The Jailhouse Blues. Chapter 3 (of 3). By davidmuleguy.

Ch. 3 (of 3): A life of foot slavery unfolds.


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.

"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.

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.

And Ross had told me that the prisoners' main, suppertime meal, served in our cells from six o'clock (which I'd missed, yesterday), was usually every bit as grim and grievous a prandial affair as was breakfast.

In Greystone Prison, the prisoners' taste buds were as underworked, as their foot-cleaning tongues were overworked.

"Yes, Avril," said prison officer Julie in response to prison officer Avril's question. "Mel and Nat are having prisoner Lightwood for lunch. They bagsed firsts on him yesterday, and they've prebooked Table Six."

"Jules and me are having prisoner Chapman for lunch," said prison officer Nicolette. "We thought we might as well. I mean, why leave him in his cell doing nothing, when he could be providing Table Service for Jules and me?"

"Oh, absolutely! I couldn't agree more," said prison officer Siobhan, who was casting her eye over the Staff Canteen, checking table availability.

"Especially today, since for some reason we seem to be a bit undermanned on the Table Service front," said prison officer Avril as she held open one of the entrance doors for the five or six exiting prison officers, who, as they passed
by us, cast glances of great disdain and even open hostility at Ross and me.

"That's right," agreed prison officer Siobhan. "I can't think of a bigger, more unforgivable sin than the underutilisation of prisoners. And after all, providing their Table Service function is one of the key components of their
rehabilitation programme, isn't it? The more often prisoners provide Table Service, the sooner they will take on board the salient principles of our female-friendly ideals, and the more readily and fully will they comprehend the concept
of propriety, where females are concerned."

The relaxed and convivial sounds of the blues' light gossipy conversation coming from inside the Staff Canteen made for a pleasant and congenial atmosphere. It was hard to believe, listening to the lunchtime normalcy of their mellow
hubbub of laid back, idle chit-chat, that they were actually a lot of browbeating, caning, face-slapping, ball-kicking females.

"Hmmm ..." said prison officer Siobhan. "The canteen is about three-quarters full, and there are no empty tables ... But Mel and Nat are just about to sit down at Table Six, and they've got it to themselves – if you'd like to join them?"

"That'd be great, Siobhan," said prison officer Nicolette. "Me and Jules will join Mel and Nat, at Table Six."

"Okay then. And that's good," said prison officer Siobhan. "It makes it easier for Avril and me. Avril can stay on-station, while I escort these two dummies to the same location. Go on, then. Take your seats at Table Six, and I'll bring
along your ... lunchtime companion."

Prison officer Avril held open one of the entrance doors for prison officers Nicolette and Julie to enter, and I had my first look inside the forty-eight cover Staff Canteen.

The Staff Canteen's twelve-table capacity dining area was attractively appointed and well lit.

The twelve rectangular-shaped, Formica-topped tables were each centrally supported by a rounded chrome stand. On either side of the four-place tables, the comfortable-looking bench seats were finished in dark red leather.

The unusually well-spaced tables were organised in four rows of three – the nearest three tables to the entrance doors, were Tables 1, 2 and 3.

At the far end of the canteen was a long serving counter. A number of glass hot-cabinets and other food-display containers were atop a midsection of it.

Behind the serving counter, wearing white chef's hats and white aprons, four or five servers were busy taking and filling the queuing prison officers' food orders, and putting everything on trays themselves, for the blues' convenience.

The prison officers, I noticed, weren't handing over any money for their meals: a perk of their jobs.

Scanning the dining area of the Staff Canteen, as soon as my eyes lit upon them I recognised prison officers Melanie and Natalie – theirs weren't faces I was likely to forget anytime soon. And not just because they were so beautiful.

They were so butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths demure-looking, you'd never think they could be such horrible persons. It simply wouldn't occur to you ... until you found out the hard way.

Because looks are deceptive. And these two maleficent young women were the reason I was here now, at the Staff Canteen: prison officers Natalie and Melanie had 'bagsed' me, as 'firsts'. Meaning that my first ever experience at providing
Prisoners' Canteen Service, would be providing 'Table Service' – for them!

I'd made their acquaintance yesterday. I wish I could say that the pleasure was all mine. But I can't.

Prison officers Natalie and Melanie were the two receiving prison officers who had admitted me into Greystone Prison. During the course of my being processed in the Security Checkpoint building, they'd told me in no uncertain terms that
they didn't like my "attitude". And consequently, they were going to "straighten me out" today.

In fact, prison officer Melanie had taken such exception to my "attitude problem", that she had suddenly got up— no, like some oversprung Jack-in-the Box, she'd actually sprang from her office chair, propelled herself around her desk,
stormed right up to me and slapped my face very hard. And I mean very hard.

It might sound crazy, but I knew prison officer Melanie was going to land me one, from the angry and purposeful sounds her thin-rubber soled flip flops made as they rapidly slap slap slap slapped against the bottoms of her bare heels as
she came for me.

But still, I had been very surprised— no, in truth I'd been shocked. My unpreparedness had been total. I just simply hadn't seen it coming – I mean I hadn't seen a reason, to see it coming.

At her uber aggressive approach, I'd been too stunned to move; the furious look on prison officer Melanie's face had turned me into a pillar of salt.

In stupefied amazement I'd just stood there, rooted to the spot, and simply watched her come for me. Motionless and defenceless, I had just simply stood there as I watched the maltentful palm and fingers of her raised right hand
viciously home in on my sitting-target face, to strike with a devastating, almost head-spinning SLAP!

It later struck me, when I thought about it afterwards, just how graceful and fluid prison officer Melanie's movements had been as she'd come for me. And just how elegant, just how artful, just how majestic – just how poetry-in-motion –
had been her balletic-like quarter-pirouette, as she'd performed her culminating face-slap.

Prison officer Melanie is very good at slapping people's faces. Expert, in fact. She can really hurt ... as I know to my cost.

Face-slapping is an integral part of her prisoner-management training. And she is better (or worse!) at the ... disciplining discipline, than most. Prison officer Melanie administers her (literally) hand-delivered chastisement with an
almost matchless level of proficiency and efficacy. Just a few of her jailhouse blue prison officer colleagues, are her face-slapping equal.

Along with caning (the Standard Six), and browbeating (extremely hurtful, distressing and humiliating verbal abuse), face-slapping is another of the prison officers' first course of action, on-the-spot corrective corporal punishment
responses.

Prison officer Melanie likes to face-slap. She enjoys slapping prisoners' faces, even more than she delights in caning their bare bottoms. She is one of those blues who greatly enjoy the satisfaction of what prison officer Billie Jo
calls the 'personal touch'.

Especially, prison officer Melanie loves to unman, reduce to tears, and bring to heel the more challenging prisoners: the more defiant, resistant, prideful, macho, alpha-male types.

She likes to look prisoners in the face, as, certain in her belief that she will never be held to account for her cruel perpetrations – smugly assured, that she will never be made to answer for her malicious wrongdoings; arrogantly
confident, that she will never, ever be brought to book for her sadistic malefactions – she slaps their faces.

Thus serenely comforted by her AFP-affiliation immunity from legal redress, so it is with untrammelled easement of mind that prison officer Melanie dismantles their manful resolve. Crushing their he-man, macho, alpha male resistance,
face-slap, by face-slap.

She likes to look defenceless prisoners in the face as, face-slap, by vicious, sadistic face-slap, bullying them into total, on-their-knees-at-her-feet submission, she revels and rejoices in making them cry ... as many prisoners do, in
the end.

Prison officer Melanie had made me cry.

Her no-holding-back face-slap had hurt a lot. Stunning, shocking, devastating, it had stung like hell, set my face on fire, and made my eyes water profusely ... and that was just one face-slap.

Prison officer Melanie had been angry with me. But she didn't lose it. She didn't just impulsively lash out at me, willy nilly. And why? Because the instilled discipline of her emotion-controlling prison officer training prevented her
from doing so. It enabled her to hold back, her no-holding-back face-slap.

Her consummate professionalism equipping her to harness and channel effectively her sudden onset of anger-generated brute force, thus it was ensured that it was not with a tantrumed, inefficient and ineffective flap of the hand, but with
controlled and accurately directed energy, that prison officer Melanie had put everything she had into administering her face-slap to such Training Manual precision and perfection.

Storming right up to me with such graceful fluidity and elegance of movement, prison officer Melanie had approached me so as to position herself in front of and slightly to one side of me, and then to achieve the optimal alignment of
stance and angle for delivery of face-slap chastisement at maximum power, majestically she had risen up onto her toes to perform her balletic-like quarter-pirouette.

Courtesy of prison officer Melanie's blockbuster face-slap, for a couple of days afterwards that side of my face was very tender and sore and, for more than a week, had sported a large and unsightly multicoloured bruise.

But in Greystone Prison, in the great scheme of things that was just a trivial, far from uncommon, by the by irrelevance. My multicoloured bruise was a mostly unnoteworthy, largely unremarkable sight, that did go mostly unnoted, and
largely unremarked upon.

Naturally, I'd been upset – and quite annoyed, too. There'd been no need for prison officer Melanie to slap me. At least, not like that! The shocking, devastating force of her face-slap had almost sent me to the Security Checkpoint
building floor; a second, follow-up face-slap surely would have done.

But prison officer Natalie – still seated with her feet up on her desk, ankles crossed, and with one of her thin-rubber soled flip flops incessantly and annoyingly slap slap slap slapping against the bottom of her bare heel – had from
her sedentary position told me in no uncertain terms to shut up; that I hadn't come to a holiday camp.

Afterwards, they had both been members of yesterday's twelve-officer caning-party, down in the gymnasium. Upon hearing of my upcoming Ball-Bust, so keen were they to play a part in my punishment, on the Wheel of Chastisement, prison
officers Melanie and Natalie had applied to the Governor for special temporary relief from their prisoner-receiving duties. And Governor Meredith Monroe, who herself had presided over the ensuing atrocities of my unspeakable ordeal, had
readily granted them said special permission.

And so, as prison officer Bella Donna had Ball-Busted me on the slowly rotating Wheel of Chastisement: had, at the start of each of the 'prescribed' five, one-minute revolutions, administered a chastising barefoot kick to my defenceless
testicles, for saying 'No' to her – prison officers Melanie and Natalie had each duly administered one of their five allotted follow-up cane strokes.

As and when my bared bottom had slowly come around to them, at a little over one-minute intervals, prison officers Melanie and Natalie had really let me have it. As had all ten other prison officer caning-party members (including prison
officer Bella Donna herself), at the regulated five-second intervals.

In my head, I could still hear the high-fiving caning-party prison officers' cries of malicious delight and howls of sadistic glee. I could still hear in their cock-a-hoop voices the fiendish joy of their congratulatory whoops and
celebratory cheers, which was the diabolical vocal accompaniment to the terrible Whoo! and Crack! of their devastating flexible bamboo canes.

Whoo! ... as their AFP-issue flexible bamboo canes sizzled through the air, wickedly precision-targeting my bare buttocks ... Crack! – as their canes cruelly connected, devastating said totally exposed and vulnerable part of my anatomy,
red-striping me again with yet another vivid red weal, and causing me to rend the air asunder with yet another agonised scream ...

And now those two – prison officers Melanie and Natalie – were here in the Staff Canteen. They were seated at Table 6: middle row, table on the right.

Though they were seated on the far side of Table 6, and so facing towards the entrance doors, they hadn't noticed me yet. It was a wonder they couldn't feel the force of my umbrageous gaze upon them, I thought, such were my grievous
feelings towards them.

Seated at their table, they were in the middle of unloading their food trays when, as though finally intuiting they were being watched, they looked my way ... and grinned gleefully.

Obviously, they were still very much looking forward to "straightening me out", for my "insolent attitude". Needless to say, I didn't wave to them in greeting.

A moment later they looked away, dismissing me from their attention altogether when to their obvious pleasure they saw that they were being joined for lunch by prison officers Nicolette and Julie; friends, too, apparently, as well as
work colleagues.

I turned around, to see prison officer Siobhan openly and uninhibitedly appraising me ... undressing me with her eyes, so to speak.

Confident in the power and untouchability of her AFP-employee position, prison officer Siobhan was blatantly giving me the once-over ... yep. The undertones of her overtures were unmistakable.

There was no doubt about it: prison officer Siobhan was giving me the 'look'. The look, that (not meaning to boast) I had seen on many a young woman's face before. It was the unmistakable sign – the 'look' – that meant she liked what she
was looking at ... and meant to have it.

Addressing Ross and me, but looking only at me, and taking my elbow possessively, proprietorially, prison officer Siobhan said, "Right then, you two. Your four-course lunches await you. Come with me."

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

Prison officer Siobhan led Ross and me a bit further along the Ground Floor, to a turning on our right. Leading down into a dimly lit corridor was a flight of smooth concrete steps. There was a landing midway, and a safety rail along
each wall to facilitate the escorting prison officers' comings and goings.

"Now: your handcuffs aren't coming off until you are returned to your cell, so you'll have to mind how you go ... Well? Down you go, then," prison officer Siobhan prompted us.

Looking down, it was with no small measure of concern that I viewed the seemingly long and precipitous flight of hard and unyielding smooth concrete steps. One misstep, and ...

Anywhere else, this hazardous practice would be deemed a serious breach of the Health and Safety regulations.

But, with our hands handcuffed behind our backs, and our prisoner issue dark-grey soft fabric bootees providing uncertain footing on the smooth concrete steps, neither me or Ross dared mention this to prison officer Siobhan as we took
each step with exaggerated care.

Upon descending the flight of steps safely, prison officer Siobhan told us, "Keep going."

Continuing along the dimly lit corridor, on our right-hand side we soon came to a much narrower and shorter flight of steps than those we'd just descended. These steps, that were of rough concrete, and led upwards, had no safety rails
and were only wide enough to allow one person at a time to ascend.

Printed in black, on a white background, a sign bolted to the bare brick wall read: Row 1. Tables 1 - 3.

Prison officer Siobhan said, "Go on, keep going. Your service stations are accessed further along the corridor."

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

For a few moments we all walked along the dimly lit corridor in silence. But then prison officer Siobhan, in an unusual thawing of prison officer / prisoner relations, said unexpectedly, to Ross, "Prisoner Chapman ... you are BJ's— I
mean, you are officer Billie Jo's bitch, aren't you?"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," said Ross respectfully. "And truly, I feel greatly privileged. Of all the prisoners she could have chosen ... she chose me."

Looking uncertain, for a moment prison officer Siobhan looked keenly at Ross, and seemed about to respond with a sharp retort.

But, apparently giving the straight-faced Ross the benefit of the doubt, the moment finally passed, and she said, "Officer Billie Jo had the prison doctor pull out all of your teeth, didn't she? Because you said 'No' to her twice?"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," said Ross respectfully. "She did. Every single one. Except she had that done to me the first time I said 'No' to her. The second time I said 'No' to Miss Billie Jo, she Ball-Busted me on the Wheel of Chastisement.
But I deserved it, Miss Siobhan. It was all my own fault. I wasn't thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. I gave Miss Billie Jo no choice. I understand that now. She explained it all to me; talked it through, in simple
terms that a slow learner like me could understand. That's what she said: that I was a slow learner. She said she wanted to put a thinking-cap on my head. And then I would be able to see reason. So the dose of stronger medicine she'd
administered would help me to learn quicker, she told me."

Again, prison officer Siobhan gave Ross a searching look. Again though, the moment passed, and she said, "Yes, prisoner Chapman. Officer Billie Jo is absolutely right. Slow learners do need stronger, more potent medicine. Less responsive
to lower dosage treatment, to successfully expunge all irrational thoughts from their minds, slow learners do require a substantially strengthened course of correctional therapy. And the Wheel of Chastisement, as barbaric as it might
seem, to prisoners, is an almost totally effective attitudinal rebalancing instrument: prisoners recognise the errors of their ways, in ninety-nine per cent of cases."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan. That's what Miss Billie Jo told me," said Ross respectfully.

"And it's as needs must. It's a case of being cruel to be kind. Mamby pamby, tenderhearted pussyfooting about with prisoners is simply not in their best interests. Not in the long run. Ultimately, such mollycoddling does them more harm
than good. Such light-handed latitude and lenience – such wrong-thinking pampering – can only have a negative, regressive effect upon released prisoners' life chances."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," said Ross respectfully. "Miss Billie Jo went through all of that with me. She explained why she had to Ball-Bust me: it was all in my best interests."

"And quite apparently, prisoner Chapman, your secondary, stronger dosage follow-up course of remedial treatment was an efficacious, unqualified success. I can see that. Because obviously you have learned the errors of your ways. It is
plainly apparent, in your cowed and passive, meek and miserable manner. Clearly discernible, in your despondent and downtrodden demeanour. As plain as day, in your demoralised and defeated attitude."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan. And that is all thanks to Miss Billie Jo. Believe me, I won't ever forget what she's done for me."

That uncertain look was back on prison officer Siobhan's face again, and she gave Ross a longer, and more searching look. It was as if there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on; but that she thought there was 'something',
to put her finger on.

But again, Ross maintained a vague expression, and the moment passed.

Careful, Ross! I thought to myself. You are skating on very thin ice, mate!

"And actually, prisoner Chapman," continued prison officer Siobhan, her voice rising now both in volume and in pitch, "I know all about your Ball-Bust on the Wheel of Chastisement – because I was a member of the caning-party!

"You probably don't remember, prisoner Chapman. But I was among those twelve prison officers, who each administered our allotted five strokes of the cane to your bare bottom, following each of officer Billie Jo's five admirable,
beautifully administered between-the-legs barefoot kicks ... oh, right to your fully exposed testicles!

"I can still picture your dangling ball bag – and your little tiny dick – ha ha ha! Talk about being brought to heel! Heavens, I have never known such a commotion! What a lot of unseemly, unmanly caterwauling you made – you weak, wimpy,
pathetic little wretch!"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," agreed Ross. "And I most certainly do remember you being in attendance, Miss Siobhan, as a member of Governor Monroe's twelve-officer caning-party."

"Do you really, prisoner Chapman? You have a long memory. Your Ball-Bust was, what ... three months ago, now?"

"Ah, yes, Miss Siobhan. But you live long in the memory."

"Do I, prisoner Chapman?"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan, you do. Your self-congratulatory cries of joyous, utmost satisfaction in your caning performance were very distinctive, Miss Siobhan. Quite unforgettable. You stood out from the crowd, Miss Siobhan. That's how I
remember your own persuasive influences on me so vividly. You were extremely convincing. Thank you, Miss Siobhan. Since then, I have never said 'No' to Miss Billie Jo – and not to any other prison officer, either.

