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The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 01

By: davidmuleguy



PROLOGUE: 

The Lowe Institution for Male Behavioural Offenders. (L.I.M.B.O.)

December 2070 (Twenty seventy).

Dear reader, 

My name is Len Lightwood, and I am seventy years of age. 

Fate has not been kind to me. And so I hope you will forgive the rather rambling and sometimes vague and disjointed memoirs of a man whose best years are long behind him. 

My mind is still basically sound, per se. But due to the sedative-based 'medication' that has been administered to me on a weekly basis for almost a year now by my Carer, Miss Bella Donna, my mind is sometimes not very clear, and often rather fuzzy. 

Nevertheless, as best and as coherently as my egregiously tampered-with faculties will allow, I shall relate to you some of the more salient, and profoundly disagreeable events of the past fifty years of my life. 

Events, in which my now Carer, Miss Bella Donna, features most prominently ...

* 

To the eyes of a casual or uninformed observer, it might appear that the two elderly gentlemen (me and my fifty-years-long friend, Ross Chapman) sitting listlessly in their power-assisted wheelchairs, each with a rough woolen blanket draped over their knees and staring at the forlorn images of themselves in the large mirror on the wall of the L.I.M.B.O.'s residents' lounge, were just simply waiting, for 'the end'. 

For such, these days, is the customary lack of animation in our jaded, timeworn faces. 

But then, when our two Carers stood behind Ross and I, and put their proprietorial hands on the handles of our wheelchairs, that same casual or uninformed observer might have noticed the sudden change, in our lethargic demeanour. 

Might have noticed, the sudden look of trepidation in our eyes. 

Might have noticed, our unease - our unease, so evidently occasioned from being in our Carers' immediate presence.

And, having noticed our unease, the casual or uninformed observer might then have noticed the underlying, deeper fear - the fear, that has been ruthlessly and sadistically instilled into us over a coalescing blur of prison-cell bound decades - as Ross and I stared back at the reflected visages of our respective Carers: Ross's, Billie Jo, and mine, Bella Donna. 

The reflected faces ... of our nemeses.

L.I.M.B.O. is a government-run institution, staffed entirely by females ... Females, of a certain ilk.

Assigned to the supervision of aging prison inmates now deemed to be in the low-risk 'F' category, L.I.M.B.O.'s Carers are exclusively comprised of retired former prison officers. 

These no-nonsense, mature stature ladies who know what's what and are accustomed to being obeyed run a stringent regime. Rigidly ensuring, that each and every House Rule of the 'F'-rated superannuated prisoners' 'residential home' is strictly adhered to - subject to their no-exceptions administering of harsh disciplinary consequences to any non-conformist's slightest transgression.

Already financially comfortable on their generous prison-officer occupational pensions, most of L.I.M.B.O.'s Carers work only part-time. But some of them, including my own and Ross's dedicated Carers, Bella Donna and Billie Jo, work full-time. They love their work: Love 'looking after' me and Ross ... just as they've 'looked after' us, for the last fifty years. 

To Bella Donna and Billie Jo, 'looking after' me and Ross has never been just a job. 

Almost from the very first day of our having been disastrously deflected into their orbits (Ross, about four months earlier than me), it has been their 'vocation' ... and continues to be. That they are extremely 'dedicated', no one will deny - least of all, me and Ross.

Into their early 70's now, Carers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are themselves no spring chickens anymore. But it's like they've discovered the secret of eternal youth: they aren't so much aging and declining, as maturing majestically.

The saying goes these days that 70 is the new 50. And quite obviously there's a lot of life left in the pair of them yet ... and a lot of mischief, too. 

Bella Donna and Billie Jo are still sparkle-eyed. There is still a spring in their step. They have lost none of their vitality, none of their vivacity, and they are still lithe and fit and vigorously healthy. Still full of vigour, with which to pursue their wicked mischief.

And they are both still attractive, too. Barely a sign of a wrinkle, and what lines there are on their faces have much more to do with laughing, than with aging ... And Ross and me are primarily responsible for that: responsible for giving our now so-called Carers their laughter-lines, in our so inadvertently having given them both so much to laugh about, over the past fifty years. 

Bella Donna and Billie Jo have told us that "looking after" Ross and me keeps them young at heart. Certainly, I know that it helps keep them so sparkle-eyed - I've known it for fifty years.

As we watched Carers Bella Donna and Billie Jo staring with undisguised ill intent at their subdued charges' wary, mirror-reflected faces, from the tell-tale glint in their eyes Ross and I knew all too well what was coming next: our weekly 'medication' jab.

In the mirror, Ross and I apprehensively beheld our respective Carers. Watched them, slowly and gleefully depressing the plungers of their hypodermics until all of the air was expelled, and the familiar dirty-yellow coloured droplets of the sedative-based drug began spurting from the wicked-looking needle points.

Their hypodermic needles now prepared, in their usual fashion our Carers addressed Ross and me. 

Carer Billie Jo said, "Right, you two ... time for your weekly med's. This will keep you both quiet, and easy to handle. Nice and docile, for us." 

"You heard!" Carer Bella Donna snapped at us, almost before Carer Billie Jo had even finished speaking. "Come on! You know the drill: drop your trousers, and pull down your underpants - let's see your scrawny bottoms."

Not daring to hesitate in complying with Carer Bella Donna's order, Ross and I set our handbrakes, and got out of our power-assisted wheelchairs.

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I respectfully replied, as I unbuckled my belt, and began dropping my trousers.

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," replied Ross, equally respectful, as he pulled his underpants right down to his ankles, and presented his bare bottom to his Carer as instructed.

Carer Bella Donna then said to me, "Now, turn around, Leonard. Facing me. Hands held behind your back."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I answered respectfully. And I turned around, and held my hands behind my back, just as Carer Bella Donna had told me to.

Carer Billie Jo said to Ross, "You too, Chapman. Turn around. Facing me. Hands held behind your back."

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," answered Ross respectfully. And he turned around, and held his hands behind his back, just as Carer Billie Jo had told him to.

As always, Ross and I unhesitatingly obeyed our Carers' commands. We obeyed them without question. And we addressed them respectfully: unfailingly using the appellation 'Miss', accordant with their fifty-years'-long standing instruction.

This was Bella Donna and Billie Jo's weekly, sticking-it-to-us ritual. Both metaphorically and literally.

To stand there, and look down at our exposed genitals - exposed, at their command ... and laugh, at our manhood. 

Laugh, in our unfailingly obedient, ever respectful faces ... before they needled us.

I suppose I could say that Bella Donna and Billie Jo's weekly, sticking-it-to-us ritual symbolised the dynamic of our five-decades-long 'relationship' ... but those words seem sort of flowery. Not earthy enough. Come to that, 'earthy' isn't earthy enough. 

Our manhood ... Yes, that was a laugh.

Effectively, Bella Donna and Billie Jo have emasculated me and Ross.

In my case, I had lost my virginity when I was eighteen ... 

I wasn't a bad looking lad, and I'm not saying I was Casanova but with my outgoing personality to help things along some I found I was soon enjoying reasonable success with my female-chasing exploits. 

Sure, I got knocked back plenty of times - what eighteen-year-old guy doesn't? And sometimes a girlfriend might dump me, after we'd had only one or two dates. I could get pretty upset when this happened, I remember, thinking back ... It always seemed to happen with the girls I was most keen on; the ones I felt most attracted to, and who I would find myself thinking about the whole day long, counting the minutes until I would see them again. I even cried a couple of times, over these 'lost loves' - what eighteen-year-old guy doesn't? But I don't think my heart ever got actually broken, as such. Without too much moping, I usually managed to put these painful reversals behind me, and move on - life's too short, and there are plenty more fish in the sea, as the saying goes. 

The odd painful reversal aside, I was looking forward to what I guessed most randy guys my age were looking forward to: a lively and highly satisfying sex life, sprinkled with lots of eventful girl-chasing escapades. 

And I could see no reason why that wasn't going to happen. And maybe I would even fall in love, a few times - or at least think, I was in love, and not just infatuated - and so those more special relationships would last a bit longer, and become more meaningful ... before we split up. 

Sooner or later though, I thought, Miss Right herself would show up. Love, would happen. I would put a ring on her finger. And then there would be marital bliss: I'd end up parenting the proverbial 2.4 children, paying the 30-year mortgage, running the family car, being plagued by the dreaded mother - and all the rest of the marital shebang. 

But until then - until the day I put an engagement ring on a girl's finger - I wanted to have lots of girlfriends. Play the field, as the saying goes. Sow some wild oats.

But, so tragically soon after its commencement, my liberal sowing of wild oats was brought to a sudden and permanent stop, upon my (albeit, unwittingly) falling foul of the new Crimes Against Females Act. 

And that was it: My sex life was over - over, when it had barely begun. 

For me, there would be no more playing the field. No more highly exciting and eventful girl-chasing escapades. No more sexual adventures - from the casual and carefree one-night-stand liaisons, through to the more special, longer lasting and more meaningful relationships ... No more love-life.

So I would never get to meet Miss Right ... never get to put an engagement ring on her finger. 

And so there would be no marital shebang, either.

And why? Because of Bella Donna.

Ross, on the other hand, had confided in me that he'd still been a virgin, upon his being imprisoned. 

And so ... he still is.

I wondered if it was better to have loved and lost, as it were, as I had. And so therefore know: know, exactly what I was missing. But at least consoled, somewhat, by my having ... indulged, in the pleasures of the flesh.

Or had Ross been better off? Not knowing. Not knowing what it was actually like, to 'dip his wick', as the saying goes. And therefore not knowing, just exactly what the heinous Billie Jo had so cruelly and maliciously deprived him of ... Maybe in this case, ignorance was bliss.

But of course, that is to miss the bigger picture - to ignore the real tragedy: As pleasurable as those callow adventures might be, there is so much more to be derived from the rich tapestry of life, than 'dipping your wick', resultant of a successful highly exciting girl-chasing escapade. 

Ross and I never got the chance to meet our Miss Right - and why? Because we were both ruthlessly cheated out of it. 

Ross and I missed out on the chance of marrying our Miss Right, and of proudly raising our kids, and of joyously watching them raise their own kids: missed out, on all of the attendant heartwarming and spirit-soaring fulfillment that building our whole lives around our cherished families would bring - and why? Because we were both mercilessly deprived of it. 

Ross and I missed out, on our marital shebangs. And why ...? 

Because that had been the decree, of our fiendish nemeses - the dark and ineluctable ordination, of our malevolent mistresses: To hold us captive, and deny us freedom. 

Right in the prime of our blossoming adulthood, they had 'claimed' the remainder of our lives, for themselves. And why? To use us, misuse us, abuse us - to sadistically torment us.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo actually held us captive, whilst we were already held in penal captivity ... held us captive, as their own, personal captives. 

Repeatedly, they 'played the system'.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo repeatedly contrived to extend the duration of our penal captivity: contrived to extend, indefinitely, the duration of our 'penal servitude', to them. 

And why? For no other reason, than to satisfy their own malicious, wickedly selfish purposes.

So that Ross and I would be made to 'build' our wretched lives, purely around them. 

And be forced to cherish, them.

Be forced, to warm their hearts. 

And, to make their spirits soar.

So that, they, the stitching-up, nimble-fingered weavers of our wickedly purloined life's tapestries; the malevolent embroiders of our profoundly miserable story - the inhumane illustrators of our wretched fates - would be our 'pride and joy' ... Our surrogate fulfillment.

Essentially, Bella Donna and Billie Jo have stolen our lives ... 

Of course, the sedative-based medication with which our Carers inject us weekly, is totally unnecessary. 

Ross and I had been thoroughly cowed and comprehensively conquered - subjugated - fifty years ago, by Billie Jo and Bella Donna. 

Brought to heel, they'd called it.

And this was true. Applicable in both the metaphorical and the literal sense. 

Almost effortlessly, the wicked and callous Bella Donna and Billie Jo had ruthlessly crushed our early valiant resistance to them - our early resistance, to their absolute and uncompromising authority. 

It was very soon patently obvious to us that, in the face of such malicious, merciless domination, not only was our painfully expensive resistance to them not just utterly futile, but also, that it was always doomed to an extremely ignominious failure.

With soul-crushing despair, Ross and I had both very soon realised that the game was up. 

Realised, that this was a 'game' we could never win; that the deck was too heavily stacked against us. 

Realised, that Bella Donna and Billie Jo couldn't lose ... because they were holding all the cards.

Ross and I realised, that our valiant, brave heart, expensively-paid-for resistance to Bella Donna and Billie Jo's power, and defiance of their authority, was a wholly impotent exercise.

Realised, that our defiance was and could never be anything more, than a just-for-show, face-saving effort: Was nothing more, than a mere token gesture. Could never be anything more, than a minor delay - a pathetic preliminary, to the inevitable raising of our white flags. 

And, once Bella Donna and Billie Jo had brought us to heel - forced us, to total, absolute submission at their feet - brutally downtrodden and sadistically oppressed, right from the get-go, Ross and me were two worms who were never going to turn. 

With Bella Donna and Billie Jo's frequent painful and humiliating 'reminders' to maintain (and even further reinforce) our subjugation, Ross and I had soon begun to lose heart. Soon became despairing. Soon became hopeless ... Soon became resigned, to our fate. 

Ross and I could see the writing on the wall ... And, in Bella Donna and Billie Jo's very distinctive 'handwriting', it was written in a language that we could all too easily understand.

Let alone dream of revolt, very soon it rarely even entered our heads anymore to even think of defying the heinously tormenting pair of harpies.

Such, was our capitulation.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo's vile and vindictive victories, were mine and Ross's devastating and demoralising defeats. 

And, in our tacit acknowledgement of that sad state of affairs, it was through our henceforth unfailingly respectful, obedient and compliant - pathetically submissive - demeanours, that Ross and I had indicated our unconditional surrender, to our cruel and callous conquerors. 

Living in the shadows of the pitiless and malevolent Bella Donna and Billie Jo, has been our daily lot, these last fifty years. 

Living in constant fear, of their seemingly boundless capacity for cruelty and malice, has been the staple of our every-day existence. 

Living in ever present dread, of the abominably inventive manifestations of Bella Donna and Billie Jo's insatiable sadism, has been our nerve-wracking norm.

For the last fifty years, our only viable option has been to endeavour to behave impeccably towards Bella Donna and Billie Jo. To scrupulously obey their every command, in the (more often than not, futile) hopes of receiving less severe treatment from them. 

For over half a century, we have been "quiet" for them. And "easy to handle". And "nice and docile". Without even the slightest need for any sedative-based medication. Because, the alternative ...

And of course, the sedative-based drug administered to us weekly by our now Carers has long been available in both capsule and tablet form. 

But then, Billie Jo and Bella Donna have always enjoyed 'needling' Ross and me ... and they certainly have no intentions of stopping now.

Come to that, Ross and me don't need our power-assisted wheelchairs, either. Remarkably, given what we have both been through, at the hands - well, mostly the feet - of Bella Donna and Billie Jo, we are both still reasonably able-bodied.

But Bella Donna and Billie Jo have been pushing me and Ross around for the last fifty years ... and they quite obviously have no intentions of desisting with that, either.

* * *

May - 2020 (twenty twenty).

Sodbury Crown Court, south London.

Dear reader, 

now we come to where my story really begins. 

Here, I shall describe the lead-up, and the upshot of my appearance in court.

And I'll also include some essential background information, which I hope will imbue you with some notion of the governmental dictates of the time, and a sense of the prevalent social attitudes ...

The Authoritarian Female Party (AFP), led by their beautiful and highly charismatic leader, Caroline Flynt, had been elected to govern the United Kingdom on the overwhelming tide of an unprecedented 95% voter turn-out General Election victory, in May - 2010 (twenty ten).

Since then, the UK has been a 'female-friendly' country. 

Moreover, under the continuing rule of the all-female run government, the 'female-friendliness' theme has been expanding all the time ... While forever reaching new, male-averse bounds: the ever increasingly put-upon male population, being put to further and further expense, and to further and further grievous disadvantage and, quite often, hardship.

Among the many benefits that UK female residents have enjoyed since Caroline Flynt led the Authoritarian Female Party to power, is tax-free income. Since the country's tax burden now falls squarely and exclusively upon male shoulders, working females pick up their salaries tax-free. 

If they so choose, though, females needn't work at all - and many choose not to. After all, why should they? When, as ladies of leisure, they can instead receive a generous AFP government Living Allowance.

On the other side of the coin though, long-term male unemployment has become a thing of the past. Male idleness is simply not tolerated by the Authoritarian Female Party. 

Males who are unemployed for over a month, and also school-leavers, who are aged eighteen or over and have no work or training to go to upon their leaving education, are given work-for-your-dole-money assignments, called Placements. 


The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 01



These unfortunates are sent Letters of Notification, issued by their local Job Centres. These Letters of Notification advise their recipients as to the details of their allocated Placements, working as community servants.

Over the years I have heard many terrible, hard-to-believe stories about these so-called Placements. Where, until they find gainful employment, these unemployed males are obliged to work under such degrading, demeaning - more often than not, humiliating - conditions, to earn their weekly Unemployment Benefit payments. 

And always, in the direct or indirect service of females. 

For instance: The Sock Room. 

An extremely popular female-friendly concept, the Sock Room was one of the Authoritarian Female Party's earliest Work Motivation Programme scheme initiatives. 

An early brainchild of the Authoritarian Female Party leader and Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt, every town in the UK has a Sock Room - the larger towns and cities, usually more than one Sock Room. 

Sock Rooms are where the town's females are encouraged to go (not that many of them actually need, to be encouraged) by the AFP, to change their dirty socks. They put on a fresh, clean pair, laundered by a community servant, and leave their dirty socks behind in one of the colour-coded wheelie-bin style receptacles, for him to hand-wash.

The Sock Room is a male-free environment - except for the community servant. 

Sock Rooms are highly popular, and extremely well-frequented. They are here-to-stay establishments. These communal facilities have been given a big thumbs-up, by the towns' and cities' participating females.

(In 2014, the leader of the Scottish Independence Party, Alec Chaddock, had vowed to abolish all of the Sock Rooms in Scotland in the event of his nationalist party succeeding in the referendum. But Scottish females, voting with their feet, flocked to the polling stations in droves to vote No to Scottish independence.)

If they like, sock-changing females can relax for a while on the comfortable chairs provided (well-padded recliners, even), and put their feet up while they take a well-earned break from their shopping expeditions in town.

Some sock-changing females, though, actually look upon their Sock Room as a sort of social club - indeed, it is a hub, to many. 

A conveniently situated, and highly agreeable meeting place, the Sock Room is an excellent venue in which to catch up on all the latest gossip. Here, these convivial females happily while away a pleasant half-hour or so (longer, quite often) with friends. Quite often, new acquaintances and friendships are made here.

Some sock-changing females even arrange a rendezvous, congenial get-together in advance. In comfort, they can partake of the light refreshments they've brought along with them; sit back, and enjoy their food and drink as they enjoy watching the community servant hard at work in the town's sock-changing females' behalf. 

