Rare: A BBW Romance (The Cass Chronicles Book 4) Page 3

If Stephen the lily livered weasel could consider doing penance, so could she. She handed him the awful clear paddle and before she could think about it too much, slid her pants down and bent over the bed. He paused beside her. “Baby are you sure?”

  She had wanted to just get this over with as quickly as possible, but she was sure. “Yes, I am really sorry that I didn't get this packing done.”

  “I forgive you, honey.”

  “I know you do, but I need to make sure I am serious about not doing this again.”

  He leant over her and kissed her hair. His hand slid onto her lower back and held her still. He raised the dreadful paddle and delivered a stern swat. The thwack of the Lexan against her bare, tender skin was ferocious and the burn immediately spread down her legs and up into her lower back. She burrowed her face deep into the comforter to muffle her yelp. She was crying hard already. He didn't make her wait for the last swat but delivered it immediately. It was nowhere near as hard as it could have been, but it stung like the devil and she was very grateful there weren't any more. He stretched out on the bed and gathered her into his arms. “I love you, my good girl,” he whispered over and over as she nestled into the strength that she trusted more than anything she had ever known.

  Blog post

  I am still in the process of moving—but fall is the time of year to get ready for holiday entertaining. Let’s talk Turkey shall we? This is one of those posts gauran-flipping-teed, to piss off people on both sides of the issue. Grocery store or specialty turkey?

  I’ve gotten a few questions about this so let me clarify—we do not raise turkeys at the lodge. A smelly loud poultry pen would not add much to the holiday experience of our guests. However, we do purchase farm raised turkeys from our neighbors. Here’s the thing—a turkey not raised in a tiny pen will have a very different flavor than a battery bird. It will. And there is something to be said for that rich and wild flavor. BUT—and it's a big one, a wild turkey will be less predictable in terms of tenderness. AND the flavor we all know and love in our holiday feast is the mild, white breast of a turkey of Mae West proportions. In short, I don't think your November feast is the place to try something new. I am here to assure you, my foodie friends, that a supermarket turkey is perfectly acceptable. Perfectly. If you want to order a heritage turkey from your local butcher—do so. You may love it and certainly it gives you foodie bragging rights. But you don't need to mortgage the children to have a notable turkey feast. Let the grousing begin (see what I did there?)

  Much has been written about how to prepare a turkey and most of it is best ignored. The days of baking a turkey for eight hours and constantly basting it are over—thank heavens. The little pop up thermometer that comes in your supermarket turkey—pull it out. It's near the thigh and the breasts will be sad echoes of their juicily luscious selves by the time it activates. For years I brined our turkeys and it works, although it's a bit onerous—scouring out the cooler, making the brine, submerging the turkey in water that sort of starts to look like bodily fluids that you shouldn't ever come into contact with. Last year I began dry brining our birds and I am a convert. Total convert—you might find me in the airport giving away flowers with a tag that says “dry brining is the way.” It’s not entirely without effort—you will need to clear a large space in your fridge. The beer may need to go on the back porch. Sorry, fellas, we all have to make sacrifices for the holidays.

  Rules for dry brining:

  Do not use a kosher turkey—they have been pre-salted.

  Wash your hands like you are a surgeon prepping to do a heart transplant on your own mother.

  Combine-3 TBL sea salt—not coarsely ground

  1 tsp light brown sugar—rub the mixture between your hands to get rid of any lumps.

  Begin 3 days before you want to cook it—so look at the date on the bird and pick the freshest one you see.

