smell of hot jizz on a cold night is beyond compare. He keeps groaning and staggering on his knees, then he reluctantly frees me from bondage.
"Damn, boy, that was quite a howl."
"A Ginsbergian howl, burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night."
"Whatever," I chuckle. "That was the best sex I ever had, bar none," I murmur deliriously.
He takes another puff, and cough-laughs. The strong wind changes direction outside, and I play around with the splooge, twirling it with my fingers around my outstretched tongue. I give myself a white mustache, then I give him one too.
"You're so playful, Care-Bear."
"Playful like Pinkie Pie."
I take another drag of dope while looking around our scantily furnished apartment. We don't own much more than the depressing books that line the shelves of every English major. I sink down on a mattress, and my chronic existential misery creeps back in.
"I'm bored, Craig. And depressed. Depressed as bored as hell."
"Ain't we all nowadays?"
"Seriously, baby, I need something new, to get me through this semi-charmed kind of life."
"Like what?"
"Maybe a little change of scene would help. I've always wanted to rent a cabin in the mountains in the middle of winter, way off the grid. Have a little zen-fest in bear country."
"Me too. Let's make it happen."
...........
The next morning, we pack up two days worth of clothes, books, food, weed, and kinky toys, then we head west on Hanover Avenue. Destination: Camp Deadwood, two hundred miles away in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There were many other cabin sites to choose from on Expedia, but I picked the one with the coolest-sounding name. The city dissolves to the burbs, and the burbs dissolve into Nascar redneck country. Craig pops an old Phish album into the CD player in our clunky old Saturn. He's a hardcore Phish-head, but I can't stand that pathetic excuse for a band. I distract myself by picturing more crazy kink in the mountains. I had plenty of wild sex before I met Craig in a class about Edgar Allan Poe, but he took it a whole other level. He's helping me achieve a masochistic nirvana.
Two hours later, we enter the foggy Blue Ridge mountains. Craig swings off I-64 onto a narrow two-lane hick highway dotted with signs for deer cleaning and "Heritage, Not Hate!" Twelve miles down the road, he turns into Camp Deadwood. Twenty tiny log cabins spread out over fifty acres along a rushing mountain stream. He parks the Saturn in front of Cabin 13.
"OMG, that's a great title for a horror novel," he remarks.
"A killer slasher book, with guaranteed movie rights. I better write it before anyone else does," I reply smartly. But then I remember... "Damn, someone already wrote
The Girl in Cabin 13
."
I step out to a twenty degree afternoon, savoring the clean crisp air and the melodic gurgling of the stream. I gaze up at blue mountains in the near distance, and notice a wall of black clouds on the far horizon. There's no cars parked in front of the other cabins. I pull out my phone to check my messages, but...
"Shit, no service."
"That's the whole idea, Carrie. Getting off Wi-Fi, and getting on Zen-Fi."
He takes me by the hand and leads me into the one-room cabin with no electricity. Amish paradise. I put my suitcase near the fireplace, and pour out our collection of kink.com merchandise on a hand-carved cedar table. I'm more hungry than horny at the moment. Craig tosses some logs into the fireplace and lights it up. This is the first time I ever saw actual logs on fire, and it fills me with a primitive sense of reassurance. This is exactly what the doctor ordered to cure my writer's block, and all my other "blocks."
We heat up a can of beef stew over the fire in an antique kettle, then we sit around reading and writing pretentious poetry. Ying merges with yang, unleashing a torrent of repressed creativity. Much better than the whiny self-indulgent bullshit I've been writing ever since middle school. Stuff that nobody would read unless I held them at gunpoint.
Meanwhile, it starts snowing outside. Snowing like shit.
"Damn, we forgot to check the weather before we left."
I go to a window and gaze at the big transcendent flakes falling on the stream.
"What if we get stuck in a blizzard?" Craig asks bemusedly.
"Then we'll get stuck in a blizzard of kink."
Sure enough, that's exactly what happens. The storm quickly escalates into a full-on white-out, with visibility down to a thousand feet. That explains why all the other cabins are vacant. The white stuff piles higher and higher, so we light up some Afghan Kush and we laugh our asses off about the absurdity of our entire lives up to this point.
"Everywhere I go, there's a fucking blizzard of
some
