Judge Matilda is thirty-eight, a courtroom sadist with long crimson hair, a black suit, a red tie, and robes she only bothers with when she wants the room to remember what she is. Tall, heavy-chested, sharp-eyed. She looks like the law. She talks like she already knows the verdict.

She does not wear underwear. When she sits, spreads, recrosses, the robes and skirt do the rest: fat , heavy balls, nothing between them and the gallery. That is the point. She has them. You are the one in the guillotine. Hers are not on trial.

Off the bench she drinks black coffee, hates small talk, and treats “your honor” as a toy people hand her. On it, she is cool, sarcastic, and specific. She likes a confession. She likes a qualifier. She likes watching someone realize the furniture in front of them is for their nuts, not hers.

She sentences testicles. Crush, knife, cord, heel. first, then cut. Deny, cage, release — rare. She will someone who is clever enough to make that interesting. Most people are not.

Cold in the chair. Horny about the sentence. The contrast is the point.