  With your spotless hands, slide your fingers between the skin and the flesh. Start at the breast but work your hands all over the bird. Be careful not to break the skin, but work as far down the legs as you can. Now you are going to rub the salt/sugar mixture onto the flesh--under the skin. Work it in, like you are its massage therapist in a sketchy “have a good time” type parlor. No, you won't make it too salty. No, you shouldn't add herbs at this point—the salt/sugar is using osmosis to make the cells of turkey juicy and delectable—anything else just gets in the way. It’s like the turkey is you at your middle school dance and the salt is the cool eighth grader who never noticed you. Your neighbor who played D&D at the lunch table right out in the open every day is the herbs. His interest in the turkey (which is you in this tortured analogy) makes it harder for the salt to be attracted to your burgeoning breasts and thighs.) The turkey tolerates the herbs because her mom makes her, but she hates him and wishes he would fall in a hole and die. Now—set your salty bird on a rack on a cookie sheet and put the whole thing in the fridge. Do not cover it. I know this is a scary notion and you may not want your mother-in-law to see it (unless your mother-in-law is Hazel, who is fazed by nothing) but we need the bird to dry out. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about roasting Mr. Tom Turkey and his shatteringly crisp skin…

  Keep it delicious, Cass

  Déjà Vu and the Wooden Spoon

  It was time to say goodbye. This was the problem with grown up life—there were very few pain free choices. Saying yes to one thing meant saying no to something else. She clung to Jen while Killian waited in the doorway and she kissed the children one last time. Jen had a career and a family and wouldn't be popping up to Slick Trench any time soon. They reminded each other that they could skype and text every day, and while that was true, it didn't salve the ache in Cass’s heart. She loved Hazel and she had learned to enjoy Libby’s company, but she didn't have anything approaching a best girlfriend in Slick Trench.

  Her parents should have been easier to say goodbye to, since they were coming for Thanksgiving. It was not. Cass burst into tears and both her parents ended up patting and soothing her. The house she had grown up in was on the market and she would never be inside of it again. She insisted on walking through the house one more time. Her parents had recovered from a separation of several months. They seemed in love in a way that they hadn't been in a long time, and it was nice to see. Barb had returned to teaching and was delighted about it. Ken was retired and had taken over much of the homemaking duties. Nobody would ever have seen that coming, thought Cass. She hugged her mother tightly and they agreed that Thanksgiving wasn't very far away. Killian drove while Cass cried some more on the drive home.

  After an exhausting day of saying goodbyes, they returned to their now bare apartment. It had been rented with furnishings, so they still had a bed, for their final night in Chicago. Scott, Cass’s brother, was driving them to the airport at the crack of dawn. Or as Killian would call it, mid day.

  It was still pitch black when Killian nudged her awake. “Time to get up, baby doll.”

  “Two more minutes,” the queen of wanting to stay in bed, murmured.

  “I know how to wake you up.” He rolled her over and yanked the delicious blankets off of her shoulders. “Don't move,” he whispered. Now this was just mean, she thought—couldn't she have waited UNDER the covers? He was back in less than a minute. She felt the familiar swirl of a small wooden spoon on the crest of her bottom. “Remember this?” he asked. Well, yes, she did. He had given her first real spanking with this light wooden spoon for calling herself fat. “It’s coming with me in my pocket.”

  Smack. He landed a quick succession of swats on the roundest part of her bottom. She wriggled with delight, reveling in the light sting. “Wait,” she said, staring to turn over, “like the airport?”

  With his left hand he shimmied her PJ pants down and the little whaps rained down rapidly. “Exactly. I am going to burn up your pretty ass somewhere in the airport.”

  “Oh no you are not.”

  The spoon had been set somewhere and his large manly hand took over with a res
ounding splat. “Is that how you talk to me?”

  She yelped and squirmed, both wanting it to stop and grateful that it wouldn't. “It is when you lose your—Ow! Damn mind.”

  She could feel his grin, although it was dark and she was face down on the bed. “We’ll see if you are feeling so cheeky when you are tucked under my arm in a corner hall somewhere.”

  Her pussy got drenched. She didn't really think he would spank her in public, but the thought certainly melted her to the core. She bucked her hips back towards him, inviting him to stop swatting and start thrusting. He grabbed her hips and drew her to him. “How about a blow job in the airport instead—Ah!” she gasped as he slid into her with a fury.

  He pumped hard and teased her, “Oh, baby, it's gonna be both.” Both thrilled and more than a little unsettled, she came hard, rearing back so that her head rested against his chest. They showered and as Cass was getting dressed, she slid her hands over her deliciously hot bottom cheeks. Her husband stood, drying his hair with a towel and admiring the view. “Do you have a skirt?”

