Rendered (The Cass Chronicles Book 3)

by Susannah Shannon

  “Talk about putting the cart before the horse,” she said, giggling.

  “I’m never one to leave my damsel in distress.” He stretched beside her and reached for the light. “It’s just part of my total alpha-ness.” She curled herself against him.

  * * *

  Killian had fallen asleep and she couldn't. Her mind was racing with all the ideas she had for Sarah’s wedding. She had the feeling that she and Sarah were destined to be great friends. She felt a pang of guilt, she needed to check in with Jen, see if she needed any help with the kids. She wondered what it was like to be so brave that you could openly face people who said horrible things about you. She shifted and tossed. She gave up after about an hour and moved to the living room with her laptop. She googled “Sarah Huntley-lawyer-Chicago.”

  The first few hits were all nasty sites. There seemed to be a lot more men complaining about her “fat acceptance” (their words) activism than there were any signs of her doing anything of the sort. It appeared to boil down to a harassment case that she had been the attorney for. The man had been convicted of smashing windows and spray painting “Lardass Whore” on the gate of his ex-girlfriend’s house. He had been found in contempt of court, and had made threats to the judge. So what should have been a simple, if awful, case, had dragged on. Ultimately, he had spent some time in jail. He had written posts alleging that he had been jailed simply for suggesting his girlfriend lose weight. This absurd story had been passed around the “manosphere” like a ring of seals passes a ball with their snouts. No one questioned it and the comments it generated. “If there was any doubt that we had any rights as men, that has been shattered by this travesty of an injustice. Wake up and defy your fat feminist overlords.” Good heavens.

  She ventured into the “Reign” website. Under the banner bearing the legend “Made to Reign” was the subtitle—Women and sodomites are not welcome to post on the forum. She didn’t know what to make of the site—it seemed to have multiple personalities—each of them vile. There were a series of articles detailing how women’s “hypergamy” which seemed to mean incapable of fidelity, had destroyed the nuclear family. There were also articles (the majority) devoted to tricks and techniques for getting laid. And somehow, that was women's fault too. Apparently women were operating as pampered children, above the law, too fat, too easy and yet too picky to recognize the value of the writers involved. It was funny. It was also hair raising. “Call out the whales” was a forum that allowed men to send in photos of anonymous overweight women and provide their own cruel captions. The bizarre thing was that, amidst all of the vitriol, was a clear sense of men who perceived themselves as being victimized. Cass couldn't make head or tails of it. She couldn't help herself though, it was compulsive hate reading. She read the blog post.

  The fact remains that women are inferior to men in every measurable way. Before the pussyfication of America you could say that out loud. Now the manginas and feminazis have forced us all to pretend that humans are all equal. It only takes half a brain to realize that this is clearly not the case. Name one successful matriarchy. You can't. Feminists know this. Women need us for everything/ We need them for a lay. Don't ever let the females in your life forget that.

  -Ahab

  She didn't even know where you would begin to refute such ridiculous hatefulness. The son of a bitch had published her phone number without them having any contact at all. She wondered if he did have some sort of computer prowess. He seemed like a scary enemy to have. She would have to figure out how to protect her privacy more aggressively. What an asshole, she thought. She read on.

  I once let pussy run my life. While I busted my ass starting a business with a web presence, she lay around getting fatter and fatter. I traded her plump ass in for a solid ten. Spent a few months balls deep in a body that could have been in Playboy. But—beautiful women have even less reason to develop any sort of character or skills. They have sailed through life getting a pussy pass, since beta men shower them with attention and undeserved perks.