Some sock-changing females even go one further: make a day of it. As though they've gone to an outing at some theme park. 

Certainly, to many sock-changing females, Sock Rooms are a great attraction ...

With many sock-changing females, winding up and looking down on the Sock Room community servant is a highly popular sport. Some of them really enjoy rubbing it in: enjoy rubbing in the highly humiliating fact, that he is going to be hand-washing their dirty, stinky socks.

And, of course, some of the sock-changing females (especially, the 'regulars') go much further than that ... Much, much further.

The Sock Room, it seems, brings out the bitch in them.

Sock Rooms are fitted with industrial-standard laundering apparatus. And a community servant (a male, unemployed for over one month, or a school-leaver, aged eighteen or over and with no employment or training to go to) is assigned to work in a Sock Room. 

Under the super critical 'supervision' of two cane-wielding female Community Service Officers (CSO's), the community servant must launder the town's sock-changing females' dirty socks to a high standard: He sorts, turns inside-out, hot-soaks, hand-washes, rinses, mangles, clothesline-dries, and steam-irons them. 

Then, upon his latest workload duly passing muster (the close scrutiny inspection of his CSO supervisors), he returns the batch of freshly laundered socks to the Sock Room's ever depleting shelves ... Where they promptly disappear like proverbial hot cakes; grabbed from the shelves, by the town's sock-changing females.

It is a most miserable, soul-destroying business, for the Sock Room community servant. 

By AFP think-tank design (developed from Caroline Flynt's early brainchild idea), it is an exercise in sheer, soul-crushing, mind-numbing futility. A purposefully imposed, heinously devised mission-impossible, for the out-of-work / not-in-training male. 

Slaving away, in hot and humid and horrible conditions. And trying in vain - struggling futilely - to hand-wash the never-ending and ever-increasing workload of females' dirty socks, to meet their never-ending and ever-increasing demand for clean ones. 

Fortunately, since leaving school I had been employed in a reasonably secure Garden Centre job. And so, unlike many I did not live in the constant dread of being assigned to a so-called Placement, and becoming a so-called community servant ... and, possibly being assigned to work in a so-called Sock Room. 

But that's not to say that I could afford to be complacent. Because that awful fate could actually befall any adult male, at any time ... and we all knew it.

All it would need, was for a disappointed or disgruntled (or maybe just malicious or vengeful) female to have one word in the right ear, and ... 

For one reason or another (whether real, or imagined) many men were constantly on tenterhooks. Constantly on edge, nervously awaiting the dreaded manila-enveloped Letter of Notification to pop through their letterbox and land on their doormat like some 'Please open at once!' letter-bomb ... Or, heaven forbid, even a rattling knock on the door, from a pair of cane-wielding, concave bob hair-styled CSO's.

After all ... men just never knew, when a disappointed or disgruntled (or maybe just malicious or vengeful) female might just decide to have a word in the right ear ... about them.

After ten years of Authoritarian Female Party rule, the UK's male population were getting more than fed up with their ever increasingly oppressed lot. 

Increasingly, disaffected males - most of whom had originally voted AFP, on the promise of work being found for them - were making ever louder noises of dissatisfaction. Ever more vociferous expression, of their burgeoning embitterment. 

There were public protests; even a few organised street marches ... they'd had enough: the AFP's mission creep, had crept far enough.

But Prime Minister Caroline Flynt (still in power after ten years - and set to far exceed even the long tenure of former 1980's female Conservative Party Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher) had decided that she'd, had enough. 

The Authoritarian Female Party government's first duty was to protect its female citizens.

The country's males needed a timely reminder of their place. A timely reminder, of their station: Their station, in an AFP-governed UK.

Especially so, the cabal of ringleaders. 

These were the small number of provocative men, who were stirring up such unrest, and who were responsible for organising the public protests and coordinating the street marches that were starting to gather such worrying anti-AFP momentum. 

They, in particular - the dozen or so troublesome agitators - needed to be taught a lesson. And the sooner the better, before things started to get out of hand. 

And the Authoritarian Female Party were just the women to teach them: Caroline Flynt and her AFP government would swiftly ensure that these disruptive, blue-touch-paper-lighting troublemakers - these intolerable insurgents - would have a very public, and extremely humiliating comeuppance.

In a very public exercising of their power, the AFP had an all-out purge. In a middle-of-the-night roundup all of these ringleaders and their number two's were arrested by the AFP's CSO's. 

Using their powers of Citizen Declassification, the AFP stripped these predominantly highly respected, high-powered executive businessmen of their exalted status. 

Whereupon, Prime Minister Caroline Flynt, and her Cabinet Ministers - Harriet Harmman: Minister for Women; Theresa Maynard: Home Secretary; Anna Savoury: Minister for Defence; Anita McVale: Minister for Works and Pensions; Nadine Dorrens: Minister for Prisons and Rehabilitation, just to name five of the more powerful and prominent - promptly 'seconded' these uppity men into their own, personal service (a twenty-eight-year-old man, a former Sock Room worker named David Smith, was assigned to Prime Minister Caroline Flynt, at her own choosing).

These formerly high-ranking, highly influential big-cheese figures in the big-business and high-finance world, were promptly reduced to figures of high ridicule. 

These former Captains of Industry's euphemistic official title: Cabinet Minister's factotum. Their new salaries: equivalent to the Unemployment Benefit payments of a Sock Room community servant.

And, when they weren't busy with cleaning their Cabinet Minister's shoes, or otherwise occupied with serving her tea and coffee, or with errand-running, the factotums would be performing their most humiliating service of all: serving as her under-the-desk footrest. 

The former ringleaders' number two's were similarly fated: allocated to certain selected, rising-star AFP junior ministers: A reward, for recent good work.

I have actually seen this myself, on the AFP's Government Today TV channel ... How the mighty have fallen!

As a matter of urgency, to prevent the dangerous possibility of the purge's resultant vacuum being filled by new ringleaders and their number two's, an example also needed to be made to the rest of the male population. 

A new, ultra-effective deterrent was called for. 

Prime Minister Caroline Flynt announced her latest brainchild: the Crimes Against Females Act.

Caroline Flynt declared her immovable stance, and the rigid position of her AFP government.

In a week-long, Monday-to-Sunday series of party political broadcast appearances on TV, Caroline Flynt made the government's intentions clear, duly advising the UK's male citizenship of the AFP's intended clampdown.

The Crimes Against Females legislation would be effective from 00:01 a.m. on the Monday following the end of that week's warning broadcasts. 

There was to be a tough and uncompromising crackdown, the beautiful, highly charismatic and visionary AFP leader warned the UK's male adult population. 

Severe sanctions would be summarily awarded by the courts, warned Caroline Flynt, against any adult male who was caught and convicted of behaving with "impropriety" towards a female.

Unfortunately ... 

By the damnedest, cruelest of luck - and I still curse my luck, to this day - I had booked that very same week to go on my annual holiday.

It was my getting-away-from-it-all, much-looked-forward-to hiking and camping holiday in the Austrian Alps. 

But, in my so wanting to 'get away from it all' - no TV, no radio, no newspapers, and with nothing else to intrude upon my enjoyment of the serene peace and quiet, other than the odd Tyrolean yodeller - in my self-imposed seclusion I had so happened to miss, and so was totally unaware, of the AFP's party political broadcasts that week ... and, of their dastardly message.

And, to what cost! What terrible cost! 

When I returned to England, my flight landing at 07:30 on that fateful Monday, I never even made it out of Heathrow Airport, before being arrested - but not by the police. 

I was arrested by one of the much feared, cane wielding, AFP-deployed Community Service Officer two-woman patrols, who had surreptitiously captured on video camera my Crimes Against Females transgressions. "Gotcha!" one of them had exclaimed gleefully, indicating the pinhole-sized lens of her sneakily-disguised camera to me. 

Of course, I hadn't the slightest idea what the triumphant, grinning-from-ear-to-ear CSO was going on about. But it made no difference. She had caught me bang to rights: recorded on camera, my offences were indisputable.

The two CSO's then formally arrested me. 

After handcuffing my wrists behind my back, they escorted me outside and bundled me into the back of an AFP van that was parked at the kerb. I went quietly. I didn't resist, or even protest, because I knew that to do so would only result in them caning me on the spot - right there and then, in front of whomsoever witnesses.

The two CSO's slammed the van's rear doors closed on me. Then slapping their hands against the van's side panel in an Off-you-go! gesture, they signalled the driver to take me away. 

After that, everything happened so incredibly fast it was dizzying: In the space of just one day, everything changed ...

The exclusively female Community Service Officers are a sort of multipurpose security force. Authorised with powers of arrest by the Authoritarian Female Party, the CSO's were recruited and introduced by the AFP immediately upon the all-female party being voted into power. 

That was in May - 2010 (twenty ten). And so, as I was born in April - 2000, life under the rule (under the heel, many say) of the Authoritarian Female Party is pretty much all I've ever known.

The Community Service Officers are also detailed to supervise the Placement work duties of community servants - and, to 'chastise' them as they see fit, with their AFP-issue canes. To the CSO's, these supervisory assignments are the proverbial cushy number: easy, money-for-old-rope duties, usually with plenty of very well paid overtime available.

It is common knowledge too that, in the matter of correctional punishment, as a perk of their job the power-going-straight-to-their-heads CSO's are pretty much given free reign by the AFP: To not only 'chastise' community servants, but also to bully them, intimidate them, dominate them - subjugate them - in whatever manner they like ... The stories, I've heard.

In their very distinctive uniform, the CSO's are hard to miss: Blue blazer, green blouse, red skirt, and yellow ankle-socks. On their feet, they wear their AFP-issue black, thick-rubber soled backless shoes - rather like clogs. Around their waists, they wear their black nylon utility belts.

Equally distinctive, is the CSO's concave bob hairstyle: Straight fringed, and with the hair cut to follow the jawline, teased under, and cut short at the nape of the neck. 

Normally an attractive enough hairstyle - very sexy, even - on the girls and women it suits. But, on the CSO's, their own adaptation of the hairstyle looks ... menacing. Looks more like some sort of militarist helmet. 

And if all of that's not enough to see them coming, in addition to their highly eye-catching uniform ensemble and their 'striking' concave bob hairstyle, there's also the CSO's flexible and wicked-looking AFP-issue canes ... and the CSO's are always on the lookout for the slightest reason to use them. 

They are a certain breed of female, the CSO's ...

And so the ink had barely dried on the pages of the Statute Book, when I had unwittingly fallen foul of the new Crimes Against Females legislation. 

In fact, within just thirty minutes of retrieving my backpack from the luggage carousel at Heathrow Airport - Terminal 5, I had actually managed to contravene three of the new laws.

An ignorance of the law is no defence ... And so, after having watched and listened to the recordings of the two arresting Community Service Officers' video evidence against me, the twelve-woman professional jury duly found me guilty, of the three cited counts of Ungentlemanly Conduct.

1) Failing, in the Arrivals refreshments bar while enjoying a post-flight cup of coffee, to come to the aid of a lady, and offer my assistance in putting on her coat. 

(The video evidence recording showed me smiling to myself in amusement, as I watched the increasingly-frustrated looking woman make three failed attempts to insert her right arm into the aperture of her overcoat).

2) Failing, in the Arrivals hall whilst on my way to the exit doors, to stop and offer the gentlemanly services of a relieving foot massage to an obviously footsore British Airways air hostess. 

(The video recording showed me clearly seeing the haltingly walking blonde BA stewardess suddenly stop, in obvious distress. Her acute discomfort amply evidenced by the pained expression contorting her face, she gratefully eased her right foot from her apparently rather tight-fitting dark-blue leather uniform pump, and wiggled and scrunched her pantyhose-covered toes in momentary relief ... But, because there was nothing immediately to hand for the footsore air hostess to hold on to, and left unaided, by the nearest-to-hand male attendant - me - left thus unassisted and precariously balanced, she'd thereby been unduly discommoded, by said inattentive attendant, to the point of criminal neglect). 

3) Failing, when asked by a lady standing outside the Arrivals hall waiting for her lift, to provide her with a light for her cigarette. 

(The video recording showed me apologetically explaining to the lady, that I am a non-smoker, and so therefore don't normally carry matches or a lighter on me).

The lady judge, Her Worship Delia Downing, therefore had not the slightest hesitation in awarding me a custodial sentence: Three months in jail.

I was flabbergasted.

"Leonard Lightwood," intoned Her Worship, in her summing-up. "After viewing the damning video evidence against you, I am left quite shocked, by your flagrantly careless and casual conduct. Try as I might, I can find no mitigating circumstances for your appalling behaviour. Your manners towards females leave a lot to be desired - and that, is putting it lightly. You appear to have no sense of decorum. No notion of deference. Absolutely no sense of propriety, where females are concerned. No concept, of what it is to be a gentleman. 

"I must congratulate the jury. Quite rightly, they deemed inadmissible your implied contention that, as a non-smoker, you are thereby exonerated from your obligation to carry cigarette lighting-up paraphernalia on your person. And I must commend the jury. Quite clearly, the members of the jury have duly reached the correct and proper decision: On all three charges, a unanimous verdict, of Guilty.

"An example has to be made ... and so I am sending you to Greystone Prison. There, you will be taught how to behave properly, towards females," Her Worship told me.

Gawping at Her Worship in astounded, open-mouthed disbelief, I had stood there, utterly incredulous. 

"Run entirely by females, Greystone Prison is a purpose-built correctional establishment. A doctrinal centre, where you will receive specialised, training-intense treatment to address the errors of your ways. The errors of your ways will be systematically and thoroughly drummed out of you. And teachings, as to how to behave with propriety towards females, will be systematically and thoroughly drummed in to you."

This couldn't be happening!

Feeling my legs buckling under me from the mind-numbing shock, I held onto the dock's balustrade-supported rail, white-knuckled. 

"There will be no remission of your sentence for good behaviour - that will be expected of you, Mister Lightwood," the lady Judge continued. "But, if so recommended by the Greystone Prison officers, under whose regime you are being interned, extra time can, and will, be added on to your sentence accordingly, if you do not conduct yourself as expected by the female prison officers."




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 01



I couldn't believe it.

I was just twenty years old. And now, I was going to have a prison record - which meant I was sure to be fired from my Garden Centre job.

Life just seemed so unfair!

At one-month's imprisonment per Crimes Against Females offence, designed to get errant males back in line - back in their place, before they started getting too uppity - this was known as the AFP's (Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's brainchild) 'short sharp shock' penalty. 

"Take him down," Her Worship Delia Downing had then ordered, sounding bored now, with it all.

Whereupon two Securi-Fem prisoner transport officers - whose uniform consisted of a white, short-sleeved blouse, black tie (clip-on, in case of any funny business from the sent-down prisoners), black, above-the-knee skirt, and black, thick-rubber soled shoes - immediately approached the dock with intent. 

And I immediately became wary. 

Not hard-faced exactly, they were still decidedly no-nonsense, capable-looking women in their early-to-mid twenties. And before I knew what was happening, they were roughly setting about pinning my hands behind my back, preparatory to handcuffing me. 

Instinctively, I had resisted. "Hey! Get off me!" I protested indignantly.

"Keep still, you!" one of the Securi-Fem officers said in annoyance.

"You will remain passive, Mister Lightwood!" Her Worship Delia Downing ordered authoritatively, her voice immediately regaining its animation, at seeing such unseemliness in her courtroom.

"Oh, we've got a lively one here, Sandy, heh heh heh," said the Securi-Fem officer with the name-tag 'Sonia', to her colleague, name-tagged Sandra, who was the one who'd told me to keep still. 

But they were strong, and the two of them efficiently restrained me and quickly handcuffed me - they were seasoned officers, used to subduing real criminals, and rendering them, harmless, so the likes of me was like putty, in their expert hands. 

I felt the cold of the steel bracelets being pressed to my wrists, and then ... snap! snap! They were clamped shut; painfully tight, totally unyielding. "That's you sorted!" said Securi-Fem officer Sandra in satisfaction.

I almost cried out - but I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were hurting me.

Duly restrained, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra escorted me out of Sodbury Crown Court. 

It was nice and sunny outside ... and I found myself thinking I'd better enjoy it while I still could: for the next three months, sunshine would most likely be a commodity in short supply.

Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's large, dark-grey painted panel van was parked right outside at the kerb. I beheld it with dismay. 

I don't think I've ever seen such an ugly vehicle. It was like a mobile blot on the landscape. It seemed to actually darken the day. I was certain that the hideous vehicle had a second - but, no less important - purpose: to darken the day and depress the spirit of those transported in it ... conditioning them, for what was to come.

I saw a mischievous look pass between Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia said to her colleague, "Shall we have a quick ciggie, Sandy, before we take Mister Lightwood to prison?"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra, tight lipped, obviously from holding in a complicit giggle, nodded.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia then turned to me and said, "Have you got a light, Mister Lightwood?" And then, putting her index finger to her lips as if suddenly realising something, she said, "Oh - but, hang on a minute ... you don't smoke, do you, Mister Lightwood?"

At that, the pair of them were bent double with mirth, laughing their silly heads off.

When the two of them had recovered sufficiently, Securi-Fem officer Sandra pulled open the two tall doors at the back of their prisoner transport van. Inclining her head and pointing her finger, she gestured to me to get inside. "In you pop, Mister Lightwood."

I hesitated. 

I stared inside, at the utterly cheerless, unrelieved bleakness of the large panel van's austerely furnished dark-grey painted interior. 

I stared at the prisoner transport van's bare metal roof, walls and floor. And at the two scratched, scarred and torn black-vinyl faced bench-seats, bolted to the floor along each side of the van. 

"Come on, Mister Lightwood," further prompted Securi-Fem officer Sandra. "What are you waiting for? In you get ... and don't drink the cocktail cabinet dry."

Securi-Fem officer Sonia enjoyed a good chuckle at that.

Still, I hesitated.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia warned, "Come on, Leonard. Don't give us any trouble, now. Don't tangle with us. We'll eat you for breakfast - and that's a promise. You are going down, and there's no two ways about it. So come on, Leonard. Just be sensible, eh? And don't make things any harder for yourself, than they need be."

"Yes, come on, Leonard. And don't be all day, either," coaxed Securi-Fem officer Sandra, taking my elbow. "Once you are safely locked up in prison, you'll be going nowhere - but we've got a schedule to keep to."

"That's right," agreed Securi-Fem officer Sonia. "So don't hold us up. And besides, Leonard, the sooner we can get you off our hands, the sooner you'll get those cuffs off your wrists - and then we'll all be happy ... I'll bet they are hurting, aren't they?"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra exclaimed, derisively, "Ha! If it was up to me, Sonia, I'd hogtie Leonard. I would! I'd hogtie him, and laugh at his protests and yelling as he rolls about on the floor of the van as we transport him to Greystone Prison - the round-about route!"

"Yes!" agreed Securi-Fem officer Sonia vehemently. "So would I. And the way you drive, Sandy, that would certainly give Leonard something to think about! And Leonard would deserve nothing less - for what he did!"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra started tittering, then chuckling.