"Believe me, Miss Siobhan, I fully recognise just exactly what you did for me that day. You played your part to the full. Aided by your expert assistance and timely support, Miss Billie Jo's task of decisively bringing me to heel, once
and for all, was made all the easier for her.

"I assure you, Miss Siobhan, I do not underestimate or overvalue the contributory influence your own personal corrective-therapy input had on me: I fully appreciate it.

"At the time, I thanked you profusely, Miss Siobhan, for your priceless participation in my Ball-Bust chastisement. As I also thanked and expressed my sense of immense and undying indebtedness, to each of the other eleven members of the
prison officer caning-party – including Miss Billie Jo herself – for all of their invaluable influences. But, thank you again, Miss Siobhan.

"Thank you again, Miss Siobhan. For helping me to see reason. For helping to expunge irrational thought from my mind. For helping Miss Billie Jo to put a thinking-cap on my head. For helping to show me the errors of my ways. For getting
me to think straight – think coherently and logically. So thank you, Miss Siobhan. But in truth, I can't ever thank you sufficiently, Miss Siobhan. So, thank you again. I mean, really, Miss Siobhan, I simply can't thank you—"

"Enough!" shouted prison officer Siobhan frostily, her thawed out manner icing up again. "Don't overegg the pudding, prisoner Chapman – or I'll give you half a dozen more reasons to thank me!" she threatened, flexing her cane
meaningfully as she glared at Ross with a lot less uncertainty now.

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," said Ross respectfully. "And thank you."

Prison officer Siobhan then said, "And what about you, prisoner Lightwood?"

"About me, Miss Siobhan?" I said respectfully.

"Um ... I must say, prisoner Lightwood, you really are a handsome, very good-looking young man."

"Thank you, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully.

"Which is extremely bad news for you: you are going to be in exceptionally high demand for Foot Service.

"Us prison officers much prefer to have our feet serviced by the better-looking prisoners. It stands to reason: it's much nicer and more satisfying than having our feet all slobbered over by ugly-faced prisoners. It's only natural. So I
can tell you right now, prisoner Lightwood: you are going to be a very popular foot-cleaner."

"As you say, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "It's only natural."

"And the considerable demands made upon your services are likely to remain exceptionally high, prisoner Lightwood. Only very gradually, over time, as you go into decline, will the demands made upon you start to lessen and ease.

"Your great popularity only waning, as the shine of your sex-appeal slowly dulls, commensurate with the degrading and despoiling effects of chronic overuse, as the inexorable ravages of abusive daily wear and tear inevitably takes due
toll on your heartbreaker, ladykiller attractiveness.

"You'll be especially popular, with the Levels-patrolling prison officers. They are on their feet for hours on end, and so of course it's understandable they like to have lots of tender-loving-care attention paid to their hardworking
feet."

"Of course, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "Very understandable."

"And I'll bet the Night Duty prison officers won't give you much peace, either, a hunk like you. I know I won't. So I am telling you now: you had better get used to the idea of losing a little sleep.

"In fact, do you know what I'm going to do, prisoner Lightwood, the next time I'm on Night Duty ...? The next time I'm on Night Duty, I'm going to come to your cell, order you to assume the position for Foot Service, and cuff your wrists
to your cell's bars – for the whole night. And each time I complete a patrol circuit, I'll let you look up my skirt and see my pussy, while you tongue-clean the soles of my feet."

"I ... I'm sure I'll look forward to it, Miss Siobhan."

"Oh, I'll give you something to look forward to, all right! I love the idea of causing very attractive young men like you, prisoner Lightwood, to jack off to me. That's what lights my fire. What do you think about that?"

"Well, Miss Siobhan, I, er—"

"I get off, prisoner Lightwood, to getting the likes of you to get off to me – by your own hand. That's what I want! That's what I like! What do you think about that?"

"I, er ... Miss Siobhan, I—"

"Oh, I so love it! To me, getting the likes of you, you ... men-of-the-world types, to take things in hand, and to actually give up your ... self, is such a thrill! Such a delicious triumph! What do you think about that – man of the
world?"

"Miss Siobhan, I ... um—"

"Oh, it's such a kick! What a tribute, they pay me!

"Just the very thought, of making the likes of you, you ... ladies' men, bring yourself to orgasm – because you want me so! It makes me, want to touch myself. It makes me, want to pleasure my self to orgasm. What do you think about that
– ladies' man?"

"Er, I—"

"That's what I want! That's what I like! That's what I love! It's what lights my fire!"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "It's only natural."

"To think of me, in adoration, while they wank – that's what I want! To think of me, in adulation, as they jerk off – that's what I like! To think of me, as they helplessly pull and tug and yank away at themselves, in their miserable
bunks at night – that's what I love! It really gets my juices going!"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "Very understandable."

"To masturbate – for me! Yes! To actually milk themselves – for me! To empty their balls, by their own hand – for me! To self-spill their precious essence, in frenzied, lustful climax – thinking about me! That's what gets me going,
prisoner Lightwood."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "I ... I quite understand."

"To so absolutely abuse themselves! To so utterly demean and degrade and disrespect themselves, in that undeniably sincere, and most ultimate of worshipful ways – for me!"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "It's ... only right."

"Oh, the sheer kick of it! To get those ... Casanova types, to actually self-sacrifice, in my honour! To devote to me, the most personal and precious gift a man can give ... Just as you will, prisoner Lightwood. In your miserable bunk at
night. Won't you – Casanova ...? I said won't you – ladies' man? I said won't you – man of the world?"

"Um, er ... I ... er—"

"Actually, prisoner Lightwood ... I wouldn't mind bagsing you for myself. And, of course – ha ha! – that will be my pet name for you: Casanova. Oh, how deliciously ironic!

"Because there's no place in Greystone Prison, for ladies' men. All of you heartbreaker, ladykiller, men of the world are now redundant. But mark my words, prisoner Lightwood: I'll cause you to self-orgasm, every night."

"Thank you, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "That's ... good of you."

"I wasn't here yesterday, when you were admitted into the prison by officers Melanie and Natalie, to whom I am taking you now. It was one of my days off. Has ... has any prison officer bagsed you, yet? Are you anyone's bitch?"

"Um ... er, yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully. "Prison officer Bella Donna's."

"What? BJ— I mean, officer Billie Jo, and officer Bella Donna? Well ... heaven help the pair of you, then."

"Thank you, Miss Siobhan," said Ross.

Prison officer Siobhan glared at Ross.

She might well have summarily administered a harsh, on the spot corporal punishment measure, such as the Standard Six. But having now arrived at the second flight of steps on our right-hand side, she held herself in check. Instead,
prison officer Siobhan said, "Right then, you two. We're here ... and soon, prisoner Chapman, you won't be half so glib!"

Printed in black, on a white background, the sign bolted to the bare brick wall read: Row 2. Tables 4 - 6.

"Up these steps, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman. When you get to the top, continue along the narrow corridor to the end. You'll see two turn-offs: the first one, leading to the left, and signed 'Table Four', and then the second turn-
off, leading to the right, and signed 'Table Five'. Go past both of them, and continue to where the corridor dead-ends, and is signed 'Table Six'.

What the hell? I thought ... but I think I knew. And it now occurred to me that, during the past three months, Ross must surely have been through this ritual many times before. He just hadn't gotten around to telling me about it yet.

"Got that, you two? It couldn't be simpler: Go to the top of the steps, and then follow your noses to the end of the narrow corridor."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," Ross and I answered together.

"Where the narrow corridor dead-ends, you will see two more short flights of steps: one on the left, one on the right. These steps will take you to your respective locations.

"Prisoner Chapman, you'll take the steps on the left: they'll veer left, and then right. Prisoner Lightwood, you'll take the steps on the right: they'll veer right, and then left ... Are you still with me, bozos?"

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," Ross and I affirmed respectfully.

"There's no lighting up there, just the light spilling over from down here in this corridor. But you'll find it gets much lighter as you turn to climb the second section of those steps. Because by then you'll be within sight of the
circular-shaped opening above you, like an open manhole. Continue up the steps, until you are standing on the top step, and your head is protruding through the hole ... And that's it.

"There, you will remain standing in position for as long as your services are required. Simply do exactly as you are instructed. Or, on occasion, it might be that just your mere presence there, is all that is required. On such occasions,
I am sure you both know exactly where you are to respectfully focus your undivided attention, to demonstrate due propriety, where females are concerned ...?"

Ross and I understood, all right. We knew exactly where we were expected to focus our undivided attention. "Yes, Miss Siobhan," we said respectfully.

"It may or may not be for the lunchtime period only ... One, or even both of you may afterwards be left in-situ for an extended period: the Staff Canteen operates a between-meals prisoner skeleton-crew, to service the prison officers'
staggered twenty-minute tea breaks."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," said Ross and I respectfully.

"In fact, since for some reason we seem to be a bit undermanned today, on the Table Service front, the possibility can't be ruled out that in the event of there being no replacement prisoners for us to bring down to relieve you, the
duration of your Table Service may be even further extended, into the prison officers' evening-meal time period.

"Later, either myself or officer Avril – or, in the event that the duration of your Table Service has been further extended into the prison officers' evening-meal time period, another officer – will return for you both, and you'll be
called back down from your Table Service stations.

"Accordingly, you will then either be assigned to an afternoon work detail, or returned to your cell.

"In the latter case, as you will by then have missed your evening meal, you will be given some leftover food scraps from the kitchen – which at least will be something rather better than the prisoners' supper you would otherwise have
been served in your cell. Now ... up you go, then."

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

"And, thank you," added Ross.

"Prisoner Chapman! If I thought, for just one second, that you've been taking the ..."

But Ross was already ascending the dozen or so rough concrete steps, and I wasn't hanging about either.

By the time we reached the top of the walled-in steps, the light from the corridor down behind us had already grown much dimmer. But there was still enough light for us to see along to where the narrow corridor dead-ended, where brighter
light was leaking down from another source.

I said, "Ross, mate. Why didn't you tell me, about—"

"No talking!" snapped prison officer Siobhan.

Stern faced, she was still watching us from the foot of the dozen or so rough concrete steps, down in the dimly lit corridor. "In Greystone Prison, that is not what your tongues are for! You will remain silent! Unless you want to feel
the cut of my cane, before you provide Table Service? How about the Standard Six, prisoner Chapman ...?"

"We're very sorry, Miss Siobhan," said Ross respectfully.

Ross and I started along the close confines of this narrower, gloomier corridor. The bare brick walls pressed in on us claustrophobically, and the further we moved away from prison officer Siobhan down in the dimly lit corridor behind
us, the gloomier it got, until we reached the midway point between the two sources of artificial light.

We duly passed the first turn-off, to the left, signed 'Table 4', and then the second turn-off, to the right, signed 'Table 5'. It was just as we reached the dead-end of the corridor and stepped into the light source filtering down from
above, that we first began to hear the female voices; the intermingled sounds of conversations quite nearby.

In bold black letters on a white background, the sign on the bare brick wall in front of us read: 'Table 6'.

Now we saw the two flights of even narrower steps that prison officer Siobhan had instructed us to climb: the steps on the left, that Ross was to take, and the steps on the right, that I was to take.

Ross and I looked at each other; the same thoughts probably passing through both our minds.

We looked back the way we'd come ... At the far end of the corridor, down at the bottom of the dozen or so rough concrete steps, in the dimly lit corridor, prison officer Siobhan was no longer visible to us ... if she was still even
there. Perhaps she had by now returned to her duties on-station, at the entrance doors of the Staff Canteen.

But then again ... perhaps she hadn't. So Ross and I merely gave each other a sympathetic nod, before turning to climb our respective flight of very narrow steps.

Just as prison officer Siobhan had said, the flight of steps I was taking veered first to the right, and then to the left.

As I climbed this first section of very narrow steps, the light gradually brightened, and the sounds of female voices got louder; their words becoming clearer. Snippets of conversations could now and then be discerned.

Ascending the second, left-veering section of steps, the sounds of female-voiced conversations grew louder still. Loud enough and clear enough now, to actually hear the gossipy, tittle-tattle nature of their girl-talk subject matter.

And now the light was shafting almost straight down on me, daylight bright ... For there, just a few steps further up, looking like a portal to another dimension, was the circular-shaped opening of the "manhole".

I stared up, at the open "manhole", listening to what I could pick up of the jailhouse blues' lunchtime babble ... and heard my name mentioned.

I hesitated.

It gave me pause, hearing my name being decried in such a defamatory manner ... Being decried in such a defamatory manner, by prison officers Melanie and Natalie!

But there was no putting it off.

With a resigned sigh, I climbed the few remaining steps, until finally I was standing on the top rough concrete step.

"Ah! Prisoner Lightwood! So here you are – at long last!" announced prison officer Natalie upon seeing my head emerge through the Table Service "manhole", on her side of Table 6's centrally-supporting rounded chrome stand.

"And about time, too!" exclaimed prison officer Melanie. "Where have you been, prisoner Lightwood? Did you get lost? Officer Natalie and me have been waiting to start our first course appetiser – our minestrone soup is getting cold. I
was beginning to think you'd actually stood me and officer Natalie up!"

"Oh, I'm sure prisoner Lightwood wouldn't do that, Mel!" said prison officer Natalie. "It can't be every day, that he gets to dine in such scintillating company, can it?"

"And now, here comes our lunchtime companion, Jules!" came the voice of prison officer Nicolette, upon seeing Ross's head similarly emerging through Table 6's other "manhole", on her side of the dining table.

"Good!" said prison officer Julie. "Because dining just isn't the same, without Table Service."

The four jailhouse blues prison officers looked down on Ross and me, smirking at the sight of our floor-level heads protruding absurdly from the "manholes" on their respective sides of Table 6.

I understood now, why prison officer Siobhan had directed Ross and me to take our respective set of very narrow steps.

From my worm's-eye vantage point, looking around the Staff Canteen floor I could see a number of other prisoners' heads protruding through "manholes", as they also provided 'Table Service' for luncheoning jailhouse blue prison officers
... and, wait – for some of the civilian office and catering staff, too!

Grinning gleefully, prison officer Melanie said to her three colleagues, "Well, now that we've got Table Service – let's tuck in!"

On my side of Table 6's centrally-supporting rounded chrome stand, by special arrangement (pre-booking, and firsts bagsing), my floor-level face was directed towards prison officers Melanie and Natalie's bench seat. Prison officer
Melanie's feet were in front and just to the right of my face, and prison officer Natalie's feet were in front and just to the left of my face.

Directly behind my head, positioned on the other side of Table 6's centrally-supporting rounded chrome stand, Ross's floor-level face was similarly directed towards prison officers Nicolette and Julie's bench seat. And from behind me I
could hear those highly annoying slap slap slap slapping noises as prison officers Nicolette and Julie caused their thin-rubber soled flip flops to repeatedly slap against the bottoms of their bare heels.

Very soon though, I would have enough on my own plate – I would be too fully concerned and too fully occupied in coping with the ordeals of my own predicament, to spare a concerned or sympathetic thought for what was happening to Ross.

With their lower legs stretching out under their dining table, the worn-smooth soles of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's Greystone Prison issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops were just mere inches from my face ... And now
they, too, were starting up – their active, flexing feet now also causing their flexible flip flops to repeatedly slap slap slap away against the bottoms of their bare heels. So close to my face as this, the noises were ultra irritating.

But the acute vexation of the incessant slapping noises that prison officers Melanie and Natalie were making, was actually relegated to the status of minor irritation when compared with the offensive smells they emitted in doing so: the
actions of their flexing feet, right in front of my face, causing their flapping flip flops to fan wave after wave of their stinky foot scents right up my nostrils.

Peering down at me under Table 6, prison officer Melanie said, "Prisoner Lightwood ... Officer Natalie and me are now going to sit down to a very delicious four-course lunch, as professionally prepared and cheerfully served to us by
Greystone Prison's fine chefs and cheerful serving staff.

"And while we dine, in tandem you will dine on your own, prisoners' four-course lunch, as professionally prepared and cheerfully served to you by officer Natalie and me.

"First-course – your appetiser: To whet your appetite, officer Natalie and me will let you look at our legs – from your Initial Assessment report, that we filed on you yesterday, we already know just how much you like that – and all the
while of course you will have lots of close-up views of the soles of our dirty, sweaty feet.

"Second course: With your mouth firmly closed – lips sealed up, all nice and tight – you will sniff the soles of our stinky feet. Especially, you will inhale the scents from under and in between our toes. When we do not prompt you;
probably because we are at that moment too engrossed in enjoying the flavours and aromas of our delicious lunch, you will not fail to continue to do this of your own accord. And don't forget to keep your mouth sealed!

"Third course – your main course: From the bottoms of our heels, to the pads of our toes, you will lick clean the soles of our dirty, sweaty feet. And as you do so – and taking utmost care, prisoner Lightwood – you will gently scrape
free with your teeth, any such bits of loose, flakey dead skin, as is most prevalently to be found on the bottoms and the outer edges of our heels, and on the balls of our feet. You will lick, tooth scrape, suck up and swallow, all of
the dead skin and the half-day build-up of workaday sweat and grime.

"Fourth course – to finish: You will lick clean the foam-rubber uppers of our dirty, grimy, sweat-stained flip flops – toe-posts included.

"Those are your four courses, prisoner Lightwood."

"Yes, that's right, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Natalie, also peering down maliciously at me under Table 6. "And so now, while officer Melanie and me enjoy our first-course appetiser minestrone soup with Romano cheese
croutons from today's four-course prison officers' lunch menu – Italian-themed, today – we will serve you your own first-course appetiser: The sight of our gorgeous legs, garnished with lots of extreme close-up views of the soles of our
prison officers' feet ... Enjoy!"

As soon as prison officer Natalie had wished me bon appetit, prison officers Melanie and Natalie's faces disappeared from view ...

Stretching their lower legs forward and crossing their ankles, right in front of my face they started slapping their pale-blue, flexible thin-rubber soled flip flops against the bottoms of their bare heels.

So up close as this, the slap slap slap slapping sounds of their thin-rubber soled flip flops flapping relentlessly in my face was mega maddening. And so the wave after wave of foul, foot-fumey odours they wafted up my nostrils with mock
casualness were all the more galling.

Crossing and recrossing their ankles, the only brief let ups to this grievous annoyance was when prison officers Melanie and Natalie scrunched or wiggled their toes, arched their feet, or otherwise flexed and contorted them in
deliberately dangling and angling their flip flops this way, that way, and every which way to show me the soles of their dirty, sweaty feet from all sorts of angles.