  -Ahab

  She wondered if any of that was true. She compulsively clicked onto another post:

  Really the only true solution is a return to iron clad patriarchy. A certain class of women should be set aside to breed with. All women need all of their decisions controlled by men. Until a girl is married, and the modern notion that teenagers are too “immature” for marriage is deluded bullshit, all decisions must be made by the male head of her family. A father should select a husband/owner for a daughter when she is still malleable enough to be turned into the wife her husband desires. We have let them redefine marriage as a romantic relationship between equals. In exchange, we have gotten fat chicks with “gender studies” degrees who make up rape claims every time a man stands up to them. Don’t let the manginas convince you otherwise—MEN are the romantic gender. Women are hypergamous, fickle, intellectual inferiors. Other than the stinky hole between their legs, they have nothing to offer. The Islamicists have the right idea when they stone unfaithful women. It takes a few cases like that and your wife won't dare get fat, slap you with a frivolous divorce, and steal your children.

  -Ahab

  The sun would be up shortly and she hadn't been to sleep. Her eyes hurt from straining to read without her contacts in. Her legs had fallen asleep and her back was stiff. She staggered into their room and crashed.

  She hit the snooze button several times, rationalizing that since she was working from home, it really wouldn't matter. By the time she pried her eyelids open, Killian had left. She hoped she had said something sweet and supportive as he left, although it was far more likely that she had merely groaned and rolled over. She knocked the pile of clean laundry over, spilling tee shirts in her wake. Dammit. She had assured Killian that she would get to that since she was working from home today. Would she ever get a handle on how long things actually take?

  She had opened her laptop to see what the idiots at Made to Reign were saying. Big mistake. “Women Are Hardwired to Crave Physical Abuse.” Oh good God almighty. Ahab, who seemed to be the point man for the idiot squad, had this to say.

  I know something about this issue—the whore I once tried to turn into a housewife was fat, lazy and crazy as fuck. Even she, deep in her feminazi bullshit knew that it wasn't natural for her to be in charge. Every woman, deep in her lizard brain, desires nothing more than you to man up, tell her “shut the fuck up” and blister her bare ass. The chick I nearly let ruin my life was used to people just giving in to her, and she begged me to spank her. Western civilization was built by men whose women knew better than to shit test. The term “rule of thumb” refers to a man being allowed to take a switch to a rebellious wife as long as it was smaller in diameter than his thumb. Those people colonized the earth, built cathedrals without power tools and raised well-adjusted children. Obviously, they knew something we have forgotten. Women are happiest when in a constant state of near terror. Put down your girly cocktail, stop asking your woman's permission to be her leader. That belt around your flabby middle would be better spent strapping your woman’s ass until she wouldn't DARE disagree with you. Appeasement to the femicunts has led to an army of out of control lard ass inferiors controlling their betters. The inmates are running the asylum.

  Damn. She was shaking with fury. Who the fuck were these horrible men? How dare they say such things? As it had before, the notion that her submissive desires conflicted with her feminist beliefs reared up and stared her in the face. She was not abused. She wanted anyone who abused anyone to be locked up. Having submitted herself to her husband, she felt an even greater horror at the idea that a man would batter his wife. It was not just assault, it was betrayal. It was treasonous. What moron would have ever confessed such desires to a misogynistic asshole? Other than being an open invitation to get yourself slapped around—it was a betrayal of the sisterhood.

  Her fury propelled her around the house, but it did not make her very efficient. She emptied the hampers to begin laundry.
She went back to the laptop. Big mistake.

  Someone claiming to be a monk had written an article on the inferiority of female souls. Of course, since women weren’t allowed to comment, the comments rolled onwards, a diarrhea filled river of agreement. “The only thing I like about the Muslims is that they keep their bitches in check” “No woman has ever contributed anything significant to society, they are barely human.”

  She slammed her laptop shut.

  She was overwhelmed. There were meetings she needed to have. She really needed to get to yoga, her back was killing her. She was exhausted. Hazel was coming into town and she needed to get things clean and make it to the supermarket. She had work emails that she needed to address and, instead, she was reading about how American women were greedy, dishonest whores. But apparently, not whorish with the right men, according to Ahab

  She was trying to perfect an eggplant mini calzone that was freezable. Eggplant had a dicey relationship with the freezer. And the vegan pastry was a pain in the ass. She pushed through it though, since vegan things were what she had the least experience with. She had begun her career as a chef at a game restaurant, so not much call for vegan expertise there. And Lord knows, Vegans aren't exactly thick on the ground in Slick Trench, Alaska.