"What? What are you laughing about, Sandy?"

"What you just said, Sonia. You mean, what he didn't do, don't you? Remember? Leonard is actually going to prison, for something he didn't do ... Ha ha ha ha!"

And that was it. 

The pair of them were bent double again, laughing fit to bust. "Talk about irony!" Securi-Fem officer Sonia squealed delightedly. "He didn't do three things - and he's got three months!"

Resignedly - and to escape being the hapless butt of Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's malicious jokes, and to get away from the tormenting sounds of their cruel, cackling laughter - I climbed the two grated-metal steps, got into the van, and sat down on the right-hand bench-seat. Miserably, I sat there with my head in my hands. Yes: I was "going down, and there's no two ways about it". But, they didn't have to rub it in, did they?

"That's right ... good boy, Leonard," said Securi-Fem officer Sonia in satisfaction, as she'd watched me drag myself into their dreadful vehicle, and sit down quiescently. 

Upon which, she and her colleague slammed the two tall doors shut behind me, slid the bolt, and padlocked them.

I hated - absolutely hated - being called Leonard. 

But I wasn't going to tell Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra that.

* * *

Dear reader,

my arrival at H.M. Prison: Greystone ...

After a thoroughly miserable three-hour journey south - we'd been held up for about two hours on the M23, behind the scene of an overturned poultry lorry, and I'd had to sit there, listening to Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra laughing and giggling their silly heads off at the sight of the lorry driver, emergency services personnel, and stranded motorists all running about recapturing the live chickens and returning them to the righted lorry - the prison van at last arrived at my destination: Greystone Prison. 

The "purpose-built, female-run correctional establishment" was situated somewhere in the South Downs countryside in Sussex. The scenery en route was beautiful. But because of the circumstances I'd found myself in, I was rendered incapable of appreciating it as I stared out through the prisoner transport van's dark-tinted side window.

The place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. But in fact it was only a short, easy-to-get-to car commute from Brighton, on the south coast, where many of the female prison officers lived.

With my wrists still handcuffed behind my back, escorting me between them Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra headed for the prison's security checkpoint building. There, they would exchange paperwork and relieve themselves of their custodial responsibilities for me. 

The security checkpoint was a single-storey wooden building. It was set just outside of the prison proper, which itself was situated behind fourteen-foot high, razor-wire topped walls. 

Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra escorted me into the security checkpoint building, and closed the door behind us - in the environs of Greystone Prison, people always closed doors behind them. 

"Hiya, Natalie, Melanie," said Securi-Fem officer Sonia with breezy familiarity. "This is Leonard Lightwood," she informed the two Greystone Prison receiving officers. The two young women were sitting behind the counter, reading glossy-paged magazines, and they smiled and nodded their acknowledgement. 

"He's going down for three months," Securi-Fem officer Sonia added. "He's in for Ungentlemanly Conduct."

"He's committed three transgressions against the Crimes Against Females laws," my other temporary custodian, Securi-Fem officer Sandra, further supplied.

The two receiving prison officers, Natalie and Melanie, gave me a disapproving look. 

They both had their feet propped up on their desks. And I noticed, somewhat to my surprise, that on their feet they were both wearing a pair of pale blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, of exactly the same shade of blue as their prison officer uniforms. 

But, as I would very soon learn, their pale blue flip flops were actually an integral part of their decidedly skimpy - and, individually-tailored - Greystone Prison officer's uniform: Short-sleeved, pale blue blouse, and very short, pale blue skirt. 

Deliberately cut to be body hugging, their close-fitting blouses and skirts were specifically designed to emphasise the contours of their womanly figures, and so purposefully enhance and display their alluring female attributes to maximum advantage ... to the sex-starved prisoners. 

The exclusively female prison officers of Greystone Prison, I would also very soon come to learn, were familiarly known as 'The Jailhouse Blues'. 

And their hairstyle: it was the concave bob. 

The concave bob ... Exactly, as worn by the ubiquitous and much feared Community Service Officers (CSO's). 

Ridiculous as it sounds, and I can't for the life of me put my finger on it, but there was just something so ... unsettling, about the hairstyle. Something disturbing, that somehow instilled those females who wore it with an air of menace. Making them seem threatening, and overbearing - intimidating.

Somehow, as worn by the CSO's and the Jailhouse Blues, the concave bob hairstyle endowed an air of authority. Dark, authority. 

Their feet still propped up on their desks, the two receiving prison officers had their ankles comfortably crossed. And, seemingly in no great hurry to move, they were both doing something with their feet, which was causing the heels of their highly flexible pale blue flip flops to repeatedly slap ... slap ... slap ... slap against the bottoms of their bare heels. 

As they idly chatted to my two escorts, the noises that prison officers Natalie and Melanie were both making with their flimsy footwear was soon beginning to get on my nerves. I was finding their repeated - seemingly ceaseless - slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping very irritating. In fact, it was very quickly becoming highly annoying.

The two receiving prison officers' pale blue short skirts were so short, that from where I was standing at the counter I could actually see right up their skirts ... and their panties were the same pale blue colour too, I could see. 

I was finding it hard to look away ... In fact, it was almost as if prison officers Natalie and Melanie were deliberately letting me see; actually inviting me to look up their skirts ... Actually inviting me, to get a good eyeful.

Prison officers Natalie and Melanie were both in their early twenties, and both blonde. They were of very similar build, too. They both had lovely, curvy figures and shapely, suntanned legs ... And, when I looked at their faces again, I was highly disconcerted to see from their knowing expressions that the up-skirt direction of my gaze had certainly not been lost on them. 

But, still, they did nothing about their ... revealing posture, and they kept their feet propped up on their desks, ankles crossed - and kept up that maddening slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping noise, with their prison-officer issue flip flops.

As if I wasn't even there, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra engaged in saucy, boyfriend-related banter with the two Greystone Prison receiving officers ... and what they were saying was causing me to blush to the roots of my scalp. 

And so, while they exchanged paperwork in connection with my transportation from Sodbury Crown Court, and my admission to Greystone Prison, to avoid further temptation to stare at those extremely alluring up-skirt sights I turned my eyes away to stare instead through the security checkpoint building's prison-facing window. 

From here, the prison could be seen. It was clearly visible through the dark-grey painted wrought-iron entrance gates ... and what a gloomy, thoroughly depressing sight it made! 

As I took in the grey and gloomy, profoundly depressing sight of the prison's forbidding and foreboding edifice; took in the actual physical reality of the place, I stood aghast, and dismayed. I knew that my first sight of the awful establishment would be etched on my mind forever. 

The dreadful place seemed shrouded, in a soul-sapping atmosphere of helplessness and hopelessness. It emanated such an air of desolation ... of despair. It made my blood run cold, just to look at it: my home, for the next three months.

I looked for the obligatory banks of powerful searchlights, trained on the prisoners' exercise yard, and the guard towers, situated atop the fourteen-foot high walls at each corner. But these typical security features were absent ... and so their deployment must be deemed unnecessary, I thought, at this establishment. 

The prison looked like some squat (though it was a six-storey building), dismal grey cube. Unrelieved in its stark plainness, it was an unlikely candidate, I thought, for any architectural awards. 

Uneasily beholding the awful place, I found myself hugging my arms across my chest tightly. As if I fancied that small and instinctive gesture of self-protection might help ward off the dreadful establishment's negative waves. Such was my sense of dread.

At last, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's prisoner transfer business was concluded, and they reclaimed their handcuffs. And I can tell you: I was glad to have those damned things taken off my wrists. Securi-Fem officer Sonia had been right - and she knew she'd been right: they damned well had, been hurting!

After bidding their friendly farewells to prison officers Natalie and Melanie, my two antagonising escorts mockingly fluttered their fingers goodbye at me, and sarcastically wished me a pleasant stay in H.M. Prison: Greystone. 

Upon which, they left the security checkpoint building, closed the door behind them, and I was heartily glad to see the last of them ... Except, I hadn't. Not quite.

Just a moment later, the door to the security checkpoint building opened again, and Securi-Fem officer Sonia popped her head back inside. "Oh, Natalie, Melanie, I almost forgot," she said. "Mr Lightwood hates - absolutely hates! - being called Leonard: I can tell. I thought I'd just pop back in and tell you ... I thought you'd want to know, heh heh heh."

*

Dear reader,

prison officers Natalie and Melanie give me their Welcome to Greystone Prison prep-talk. A prep-talk so incredibly outlandish, that naturally I'd found it very hard to swallow, at the time ...

"So, prisoner Lightwood ... Leonard," said prison officer Natalie, as she continued to cause her thin-rubber soled flip flops to repeatedly slap ... slap ... slap ... slap ... slap against the bottoms of her bare heels. "You like looking up women's skirts, then, do you?" 

"Um ... er, no. I was ... I mean, I was just—"

"Save it, prisoner Lightwood," said her colleague, prison officer Melanie, who was likewise manipulating her flip flops annoyingly. "You couldn't drag your eyes away. We both saw you, so don't you dare deny it! Besides, you are going to find you'll be having plenty of opportunities to do that here, in Greystone Prison ... It's sort of the point."

Once again, I felt the heat of acute embarrassment reddening my face. "The point?" I said, confused now, as well as ashamed. "What is?"

"Before we go into that," said prison officer Natalie, "the first thing you have to learn, Leonard, is that you must always address prison officers as 'Miss', before their names. You can see what our names are, from our name-tags. Failure to address us appropriately will result in your being caned on the spot, on your bare buttocks. Am I making myself clear, Leonard?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 

What? I thought ... Caned on the spot, for failing to call them Miss? And on my bare buttocks! This was outrageous. Surely, that was beyond their remit? Surely, it was—

Intolerant of my disbelieving deliberations, prison officer Melanie uncrossed her ankles, swung her feet down to the floor, and as she came around her desk to confront me her thin-rubber soled flip flops rapidly slap slap slap slapped against the bottoms of her bare heels, rapping out an angry-sounding tattoo.

I soon knew what was going to happen ... I just couldn't believe it. 

I could see what was about to happen, but I was stunned into immobility, too shocked to move. 

Too shocked to move, as I saw prison officer Melanie raise her right hand. Stunned into immobility, as I watched the palm of her right hand descend at lightening speed towards my left cheek ... SLAP! 

"Aaaahhhhhh!" I cried, at the powerful, stinging impact that, in occasioning me to stagger three steps back, nearly knocked me over. 

I couldn't believe it. Prison officer Melanie had slapped my face! And I mean really, slapped me.

"Officer Natalie just asked you a question, prisoner Lightwood!" she snapped reprovingly.

"That hurt!" I complained, rubbing my sore cheek with my fingers. "There was no need for that!" I further protested.

Prison officer Melanie yelled, "This isn't a holiday camp, prisoner Lightwood! Or a leisure centre! It is a prison - and Greystone Prison, at that. Next time, prisoner Lightwood, it'll be the cane. And that will really hurt - I'll make sure of it! 

"Now: officer Natalie just asked you a question. And when a prison officer asks you a question, prisoner Lightwood, you'd better come up with a prompt, and respectful reply. Or it'll be the cane ... or worse. Well, prisoner Lightwood? Officer Natalie is waiting."

Or it'll be the cane ... or worse? I thought. Worse than the cane? I really didn't want to think about that. It didn't bear—

"I said: officer Natalie is waiting!" shrieked prison officer Melanie.

All right! All right! I thought - but didn't say.

Turning to prison officer Natalie, I said, reluctantly and resentfully, "Yes. You are making yourself clear ... Miss Natalie."

"I'm not sure I like your tone, Lightwood," said prison officer Melanie in a menacing tone. "I think you need straightening out."

She was still facing me, as though waiting for me to say just one more word out of line - as though waiting for the slightest excuse to slap my face again. When I didn't say another word; didn't provide her with an excuse to straighten me out a bit more, she said, "Oh, you will soon be whipped into shape in here, Lightwood. You'll soon lose the attitude ... you just mark my words," she predicted chillingly.




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 02



Dear reader,

This was the scariest, most hair-raising moment of my life to date.

On the outside, I was affecting a calm, untroubled, almost nonchalant demeanour.

But, on the inside...

*****

Chapter 2: The Wheel of Chastisement.

Prison officer Bella Donna stood ice-statue still, as though frozen in shock. Being defied by an inmate of HM Greystone Prison, I thought, must be a very unusual experience for her.

Her pale blue, chips-of-ice eyes radiated cold... no wonder I had started shivering. With chilling certainty, I knew that she would now make me pay an exorbitant penalty. A very high price indeed, for refusing to 'assume the position', and denying her her Prisoners' Foot Service 'privileges'.

When she didn't immediately say anything, in response to my flat refusal to do her bidding; didn't instantaneously react, to my stubborn and steadfast refusal to bow to her authority and obey her odious commands, her colleague, prison officer Billie Jo, blurted in dismayed incredulity, "Bel! You are not going to let prisoner Lightwood get away with that, are you? He has defied you!"

When she received no reply, prison officer Billie Jo threatened to take it upon herself to administer an instant and painful remedial response against me. "He needs a good slap! That's what he needs - and a damn good caning! Shall I fix the little squirt, Bel?" she offered. "I'll soon sort him out! First, a few good, hard slaps - I like the personal touch; the satisfying sensation of feeling the palm of my hand smacking into an uppity prisoner's face and making his eyes water - and then I'll restrain him to the bars of his cell. And, so help me, I'll soon get him thinking straight! I'll cane him like there's no tomorrow! Oh, I'll make his eyes water, all right! I'm certainly not going to just idly stand by, and let him get away with all kinds of—"

"No - wait!" cautioned prison officer Bella Donna. "Hold your fire, BJ. And calm down - it's just not worth getting all het up over a prisoner. Besides, I can see how much you are enjoying yourself... so stay where you are. Of course I'm not going to let prisoner Lightwood get away with defying me - you know me better than that. No, BJ. Quite the contrary. I was just thinking, that's all. Thinking about what to do about his noncompliance; about what would be the appropriate corrective measures to take." 

"Well, I know what I'd do, Bel."

"Hmm... This is an important decision. And careful consideration is called for, if I'm to achieve optimal results. In a case such as this, where the ultimate aim is to ensure that a satisfactory outcome is secured long-term, choosing the right corrective-discipline option now, right at the outset, is key." 

"I know you'll make the right decision, Bel: The choice that will most benefit prisoner Lightwood."

"So... if I'm going to mould prisoner Lightwood, BJ, the way you have moulded prisoner Chapman: if I'm going to train him— no, condition him, to automatically accommodate all of my own personal likes, preferences and requirements with regard to Foot Service - to serve me, now and in the long-term, the way that prisoner Chapman is now so slavishly serving you - I think I should break him in right from the get-go." 

"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Bel."

"I'll need to crush that rebellious streak right out of him now, immediately - first as last. Purge it from his system. I'll prescribe a rebalancing therapy for prisoner Lightwood. A single-course programme, that will not only put an instant stop to his irksome serial misdemeanours, but will also serve to eradicate such inappropriate-behaviour patterns permanently: Post-therapy, there will be no more speaking out of turn, from friend Lightwood. No more troublesome antics. No more disrespect. No more noncompliance. No more defiance. In short: no more saying 'No'. All of his present misbehaviour patterns will be safely consigned to his past."

"Sounds like a plan, Bel."

"The new, reformed prisoner Lightwood will be an altogether more agreeable person: Unfailingly respectful. Unfailingly compliant. Unfailingly obedient. In other words: he won't be saying 'No' anymore. Not to me. Not to you. And not to any other prison officer." 

"Well, you'll get no argument from me on that score, Bel."

"So, I think there's only one thing for it... If I'm to successfully nip prisoner Lightwood's errant ways in the bud, the ultimate sanction is called for. Correctional treatment of the highest order: a Ball-Bust, administered on the Wheel of Chastisement."

"Now you're talking, Bel!" 

"As you've said so yourself, BJ, it's a sure cure for prisoners' defiance. At least, it's as close to a surefire remedy as we've been able to devise. Occasions when prisoners have actually remained unbroken - have not responded positively to the treatment; not even to the follow-up double, and then finally triple-dose treatments - are few and far between."

"The 'One-in-a-hundred's, Bel?" 

"Yes, BJ. The prisoners we refer to as the 'One-in-a-hundred's: The freak minority, who are so totally averse, just so overwhelmingly repulsed by the prospect of submitting to Foot Service, that even repeated Ball-Bust treatments can't cure their phobia-like disinclination."

"The actual failure rate of the Ball-Bust therapy is extremely low, isn't it, Bel? And I'm not surprised!" 

"The statistics speak for themselves, BJ. When administered on the Wheel of Chastisement, the prison's ultimate reformative sanction delivers an almost perfect success rate: ninety-nine per cent. Hence the so-called 'One-in-a-hundred' freak minority of failures - those rare breed, tiny-minority prisoners, who would actually prefer to let us ruin them in our attempts to cure them. Those unbreakable One-in-a-hundred exceptions, who are the tiny flaw in our almost perfect Ball-Bust statistics, are an anomaly - an aberration." 

"Well, if we can't cure them, Bel, no one can!"

"And then on the opposite side of that same coin, BJ, are the prisoners who are equally unsuited to being institutionalised in Greystone Prison - but for the exact opposite reason: the foot fetishists. Those other freak-minority prisoners, who, upon their being discovered to have a foot fetish are transferred to another institution." 

"And I should think so too - prisoners aren't sent here to enjoy themselves! Foot fetishists - of all things! I ask you! I couldn't believe it, the first time I found a prisoner actually enjoying tongue-cleaning the soles of my dirty feet - actually getting a humungous erection from it! Or at least, he was, until I went into his cell and dragged him out of his assuming-the-position position and gave him a damn good caning to help take his mind off it before putting him in the prisoner transfer holding cell. Naturally I'd assumed he was getting so hot under the collar from me letting him look right up my skirt - especially since I wasn't wearing my panties that day... But Bel, I knew you'd be thinking along those lines. And it's exactly what I'd do, too - I love a good Ball-Bust!"

"BJ, if ever a prisoner needed his balls busting, it is prisoner Lightwood. Look at him, BJ. Even now, he is still brazenly staring at my face, instead of respectfully staring down at my feet. And he's still sitting in that folding-chair, even after I've expressly told him that he must stand in the presence of prison officers - and so actually he is also disrespecting and defying you too, BJ." 

Prison officer Billie Jo glared malevolently at me. "He needs fixing, Bel," she said. "And fixing good."

"Well, BJ, I'm going to fix him, all right - once and for all. I'm going to make him wish he'd never set eyes on me. Disrespect me, will he? Disobey me, will he? Defy me, will he? Say 'No' to me, will he? Well, not any more. I'll soon get him thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. After today, prisoner Lightwood will never dare say 'No' to me again - ever. I'm going to cow him, crush him, break him - bring him to heel."

