Lysandra didn't have an answer for that.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Lysandra. You're a real nice girl. It's just... I never knew what love was before I met her. She's special. She's like no one else I ever met."

"You're having an affair with your boss' wife, and you think that's special?"

"Not an affair. No way. But we have... a connection. That's the only thing I can think of to call it."

"A connection?" She turned and walked back to the door.

"I'm sorry, Lysandra. I never meant to lead you on."

"Don't worry about it." She looked back at him. "That girlfriend of yours, the one who told you she thought you were playing This Little Piggy?"

"Yeah?" Tyson looked suddenly anxious.

"She was just playing with your head. You give a great foot ma.s.sage."

"Thanks, Lysandra. That's real nice of you."

He was still talking as she walked away, but Lysandra's mind was racing. She didn't know the name of the man in the picture, but she didn't need it. She knew her Friday five o'clock freakshow when she saw him. Normally, all he evoked in her was revulsion, but now, she couldn't wait to see him. His wife had a foot-ma.s.sage habit that another man was taking care of? Lysandra couldn't see Stanky Mr. Keds taking that news well.

Hilary Davidson's debut, The Damage Done (Forge, 2010), was nominated for the Anthony Award for Best First Novel and the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Crime Novel. Her second book, The Next One to Fall, a mystery set in Peru, will be published by Forge in February 2012. Hilary won the 2010 Spinetingler Award for Best Short Story for "Insatiable" and her stories appear in collections such as Blood, Guts, & Whiskey and BEAT to a PULP: Round One. Visit www.hilarydavidson.com.

Comanche.

By Jason Duke.

Willie Jones looked around the empty bedroom at the back of Devilwood Springs. The room was as Kara had described it, no windows, the walls and ceiling covered in mirrored panels positioned at different odd angles. The mirrors reflected myriad fractured copies of him through the bleak emptiness of the room. His lean build, tucked black Under Armour shirt, dark blue jeans, unnervingly stared back on him everywhere he looked.

He closed the door behind him; it fit perfectly and blended into the wall. He walked to the middle of the room, boots thudding the vintage Mexican saltillo clay tile floor, and set the step ladder he had carried with him, under the dominatrix chains that hung from the ceiling. The chains were looped through a large metal ring bolted to the ceiling, fastened with hard leather straps at the ends. Harsh white light glared from studio lamps placed in the far corners, one in each corner. He pulled a tiny spy camera from his pocket. A hole had been cut into the gla.s.s where the metal ring was bolted to the ceiling, and he stepped up the ladder to the hole, then he wedged the camera inside.

The camera lens shined in his eyes, and he thought about Kara, the night he met her at Drai's nightclub two months ago. Her full name was Kara Knightley, she was lying on one of the nightclub beds out near the pool, sipping from a bottle of Cristal. She motioned with her finger for him to come over, then introduced herself. Willie asked her if she was the movie star because she had the same dark brown hair and deep haunting eye shadow.

He lay down next to her and she said, "Gee, I haven't heard that one before."

"You get that a lot?"

She nodded.

"Sorry," he said.

The bottle was less than half full. She poured it out behind her, signaling the hostess.

"Another one, please," she showed the hostess the empty bottle.

The hostess nodded, then left.

Kara rubbed her finger down Willie's loose white shirt to his tight black leather pants. "Are you going for the pop rock look, the Jim Morrison look, or what?"

He smiled, looking past the balcony to the Hollywood sign in the smog-shrouded distance. Kara tapped his c.o.c.k and said, "That thing is enormous, you must be a p.o.r.n star."

"I've done one or two."

"What was it called?"

"Comanche," he said.

Two bottles later, they left the nightclub together. He opened the pa.s.senger door to his Audi, she got in, and they drove to his Venice beach studio. Looking out of his kitchen window, she could see the large Jim Morrison mural up the street. She thought definitely the Morrison look, though she was more interested in what was beneath the pants. He staggered into the kitchen and she jumped on him, knocking him to the floor, started ripping off his pants, his shirt. One night, while they lay in bed, the gibbous moon shining in through the window, she could hear the waves crashing in the surf along the sh.o.r.eline. She nestled her head into his brawny chest, rubbing his chest with her free hand, one of her legs draped over his. He teased her nipples with soft, delicate little pinches. His heart thumped loudly in soothing rhythm to the crashing waves.

