Table Of ContentMIDNIGHT SHOWCASE
Erotic-ahh Digest Vol. 05-03
Sweet Revenge
MIDNIGHT SHOWCASE
www.midnightshowcase.com
Published by
MIDNIGHT SHOWCASE
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Lusk, WY 82225-0726
www.midnightshowcase.com
BITTERSWEET MEMORY Copyright © 2005 by J.M. Cornwell
BEDRIDDEN Copyright © 2005 by Laura Bacchi
MOVING ON Copyright © 2005 by Marguerite Turnley
PHANTOM VINDICATION Copyright © 2005 by Bridghid Parkinson
WHEN MAGGIE LOVED PATRICK…THEN JOHN Copyright © 2005 by Nancy Pirri
SALT FOR HIS WOUNDS Copyright © 2005 by I.G. Frederick
THE ANNIVERSARY GIFT Copyright © 2005 by Herbert Grosshans
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME Copyright © 2005 by Imari Jade
BETRAYAL—A LOVE STORY Copyright © 2005 by Marcella
SCREWED Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Rayne
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the
publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
ISSN #1555-5496
Credits
Cover Artist: Scott Carpenter
Editor: Nikita Gordyn
Copyeditor: Regan Taylor
Printed in the United States of America
SWEET REVENGE
To our valued readers,
At Midnight Showcase, we offer some of the best reads
around.
When deciding which stories we wanted to add to the
EROTIC-AHH SWEET REVENGE DIGEST, two other sto-
ries stood out, but they were not erotica. We decided to of-
fer them as well.
We hope you enjoy them as much as we did.
Sincerely,
Jewel Adams and Bev Haynes, Co-Publishers
Midnight Showcase
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SWEET REVENGE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marguerite Turnley lives in country Victoria, Australia. Two
dogs, two cats, three children and one grandchild, plus one long suf-
fering husband and one boarder share her log house in a six acre pad-
dock. She loves to write, any genre is fair game including speculative
fiction, children books, poetry, adventure. She is the author of a pub-
lished romance novel entitled Primal Man with Rocky River Romance
in Australia. It is a mixture of romance, crime, adventure and dinosaur
fossils. Marguerite would like to write crime stories using forensic
science but doesn’t want to give anyone ideas so sometimes she keeps
the stories short. She also likes to paint landscapes and cook, using
her own recipes. Sewing is also on the menu.
Anyone who wishes to communicate via email may do so.
Comments are welcome.
[email protected]
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Moving On
By Marguerite Turnley
The man’s hot, greedy gaze was on the woman as she re-
trieved groceries from her car. His mouth watered and his hands
clenched as some indefinable emotion overtook him. Hunger ate
him alive. It was a taste for forbidden fruit, only forbidden be-
cause a judge made it so. He’d gotten rid of the judge, time well
spent. No one connected the disappearance with him, and they
never would. Any dirt people could dig up would be a complete
waste of time.
It proved handy to have friends in the funeral business.
Money to pay them was a little harder to come by, but he’d man-
aged to turn a talent for fraud and computer hacking into a profit-
able enterprise. Libraries were a free source of knowledge and
equipment, so he used them well.
He waited weeks for this chance and no city woman was go-
ing to deny him, especially one, who long ago forfeited her right
to respectability.
She left her lawful husband, denying him his God given
rights, making accusations of brutality on his part to the police.
All lies.
The restraining order against him was the last straw. Now he
wanted justice, his own brand.
She turned her car lights off and went inside the house. With
his car parked down the street, he was certain she didn’t see him.
Too bad if she had. There was no one around to interfere. She
was his property. Nothing could stop him taking what he wanted.
He could see her in the window, turning lights on, pulling
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down blinds.
She would have locked the door. No matter, he could easily
get back inside. Picking locks was a talent he’d acquired at the
governor’s expense.
He'd left a calling card in her kitchen, just to make her nerv-
ous.
The idea that she was scared turned Jerry on. It was the only
thing that did these days. Years locked away with the same spe-
cies as himself made him a different man.
He thought about that and acknowledged, that he’d always
been a man of two minds. The right hand didn't always know
what the left hand got up to. It was more fun that way.
He smiled. There was no reason to deny himself anything at
all. He’d already paid, now he would collect.
****
Susan put her milk in the fridge, taking out the steak she
planned to marinate. Turning to put it on the bench, she took out
a knife to slice up the meat, but then she paused, her mind telling
her that something was wrong. The kitchen didn’t smell right.
Then she realised what it was. Cigarettes. She’d given up the
habit when Jerry went to jail and been clean ever since.
Then she saw the flowers on the table. Violets. Susan hated
cut flowers. They made her think of funerals and her ex-husband's
best friend Tony, who disappeared after a party she attended with
Jerry in the dark past when she and her husband were still civil to
each other.
Tony had been kind to her, and stood up for her when Jerry
used his fists to show her who was boss.
Then Tony left without a word. His car had been found at the
airport and everyone assumed he went on holiday, until no record
of him was found on passenger lists.
The mystery still remained unsolved and Tony’s funeral
home business was now run by his wife.
When Susan looked closer at the table, she discovered some-
thing. Her mouth went dry and her skin began to crawl, as if tiny
insects were infesting the pores.
The flowers were all dead. First smoke fumes then deceased
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flowers. What was next?
A note was lying on the table. Susan picked it up with trem-
bling hands. It read, ‘Sorry I missed you Sue. Next time I won’t.
