Dear reader,

 

I shall now relate to you the remainder of that day's events. 

The trials and tribulations of my first day, as an inmate of HM Greystone Prison, were far from over ...

 

 

"Well, a most satisfying outcome indeed," said that lady of quality, refinement and class, Governor Meredith Monroe, upon my being roughly hauled to my feet by prison officer Billie Jo and the other prison officers who had escorted me down to the gymnasium. 

 

"I think it is plain to see, officers, that the Wheel of Chastisement has served its purpose, and has once again proved to be a sure cure for prisoners' defiance. From the looks of prisoner Lightwood, I think we can be confident that he is now thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically."

 

Prison officer Bella Donna replied, "Sometimes, ma'am, caning alone is insufficient to bring prisoners to heel. You can cane the living daylights out of some of them; make one hell of a mess of their bare bottoms, and yet they will still resist, and refuse to assume the position for Foot Service. Even when you then administer some good, hard faceslaps, and verbally abuse them, too – which, on some prisoners, right, in-their-face verbal abuse can work surprisingly well – some prisoners will still continue to resist. Usually, their obduracy turns out to be merely a pseudo macho bravado, token resistance. A face-saving exercise. And a Ball-Bust usually sorts these initially stubborn prisoners out. Or at least, it does in ninety-nine per cent of cases." 

 

"Yes ... the One-in-a-hundreds. The exceptions who prove the rule, as it were. Hmph! I think we can safely say though, officer Bella Donna, that prisoner Lightwood is certainly not of that category of prisoner – I don't think I've ever seen a prisoner cry so much, at the taste of his medicine."

 

"Indeed, ma'am. In prisoner Lightwood's case, I was never in doubt that the Ball-Bust therapeutic treatment was wholly unnecessary – a huge overdose, as it were. I'd been confident that just a good caning, and a few of officer Billie Jo's good, hard faceslaps, supplemented with a bit of her own inimitable brand of verbal browbeating, would have been more than sufficient to bring him to heel. But prisoner Lightwood said 'No' to me. And, well, ma'am, I wasn't having it. I wanted to bring him to heel the hard way – the hard way for him, that is. But in his own best interests, of course. So that the lesson would be well learned – and so therefore well remembered. That way, he'd be much better off in the long-run. Let's call it tough love: he desperately needed to learn about propriety, where females are concerned, and I so much wanted to be the one to teach him. In fact, ma'am, I suppose I could go so far as to say I've decided to take him under my wing, as it were." 

 

"Your dedication is highly commendable, officer Bella Donna. The prisoners here are fortunate indeed, and ought to be very grateful that there are officers such as yourself who take their best interests so much to heart."

 

"Thank you, ma'am. But actually it is officer Billie Jo, who should take the credit. Recognising prisoner Chapman as a slow learner who needed a bit of extra help in staying on the straight and narrow, she decided to take a personal interest in helping him along with his rehabilitation. And so she took him under her own wing. I draw my inspiration from her example."

 

"Officer Bella Donna, I simply can't put into words just how proud it makes me feel, in knowing that such fine and dedicated – such altruistic! – officers as yourself and officer Billie Jo are on my staff."

 

"Thank you, ma'am. For my part, I always very much enjoy administering prisoners' correctional discipline. I find it highly gratifying, enlightening them as to their many improprieties, where females are concerned. It's what makes the job so wonderfully worthwhile. So incredibly rewarding. So absolutely fulfilling. I simply could not consider any other type of career."

 

"It is perfectly obvious to me, officer Bella Donna, just how much you enjoy your important work here. Just how proud you are, of your close involvement with this august institution. Just how gratifying it is, to you, when you achieve your desired results. That you derive tremendous job-satisfaction from your laudable achievements, is plain to see. And it heartens me no end to see it."

 

"Ma'am, as you yourself know perfectly well, there's nothing quite like seeing a prisoner's moment of mental transition. That moment of transformation, when you know for a certain fact that you have just expunged irrational thought from his mind. That moment, when you know indisputably that you have succeeded in clearing his head, and got him to finally see reason. That thrillingly satisfying moment of achievement, ma'am, such as just now, with prisoner Lightwood, when you see the scales fall from his eyes, and you know you have succeeded brilliantly in what you set out to do: getting him to think straight – think coherently and logically. That moment, when you know beyond doubt that you have removed the word 'No' from his vocabulary, in so far as it pertains to prison officers – and, in doing so, thereby opening up the pathway to ensuring his future respect and obedience to all females."

 

"Indeed, officer Bella Donna. Quite right. It is indeed what makes the job so very interesting and satisfying, isn't it? So incredibly gratifying. And my congratulations again, on your own splendid performance! A truly consummate demonstration of ball-kicking. It was a joy to watch – an absolute pleasure! I especially enjoyed kick number five! There was a little something extra, wasn't there? A sort of double flick-kick? Talk about a coup de grace! It really sorted prisoner Lightwood out, your little grand finale!" 

 

"Thank you, ma'am."

 

"I bet the poor old One-in-a-hundreds see plenty of you, don't they, officer Bella Donna?"

 

"Practise makes perfect, ma'am. And after all, it would be foolish in the extreme not to exploit them to the full. I know they really can't help themselves; that their unbreakable resistance to assuming the position and providing Foot Service for us is actually more to do with a phobic-like aversion than just willful obduracy. But all the same, it would be a terrible waste of resources, not to utilise to the maximum their limited usefulness to us."