  She compulsively kept revisiting what she now referred to in her head as “Dickhead Central.” She tried frying the eggplant… turned the pastries into mini oil slicks. Dammit. She chopped up another batch of eggplant and she tried roasting the eggplant, that was better. Every pan in the kitchen was piled on the counter, she'd even had to pile them on the stove, Both the mixer and the food processor were laced with attempts at a short pastry with no egg. She had spent far more time being furious and appalled than she had at working. The apartment smelled like scorched garlic. She suspected she had olive oil even in her eyebrows. Disaster. She ran her fingertips in circles over her throbbing temples. Wasted fucking day. She didn’t know where to begin to set the day right.

  Chapter Five - A Date with Umbrage

  Killian waltzed in. Instead of making her happy, it only outraged his disheveled bride. How dare he seem so happy? Didn’t he know that she was behind in everything? Didn’t he even care? He kissed the back of her neck and she stiffened. “Whoa. What's up, baby?”

  “Oh you noticed something. Good for you,” she spat.

  He arched one eyebrow. “Come again?”

  “Well, you haven't noticed anything else.”

  He reached an arm under her legs and scooted her to the side of the futon so that he could sit down. He reached for her hand. “Change your tone and tell me what I’ve missed.”

  “Why should I change my tone? Maybe I am sick of doing what everybody else wants me to do?”

  He glanced around their tiny apartment. “You should change your tone because I do not speak to you that way and you will not speak to me that way.”

  “Why? Cause you are the man? Maybe that's all a bunch of shit.”

  He regarded her calmly. “What is going on?”

  “I don't know,” she snapped, burying her head in her hands. “I am not a whore and I am not dumber than a man. I have value other than how many men want to fuck me.” She was astonished at the vehemence that flowed with those angry words through gritted teeth.

  He was shocked. “Of course.”

  “You think you have the right to punish me.” She was sneering. Why the hell was she sneering?

  “I do, because you gave it to me.” That was true. So why was she so angry?

  “What if I changed my mind?”

  “Changed your mind? About getting spanked?”

  “Yes.” She was becoming a wild eyed crazy person she thought. “What if I said, I think this is harmful to my personal growth and I don't want to.”

  “I would stop.”

  “But, you’d leave me.”

  “No. I would not. You are my wife. That's non negotiable—everything else is up for discussion. But this,” he said, gesturing at the two of them, “this is the bedrock of my life. It’s like gravity.”

  Gravity. She needed gravity. She was spinning, she was afraid and she was angry. If she had a different genetic make up, she might be flinging dishes or breaking furniture. As it was, she clenched her hands and felt the cogs spinning in her brain.

  “I don't think it is harmful to me. But I should think that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am an adult. I should be an equal partner in this marriage.”

  “Okay. Stop there. You are an equal partner in this marriage.”

  “Except I am the partner who gets spanked. And you are the partner who decides when.” The anger was eeking out of her like air from a balloon with a pin prick, but she couldn't let go of it yet.

  “Because we agreed that's what we want.”

  “I know!” She was astonished at the ferociousness of her response. She began to pace. She could feel it rising within her; the same divine force she had felt the other day when Killian had paddled her, but this time it was spilling over borders; she felt like she might drown.

  “I am crazy.”

  He grinned. “Little bit. But hear this,” he said, putting a finger under her chin. “You're MY crazy. Mine. Bring me your laptop.”

  She was irked by this. She wanted him to make a grand gesture—throw her over his lap and force her to surrender by setting her bottom on fire. She handed him her laptop like a sulking child. He did not appreciate this. He turned her and delivered one ferocious swat to her backside. “Get in that corner. There's no need for discussion at this point.”