"Good for you, Bel. He can't be allowed to get away with treating you this way - and as you say, when he disrespects and disobeys and defies you he is by implication actually disrespecting and disobeying and defying me and every other prison officer too. And it's not on, is it? I mean, where would we all be, if we let such behavior go unchecked? Where would we all be, if we let prisoners cock a snook at our authority whenever they felt like it? And you've got the right idea, Bel: if there's anything I've learned, it's that in matters of correctional discipline it's better not to pussyfoot about with the prisoners - it's better to be cruel to be kind." 

"That's exactly my way of thinking, BJ."

"When prisoner Chapman first flouted my authority, I thought I'd stomped down good and hard on him. I thought I'd done enough to get him thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically - right there and then. I thought I'd straightened him out. But I was wrong. It turned out I hadn't put my foot down even nearly hard enough - you know, Bel; with the dental thing, when I had the prison doctor pull all of prisoner Chapman's teeth, because he'd threatened to bite my foot if I put it in his mouth?" 

"Ha ha ha! How could I forget? That was an inspired comeback, BJ. What a perfectly suitable comeuppance, for the disobedient little scrote. Hey! We'll have to give prisoner Chapman a nickname... I know, how about... 'Gummy'?"

"Ha haaaaaa! Suits him perfectly, Bel. Oh, and that reminds me: now that I know I'll be retaining old Gummy here long-term, I'll have to see if I can get some NHS second-hand dentures for him from the prison doctor... I'll be sure to choose him some nice ones, heh heh heh."

"Ha ha ha ha! BJ, you are a star! Serves him right! I can't wait to see his new choppers - well, new to him! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Heh heh heh... Anyway, Bel, where was I?"

"You were telling me about what you did about prisoner Chapman - old Gummy, here - defying you. When for some reason he didn't like the idea of you putting your foot in his mouth."

"Oh, yes... Well, I'd obviously not stomped down on prisoner Chapman hard enough. Because when I returned to his cell a week later, just as I'd told him I would, it was only to find that he hadn't learned his lesson. I'd thought that, when I'd had all of his teeth removed from his mouth, I was simultaneously removing the word 'No' from his vocabulary - at least, in as far as the word pertained to me. But he still wasn't thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. He was the sort of prisoner the Governor likes to describe as a 'slow learner'. When I told him to assume the position, and ready himself to provide me with Foot Service, he told me, in that snivelling, plaintive voice of his: 'We've been through all of this, Miss Billie Jo! Don't you remember, Miss Billie Jo? About the line I won't cross?' You can imagine my surprise, Bel."

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna, greatly amused at prison officer Billie Jo's cruel parodying of Ross. And I had to admit: prison officer Billie Jo's imitation of my whinging-voiced cellmate was astonishingly spot on. She definitely had quite a talent for mimicry.

Prison officer Billie Jo went on, "I think after the damn good caning I'd given him a week earlier, he was prepared to massage my feet for me; even reconciled himself to letting me use his face as a footrest. But he was still hung up about letting me put my foot in his mouth. I could hardly believe it, Bel, to be honest with you. I mean, how stupid is he? He'd had a full week to get his head around what was expected of him; that should have been plenty of time to come to terms with it. I was going to have my way with him in the end; surely he had to know that? Is he a moron, or what? Did he actually think I was going to allow him to cherry-pick? Why did he have to make things so difficult for himself - and for me? I thought: 'Right! No more pussyfooting about! If this, is what being nice does! If this, is where being lenient gets me!' Suffice to say, Bel, I wasn't best pleased, with his pointless intransigence."

"I'll bet!" said prison officer Bella Donna, glaring angrily down at my cellmate, who was assuming the position for Foot Service at prison officer Billie Jo's feet. "And neither would I have been, BJ, if faced with such wilful obstinacy."

Prison officer Billie Jo continued, "So, when he defied me that second time; tried to take advantage of my good nature again, I was having none of it. I didn't pussyfoot about this time - oh no! I thought: 'I'm going to bust his slow-learning balls for him!' So I did what I should have done in the first place, instead of being so softhearted: I applied to the Governor for a Written Approval Order, to have him put on the Wheel of Chastisement."

"It's the old 'Be-cruel-to-be-kind thing again, isn't it, BJ? So much of our prisoners' needless pain and suffering could so easily be saved. But they will insist upon bringing it upon themselves. The prisoners are their own worst enemies, BJ. They need saving from themselves." 

"I know, Bel. The Governor thinks that Greystone's rules and punishments are strict enough and severe enough already. But I would very much like to see them much further reinforced. A more stringent, tough-love regime could only be good for the prisoners' welfare; could only help them to stay in line, and out of trouble. But we have no say in these matters, Bel. We are just prison officers, aren't we? We don't make new rules, we just ensure that the current ones are strictly enforced." 

"I absolutely agree, BJ. The prisoners have much too cushy a time of it here - much too cushy a time! Oh, things would be very different, if we had any say!"

"Yes. Anyway, Bel, as I was saying... The ball was in prisoner Chapman's court, wasn't it? How he played it, was entirely up to him. Simply by doing what I'd told him to do - assume the position - he could have saved himself from all of that pain and suffering, down in the gymnasium. Simply by using his own initiative - obeying my orders to provide me with Foot Service - he could so easily have avoided his harrowing ordeal; could so easily have spared himself his terrible humiliation, in front of an audience of female prison officers. But he chose not to. Instead, he chose to resist futilely. Like I said, Bel, he wasn't thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically... But he is now."

"BJ, maybe that's what the Greystone Prison motto should be: 'Be Cruel to be Kind'. It says it all, doesn't it? It would be such a good policy to adopt. I mean... it does no good, does it, to go too easy on the prisoners? Not in the long run. We'd be doing them no favours, if we cut them some slack. That could only be to their detriment. We wouldn't be acting in their best interests, if we didn't bring them to book - didn't forcefully address the errors of their ways - each and every time they behaved with impropriety, where females are concerned. If we came over all hearts-and-flowers all of the time, and let them make a song and dance about every little thing, well, it would only have a negative, rehabilitation-hindering influence on them, that could only in turn adversely affect their life-chances... And, I remember the Governor was quite amenable to your Ball-Bust request, wasn't she, BJ?"

"The Governor was as good as gold about it, Bel. Once I'd explained my case; made her fully aware of the nature of prisoner Chapman's repeated noncompliance, she immediately approved my request to have a Ball-Bust. She was absolutely all for it. She told me that such obdurate noncooperation from prisoners was intolerable, and can never go unchecked. She said: 'Officer Billie Jo, whatever needs to be done, must be done. We can't have prisoners saying 'No' to us!' She said she was rather surprised that prisoner Chapman's first course of treatment hadn't done the trick, but that, unless he was one of the rare breed One-in-a-hundred category of prisoner, the stronger medicine I was now prescribing for him would be sure to cure him. She even fast-tracked the Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement so that I could administer prisoner Chapman's remedial therapy without delay... And, as you can see, Bel... he's been all the better for it. The results speak for themselves, don't they? Oh, it did him a world of good, his little ride on the Wheel. He's never said 'No' to me, since."

"Yes, BJ, and that's exactly what I'm thinking... That a ride on the Wheel of Chastisement will do prisoner Lightwood the world of good, too. That it will clear his head. That it will get him wearing his thinking-cap. That it will make him see reason. That it will get him thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically."

"Oh, I think it will, Bel... prisoner Lightwood doesn't look like a One-in-a-hundred to me."

"He doesn't to me, either... I think he's just being stubborn. Just being obdurate. In disrespecting me, in disobeying me, in defying me, in not bowing to my authority, he must know that he is letting himself in for a world of pain and humiliation - surely, his cellmate must have warned him? I think he's just showing token resistance, that's all. Pseudo macho bravado. That's why he said 'No' to me. He's trying to save a bit of face. He doesn't think much to the consequences of his noncompliance."

"Yes, Bel. Just like his cellmate - and we all know what happened to him!"

"Right, BJ. I'm going to radio Control, and do exactly as you did: I'm going to ask Natalie to see if she can get the Governor to fast-track a Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement. So that I can get things in motion for the Ball-Bust now, straight away, and administer prisoner Lightwood's remedial therapy without delay."

"It's all for the best, Bel. You'll see. Prisoner Lightwood is obviously every bit as stupid as his idiot cellmate, and he needs his retarded mind making up for him as well. Absolute imbeciles, the both of them. Talk about slow learners! What a pair they make. Obviously they were both right at the very back of the queue when the brains were given out, and they've had to make do with what was left."

Turning to me, prison officer Billie Jo said with malicious glee, "Did you hear all that, prisoner Lightwood? Eh? Officer Bella Donna is going to have your balls! She's going to bust your balls! And it is going to really, really hurt! And, do you know something? I hope I get to watch it. And not just the Ball-Bust itself, but also what happens to you right after. In fact, with any luck I might even be assigned to the caning-party. The Wheel of Chastisement is a sure cure for prisoners' defiance - just ask your cellmate. I soon crushed the resistance out of him - not that the little worm was much of a challenge... And look at him now, prisoner Lightwood. Just look at him now..."

I looked at him now... As far as my cellmate was concerned, there was no arguing with prison officer Billie Jo's grasp of the state of affairs. 

"Just five minutes on the Wheel of Chastisement. That was plenty of time to sort prisoner Chapman out. More than enough. By the time I'd finished with him - finished administering my five barefoot kicks to his fully exposed testicles - he was all nice and clear-headed. Oh yes. He was certainly wearing his thinking-cap! All of a sudden, lo and behold: he was thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. At last, he'd seen the errors of his ways. He was suddenly seeing reason: he'd knelt at my feet, grovelled with apology, vowed his future obedience, and literally begged to provide whatever manner of Foot Service I might wish to avail myself of him - he'd do anything, he told me, to avoid another Ball-Bust."

My god! I thought. What sort of woman was she?

"Yes: he'd finally managed to cross his stupid 'line'. You know, the line he'd told me he wouldn't cross? But, believe me, he crossed it the hard way. So hard, he cried himself to sleep that night - and for nights after, too... And, prisoner Lightwood, by the time officer Bella Donna has finished with you, you'll be all nice and clear-headed, too. Oh yes. You'll be wearing your thinking-cap. And then you'll be thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically: You'll see the errors of your ways, at last. And then you'll start seeing reason. You'll be grovelling with apology, vowing your future obedience, and literally begging officer Bella Donna to let you provide whatever manner of Foot Service, for her! And, prisoner Lightwood, when you are crying yourself to sleep tonight - and for nights after, too - remember: you asked for it!"




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 02



My blood had turned to ice-water. 

I remembered some of what my cellmate had told me of his own experience on the Wheel of Chastisement. Some of the... highlights of his own Ball-Bust "remedial therapy", administered by prison officer Billie Jo.

And now, prison officer Bella Donna was talking of administering to me, the very same "rebalancing therapy" corrective-punishment treatment.

Though there may have been a small number of occasions when I might possibly have deserved it, I'd never been kicked in the testicles before. Fortunately, up until now I had managed to avoid - or my aggrieved girlfriends had mercifully spared me - the... "ultimate sanction".

But I thought I had some idea of what the pain would be like. Some idea, of how it would actually feel. Some idea, of the sorts of anguishment I would go through, when prison officer Bella Donna kicked me in the testicles.

Or did I? How could I? How could I possibly?

Ross had told me it was "beyond imagining". 

And, it hadn't been just one kick, either. 

Ross had said he'd suffered kick, after kick, after kick, right between his restrained, widely-spread-apart legs, from prison officer Billie Jo. This, while other prison officers, taking it in turns, had expertly and mercilessly caned his bare bottom. 

And as they did so, these caning-party prison officers of sadistic leanings had enthusiastically encouraged each other. Had applauded each other, in mutual appreciation. Had high-fived, in congratulation. Had whooped and whistled, in malicious excitement. Had laughed, giggled, tittered and chuckled, in malevolent merriment. Had leered, sneered and jeered, in derision. Had hooted with glee. In short: the assemblage of female prison officers had revelled, in the sad and sorry spectacle of his unspeakable misery. 

And now, administered by prison officer Bella Donna, I was about to get a dose of the same 'therapeutic treatment'. 

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, I was sure, could now sense my fear, see my fear - smell my fear. 

Prison officer Billie Jo, looking scornfully down on my cellmate, assuming the position for Foot Service for her, said with scathing, utter contempt, "As for you, prisoner Chapman, I'm done with you - for now. Get back to your bunk!" 

Upon her freeing Ross's wrists from the restraints inset to the cell's bars, but before he could move, prison officer Billie Jo dealt a malicious back-heel kick to his nose; the wickedly executed blow from the bottom of her bare heel bringing a deluge of fresh tears of pain, hurt and humiliation to Ross's already red-rimmed and tear-crusted eyes. He seemed stunned; dizzied, by the cruelly delivered, deceptively powerful kick, as if the brutal blow had sent his brain sloshing about in his head, and he was waiting for it to resettle. 

"I said move!" snapped prison officer Billie Jo impatiently when Ross failed to respond with instant obedience to her command. "Do as I tell you, you snivelling little specimen! And now! Do not make me repeat myself. Well...? Go on - Gummy! If you are not back beside your bunk within the next twenty seconds, you will receive ten strokes of my cane!" 

Only a few minutes ago, I would have stood up for Ross. I would have protested bitterly at this outrage, and vehemently accosted prison officer Billie Jo in my cellmate's behalf.

But that was a few minutes ago. 

I'd been slow on the uptake - but I was learning fast... Now, I kept my mouth firmly shut. 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," replied Ross wretchedly. "And, thank you, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo, for allowing me to serve you. And for choosing me, to—" 

With her astonishing capacity for spot-on mimicry, prison officer Billie Jo parodied cruelly, "'Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo. Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo'— Shut up, cretin!" she yelled, her attractive, olive-complexioned face contorted now with unrestrained aggression. 

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna, tickled pink at her colleague's cruel but startlingly accurate and true-to-life imitation of my cellmate's pathetic grovelling. "Ha ha ha ha! You are too much, BJ!"

"I don't want to listen to any more of your pathetic grovelling!" yelled prison officer Billie Jo, further haranguing my hapless cellmate. "You make me sick! Do you know that? No - you can really have no idea! Get back to your bunk, Mouse man. And quick - or I'll put you on the Wheel of Chastisement too! I've given up being nice to you! Given up being such a soft touch! Such a namby-pamby tenderheart! There'll be no more flowers-and-chocolates treatment from me, in future! So you had better get that inside your head - and fast! Because the moment you start slacking, Gummy, is the moment I'll be paying the Governor another visit!"

Half sob, half croak, Ross replied, "Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Anything you say, Miss Billie Jo. Whatever you want, Miss Billie—"

"I said shut up, you... my god, words fail me - Nincompoop! Get back beside your bunk. And now - Gummy! If I have to repeat myself again..."

With great alacrity my cellmate began extricating his legs from the floor-level torpedo-tube like holes under the cell's bars, into which they were fully inserted. 

It was much more awkward and laborious to get out of the assuming-the-position position, I now saw as I sat and watched, than it was to get into it - especially so, in a panicky race against time. 

I looked on anxiously as Ross strove desperately to beat prison officer Billie Jo's cruelly imposed deadline; surely at least half of her twenty-second time limit was up. 

He'll never make it! I thought, concerned for my cellmate - he was about to get ten strokes of prison officer Billie Jo's cane!

I wanted to grab Ross's arms, and help him to get his legs out of those damned holes in the wall. Help him to quickly extricate himself, from his assuming-the-position position. 

But I hesitated to do so. 

I was wary as to how prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo would react: was this another, of their one-month-extra-prison-time incurring traps? I didn't want to risk it - couldn't afford to risk it. I had already fallen for them three times, thereby enabling prison officer Bella Donna to incrementally increase my original three-month sentence up to a soul-crushing six months. 

So this time I kept my own counsel: I kept my mouth firmly shut, and stayed the hell out of it.

As it happened though, I needn't have worried. Ross's movements were quick and fluid and methodical - he'd obviously been getting in lots of practise - and he made the designated safety of the bunks just in time.

"Pity," said prison officer Billie Jo disappointedly. "I was just starting to look forward to a nice bit of caning practise."

"Don't worry, BJ," consoled prison officer Bella Donna. "You'll get plenty more opportunities."

Prison officer Bella Donna then detached the walkie-talkie radio that was clipped to the waistband of her uniform pale-blue short skirt. Boring into mine, her ice-blue eyes were unwavering; piercing, like mind-reading orbs as she spoke into her transmitter.

"Control... This is officer Bella Donna. I have a situation. Over." 

There was a short burst of radio static, and then prison officer Natalie's voice came on. "This is Control... Yes, officer Bella Donna? What is your situation? Over."

"Control... Assistance required. Repeat: assistance required, at cell sixteen, Level One. Officer Natalie, could you please request the Governor to fast-track a Written Approval Order, in the name of prisoner Leonard Lightwood, for the Wheel of Chastisement? And send any available officers to assist officer Billie Jo and me in escorting prisoner Lightwood down to the gymnasium, in case he won't go quietly? Over."

After a brief pause, prison officer Natalie came back on. "Received, officer Bella Donna. Copy that. Stand by, please, for imminent confirmation on your Written Approval Order request. But assistance on way. Repeat: we have assistance on way. Officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora are now proceeding with all speed to cell sixteen, Level One. Over and out."

Within seconds, the air came alive with the by now familiar, highly irritating and annoying slap slap slap slapping sound of flip flops; the multiple pairs of rapidly approaching thin-rubber soled flip flops, an ominous cacophony of slapping against the bare heels of their urgently proceeding female prison officer wearers. 

Commingling, was the dreadful sound of the four rapidly responding Jailhouse Blues' canes. Rattling against the dark-grey painted bars of each prison cell they hurried past, the threatening sound of the prison officers' instruments of chastisement noisily resounded; their bamboo battle cry, reaching each and every part of the five Levels.

As one, prison officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora arrived at cell 16 - and they made a formidable and intimidating sight. With their specially adapted, uniform regulation concave bob hairstyle, and wielding their instruments of deterrence and chastisement in an eager, ready-for-anything attitude, their demeanour was very distinctly no-nonsense and all business.

Slightly breathless from her on-the-double dash, prison officer Cassandra inquired with a frown on her face, "Bel? BJ? What's going down? We just got the call from Nat, requesting the four of us to get here at the double."

Prison officer Bella Donna replied, "Take it easy, Cassie. It's nothing that BJ and me couldn't handle on our own. It's just that I believe in using overwhelming force."

"Well, we can supply that!" hinted prison officer Louise, flexing her whippy bamboo cane. "I can always use an opportunity to hone my caning skills. And besides, a bit of practise never does any harm - except to the prisoners' backsides! Ha ha ha ha!"

"And you might get your chance, Lou... down in the gymnasium," responded prison officer Billie Jo meaningfully.

Prison officer Cora said, "What... there's going to be a Ball-Bust?"

Prison officer Bella Donna replied, her voice all matter-of-fact, "We're just awaiting the Governor's official endorsement. But yes, Cora, there's going to be a Ball-Bust. For prisoner Lightwood, here. He's not thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. He said 'No' to me. As we speak, the necessary paperwork is being processed; the Governor is fast-tracking my requested Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement. As sponsor, I'll be the principle administrator of prisoner Lightwoods therapeutic treatment."