Love and kisses, J.’
Susan stopped moving. She almost stopped breathing too,
her stomach like a stone as she involuntarily crumpled up the
note and dropped it.
He’d found her. It was time to find another town, make an-
other life, reinvent herself yet again. But this time, she’d change
more than her name.
Plastic surgery began to look like more than an idea. It was a
necessity.
It was then that she heard footsteps on the wooden veranda,
the scrape of something in the lock. Deep inside she knew. It was
too late, too late for her, too late for Jerry. Running away or hid-
ing was no longer an option. Even the phone in the living room
was too far away for her to phone the police. She picked up a
knife and, turning toward the hallway, she stepped toward the
opening door.
Jerry slipped inside and looked around, his actions furtive
and his intention clear. Revenge was his agenda and it looked ob-
vious that he didn’t care how he got it. Susan never saw him so
poleaxed as when he saw her standing in the entry to the kitchen
with her favourite skinning knife in her hands.
He immediately lost all colour. To see that glimmer of weak-
ness was worth all the trouble he caused her, all the pain and an-
guish of his betrayal with his best friend Tony’s wife, not to men-
tion how he beat and belittled his own wife.
No wonder Tony had been removed from the picture. He was
also in the way of Jerry’s plan to take over the funeral home, an
extremely lucrative business.
Jerry looked so confused she could almost feel sorry for him.
Then she looked into his eyes and saw the nature of the beast. It
was ravenous and would do anything to win. She knew this
would be her last chance. If she failed to escape her husband now
he would destroy her.
He kicked the door shut and walked forward, trying to pre-
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tend he’d surprised her. His shaking hands and voice tremors
gave the game away
“Hello, Darling. Cooking are we?” Jerry asked, keeping out
of range of the knife. He'd always been afraid of knives. A left
over from his childhood with a father whose business was butch-
ery and terrifying his children with his toys of trade. Jerry's own
mother became a victim and it seemed the pattern of violence was
repeated in his son.
“I’m not cooking yet, honey,” she replied, her voice silky but
determined. “I was waiting for you.”
“Really?” he said as he tried to move around her. “I didn’t
know I was expected. What are we having?”
“Roast skunk.” Susan grinned.
Jerry stopped moving when he realised his vulnerable posi-
tion, his pale complexion turning anaemic green. “Anyone I
know?” he asked.
“Look in the mirror.” The knife rose and in an instant the
would-be predator became a drooling, defeated shadow of his
former self. The battle was over. The battered wife had become
the avenging angel. Jerry was lying on the floor, cowering, beg-
ging for mercy as his wrists were tied with Susan’s apron strings.
She cut them with the knife and felt no remorse at their loss.
Then she phoned the police. It was time her husband found out
who wore the pants in the family. It certainly wasn’t him, not any
more. Emasculation was complete.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. M. Cornwell is a nationally syndicated freelance jour-
nalist and author who lives in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.
Up where the air is thin and the winds and sunshine fierce, she
writes stories of mystery, mayhem, horror, real life and the occa-
sional article about all things political, religious, erotic and peo-
ple-oriented. In short, she writes for whatever muse and curiosity
strike her at the moment. Ms. Cornwell spent several years edit-
ing and then designing the web site for The Rose & Thorn literary
e-zine, writing several articles, stories and profiles of well known,
and not so well known, authors. She has also been published in
The New York Times, New Woman, Columbus Monthly,
Woman's Day, and many other print publications, as well as
mainstream and alternative newspapers, breaking the story on the
truth behind the closing of Ohio State University's "Big Ear,"
which was part of the SETI (Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelli-
gence) program. She is one of the reviewers for Author Link
online and her reviews of horror, mainstream, non-fiction and fic-
tion of all flavors can be read at The Celebrity Café online. Ms.
Cornwell also maintains four blogs online and can be found lurk-
ing on Google when she isn't listed among the erotica of the latest
issue of Midnight Showcase.
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Bittersweet Memory
By J. M. Cornwell
As Lila stirred the batter, she thought about David. How he loved
her brownies: moist, chewy, dark and sweet with pecans instead of wal-
nuts, thickly shaved dark curls of Mexican chocolate that left warm bit-
tersweet pockets that melted on the tongue and a dusting of powdered
sugar on top. She laughed as she remembered the powdered sugar on
David’s nose and caught in his little Hitler mustache as he’d say,
“Chocolate heaven sprinkled with fairy dust, ” every time he took the
first bite. She never tired of hearing his words, but David doesn’t talk
about her brownies any more. He doesn’t say anything any more. He’s
gone. He left Lila for another woman, left her with three small children,
no child support, and only bitterness where the sweetness used to be.
Arm aching as she beat the thick batter, Lila held back the tears
she’d kept inside every time she explained to the boys why they didn’t
get a birthday or Christmas card from their father, why David didn’t call,
and why the boys couldn’t call their father to tell him about a good grade
on a paper at school or a field trip or that they loved and missed their
dad. After five long years, it was getting harder and harder to excuse his
callous disregard.
Lila beat the batter harder, forcing the wooden spoon around and
around, melding chocolate, butter, eggs, sugar, and flour until every last
vestige of white was gone and the batter was smooth and satiny, the sim-
ple separate ingredients married into a better whole. Marriage felt like
that at first before circumstance and old habits took over and separated
them, forced them apart.
Putting the bowl on the counter, Lila scooped up thick curls of bit-
tersweet chocolate and sprinkled them into the bowl, folding them into
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