Page 56 of Judge's Mercy

While Myla showers, I light my candles, kneel in front of the altar, and pray. Rocking back and forth, I mouth the Act of Contrition over and over with my hands clasped around a rosary over my heart until I nearly have myself in a trance. I lose touch with what’s going on around me, blocking out all sound and movement, though I still sense when Myla steps into the room.

Stilling myself, I say a final “Amen” and open my eyes. Myla is standing at my side, looking so sexy and sweet. Her face is red and scrubbed free of makeup, her wet hair tucked behind her ears, and she’s barefoot. She’s also wearing one of my shirts that hangs nearly to her knees, but it’s tight enough that her puckered nipples strain against the fabric. She looks so perfect in my space and in my clothes, like she belongs.

I realize I’m no longer falling in love with Myla. I’m already there. I’m madly, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with this woman.

“Are you sure about this?” She’s nervous, though she’s trying to hide it. The only way I know is because her cute little toes with black painted nails are wiggling.

“I need to try,” I say, picking up the flogger and offering it to her. Bringing her into my dysfunction is humiliating, and I know she doesn’t want to do it, but if this works and feeds the compulsion to punish myself, it will change my life—at least until Myla decides she’s done with me.

She takes it from me. “Stand up.”

“Okay.” Embarrassment almost has me telling her never mind, that I don’t need her for this, but I remind myself that Myla isn’t like that. She’d never make me feel bad for my trauma.

I’m still naked, and my half-hard cock juts out as I stand, revealing another secret that’s maybe even more shameful than all the others: my flagellation gets me hard. It would be a given if this was a BDSM thing, but it’s not. It’s spiritual and a penance, though having my sexual partner administer the punishment muddles things.

“Does it have to be your back?” She grimaces. “I just don’t think I could add to what you’ve already done. Like you said, you’re one bad swing away from putting yourself in the hospital.”

“I don’t know. That’s the only place I’ve ever done it.”

“Can I flog your ass instead? It’s close to your back.”

“You can try, but it might not work.”

“What do you mean it won’t work?” she demands, her voice laced with confusion and her lips turned down in a frown. “I’m not understanding. You have rules, but there’s no one to enforce them, so why can’t you just stop?”

It’s almost satisfying to see her lose her cool for once. Ever since we met, her attitude has been one of two levels: cold or bitchy. It’s not a bad thing. I love her fire and sass, but as we grow closer, I see the cracks in that façade. She’s not as unemotional as she likes people to believe.

“It’s a compulsion, really. I was taught that the only way to absolve myself of sin was this.” I take the flogger from her. “It was also the only way I was allowed back in Father Kerrigan’s good graces, and of course, I know now how fucked up and manipulative that is, but I wanted to be loved so desperately. He was all I had, so from an early age, I began associating pain with repentance. Now when I sin or I take on the sin of a brother, I’m like an addict needing a fix. Even right now, I’m twitchy, and my skin is crawling. I can’t do anything until I follow through with this ritual.”

She nods with a sad smile on her pretty face. “I want to try your ass first. If it doesn’t work, then I guess I’ll do your back.”

“Thank you.” I tip her chin up and kiss her sweetly, not missing the hungry way she returns the show of affection. “You like kissing me.”

“Whatever,” she huffs in annoyance, taking the implement from me. “Place your hands on the cabinet, bend over, and spread your legs.”

Wrapping my rosary around one hand, I brace myself in front of a portrait of Mother Mary and Jesus that’s enshrined in gold. Closing my eyes, I whisper my prayers, getting my mind right. I’m not so sure this will work; everything is different, and the mood isn’t as reverent as it should be. But part of me feels strangely okay with it, so I try to focus on that.

“I’ll loan you my safe word,” she says.

“Pothos,” I say, fully knowing I won’t use it. She could tear me to shreds, and I’d let it happen.

“Okay. Here goes nothing.” I hear the whir of the thongs gliding through the air in a circle. The sound gets closer and closer until the first strike lands on the fleshy part of my ass. Instinctually, I clench, but when my body only registers a thudding sensation, I relax. Unlike what I do to myself, Myla’s intention isn’t to hurt me. The repetitive, arching smacks feel strangely satisfying.

She moves from side to side, only occasionally veering lower to just under my asscheek or slightly higher, where it delivers an attention-grabbing sting. I wish she would focus more on those places because what she’s doing is nice, but I need the pain. Without it, there is no repentance, and I will have humbled myself for no good reason.

“It’s not working,” I say, and immediately, she stops. “That feels really good, though, almost comforting.”

“But you don’t want comforting?”

“No.”

“Okay. I haven’t practiced the overhand move as much as circles, but I can try.” She holds the leather thongs straight up over her shoulder, her other hand arched back and holding the handle, ready to strike. “Brace yourself.”

I close my eyes, running a thumb over my rosary beads and whispering my prayer when the thongs meet the fleshy part of my ass. This time, I clench hard, the stinging pain warming my skin. I exhale in relief. This is what I need. This will work.

“Again,” I say, and she repeats the same movement. “Keep going.”

Each strike is like a flaming hot brand against my skin, leaving behind an inferno of agony that never seems to end. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I try to suppress my growing erection, but it’s no use. The never-ending assault on my ass has taken all of my attention, and now I’m painfully aroused, the evidence dripping down onto the cold wood floor below me. Humiliation washes over me as Myla watches on, a spectator to my twisted desires.

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