 

"Oh, indeed! Do you know, officer Bella Donna, I'm beginning to see management material in you! But prisoner Lightwood certainly won't be saying 'No' to you any more, will he? In fact, kneeling at your feet, he has just avowed his future profound respect, unhesitating compliance, and unfailing obedience to you – and in a manner of such obvious sincerity that I have no doubt of his fully intending to abide by his promises. And no wonder! He knows exactly what to expect now, doesn't he, if he ever forgets his vows, and doesn't keep his promises to you?"

 

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure he won't forget, though. He won't slip into complacency. Because I won't let him. I'll be giving him plenty of little reminders, to make sure he doesn't. There will always be room for improvement."

 

The Governor then looked at her wristwatch and exclaimed, "Goodness, officer Bella Donna! How time flies, when one is enjoying one's self! It's well after six o'clock. Well, I'm going to the bar for a gin and tonic before I head off home – in fact, I think I'll have a couple, to celebrate the resounding success of prisoner Lightwood's therapeutic treatment. I'll ring my husband to come and pick me up in an hour. Any of you officers who should have clocked off work at six, who don't have to drive, and who would now like to join me in the bar – the first drink is on me. You can look on it as a bit of extra, staying-late bonus added on to your overtime pay. Bring your clock-cards to me tomorrow, and I'll sign them for eight o'clock."

 

"Ma'am!" said about twenty prison officers simultaneously. 

 

The prison officers then began talking about ringing their husband or boyfriend on their mobile phones to let them know they'd be home late, and that they would be leaving their cars here overnight. 

 

(Greystone Prison operated a staggered-shift system, and ran a free, two-hourly, round-the-clock Greystone Prison - Brighton Bus Station bus service for its staff: the next two buses would depart from Greystone Prison at 20:15 and 22:15 – and those two services would return, departing Brighton Bus Station at 21:30 and 23:30).

 

Prison officer Billie Jo said, "Ma'am, could you ask Adele in the bar to put a couple of beers in an ice bucket for me and officer Bella Donna? We'll be in for them once we've returned prisoner Lightwood to his cell."

 

"Of course, BJ," said the Governor (Oh, it's 'BJ' now, is it? I thought – now that they were off-duty). "I'll let her know you'll be about ten minutes."

 

"Um ... we might be a bit longer than that, ma'am. I want to have a ... little chat with prisoner Lightwood."

 

"Ah ... I see. Of course, BJ. I understand perfectly. Prisoner Lightwood sullied your good name. He impugned your fine reputation. Cast vile aspersions. Made egregious, groundless allegations. Assassinated your character. Of course, you must have a ... little chat with prisoner Lightwood. I mean, where would we all be, if we let these things go unchecked?"

 

"My thoughts exactly, ma'am," agreed prison officer Billie Jo. "But we won't be long. And then we'll join you and the others in the bar for a cold one."

 

The angelic, too-lovely-for-words prison officer Victoria, piped up, "Ma'am, I don't drink. So if it's okay with you, I'll help Bel and BJ escort prisoner Lightwood back to his cell – in case he doesn't want to go quietly."

 

"Ma'am," said prison officer Billie Jo, admiration in her voice. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Vicky, here? She's a natural!"

 

*            *            *

 

"Well go up in the lift," said prison officer Bella Donna, slightly out of breath now as she and prison officers Billie Jo and Victoria escorted me across the open expanse of the Ground Floor.

 

They'd had a struggle on their hands in getting me up the basement steps, and, much to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's displeasure, a number of prison officers had had to be summoned from their barstools to assist them. 

 

While they'd waited for prison officer Victoria to return with the extra helping hands, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo had expressed to me in no uncertain terms their strongly-held sentiments as to why, from now on, my life wasn't going to be worth living.

 

Now, handcuffed again to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo on either side of me, they cursed me bitterly as they continued to support the cumbersome weight of my sagging, walking-wounded body, while prison officer Victoria did her bit by putting her hand inside the back of my shorts and hauling me upright by the elasticated waistband.

 

As it happened, the lift was already at the Ground Floor. Prison officer Billie Jo pressed the Call button, and when the door opened she gave me a look that sent chills tingling unpleasantly down my spine. "Right, you ... Get in there!"

 

When prison officers Bella Donna and Victoria moved to follow us into the lift, prison officer Billie Jo said, "Bel, could you and Vicky use the steps? I'd like a few moments on my own ... with Grass-up, here."

 

"Heh heh heh ... No problem, BJ," said prison officer Bella Donna, removing her handcuffs from my right wrist. "Me and Vicky will take the stairs. We'll wait for you outside the lift on Level One."

 

"Don't let anyone into the lift on Level One, Bel. And I'll disable it from being called to another Level. I won't be long. I just want a bit of privacy, while I have a ... little chat with prisoner Lightwood." 

 

With that, prison officer Billie Jo closed the lift's door on prison officers Bella Donna and Victoria's smiling, nodding faces.

 

When the lift's door had closed on us, prison officer Billie Jo stood in front of me and flexed her whippy cane ... and then she stood her cane in the angle of the back left-hand corner of the lift. "I won't be needing that," she told me. She then removed her handcuffs from my left wrist, and tossed them over towards her cane in the corner. The shiny metal cuffs hit the lift's bare metal floor with a dull clang. "Or those," she said.