"Were you always into p.o.r.n?"

"No."

"What'd you do before p.o.r.n?"

"I had a few run-ins with the cops and did some time upstate. I'd rather not talk about it."

"What for? Please tell me."

"Alright, for burglary."

"What happened?" She played with his c.o.c.k, stroking it, "C'mon, tell me, please?"

"Alright. The security system of the place I was breaking into was simple enough, just a simple alarm and video feed, but I guess I wasn't as good as I thought."

She played with his c.o.c.k some more, stroking it harder, faster, "So how big is it?"

"Eleven inches."

"Is it naturally that big?"

"I grew it three inches."

"How?"

"There are techniques, pills you can take."

"You need it that big to do p.o.r.n?"

"No, but it helps. There are bigger."

Kara looked up into his face, "He beats me, my husband. Richard beats me. I think it's because he has a little d.i.c.k."

Willie stared out at the moon and calmly said, "That motherf.u.c.ker."

So Kara laid it all out for Willie told him about the mirrored bedroom, the dominatrix chains in the ceiling. How Richard liked to tie her up, f.u.c.k her, which she was okay with; but then he'd beat her afterwards, choke her, punch her in the back, smack her a.s.s, hard forceful slaps that left her black and blue for days.

She said, "I think maybe it's because he has a small d.i.c.k, and he's a premature ejaculator. He's embarra.s.sed by it. He has a little d.i.c.k complex or something. I try faking o.r.g.a.s.ms, but I don't think he buys it," Kara said. She wanted revenge; she wanted to take Richard for everything he was worth, which was over one hundred million.

The Devilwood Springs estate alone was worth a cool twenty mil.

Kara stroked Willie's c.o.c.k harder. She kissed his chest, sliding down to his c.o.c.k, and inhaled the tip of it into her mouth. When she finished, she smiled up at him, "Why was it called Comanche? You know, I mean the p.o.r.no?" He said, "I guess because the background song they used was called 'Comanche.'"

Willie snapped out of his daydream and stepped down off the ladder. He placed the step ladder in the corner. He snuck back through Devilwood Springs, marveling at all the post-modern decadence. The extravagantly furnished bedrooms lavished in a mixture of Moroso and Marquette Turner designs. The Philip Plein gold-plated living room furniture, or the Toyo D-Land kitchen with Swarovski crystal encrusted handles. Another kitchen was a Porsche Design Poggenpohl luxury kitchen set. Finn Stone lamp made from an English telephone box. Solange Azagury-Partridge gold and diamond chandelier hanging in the foyer. There was even a Klimt hung on the wall at the base of the sweeping grand marble staircase leading up to the second floor. The outside grounds were typical manicured lawns, hedgerows, flowerbeds, Gold Thread Cypress and j.a.panese Red Maples, no walls or gates, only a long driveway connecting from the street to the turnaround with a Maidens and Lions Italian marble fountain in the center.

He waited in his Audi half a block up the street. The spy camera was hooked up remotely, recording to a small battery powered television on the pa.s.senger seat. He rested the TV in his lap. An hour later, Kara and Richard pulled up in a Porsche. The car turned down the driveway, parking in the turnaround. Richard opened the car door for her, his eyes bugged out. His ears were large and fanned out like a bat. He put his hand on her shoulder, guiding her inside the mansion. Willie watched the TV intently. Soon they walked into the empty mirrored bedroom, Richard strapped her wrists to the chains, tore away the Jovani jewel-encrusted strapless c.o.c.ktail dress she was wearing, and f.u.c.ked her from behind. After a few quick powerful thrusts, he gasped in o.r.g.a.s.m, chin on her shoulder, drooling down her left t.i.t. Then he spun her around and slapped her hard across the face. He started choking her, punching her in the back, smacking her a.s.s with hard forceful slaps.