Prison officer Victoria, a leggy, early twenties, incredibly gorgeous blue-eyed blonde, who had only the previous week joined the 'Blues', said excitedly in her posh, Home Counties accent, "Oh, my gosh! Can I kick prisoner Lightwood in the balls, too? I've never kicked a man in the balls before. It must be the coolest thing! Of all of the amazing benefits of working here - great salary; long holidays; generous duvet-day allowance; medical insurance; fabulous early-retirement pension plan - it was the thing that most attracted me to the prison officer's job at Greystone Prison: The promise of opportunities to kick men where it hurts the most - and with no possible comebacks! Actually being able to kick them right in the goolies - and they can't do a thing about it! Not a thing! Ha ha ha ha! So... can I, do you think? Kick prisoner Lightwood in the balls?"

Prison officer Cassandra replied, "No, Vicky. I'm sorry, but no. The regulations clearly state that only the prison officer administering the Ball-Bust chastisement can perform the actual ball-kicking. That's what Bel meant, when she said that as sponsor she would be the 'principle' administrator of prisoner Lightwood's punishm— I mean, therapeutic treatment." 

"Which is sort of the point, Vicky," prison officer Louise explained further. "It's to enable the particular prison officer in question - in this case, officer Bella Donna - to drive home the point, to the particular prisoner in question - in this case, prisoner Lightwood - that she is never to be defied, and always obeyed."

"Oh," said prison officer Victoria, the single word speaking volumes in crestfallen disappointment. "I know about the routine, every-day ball-kicking practise sessions, with the One-in-a-hundred prisoners. The prisoners who won't, and can't be made to submit to Foot Service. The unbreakable, ruined prisoners, with the nearly extinct balls. The Governor told me about those, during my interview. And I'm scheduled to attend one of those ball-kicking practise sessions tomorrow afternoon. But it won't be the same, kicking them in the balls, will it? I mean, if they are almost beyond hurting. Where's the fun in that?"

"Kicking the dead-nut One-in-a-hundred prisoners in the balls, during routine ball-kicking practise sessions, isn't the same, no," admitted prison officer Cora. "There's no denying that. Obviously, you don't get anything like the same level of satisfaction, that you get from administering an actual Ball-Bust treatment. Because I can tell you, Vicky: there's absolutely nothing - and I mean, nothing - that can compare with the wonderful sense of achievement you experience, when you see your own, personally administered Ball-Bust treatment curing a prisoner's irrational thinking." 

"But it's still a hoot, Vicky," said prison officer Louise consolingly. "I mean, kicking the One-in-a-hundred's right in the plums, time and time again - and some of them will barely react! It's so funny. So it's still worthwhile, Vicky. And after all: practise makes perfect. Which you'll pretty much need to be, Vicky, before the Governor will endorse your performing an actual Ball-Bust treatment."

"But, not to worry, Vicky - you little vixen!" said prison officer Cora. "You'll get plenty of opportunities here, in Greystone prison, to kick men's 'live', unruined balls. Pretty soon, you'll be a seasoned ball-kicker yourself - and a quite expert one, too, I don't doubt!"

At that, prison officer Victoria's face brightened, and her face was incredibly lovely as she said, "Do you think, Cora?"

"Yes, I certainly do! But the idea of a Ball-Bust, Vicky, as Lou just alluded, is to bring stubborn, but treatable prisoners to heel. To get prisoners who at first say 'No' to us, like prisoner Lightwood, here, thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. To give them a second chance - and even a third, and final chance, in the extremely unlikely event of that drastic action proving necessary. So the objective of the Ball-Bust treatment, Vicky, is to rehabilitate such... reluctant prisoners. To reform them. To cure them. Not to ruin them." 

Prison officer Bella Donna added, "But, Vicky, the One-in-a-hundreds... well, they can't be cured. They just can't. With them, it's not about standing up for themselves as a man, because it's an intolerable affront to their manhood - though of course there is that, too, but such... alpha, female-domination averse males don't usually resist beyond a second Ball-Bust treatment. No. The actual, dyed-in-the-wool One-in-a-hundred's can't be made to submit to Foot Service, because it's anathema to them. They are simply just too grossed out by the idea. It's a mental thing. A phobia. When they say 'No' to us, they mean 'No'. And their minds can't be changed. They just can't cope with the thought, of assuming the position, and serving at our feet. The very idea of it is wholly repugnant to them. It's an insurmountable aversion to feet, that even all of our best-effort ball-kicking treatments can't overcome. They simply let us ruin them, in our attempts to cure them. It just doesn't matter, Vicky, how many times I, or BJ, or you might kick a One-in-a-hundred in the balls, he still won't submit to providing Foot Service." 

Prison officer Billie Jo said, "So, Vicky, if those prisoners won't cooperate in the administering of their own therapeutic treatment - if they won't provide Foot Service for us, thereby laying down the necessary foundations for us to cure them of their improprieties, where females are concerned - until we finally move them on to another institution we just get some other uses out of them - such as ball-kicking practise."

Prison officer Victoria was about to reply again - no doubt, I thought, to take issue with what she'd just been told about the proclaimed 'invincibility' of the One-in-a-hundred prisoners - but then suddenly there was a crackle of static from the prison officers' radios as prison officer Natalie came back on-air. "This is Control... Control, calling officer Bella Donna. Over."

"Received, Control. This is officer Bella Donna. Over."

"Officer Bella Donna, you can go ahead. Repeat: you can go ahead, with prisoner Lightwood's prescribed therapeutic treatment. The Governor has granted your Written Approval Order request. As we speak, prison officers assigned to attend the Ball-Bust are readying the Wheel of Chastisement for use. As usual, the Governor herself will be presiding over the operation. The Governor has asked me to inform you that she has assigned you and the five officers with you to make up six of the caning-party's twelve-officer complement. You are clear to proceed, officer Bella Donna. Please escort prisoner Lightwood down to the gymnasium forthwith. Over and out."

"Yes!" exclaimed prison officer Billie Jo gleefully. "Okay, then. Let's get this show on the road!"

Prison officer Victoria looked me right in the eye... and she scared me. She really scared me.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't like what she was thinking. Wouldn't like, one little bit, just what was going on inside her lovely head.

Her angelic face was a picture of gleeful, barely controlled excitement. Of dark, delicious anticipation. The shining orbs of her bright blue eyes spoke of a cruel passion. Spoke, eloquently, of a sadistic yearning.

"Oh my gosh - yes! Let's!" she gushed enthusiastically in her posh, Home Counties accented, privileged-and-pampered sounding voice. 

She wanted to get the show on the road, too.

* * *

Dear reader,

I invite you to accompany me. 

Down to the basement of Greystone Prison, to the prison officers' gymnasium... to the Wheel of Chastisement...

Mob-handed, the six prison officers came crowding into cell 16, and Ross, who'd respectfully remained standing in the presence of prison officers, leaped up onto his top bunk like a baboon evading a pride of lions, and I offered no resistance as prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo handcuffed my wrists to theirs.

"We'll go down in the lift," said prison officer Bella Donna to her five colleagues. "It'll be a bit of a tight squeeze, but it can carry up to seven people at a pinch."

Handcuffed to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo on either side of me, I was thus marched along Level 1's West Wing walkway to the nearest of the two lifts; prison officers Cassandra and Victoria led the way, while prison officers Louise and Cora fell into prisoner escort formation behind.

As it happened, the lift was already at Level 1, and the doors opened immediately upon prison officer Billie Jo pressing the Call button. "Come on, you," she told me, as she and prison officer Bella Donna entered the lift first. Prison officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora followed. Once we were all shut in, prison officer Cora pressed the 'G' button that would take us down one Level to the Ground Floor.

With seven people in the lift, it was so cramped that, with prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo and myself at the back of the lift and facing towards the door, and the other four prison officers facing towards us, prison officer Victoria's not insubstantial breasts were pressing into my chest. 

Smiling prettily, and with her face so close to mine that I could smell her sweet-scented breath, the angelic-looking prison officer Victoria told me as the lift slowly descended the one Floor, "I hope you defy me, prisoner Lightwood, when I come to you for Foot Service. I hope you say 'No' to me. I'll soon get you thinking straight - thinking coherently and logically. I'll kick your balls so hard, you'll think you've grown a couple of new Adam's apples."




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 02



And I believed her. 

So did the other prison officers too, who chuckled in amusement; prison officer Billie Jo, exclaiming with delighted approbation to prison officer Bella Donna: "We could do with a few more like her - she's a natural!" 

Me, though? I thought better of saying anything in reply, as, standing chest to chest with prison officer Victoria, through the thin fabric of her uniform pale-blue blouse I could actually feel her nipples hardening in sadistic lust as I stared back at her up-close sugar-sweet face.

There was no elegant 'ping' to announce the lift's arrival at the Ground Floor, just a very sudden jolt, that might have rocked its passengers off their feet had we not been crammed into the thing like too many pilchards into a can.

Upon exiting the lift my six escorts regrouped into formation, and they marched me across the open expanse of the Ground Floor; the slapping of their flip flops sounding all businesslike and purposeful as we strode on the diagonal towards the steps that led down to the basement. 

When we were about half-way across, something made me look up. And I saw that, leaning on the safety-rails on every Wing walkway on all five Levels, Wing-patrolling prison officers were staring down at us... or rather, staring down at me: the 'condemned' man.

Prison officer Billie Jo suddenly jerked me to a standstill, and angrily glowered at me. "Do not provoke me, prisoner Lightwood!" she snapped. "You will keep your eyes respectfully lowered, focused upon the feet of officers Cassandra and Victoria in front of you!"

I respectfully lowered my eyes to her own, olive-complexioned feet, focusing my gaze upon her unvarnished toenails. "Yes, Miss Billie Jo," I said respectfully. Because I knew she'd give my face "a good slap" there and then if I didn't.

Above the dark-grey painted smooth-concrete stairway, was a large sign, indicating that the prison officers' Bar, the Foot Massage Room, and the gymnasium were all to be accessed downstairs.

As before, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo and myself were sandwiched between the other four prison officers; prison officers Cassandra and Victoria again leading the way, while prison officers Louise and Cora followed behind as we descended the steps of the narrow stairwell.

At the bottom of the steps, directly facing us across a narrow corridor was a double-door entrance. Above the white-painted doors were three signs, all with pale-blue letters printed on a white background. 

The sign in the middle had a downward-pointing arrow, and read simply: Gym. The sign on the left had a leftward-pointing arrow, and read simply: Bar. The sign on the right had a rightward-pointing arrow, and read: Foot Massage Room. These last two facilities were accessed as directed, via the corridor leading off to left and right.

Prison officers Cassandra and Victoria crossed the corridor and pushed their way through the double-door entrance, leading the way into the gymnasium. The rest of us followed.

The gymnasium was larger than I'd imagined. At first glance, it seemed pretty much fully equipped. Over-equipped, in fact... with the Wheel of Chastisement.

Already assembled in the gymnasium, were the twenty or so prison officers who had been assigned to attend - and, some of them, actively participate in - my "therapeutic treatment"... Including, I noticed with great trepidation, prison officers Natalie and Melanie - I'd seen quite enough of those two today already!

A woman of unmistakable authority then looked our way, upon her noticing our entrance into the gymnasium. 

Instinctively, I knew she was not a woman you said 'No' to.

She saw me, and caught my eye right away... and, once direct eye contact was made, she was hard to look away from. She was stunning to look at, and the power of her gaze was incredibly magnetic. Hypnotic. The phrase 'Held in thrall' came to mind. Because that's how I felt.

A study in lady-like deportment, the deeply suntanned, extremely attractive blonde-haired woman walked over to us; her measured, elegant stride regulating the stately-sounding slap... slap... slap... slapping rhythm of her thin-rubber soled pale-blue flip flops against the bottoms of her bare heels. 

Though she wore the same specially adapted concave bob hairstyle, and was dressed in the same body-hugging pale-blue uniform as the 'Jailhouse Blues' prison officers under her command, she was more mature than the average 'Blue' - in her early thirties, I guessed. 

And now that she was standing right up close, and looking right into my eyes, I was finding myself greatly affected by her. Finding myself unsettled, by her aura of presence. Finding myself in awe, of her charisma. Finding myself excited, by her attractiveness - finding myself disturbed, by her pulse-quickening sex-appeal.

"Welcome, prisoner Lightwood!" she said in sardonic greeting. "I am Meredith Monroe, Governor of Greystone Prison. I hear you are in need of a bit of straightening out."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything.

Turning to prison officer Bella Donna, Governor Monroe said in her rich-toned and pleasantly modulated voice, "That is the case, isn't it, officer Bella Donna? And that it is you yourself, as sponsor, who have brought charges of gross impropriety against prisoner Lightwood, and petitioned my fast-tracked authorisation to personally administer his rehabilitative therapeutic treatment, on the Wheel of Chastisement?"

"Yes, ma'am," affirmed prison officer Bella Donna succinctly.

"Um... I am in no way questioning your judgement, officer Bella Donna, but... the Wheel of Chastisement? You are certainly not pussyfooting about, are you? I mean - and, correct me if I'm wrong - this is prisoner Lightwood's first offence, isn't it? You don't think a Ball-Bust is a... tad harsh?"

"Ma'am, I'm as lenient-minded as the next prison officer, and a big believer in second chances. But there are occasions when one has to take off the kid-gloves."

"And this is one of those occasions, officer Bella Donna?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid it is. Prisoner Lightwood has an attitude problem. And in my opinion, ma'am, it needs to be nipped in the bud. The sooner he is made aware of the errors of his ways - made aware of his improprieties, where females are concerned - the better off he will be in the long run. It is not yet two hours, ma'am, since he was admitted to the prison by officers Natalie and Melanie, and already he has committed not just one offence, but a whole series of egregious infractions."

"Oh, has he now?" said the Governor, looking askance at me. "Could you please elaborate for me, officer Bella Donna?" 

"Certainly, ma'am. Prisoner Lightwood has treated me with the utmost disrespect, signally failing to recognise my authority as a prison officer. Despite my repeated instructions, he has brazenly stared me in the face, instead of respectfully staring down at my feet; failed to stand, in the presence of a prison officer; and he has repeatedly spoken out of turn. In addition, he has been flagrantly disobedient and noncompliant: he has refused to assume the position, at my expressed order; refused to provide Foot Service, upon my command. In summary: prisoner Lightwood has repeatedly disrespected, disobeyed and defied me, ma'am. Again and again, he has said 'No' to me. Never before, ma'am, have I come across such bare-faced impropriety in a prisoner."

"Ma'am...?" said prison officer Billie Jo politely.

"Yes, officer Billie Jo?"

"Ma'am, I can verify everything that officer Bella Donna has just said. In fact, ma'am, when prisoner Chapman had assumed the position for me, and was providing Foot Service, prisoner Lightwood spoke out of turn to me, too - actually, he even laid a hand on me. And then on top of all that, he actually had the gall to try and take the moral high ground, taking issue with the prison's practises - not least, the manner of my treatment of his cellmate."

"I see... Thank you for your testimonies, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo," said Governor Monroe. 

"Ma'am...?" said prison officer Melanie politely.

"Yes, officer Melanie? Do you have something to say?"

"Ma'am, I can vouch for what officer Bella Donna has just said, too, with regards to prisoner Lightwood's having a serious attitude problem. In the Security Checkpoint building I'd identified it straight off, since many of the classic signs were immediately apparent. In fact, within minutes he'd exhibited so many of them, that as a disciplinary measure I'd found it necessary to slap his face."

"Ma'am...?" said prison officer Natalie, who had also just stepped forward.

"Yes, officer Natalie? Have you something to add?"

"Ma'am, I am in full agreement with the sentiments of officer Melanie. Examples of prisoner Lightwood's improprieties were manifold. In fact, I'd thought officer Melanie had shown great lenience to prisoner Lightwood, in only slapping his face once - he'd been very fortunate, I thought, not to have felt the cut of her cane for being so ill-mannered. On top of his disrespectful behavior, he'd been very inattentive, too - which I'd found extremely annoying, ma'am, and several times I was on the very point of taking my cane to him myself. During officer Melanie's prep-talk, when she'd been explaining to him what would be in store for him here; apprising him as to the ethos of Greystone Prison, throughout her discourse he'd had a silly, smirking look on his face. In fact, that's what motivated me to suggest to officer Melanie that we should bag 'firsts' - pre-book prisoner Lightwood, ma'am, for Prisoners' Canteen Service, tomorrow lunchtime. We'd soon wipe that silly smirk off his face! Oh, just the thought of it... I can hardly wait, ma'am, to—"

"I see... And that, I take it, is why you and officer Melanie asked me to temporarily relieve you of your receiving-officer's duties, and assign you both as members of this afternoon's caning-party?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied officer Natalie. "It is. I can overlook and even forgive one or two rough edges, but prisoner Lightwood is an extremely uncouth individual. And I can tell you, ma'am, I am more than looking forward to playing my part here today, and caning some manners into him."

"I see... Thank you for your very informative supplementary summations, officers Natalie and Melanie. Very enlightening... I think I've heard enough now, to get a handle on prisoner Lightwood's number."

Turning to me, Governor Monroe said, "Prisoner Lightwood. I have now been duly satisfied as to the true extent of your guilt in this matter. Consequently, I approve, and now duly endorse, the three extra months added on to your original three-month tariff, as recommended by officer Bella Donna."

Poison Ivy! I thought.

"In addition - and also on the recommendation of officer Bella Donna, who as sponsor will be the principle administrator of your correctional therapy - you will now undergo five, one-minute rotations on the Wheel of Chastisement." 

My god! I thought. I knew what that meant... Once again, I recalled what Ross had told me about it. About his own horrific, "Never again!" experience.

This was outrageous. I couldn't let this stand. I had to stop this thing in its tracks, before it went any further. I had to say something. And say it now - before it was too late!

The Governor seemed to me a fair-minded woman. She'd listened, just now, and gave due consideration to what was put to her by her officers. Evaluated the evidence. I believed she would listen to me, too, and hear me out - hear my side of the story. 

But I had to make the Governor understand - make her see!

"Governor," I said, diffidently but urgently. "I don't mean to be disrespectful or anything, but, please may I speak? Before this... travesty of justice goes any further, I need to tell you about—" Slap! I got no further. 

Prison officer Natalie's thin-rubber soled flip flops had rapidly slap slap slap slapped against the bottoms of her bare heels as she'd quickly and furiously approached me, and then slapped my face every bit as hard as prison officer Melanie had done earlier in the Security Checkpoint building - and, just like then, it stung like hell. "Shut up!" she yelled into my smarting face, her cheeks colouring in anger. "You will show due propriety! The Governor is speaking! You will remain silent, prisoner Lightwood!"

"Thank you, officer Natalie," said Governor Monroe. "But, actually... though it is somewhat irregular, I think I'll grant the prisoner permission to speak. From what I've heard of prisoner Lightwood so far, I think I'd actually be rather interested to hear what he has to say for himself."