 

"Now ... It's just you and me – Grass-up!" said prison officer Billie Jo, as she put her hand down the front of my shorts, going for my balls. "Time for our cosy little chat!"

 

She tried to grab hold of both testicles together. But, due to prison officer Bella Donna kicking them five times, while I'd been restrained to the Wheel of Chastisement, my balls were now too swollen to fit into prison officer Billie Jo's small hand. 

 

So she settled for firmly grabbing hold of just one of them. 

 

Immediately, wave upon wave of pain-filled nausea flooded through me as prison officer Billie Jo cruelly rekindled all of my terrible hurt, fanning the flames of agony anew to a new, unspeakably devastating dimension of testicular torment. 

 

I started sagging to the lift's bare metal floor, no longer able to support myself as the modicum of residual strength I'd had now drained out of me like water from a collender. "Oh no, you don't – Grass-up!" snarled prison officer Billie Jo. "I said: stand up!" she snapped, as she gave me a 'little helping hand' to do just that.

 

The pain was indescribable. 

 

Indescribable, as prison officer Billie Jo's 'little helping hand' took me straight to hell. She was literally hauling me upright, by one tortured, semi-tenderised testicle.

 

"So ... grass me up to the Governor, will you, prisoner Lightwood?" snarled prison officer Billie Jo through gritted teeth, emphasising each of her words with a none too gentle squeeze of her 'little helping hand'.

 

The pain was terrible. 

 

Terrible, as I moaned and groaned in wretched, abject misery.

 

"So ... (squeeze) I'm corrupt, am I? (squeeze squeeze, squeeze squeeze). I'm no good, am I?" (squeeze squeeze squeeze, squeeze squeeze).

 

The agony was unbearable. "Please, Miss Billie Jo!" I cried beseechingly. "I'm sorry!"

 

With her remarkable capacity for astonishingly accurate, true-to-life imitation, prison officer Billie Jo sarcastically mimicked, "Please, (squeeze) Miss Billie Jo! (squeeze squeeze squeeze). I'm sorry!" (squeeze squeeze).

 

The anguish was intolerable. "Oh! Please, please, Miss Billie Jo! I beg you!" I wailed, in pure torment. "Please, please stop!"

 

And prison officer Billie Jo cruelly mimicked, "Oh! (squeeze). Please, please, Miss Billie Jo! (squeeze, squeeze, squeeze squeeze squeeze). I beg you! (squeeze squeeze squeeze). Please, please stop!" (squeeze, squeeze squeeze).

 

I was at the end of my tether – I just couldn't take any more. "Miss Billie Jo! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! And it'll never happen again. I promise! Oh, please, Miss Billie Jo! Please! I'll do anything, Miss Billie Jo! Anything!" I desperately pleaded and promised.

 

And prison officer Billie Jo sadistically mimicked, "Miss Billie Jo! (squeeze squeeze squeeze). I'm sorry! (squeeze squeeze). I'm so sorry! (squeeze squeeze squeeze). And it'll never happen again. (squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze). I promise! (squeeze squeeze). Oh, please, Miss Billie Jo! (squeeze, squeeze, squeeze squeeze squeeze). Please! (squeeze). I'll do anything, Miss Billie Jo! (squeeze squeeze squeeze, squeeze squeeze squeeze). Anything!" (squeeze). 

 

So why didn't I keep my mouth shut? I asked myself. All I was doing, was playing straight into prison officer Billie Jo's hands – or rather, her 'little helping hand'.

 

When I didn't say anything further, prison officer Billie Jo grunted disappointedly, and with obvious reluctance she finally let go of my grossly swollen right testicle. "Huh! Not an ounce of guts in you. I was expecting more from you. But you are not much more of a challenge than your pathetic cellmate – snivelling little crybabies, the pair of you!" 

 

As she watched me slumping slowly to the lift's bare metal floor; my tear-streaked face contorted in agony; my hands protectively cupping my ballooned and battered and badly-bruised balls; and my body crumpling and folding like some bargain basement store mannequin until finally I was laid out flat on my back, her face wore a highly-gratified expression. 

 

The lift's bare metal floor was unpleasantly cold. I could feel the chill of it through the thin material of my prisoner's dark-grey uniform T-shirt, which was scant protection indeed. But what was far worse, were the raised ridges of the floor's grated surface, designed to make the floor non-slip. The thin metal edges dug painfully into my back, and played all sorts of merry hell with my severely-caned bottom.

 

But I didn't care about that. I couldn't have cared less, about that. Because it was over, at last. My unspeakable testicle-torture ordeal was over. Oh, it was over. It was finally over, thank ... Prison officer Billie Jo crouched down, and snarled into my face, "You've got that right – Grass-up! You will, do anything!" she agreed meaningfully.

 

"You think this is over? You think we're finished? You think I've done with you? Think again – Grass-up!" said prison officer Billie Jo as she stepped up onto my chest; the pressure of her not insubstantial body weight causing the thin metal edges of the lift's bare metal floor grating to gouge painfully into my shoulder blades. I moaned and groaned at this new source of pain.

 

But then prison officer Billie Jo relieved me of that discomfort, when she kicked off her thin-rubber soled flip flops and stood full-weight on my face, barefoot. 

 

"Because I've not!" she snapped, looking down on me. "Do you think I'm letting you off so easy? Eh? After everything you've done?"