  She went. He was sexy, she’d give him that. Also an asshole, clueless and bossy. She could hear him working on the laptop. She leaned her forehead against the wall and felt sorry for herself. She wondered what he could be doing on it. She was imagining the lecture she had coming. She'd been a bitch, she’d accused him of being willing to walk away from their marriage, she’d accused him of oppressing her. The wall was cool on her skin—the wall of their apartment. Their apartment in Chicago. Where they were for her career. Where Killian had lovingly brought her. The sob caught in her throat. Her knees buckled and she caught herself with her hands on the wall. She wasn't sure of the rules. Would she get in trouble for moving? Killian’s hand was on her shoulder. She hoped he would gather her to him but he did not. He helped her sink to her knees. He helped support her as she bawled. He kept her in the corner. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am just so confused and exhausted.”

  “I know,” he said. “I'm going to help you. You stay here, you can sit if you want.” She shifted to Indian style, fairly certain that all the rule books she had read about M/s relationships would say they were doing it wrong. She nodded. She would do what he said.

  “Now,” his voice was low. “I will always always always,” he rubbed her back as he said this, “be your husband. No matter what. We will figure out how to do what we need to do, for us. But…” There was always a “but” she thought ruefully—and it was always hers. “…the time to talk about this is not when you're having a hissy fit because you cannot manage distractions.” Ouch. “Come here.” She heard him pulling the chair out and she expected to be put over his lap. Instead he gestured her to sit down and then helped her scoot her chair up—a perfect gentleman. Her laptop was open

  “You will place the grocery order.” He showed her where he had an open tab to the supermarket. “You will return your work emails. Nothing else. Waste no time. I am taking a shower. You need to have these things done and be sitting here waiting for me to get back.” He kissed the top of her head and turned on his heel. She swallowed. She was suddenly very thirsty and longed for a glass of water. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge her liquid refreshment? “Cassandra,” he said quietly from the doorway and her attention snapped back to the task at hand.

  “Honey—may I have a piece of paper?” The words stuck in her throat. May I? and yet it was the term to use. “I need to list the menus, so I can make my li
st.”

  “Of course.” He strode to the table and handed her a notebook and pen. “Get busy,” he said.

  She was able to move incredibly quickly through the meal planning. They would have Hazel, Torsten and Torsten's girlfriend Libby for three days. They would host a snacks and drinks party (she didn't feel adult enough to use the term ‘cocktail party’ about any shindig she was involved with) with people who had been to Slick Trench. She entered her selections on the web site for a store that would deliver. This was a perk that Chicago offered that Slick Trench decidedly did not. She was able to finish the task quickly and felt a huge sigh of relief as she completed one thing on her list. She opened her email and since she was afraid she was about to run out of time, she scanned through the inbox critically. Only two items mattered. She was actually invited back to Good Morning with Evan which was either a miracle or a total Prank’d situation. The show was doing a series of recipes for food that represented the height of summer. Two a day, like heading up the gangplank to Noah’s Ark she thought ruefully. Since she had not replied sooner, (dammit she thought) she had been assigned garden tomatoes. Not a bad assignment. She would have preferred sweet corn, but Clementine Prince the elegant proprietor of Cuisine de Clementine, a much tonier cooking show than her own, already had dibs on it. Of course, she was due to present her dish the next morning. A few emails later, she had planned her dish, ordered the freshest ingredients and arranged for twenty, pint mason jars to be ready at the studio. She would get in there at the crack of dawn, assemble them and then get over to the much nicer studio where Evan filmed his show. Done. “Oh my God,” she thought, “I have wasted my entire life. I could be a neurosurgeon/linguist/president of a small nation right now, if I could only buckle down and do shit.” She closed the laptop. She rested her hands on it. She took a deep breath. She wasn't sure which things Killian would ask her to do next. She was yearning for the catharsis of being hauled over his lap. It would wash this all clean and they would start over.