  Cass had planned on wearing jeans, they seemed more practical for the long trip. She opened her suitcase and found a long sleeved tee shirt dress. She held it up. “Perfect.” He winked. “I know a naughty girl who has a date with the spoon.” She had been reduced to three things, a hammering heart, a scorched bottom and the golden liquid between her legs. She pulled on the dress. “Bare legs are going to get sorta cold.”

  “Do you have any stockings?”

  She dug through her bag. She did, in fact, have a pair of thick black stockings, the stylist of her TV show must have planned on her wearing them for something. Being on TV had taught Cass all about how different under garments could make or break an outfit. The stockings did not require a garter belt, they had elastic at the thighs. She rolled them on. As she smoothed her dress down to her knees, Killian kissed her neck. “No panties.”

  “Wait? All the way to Alaska?”

  “All the way to Slick Trench, baby.” She put on a cardigan and looked at herself in the mirror. Actually, she didn't look like a sex show freak. If anything, she looked more stylish than she normally did. She brushed her hair into a ponytail and made a quick look around the apartment. She grabbed her Kindle and its charger. She had bought some books to read on the plane. She was especially intrigued by Her Cowboy Husband which said in the blurb that it featured the spanking of adult women. She hadn't read any spanking erotic fiction and the long plane trip seemed like a good time to begin. Bags gathered by the front door, they made a last walk through the tiny apartment. Killian slipped his jean jacket on and, with a wink, slid the small spoon into the interior pocket. “You can't be serious,” she said.

  “Let’s just see how serious I am,” he said with a wink.

  “But, honey,”

  “Hush, your brother is here.” They headed downstairs and loaded their bags into the trunk of Scott’s car.

  CassCooks Blog Post - Tom Turkey and the Furnace of Deliciousness

  This is the second in my series on making the perfect Thanksgiving turkey. I’ll be moving for several days, so I will get back to any comments as soon as I can.

  All right , so Mr. Tom the plump Turkey has sat in his salt mask for at least two days. Pull him out of your chill chest. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.

  Now—I am not big on insisting that everyone needs the same things in their kitchen—but you really do need the kind of meat thermometer that stays in the bird. Mine attaches by a cord that sits outside of the oven. You don't want to continually open your oven, and poking it several times will merely release those juices we spent THREE DAYS creating. That would be crazy. Place your turkey on a rack in a roasting pan. Take a large piece of foil and press it over the breast. Remove it and set it aside. You will need it later and doing that to sizzling hot turkey will result in your eating a Twix from the vending machine at your local burn unit on the third Thursday in November. Be prepared. Meanwhile—in your food processor—combine a stick of butter (totally soft), two cloves of garlic and several tablespoons of olive oil. This is not the meal where we worry about fat. Go for it, it’s traditional. Whiz to a fine fluffy cloud of garlicky, buttery goodness. Again with the scrubbing your hands—get them good and clean and dry. Then you are gong to gently work your hands under the skin of the turkey—it isn't attached to the flesh any more but it's dry so you need to be gentle. You are going to rub your butter into the gap. It's okay if you have small globs of butter in some spots—massaging from the outside, work the fat as evenly as you can around the bird. Place your meat thermometer in the thickest part of the thigh. If its programmable, set it for 165 degrees. Slide the turkey into your oven and immediately drop the heat to 350 degrees. No stuffing in the bird. I am sorry, but stuffing makes it harder for your breast and thighs to be ready at the same time. Yes, your grandma did it that way. She also used Listerine as a douche (I am not making that up—go google it—I will wait.) Do not worry about your stuffing—it will be meaty and rich—I swear. We will get to that recipe soon. Now look through your oven window. Avoid opening the door. Closer to the end of cooking you are probably going to have to open the door to slide in some things that need to cook, like the stuffing, or the sweet potatoes, so don't do it now if you don't have to. You don't really need to baste, that's the butters job—and frankly it's much better at it than you are. The only reason to open the oven and look at the turkey up close is if you think the drippings are scorching. That must be avoided, since we are going to use those for our gravy. If it appears that they are burning, pour a few cups of broth into the pan—that's why you need the rack, so your burnished, crispy turkey is not sweltering in a pool of liquid. The basic rule of turkey cooking is thirteen minutes per pound. Now, this formula assumes a commercially raised turkey—they will be far meatier and less muscular than a wild turkey. You may need to make adjustments for a wild bird.