 

No one had ever stood on my face before, and I was now finding the pressure on my facial bones considerable. 

 

I was immeasurably grateful that at least prison officer Billie Jo's body weight was evenly distributed, with the soles of her warm, slightly sticky bare feet occupying either side of my face. And also that she had acquired a good, assured grip, a surety of purchase which lessened somewhat the chance of her slip-sliding off my face, and stretching my facial skin painfully as she did so.

 

But then prison officer Billie Jo pushed the lift's button for Level 1.

 

Because prison officer Billie Jo was standing full-weight on my face, the sudden jolting movement of the lift's ascent caused some of the thin metal edges of the lift's bare metal floor grating to dig agonisingly into the back of my head. The pain was excruciating. But apart from telling me to be grateful I wasn't lying on a bed of nails, she ignored my renewed moaning and groaning noises of complaint and distress.

 

But the sudden jolting upwards movement of the lift hadn't troubled prison officer Billie Jo a bit. 

 

Before pushing the button for Level 1, she had adjusted her face-standing stance. Standing with the sole of her right foot now over my lower-face: her heel, painfully pressing into my lips; the ball of her foot, agonisingly crushing my nostrils; her toes, curling around and firmly gripping the bridge of my nose – and with her left foot assuredly planted along my forehead, with the pads of her toes firmly pressing down just below my hairline, she was more surefooted than any mountain goat.

 

To my intense relief, prison officer Billie Jo then stepped off my face, and back onto my chest ... But my relief didn't last for long.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo turned herself around on my chest, so that I was looking at the backs of her legs ... The backs of her shapely, well-toned, olive-complexioned legs.

 

Legs ... oh, lovely legs, such lovely legs – great legs ... of which I now had an almost unrestricted, almost perfect up-skirt view.

 

And, being a leg man, I was far from being averse to beholding and appreciating the fabulous sight. 

 

But prison officer Billie Jo's great, olive-complexioned legs weren't the only treasures I had an almost perfect view of ... 

 

Because, from my worm's-eye vantage point, I could see right up prison officer Billie Jo's uniform pale-blue short skirt ... all the way up, past her smooth as silk, olive-complexioned thighs, to the exciting contours of her shapely bottom ... to her uniform pale-blue panties.

 

Oh, god! I thought. Oh my god! 

 

Despite myself – despite my present and continuing pain and suffering; despite my sadistic subjugation; despite the devastations of my harrowing, abominable affliction – despite everything! – I couldn't help but look. 

 

Thinly, tantalisingly veiled, inside the soft, pale-blue material of prison officer Billie Jo's uniform panties, was the treasure of treasures ... the holy grail.

 

I couldn't help but look. I couldn't help but stare. I couldn't help but ogle. What a sight! 

 

And incredibly, despite this terrible woman's appalling treatment of me; despite prison officer Billie Jo's sadistic subjugation of me; despite suffering her heinously cruel torment – despite everything! – I couldn't help ... but want.

 

And prison officer Billie Jo said, "Prisoner Lightwood ... are you looking up my skirt?"

 

She knew. Oh, of course she knew ... 

 

This was what Greystone Prison was all about – prison officers Natalie and Melanie had told me as much, back in the Security Checkpoint building while admitting me into the prison.

 

And I knew that it was useless to lie. Knew, in fact, that prison officer Billie Jo wanted me to lie! So that she could have more fun with me, administering an extra dose of corrective 'therapeutic treatment'.

 

"Well, prisoner Lightwood ...?"

 

The lift suddenly jolted to a stop. But prison officer Billie Jo made no move to open the door. 

 

And what's more, I knew that prison officers Bella Donna and Victoria would be standing sentinel outside, ensuring that no one else entered the lift until prison officer Billie Jo was good and ready to come out.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo suddenly raised her right foot, and with literally breathtaking force she crashed the bottom of her bare heel down into my solar plexus. The air whooshed out of me, and pain; awful, sickly pain, pulsed and radiated from my grievously injured testicles, spreading out to every part of my body. For the second time today, I was seeing bright and sparkly stars; seeing dancing white lights, cavorting in front of my eyes. 

 

"Prisoner Lightwood. I just asked you a question. I've got a nice, cold beer waiting for me down in the bar, and I don't appreciate you keeping me from it. But we won't be getting out of this lift until I'm good and ready. Not until we've finished our little chat."

 

Somehow, I found the air to gasp, "Yes ... Miss Billie Jo. I ... I am." 

 

Prison officer Billie Jo again turned herself around on my chest, so that she was again looking down on me. Raising her right foot behind her, this time, and with the top of her foot this time, she delivered a second, even more devastating kick. 

 

This time I had no breath left in me to whoosh out. But the dancing white lights in front of my eyes were now joined by lots of coloured ones, in a shiny commingled spangling of brightly coloured dots. Long seconds passed, and I found I was unable to resume breathing. I thought I was going to pass out, this time. 

 

Not that I wouldn't have welcomed temporary oblivion, right then; I'd have welcomed it with open arms. Welcomed the relief, of oppression free, painless unconsciousness. 

 

"You are what, prisoner Lightwood? Say it!"

 

This time I didn't know where I found the breath from. I only knew that I must answer; that I mustn't make prison officer Billie Jo repeat herself again. "I – I'm ... looking up ... your skirt, Miss Billie Jo."