Especially grubby and grimy, were the balls of their feet, the bottoms of their heels, and the pads of their toes, all of which they displayed to me at extreme close-up range, and at ever varying angles as they ceaselessly manipulated
their highly flexible thin-rubber soled flip flops.

And so it was, that, listening to the accompanying sounds of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's soup spoons chinking against their soup bowls, and their (exaggerated for my benefit!) soup-slurping, and oohing and aahing over the
satisfying tastiness of their first-course minestrone soup appetiser, I made my intimate acquaintance with their feet.

And, I had no choice, but to endure, right in front of my face, the highly aggravating sights, sounds and smells of their thin-rubber soled flip flops' incessant slap slap slap, under-the-table flip flop flapping.

These greatly annoying and grievously unpleasant optical, audial, and olfactory oppressions seemed to go on for much longer than they actually did: for just as long as it took prison officers Melanie and Natalie to consume their first-
course appetiser minestrone soup with Romano cheese croutons.

Peering down under the dining table at me, prison officer Melanie smacked her lips tauntingly. "Mmmm! That minestrone soup with Romano cheese croutons was really tasty! Officer Natalie and me really enjoyed our first-course appetiser.
Did you, prisoner Lightwood? How was your first-course appetiser? Was it nice? Hmm?"

"Ye-yes, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "It was ... very nice. Thank you."

"Good! I'm so glad you enjoyed it. It's not every prisoner, who enjoys up-close views of our dirty bare feet!"

"That's right!" agreed prison officer Natalie. "And I'm glad your appetite's been whetted, prisoner Lightwood – because you've still got three more delicious courses to come. Lots more, for you to enjoy!"

"Thank you, Miss Natalie," I said respectfully. "I'm ... grateful."

"Um, I'm just wondering ... Do the slapping sounds of our flip flops bother you at all, prisoner Lightwood?" inquired prison officer Melanie with mock solicitude. "It's just that, well ... (Slap slap slap slap slap) ... I can't help
noticing, that (Slap slap slap slap) you seem rather put out by it." (Slap slap slap slap slap ...).

"Er ... n-no, Miss Melanie," I replied respectfully. "Not at all. I ... hadn't even noticed."

"Oh, good!" said prison officer Natalie. (Slap slap slap ...) "That puts my mind at rest too, prisoner Lightwood. (Slap slap slap ...) I'm so glad you don't mind! (Slap slap slap slap slap ...) I mean, I'd hate to think we were bothering
you!" (Slap slap slap slap ...).

"Ready for your second course now, prisoner Lightwood?" prison officer Melanie inquired sweetly. "Well, it's coming right up: With your mouth firmly closed – lips sealed up, all nice and tight – sniffing up the fragrant perfumes from the
soles of my and officer Natalie's feet. Especially from under and in between our toes, where our intoxicating scents are all the more concentrated ... Enjoy!"

As soon as prison officer Melanie had wished me an enjoyable second course, prison officers Melanie and Natalie's faces disappeared from view ...

I watched their feet slip from their thin-rubber soled flip flops ... and then the warm and moist soles and toes of their dirty, stinky bare feet were suddenly all over me; pressing and probing my perfectly positioned under-the-table
face adventurously and possessively and controllingly.

After their initial burst of frenzied foot foraying, I then found the ball of prison officer Melanie's left foot planted against my right cheek, and correspondingly the ball of prison officer Natalie's right foot planted against my left
cheek ... And thus they held my face facing front, as their other foot accidentally but carelessly slapped, side-swiped and kicked my face, as they playfully but determinedly fended off the other's combative foot in their efforts to
claim the coveted toes-over-the-nostrils position.

Prison officers Melanie and Natalie's foot scents were awful, just awful. Very different, but equally terrible.

I couldn't decide which of them was worse; couldn't make up my mind which was the most offensive as they both forced me to sniff up their in-between-the-toes foot stink: Was it the pungent, strong-cheesiness of prison officer Melanie's
feet? Or was it the vinegary, sharp tanginess of prison officer Natalie's feet? I didn't know. But one thing I did know: being forced to sniff up their powerful foot scents simultaneously, was much worse than twice as terrible.

With my mouth firmly closed ("lips sealed up, all nice and tight"), breathing in through my mouth wasn't an option. Whether separately or simultaneously, I was obliged to inhale whiff, after dreadful whiff of prison officers Melanie and
Natalie's cheesy and vinegary foot odours.

There was no escape, from their egregious olfactory assaults. No option, but to engage them. And to endure them.

And so it was, that, to the accompanying sounds of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's knives and forks chinking against their dinner plates as they enjoyed their second-course meatballs Milanese with tagliatelle, the highly
aggravating sounds of their girlish giggling reached my ears.

And, I had no choice, as they tormented me with their foul foot odours, but to endure the added goading insults of their giggly mocking laughter as they playfully but determinedly competed: pushing and shoving, parrying and deflecting,
and prying and levering each other's duelling foot – in their good-natured but combative and attritional under-the-table battle for toes-over-the-nostrils supremacy.

This incredibly annoying and grievously unpleasant olfactory torment seemed to go on for much longer than it actually did: for just as long as it took prison officers Melanie and Natalie to consume their second-course meatballs Milanese
with tagliatelle.

Peering down under the dining table at me, licking her lips in great satisfaction, prison officer Natalie said, "Mmmm! The meatballs Milanese with tagliatelle was really delicious! Officer Melanie and me really enjoyed our second course.
Did you, prisoner Lightwood? How was your second course? Was it nice? Hmm?"

"Y-yes, thank you, Miss Natalie," I said respectfully. "I ... enjoyed it."

"Good!" exclaimed prison officer Natalie. "I'm ever so glad you did. It's not every prisoner, who appreciates the aromas of our stinky feet!"

"That's for sure!" agreed prison officer Melanie. "We'd love to let you have a second helping. Being as you enjoyed it so much, and all. But we need to move right on to the next course – we don't have all day!"

"An-another time, then, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully.

"Oh, there are going to be plenty of other times, prisoner Lightwood," prison officer Melanie assured me. "You can bank on it!"

"Well ... now for our third course," said prison officer Natalie pleasantly. "It's going to be Neapolitan ice-cream and strawberries, for officer Melanie and me. Ready for your third course now, prisoner Lightwood? Hmm ...? Well, it's
coming right up: Licking, sucking up and swallowing all of the half-day accumulation of workaday dirt, sweat and grime from the soles of my and officer Melanie's hard-working feet. Paying particular and close attention, to the balls of
our feet, the bottoms of our heels, and in between our toes. And – very carefully! – removing with your teeth, any such bits and pieces of loose flakey dead skin you may encounter, as is prevalently to be found on the balls of our feet,
and on the bottoms and the outer edges of our heels ... Enjoy!"

As soon as prison officer Natalie had wished me a delightful third course, prison officers Melanie and Natalie's faces disappeared from view ...

Prison officer Melanie then planted the ball of her warm and moist foot on my forehead and pushed, tilting my head back slightly, thereby facilitating prison officer Natalie's waiting foot with the optimal angle of entry into my mouth.

In contrast with the playfully competitive but attritional nature that had characterised the second course's shenanigan-like under-the-table proceedings, prison officers Melanie and Natalie's third course interplay was comprised instead
of close cooperation and mutual assistance.

As it had to be ... even the most obedient and compliant of prisoners had their limitations. And I was no different: I could only lick, suck on, and tooth scrape one of prison officers' Melanie and Natalie's dirty sweaty feet at a time.

Prison officer Natalie went first ...

Prison officer Natalie didn't hesitate. Wasting no time at all, she promptly inserted all five toes of one foot straight into my waiting mouth. She didn't verbally address me, but with the sole of her other foot she none too gently
slapped the side of my face in an imperious and unmistakable instruction: Begin foot-cleaning!

To help keep my face in forward-facing position, prison officer Natalie rested her free foot against my neck, firmly pressing the ball of her foot against my Adam's apple.

While prison officer Natalie took first turn of my under-the-table foot-cleaning services, prison officer Melanie used the top of my conveniently positioned head as her footrest.

First, I felt the heavy, jarring uncushioned thud of the back of one of prison officer Melanie's heels carelessly setting down on top of my head, followed by the substantial increase in weight and pressure as she then brought her other
foot on board, ankles crossed.

At first, bearing the weight of prison officer Melanie's resting legs, and enduring the hard pressure of the heels of her resting feet, right on top of my head, was an unpleasantly irksome and ignominious imposition, for sure.

But it soon became very much worse an ordeal than that.

Much worse, than unpleasant. Much worse, than irksome. Much worse, than an ignominious imposition.

To begin with, it was at worst a considerable nuisance ... albeit, a grossly abusive and profoundly humiliating one.

But the stresses and strains of supporting the recumbent weight and pressure of prison officer Melanie's legs and feet, right on top of my head, quickly and drastically escalated.

It soon became so acutely uncomfortable, so distressingly burdensome, so insupportable an affliction that it was bordering on intolerable.

But then, to cap it all, came that extremely irritating slap slap slap slapping sound ... prison officer Melanie had put her flip flops back on!

And so, as prison officer Melanie tucked into her third-course Neapolitan ice-cream and strawberries, I was forced not only to bear, right on top of my head, the increasingly unsustainable burden of her relaxing legs and feet,ankles
crossed, but I was also made to listen to and endure those mega maddening sounds, right up close, as she caused her thin-rubber soled flip flops to repeatedly slap slap slap slap against the bottoms of her bare heels.

But back to prison officer Natalie ...

Starting with her big-toe, and working along to her little toe, I sucked on and licked in between each of prison officer Natalie's invasive and maddeningly adventuresome toes.

At first, prison officer Natalie's dirty, sweaty digits didn't seem to taste of anything much at all; nothing like as bad as I had been fretfully anticipating. I was greatly surprised – and greatly relieved. I told myself this wasn't
going to be as bad as I'd feared, after all.

But by the time my tongue returned to start a second sweep – returned to probe again, right down deep, into the cleavage between prison officer Natalie's big and second toes – as though my saliva was some kind of slow-working flavour
releasing chemical, suddenly I was revolted beyond words by the foulest, filthiest, vilest of tangy taste sensations.

Prison officer Natalie sensed my sudden disquiet.

But, without interrupting her enjoyment of her third course by bothering to address me or otherwise inconveniencing herself, prison officer Natalie simply pressed the ball of her free foot more firmly into my Adam's apple, and adjusted
her foot in my mouth to clutch my tongue in an even more dominating, even more subduing toe-grip ... until I settled down again.

A few moments later, prison officer Natalie removed her now cleaned toes from my mouth. Without delay she moved on to the next foot-cleaning stage: she pushed the bottom of her heel against my lips, and again, with the sole of her other
foot she none too gently face-slapped me in an authoritative and unmistakable instruction: Open up!

Obediently, I promptly complied ... And prison officer Natalie promptly inserted her heel, pushing, and pushing, until my straining, ever more widely opening mouth was accommodating as much of the bottom of her dirty, grubby heel as she
was able to shove into it. With the sole of her other foot she then face-slapped me again, in another tyrannical and unmistakable instruction: Suck my heel!

A tear of utter humiliation leaked from my right eye. I felt it dribble its way down my cheek ... It would be the first of many.

How low, I'd come!

My mouth was so crammed, so ramjam full with the dirty, grubby bottom of prison officer Natalie's heel, there was barely room for my foot-cleaning tongue to perform its dreadful work.

But as prison officer Melanie yet again recrossed her ankles with a careless, jarring uncushioned thud of one of her heels, right on top of my head, in availing herself of my under-the-table footrest service ... I did the best that I
could.

And so it was, that, to the accompanying sounds of prison officers Natalie and Melanie's dessert spoons chinking against their dessert bowls as they tucked into their third course Neapolitan ice-cream and strawberries, I tongue-scoured
clean the bottom of prison officer Natalie's dirty, grubby heel.

And, I had no choice, as I stared at the equally grubby ball of prison officer Natalie's foot, and at the undersides of her now clean toes – now-clean toes, that she tauntingly and triumphantly wiggled and scrunched, right in front of my
eyes – but to endure, mere inches from my face, the infuriating sounds of prison officer Melanie's thin-rubber soled flip flops, slap slap slap slapping away against the bottoms of her bare heels, as she used the top of my head as her
under-the-table footrest.

With time at a premium, prison officer Melanie now took her own turn at presenting the soles of her dirty bare feet to me to be tongue-cleaned ... While prison officer Natalie, now, availed herself of the top of my head, as her
conveniently positioned, under-the-table footrest.

The dirty soles and in-between-the-toes tastes of prison officer Melanie's feet – though again, very different, just as their foot odours were very different – were every bit as horrible as those of prison officer Natalie's: full of the
most vile, stomach-turning, over-ripe blue cheese flavours.

Nonetheless, I performed the same industrious and assiduous Table Service functions for prison officer Melanie, as I had for prison officer Natalie.

These foully abusive, vilely repugnant, horribly violating oral atrocities seemed to go on for much longer than they actually did: for just as long as it took prison officers Melanie and Natalie to consume their third course Neapolitan
ice-cream and strawberries.

Peering down under the dining table at me, licking her lips like the cat who'd just eaten the double cream, prison officer Melanie purred, "Mmmm! That Neapolitan ice-cream with strawberries was just divine! Officer Natalie and me really
enjoyed our third course. Did you, prisoner Lightwood? How was your third course? Was it nice? Hmm?"

"Y-yes, thank you, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "It ... it was very nice."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed prison officer Melanie. "I am so glad you enjoyed it, prisoner Lightwood. It's not every prisoner, you know, who enjoys the flavours of our dirty, sweaty feet."

"That's right!" agreed prison officer Natalie. "The tastes of prison officers' dirty, sweaty feet aren't everyone's cup of tea."

"Well, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Melanie agreeably. "Now it's time for our fourth course, to finish. Officer Natalie and me are having Italian-style coffee, with demerara sugar and fresh cream ... Ready for your fourth
course, now, to finish? Hmm, prisoner Lightwood?" inquired prison officer Melanie with mock pleasantness. "Well, it's coming right up: Licking clean the foam-rubber uppers of our dirty, sweat-stained flip flops ... Enjoy!"

As soon as prison officer Melanie had wished me a pleasant fourth course, to finish, with their toes prison officers Melanie and Natalie positioned their thin-rubber soled flip flops right under my face, where I could bow my head down
low to tongue-clean them.

"And don't forget the toe posts!" prison officer Melanie reminded me.

"No, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "I won't forget."

Upon which, prison officers Melanie and Natalie's faces disappeared from view ...

Right under my nose, I could smell both the unpleasant acrid and tangy, and the powerfully pungent cheesy fumes, that were emanating from prison officers Natalie and Melanie's well-worn flip flops.

But the smells were nothing, when compared to the tastes ...

The awful, terrible tastes of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's Greystone Prison issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, came as another heinous shock to the system: an unspeakable melange, of shockingly horrible, gut-churning
flavours that my tongue seemed to absorb like a sponge.

On their well-worn flip flops' spongy foam-rubber uppers, the appalling amalgamation of dirty, sweaty, filthy, soles-of-the-feet flavours were highly concentrated.

On the foam-rubber uppers of prison officer Natalie's flip flops, I experienced such a rancid tang, that was not just unbelievably unpleasant, but so sharply acidic on the tongue as to imbue a sensation of corrosive burning.

To make matters even worse, my hideous task was made all the harder, and all the more stressful and distressing to perform, from now having to support the combined weight of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's recumbent legs and
relaxing feet; their ankles frequently recrossing, as they used the back of my head, the back of my neck, and my shoulders as their under-the-table footrests.

And so it was, that, to the accompanying sounds of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's coffee cups chinking against their saucers as they enjoyed their fourth course Italian-style coffee with demerara sugar and fresh cream, to finish,
I licked clean ... as best as I could, the foam-rubber uppers of prison officers Melanie and Natalie's cheesy and vinegary, dirty, sweaty, filthy flip flops – toe-posts included.

And, I had no choice, as prison officers Melanie and Natalie used the back of my head, the back of my neck, and my shoulders as their conveniently positioned under-the-table footrest, but to listen to and endure, right up close, the
incessant, mega maddening sounds of their flexible thin-rubber soled flip flops, slap slap slap slap slapping away against the bottoms of their bare heels.

This, which to me seemed the most debasing and degrading, the most belittling, the most humiliating of my four-course afflictions, seemed to go on for a lot longer than it actually did: for just as long as it took prison officers Melanie
and Natalie to consume their fourth course Italian-style coffee with demerara sugar and fresh cream, to finish.

Peering down under the dining table at me, licking her lips in pleasure and satisfaction, prison officer Natalie said, "Mmmm! That Italian-style coffee with demerara sugar and fresh cream, was dreamy! Officer Melanie and me really
enjoyed our fourth course, to finish. Did you, prisoner Lightwood? How was your fourth course, to finish? Was it nice? Hmm?"

"It ... it was very nice, Miss Natalie," I said respectfully. "Thank you."

"Good!" exclaimed prison officer Natalie. "I am so glad you enjoyed your fourth course, to finish, prisoner Lightwood. Because it's not every prisoner, who is so appreciative. It's not every prisoner, who has such discerning taste: a
taste, for licking prison officers' dirty, sweaty, stinky flip flops – toe posts included. No, it isn't! It's not every prisoner, who finds them so agreeably flavoursome, we find."

"That's right" agreed prison officer Melanie. "Our flip flops aren't to every prisoner's taste!"

"Well ... I enjoyed them, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "Thank you."

"So ... I suppose you'd like us to release you from Table Service now, wouldn't you, prisoner Lightwood?" said prison officer Melanie.

"Maybe let you go and do a bit of light, hands-on work, down in the Foot Massage Room?" said prison officer Natalie. "Or assist prison officers' fitness and training exercises, down in the gymnasium?"

"Or maybe even just let you go back to your comfy little cell? For a nice, after-lunch nap? Hmm ...?" said prison officer Melanie. "You know, to let your stomach settle? I bet you could use a nice little lie-down now, couldn't you? After
your splendid four-course lunch?"

"Yes, Miss Melanie. Thank you," I said respectfully. "Yes, I would like that."

"Well, not a chance, prisoner Lightwood!" said prison officer Natalie nastily. "Not a chance!"

"Do you remember yesterday, in the Security Checkpoint building?" asked prison officer Melanie. "When you were grossly disrespectful towards officer Natalie and me, and we said that you needed a bit of straightening out? And that, today,
we were going to teach you a lesson? Well, guess what? We have arranged to have you left here, in-service," said prison officer Melanie maliciously.