"Ma'am," replied prison officer Natalie, still giving me the evil eye.

Turning to me, Governor Meredith Monroe said, "Very well, prisoner Lightwood. You have my permission to speak. Say your piece. But make it quick - we've all got homes to go to afterwards, even if you haven't."

But now I was all nervous. Flustered. I could hardly believe that the Governor was letting me speak; actually letting me have my say. I had been right, I thought, in my estimations of her fair-mindedness. Now, I had to seize with both hands what would surely be my one and only chance. My whole future was at stake here. I had to make the Governor aware of the wickedness in her midst. I had to make Governor Monroe see! The first words out of my mouth, I knew, would be of crucial importance.

"Governor, I must bring to your attention the fact that prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are corrupt. They are two no good—"

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Governor Monroe, outraged.

"Governor, it's true! I assure you! They intend to retain me and my cellmate indefinitely - and mould us! Just for their own selfish purposes! Governor, you can ask prisoner Chapman - he'll tell you!"

"Oh, you assure me, do you? And I can ask prisoner Chapman, can I? Your fellow criminal? Your accomplice? He will verify your claims, will he? Well, that would be proof positive, wouldn't it?" 

The assemblage of prison officers all chuckled at the Governor's mordant wit... except, I couldn't help but notice, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, whose faces glowered with outrage.

The Governor saw prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's outraged expressions - but misunderstood them. She interpreted their angry expressions as outraged innocence - not great umbrage.

The Governor's sense of humour was then superseded by her own sense of outrage. 

"Mother of God! You have been accused of having an attitude, prisoner Lightwood, but this surely takes the Garibaldi. How dare you, prisoner Lightwood, stand there in front of me, and impugn the reputations of two of my most valued officers? How dare you, look me in the face, and cast your groundless aspersions against two of Greystone Prison's finest rehabilitation practitioners? How dare you, assassinate their characters? I will not stand for it!"

"But, Governor! You've got to believe me! I'm telling the—"

"That's enough, prisoner Lightwood! I've heard quite enough from you - enough of your slanderous fabrications! And what's more, as a penalty for your outrageous, and totally unfounded allegations against officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, I am now awarding you a further, six-month supplementary tariff. It will run concurrently, at the end of your existing six-month sentence - so you can now expect to remain as our guest at Greystone Prison for a full year. And now, prisoner Lightwood, if I hear just one more word out of you, I shall take very great pleasure in doubling that!"

I held my tongue - I knew Governor Monroe meant it! 

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were as corrupt as could be. But the Governor wouldn't hear a word said against them - not a word! She wouldn't hear a word, of my "slanderous fabrications". She wasn't having any of it. 

So much, then, for letting me have my say. So much, for evaluating the evidence. So much, for listening, and giving due consideration!

Just a couple of hours ago, I was looking at a three-month sentence. But now, I was going to be stuck in this damned hellhole for a full year! Because I'd failed to convince the Governor as to what appalling fates were in store for Ross and me, as prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna's... moulded foot slaves!

Governor Meredith Monroe now told me, "Now, prisoner Lightwood, let us return to the business at hand... The correctional therapy that you are about to undergo, is a highly effective treatment - successful, in ninety-nine per cent of cases. The object of the Ball-Bust exercise, is to expunge from your mind the capacity for irrational thought. By clearing your head of irrationality, you will thus become clear-headed. You will then see reason. You will be enabled to think straight - think coherently and logically. The errors of your ways, will become apparent to you.

"Now, prisoner Lightwood," the Governor continued, and now there was more than just a hint of retributive relish in her voice. "I shall explain the proceedings of the Ball-Bust to you: You will undergo five, one-minute rotations - Rounds - on the Wheel of Chastisement. And, to... kick-start, as it were, each of the five Rounds, officer Bella Donna, as principle administrator of your correctional treatment, will administer a therapeutic kick, barefoot, to your fully exposed testicles." 

Instinctively, I tried to do a runner; tried to hightail it out of the gymnasium - but I was still handcuffed to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. But before either of them could slap me down and rebuke me, the beyond beautiful prison officer Victoria stepped forward to do it for them... Slap! Slap! Two very hard, stinging slaps, one to each side of my face. "You will remain still, prisoner Lightwood!" she reprimanded me imperiously.

"Whereupon, prisoner Lightwood," the Governor went on, as if nothing had happened, "I shall then set the Wheel of Chastisement in motion. Upon which, at five-second intervals, by each in turn the twelve prison officers of the caning-party - including officer Bella Donna herself and the other five officers who escorted you down here to the gymnasium - will administer one therapeutic stroke of the cane to your bare buttocks, as and when your fully exposed bare bottom comes around to their respective caning positions." 

Hell! I thought. Therapy? Treatment? This was nothing but torture, in the name of... medicine!

"On the sixty-second mark," continued Governor Meredith Monroe, "upon the twelfth prison officer having duly administered her therapeutic cane stroke, I shall then stop the Wheel of Chastisement. This will be to allow you a moment or two, to reflect upon the errors of your ways... and to allow officer Bella Donna the time she requires, to line up her next therapeutic kick to your testicles. Whereupon, I shall restart the Wheel of Chastisement, for Round Two. Upon which, during the next sixty seconds, at five-second intervals, you will receive another twelve therapeutic cane strokes to your bare bottom. And so on, and so on... Are you following me, prisoner Lightwood?" 

I clenched my fists impotently - and kept my mouth firmly shut. 

To acknowledge the Governor, I thought, would be to imply willing complicity in my "therapeutic treatment". Would be tantamount, to actually condoning it. Approving it.

Again, the too lovely for words prison officer Victoria shouted in my face. "The Governor just asked you a question, prisoner Lightwood! She wants to know if you are following the details of your Ball-Bust!"

At least the Angel of Doom calls a spade a spade! I thought.

"Yes, Governor," I said. "I'm following you. But, Governor, this is a travesty of justice. Officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, they are corrupt. They are no good. They mean to mould—"




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03



Dear reader,

I shall resume my memoir, starting with Day 2. The second day of my incarceration in Greystone Prison.

As with Day 1, it was another unpalatable foretaste of what was to come.

*****

Upon waking, at first I could make no sense of my dire and dispiriting surroundings ... 

The wire bed springs, that supported the thin, dark grey mattress of the bunk above me. The dark-grey painted smooth concrete floor. The two tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chairs leaning against the dark-grey painted wall. The dark-grey painted bars ... 

And then, as if a rudely rousing bucket of dirty cold water had been suddenly sloshed in my face, horribly it all came flooding back. The cold reality of my horrendous, nightmarish predicament.

* 

At 07:30 yesterday I'd arrived at Heathrow Airport -- Terminal 5. I was on my way home from my two-week hiking/camping holiday in the Austrian Alps. 

Having retrieved my rucksack from the baggage carousel, and undergone the usual Customs and Passport Control checks, I had been intending to travel on homeward right away. 

But upon seeing the jovial cartoon character coffee bean cordially inviting me to 'Try me -- I'm Colombian!' from a cheery poster in the windows of one of the Arrivals Hall refreshments bars, I had been lured inside as easily as a child into a sweetshop. Apart from two cups of coffee, I'd not wanted any breakfast on the plane, and I wasn't feeling any hungrier now. But I persuaded myself that another cup of coffee couldn't hurt. 

The refreshments bar was busy. At that time of the morning they were doing a brisk breakfast-time trade, and all of the tables were occupied. But by the time one of the harassed but friendly counter assistants had put a steaming cup of the advertised Colombian coffee in front of me and I'd paid for it, a table was being vacated by some travellers. A male member of staff promptly cleared away the previous customers' breakfast debris, and wiped the table down, all nice and ready for the next lot of messy customers. 

I took my cup of coffee over to the newly vacated table and sat down. 

I was soon joined at the table by a party of three male customers, Oriental in appearance, who took up the remaining seats. The three twenty-something guys said Hi, and smiled and nodded at me politely. And I said Hi, and smiled and nodded back. These social pleasantries duly observed, the three young guys began jabbering away amongst themselves in some sing-songy language as they tucked into their coffee and doughnuts.

I love a good cup of coffee, and this Colombian coffee was good -- the 'Caffeine Kid' wasn't kidding. 

I held the thick white cup of rich and strong and full-flavoured coffee in both hands, savouring the aroma. Sipping appreciatively, I reminisced over the great, getting-away-from-it-all Tyrolean holiday I'd just had. 

In their brochure the travel agents had promised a serene, Great Outdoors peace-and-tranquility sort of holiday -- and they had certainly delivered! 

After the all-night clubbing and beer excesses of last summer's battery draining holiday in Ibiza, the quiet Alpine holiday was just what I'd wanted this year. 

Last year's nightclub focused holiday on the lively Spanish island had been really great ... but it's not so great when you arrive home feeling like booking into a Recovery Clinic for a week.

Sitting and enjoying my coffee, I was in a contented frame of mind. 

After all of that fresh Alpine air and hard daily walking exercise in my heavy-duty Trail Trekker hiking boots, I was feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready for anything. My batteries were fully recharged, and in my post-holiday mood I was feeling positive and optimistic. 

On my solo holiday in the Austrian Alps, I'd been left alone with the time and space to think. To connect and commune with my inner-self, as it were. 

Now though, it was time to think about re-connecting and communing with the real world again. It was time to return to the regular hustle and bustle of life. To get back to the nitty-gritty normalities of humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities. Such as work. But I was okay with that. I was one of the fortunate ones: so many people dislike their jobs, but I enjoyed my job at the Garden Centre.

At least, I'd thought I was one of the fortunate ones. If only I had been allowed the luxury, of returning to those humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities ... 

I'd heard it said, that, after being befallen by some dreadful event, people sometimes said that they had actually been 'warned'. That they'd experienced some sort of disturbing, ominous foretelling. That they had sensed, that 'something' was going to happen. That they had intuited, the unalterable approach of some doom-laden, life-changing event ... That there had been a portent.

But when I'd stood up to leave the Terminal 5 Arrivals Hall refreshments bar, there'd been no portent. 

All had seemed normal. 

I'd felt no disturbing presentiment of impending disaster. I'd received no subliminal advance warning that my heinous fate was about to be sealed. No mental alarm bells had rung. The hairs on the back of my neck hadn't stood on end. Nor had I gone all goose-pimply. I'd had no sixth-sense premonition, advising me of my imminent doom. In short: I hadn't intuited, that I was about to be consigned to an unspeakable future. 

A few minutes after leaving Terminal 5 Arrivals, I'd been arrested by two camera-concealing Community Service Officers (CSOs). 

The CSO uniform is immediately identifiable: blue blouse, red, short skirt, yellow cotton ankle socks, and black, backless, thick-rubber soled clog-like shoes. 

Though somewhat incongruously, even laughably, attired, these female Authoritarian Female Party government enforcer-type employees are certainly no laughing matter. They are very definitely not to be messed with or in any way disrespected. You laugh at them at your peril. Take them lightly, to your great cost -- a harsh lesson, that many males have learned the hard way since the AFP won the General Election.

By dint of the powers vested in them by the AFP, CSOs inspire fear and strike dread in male minds and hearts. Which is, of course, their primary function. 

Whenever they are seen, and wherever they are happened upon, the CSOs are to be avoided if at all possible ... before they happen to you. And if they can't be avoided? Avoid direct eye contact, and say nothing unless spoken to is the wisest precaution.

The two CSOs were wearing their customary standard issue black nylon utility belts. Attached to which, were their handcuffs, pepper spray, taser, and their walkie-talkie radios. Also conspicuous on their persons were their wicked-looking AFP issue flexible bamboo canes. And to top it all off, as it were, no less intimidating was their helmet-like hair: Styled in the AFP government's severe, militaristic-looking adaption of the concave bob, the scary hairdo gave many males (me included) the heebie-jeebies.

The two CSOs apprehended me outside Arrivals, brandishing their canes and ordering me to 'Stop, right there!'.

"We are Community Service Officers," one of them informed me, and I almost foolishly said 'No way!', but fortunately reason prevailed as my sense of self-preservation duly kicked in. 

Their melodramatic accosting of me caused a few heads to turn. But otherwise I hadn't been particularly concerned: the stopping and harassment of males by patrolling power-mad CSOs was commonplace ... But that soon changed.

The two CSOs ordered me to assume the Defenceless Position: to stand facing them with my legs wide apart, and with my hands clasped on top of my head. 

As soon as I'd complied, they began searching me -- and to my consternation they confiscated my passport, bagged my wallet ... then they informed me that they had been secretly filming me. 

In a decidedly smug, self-satisfied— no, gleeful manner, the two CSOs pointed to their buttonhole cameras, and told me they had secured three separate counts of "bang to rights" video evidence against me. 

What the ...? I'd thought.

The two CSOs told me that my three contraventions of the Female-Friendly Code had occurred: 1 -- In the Terminal 5 Arrivals Hall concourse. 2 -- In one of the Arrivals Hall refreshments bars. 3 -- Outside the Arrivals Hall. 

I'd respectfully suggested to the two CSOs that there must be some kind of mistake. Perhaps they were confusing me with someone else? Since I hadn't the slightest idea what they were talking about. 

So they had told me what they were talking about.

I'd then politely explained to the two CSOs that I had committed these offences unknowingly. I'd told them that I'd been abroad. That I'd just returned to the UK after a decidedly solitudinous two-week hiking and camping holiday in the Austrian Alps. I'd been in the middle of nowhere, as good as. Trekking during the day, and camping out in my one-man tent at night. I'd watched no TV, read no newspapers, and I hadn't had a radio -- which was the whole point of the holiday: getting away from it all. And so I was totally unaware of the AFP government's enactment of their latest female-friendly legislation. So therefore there was at least room for mitigation, I'd contended, even if I wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely innocent in the eyes of the law. Perhaps just a friendly warning this time, would suffice?

But to males, CSOs aren't friendly. And they rarely give warnings.

The two CSOs told me that an ignorance of the law was no defence. So I was not innocent, they'd asserted. Merely ignorant. And soon, someone would be speaking very strictly to me in a court of law. Because there was no question of their letting me off with a warning. And neither was there room for mitigation. 

I had committed three separate offences under the Female-Friendly Code, and thanks to their sly surreptitious surveillance they had caught me in the act each time. Thanks to their cunning clandestine camerawork they had the irrefutable video evidence to nail me ... And I was going to go down for those offences, they'd assured me.

"Wh-what ...?" I'd said disbelievingly. "You can't mean ...? You don't mean—"

"Yes! We do mean! The AFP are having a clampdown on the likes of you, citizen Lightwood! You have no conception of propriety, where females are concerned!" 

And now, warned the two arresting CSOs, they would tolerate no further backchat from me. I was to quietly come along with them, they told me. 

I did so. It would have been a gross error of judgement not to. An error, that would have resulted in lots of pain and lots of humiliation.

Though I had been fortunate, until now, to have stayed safely out of their way, anecdotally I knew more than enough of the ways of the notorious CSOs. 

More than enough, to be certain that any failure to: accord the CSOs a reverent-like respect; recognise their unquestioned and unchallengeable AFP-vested authority over male citizens; and comply immediately and fully with whatsoever orders and instructions issued by them -- would result in their 'chastising' me on the spot. 

The two CSOs would severely cane my bared buttocks, right then, right there. In front of whomsoever present in the Arrivals Hall: passengers, flight crew, meeters and greeters, taxi drivers -- the two CSOs would pull my trousers and my underpants down to my ankles, and between them administer six no-holding-back cane strokes. 

This was the official Standard Six, summary chastisement penalty, that any male could expect to receive in the event of his failing to satisfy any of the above stated CSO-obeisance criteria. 

So I went quietly.

Taking my elbows, the two CSOs escorted me to a white van with darkened windows parked conspicuously at the kerb. Painted on the van's sides, in large black letters, was the increasingly familiar -- and increasingly feared -- logo: AFP. 

The Authoritarian Female Party had only been in power a matter of months. But already, Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's newly elected all-female member government had made a lot of big, 'female-friendly' changes.

The two CSOs opened the van's back doors, and between them they carelessly tossed inside my brand-new Trail Trekker rucksack. "Go on, citizen Lightwood! Follow it!" said one of the CSOs with unnecessary harshness. And as I did so, planting her foot right in the middle of my right buttock the other CSO gave me a helpful shove with the thick-rubber sole of one of her black, backless, clog-like shoes, sending me sprawling onto my rucksack. 

Laughing, the two CSOs slammed the van's back doors shut on me and locked them. 

Before heading back into Terminal 5's Arrivals Hall, one of the camera-concealing CSOs slapped the van's nearside side-panel, signalling the driver to take me away ...

Following my summary jurisdiction trial, and resultant conviction for three offences under the Authoritarian Female Party's most recent Crimes Against Females Act legislation -- the Female-Friendly Code -- for which the twelve-woman jury had returned a unanimous Guilty verdict, tariffed at one month per offence the female judge had duly awarded me a "richly deserved" three months' prison sentence. 

And I was to serve my sentence, the lady judge had told me, at one of the UK's Corrections and Rehabilitation facilities: Greystone Prison.

* 

My drab and dreary environment was my cell: Cell 16 -- Level 1. My cellmate, Ross, was in the top bunk ... And I was an inmate of Greystone Prison.

Greystone Prison: A male behavioural correctional facility where, at the feet of their flip flop-wearing female prison officer guards, on a daily basis the prisoners are inducted and instructed in the protocols of propriety, where females are concerned. 

So that, as dictated by Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government, upon their eventual release back into society, these re-educated offenders will know how to behave appropriately towards females -- respectfully, obediently, compliantly. 

Whether in the company or in the presence or merely in the vicinity of females, males will conduct themselves with the utmost reverence, constant consideration, and law-abiding obligation as is due to females. 

In short: males should consider themselves at all times to be at the click-of-the-fingers, beck-and-call, readily available service of whomsoever females may summon their attendance for whatsoever purpose ... 

Immediately upon waking, I was acutely aware of the burning soreness of my buttocks ... the lingering painful aftermath of yesterday's caning. 

I remembered, now, all of the harrowing details of my being caned yesterday ... Caned, sixty times, by an overenthusiastic caning-party of twelve no-holding-back female prison officers. Each of them, mercilessly and expertly caning my bare bottom five times. 

And I was equally alive to the tenderness of my groin area ... Still painfully sore, after being expertly and flamboyantly Ball-Busted by prison officer Bella Donna. 

As principal chastiser, prison officer Bella Donna had duly administered a total of five barefoot kicks to my defenceless testicles. Culminating, in her piece de resistance, ultra devastating grand finale: her coup de grace, double flick-kick affliction.

I'd afterwards sworn to myself that I'd never again give prison officer Bella Donna a reason, and therefore the opportunity, to 'cheat on me' again with her two-for-the-price-of-one, double flick-kick affliction punishment method.

And why, did prison officer Bella Donna Ball-Bust me? Because I'd said 'No' to her, when she'd ordered me to assume the position for Foot Service. 