 

The undersides of her toes were curled over my collar-bones; every one of her ten toe pads, gripping surely into the soft and tender flesh on the other side of them nearest my neck. Her firmly pressing toe pads were causing an awful, dull pain, to add to all of the other pains.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo had a very strong grip with her toes, I thought. Incredibly strong ... A suddenly jolting lift? We could be on a ferry in the middle of the English Channel in a force ten gale, I thought, and even the violent and wholly unpredictable this-way-and-that-way yawing motions of the turbulently pitching and tossing vessel wouldn't be sufficient to dislodge her from her clavicle-clutching toe-grip.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo then stunned me – shocked me – when she said, "Prisoner Lightwood. I know what you want ... You want my pussy. Don't you?" 

 

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 

 

Never in my life, had I been so startled. I mustn't have heard right, I told myself. In fact, I feared that my balls weren't my only faculty to have gotten damaged today.

 

"Oh, you needn't look so shocked, prisoner Lightwood. You want my pussy, and I know you want it – really want it. It's as plain as day," prison officer Billie Jo told me, matter-of-factly.

 

"Unlike prisoner Chapman, who is a virgin – and furthermore, I shall ensure that your wimpy cellmate remains a virgin, until the end of his miserable, useless days – you are actually quite ... experienced. Aren't you? You've been ... around. You've been 'around the block'. A woman knows, you see. I know. I can tell these things. A woman like me, when she looks at a man like you ... can tell many things."

 

I could barely believe my own ears. 

 

But worst of all – I believed her. I believed that prison officer Billie Jo was speaking the truth. Believed, that she actually could, tell ... many things about me.

 

"You are attractive to women, prisoner Lightwood. Some men have it, and some men don't ... sex-appeal, I'm talking about. I bet you are a bit of a lad – sorry: past tense. Past tense, because your sex-appeal is of no use to you now. Not any more. Not in Greystone Prison.

 

"Yes, I imagine you were a right little Lothario. I bet you were a regular Casanova, adept at sweeping women off their feet, and into your arms ... and into bed. 

 

"But, prisoner Chapman – the prisoner who said 'No' to me twice? I know that he hasn't yet become a man – and now he never will. He'll never achieve true manhood ... because I'll ensure he never knows what he's missing. 

 

"But you, prisoner Lightwood? You are another matter. Another matter entirely. You are going to miss, a ... woman's touch."

 

When I didn't immediately reply to prison officer Billie Jo's stunning statement; didn't respond, to her shocking observations and chilling assertions, she raised her right foot threateningly again and snapped, "Do not provoke me, prisoner Lightwood – I'll let you have the next one in the balls! I don't care how hurt you are! I said: you want my pussy. Don't you?"

 

The saying: 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', suddenly sprang to mind. And I wondered how applicable that was to me now: If I was to say: 'No, Miss Billie Jo. I don't want your pussy'.

 

But, not waiting for my response, prison officer Billie Jo then produced her biggest shock.

 

Still standing on my chest and looking down on me, prison officer Billie Jo hitched up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, pulled her uniform pale-blue panties down to her ankles and, with her clavicle-clutching toe-grip firmly securing her perch, slowly she lowered 'herself' over my face ... Until I was looking up at the pink lips of her vagina, positioned mere inches above my incredulous eyes.

 

"There! Pussy! Pussy, prisoner Lightwood. My pussy. Look! It's what you want, isn't it? Have a good look ... Look!"

 

I looked ... prison officer Billie Jo's importunities were not needed. Her harshly spoken orders were redundant. Her aggressively delivered commands, unnecessary. Her imperiously issued instructions, surplus to requirement. For once, I had no problem with obeying one of her commands.

 

I looked ... Prison officer Billie Jo's womanhood was shaved. Her black, new hair was just starting to show, and her—

 

"You want it. You want it, don't you, prisoner Lightwood? You want my pussy. Don't you ...? Answer me!"

 

I certainly wasn't about to scorn this woman – she was furious enough with me as it was. And besides, I had to admit ... her pussy was an enthralling, pulse-quickening, and highly arousing sight – or, at least it would be, I thought, when I was back to my normal self. 

 

Despite everything this dreadful woman had put me through – and was still putting me though – I was mesmerised, totally enraptured, by prison officer Billie Jo's mere-inches-away pussy. 

 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo. I do. I ... want it."

 

"What, do you want, prisoner Lightwood? Say it!"

 

"Miss Billie Jo, I ... I want your pussy."

 

And, so help me – I did! 

 

Prison officer Billie Jo was taking my breath away – but it wasn't just from the incessant pressure of her bare feet compressing my chest, anymore. No, it wasn't ...

 

It was from taking in the pulse-quickening sight, of prison officer Billie Jo's up-close, shaved vagina. 

 

It was from breathing in the intoxicating scent, exuding from her mere-inches-away pussy. 

 

It was from inhaling the tantalising, alluring, musky scent of her womanliness.

 

It was from inhaling the tantalising, alluring, intoxicatingly musky scent of her womanliness ... and recognising, from somewhere deep within my inner, male self, the undeniable mating-call scent, of her sex.

 

After prison officer Bella Donna's repeated ball-kicking, and now prison officer Billie Jo's repeated ball-squeezing, stomach-stomping, and chest-and-face trampling – not to mention, having my bare buttocks caned a total of sixty times, by twelve really-up-for-it female prison officers – I was in no sort of shape to do ... anything much. 