"Governor Monroe took some persuading," prison officer Natalie told me. "She thought you had already suffered enough, when officer Bella Donna Ball-Busted you on the Wheel of Chastisement, for saying 'No' to her. But officer Melanie and
me managed to convince her that your insolent attitude towards us, too, needed to be promptly addressed. To nip in the bud your disrespectful, back-talking behaviour ... So now, courtesy of officer Melanie and me, you are going to remain
exactly where you are, prisoner Lightwood: Right through the remainder of lunchtime, through the staggered afternoon tea-breaks, and until after the prison officers' evening-meal break period is over, you are going to continue providing
Table Service."

"Yes, that's right. Do you see now, prisoner Lightwood?" said prison officer Melanie. "This is what you can bring down upon yourself, when your behaviour towards prison officers is less than impeccable. So now, by my estimations you are
going to be standing there, performing Table Service, for ... maybe the next seven or eight hours."

"Well, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Natalie, with a mock regretful sigh. "Officer Melanie and me must be getting along back to work now – there's no rest for the wicked! Thank you for a lovely meal. We must do it again soon!"

"Yes, absolutely!" agreed prison officer Melanie. "We certainly must. It's been delightful. But unfortunately we must leave the pleasure of your company now, prisoner Lightwood. But rest assured: you will be seeing plenty of officer
Natalie and me in the future. Maybe it'll even be as soon as this afternoon; if you happen to be vacant, we'll have you provide Table Service for us again, during our twenty-minute tea break."

"So, we'll leave you now, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Natalie. "We'll leave you to get on with your Table Service."

"Ah ... officer Siobhan is signalling over to us," said prison officer Melanie. "There are four more diners, waiting to take our places at Table Six. So of course you will provide Table Service for them next, prisoner Lightwood."

"Yes, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "Of course."

"So we'll bid you goodbye ... for now," said prison officer Natalie. "Until we have the pleasure of your company again."

"Yes. Goodbye, Miss Natalie. Goodbye, Miss Melanie," I said respectfully. "And ... thank you."

Prison officers Melanie and Natalie, and prison officers Nicolette and Julie too, now all slipped their pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops back on, and vacated Table 6.

A few moments later, the red leather bench seat just vacated by prison officers Melanie and Natalie, was once again occupied, by ... two civilian staff: Caterers.

And, without even bothering to look down under their table at me, as the two female civilian catering staff shucked their white cotton ankle-socked feet from their backless, white leather clog-like shoes, to settle down comfortably to
their Italian-themed four-course lunch ... I soon found myself 'catering', to them.

*

Dear reader,

the particular day's events that I shall now relate to you – events that, due to their enduring flashback-like vividness, even now to this day still pain and distress me to recall – occurred a year or so after I'd been admitted into
Greystone Prison.
I'll begin in my cell – Cell 16, Level 1. Sometime between 1 and 2 p.m. ...


"Your er ... modifications are still giving you a bit of gyp, are they, Len?" said my cellmate Ross, sympathetically. "I took a while to heal up, too. But it's been three months now, since your op."

"Ha! Modifications – what a damn liberty!" I said disgustedly. "But yeah, mate, I'm still a bit sore," I replied, fingering my jawlines and the middle of my chin agitatedly. "The problem is I wasn't allowed anything like the full
recommended post-op recovery time to heal up properly. The prison officers couldn't wait to try me out, could they? And then they couldn't leave me alone. I was too much of a novelty. In fact, I've been so used, overused, and downright
abused, it's a wonder I've healed up at all!"

"What about your painkillers, Len? Got any left?"

"No. Old Blathers has taken me off the painkillers. But there's only a bit of lingering tenderness now, that's all. It's ... it's just a hell of a thing to have to get used to. You know? My jaws and chin feel really weird, but I suppose
I'll get used to the new sensations eventually. But my mouth is no longer my own now, is it? Not really. I'll never be comfortable with that."

"Well, be thankful, Len – at least she let you keep your teeth!"

'She', of course, was prison officer Bella Donna – or, when Ross and I thought she was safely out of earshot, Poison Ivy.

And what Ross was talking about, with reference to teeth, was that prison officer Billie Jo had had the prison doctor (Dr Blatherhead, who doubled as a dentist) pull out all of his teeth, because he'd threatened to bite her foot if she
put it in his mouth.

Prison officer Billie Jo had afterwards preened and crowed, proprietorially.

Exulting execrably, she'd demonstrated to her spectating colleagues as to just how cock-a-hoop delighted she was with all of the luxurious extra "wiggle room" that prisoner Chapman's totally toothless mouth now afforded her feet ... And,
of course, the Foot Service availing feet of every other jailhouse blue prison officer in Greystone Prison.

Laughing – giggling girlishly – at the atrocious, hideous aftermath of her Governor-sanctioned dental handiwork, prison officer Billie Jo had nicknamed Ross 'Gummy'.

As pleased as Punch with the ineffable agreeableness of Ross's oral cavity "improvements", prison officer Billie Jo had recommended and encouraged prison officer Bella Donna to "Do a Gummy" with me: urged her to have me, too, subjected
to the same space-increasing dental demolition job. "You'll be glad you did!" she had fervently assured her colleague and co-conspirator in my and Ross's false imprisonment.

But prison officer Bella Donna had let me keep my teeth. Not for my own benefit – but for hers. So that, in addition to all of my other routine Foot Service attentions and ministrations, I could continue to orally exfoliate (gently and
carefully tooth-scrape free of dead skin) the soles of her already pampered-to-the-nth-degree feet.

But prison officer Bella Donna had nonetheless used another, and even more diabolically inventive method of achieving said desired increased roominess of oral cavity accommodation.

It being a bit beyond the more basic General Practitioner capabilities of Dr Blatherhead, Greystone Prison's doctor-cum-dentist, the services of an outsider specialist had been called upon to perform the "minor op".

In response to prison officer Bella Donna's special request, Governor Meredith Monroe had contacted nearby Brighton General Infirmary and requested to have me "treated" by one of their consultant orthopaedic surgeons.

Which was how, three months ago, my jaws came to have two of British Hearth and Home's Push & Lock stainless-steel telescopic pins surgically implanted in them.

Not being much in the way of a do-it-yourselfer, preferring instead to leave matters of maintenance, repair and improvements to people who actually know what they are doing, the general purposes of the DIY chain store's ratchet-wheel
operated stainless-steel telescopic pins were completely unknown to me.

But as to their application in my specific case, I did know the two-inch long stainless-steel telescopic pins' purpose: Their purpose was to facilitate the jailhouse blues – first and foremost prison officer Bella Donna – with more
easeful and much improved Foot Service oral access and accommodation.

Once prison officer Bella Donna had had the two specially adapted stainless-steel telescopic pins inserted into the living bone of my jaws, the prison officers no longer needed to bother to tell me to 'Open up!' or 'Open wide!' or 'Open
wider!'.

Instead, they were able to wordlessly self-select: to simply foot-operate my mouth's extra-generous accommodation capacity range as desired.

By first pressing the slightly raised nub in the centre of my chin (another of the orthopaedic surgeon's implants) push-button style by heel, ball of the foot, or by toes (by the pad of the big-toe was easier for most self-selecting
users) to engage two clasps to their respective stainless-steel pins' internal ratcheting wheel mechanisms, by heel, ball of the foot, or by toes (by heel was easier for most users) the foot-operating prison officers were then enabled to
lower my jaw as desired – up to the two telescopic pins' maximum extension limit of four and a half inches.

Then, upon a foot-operating prison officer having established her particular oral cavity extension requirements (usually fully open), and then releasing the downward pressure of her heel, ball of the foot, or big-toe (as the case may
be), as the two ratchet wheels' leading teeth then lodged fast in their respective cogwheels inside their stainless-steel pins' housings, thus my opened-up jaws were automatically locked to the desired specification of the particular
foot-operating prison officer.

Upon foot-operating prison officers having finished availing themselves of my Foot Service attentions, to then relinquish and restore temporary control of my own mouth to me once more, by heel, ball of the foot, or by big-toe they used
the same push-button style procedure in reverse.

Prison officer Bella Donna had afterwards exulted, proprietorially.

Enthusing fiendishly (and without even allowing me the orthopaedic surgeon's full prescribed post-op recovery time), prison officer Bella Donna had demonstrated to her spectating colleagues, as to just how over-the-moon delighted she was
with the much improved oral cavity accommodational comfort her automational Foot Service accessory now afforded her feet ... And, of course, the Foot Service availing feet of every other jailhouse blue prison officer in Greystone Prison.

Laughing – giggling girlishly – at the unspeakable, unconscionable, diabolical accomplishment of her Governor-sanctioned dental handiwork, prison officer Bella Donna had nicknamed me 'Jaws'.

And so, on top of Ross's dental "improvements", as inspired and instigated by prison officer Billie Jo, as word of prison officer Bella Donna's special-request implementation of my own oral cavity "modifications" got around on the prison
grapevine, prison officer partners Bella Donna and Billie Jo's already infamous reputations ballooned to dizzy new heights ... or, depending on one's point of view (such as mine and Ross's), plumbed to deplorable new depths.

Ross and me – prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna's mouth-modified bitches – were the laughing-stock of Greystone Prison: Prison officers, civilian office and catering staff – and even some of the prisoners – shared in the fun.

For committing three offences against the Authoritarian Female Party's latest Crimes Against Females legislation (albeit unknowingly – but an ignorance of the law is no defence), at one month per 'Ungentlemanly Conduct' transgression
under the new Female-Friendly Code, I'd been awarded a three-months' sentence, to be served at Greystone Prison ... and I was still there, a year on.

Why? Because of the succession of thought up, made up, dreamed up, trumped-up charges brought against me with malevolent intent by prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! To "retain" me indefinitely. So as to "mould" me – into her own
idea of a perfect foot slave.

And because of prison officer Billie Jo's similarly motivated string of totally fabricated, maliciously concocted, vilely invented charges against him, Ross was in exactly the same diabolical predicament as myself.

At this point in time, because of prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's extra-prison-time incurring trumped-up charges – charges, that Governor Meredith Monroe, in her office-cum-courtroom had upheld, waving away dismissively and
disparagingly both my and Ross's desperate and despairing protestations of total innocence as she imposed due sanction – we'd both had another four years to serve ...

Finally shaking off the dejectful thoughts of my mournful reverie, I said to Ross, "So, mate, what do you think the blues have got lined up for us today? What do you think they've got in mind? I mean, if they were going to take us down
to the Staff Canteen to provide Table Service, I think they'd have come for us before now. Lunch must be nearly over."

"I don't know, Len. The Governor is a bit lax today. For some reason I haven't received my usual copy of the prison officers' work assignment schedule from her office yet," said Ross dryly. "The blues seem to have forgotten to apprise me
of their itineraries for today, as well."

"Oh, very droll ... Well, have a guess then," I said. "It worries me, Ross, when the blues are as quiet as this. It usually means they are up to something."

Sometimes, I didn't know which was worse: being suddenly and harshly ordered to assume the position for Foot Service by the arrogant, imperious, authoritarian Levels-patrolling jailhouse blues prison officers – or not!

"I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. It could be anything ... Maybe we'll be taken down to the gymnasium to assist in the prison officers' fitness and training exercises," Ross ventured, humouring me. "Or maybe we'll be taken to
serve in the Foot Massage Room, to perform some real, actual hands-on foot massage – we haven't done that, for a few days. But Len, you can always count on one thing: the blues will have us doing something horrible and humiliating!"

"Well, as long as it's not Table Service – I hate that! Anything but that!" I said feelingly.

"You've never really gotten over that, have you, Len? It still haunts you, doesn't it? That day, in the Staff Canteen, the first time you provided Table Service? For prison officers Melanie and Natalie? When, on only your second day
here, after you'd provided Table Service for them during their lunch break, they told you they'd arranged with the Governor to leave you there. To leave you there, standing on that top step, providing Table Service at Table Six, right
through until after the prison officers' evening-meal break period was over? To straighten you out?"

"Oh, don't remind me, mate! Yes, it still haunts me. And I—"

"And prison officers Julie and Nicolette – who I'd provided Table Service for – had asked prison officers Avril and Siobhan, who were on Door Duty, to let me return to our cell straight afterwards? Even though they were undermanned, that
day, on the Table Service front? Just to help rub in prison officers Melanie and Natalie's punishment all the more?"

"Yes! That day!" I said, in increasing agitation. Agitation, resultant of being reminded of a day I dearly wished I could forget.

It was a disturbing, grievous agitation of mind, that I always underwent when remembering with such incredible lucidity the day of my introduction to the heinous requirements, unspeakable traumas, and humiliating impositions of Table
Service: under-the-table Foot Service.

Thanks to my photographic-like memory, it was with vivid, crystal-clear clarity of recall that I could remember each and every one of the diabolical subjugations I'd been forced to endure on that awful, unforgettable day ...

That long, long day in the Staff Canteen, providing 'Table Service' at Table 6, at the terribly tormenting, awfully abusing feet of the lunch, staggered afternoon tea-break, and evening-meal partaking jailhouse blue prison officers ...
Starting with prison officers Melanie and Natalie, who had bagsed firsts, and pre-booked me for lunch.

"And punishment for what, Ross? They told me I had an attitude problem. But to this day, I still don't know what I'd said to get into prison officers Melanie and Natalie's bad books – the reason why they wanted to 'straighten me out'."

"Ah, Len, mate!" said Ross, in tones of pained exasperation, as though I was missing the glaringly obvious.

"What?" I said.

"You must know by now, mate: the blues don't need a reason!"

"But, I—"

"Do you think you were the first prisoner, who prison officers' Melanie and Natalie have 'straightened out'? Do you think you'll be the last ...? The moment we enter Greystone Prison, Len, is the moment we enter their bad books. Simply
for the reasons we've been sent to this so-called correctional and rehabilitation facility: failing to demonstrate 'due propriety', where females are concerned."

"Yes, but—"

"But if you want to know the real, true reason, Len, for the blues' dyed-in-the-wool downer against you ...?"

"Ha! Okay ... I'm listening."

"If you want to know the main, actual reason, behind their open hostility ...?"

"Go on, then. Tell me."

"All right, Len. I'll tell you. If you want to know the Number One reason, for the prison officers' displaying such antipathy towards you; if you want to know the hair-trigger, for their constant bullying, victimisation, and over-the-top
subjugation of you – I'll tell you."

"This'll be interesting."

"The simple reason why you, Len, tend to spark off seemingly unwarranted displays of the blues' meanest and nastiest and cruelest character traits ... is because of your appeal to women. There – that's why."

"Ha ha ha! So that's why the blues are always showering me with kisses, whispering sweet nothings, and giving me come-to-bed eyes!" I said sardonically.

"I'm serious!" said Ross. "That's the simple reason."

"Because of my ... Oh, come on, Ross. I've never heard, such a—"

"Wait, Len – hear me out. Don't you see, mate? That's why so many of the prison officers here have really got it in for you – they are the ones with the attitude! They are the ones who need straightening out.

"See, Len ... for one reason or another, the blues are all male averse. They have all got a bee in their bonnet, about men."

"No kidding! Ross, I think I've cottoned on, to—"

"Len – listen!"

"Okay, okay ..."

"Some of the blues, Len, have got some sort of ... I don't know, some kind of anti-male gene hardwired into their psychological makeup. See, Len? It's just the way they are – right from birth. It's in their psyche.

"And some of the blues, well, they are the way they are, because of their ... life experiences, with some total slimeball man, or men. For those blues, it's all about payback.

"After all, that's their main and most important qualification for working here: whether instinctively, or vengefully motivated, they all have the unquenchable desire to control, dominate, subjugate, and hurt men – to bring us to heel.

"And to them, Len, you are a prime, red-rag-to-a-bull specimen, who must be singled out for their special attentions ...

"That's why the catty, bitchy blues have really got it in for you. They want to get their claws into you, bring you down, trample you underfoot – and then victory-pose. See, Len? The blues' bringing-to-heel, trampling-underfoot,
victory-posing superior posturings are the outward signs of their instinctively or vengefully motivated raison d'etre."

"So the blues' overriding, hardwired or payback ambition, is to bring all males to heel? But especially the good-looking ones ... such as my good self?" I said.

"Yes, it is ... See, Len, in Greystone Prison your animal-magnetism attraction to women works against you. It's a handicap, not an advantage. That's the sad fact of the matter. Your Adonis-like handsomeness is a negative, not a positive.
Your God's-gift-to-women good looks are a minus, not a plus. In short: your Golden-Boy sex-appeal is not a blessing – it's a curse."

"Oh, listen to Sigmund Freud! And anyway, Ross, don't be daft – I'm not that good looking!"

"Well, a lot of the prison officers here think you are, and it's their opinion that counts.

"And the blues know exactly what you are missing, don't they, Len, here in Greystone? Eh ...? A bit of slap and tickle. A spot of rompy pompy. Getting your leg over. Dipping your wick ...

"As prison officer Billie Jo told you: your days of gallivanting are over. No more notches on your bedpost. No more casual sex. No more thrills of the chase. Your girl hunting, skirt-chasing escapades are a thing of the past. Your
carefree days of sowing wild oats are no more ... All of the above: consigned to history."

"Ross, mate, can we talk about something else?"

"And the blues love to remind you of it! Don't they ...? They get off, don't they, on teasing you, on titillating you – on arousing you? On letting you see – but never touch! They love to make you want them, to make you desire them – to
make you lust after them.

"You are perfect prey for them, Len. And why? Because they know your Achilles' heel. You made it too obvious to them.

"And the blues certainly exploit it, don't they? They know the best way to taunt you. The best way to goad you. The best way to make you crave them. Don't they ...?"

"Oh, come off it, Ross. You are talking a load of—"

"No, I'm not – and you know it. The prison officers here love bringing the good-looking prisoners down a peg or three. It's what they're like – it's in their psyche. Or on their vengeance-agenda. And they certainly make no secret of it!

"Take prison officer Siobhan, for instance. She wanted you for her own bitch, remember? So maybe it's lucky for you that you were already taken."

"Lucky!" I exclaimed incredulously. "That I was already taken – by Poison Ivy?"

"Yes, yes, I know, Len, I know ... But prison officer Siobhan? I don't know who is worse: that angel-faced ballkicker, prison officer Victoria, aka The Ruinator, who wants your balls – and I'll make a prediction now: one day she'll have
them! Or prison officer Siobhan, who wants you to keep them – just so that you can carry on, well ... worshiping her."