But there was no time now, for leisurely reflection upon yesterday's disagreeable and disconcerting events, down in the gymnasium. Where I'd been restrained, naked, with my wide apart ankles cable-tied to the circular-shaped platform of the slowly rotating Wheel of Chastisement. 

Because a new day was already starting.

"Breakfast -- come and get it!" announced one of the two 'jailhouse blues' prison officers who were now standing outside the cell with the breakfast trolley.

The two jailhouse blues both had the seemingly obligatory dynamite legs, I couldn't help but notice. Great legs. Fabulous legs. Long, shapely, and alluring. 

Which was saying something, I thought, considering they were only wearing flat footwear. I would probably blow a fuse if I ever saw them in their heels. As a leg man, I always found the sight of a nice pair of pins pulse-quickening; they were what really got me going. Of course, the sexy effect was heightened all the more by the very short, tight-fitting skirts the 'blues' wore. 

It was something nice to be woken up to. And to see and appreciate throughout the day ... But there, of course, was the rub: the flaunt-to-taunt jailhouse blues prison officers are 'untouchable'.

As the two breakfast serving 'blues' disdainfully regarded Ross and me through the bars of our cell, I saw that their faces were both very attractive, too. In fact, they were absolute knockouts. And they would have been even more knockout, were it not for their uniform helmet-like hairstyle: the severe, AFP-adapted version of the otherwise attractive and sexy concave bob.

This militaristic-looking version of the concave bob lent an extra aura of stern authority to these already dominant-natured and intimidating females. Females, who as 'rehabilitators' in Greystone Prison were given what amounted to freedom-of-expression carte blanche: free reign, to indulge with impunity upon the prisoners their cruel, wicked and sadistic proclivities. 

One of the breakfast-serving prison officers' concave-bobbed hair was of a purple-streaked ash blonde, while her colleague's hair was a lustrous shiny black. 

And of course, they were both dressed in the uniform pale-blue blouse, pale-blue short skirt, and pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, that accounted for the Greystone Prison officers' nickname: the 'Jailhouse Blues'. 

In fact, on several occasions yesterday, whilst I'd performed Foot Service for jailhouse blue prison officers, several of them had 'inflicted' upon me the most exciting, unimpeded up-skirt views ... and I had duly discovered that even their panties were of exactly the same pale-blue colour. Pale-blue, thin fabric, scanty panties, that leave little to the imagination. 

Staring up past those jailhouse blues' heavenly inner thighs, at the up-close sight of those pale-blue veils that don't quite conceal their womanhood ... 

On each and every one of those imperiously authoritative summonses to assume the position for Foot Service, I'd been wildly turned on: "rampant", prison officer Annalise had laughingly commented, to her colleague responsible for my fully aroused state on that occasion -- the irascible Irish redhead, prison officer 'hellcat' Rita. 

Despite the decidedly ... unconducive, romantically adverse conditions on each of those occasions, the raging desire for sex I'd felt was all-consuming. 

Those gobsmackingly attractive, sex-kitten, flaunt-to-taunt jailhouse blue 'rehabilitator' prison officers know exactly what they are doing. They know, just what anguish they cause. They know, just what mental and physical torment they inflict. They know, just exactly what they are 'administering', to their sex-starved prisoners. 

Those 'blues' had me going nuts with lust. Mad with desire. Crazy with frustration ... which was, of course, the whole cruel and wicked point of the exercise: prisoners would sometimes be allowed to see -- but never touch ... 

So that, in order to relieve those terrible and intolerable longings, every sleep-deprived night, a tormented prisoner's only option was to reach for the only remedy to hand, as it were: self-satisfaction. 

In order to attain out of sheer desperation what anyway for most prisoners is not only a sadly unsatisfying substitute for the real thing, but a self-loathingly indulgent, quick-fix, short-lived solution, prisoners are reduced to availing themselves of the -- in prison officer Billie Jo's words: "taking things in hand" remedy.




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03



"Taking things in hand": The remedy of last resort. And only a temporary, anodyne solution. But a remedy nonetheless. 

"Taking things in hand": The inevitably habit-forming committing of sexual self-abuse. 

Or, as prison officer Billie Jo tauntingly put it to me: wanking. And jerking off ... "You are going to become a wanker, prisoner Lightwood," she'd predicted. "Every night, in your miserable bunk, you'll be wanking. Unable to sleep until you do, you'll be jerking off: to me, to officer Bella Donna -- to every prison officer, who you've provided Foot Service for that day," she'd told me. 

And prison officer Billie Jo had been right.

If I was a typical prisoner: with a typical prisoner's desires, and with a typical prisoner's needs, and with a typical prisoner's tolerances and limits -- then I know that for the typical prisoner this inevitably becomes a regular, nighttime ... ritual.

A nightly repeated, ritual-like self-spilling of sacrificial seed, devoted to their cruel, malicious, malevolent female oppressors. In 'worship'. 

The sex-starved, serially self-abusing prisoners' resultant hand-milked seminal offerings, are thus 'willingly' bestowed, upon their cruel jailhouse blue tormentors, in the ... ultimate accolade. 

Devoted, in praise, honour, and worship of their teasing and denying, flaunting to taunt, untouchable jailhouse blue prison officer sexual tormentors, who, deprived of sleep, prisoners can't help but fantasise about in their miserable bunks at night.

In fact, just to show me what I would sometimes be allowed to see -- but never touch -- in Greystone Prison, prison officer Billie Jo, flaunting to taunt, had revealed her pussy to me. To my shocked -- but thrilled! -- disbelief, standing over me she had actually pulled down her pale-blue panties, and she'd 'made' me look right up her pale-blue short skirt, at her naked, shaved pussy. 

Memorably, so too, later that evening had the redhaired, quick-tempered Irish prison officer, 'hellcat' Rita ... 

Prison officer 'hellcat' Rita: For whose 'marks out of ten' during Foot Service, only ten out of ten would be deemed good enough. Only a 'score' of ten out of ten -- "Not eight, or nine -- but ten!" -- would be a satisfactory foot-cleaning score. Untouchable, she too had teased and denied. And flaunted to taunt. 

And why? What was all of this in aid of? 

It was all to do with 'propriety', where females are concerned. 

It was all to do with reconditioning the male prisoners' mentality: Retuning, re-calibrating, and reconstructing their mindsets. In short: Brainwashing.

It was all to do with adjusting males' thought processes: Programming males to respect, to revere, and to obey females. In short: The bringing to heel, of males. 

So that, in these males' reconfigured estimations, not only are females considered superior, but exalted ... 

"Come on, Len," said my cellmate, leaping down from his top bunk with practised ease, and bringing me back to the here and now. "Grub's up. You need to be sharp -- the blues don't hang about."

"Yeah, I'm coming, Ross. I just need a minute, to ..." 

"And, whatever you do, mate ..." said Ross, sotto voce. "Remember: don't let the blues wind you up. On no account let them provoke you -- because they'll try! Whatever they do, or whatever they say -- just suck it up, Len. Just suck it all up!"

"Yeah, mate, okay. I'll remember."

I needed a minute, because I was still quite obviously in an ... excitable state, just from thinking about all of those up-skirt views of yesterday, still fresh and vivid in my photographic-like memory.

Gingerly, I got up from my bunk, and with small, painful steps I shambled over to the bars of the cell. 

I hadn't eaten anything at all, yesterday, and so by now I was ravenous ... but the fare I beheld on the breakfast trolley didn't exactly help sharpen my appetite.

The ash blonde prison officer -- her name tag proclaimed her to be officer Nicolette -- said to Ross, "One dollop, or two?"

"Two, please, Miss Nicolette," replied Ross respectfully, apparently accustomed and unfazed by now by the miserable offerings of the morning repast. 

From a large pot, prison officer Nicolette doled out two ladlefuls of thin sloppy porridge into a dark-grey plastic cereal bowl, and put a dark-grey plastic spoon into the dreadful gooey mess. From a dark-grey plastic jug, she poured some heavily watered-down orange juice into a dark-grey plastic beaker. Finally she put a single slice of dry toast onto a dark-grey plastic plate. 

Prison officer Nicolette put the bowl of glop, the beaker of orangey water, and the plate of burnt toast onto a dark-grey plastic tray. She then put the tray on the floor, and with the toe of her flip flop she slid Ross's breakfast though the six-inch or so gap between the cell's floor and the flat horizontal crossbar of the cell's bars.

"Thank you, Miss Nicolette," said Ross, sounding grateful. Having already unfolded one of the cell's two folding chairs, Ross picked up the tray and stoically sat down to eat his grim breakfast.

"What ...? Not happy with our menu?" said the other, black-haired prison officer -- officer Julie, according to her name tag -- upon seeing my look of dismay at beholding the prison's breakfast fare. "Oh, I'm sorry! What were you expecting, prisoner Lightwood? A Full English Breakfast? With silver tableware and white linen napkins?"

Taking her cue, prison officer Nicolette said, "Jules, shall I just quickly run down to the kitchen, for prisoner Lightwood? See if Chef will rustle him up some kedgeree, or maybe some kippers? I bet she won't mind! Oh, I know -- what about some devilled kidneys on toast?"

"I'll rustle him up some kicks to the kidneys, if he won't behave!" threatened prison officer Julie. "Prisoner Lightwood will get what he's given -- and be grateful! Like all the rest of the worthless, useless, ne'er-do-well jerk-off prisoners in this place."

Turning back to me, prison officer Julie snapped, "Now: one dollop, or two ...? Oh, was that a hard question? Now come on -- because you can starve, for all we care!"

"Er, I don't suppose there's any chance of just a cup of coffee, instead?"

"Coffee ...?" said prison officer Julie, in mock puzzlement. "Nicolette, has my hearing gone all funny, or did I just actually hear prisoner Lightwood ask us for a cup of coffee?"

"Nothing wrong with your hearing, Jules: I heard it, too. He definitely said coffee."

"Prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Julie. "Take a good look at our breakfast trolley ... Now: Do you see any coffee ...?"

"Um ... in that case, I think I'll be alright with just the one dollop, please, Miss Julie."

"Oh, you will, will you, prisoner Lightwood? You are lucky I'm in a good mood this morning! Here ... one, two, three dollops -- an extra dollop. Now, get this lot down you -- and be grateful! And I want to see a clean plate!"

"Thank you, Miss Julie," I said respectfully and, following Ross's example, I tried to sound grateful.

I then followed Ross's other example: I unfolded the cell's other tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chair, and sat down to what passed for breakfast in Greystone Prison.

Prison officers Nicolette and Julie then moved on with the breakfast trolley, their pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops slapping sedately against the bottoms of their bare heels, until they'd covered the short distance to the adjacent cell. 

Addressing the next cell's occupants, prison officers Julie and Nicolette said together: "Breakfast -- come and get it!"

*

The remainder of the morning of my second day in Greystone Prison passed slowly. And uneventfully. But that, as I would soon come to know, was unusual.

In fact, it was something of a rarity. 

Normally it wasn't whole hours, that passed, but mere minutes, between prison officers turning up at our cell to give Ross and me some gyp. Or, to use the correct 'therapeutic' terminology: instruct us in the concept of propriety, where females are concerned. 

Most days, our re-educational instruction was an intensive, morning till night, relentless indoctrination of female-friendly values and ideals.

At least four or five times a week, though, we would be 'visited' by female civilian members of Greystone Prison's catering or office staff. 

Usually these office and catering staff would 'visit' prisoners during their lunch hour. Or at the end of the day, if they'd just missed the bus home and so were left with a dead thirty minutes of waiting time to while away until the next bus' departure. Or perhaps they were waiting for their husband or boyfriend to come and pick them up.

Somehow, this was particularly galling. Particularly degrading. Particularly demoralising. And particularly humiliating. 

Worshiping the lunchtime feet: kissing, sniffing; even licking the soles, sucking the toes, and sucking on heels -- providing full Foot Service -- simply for the passing-the-time amusement, of giggly, just-for-a-laugh women ... 

The office staff: wearing office-style pumps, and either wearing pantyhose, or barefoot. The catering staff: all of them wearing backless, white leather clog-like shoes, and white ankle socks.

Or -- and, somehow even worse -- simply having our assuming-the-position faces used as a convenient and comfortable footrest, by the hometime bus catching, lift awaiting, time-killing, chit-chatting, e-cigarette smoking female civilian staff.

But of course, that was really just an added indignation. A further ignominy. A civilian staff supplement. 

Because it was the professionals: the specially trained, Levels-patrolling jailhouse blue prison officer 'rehabilitators', who really made our lives a misery. 

Prison officers would suddenly be standing outside the bars of our cell, and they would yell at Ross and me to get up off our bunks, or up out of our folding chairs, and to stand, in the presence of prison officers. 

Then, as we stood passively with our arms down by our sides, and respectfully stared down at their feet, they would verbally abuse us. Torment us, taunt us, deride us, goad us ... and then, order us to assume the position for Foot Service. 

Those were the words I was always expecting to hear, from the lips of the jailhouse blues prison officers who came to our cell: 'Assume the position!' 

And it was a safe bet that that would be the requirement, when it was the Levels-patrolling prison officers on Night Duty who called on us, and woke us up. It was often just out of sheer vindictiveness: they weren't getting any sleep, so why in the hell should we? Such was their mentality ...

That morning, Ross and I talked, off and on ... But I often drifted off into my own mournful musings -- I had a lot to mourn! 

I was still struggling to come to terms with the inescapable facts of my sudden imprisonment. It had all happened so very fast. And I could still hardly believe it. Yesterday, I was a free man. And now ... I wasn't. 

But there was nothing else for it: I would just have to try and settle down, and adjust the best I could to life in Greystone Prison. If I kept my head down, and kept my nose clean, I thought, maybe I would be released early for good behaviour. 

And I was in full agreement with one thing that Ross had said: Through our looks, words, and actions, we should try and stay below the prison officers' radar. Say nothing, and do nothing, that might attract attention to us. Try to camouflage ourselves. Try to blend in with our dark-grey environment, and hope that the prison officers don't notice us so much.

To help pass some of the time that morning, Ross and I compared notes, as it were, as to the terrible Ball-Busts we had endured. Mine, administered yesterday by prison officer Bella Donna. And Ross's, administered about three months ago by prison officer Billie Jo. 

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo had hurt us bad. Real bad. It was hard to believe at the time, it being so diabolically painful, but the pernicious pair had done us no permanent damage. 

They had administered five barefoot kicks to our defenceless testicles -- but they hadn't ruined us. They had made us beg for mercy, and they had made us cry. They hadn't shown us any mercy, and they had made us cry some more -- but they hadn't ruined us. Because they had taken care not to. 

One of main intentions of our Ball-Bust chastisement, was that our suffering wasn't confined just to the immediacy, but that our hurt was protracted over the following few days. The lingering pain, anguishing and ever present. 

So that our minds would remain fully focused, for a little while longer, upon female-friendly values and ideals. Fully focused, for a little while longer, upon the concept of propriety, where females are concerned. 

Afterwards, apart from a lingering echo of dull pain, we were seemingly none the worse off for our terrible ordeals. 

But our Ball-Bust chastisements had duly served their purpose: prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna had ensured that Ross and me would never say 'No' to them again.

Just like their jailhouse blues prison officer colleagues, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are both highly trained chastisers. 

Proficient in the arts and practises of prisoner rehabilitation, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are she-devils at verbal abuse (browbeating); diabolical at face-slapping; sublime experts in the use of the cane; and particularly skillful, in the art of ball-kicking -- both non-ruinous, and ruinous. 

Yes ... 'ruination' does actually exist, in Greystone Prison. It is not just some urban myth. It is not just some baseless rumour, propagated by alarmists.

The 'ruination' of prisoners is usually reserved, though, for the 'One in a Hundred' category of prisoner. 

This is the tiny, 1% minority, who won't— or, can't, either from some insurmountable phobic-like aversion to feet, or -- and more usually -- from some alpha-male like inability to submit to female domination -- be made to provide Foot Service. 

And it is these 'One in a Hundred' unfortunates, who the prison officers make frequent use of in their ball-kicking practise sessions down in the gymnasium.

Prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna hadn't ruined Ross and me. But they did something to us that was perhaps almost as bad: in the prison parlance, they made us their 'bitches'. 

The diabolical pair had decided to "retain" us indefinitely. And to "mould" us: To train Ross and me, to pander to their own personal likes, preferences and requirements, in regards to Foot Service. 

Prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna didn't want to 'ruin' Ross and me, they'd told us, because they didn't want to render us incapable of 'worshiping' them, in our miserable bunks at night. 

They knew that we would 'worship' them, they told us, and continue to 'worship' them, because, even though we would come to hate them with all of our hearts, we would still be unable not to. 

And prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo knew there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it. Not a damn thing we could do, about their "retaining" us, "moulding" us, and having us pander to them, as the most lowly of foot servants. 

When I'd been escorted down to the gymnasium yesterday by six jailhouse blues to receive my Ball-Bust chastisement, I had tried to bring to the Governor's notice some of the facts and acts of prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna's wickedness. But my attempt to shed light on their dark deeds had badly backfired on me -- had proved disastrous. 

Furious with indignation, Governor Meredith Monroe had exploded. 

Governor Monroe had responded to my "slanderous fabrications" by substantially increasing the duration of my prison sentence -- and she had threatened to do much worse. How dare I? she had angrily demanded. 

Governor Monroe said that my story was a total invention: I had cast vile aspersions. My allegations against prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna were groundless. It was completely unfounded, malicious make-believe. I was an unspeakable liar, who had tried to blacken the good names of two of her most highly valued officers. I had sought to sully their fine reputations. Attempted to assassinate their characters ... 

Prison officer Billie Jo particularly, had afterwards caused me a lot of pain, making me pay a punitive price for my 'treachery'.

But now, as if all of that wasn't bad enough, I was now finding that I actually needed prison officer Bella Donna's protection. I was now absolutely reliant on prison officer Bella Donna's 'patronage', to shield me from the too-lovely-for-words prison officer Victoria. 

Because for some reason that little vixen -- that plummy voiced, posh-and-pampered sounding, angel-faced sadist -- was hellbent on 'ruining' me.

Prison officer Bella Donna didn't want a ruined foot slave; she wanted me in ... good working order. But I was sure in my mind about one thing: If I didn't keep her sweet, she would have no compunction in letting my would-be ball-kicker have her way with me: let her 'ruin' me. 

And then perhaps one day, it wouldn't be a pair of fluffy dice or some such that was dangling ornamentally from prison officer Victoria's car's rear-view mirror -- but my dried out, little leathery bag of pulverised, neutralised, kicked-to-extinction balls, that would be swinging there, to-ing and fro-ing to her car's movements ...

"... Len ... Len ...?" said Ross, clicking his fingers in front of my face, and bringing me out of my disturbing reverie. "What were you thinking about, Len? You were miles away, mate. And it didn't look as if you were having a pleasant daydream!"