 

Nonetheless, I found myself craving ... 

 

Craving, to tongue prison officer Billie Jo's 'lips'; her pink, luscious-looking lips. 

 

Craving, to taste her 'love' juices; juices, of which no two women's tasted the same. 

 

Craving, to please her, and excite her; because in so pleasing and exciting her I, too, would derive great pleasure and excitement. 

 

Craving, the magic button of her clitoris ... Craving, to stimulate. Craving, to enhance and heighten her pleasure and excitement. Craving, to tease and titillate – to torment deliciously – to the point of orgasmic ecstasy. 

 

At which point in the foreplay, almost inevitably, we would then—

 

"Yes, prisoner Lightwood. I know very well, that you want my pussy. I know perfectly well. Because you are a real man – and if I'm any judge, a man who's been around the block a time or two. You want to shag me, don't you? Oh, don't look so shocked. Let's call a spade a spade: I know you couldn't think of a ... sexual union between us, as 'making love'. Not with me. But you would love to shag me senseless, wouldn't you? You'd love to bonk me, wouldn't you? You'd love to give me a good seeing to. You'd love to screw me ... And that's too bad," said prison officer Billie Jo, with mock regret.

 

Abruptly, prison officer Billie Jo stood up again on my chest; the soles of her bare feet momentarily compressing my lungs once more as she levered herself upright, making breathing difficult again. 

 

And, turning herself around on my chest again, so as to favour me with the view she now knew perfectly well that I loved best, and that excited me most, I found that I was once again staring admiringly at the backs of her lovely, sensational, olive-complexioned legs ... the backs of her lovely, shapely, well-toned, sexy legs ... And again staring, right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, at an unrestricted view of her beautiful, peachy buttocks, and of her still naked, magnificent, mesmerising womanhood. 

 

Oh, the sheer glory, of it! The sheer, unequalled wonder, of it! The sheer glory and wonder, of prison officer Billie Jo's shaved pussy!

 

Prison officer Billie Jo turned herself around on my chest yet again, and resumed her astonishingly strong clavicle-clutching toe-grip as she looked down on me.

 

But I could still see right up her pale-blue short skirt. I still had an unrestricted view, of prison officer Billie Jo's pussy. A perfect, unhindered view, of her luscious, sumptuous womanhood. A perfect, unimpeded view, of her—

 

"It's too bad, prisoner Lightwood ..." said prison officer Billie Jo, talking down to me, "... because, in Greystone Prison – guess what? There'll be no pussy for you! No! No there won't! None at all! Not mine – not anyones! No pussy at all!

 

"Because, when prison officers give you frequent little reminders of exactly what you are missing, prisoner Lightwood, you'll be able to look – but never touch! See ...?" she said, hitching her skirt a bit higher, and opening her thighs a little wider, so that I could see even better, that which I would never be allowed to touch.

 

"So, you are just going to have to ... take things in hand. Aren't you? From now on, prisoner Lightwood, you are going to be shagging your own hand. You are going to be having a sexual union with your own hand. Aren't you ...?"  

 

Despite everything, I couldn't stop looking. 

 

Couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop ogling ... Couldn't stop wanting. 

 

Yes, prison officer Billie Jo was a prize bitch – a real broom-and-black-cat witch. But she had me right under her spell ... She had more than one way, evidently, of grabbing a man by the balls.

 

So help me ... but I never could resist, such a—

 

Prison officer Billie Jo leaned forward slightly and, in compensating for her more forward-tilted balance her ten toe pads pressed even more painfully into the soft flesh between my collar bones and neck as she spoke down to me. 

 

"Do not make me lose patience with you, prisoner Lightwood! I do not appreciate it, when a prisoner makes me repeat myself. And you will do well to remember that. Because after your little tell-tale performance in the gymnasium today I'm certainly not going to be so lenient with you in future!" 

 

"I'm sorry, Miss Billie Jo. I didn't mean, to—"

 

"Yes you did! And you are sorry, alright – sorry that the Governor didn't believe you! And I just asked you a question! I said: Aren't you – going to be making love to your own hand? Do you seriously believe, that you are going to get out of Greystone Prison in one year's time? Or that officer Bella Donna will ever dispense with your ... loyal services? Dream on! Because you are going to be stuck in this prison for a very, very long time. Officer Bella Donna will see to that – you can count on it! So ... there'll be no more notches on your bedpost. Your days of galavanting, prisoner Lightwood, are most definitely over. They are a thing of the past. So you can forget all about hanky-panky. You won't be chasing bits of skirt, anymore. There'll be no more slap-and-tickle, for you. No more nookie. No more getting your leg over. No more dipping your wick. Got it? No more shagging. No more having it off. No more screwing ... Am I starting to get through to you, prisoner Lightwood? Are you getting the message? In short: No more sex!" 

 

How could any female – much less, a woman as breathtakingly beautiful as prison officer Billie Jo – have such cruelty in them? I wondered miserably, as I looked up to her malice-filled face. Such callousness? Such unspeakable, diabolical malevolence? Such innate wickedness?

 

To willfully— no, with wicked, malicious glee, prevent a man from performing his natural, inborn reproductive functions; to deprive a man, of his preprogrammed, and most innate needs ... Permanently.