"Ross, mate, prison officer Siobhan? She's—"

"She's got a thing about you – and you know it! How can you not? It's like she's obsessed with you. She can't leave you alone ... especially when she's patrolling the Levels, on Night Duty."

"Ross, mate—"

"Honestly, she must be as mad as a hatter ... Telling you that she knows you love her; and repeatedly ordering you out of your bunk, summoning you to assume the position for Foot Service, cuffing your wrists to the cell's bars – and
letting you see her pussy. Telling you: 'Hi, dreamboat!' And: 'Take a good look up my skirt – man of the world!' And: 'Get a good eyeful of my pussy – ladies' man!'

"And then afterwards, when she uncuffs your wrists to let you get back in your bunk, and says: 'Now, prisoner Lightwood – go and worship me!', you do exactly that, don't you? Eh ...? Straight away, you're ... at it. Doing prison officer
Siobhan's bidding. Worshiping her. Paying your ... devotions. Aren't you? You can't leave it alone – doing exactly what she wants."

"Ross, mate—"

"You know what I think? I think it's reciprocal. It must be! I think you've got a thing for her, too. You must have! I think you are just as crazy about prison officer Siobhan, as she is about you – you have to be! That's why you let her
win, every time."

"Th-that's why, I let her ... Ross, mate, you can take it from me: she's a looker, yes. A real doll, for sure. A glamour babe – you bet! But I'm not crazy about prison officer Siobhan. I haven't got 'a thing' for her. Far from it!"

"You can't fool me, Len."

"How could I? How could I, have 'a thing' for her? I mean, given what she puts me through: her upskirt-view teasing; her pussy-flaunting taunting; her you-can-look-but-never-touch goading – how could I?"

"Because you are her dream man, Len – the one and only exception, I've noticed, to her man-hating rule ... And she is your dream girl. Do you know what I think, Len? Eh ...? I think prison officer Siobhan is right. I think she's bang on
the money: I think it's love."

"Ah ... I have a healthy respect for prison officer Siobhan, that's all. Just as I have a healthy respect for any other prison officer – and yes: even including Poison Ivy and BJ – who also drive me nuts with lust and frustration.

"And ... and I don't let prison officer Siobhan win. I just ... can't help it. With legs like hers ..."

"See, Len? You just admitted it! You've got a thing for her – for prison officer Siobhan. An unhealthy respect."

"Ross, I admitted no such thing. All I said, was that I—"

"You know what prison officer Billie Jo told me, Len? That I'm lucky. Lucky I'm a virgin. Because I don't know what I'm missing. And that, for as long as I'm her bitch, she'll make sure I remain a virgin."

"Ross, mate, don't go there. It won't do any good, to dwell on your—"

"Know what else prison officer Billie Jo told me? Why I'm so lucky? She said I'm lucky I'm not like you, Len. You are the real deal, she said. A real hunk, who's incredibly attractive to women. See? Even she thinks so – her!

"According to her, you ooze sex-appeal. You're a heartthrob. A genuine ladykiller. A real heartbreaker, who's really been around. She said it's a million times worse for you, in Greystone, because of the sheer, intolerable frustration
you must go through, every single day ... because unlike me, you know what you are missing."

"Ross, mate, don't let her get to you. It's a transparent tactic. Don't you see? She's just saying that, to try and crush your spirit. To lower your self-esteem. To make you feel unmanly. To make you feel inadequate. To—"

"But guess what, Len? I think prison officer Billie Jo might be right. Maybe I am lucky ...

"Lucky, that I'm not a heartthrob. Lucky, that I'm not an incredibly attractive, sex-appeal oozing ladykiller who's really been around, breaking women's hearts – if it means I won't feel such irresistible need to pull and tug and yank
away at myself, every single night. I mean, who needs that?"

"Ross, mate—"

"Len, have you ... have you thought about applying to the Governor, for the ... chemical castration option, mate?"

"No! I couldn't! And don't exaggerate – it's not every night, Ross! Well ... not every single night."

"Len, don't deny it! It is every night! I'm in the bunk above you – in case you've forgotten!"

"Ross, mate—"

"Keeping me awake, half the night, with your pull pull pulling, and your tug tug tugging, and your yank yank yanking! And you know what they say, don't you, Len? If you keep on ... doing it? Night, after night, after night ...?
Eventually, you'll go—"

"Blind ...?" said prison officer Billie Jo, accompanied by prison officer Bella Donna.

Like a pair of blood-freezing apparitions, our 'mistresses' had suddenly materialised in front of our cell, revealing their lurking, maltentful presence to us.

Oh-oh, I thought worriedly. This was always the danger we faced, whenever we lowered our guard for a moment and risked talking openly: you never knew who might be listening.

The $64,000 question was: How long had prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo been listening? Ross and I could be in big trouble here, depending on just how much they'd overheard during their sly, sneaky eavesdropping.

"Up! Get up out of those chairs, prisoners Lightwood and Chapman – now!" shrilled prison officer Bella Donna. "You will stand, in the presence of prison officers! You will demonstrate due propriety, where females are concerned!"

Ross and I got up out of our tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chairs, folded them up and leaned them against the wall. "Yes, Miss Bella Donna," we said respectfully.

Ross and I then stayed where we were, maintaining as best we could our distance from the sinister duo's baleful glares. Standing passively with our arms down by our sides, and staring respectfully down at prison officers Bella Donna and
Billie Jo's feet, we waited in dread to learn the worst.

"Blind? Is that what you were going to say – Gummy? You ignorant, cretinous fool," sniped prison officer Billie Jo derisively.

"That is just one of those ridiculous urban myths. Circulated by idiots – and believed only by the most imbecilic and credulous of fools. So it's just the sort of puerile nonsense I'd expect to hear from you. So now, I will tell you this
once, and once only: it is the prerogative of every Greystone Prison inmate to jack off. Got that – Gummy? If we wanted to keep you all quiet, we'd put something in your tea. Wouldn't we?"

"Ye-yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, sounding a little nervous. "I suppose you would. I'm sorry, Miss Billie Jo. I-I was just—"

"If your cellmate wants to take things in hand, and jerk off to us prison officers – leave him to it! If he wants to wank himself stupid, pulling and tugging and yanking away at himself, in his miserable bunk every night – let him get on
with it! If he wishes to express his reverence, adulation and adoration of us prison officers, by performing a nightly devotional sacrificial ritual – that is a matter for him! Who are you, to interfere?"

Oh-oh, I thought again. It sounded as though prison officer Billie Jo had got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.

Prison officer Billie Jo was permanently on the warpath ... looking for a skirmish.

And by the sound of things, she'd overheard plenty ... this could only go badly.

"I'm – I'm sorry, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "I'm sure I ... I'm sure I didn't mean, to—"

"Your cell mate's masturbation habits do not concern you!"

"No, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, now starting to look and sound decidedly rattled. "I ... I can see that now. I'm sorry. I'm very—"

"If, as a result of his daily stimulations at the feet of us prison officers – for whom I was pleased to hear just now he confesses a healthy respect – prisoner Lightwood finds himself at the end of his tether, and for the sake of his
own sanity he needs to capitulate and succumb to the inevitable – that is his business!"

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "Absolutely. I'm ... I – I didn't mean, to—"

"If, resultant of his enforced removal from the happy hunting grounds of his usual sexual intercourse outlets, prisoner Lightwood now finds himself so intolerably frustrated by his prison-officer instigated sexual urges that he feels his
only recourse is to literally take things into his own hands, and to solemnly self-relieve – that is his affair!"

"Ye-yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "I'm ... I'm very sorry. I stand corrected. I ... I wasn't ... I didn't mean, to—"

"Prisoner Chapman! Your cellmate must be allowed to attend to his devotional ejaculations – exactly as he sees fit! And without any interference from you! If prisoner Lightwood is so fervently driven by his worshipful impulses – leave
him be!"

"Ye-yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "Of course."

"If prisoner Lightwood wishes to bestow upon us prison officers, the ultimate accolade: to worshipfully donate a precious token of the very essence of himself, while thinking adoringly of the highly desirable female charms of officer
Siobhan – or while thinking with such sexual intensity about me, or officer Bella Donna, or any other prison officer – that is his choice! It is no concern of yours! It is not for you, to propound the advisability of chemical castration.
Understand ...? Do not make me repeat myself! I said: Do you understand?"

"Ye-yes, Miss Billy Jo. I ... I understand," said Ross respectfully, bright red in the face now, and looking almost completely unnerved.

"Or perhaps, prisoner Chapman, you would rather wish prisoner Lightwood rendered impotent ...? Wish him physically incapable of adoring us, in the only way that we have left open to him? Hmm ...?

"Perhaps, prisoner Chapman, you would like us to take the lead out of your cell mate's pencil? Perhaps you would prefer your cellmate divested, of his one remaining outlet? Deprived, of the one and only method we permit him, of sexually
expressing his indisputably true feelings towards us? Perhaps you would like us to dispossess him of the necessary wherewithal, for bestowing upon myself, or officer Bella Donna, or officer Siobhan – or any other prison officer – the
ultimate accolade?"

"Um ... no, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "I ... I wouldn't want that."

Prison officer Billie Jo was really getting to Ross. There was no question about it.

When she put her mind to it, prison officer Billie Jo could crush Ross. When she was in the mood, she could turn him into a tottering pile of human rubble. Reduce him to a trembling, coming-apart-at-the-seams, blubbering wreck.

And she was in the mood now ... and putting her mind to it.

Over the past fifteen months of his incarceration, too many times Ross had found himself in this dreadful situation. Bearing the brunt, whenever prison officer Billie Jo got out of the wrong side of the bed.

Ross had borne the brunt often enough by now, to know that his sense of self-esteem, his self-respect – his very sense of self-worth – could not hold up to the terrible unleashing of prison officer Billie Jo's true and unrestrained
personality and presence.

As I had witnessed on numerous occasions, this past year, Ross (who put a brave face on things, but actually was very easily hurt) simply could not stand up to the beautiful but terrible young woman who had so diabolically imposed
herself on him.

And in truth, I was no better off: I was right under the cruelly subjugating heel of prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy!

It was no contest. But how could it be, in the circumstances? When the deck was so stacked against us. When prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna held all of the cards – and Ross and me were their pair of jokers?

My tragically fated cellmate was trying to put a brave face on it now. As he always did.

But I knew Ross well enough by now, to know that he was already struggling. That he was becoming very upset, at the dangerous direction this unlooked for and unwanted confrontation with his 'mistress' was taking.

All of the tell-tale signs were showing. I could tell he was becoming traumatised. Visibly reeling, as prison officer Billie Jo continued to impose upon him her dreadful overbearing personality and greatly disturbing presence.

It was increasingly obvious to me that my cellmate was in very real trouble now. Obvious, that he was fighting a losing battle. Another losing battle. It was yet another re-run of a battle he had fought before, with prison officer Billie
Jo. The battle he always lost. The battle he could never win.

It was increasingly obvious to me that Ross's studied attitude of humbleness, respectfulness, and reverence towards prison officer Billie Jo was becoming ever more difficult to maintain. Ever more difficult, to sustain the facade. Ever
more difficult, to perform the charade. Under the prolonged strain of such diabolical duress, Ross's carefully composed mask of sincerity was visibly slipping.

Helplessly, I could only stand by and watch, as I recognised the succession of danger signs that told me my sensitive cell mate's paper-thin carapace was cracking.

Ross just couldn't handle it. He just couldn't take it. He was just too thin-skinned. He just didn't have it in him, to withstand such sustained, monstrous pressure.

Ross was definitely losing it, I thought, sadly.

No question: he was about to give way, fold, and cave in. About to collapse, from prison officer Billie Jo's remorseless mental pummelling. Lips trembling, cheeks burning, eyes shining, Ross was right on the verge of losing it – right on
the verge of blubbing.

Yes – there was no doubt about it: Ross was visibly quailing now, before prison officer Billie Jo. Visibly reeling, from the relentless, vicious and vindictive onslaught of his cruel and sadistic subjugator.

Visibly reeling, from the cutting verbal lashings of the even meaner than usual, getting-out-of-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed prison officer Billie Jo.

Visibly reeling, from the hurtful haranguing of his venomous-tongued 'mistress'.

Visibly reeling, from his wicked tormentress' withering, belittling put-down.

Visibly reeling, from prison officer Billie Jo's browbeating.

"I ... I'm very sorry, M-Miss B-Billie Jo," Ross apologised respectfully, his bottom lip trembling uncontrollably, his face almost maroon.

"Just look at him, BJ," sneered prison officer Bella Donna. "Have you ever seen anyone so gutless? So wimpy? So unmanly? I thought it was his teeth you'd removed, BJ – not his backbone! The miserable, pathetic wretch!"

At witnessing Ross's diabolical plight, I could feel my eyes forming their own sympathetic tears.

"And what's the matter with you – Jaws?" snapped the never-missing-a-thing prison officer Bella Donna, scornfully, now turning her baleful attention to me.

"Nothing, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

"If you want to cry – cry along with Gummy – I'll soon give you something to cry about!" she told me. "Do you hear me – crybaby?"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully. "I hear you."

I may have been about to leak a sympathetic tear. But Ross was starting to come apart at the seams – un-stitched, by prison officer Billie Jo.

"Y-you are ... right, of course, Miss Billie Jo," Ross blubbed, failing miserably to hold it together. "As ... as always. I – I shouldn't interfere, in another prisoner's ... business. I ... I just thought, that, too much ... self-
relief, would eventually—"

"You just thought – Gummy?" snapped prison officer Billie Jo with sneering contempt. "Well don't! Look where your irrational thinking has got you in the past! Have you learned nothing? Have you learned nothing, this past year, despite
having had the benefit of being taken under my wing? Despite my taking a special interest in you, because you are a slow learner? Despite my Ball-Busting you, to put a thinking-cap on your head? Ball-Busting you, to expunge irrational
thoughts from your mind? Ball-Busting you, in your own best interests? To help you to see the errors of your ways? To help you to see reason? To get you to think straight – think coherently and logically? Have you forgotten all of the
lessons of my personal-tutor teachings? All of the lessons of my one-to-one instruction, pursuant to the concept of propriety, where females are concerned? Has all of my hard work in your behalf been to no avail, then? All for nothing?
Oh, prisoner Chapman, please tell me I'm wrong!" wailed prison officer Billie Jo in mock despair.

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna delightedly. "You are too much, BJ! Ha ha ha ha! Really – you are a scream!"

"My decision to apply to the Governor for permission to Ball-Bust you, wasn't taken lightly," prison officer Billie Jo now told Ross, with every appearance of seriousness. "Only, after agonising through a prolonged period of painful,
difficult, stressful soul-searching, did I regretfully decide upon the ultimate chastisement. I was being cruel to be kind, prisoner Chapman. It hurt me, a lot more than it hurt you."

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna. In her doubled-over-at-the-waist, tickled-pink merriment, she squealed, "Oh – BJ!"

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were having fun. But Ross was under no illusions as to the seriousness of his situation. Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were two laughing tigresses. When they stopped laughing ...

"Miss Billie Jo, I – I did learn! I have learned! And I – I haven't forgotten your ... teachings. And, thank you, Miss Billie Jo, for ... for taking me under your wing. And for ... for Ball-Busting some sense into me."

"Well, Gummy ... by the looks of things, I'm thinking I might have to Ball-Bust you again. To refresh your memory. Because you seem to be relapsing! All of the evidence is there, pointing that way. All of the give-away, tell-tale signs –
pointing to relapse!"

"No! No, Miss Billie Jo. I'm not relapsing. I—"

"Irrational thoughts are returning to your mind – that's what I call relapsing! Forgetting the errors of your ways – that's what I call relapsing! Sticking your nose in, where it doesn't belong – that's what I call relapsing! Oh – and
talking out of turn, about us prison officers! That's definitely what I call relapsing!"

"No! I'm not relapsing! I'm not, Miss Billie Jo! I – I wasn't ... I mean, I'm not—"

"Ha ha ha ha!" guffawed prison officer Bella Donna, convulsing in fresh gales of helpless laughter and tickled-pink giggling. "BJ ... Really!"

Pointing to the two tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chairs leaning against the cell's wall, her uncontrollable mirth barely allowing her to get the words out, prison officer Bella Donna said, "Jaws! Pass me ... ha ha ha! Pass me
... one of those folding chairs ... I need to sit down! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully, obediently doing her bidding.

"These are all early-warning signs, prisoner Chapman," continued prison officer Billie Jo. "Warning signs, that, at great expense to the male UK taxpayer I have been highly trained to detect, diagnose, act upon – and rectify. Irrefutable
warning signs, that—"

"Miss Billie Jo! No! I—"

"Irrefutable warning signs, that cannot be ignored. Dangerous warning signs, that cannot go unchecked. These are all red-alert warning signs, prisoner Chapman, that you are no longer—"

"No, Miss Billie Jo! I—"

"— listening to us! Warning signs, prisoner Chapman, that you have become inattentive! Warning signs, that you are no longer absorbing the messages of our daily teachings!"

"Absolutely right, BJ!" agreed prison officer Bella Donna from where she was seated now, in the tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chair I'd just passed to her through the cell's bars. "He hasn't listened to a single word you've
said, BJ – he can't have!"

"I'm – I'm sorry, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "I ... I am listening."

"Listening, perhaps – but not heeding! Not taking on board! Not absorbing! Not taking to heart!"

"Absolutely right!" agreed prison officer Bella Donna again. "It's obvious!"

"Because I am seeing too many troubling warning signs, prisoner Chapman," prison officer Billie Jo informed Ross ominously.

"So am I, BJ," said prison officer Bella Donna. "So am I."

"Warning signs, that you do not, in your heart of hearts, subscribe to our doctrine. Warning signs, that you reject the fundamental principles of our female-friendly ideology. Warning signs, that, far from being an adherent, not only do
you not cherish, but you actually pooh pooh our Utopian values. In short: red-alert warning signs, prisoner Chapman, that you are not taking to heart the concept of propriety, where females are concerned."

"Miss Billie Jo, I do! I mean, I—"

"These are all little, give-away signs, prisoner Chapman. Little, tell-tale signs, that you are no longer seeing reason. Small, but reliable indicators, that your thinking-cap is slipping. Incontestable snippets of proof, that you are no
longer thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. Indisputable evidence, that irrational thoughts are once again loose on your mindscape, and roaming at will along your cerebral corridors. In short: incontrovertible proof –
of relapse!"