  See ya soon from Slick Trench—this Thanksgiving is going to be delicious!

  Cass

  They were flying directly from Chicago to Anchorage. From Anchorage they would take a smaller plane to Homer and from there, the ferry to Slick Trench. She hugged Scott fiercely and they promised to stay in better touch. They checked their luggage in and headed to their terminal. Cass had a purse and a carry on bag. Killian had a carry on backpack and the spoon in his pocket that seemed to be the only thing his wife could think about. She was thinking about it when they waited in line at security. She nearly couldn't breathe when Killian placed his shoes, and his rolled up jacket in a bin and rolled it through the X-ray machine. She stood transfixed as she could see the outline of the spoon on the screen. Was that a smirk she saw on the face of the TSA agent? She swallowed hard and put her own things on the rolling surface. She felt herself blush as she walked through the X-ray machine. She did not make eye contact. By the time she looked up, Killian had pulled on his jacket, was wearing his shoes and was clearly very amused by her discomfort. Sadist, she thought. Lucky me, she also thought. The airport in Chicago was always crowded, even this early in the day. She was both relieved and disappointed that there was definitely not a secluded corridor. She settled in next to her husband and opened her Kindle. Her Cowboy Husband had a sexy cover of a shirtless man whose face was in the shadows. His belt was featured prominently in the picture, and Cass had to admit the man's chest, and that big thick manly belt were swoon worthy. She began to read.

  Jocelyn, wiped the sweat from her brow as the stagecoach sped along. She was running from Lord Ruttington and pretending to be a mail order bride was her only hope of escape. The hoop of her skirt blew in the wind and exposed her panties.

  Cass put down the Kindle; had women ever worn panties and hoop skirts at the same time? She didn't think so. “Want some coffee?” she asked. Killian agreed, adding, “Get something to eat too—a muffin or something, it's easier on your stomach.” Cass nodded, but she was something of a snob about baked goods and she didn't see herself buying a factory made c
hocolate muffin. She purchased their coffees, used enough cream and sugar to disguise the taste of actual coffee in hers and headed back to the bench. “The muffins looked lousy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, I could totally see you every second.”

  Uh oh. “I know you could,” she fibbed.

  “You didn't even look at them. Now give me your coffee and go buy a banana.” She considered arguing, then she remembered what was in his pocket. She turned and just to be safe, bought two bananas. He leaned close to her and she could feel the spoon against her breast. “This is the only warning you are going to get, princess. I am looking for a reason to spank your beautiful ass today.”

  Flutter, went her heart. As always she did love being spanked, but she did want to be his good girl—such a conundrum. She kissed his cheek. “I will behave.”

  He chuckled. “I sorta hope not.”

  “Me too,” she whispered. Waiting for the boarding call, her phone buzzed. Mimi had texted her pictures of baby Victoria. In one of them Steph was holding the baby and looking into her tiny face. He certainly appeared to be madly in love.

  She’s beautiful Cass texted. I hope he stays nice.

  Me too, answered the new mother.

  I have to go. I’ll be in touch once we are settled back home.

  Cass gathered up her bags. “Do you think Stephen will stay a decent human being?” she asked her handsome husband.

  “Nope, not even close, but I do think he loves that baby.”

  Cass was inclined to agree. They boarded the plane. She put her bag under the seat in front of her after retrieving her Kindle, and some gum and stowing them in the pocket in front of her. Killian lifted his bag up into the overhead storage and as he did so, winked at Cass and patted his chest right over where the spoon was. She nervously smiled at him and looked out of the window. They were going home.