 

"So, prisoner Lightwood. You are just going to have to ... sort yourself out, aren't you, in the 'downstairs department'? Take 'things in hand', like I said. Aren't you ...? Masturbate. Jerk off. Play with yourself ... Wank." 

 

My god! Prison officer Billie Jo was enjoying herself – she was loving this! She was on a goddamn powertrip ... and – and she was getting-off on it! I knew she was. She was actually getting-off on it! Getting-off, on my wretched, abject misery! 

 

She was getting-off, on imposing my unspeakable predicament. On inflicting it. On making it happen ... On decreeing it.

 

"And, when you are jerking off in your miserable bunk, you'll be ... paying your devotions, to the female prison officers who rule you. When you are wanking away, you'll be paying your devotions ... to me. Yes, to me. And to officer Bella Donna – oh, especially to her ... You are hers, now."

 

Upon hearing prison officer Billie Jo's doom-laden words, I reached a whole new low. A whole new depression of spirit. A whole new spectrum, of soul-crushing desolation. 

 

"And when you are masturbating, prisoner Lightwood, you'll sacrifice your seed, too, to all of the other serious-totty prison officers who you will not be able to help but desire. The prison officers who, as you assume the position, and serve at their feet, you will lust after as they provide you with your pussy-view stimulations. For such will be your curse, as a real man: Soon, you will bitterly bemoan your testosterone-fuelled, five-times-a-night staying-power virility. You will curse your insatiable sex-drive.

 

"You can, though, if you find that things are getting too much for you, and that you just can't cope with so much excitement, apply to the Governor to have yourself irreversibly chemically castrated. Which is an option, for prisoners. Notice, that I said 'chemically', and not 'surgically' castrated? That's because we'd still want to use you for ball-kicking practise." 

 

Earlier, I had witnessed prison officer Billie Jo reduce my cellmate to tears – make him cry his eyes out. And now she'd succeeded in doing the same thing to me. Only more so.

 

"Yes! Yes, prisoner Lightwood, I see now that you are finally beginning to truly understand – and accept. 

 

"Accept, that instead of sex; instead of having actual, proper, coital sex, any more, every night, in your miserable bunk, you'll be taking things in hand. You'll become a wanker. And, as you think of all of the prison officers' honeypot pussies you've seen that day, as you served at their feet – mental images, that you will be helpless to prevent from replaying over and over and over again in your head – you'll pay them due homage. You'll have no choice – you'll have to, if you hope to get any sleep. You'll pay your devotions – your seminal sacrifices – to all of those prison officers ... Won't you, prisoner Lightwood? From now on, you are going to be a wanker. Aren't you? If I'm any judge, you will never choose the irreversible chemical castration option. No. Not you. No matter how frustrated you get. You are going to be a wanker. Pulling your pudding, every night. You are going to become a wanker. Aren't you?"

 

My life as I knew it, I now realised, was over. Finished.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo's cruel, heinous, unspeakably diabolical words were just ringing too true. 

 

I knew, now, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was going to be "moulded", and "retained" indefinitely, by prison officer Bella Donna. That she would never, ever dispense with my "loyal services".

 

I wanted to weep ... And I did.

 

But first; before I made the serious mistake of making prison officer Billie Jo repeat herself, I sobbed out, answering truthfully, "Yes, Miss Billie Jo. I'll – I'll be ... taking things in hand. I'm – I'm going to be a ... wanker."

 

"Yes, you are! Because, what you'll be getting a daily diet of, prisoner Lightwood ..." prison officer Billie Jo maliciously told me, standing with her back to me and gleefully hovering the sole of her right, bare foot just inches above my miserable, tear-streaked face, "... won't be pussy. No! Oh no! What you'll be getting, from now on, is prison officers' feet!"

 

Prison officer Billie Jo turned herself around on my chest again; the soles of her bare feet press, press, pressing down on my lungs again and making my breathing ever more laborious. Being trampled on was taking a lot out of me. She turned herself around until she had come full circle, and had turned her back on me again ... So that I was once again staring at the backs of her lovely, to-die-for, olive-complexioned legs. Her well-toned, shapely, sexy legs ... And looking right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, at her luscious, sumptuous—

 

"Now – Grass-up! Get that tell-tale mouth of yours open – and open wide!" snarled prison officer Billie Jo. 

 

I felt my chest being forcefully compressed; first my right side, and then my left as prison officer Billie Jo stood full-weight single-footed while she looked over her shoulders to see which of her soles was dirtiest ... She chose her left foot; the foot that she hadn't gotten around to putting into my assuming-the-position cellmate's toothless mouth earlier, as she'd used his face as a footrest while enjoying her e-cigarette. 

 

My situation was hopeless, I knew, as I stared at the dirty sole of prison officer Billie Jo's left foot. 

 

Prison officer Billie Jo's olive-complexioned feet, I thought, were slightly smaller than average. Dainty, or petite, I suppose I could describe them ... In proportion with her hands, I thought, remembering how she'd tried but had been unable to grab and hold onto both of my swollen testicles.

 

Wretchedly, I stared at the grubby sole of prison officer Billie Jo's left foot, just mere inches from my face. Particularly grimy was the ball of her foot, and her heel ... I knew what was coming. 

 

Or I thought I did.