Prison officer Bella Donna, now sitting more comfortably with her right leg crossed over her left leg, and her dangling pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop repeatedly and irritatingly slap slap slap slapping against the bottom of her
bare heel, said, "Yes, BJ. That's my take on it, too." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"In fact, (slap slap slap slap ...) it's as clear and obvious a case of resisting and rejecting our female-friendly doctrinal teachings as I've seen. And for so blatantly renouncing our precious ideology; our concept of propriety, where
females are concerned, if I was you, BJ, I'd give Gummy another good Ball-Bust on the Wheel of Chastisement. Increased punishment, too, for a second offence. (Slap slap slap slap ...) I'm sure Governor Monroe would authorise your
request. No problem – especially with my first-hand witness backup testimony. (Slap slap slap slap ...) And if you do apply to the Governor to have Gummy Ball-Busted, I certainly hope she selects me as one of the members of the caning-
party – I'll give his bare bottom one hell of a caning!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Well ..." said prison officer Billie Jo, with every appearance of reluctant consideration. "I suppose it's worth thinking about."

"I sense your misgivings, BJ. (Slap slap slap slap ...) And I quite appreciate your dilemma," said prison officer Bella Donna, with every appearance of genuine colleague-to-colleague interdependent collaboration and empathetic
understanding.

"Our decisions to Ball-Bust prisoners are never taken lightly. (Slap slap slap slap ...) And only ever, as a last resort, when all of the less drastic therapeutic treatment options have been duly exhausted. (Slap slap slap slap ...)
Only, is it after the most emotionally-draining bout of fair-minded mental wrestling; of scales-of-justice balancing, that we reluctantly decide upon awarding a prisoner the ultimate chastisement. And why? It is as you said, BJ: it hurts
us, a lot more than it hurts them." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

Well ... you little liar! I thought. A last resort?

"But this is a clear-cut case, BJ. As clear as they come. (Slap slap slap slap ...) There is no cause for inward struggle. Not in this instance. (Slap slap slap slap ...) So don't go beating yourself up again, BJ – over him! Don't go
exhausting yourself again, with thinking it through. Don't go stressing yourself out again, with any more prolonged periods of painful, difficult soul-searching. Running away at the mouth, the way he was – Gummy absolutely deserves it!"
(Slap slap slap slap ...)

"No!" cried Ross desperately. "No, Miss Billie Jo! Please!"

In dire dread of being Ball-Busted on the dreaded Wheel of Chastisement a second time by prison officer Billie Jo (which would also entail "one hell of a caning" by the attendant twelve-prison-officer caning-party), Ross went to the bars
of our cell, and got beseechingly to his knees at the feet of his heinous antagonist.

Kneeling reverently, and staring down respectfully at the tops of prison officer Billie Jo's olive-complexioned feet, Ross pleaded, "No! No, Miss Billie Jo! No! Please! I'm not relapsing! I – I thought it was good advice! I – I was only
trying to be helpful. I ... I only meant, to—"

"Shut up!" prison officer Billie Jo yelled down at my reverently kneeling cellmate. "Just shut up – Gummy!" she yelled contemptuously. "There's only so much of your miserable whining I can take! Just shut up, you pathetic, snivelling
little toerag! Just shut up!"

As Ross stared down respectfully and silently at prison officer Billie Jo's feet, I saw that his body was shaking, wracked by sobs caused by prison officer Billie Jo's cruel browbeating.

"Just look at him! Just listen to him, BJ!" (Slap slap slap slap ...) "I've never seen such a wimp!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

Prison officer Billie Jo then slipped her right foot from her pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop. Raising her right foot to Ross's chin, with the tops of her toes she tilted back his compliant, unresisting head, obliging him to look
up through the cell's bars at her achingly beautiful, but cruel and implacable face. Terrified, as though beholding the doom laden gaze of the snake-haired Medusa, fearfully he averted his eyes from hers.

The embodiment of belligerence, prison officer Billie Jo looked down on my wickedly subjugated cellmate. With brutal harshness, she snapped, "Gummy! Look at me!"

And so now, things had just gotten much worse: As prison officer Billie Jo held his red and blotchy, tear-streaked face in place with the tops of her toes, Ross had no choice, but to behold her dreadful, malevolent gaze. Had no option,
but to look up into her dark, maltentful eyes. Was forced, to stare up at the merciless, incompassionate windows of her soul.

"You, prisoner Chapman, are your own worst enemy. You are the only prisoner to have said 'No' to me twice. Which in and of itself is an irrefutable measure of your unparalleled obtuseness ... but not only that.

"No, not only that ... Because it is also a starkly revealing indicator, to us, as to your incorrigible nature. An invaluable insight, into your inherent, leopard-can't-change-its-spots psyche."

"Exactly right, BJ." (Slap slap slap slap ...) "We've got his number." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"An extremely reliable sign, prisoner Chapman, revealing your inborn resistant, rejectful, die-hard rebelliousness. The sheer resentfulness, that is responsible for triggering your repeated acts of disrespect, disobedience and
noncompliance. And responsible also, for your evident non-absorption of our daily instructional female-friendly teachings and tutorials."

"Yes, BJ, that's exactly what I think," agreed prison officer Bella Donna. "I'm with you on that. (Slap slap slap slap ...) To think, that he hasn't taken on board a single word we've ever said!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"In and of itself, the very fact of your saying 'No' to me twice, prisoner Chapman, provides us with a high degree of enlightenment," prison officer Billie Jo informed Ross.

"It enlightens us, as to your prevailing off-the-rails mental condition. It enlightens us, as to your real, behind-the-mask attitude, towards your female-friendly indoctrinal programming. It throws light: bright, revealing, forensic
light – upon your carefully hidden and cunningly disguised persona. In short: it enlightens us, prisoner Chapman, that you do not believe in, have no time for, and reject with all of your heart – the concept of propriety, where females
are concerned."

"That's right – Gummy!" agreed prison officer Bella Donna. "You are a fraud! But we can see right through you!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"You are out of tune, out of sorts – out of order!" prison officer Billie Jo told Ross. "And I am telling you now, prisoner Chapman: I am going to fix you!

"Using any and all necessary correctional-chastisement methods and tools, I will determinedly and tirelessly troubleshoot, diagnose, and effect the necessary modifications to your off-kilter thought processing apparatus.

"I shall adjust your wayward synaptic settings, prisoner Chapman. I shall realign all of your receptors – retune them to what I, personally deem to be perfect working order. I shall re-calibrate you. Customise you, as it were. In short:
I will change your spots.

"And then I shall determinedly and tirelessly go on, keeping your customised thought-processing apparatus functioning in perfect working order. Keeping your cerebral engine well-oiled, as it were. Just a bit of remedial tweaking and
tinkering, every now and then, should do it. To keep you running smoothly. To keep your mental motor in tip-top, trouble free condition. Trouble free, that is – to me! Call it routine maintenance ...

"So, prisoner Chapman. In future you'd be wise to leave the thinking to me – I'll do your thinking for you. I think you'll find it a lot less problematical. And a lot safer, too: you might get Ball-Busted a bit less often."

Ross's face had now gone a deeper, even more furious shade of red ... as if he was about to react. As if he was about to rebel, against his diabolical treatment.

But, as he was obliged to continue looking up into the seemingly all-seeing and all-knowing eyes of his cruel, taunting, goading nemesis – the seemingly all-seeing and all-knowing eyes, of his dominant, all-powerful 'mistress' – if Ross
was harbouring ideas of his own as to who was his worst enemy, he was very wisely keeping them to himself.

"Of – of course. I'm very sorry, Miss Billie Jo. I – I wasn't thinking ... I mean, I—"

"In fact – Gummy! – for your latest transgression, if it wasn't for the reason that I want to kick you in the balls from time to time; not just for the sheer, delicious pleasure and satisfaction it gives me, but also because it is the
easiest way of ensuring the uninterrupted continuance of your total, servile obedience to me, and your bowed, extreme reverence, I would have you castrated – surgically. Do you hear me – Gummy? Did you hear what I just said?"

Almost instantly, all of the furious colour had drained out of Ross's face. He'd gone from beetroot red to snow white, in less time than it took a Levels patrolling jailhouse blue to say: 'Assume the position for Foot Service!'.

"That's right – Gummy! But first, I'd let officer Victoria ruin you – ball-kick you to ruination. But she wouldn't make short work of you. Oh, no. She'd take her own, sweet time. And then I'd remove what was left, after she'd finished
with you ... the pulverised remains. And then your balls would be gone, yes. But still, there would always be a reminding echo of your ruinous Ball-Bust, that will never completely fade away.

"Officer Victoria wants to ruin prisoner Lightwood. That's not in my gift; his balls are in the hands of officer Bella Donna. But you are! And as his cellmate you would be the nearest and next-best thing ...

"So you'd best keep that in mind, prisoner Chapman, the next time you are in danger of running away at the mouth! Because in just the year or so she's been here, officer Victoria has already ruined more than her fair share of the 'One-
in-a-hundreds'!"

Ross was doing a passable imitation of a goldfish in a bowl: he was opening his mouth to speak, but no words were coming out.

My cellmate was truly, profoundly shocked. He knew all too well that prison officer Billie Jo was no angel – but this!

"Just as I had the prison doctor remove all of your teeth, for threatening to bite my foot if I put it in your mouth, I would arrange to have a surgeon remove both of your testicles, for discussing testicles ill-advisedly."

"I'm pretty sure Governor Monroe would OK it, BJ. (Slap slap slap slap ...) And if the crime fits ..." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Hmmm ... having said that, though, on second thoughts ..." mused prison officer Billie Jo. "Perhaps ... under the surgeon's watchful eye, perhaps I might be permitted to perform such a minor operation myself. I think you're right, Bel:
Governor Monroe probably would OK it. But do you think she would approve of me actually performing the castration op myself? I mean, there can't be much to it, can there?"

"I really can't see Governor Monroe having much of a problem with that, BJ. (Slap slap slap slap ...) As you say, there really can't be all that much to it, can there? A minor op like that?" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

Prison officer Billie Jo said, "Do you know, prisoner Chapman, the more I think about it ... the more I am taken with the idea."

"So am I, BJ. (Slap slap slap slap ...) So am I." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Actually, I can almost see it now. I can almost imagine the scene ...

"... You, prisoner Chapman: Lying supine, naked and restrained on the stainless-steel operating-table. Under local anaesthetic only, and so eyes-open alert, and fully aware of everyone and everything going on around you. Your pulled-taut
ball sac, securely clutched in my synthetic-gloved left hand, and the reassuring weight of the scalpel, in the firm and sure grip of my synthetic-gloved right hand. The bright, clinical, all-revealing operating-theatre lights glinting on
the razor edge of the at-the-ready surgical instrument. The surgical nursing team, all standing by, just in case something should ... go wrong ...

"... And me: In my operating-theatre scrubs, wellington boots, and protective face-mask. Poised, and about to—"

"No, Miss Billie Jo!" wailed Ross. "No! No!"

"You've been warned, prisoner Chapman: when they are gone – they are gone! And then you won't be able to play with your little weenie excuse for a dick, either!

"So, the next time you are about to speak out of turn – think on! Because I have given you your first and final warning!"

"Ye-yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, sounding very badly shaken. Sounding rocked to his absolute core, in fact, by this abominable new threat. A threat, that he obviously believed prison officer Billie Jo capable of making
good on. "I'll ... think on."

"Well, you'd better!" warned prison officer Billie Jo, now returning her olive-skinned right foot to its pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop.

"You know I mean what I say – Gummy! I don't do idle threats! If I have your balls, it's not the end of the world: I've still got plenty more ways of keeping you obedient. Plenty more ways of hurting you, besides kicking you between the
legs. Plenty more ways, of keeping you under my heel – right where you belong!"

I could tell that this time, my cruelly bullied, mercilessly belittled, and direly threatened cellmate did not trust himself to reply respectfully.

Relieved now, at the opportunity to avert his tell-tale, 'fraudulent' eyes from prison officer Billie Jo's, my savagely browbeaten cellmate stayed silent. Bowing his head in an attitude of extreme reverence, he stared down respectfully
at prison officer Billie Jo's feet.

But prison officer Billie Jo wasn't finished with Ross yet. Not by a long way. She was nowhere near done with browbeating my cellmate. It took a lot, for her to get over the effects of getting out of the wrong side of the bed.

"And anyway, prisoner Chapman ..." said prison officer Billie Jo, in tones of absolute wonderment. "What would a limpdick little virgin like you, know about a real man's needs?"

"Um, er ... nothing, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, with a sudden return of hot colour to his face; a burning, violent bright red.

"What would you know – Gummy! – about rompy pompy?" demanded prison officer Billie Jo, in tones of such dripping scorn that actually caused Ross's acutely embarrassed face to turn even redder.

"Yes!" agreed prison officer Bella Donna gleefully, immediately sensing and seizing upon Ross's acute, virginity 'stigma' distress. (Slap slap slap slap ...) "What could he possibly know about it, BJ? What could he possibly know, about
rompy pompy – him!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Well, prisoner Chapman ...? Come on! Tell us! Officer Bella Donna and I would like to know: What would you know, about rompy pompy? What would you know, about slap and tickle? About gallivanting? About girl-hunting, skirt-chasing
escapades? About getting your leg over? About dipping your wick? About notches on bedposts? Tell me that! Just what, in heaven's name, would you know, of carefree days of sowing wild oats – you?"

"Er ... I – I ... nothing, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully.

Though Ross was dry-eyed now – prison officer Billie Jo had pushed him beyond crying – his lips were trembling all the more, and his reddened face was doing the seemingly impossible: turning an even deeper, more furious, dangerous
crimson-purple.

Oh-oh, I thought again, worriedly.

Keep a lid on it, Ross, I prayed silently.

Because if Ross did blow his top, I would be in the fallout zone too.

"That's right – Gummy!" said prison officer Billie Jo, cattily. "Nothing! Nothing at all! You know nothing, about rompy pompy! Do you?"

"No, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "I ... I don't."

"See!" exclaimed prison officer Bella Donna. (Slap slap slap slap ...) "Gummy even admits it, BJ. Not that he needed to ..." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

It was taking all of my will, just to stand there, and do nothing in Ross's defence. All of my inner strength, just to stand there, and say nothing in his behalf, as prison officer Billie Jo pushed him; goaded him to his outer limit. And
as prison officer Bella Donna, sitting in one of the cell's two tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chairs, nonchalantly slap slap slap slapped her dangling right, pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop against the bottom of her
bare heel.

"You, prisoner Chapman, unlike your man-of-the-world, ladies'-man cellmate – your womaniser, heartbreaker, ladykiller cellmate, who's really been around, and has more notches on his bedpost than you've had cups of weak, sweet tea –
you'll never know what it is to satisfy a woman," prison officer Billie Jo assured Ross.

"You, prisoner Chapman, will never experience that incredible, unparalleled excitement – never! You – Gummy! – will never know that sheer, ecstatic joy. The almost intolerable pleasure, of actually making love to a woman. Never!

"Why? Because I'm not going to let you! Ever!"

"Good for you, BJ." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"I'm going to see to it, prisoner Chapman, that, right into your doddery, decrepit old-age, serving at the feet of females – especially mine – that, and only that, will be the extent of your intimate relations with the female sex."

"Quite right, BJ. (Slap slap slap slap ...) Gummy absolutely deserves it. (Slap slap slap slap ...) And just think, BJ: You'll always know what you've taken from him – as will he. You'll always know what you've stolen from him – as will
he. You'll always know exactly what you've deprived him of ... and what you've replaced it with. As will he. I mean ... how delicious is that!" (Slap slap slap slap ...)

I thought: that's it. The tipping-point. The outer limit. There was only so much that Ross (or any prisoner) could take.

Ross had had enough. That was clear. He was going to blow his top – and I was going to be in the fallout zone. But who could blame him? Not me.

Prison officer Billie Jo had shaken Ross. She had truly rocked him. I could see that. She had certainly rocked him before, on other occasions. As I myself had witnessed.

But this time, with her heinous threat to let the angel-faced ball-kicker prison officer Victoria 'ruin' him, the next time he spoke out of turn, and then 'remove' what was left, prison officer Billie Jo had succeeded big time in getting
under Ross's skin.

Though I was hardly in a better position myself, my heart went out to my tragically unfortunate, heinously fated cellmate.

But I dared do nothing, in Ross's defence. Dared say nothing, in his behalf. I had been down that road before ... and paid the penalty. So I kept shtum.

Ross had lost it, I thought sadly.

He was visibly trembling. Literally shaking, with pent up, uncontrollable emotion.

Prison officer Billie Jo had un-stitched Ross ... and now there was nothing holding him together.

The malicious, maleficent, malevolent prison officer Billie Jo had deliberately and purposefully pushed, and pushed, and pushed Ross. Pushed him to the edge. Pushed him to his outer limit. Pushed him too far ...

Sighing resignedly, I waited for Ross to go over the edge. Waited for him to fall apart at the seams. Waited, for his disastrous outburst ... And the fallout.

Abruptly, Ross discontinued staring down respectfully at prison officer Billie Jo's feet, and deserted his reverent kneeling position before her ... and stood up.

Ross stood up, to stand up for himself. Standing straight-backed and square-shouldered, he angrily confronted prison officer Billie Jo.

And once again, Ross found himself looking straight into prison officer Billie Jo's dark, unwavering, uncompassionate gaze. Found himself staring, straight into the unblinking, uncompunctioned, implacable windows of her soul ...

And then his back wasn't quite so straight, anymore. And his shoulders weren't quite so square-shaped ... Because Ross was no longer standing up, to stand up for himself. No longer standing up, to prison officer Billie Jo.

"Miss Billie Jo, I'd like to ... I think you deserve ... you deserve a ... a nice, relaxing rest. Please forgive me, where – where are my manners? I ... I haven't offered you my seat, Miss Billie Jo. How – how remiss of me ..." stammered
Ross in cringeworthy ingratiation.

Well, I thought. That's telling her!

"Would you like to sit down, Miss Billie Jo? Take the weight off your poor, hardworking feet?" said Ross, sounding very solicitous, and politely offering his tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chair to his heinous tormentress.

"Slip your tired feet from your flip flops? For me to go to my knees and massage them ... Your feet, I mean, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross, with a weak attempt at humour.

"Or ... or shall I assume the position for you, Miss Billie Jo?"

I found myself breathing a huge, mighty sigh of relief.

Normal service, it appeared, had resumed.

"No, Gummy," said prison officer Billie Jo. "Unfortunately there's not enough time. Or, believe me, I would certainly take you up on your kind offer," she said sarcastically.