Willie threw open the car door. He rushed up the driveway, to the Brazilian cherry wood imported front door. The door was unlocked. He rushed inside Devilwood Springs, winding his way through the mansion, back through all the post-modern decadence. He burst into the empty mirrored bedroom out of breath but Richard and Kara were gone. Willie closed the mirrored door, walked to the middle of the room, boots thudding the vintage Mexican saltillo clay tile floor. He looked to the hole cut into the gla.s.s ceiling where the metal ring was bolted to the ceiling and the spy camera wedged inside. The camera lens shone back at him. He saw movement from the corner of his eye, turning in time to see the mirrored door open. Richard strolled into the bedroom wearing an indigo silk Samue with the image of a giant white tiger st.i.tched on the back. Richard grinned, Beretta held tucked to his side, aiming the gun at Willie. They locked eyes. Richard thrust the gun straight out in front of him, and Willie nearly tripped backward over his feet.

Richard said, "Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?"

Kara walked in behind Richard, touching her hands to his shoulders. She stood behind him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Is this him?"

"Mmm-hmm," she stared at Willie, through him, cold and unsympathetic, like he was more an object than a man. Willie slowly stepped away from the chains. He straightened up, perfectly straight, too proud to beg.

"Mr. Willie Jones, big time p.o.r.n star with the eleven inch c.o.c.k," Richard said.

Willie took a few steps back, behind the chains.

"Did you think you could trust her? What'd she tell you? That I beat her? She's a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic nympho. She likes it rough."

Richard reached his free hand over his shoulder, clenching a handful of Kara's hair. He yanked her around in front of him. She whimpered, grabbed his wrists, and he threw her to the ground. Richard moved toward Willie, motioning with the gun to the chains, "Put your wrists in the straps."

Willie said, "f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole, make me."

Richard motioned to the step ladder in the corner, "What were you doing with that step ladder?"

There was a click behind Richard.

The unmistakable sound of a hammer c.o.c.ked back on a gun.

He turned around and Kara was pointing a .38 Smith & Wesson at his gut. Willie stood on the step ladder, pulled the spy camera from its hiding place, showing it to Richard.

Willie said, "She never liked it rough, she just liked your money. Plus, I have a way bigger d.i.c.k than you."

"Two-timing b.i.t.c.h!"

Kara aimed the .38 lower, "I want a divorce. I want everything."

Willie took the Beretta from Richard, "Now you put your wrists in the straps, a.s.shole," he bashed Richard on the head with the b.u.t.t of the gun. "Do it, a.s.shole!" Kara disappeared for a moment, returning with a leather mouth and chin harness with red ball gag. The song Comanche played a second later over a deafening sound system in a neighboring bedroom. Willie tightened the straps.

Richard said, "Willie, buddy, can't we work something out. Seriously, c'mon guys."

Kara shoved the gag in Richard's mouth. He started screaming, and she strapped the gag on tighter. She started jumping gleefully up and down like a little school girl, clapping her hands together, "Go medieval on his a.s.s, baby!"

She pulled Richard's pants down, smacked him on the a.s.s. Willie bent Richard over, sinking his hands into Richard's squishy a.s.s; and then she unzipped Willie's giant c.o.c.k, opened a magnum condom and slipped it on.

Jason Duke is a Sergeant in the U.S. Army who served fifteen months in Iraq between 07-09. His short stories have appeared in Plots With Guns, Thuglit, Spinetingler Magazine, Crimewav.com, Crimefactory, Needle, Darkest Before the Dawn, and A Twist of Noir, among others. He has a story in the e-anthology D*cked available on amazon.com.

Misirlou.

By Jimmy Callaway.

1. Cheeseburger, Hold the Relish.

Mal walked in the front door, said, "Cheeseburger's dead."

Bronson looked up from the TV, said, "What?"

Stillwell looked up from the TV, said, "Who?"

Mal said, "Guy that runs that Greek place down the street. I stopped in for a gyro, joint's closed for a week. Death in the family notice in the window."

Bronson said, "Jesus."

Stillwell stubbed out his cigarette. "You guys call him 'Cheeseburger'?"

Bronson shrugged. "He looks like Belushi." To Mal, "Does Romano know?"

Bronson's phone went, "All the old paintings on the tomb, they do the sand dance, don'cha know..."

They all looked at it. Mal said, "I guess he does."

2. Ashes to Ashes, Funk to Funky "Ah, h.e.l.l," Bronson said as they pulled into Romano's lot.

"What?" Mal said.

Bronson pointed at the Taurus parked in front. "Funk's here."

Mal said, "Ah, h.e.l.l."