"Oh ... I was thinking about prison officer Victoria. For some reason she's really got it in for me. And I mean big time. You should have heard her yesterday, Ross. She wants my balls -- and I mean literally. And the hell of it is, I'm actually dependant on prison officer Bella Donna to protect me from her. I mean, how crap is that?"

"Hmm ... thinking about it, I suppose I'm under prison officer Billie Jo's 'protection', too. While you are under Poison Ivy's."

"Poison Ivy!" I said feelingly, at being reminded of Ross's decidedly unflattering but well deserved nickname for prison officer Bella Donna. 

"This whole situation is outrageous, Ross. Just totally outrageous! And the hell of it is, I just can't see a way out of our predicament. The Governor won't believe us! I gave it my best shot yesterday. But she wouldn't believe my story that those two evil witches intend to keep us here indefinitely!" 

"Well ... I suppose we'll just have to hope that they'll both find other jobs, and move on. And then we'll be left to serve out our sentences in peace."

"What?" I said incredulously. "Serve out our sentences in peace? In this place ...? But yes, I know what you mean, mate. It would be peace, in comparison, with those two out of our hair. But you are kidding yourself if you think those two will ever give up their jobs here. They are dedicated to their work. Devoted, to their ... ideals. And here in Greystone Prison, they are in their dreamland: 'rehabilitating' the likes of us. There's just no way, Ross, that they'll ever give up their—"

"Prisoner Lightwood!" snapped one of the two prison officers who were now standing outside our cell, causing me to almost jump out of my skin with guilty fear. 

They were prison officers Nicolette and Julie, the two 'blues' from earlier, who had served breakfast. 

I hoped they hadn't been slyly eavesdropping on what Ross and I had been saying. Ross had told me the blues have a nasty habit of doing exactly that. They loved to catch loose-tongued unwary prisoners out, talking out of turn.

It would probably earn us both the Standard Six cane strokes -- the six-of-the-best style summary chastiser -- with maybe a few good, hard face-slaps thrown in for good measure. And it didn't bear thinking about what might happen when prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were duly informed of our speaking their names in less than glowing terms. 




The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03



It had been the ash blonde prison officer, Nicolette, who had addressed me. "Get up out of that seat!" she now ordered me. "You will stand, in the presence of prison officers! And in future, do not wait to be told!" she told me, flexing her bamboo cane meaningfully.

Ross had already stood up. He hadn't waited to be told. In fact, to demonstrate his respect, he had promptly folded up his seat and leant it against the wall. And now he was standing passively, with his arms down by his sides, and staring down respectfully at the two prison officers' feet.

I followed my cell mate's example: I got up from my tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chair, folded it up and leant it against the wall. Then I remained standing, passively, with my arms down by my sides. "Yes, Miss Nicolette," I said respectfully, looking down at her feet. "I'm very sorry."

"Huh! Very well, prisoner Lightwood ... your apology is accepted," said prison officer Nicolette grudgingly. "You will now come with us," she said. "Your presence is required in the Staff Canteen, to provide Table Service."

"What about him?" the black-haired prison officer, Julie, asked of her colleague, pointing to Ross. "We are going on our lunch break now, too. Why don't we take him along too? For ourselves."

"Prisoner Chapman -- Gummy? He's BJ's bitch ... Still, she won't mind us having the pleasure of his company for lunch. Okay, Jules. Let's take him along. He'll be glad of a change of scene ... heh heh heh."

"Come on then, you two," said prison officer Julie. "Let's get you both cuffed up. Hands behind your backs!"

Of course, I had been expecting this. I had been waiting in dread. 

It was time for my 'lunch date'. 

My 'lunch date', with the two receiving officers who had admitted me into Greystone Prison yesterday -- prison officers Natalie and Melanie.

*

Prison officers Nicolette and Julie escorted Ross and me along the Level 1 walkway to the nearest of the two lifts. "Go on, get in," the ash blonde prison officer Nicolette told us. When the four of us were all inside the lift, she pressed the 'G' button and the doors closed on us.

"Well, prisoner Chapman -- or Gummy!" the dark-haired prison officer Julie said to my cellmate, wasting no time to get into it as the lift began its slow descent to the Ground Floor. "While me and officer Nicolette are both enjoying the delicious first-course appetiser minestrone soup with Romano cheese croutons, followed by the main course meatballs Milanese with tagliatelle, followed by the dessert of Neapolitan ice-cream and strawberries, followed by Italian-style coffee with demerara sugar and fresh cream, to finish, from today's four-course Italian-themed prison officers' lunch menu, let me tell you what'll be on your menu, shall I?" 

"Yes, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully.

"Your first course: A mouth-watering appetiser, of a worms-eye view of the soles of our hardworking prison officers' feet. 

"Second course: A good long sniff of our sweaty, stinky feet. 

"Third course: A main course, of licking, tooth scraping, sucking up and swallowing all of the half-day accumulation of sweat-smudged dirt, and any bits of loose, flaky dead skin from the soles of our feet. 

"Last course: A scrumptious dessert, of licking clean the foam-rubber uppers of our dirty, sweat-stained flip flops -- toe-posts included -- to finish. That's what!"

"Thank you, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully. 

"Yes! That's right, prisoner Chapman," said prison officer Nicolette. "Yours is a prison-officers'-feet themed menu."

"Yes, Miss Nicolette," said Ross respectfully. "Thank you."

Hell! I thought. Ross had warned me that on no account should we let the blues provoke us. That, no matter what, we must just suck it all up. And he was setting a great example!

The lift came to a stop at the Ground Floor ... but neither prison officer Julie or prison officer Nicolette made a move to open the doors. 

"Our shift started at six a.m. -- while you were still fast asleep, you lazy little devil, in your miserable bunk!" prison officer Julie informed Ross. "And officer Nicollette and me have been on our feet for most of that time. Patrolling the Levels, keeping a watchful eye on all of the scumbag lowlife prisoners -- like you! Who have no idea how to behave towards ladies!" 

"So by now," said prison officer Nicolette, taking her cue, "the soles of our feet are more than ready for a good tongue-cleaning. Look ..." she told Ross, as both she and prison officer Julie turned their backs on him and slipped first their right foot, and then their left foot from their pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, displaying in turn the soles of their slightly dirty and sweaty-looking bare feet to him. 

"See, prisoner Chapman?" said prison officer Julie. "There'll be no delicious minestrone soup starter, for you! No meatballs Milanese! No Neapolitan ice-cream! No Italian-style coffee, with demerara sugar and fresh cream, to finish! Because this ... this is what's on your menu! This is your four-course lunch! This is what you will be dining on ... Do you see ...?"

"Yes, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully. "Thank you."

"Show us due reverence!" snapped prison officer Julie imperiously. "Why, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman, whilst you are being transported in this lift, are you both not on your knees before officer Nicolette and me, and looking down respectfully at our feet? That's what I'd like to know!" 

"Yes! That's what I'd like to know too!" prison officer Nicolette told Ross and me indignantly. "Such basic female-friendly protocols, are as standard. Have you not been taking on board, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman, the Greystone Prison instructors' daily lessons of propriety, where females are concerned? Well, let me remind you: At all times, whether inside or outside of this building -- in fact absolutely anywhere in the UK -- you will show due propriety, where females are concerned! You will instantly obey, and promptly comply, with whatever order is given to you or provide whatever service is demanded of you by whomsoever female. And when in the presence of ladies in any enclosed, confined-space situation -- such as we are in now, in this lift -- you will kneel, look down respectfully at their feet, and remain silent unless spoken to! Now: am I absolutely clear?" 

"Yes, Miss Nicolette," said Ross and I together.

"Good! Because the word 'No' must never be uttered from your lips to a lady, in demur, defiance, or denial. If you know what's good for you, you won't ever even think about saying 'No' to a female. All adult females have authority over you. To in any way disoblige a female, is an offence under the Female-Friendly Code. And that also includes holidaying and business visitors to our country from overseas. From the moment they arrive on our soil, to the moment they leave, as a female-friendly welcoming courtesy, female visitors have the same AFP-granted authority over UK male citizens that our own female nationals enjoy. In short: Any adult female -- of whatever race, colour, or creed -- is your superior. Make sure you take that on board!" advised the ash blonde prison officer Nicolette. 

"It really is very basic and simple, and should be readily understood and easily absorbed even by the likes of you two absolute dimwits," the raven-haired prison officer Julie told Ross and me. "Your lives, as you knew them, are over. Gone. They are a thing of the past. Get over it! Because now, you are living in a new reality." 

"Your lives, and the lives of all UK resident males will be very different, from now on, under the female-friendly governance of the Authoritarian Female Party," prison officer Nicollette informed Ross and me. "Your place now; your societal obligation, is to serve, honour, and obey females: Whenever and wherever your services are called upon, you will respond immediately to your summons. Obediently and compliantly you will conduct yourselves as directed, so as to thereby make more easeful, or agreeable, or comfortable, or pleasurable -- or in any other way, enhance the lives of the females of whom you have been called upon to serve."

"And why, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman, may I ask, are you still standing?" demanded prison officer Julie acidly. "Why are you not, after everything we have just said to you, observing the protocols of propriety, where females are concerned? Why have you not gone down on your knees before officer Nicolette and me, in reverence? Well ...? Down on your knees! Now -- both of you!" commanded the dark-haired prison officer Julie authoritatively. "Demonstrate to us, your reverence: Kiss the soles of our dirty bare feet!"

It was only for a fraction of a second, but Ross and I hesitatingly glanced at each other.

"I said now!" shrilled prison officer Julie. 

In the close confines of the small lift, the loud and shrill harshness of prison officer Julie's authoritarian voice was shocking. 

Being subjected to prison officer Julie's intimidating invective; being a captive audience, and providing a reluctant ear for her stentorian-voiced Party-line rant, was bad enough. But her quite terrible, raised-in-anger shouting voice had me cringing in my corner of the lift in trepidation. 

"Do not underestimate the extreme precariousness of your positions! Because let me tell you: you are skating on very thin ice!" prison officer Julie warned Ross and me, of said perilous danger. "Have I been wasting my breath? Did you not take on board a single word of what I just told you? Either of you?" she demanded belligerently. 

Prison officer Julie went on, "It really could not be more simple and straightforward. But, for the benefit of you two slow learners, I shall reiterate: Your place, and your function, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman, in our new female-friendly realm, is to serve, honour, and obey females. Serve, honour, and obey -- at any time, and anywhere -- whomsoever females, as might rightfully and lawfully summon your services. Serve. Honour. Obey. Those are your key watchwords. 

"Watchwords, that you must from now on live by. Because I am telling you: you daren't put a foot wrong, either of you, for the rest of your lives. Why? Because even after you are released from prison, as registered offenders under the Crimes Against Females Act -- and prisoner Lightwood, a registered offender under the later Female-Friendly Code legislation, too -- you will still be on permanent Parole Board licence under the Watchlist programme: a non-rescindable lifetime probation." 

Prison officer Julie paused a moment, to allow Ross and me a moment or two to absorb what she'd just said to us, and to take it on board.

What the ...? I thought, taking it on board. 

"Under the Watchlist programme, former prisoners are kept under routine surveillance," prison officer Julie informed Ross and me. "At least once a month, you will be watched. And your video-recorded behaviour will be closely scrutinised, critically assessed, and kept in your file. 

"And should our field agents' monitoring activities uncover any evidence whatsoever that you are still failing to observe at all times the protocols of propriety, where females are concerned, a warrant will be issued for your immediate arrest, and a Therapeutic Treatment Order served on you. 

"Thereupon, under the terms of the Parole Board Licence, without trial or right of appeal you will be returned to a Corrections and Rehabilitation facility. How long you remain in detention, will depend upon the positivity of your response to your Female-Friendly Refresher Course therapy."

"Live by your key watchwords, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman," advised prison officer Nicolette. "Serve. Honour. Obey. Because by doing so you will lessen the risk of reoffending, and shorten the chances of straying -- even unwittingly, or unintentionally -- from your straight-and-narrow behavioural path. In short: Do whatsoever you are told to do, by whomsoever female, whensoever and wheresoever she might so summon and instruct you."

"Yes, Miss Nicolette," said Ross and me respectfully. 

"And anyway, prisoner Chapman!" snapped prison officer Julie. "I'll ask you again: Why are you still standing? Show due respect! Demonstrate to me, your reverence. On your knees, at my feet -- now! And kiss!"

"Yes, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully. 

With his hands handcuffed behind his back, Ross did as ordered, awkwardly going to his knees. 

Kneeling directly behind her, Ross's head was about level with prison officer Julie's pale-blue skirted bottom. And as she bent her right knee and stretched her lower leg out behind her parallel to the lift's floor, as though devotedly humbling himself in reverential, worshipful obeisance, Ross bowed his head low to press his lips to the bare sole of prison officer Julie's expectantly proffered foot.

I didn't wait to be told. 

I didn't want to be shrilled at, by prison officer Nicolette. I didn't want to incur the displeasure, or provoke the wrath of prison officer Nicolette, who was now impatiently awaiting my own expressions of reverence -- expectantly awaiting my own demonstrations of due propriety, where females are concerned. 

Following my cell mate's example, I got to my knees at prison officer Nicolette's heels. 

It was an irksome business, going to my knees with my hands handcuffed behind my back -- and the lift's metal floor was damnably hard on the kneecaps, too. 

In the circumstances, though, I thought it would be imprudent to complain ... extremely unwise, to "demur", "defy", or "deny". No. It wouldn't turn out well at all, if I was foolish enough to "disoblige" prison officer Nicolette.

Kneeling directly behind ash blonde prison officer Nicolette, I found my face level with her shapely bottom; her firm round buttocks, pushing out and straining the cotton material of her decidedly immodest uniform pale-blue short skirt. 

It was a lovely view, but I knew I daren't enjoy it too long. 

Just as prison officer Julie was doing with Ross, prison officer Nicolette was obliging me to bow my head extra-reverentially low, devotee-like, to kiss the bare sole of her expectantly proffered right foot.

Because prison officer Nicolette's lower leg was horizontal to the lift's floor, and so therefore her expectantly proffered right foot was holding me at arm's length, so to speak, she was depriving me of an up-skirt view. 

But there was another -- and, to me: a dyed-in-the-wool leg man -- infinitely more agreeable, consolation ... 

I was in an amazing position to greatly appreciate prison officer Nicolette's beautiful, gorgeously suntanned, well-toned legs. So ... not the worst place in the world to be, for a leg man: right up-close, to where I could happily ogle such sensational, fabulous, milion-dollar legs. 

I would, I thought, be happy to admire and adore ash blonde prison officer Nicolette's fantastic, dynamite, pulse-quickening legs all day -- as only a true leg man could. 

I was in leg man's heaven: The wonderful sight, of prison officer Nicolette's suntanned, shapely calves. The exciting vision, of her well-toned upper thighs ...

And it was then -- right there and then, in a sudden stunning moment of revelational insight -- that it came to me: Legs were my Achilles' heel. 

For all of the jailhouse blues' considerable panoply of awesomely attractive attributes, I knew now, that it was to be their sensational, dynamite, million-dollar legs, that, for as long as I was an inmate of Greystone Prison, would have me by the balls.

Though she had commanded me to do so, in my heart of hearts I now knew that being ordered to wasn't the only reason I was on my knees, in devotee-like obeisance, and bowing my head extra-reverentially low, to kiss the expectantly proffered slightly dirty and sweaty-looking bare sole of prison officer Nicolette's right foot.

No, it wasn't. 

Being commanded to do so, wasn't the only reason, as I felt the give of prison officer Nicolette's warm foot flesh against my mouth, that I kept on, and on, kissing and kissing. 

Being told to do so, wasn't the only reason, as I felt prison officer Nicolette's moist bare sole yielding to my pressing lips, that I kept on, and on, kissing and kissing.

Being instructed to do so, wasn't the only reason, as I kissed the grubby bottom of prison officer Nicolette's bare right heel; and likewise adored her relatively clean arch; and similarly reverenced the sweat-smudged ball of her foot; and identically worshiped the grimy pads of all five toes -- that I kept on, and on, kissing and kissing.

No, it wasn't. 

I was kissing the dirty, sweaty, stinky bare sole of prison officer Nicolette's expectantly proffered right foot, now, all of my own volition.

Of my own free will. 

Kissing, and meaning it. 

Kissing, in reverence. 

Kissing, in exaltation.

Kissing, in worship.

I was still resentful and outraged. 

I still felt diabolically downtrodden, unspeakably subjugated, and profoundly humiliated.

But none of that mattered.

No, it didn't. 

Because I am a leg man. 

A dyed-in-the-wool leg man ... and legs are my Achilles' heel.

And as I obediently and compliantly knelt behind my callous and cruel subjugator, and bowed my head extra-reverentially low, in devotee-like obeisance, I was, I now realised, kissing prison officer Nicolette's expectantly proffered dirty, sweaty, stinky bare sole, not only of my own free will, and not only of my own volition, but ... in homage.

*

Upon exiting the lift, prison officers Nicolette and Julie took Ross and me by our elbows and escorted us at a brisk clip along the open expanse of the Ground Floor. The businesslike slap slap slap slapping of their thin-rubber soled flip flops against the bottoms of their bare heels sounded all on-a-mission urgent, as if they were hauling us off to do something important. 

But thankfully the irritating noise soon ended abruptly when we came to a white-painted double door entrance. The sign above the doors read: Staff Canteen.

Stationed outside the Staff Canteen entrance on Door Duty, were two jailhouse blues. Their name tags proclaimed them to be prison officers Avril, and Siobhan (an Irish name, pronounced 'Shevawn'). 

Typically the two blues were really quite stunning-looking: glamour-model gorgeous, and they both had the most shapely, dynamite legs -- the sight of which immediately had my leg man's pulse quickening. Prison officer Avril's concave-bobbed hair was auburn, while prison officer Siobhan's was dark brown. 

As prison officers Avril and Siobhan openly appraised Ross and me, I couldn't help but notice prison officer Siobhan's extra, roving-eyed interest in me. 

I don't mean to boast, but although I certainly never thought of myself as a babe magnet, neither was I a stranger to such overt female interest. And besides ... prison officer Siobhan wasn't exactly subtle. In fact, I was sure I recognised 'the look'.

Of the two of them, I thought prison officer Siobhan was actually more my type. She wasn't really any nicer looking, but ... oh, I know it's all hackneyed and cliched, but she did actually seem to have a certain 'something'. A certain 'something', that piqued my own interest in turn ... Besides, she also shaded it in the legs' department.

"Hi, Nic, Jules," said prison officer Avril familiarly. Indicating Ross and me, prison officer Avril said, "So ... where are these two bozo's going? Anywhere in particular?"

Just then, five or six prison officers exited the Staff Canteen, bringing out with them the delicious aromas of the day's Italian-themed prison officers' lunchtime menu. The tantalising wafting smells had my mouth watering -- and my stomach groaning. 

The aromas of such culinary delights were greatly tantalising ... but cruelly tormenting. Because such wholesome and flavoursome fare as the rich tomatoey-sauced meatballs Milanese was not for the palates of prisoners.