"That's too bad, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, quickly recovering himself now, and somehow actually managing to sound regretful.

"Really, Miss Billie Jo! You deserve a nice Foot Service break. I know how hard you work, Miss Billie Jo. You work terribly hard. You've been patrolling the Levels all morning, guarding us prisoners. Keeping a keen, watchful eye, on us
low life slime-bags."

"Yes, that's right – Gummy! I have!" snapped prison officer Billie Jo. "And let me tell you: you and your cellmate are the lowest of them all! It's only right and proper, that we keep you caged up – all caged-up and captive!"

Addressing me, prison officer Bella Donna said, "So ... (Slap slap slap slap ...) I'm Poison Ivy, am I?"

"Um ... Miss Bella Donna. I – I didn't mean, any ... any disrespect. I – I was just ... just—"

"You were also speaking with gross disrespect, of officers Siobhan, Victoria, Melanie and Natalie – and heaven knows, who else, before officer Billie Jo and me just happened to hear you and Gummy talking out of turn. (Slap slap slap slap
...) And trust me: I shall make sure each of my egregiously traduced colleagues hears of it. Oh, yes ... I am sure they will all be very interested, very interested indeed, to hear your considered opinion of them." (Slap slap slap slap
...)

"Miss – Miss Bella Donna, I ... I'm very sorry. But you've ... you've got me all wrong. You've ... Please don't tell them, Miss Bella Donna. I – I didn't mean, to ... to—"

"Poison Ivy, am I? I'll deal with you later, prisoner Lightwood. Fortunately for you, I can't deal with you right now – while I'm really in the mood! At least, not with proper justice. (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Your chastisement will have to wait until tomorrow. But I'll leave word that you be cuffed to the bars of your cell all night, in the assuming-the-position position, and kept awake throughout the night. (Slap slap slap slap ...) You
will provide an all-night Foot Service. The Levels-patrolling prison officers on Night Duty will deprive you of sleep. And you can stew, all night, over what my punishment plans for you might be ..." (Slap slap slap slap ...)

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

"And you, too, prisoner Chapman!" said prison officer Billie Jo. "You can join your disrespectful cellmate, in his all-night Foot Service vigil. And I'll deal with you tomorrow, too, when I'll have the time to chastise you properly ...
And then, you'll see who's bitchy and catty! Then, you'll see who's got a bee in her bonnet!"

"Y-yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully. "Th-thank you."

Prison officer Bella Donna then said, "Come on, Jaws. You and Gummy are coming with us."

With more of his disingenuous ("fraudulent") eager-to-please, obsequious, cringeworthy ingratiation, Ross said, "Are you taking us down to the Staff Canteen, Miss Billie Jo? To provide Table Service? I was worried it was getting too
late."

"No – Gummy! We are not taking you to the Staff Canteen. Not today ... but, being as you are so touchingly concerned about missing out on providing Table Service for us prison officers, I can soon put things right ...

"To make it up to you, shall I see to it that you are taken down to provide Table Service every day for the next fortnight? Starting tomorrow lunchtime? You and Jaws can provide Table Service for me and officer Bella Donna.

"And, while you are apparently so keen on making a good impression, I'll arrange for you and Jaws to be left in-situ, after officer Bella Donna and me have finished our lunch ... Shall I?"

"Er ..." said Ross.

"Officer Bella Donna and I shall escort you down to the Staff Canteen tomorrow lunchtime, and I'll leave word with the officers on Door Duty that you are both to be left in-service for the remainder of the day.

"I'll let the officers know that, at your own request, by petitioning me personally, you wish to do more to demonstrate your acceptance— no, your taking to heart, of the concept of propriety, where females are concerned. That,
voluntarily, you wish to be allowed to remain in Table Service, for us prison officers, right through until after the evening-meal period is over ... Happy?"

"Um ... er, yes ... please, Miss Billie Jo," Ross said respectfully. "And ... th-thank you."

"Oh, you are welcome!" said prison officer Billie Jo. "Now, you two: Handcuffs. Come on! Hands behind your backs!"

Opening the cell door, prison officer Bella Donna said, "For your information, Gummy, we are escorting you both to the Governor's office. Governor Monroe has requested the two of you especially."

Prison officer Billie Jo told Ross and me, "A very important person has come to visit: the AFP's Minister of Prisons. Yes – an Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet Minister, no less."

"That's right," said prison officer Bella Donna. "And you are both going to meet her. Because Governor Monroe wants to show you and Jaws off to her VIP guest."

*

"We'll take the lift, BJ," said prison officer Bella Donna after she'd slammed cell 16's barred door shut with one hell of a resounding clang. It was a very unlovely noise.

I was sure these cell doors were specially designed this way. State of the art: built to crash shut thunderously, and with the reverberating, thrumming aftershock lingering long after the jailhouse blues prison officers had thrown them
shut on their miserable caged captives.

Walking along the Level 1 walkway towards the nearest of the two lifts, we'd only proceeded past a couple of the other cells in our quadrant when I heard another unlovely noise ... but this was a new, unfamiliar unlovely noise.

I was suddenly halted. Stopped in my tracks by the harrowing sounds of a young woman's acutely distressed voice.

One moment, the greatly agitated female voice was angry; fervently umbrageous with protest. The next moment, wretchedly beseeching and pleading.

What in hell is going on? I wondered.

Alternately complaining and pleading, the young woman's traumatised voice was comprised both of tones of bitter outrage, and of pathetic entreaty. When her outraged objections and furious prohibitions had no effect, the pathetic begging
and pleading kicked in: "How – how dare you? How dare you! Stop! Stop that! I said don't do that! Stop it! Stop it now! ... Please! No! Don't! Please don't! Oh, please! Oh please, stop that! Oh, please, please stop!"

What the ...? I thought.

Then came a second female voice, similarly outraged.

But although this second female sounded just as egregiously put upon, she sounded much feistier. Not so easily reduced to begging and pleading. More confrontational.

The source of the dreadful commotion was Cell 13.

Enjoying their e-cigarettes with studied nonchalance, standing with their backs to the bars of Cell 13 two prison officers were availing themselves of Foot Service ... the Foot Service, of female prisoners.

The two jailhouse blues' name tags proclaimed them to be prison officers Candice and Cordelia. Prison officer Candice's regulation concave-bobbed hair was black, while prison officer Cordelia's was white-blonde.

They were both gorgeously suntanned; and in fact they always seemed to be. If I was any judge, theirs wasn't a sunbed, or a 'bottled' tan. Prison officers Candice and Cordelia both loved the sun, apparently. And apparently the sun loved
them right back.

In common with every other Greystone Prison officer, prison officers Candice and Cordelia were both very beautiful, and very sexy ... and very cruel.

Ross and I didn't need to see their name tags though, to know who they were. Patrol partners Candice and Cordelia were very well known to us ... and for very good reasons.

Over the past year, prison officers Candice and Cordelia had given Ross and me plenty of strife. Though it would be true to say that, due to the jailhouse blue prison officers' own attribution of my man-of-the-world, ladies' man,
ladykiller status, they had paid special attention to me.

Prison officer Candice, in particular, was an absolute she-devil with her cane ... and she loved to use it. She didn't need an excuse, either. She didn't need a 'valid' reason, to practice the art of canecraft.

Any cane-wielding jailhouse blue prison officer could strike instant blood-freezing dread and bowel-loosening fear into any prisoner's heart and mind. But prison officer Candice was in the exalted company of such 'Bamboo Babe' prison
officers as Bella Donna and Billie Jo: the particularly adept.

Whenever prison officers Candice and Cordelia appeared at the bars of our cell, sheer, galvanising self-preservation kicked in.

Ross and I would scurry from our miserable bunks or eject ourselves out of our tubular framed folding chairs, and go straight to our knees before them in utmost respect.

On our knees before them, and looking respectfully down at their feet, in tones of awed reverence we would express our simple salutations: "Miss Candice ... Miss Cordelia." And, as we awaited their Foot Service instructions, in attitudes
of absolute humility and total submission ... we hoped for the best.

Because, when they got out of the wrong side of their bed/s ...

Yes ... Quite openly about it, it seemed to me that a good percentage of the jailhouse blue prison officers were of a ... certain persuasion.

And so prison officers Candice and Cordelia were partners in more ways than one: partnered-up partners, as it were.

On a number of occasions, the sadistic, man-hating couple had shamelessly used Ross and me as their sex toys. They had used Ross and me as their sex 'aids': getting themselves off, bringing each other to orgasm on cruelly bringing Ross
and me to tears ... especially me.

But even by the usual jailhouse blue standards of exceptionally knockout, eye-opening, pulse-quickening attractiveness, prison officers Candice and Cordelia were particularly exquisite.

And what dynamite, million-dollar legs! Whatever else I might have thought of the heinously cruel pair of lesbians, I had to give them that. No one could take that away from them – least of all me.

Prison officers Candice and Cordelia certainly knew my Achilles' heel. They'd spotted it right away. And exploited it right away.

In fact, heaven knows how many times over the past year, lying in my miserable bunk at night, with sleep rendered totally impossible, until I ... gave in, I had paid the particularly exquisite, but also particularly cruel prison officers
Candice and Cordelia ... their due.

Lying in my miserable bunk at night, and thinking back on the day's Foot Service 'highlights', I gave them ... their due.

I gave prison officers Candice and Cordelia their due, as, with my restless nighttime mind occupied with unsummoned, unwanted, and unvanquishable remembrances of their insanely sexy and heinously arousing stimulations, effectively
deprived of sleep, I capitulated to their deliberate and purposeful designs, and ... gave in.

Tormented to distraction, with insistent mental reruns of prison officers Candice and Cordelia's maltentful stimulations: their wicked Achilles' heel targeted teasing; their maliciously inflicted, often pantyless upskirt-view 'treats'
and pussy-gazing titillations – unable to take any more, I finally surrendered, and ... gave in.

Driven almost demented, with the unshakable repeating memories of their exquisitely cruel teasing and denying – their You-can-look-but-never-touch, pussy-view tauntings and goading – for the sake of my very sanity, I had ultimately
thrown in the towel, and ... gave in.

Mythered beyond measure, by those maddening, endless on-a-loop replay reminiscences, and utterly unable, to deny prison officers Candice and Cordelia an adoring, adulatory, worshipful sacrificial token of my very essence – at last, and
at the very end of my tether, I had succumbed to the inevitable, and ... gave in.

Helpless, in the intolerable anguishment of sheer, overwhelming frustration, and growing frantic; growing desperate, at last, for the albeit unsatisfactory anodyne of the quick-fix, temporary-relief, taking-things-in-hand solution – I
had solemnly paid prison officers Candice and Cordelia, my ... devotions.

In my low ebb, sleep deprived, dead-of-night nadir, finally beaten, defeated, bested – conquered – I had renounced my self-respect, and surrendered my self-restraint, and 'willingly' bestowed, upon prison officers Candice and Cordelia,
what prison officer Billie Jo calls the "ultimate accolade" ...

Female prisoners? I thought. In Greystone Prison?

I couldn't believe it.

And I was afraid for them. Very afraid.

But, I wondered: why were they in Greystone Prison? Just what in hell was going on?

Prison officers Candice and Cordelia, upon hearing prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's thin-rubber soled flip flops slap slap slap slapping against the bottoms of their bare heels, turned their heads to see who was approaching
along the walkway ... and they were smiling. Or rather, they were smirking.

Prison officers Candice and Cordelia were gloating, with the smug assurance of total impunity. Of AFP-protected, no-comebacks untouchability.

Gloating, in the security of knowing that they would never be brought to book. That, for as long as the Authoritarian Female Party governed the UK, they would never be made to account for their wicked wrongdoings. Never be made to pay,
for their atrocious perpetrations.

Prison officer Candice looked down over her right shoulder, returning her predatorial attentions to the helpless female prisoner at her feet.

"Now, I am telling you, Tina: you had better start behaving yourself – or else!" admonished prison officer Candice. "I am accustomed to being obeyed. Do you hear? I won't stand for any more of your nonsense. That means no more backchat.
No more saying 'No'. You are my bitch now – and I expect you to behave accordingly! So get used to it!"

"Go to hell – you cow!" responded Tina spiritedly.

Ah, I thought. Tina's was the second of the two female voices I'd just heard: she was the feistier, confrontational one.

But upon Tina and her cellmate then seeing Ross and me, the true depths of their unspeakable embarrassment was written all over their faces. From highly indignant and bitterly outraged, to distraught, horrified, pure mortification ...
their humiliation was now complete. As if their predicament wasn't already bad enough, male prisoners, now, were actually witnessing their appalling degradations.

With their wide, horror-struck eyes Tina and her less feisty cellmate appealed to us; mutely implored Ross and me to do the right thing ... look away.

Despite everything; despite being so ... disadvantaged, as they were at the moment, I could now see that prison officers Candice and Cordelia's helpless victims were both clearly very attractive.

Tina and her cellmate weren't Cover Girl, glamour-chic, drop-dead gorgeous beauties of the stunning stature of the jailhouse blue category – no, they were clearly not in the same league as their two Goddess-like tormentresses.

But they were vested, rather, with what would in fact be far more appealing and alluring to many a discerning lad: pleasing to the eye, girl-next-door good looks, that hinted at their bright and engaging personalities.

And, unlike the purely superficial, on-the-surface beauty of the jailhouse blues, just my first impressions alone were more than sufficient to persuade me that Tina and her cell mate's attractiveness didn't only run skin deep.

The female prisoner at prison officer Candice's feet, Tina, was in her early twenties, and she was of slim build, though certainly not skinny.

Tina had sun-kissed, lightly tanned skin (though before too long, that would be replaced by prison pallor), and beautiful shoulder-length blonde hair.

Although at the moment, thanks to the detrimental attentions of prison officer Candice, Tina's hair wasn't looking its best; its lustrous beauty being detracted from somewhat, by its ruffled, tangled, sweat-matted state of disarray.

Tina was sitting on Cell 13's dark-grey painted, hard and unyielding smooth concrete floor. And, with her legs fully inserted into two of the cell's floor-level torpedo-tube-like holes that, situated under the cell's bars, extended out
beneath the Level 1 walkway, she was in the assuming-the-position position.

Tina's face was about level with the backs of prison officer Candice's knees. And with her hands cuffed to the wristlets set into the cell's dark-grey painted bars – secured above head height and to either side of her, where they could
be of no possible hindrance to her jailhouse blue prison officer assailant – Tina was thus rendered totally defenceless, and completely vulnerable.

And, leaning back against Cell 13's bars, thus facilitated with such easy and unimpeded access, prison officer Candice was gleefully availing herself of an heretofore unavailable pleasure: Foot Service – provided by a female prisoner.

Prison officer Candice slipped her right foot from its Greystone Prison uniform pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop. And inserting her bare foot between Cell 13's bars, over the flat crossbar just above floor-level, prison officer
Candice set about enjoying this delicious novelty: exploiting her female captive's vulnerability and helplessness.

Rousing ourselves at last, from our frozen-to-the-spot shocked surprise, Ross and I looked uneasily at prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. I was surprised they hadn't already slapped our faces, and yelled at us to move on: What
did we think this was – a perverts' peep-show?

But prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, smiling maliciously, just stood by, allowing Ross and me to watch; to behold the terrible tableau ... so that the two female prisoners' humiliation would be massively increased, I realised
sadly.

I was sickened – revolted, disgusted, and nauseated by the cruel, female-against-female sadistic subjugation I had just happened upon.

After spending more than a year in that hellhole, perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised at what I was so uneasily witnessing. But I was. I was filled with a disbelieving new dismay. I was appalled anew, at the heinous ways and
practices of Greystone Prison, as perpetrated with malicious glee by its cruel and sadistic 'jailhouse blue' female prison officers.

Wanting to do the right thing, as silently communicated by the two imploring-eyed, assuming-the-position female prisoners locked up in the miserable environs of Cell 13, I looked away, and started to move on of my own accord.

But I was immediately ordered to halt.

"Stop! Stay right where you are, prisoner Lightwood!" commanded prison officer Bella Donna, authoritatively yanking back on my handcuffed wrist. "And watch!"

I couldn't believe it.

This was a whole new level of depravity. Prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! – was actually going to make me stand there. And watch!

Upon her seeing what was about to happen (happen again, apparently), Tina – mightily outraged, still resistant, and still confrontational, but her unhappy face eloquently communicating to onlookers the deepening dismay and growing
despair at the utter helplessness and hopelessness of her plight – complained bitterly, "How dare you! Stop! Stop it! Stop that! You will not get away with this! How – how dare you? What gives you the right? Stop it now! Or I promise,
Candice: one day I'll see you pay!"

"I am a prison officer!" yelled prison officer Candice. "I am in the employ, and a fully paid-up member of the Authoritarian Female Party. That's how I dare! That gives me the right! The right to do whatever I like, in Greystone Prison.
The right, Tina, to do whatever I like – to you! Got that? So you will do well to accord me the proper respect! You will address me as Miss Candice."

"No! I will not address you as Miss—"

"And anyway, Tina, shut up! Just shut up – or I'll make you pay! This is me being nice to you – bitch! Because you are new, I'm giving you a chance. A chance to be nice to me – without any undue fuss. So don't squander it!" advised
prison officer Candice. "Because otherwise, you'll be sorry. Very sorry!"

"Stop it, I said!" Tina demanded again, unheeding of prison officer Candice's counsel.

Hell! I thought. This girl Tina has got some nerve. Talking back to prison officer Candice, that way? She's got some real backbone!

"It's useless to struggle, Tina. Whether you like it or not, I'll have my way with you," promised prison officer Candice.

Her voice still furious, but betraying her escalating distress, Tina shouted, "Stop doing that! Stop it now! Just because you work for that bunch of AFP bitches! Don't think you'll get away with this – because you won't! One day,
Candice, you'll be brought to account. You'll be brought to book – the whole damn lot of you! And then it's you who'll end up in prison, Candice – you!"

"Tina! You ungrateful bitch! Do you realise what would happen, if I took that to the Governor? Traducing the Authoritarian Female Party like that? It would mean the Wheel of Chastisement! You would be caned on your bare bottom, by a
caning-party of twelve prison officers – including myself. And as principal chastiser, it would be incumbent upon me to kick you five times, barefoot, right in the ... Oh, Tina, you are lucky I have a soft spot for you! Believe me, I
would so, so hate to have to do that – my apple pie! But now I am warning you, for the last time: I can't – and won't – cut you any more slack!"

"Get lost, Candice – you dyke!"

My God! I thought.