 

"Dirty, eh, prisoner Lightwood? Yes, my feet tend to get very dirty, working in Greystone Prison. And, do you know how my feet get like this? How the soles of my feet get so dirty, so grubby and grimy ...? Come on – it's not rocket science! It's because of all the walking I do. Patrolling the Levels all day, in my prison officer's thin-rubber soled flip flops. That's how the soles of my feet get so filthy dirty. And sweaty, too. So ... it's lucky there are so many foot-cleaners available, all nice and locked-up for us prison officers to take advantage of, isn't it, prisoner Lightwood ...? Prisoner Lightwood! I said: isn't—"

 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo. It's ... lucky."

 

"Grass-up! I told you to get your tell-tale mouth open wide – that's not nearly wide enough! Open wider!"

 

All too well, I remembered what Ross had said about what had happened to him, when he'd refused to let prison officer Billie Jo put her foot in his mouth ... She and prison officer Bella Donna called him 'Gummy' now – that's what!

 

I didn't want to make prison officer Billie Jo tell me again. If I made her repeat herself another time ... 

 

I opened my mouth – opened it wide ... And prison officer Billie Jo put her foot in it.

 

This was a whole new low of humiliation. The waterworks of self-pity were flowing anew now. And the taps were turned on full.

 

Prison officer Billie Jo inserted the toes of her left foot into my mouth, and then she forcibly jiggled her foot from side to side. "Wider – Grass-up!" she snarled down at me over her left shoulder. "I'm accustomed to a more roomy mouth, these days – with no teeth in it."

 

Somehow, I managed to crank my jaws open wider to afford prison officer Billie Jo's "filthy dirty" left foot more generous accommodation – upon which, she promptly plunged her foot in deeper. And deeper ... until right in front of my freshly tearing-up eyes, I was staring in abject dismay at the bottom of her dirty, grimy bare heel, almost the only part of her workaday sweat-smudged sole that wasn't stuffed into my mouth. 

 

And then, when prison officer Billie Jo's invading, probing toes touched the back of my throat, I found myself struggling for air as my gagging reflex activated, completely cutting off my air supply. Fighting for precious breath as she choked me – and above all, understanding that I must on no account bite her foot – I helplessly choked, gagged and convulsed until she thought my face had turned blue enough.

 

But my relief was short-lived. 

 

Prison officer Billie Jo then slid her toes underneath my tongue, got a good, firm grip on it ... and started hauling on it. 

 

The pain was insane. 

 

So much so, that it almost cancelled out my revulsion of the terrible taste of prison officer Billie Jo's day-long accumulation of workaday bottom-of-the-foot grime, that my saliva was now starting to loosen and dissolve.

 

"So, Grass-up," said prison officer Billie Jo, talking down to me over her left shoulder. "I'm a firm believer in the punishment fitting the crime. So ... what do you think is going to happen to you now? Eh ...? When that stupid cellmate of yours threatened to bite my foot if I put it in his mouth, you know what I'd had done to him, as a suitable punishment, don't you ...? Prisoner Lightwood!" she snapped, hauling twice on my tongue, for emphasis. "I said: don't you – know what I had done to your idiot cellmate?"

 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo! I know what you had done to him. You set the dentist on him, Miss Billie Jo. He deserved it!" I said desperately, prepared to say anything that might placate her in the slightest – that might stop her hauling on my tongue! 

 

Being as prison officer Billie Jo had my tongue firmly clutched in her toes, what I'd said had sounded totally unintelligible, even to me. But somehow she actually understood the pure gibberish I was saying to her.

 

"Okay, prisoner Lightwood. Here's where you start putting two and two together ... If I'm a firm believer in the punishment fitting the crime, and I had the dentist pull out all of prisoner Chapman's teeth, for threatening to bite my foot ... what do you suppose I'm about to do to you, as a suitable punishment? Right now? (she again hauled twice on my tongue, for emphasis). For trying to grass me up to the Governor?" 

 

My revulsion and humiliation were promptly superseded – trivialised – by a new, dreadful emotion: panic. 

 

I'd successfully put prison officer Billie Jo's two and two together. I knew exactly, what prison officer Billie Jo was going to do to me right now, as a "suitable punishment". 

 

She was going to pull my tongue out – with her toes!

 

"No one tries to grass me up to the Governor, prisoner Lightwood ... without paying for it (haul haul haul haul). Without suffering (haul haul) ... long-term consequences." (haul haul haul).

 

"Miss Billie Jo! Miss Billie Jo! No! Please, no! Please, Miss Billie Jo! Please! Please! I'll do anything!" I begged and pleaded, totally panic-stricken.

 

Once again, prison officer Billie Jo seemed to have no difficulty in accurately translating my utter nonsense, as her powerfully clutching toes rendered my tongue incapable of performing anything even remotely akin to what could be termed recognisable speech.

 

"Give me just one reason, prisoner Lightwood. Give me just one reason, why I shouldn't pull your tell-tale, grass-upping tongue right out of your head with my toes, right here, right now? Eh? Well ...? What's the matter, prisoner Lightwood? Cat got your tongue?" (haul haul haul haul).

 

"Please, Miss Billie Jo! Please! Please don't—"

 

"Shut up! I said: (haul haul) give me just one (haul) reason, why I should let you keep your tongue (haul), after you tried to grass me up to the Governor? (haul). Well ...? (haul). Come on! (haul). Snitch! (haul). Tell-tale! (haul haul). Grass-up!" (haul haul).

 

I was utterly terrorised.