Page 101 of Judge's Mercy

“How was your day?” Talking about my work distracted me from finding out what’s bothering him.

“It was really good. The new group we started for trans teens is going better than I anticipated. For some of them, it’s their first time being around other trans kids, and it’s like a light flips on when they realize they’re not alone,” he says, but I see storm clouds brewing in his eyes.

Judge is a complex man who has endured unimaginable pain, and despite having a good life now, he still has bad days. It took me time to learn how to identify the signs, as he often tries to hide how he’s feeling and thinks opening up to me is a burden on my own healing process. I hope that, someday, I can prove to him that discussing his struggles doesn’t make mine any more challenging. In fact, it strengthens our bond to lean on each other.

“I love that, and I love you.”

“I love you too.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he unlocks the door to the little cabin I now call home too. It looks different than it did six months ago. There’s a new roof and a new porch on the outside, but inside is where the biggest changes have been made.

Judge gave me free rein to make changes to personalize our home, but I couldn’t bring myself to completely overhaul his beloved sanctuary. Instead, we blended our styles together. A new sofa now sits in the living room, adorned with one of his vintage crocheted afghans. The eerie altar has been taken down and replaced with a curio cabinet, showcasing Judge’s most treasured religious and spiritual souvenirs from his travels around the world.

In our bedroom, the bed is still covered in his patchwork quilt, but we got rid of his squeaky bed frame and purchased a new one. The rounded upholstered headboard is black, not yellow like Judge wanted, but a mid-century modern piece that fits well with his antique dressers and nightstands.

“I’m gonna grab a shower. I feel gross,” I say, removing my treasured leather cut and hanging it on a hook.

“Okay.” Judge’s cut is already hanging because he doesn’t wear it every day anymore—not only because he doesn’t want to promote joining an MC or a gang to the impressionable youth he’s trying to reach, but also because he doesn’t feel the need.

Despite the fact that it goes against numerous rules set by the Sons, Judge maintains a half-in, half-out lifestyle with the club. Cy has never confronted him about it, likely feeling responsible for the years of suffering Judge put himself through, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Judge was taught at a young age that he must hide his afflictions in order to be worthy of love. This belief has carried into his adult life, and it isn’t an easy one to shake off. Nevertheless, he’s making progress, and I admire him for it.

After shedding my foul-smelling clothes that reek of piss and marijuana, I step into the shower and let the warm water soothe my tired muscles. Today, I spent hours hunched over rows of plants at Dope, followed by lugging crates of liquor to restock the club’s bar in preparation for tonight’s party and, of course, scrubbing toilets on my knees.

On my knees.

A chill runs down my spine as the memory of that day rushes back. It’s a familiar sensation, but not one I experience as frequently now. My need for vengeance hasn’t lessened, but I’ve learned to compartmentalize it. Cy assured me that the club would help me end the life of each man on my list, including David, but only after I earned my place as a member. The wait has been excruciating, but exhausting my body each day and losing myself in Judge each night keeps my rage at bay.

Just thinking about Judge has me rushing through my shower routine so I can hound him until he tells me what’s wrong. Wrapped in only a towel, I’m barely past the threshold into our bedroom when my steps falter, taking in the sight before me. While my body reacts almost immediately, thighs clenching and clit tingling, my mind goes on alert.

“Your day was that bad?” I ask, allowing my towel to drop as I approach an equally naked Judge, who is bent over our bed, arms stretched wide, his cat o’ nine tails whip next to him.

“Please, Myla. I don’t want to talk. I just need the release.”

My fingers trace the jagged scars crisscrossing his back, feeling each mark that’s a tangible reminder of his pain. With every kiss I press onto his back, I vow to do whatever it takes to ease his suffering.

“I’ll do anything for you,” I whisper into his skin before standing and taking the whip in hand.

He rarely asks for this anymore, but when he does, I don’t dare deny him. The thought of the alternative is unbearable, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent him from inflicting that kind of pain on himself again.

Using a downward motion so as not to wrap the thongs around his hip, which would break his skin, I whip his rounded ass. The knots at the end of each fall leave small red dots on his flesh, while the braided tails leave angry red stripes. With each hit, I give him only what he needs and not an ounce more.

It was shocking to admit to myself that I’m a bit of a sadist. There’s a part of me that enjoys inflicting pain, and even though the anger inside me has nothing to do with Judge, after a session, I feel a release of pent-up emotion the same way Judge does. It’s also just as arousing to me as it is to him. Seeing his firm ass cheeks with my marks on them has my pussy throbbing and my nipples budding up tight.

Judge takes every lash silently. The only sign that he can feel anything is the slight clenching of his ass as each lash lands. The second I start to see blue bruises bloom from the knots, I step back. This is as far as I’m willing to go. I can only hope it was enough for him.

Grabbing the arnica cream from the nightstand, I gently rub it into his abused flesh, getting small peeks of his puckered asshole, making my clit tingle. It’s taken some time and a lot of conversations to help Judge release the shame he feels wanting the things that turn him on, but who better to teach you to let your freak flag fly than a retired sex worker? And boy, does his flag fly. You’ll never hear me complain about our sex life.

I set the cream down, and Judge stands, a blissful expression on his face that you wouldn’t think you’d find on someone who just got whipped. His gaze turns hungry when he takes in my naked body, reaching out to palm a breast. His cock juts out, straight and proud, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

His hand moves up to cup my cheek before crashing his lips to mine. The kiss is hungry and demanding as he uses his lips, teeth, and tongue to show me just how much he wants me.

“Tell me what you want,” I breathe out when his lips trail down my neck.

“We don’t have time for what I want. The party starts in a half hour, but I’ll settle for you on the bed, your knees bent and your ass hanging over the edge.”

I get into position, my chest heaving with anticipation. Judge pulls the chest of toys out from under the bed. Yes, we need an entire chest. Not only that, but we have an oddly shaped chair in the corner that allows for all sorts of positions, and our bed frame has been fitted with steel bars that come up from each end and a separate bar that sits between them, allowing for a swing to hang. Judge has stamina and also enjoys delayed gratification—for him, not me, because he loves to make me come over and over until I’m near tears.

He stands, holding a wedge pillow and one of our favorite toys. It’s U-shaped, with one half of the U round and tapered and the other half more flat. The pillow gets stuffed under my hips, putting me at the perfect height for him to stand next to the bed and fuck me while the toy gets tossed onto the mattress.

“Oh, sweetheart, look at how wet you are.” He drags a finger up my slit before bringing it to his lips. “Fuck me, you taste so good.”

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