"Tina! I am running out of patience! Do you want me to cane your bare bottom, instead? Do you want me to warm up those lovely rosy cheeks of yours? Well, do you? Because I will! And it will really hurt – trust me! Because I'm very good
at caning prisoners' bare bottoms ... just ask those two," said prison officer Candice, indicating Ross and me.

"See, Tina, how they cower in my presence? How they tremble, at the very sound of my voice? Well, there's a very good reason for that! They'll soon tell you! They know what I'm capable of. They'll soon tell you, how I can hurt! I've hurt
those two bozos often enough – hurt them bad. I don't cut them any slack! Especially not him – prisoner Lightwood!"

To me, prison officer Candice said, "My sugar sweet still needs some convincing, prisoner Lightwood. So: isn't that the case, that I know how to use the cane? That I am almost matchless, in its practice? That I am an adept? That I am
highly skilled, and extremely efficient at causing pain? That I can really, really hurt? After all, prisoner Lightwood, you should know: I've caned your bare bottom enough times, haven't I? And every time, I've made you cry! I've made
you scream the place down. But even then, at the bottom of it all, as much as I might cane you, and as much as I might make you cry ... you still worship me, don't you, prisoner Lightwood? In your miserable bunk, at night, you take
things in hand, in my honour."

"Yes, Miss Candice," I said respectfully. "You've made me cry. You are not overstating the absolute perfection of your caning skills, Miss Candice. On the contrary. You are profoundly proficient. At first-hand, I can attest to your
sublime canecraft abilities. You are incredibly talented. You are extremely efficient, as you so rightly claim, with your use of the cane. You can really, really hurt. You have hurt me many times, Miss Candice, with your expert
administering of the cane to my bare bottom. You have hurt me terribly. You have made me cry myself to sleep at night, such was the awful, agonising pain. On many occasions – when of course I have been richly deserving, Miss Candice, of
your administering such chastisement to me – you have caused me such horrible, and long-lasting pain. You have really, really hurt me, Miss Candice. Yes, Miss Candice: you are an adept. And ... and yes, I ... I do worship you, Miss
Candice."

With her disbelieving eyes, Tina silently enquired of me, making my face burn hot with shame: What are you? A man or a mouse?

"Thank you for your glowing testimonial, prisoner Lightwood. I am most gratified, I am sure," said prison officer Candice sarcastically. "Anything less, though, and I would have caned the living daylights out of you ... as I am sure you
are well aware!"

"Yes, Miss Candice," I said respectfully. "I know."

Prison officer Candice then returned her full attention to the helpless female prisoner at her feet, who, for all of her brave, confrontational resistance was by now inevitably starting to show the strains of her intolerable ordeal.

"There, Tina," said prison officer Candice, in the self-satisfied tones of someone who knows she has just made a convincing impression. "There you have it. You have just heard it, first-hand, from prisoner Lightwood. Someone who knows –
at first-hand!"

Tina just glared back at prison officer Candice.

"So ... why can't you say you'll be nice to me, Tina?" asked prison officer Candice reasonably. "Why is that so hard?"

Tina didn't deign to reply.

And prison officer Candice didn't seem to like that. Liked it less, apparently, than actually being talked back to – liked it less than being said 'No' to: Nobody ignored prison officer Candice. Nobody! Not even "apple pie" crushes.

"Do not dare to ignore me, Tina! You still think you are somebody, don't you? But you are not – not anymore. Not in here! And ... and after all, you are not so special, Tina – so don't go thinking you are!"

Again, Tina said nothing in response.

"Oh ... you little coquette! It's not just any girl, you know, that I'll favour! Much, much prettier girls than you, feeling themselves so unequal, seeing themselves so far beneath me – believing themselves so totally unworthy! – have
literally gone to their knees at my feet, begging to become my slave ... Do you realise that?"

Tina said nothing.

"And I'm talking real hotties, Tina. Believe me: I've had such beautiful, gorgeous, sexy girls as you wouldn't believe, begging me to enslave them. Just begging me! Only one thing mattered to them: pleasing me! Such was their adoration,
their adulation – their worshipful devotion! Begging me, Tina, with tears streaming from their eyes – in rapture!"

Still no word from the redoubtable Tina.

"Say you'll be my bitch, Tina. And I'll look after you. That's all it would take, my pet. Your rehabilitation needn't be quite so painful. Needn't be quite so traumatic ...

"You must be rehabilitated, Tina. But I can help smooth the way. That is, given the right ... incentive. Say you'll be nice to me. Things will go so much better for you then, in Greystone Prison. I promise you. I'll protect you – oh, you
beauty, my sweet, my treasure! – I'll protect you."

Still nothing from Tina.

"Trust me, Tina: there are some real bitches in here – but I'll protect you from them. I'll ... I'll take you to my bosom – ha ha ha!

"Say you'll let me cherish you, you little sweetheart. All I want to do, is shower you with my kisses. Pamper you with my affections. Just say yes, my darling ...

"Because otherwise, Tina, I promise you: soft spot, or no soft spot, you will be very sorry indeed ... You had better believe it! I will cane your bare bottom, and I will really, really hurt you. Do you hear me, Tina? If you continue to
disobey me, if you persist with your foolishness – if you keep on playing hard-to-get!"

Still no reaction from Tina.

"Time's running out, Tina. There's only so much slack I can cut. So come on: it's make-your-mind-up time ...

"You ... you are not so special, Tina – average, at best! Very ordinary, really. Extremely ordinary, in fact ... And there are plenty more fish in the sea. Far more beautiful fish, than you – Plain Jane! Do you hear me, Tina? You are no
great shakes!

"So for your own sake, don't turn down my one-time offer. Because I'm not used to being turned down, Tina! And I simply won't stand, for any more of your—"

"Stop it!" cried Tina at last from sheer desperation, her acute anguishment plain in her voice, as well as on her face.

"— noncompliance. I'll make you cry! Oh, I'll make you cry! Make no mistake, Tina: I'll break you. It will hurt me, a lot more than it will hurt you – but I'll break you. I'll make you cry yourself to sleep tonight, too – just like him:
that human mouse over there, prisoner Lightwood!"

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" demanded the increasingly distraught Tina ...

And I just stood there, and did nothing in Tina's defence. Just stood there, and said nothing in her behalf.

Because I just didn't have it in me, to confront prison officer Candice. I was standing up, but I couldn't stand up to prison officer Candice. My back wasn't straight enough. My shoulders weren't square-shaped enough. And I didn't have
the backbone. She would teach me a lesson I would never forget – another one!

"So just shut up, Tina – if you know what's good for you!" warned prison officer Candice, looking down over her right shoulder as with the sole of her right foot she continued molesting Tina's bare right breast.

I believed myself to be a decent, and good-natured person. I wanted to do the right thing ... but I just couldn't help but watch.

I just couldn't help but watch, as the ball and toes of prison officer Candice's bare right foot marauded Tina's right breast exploratorily: the reddish-pink ball of her foot, doing a dastardly dance of delight over and under and around
the pale-skinned globe; the pink pads of her toes, skimming again and again, gossamer light over the tip of the rubbery pinkish-brown nipple; and the insides of her slender golden toes, sensually teasing – sliding, squeezing, caressing –
the excited and visibly budding protuberance.

"Stop it! I said stop it – bitch dyke!" demanded the outaged female prisoner.

Hell! I thought.

This Tina was a feisty one! Defiance personified. Stubborn, resistant, confrontational – noncompliant. She was certainly made of some stern stuff: Her back, was straight! Her shoulders, were square-shaped! She had some real backbone!

In response, prison officer Candice removed her right foot from her novel prey's bare right breast, returned her foot to its pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop ... and then she started over, with the sole of her left foot.

"No! No, you can't! Not – not again! Stop! Stop it! I said stop it! One day you'll pay, Candice! I swear!" cried Tina, as with bitter resignation she watched the bare sole of prison officer Candice's left foot, now, maltentfully
approaching her exposed and totally vulnerable left breast.

"I told you to shut up! Didn't I? So shut up – or else!" ordered prison officer Candice, with something more akin to the usual acidic and commanding harshness I was accustomed to hearing from her.

Apparently, prison officer Candice was abandoning, now, her olive-branch proposals of provisional warmth and conditional tenderness. Apparently withdrawing, now, her take-it-or-leave-it, one-time offer of taking Tina 'to her bosom'.

"You've had your chance, Tina. So just shut up – you ungrateful little bitch!"

"No – you shut up, Candice!" shouted Tina. "I won't be bullied, Candice. Not by you. Not by anyone! And take your foot off my breast – I am not your plaything!"

"There are much prettier girls than you, Tina, who would give their right arm to be in your position right now!

"So ... you don't want to be nice to me, do you? Well, fine! I don't want to have to listen to all of your whinging and whining, then. Don't you get it – bitch? You got yourself into this predicament. So you've only got yourself to
blame.

"And yes: I can, do whatever I want! Like it or not, Tina, until I tire of you, until you lose your shine – until I grow bored of you – you will be my plaything! My sex toy – and my sex aid!

"You've had your one-off opportunity, Tina – and you blew it!" said prison officer Candice, glowering down meanly. "I'm not one for second chances!

"And guess what, Tina? I've decided to visit the Governor, after all," said prison officer Candice cattily.

"Trust me: she will not like the things I am going to tell her about you. She will definitely not take kindly to what you have said. I know Governor Monroe: she will want to set an example. For all of your treacherous traducements of our
glorious Authoritarian Female Party, the Governor will at least double the duration of your prison sentence – and it will mean the Wheel of Chastisement, too! And believe me: that is a sure cure for prisoners' uppityness! Effective, in
ninety-nine per cent of cases ...

"I could have kept quiet about that, Tina. I could have overlooked it. I could have spared you the pain, the humiliation, the extra prison time ... But why should I? Tell me that! After you've looked your gift-horse in the mouth? If you
won't give me any incentive? If you won't be nice to me!"

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I thought ... Especially, between two women!

"And when all's said and done, Tina, I'll still make you mine. Mine, to do as I like with," said prison officer Candice spitefully. "You are still going to be my bitch – whether you want to or not. Because I can do anything! To you – and
to any prisoner!"

Gesturing towards the onlooking prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, who'd been observing these proceedings with keen interest and great pleasure, prison officer Candice yelled with malicious glee, "We all can!"

Meanwhile, the other, alternately complaining and pleading female prisoner, her wrists also secured to the bars as she too sat in the assuming-the-position position on Cell 13's hard and unyielding smooth concrete floor, was at the
moment rendered unable to either complain bitterly or plead pathetically: she had all five toes of prison officer Cordelia's right foot stuffed into her mouth.

"Suck my toes – traitor bitch!" snapped the white-blonde haired prison officer Cordelia, at the dishevelled and distraught young woman restrained at her feet.

Distracted, prison officer Cordelia had been caught up in the excitement of the moment ... the arousing excitement, of watching her lover prison officer Candice cruelly bullying the restrained and helpless, exposed and vulnerable female
prisoner, Tina.

But now, having just returned her full attentions to Tina's cellmate, prison officer Cordelia was really giving the other vulnerable and helpless female prisoner some strife. "I said suck – bitch! You are now my toe-sucking little hussy!
When I give you an order, I expect you to obey me! I expect your instant compliance!"

With her mouth stuffed full of prison officer Cordelia's diabolically invasive toes, and her bulging, horrified eyes streaming tears of unspeakable anguishment, Tina's cellmate could only mumble something muffled and incomprehensible as
she stared wretchedly at the bottom of her tormentress' grubby, sweat-smudged bare heel, right in front of her eyes.

Glaring down behind her over her right shoulder, prison officer Cordelia snapped again at the miserable, teary-eyed captive. "Bitch! Why can't I feel your tongue doing anything? This is not good enough – not good enough at all! Suck
harder! I want to feel your tongue working! Get that tongue of yours working ... Right! As soon as this Foot Service session is over, I'm going to cane your bare bottom: the Standard Six summary chastisement penalty. Do you hear me, you
lazy bitch? Obviously, the message needs ramming home. Because your heart isn't in it!"

And again, I just stood there, and did nothing in female prisoner number two's defence. Just stood there, and said nothing in her behalf.

Because I just didn't have it in me, to confront prison officer Cordelia. I was standing up, but I couldn't stand up to prison officer Cordelia. My back wasn't straight enough. My shoulders weren't square-shaped enough. And I didn't have
the backbone ... Prison officer Cordelia would have half-murdered me.

"Do you hear me? Come on – bitch! Lick in between my toes! Then, when you've tongue-cleaned my toes and licked all in between them, I'll put my heel in your mouth, and you can suck on that, too. Suck the bottoms of my heels clean, while
I enjoy my e-cigarette! Because that's what you are, now – bitch: my toe-sucking, foot-licking, heel-sucking hussy!"

Female prisoner number two said something in reply, but with her mouth stuffed full of prison officer Cordelia's toes it was hard to make it out.

"This is what you are going to get, from now on! So get used to it! You had it all, didn't you? You had it all – and you threw it all away! Treacherous bitch! So now, this is what you've let yourself in for!" prison officer Cordelia told
female prisoner number two.

"How could you? How could you throw it all away? Such a gift! All of those amazing entitlements! All of those female-friendly benefits! Well, you've made a big, big mistake, throwing them back in the AFP's face! Oh, I'll soon make you
see the errors of your ways!" promised prison officer Cordelia. "I'll put a thinking-cap on your head! And ... and I said: suck harder!" she yelled, with catty vindictiveness.

Despite prison officer Cordelia's deleterious attentions, female prisoner number two's stressful tears couldn't belie the fact of her also being very attractive. This damsel-in-distress, was just as attractive as her cellmate Tina.

Like her cellmate Tina, female prisoner number two was also in her early twenties. Compared to the svelte Tina, she was a bit more curvy and womanly-figured. And her attractive dark-brown hair – although prison officer Cordelia had
messed it up some – was lustrous, shoulder-length and wavy.

Prison officer Cordelia removed the toes of her right foot from female prisoner number two's mouth, and returned it to its pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop. She then slipped her left foot from its flip flop and, reaching her left
foot behind her, she inserted it between Cell 13's bars, over the flat crossbar just above floor-level ... and Ross and I looked on, mesmerised, as with her toes prison officer Cordelia proceeded to massage sensually and manipulate
expertly female prisoner number two's left nipple, once again teasing and exciting it to hardness.

Prison officer Cordelia played the golden pad of her big-toe over the vulnerable and conveniently accessible nipple: her French-pedicured toe, rubbing it, pressing it, caressing it – and just simply playing with it – which soon caused
female prisoner number two to hang her head back and moan; eyes closed, and her top teeth pressing down on her bottom lip.

Taking the young woman captive's now clearly hardening nipple between her big and second toes, prison officer Cordelia pulled and tugged on it, and gently but firmly squeezed ... and soon, she'd teased the nipple back to full, proud
erectness.

"No!" wailed the exposed, completely vulnerable and totally helpless female prisoner number two, in the unspeakable anguishment of her involuntary ecstasy.

"No! Please don't! Stop! Please! I said stop! Stop it now! Please, please stop!" she bitterly complained and pathetically pleaded alternately. "You can't do this! You just can't do this! ... Oh please, please stop!"

"No! I won't stop – bitch!" snapped prison officer Cordelia, the expression on her face, graphically illustrating the true extent of her unspeakable pleasure and execrable gratification.

"Ungrateful bitch! You've asked for it – now you are getting it! And this is nothing!" prison officer Cordelia told the unutterably despondent female prisoner number two, now whimpering miserably in involuntary ecstasy at her teasing,
tormenting, diabolically titillating feet.

With the sensitive and sensual pad of her relentlessly stimulating left big-toe, prison officer Cordelia expertly maintained the standing-proud erectness of her quavering quarry's quivering left nipple. Over her left shoulder, she
shouted down at her defenceless victim, "Do you hear, bitch? Nothing! This is nothing! And don't tell me you don't like it – you little slut! Because we can all see that you do obviously do!"

"No! Stop! Stop it! I said stop! Please! I can't stand it! I can't take any more! Please, oh please stop!"

"Um ... Cordelia, sweetie," said prison officer Candice, with mischief in her voice. "Shall I just pop into the cell? Shall I get one of those folding chairs for you to sit on, darling? So that you can sit comfortably, and play footsie
with both of Janice's lovely titties at the same time? Actually ... I think I'll do the same, with Tina. Sit comfortably, and have a nice play with her cute little boobies."

"Oh, yes please, Candykins. I'll enjoy that as well. We'll make up a foursome!"

"No! No! No!" wailed female prisoner number two, Janice, totally freaking out just at the very thought of it.

"All right! All right, then! I'll – I'll call you ... Miss Cordelia. If ... I must. Please, please don't cane me."

"Yes, you must – bitch! At all times, you will respectfully address me as Miss Cordelia.

"Failure to address prison officers in the correct respectful fashion, will result in you being caned. You will receive the Standard Six: the summary chastisement penalty. Which we will administer to your bare bottom.

"And I'll play footsie with your titties whenever I want! Whatsmore, I will most definitely cane you, when I consider your Foot Service performance is not up to scratch.

"So you are going to have to improve drastically, on your pathetic efforts just now. If I even suspect, that your heart isn't in it ... Understand – bitch?"

"Ye-yes. I ... I understand," said Janice in wretched capitulation. "But please, please don't cane me ... Miss ... Miss Cordelia."

"Don't cane you? But I've just told you you're getting the Standard Six. Remember, Janice? I've got to ram the message home. Because your heart wasn't in it! It's the only way you'll learn. Learn to show respect. Learn to demonstrate
reverence ... And if I get just one more word of backchat from you – I'll double it! In a minute, I'm going to come into your cell, stand you up, cuff your wrists to the bars, pull down your panties, and—"

"No!" shrilled Janice fearfully. "No! Please! Please, Miss Cordelia! Please don't cane me. I've – I've said I'll ... respect you, Miss Cordelia."

"Janice! What did I just tell you? About just one more word of backchat?"

Janice said nothing. But all of the outraged complaining was gone from her eyes now. Only pathetic pleading was left, as she soulfully looked up to prison officer Cordelia.

Prison officer Cordelia turned her back once more on female prisoner number two. Looking down on her over her right shoulder, prison officer Cordelia said, "So ... you'll respect me, will you, Janice?"

"Ye-yes. I've – just said ... Miss Cordelia."

Prison officer Cordelia slipped her right foot from her pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, inserted her foot between Cell 13's bars, and raised her bare sole to within an inch of female prisoner number two's distraught and horrified
face. "Kiss my foot, Janice," said prison officer Cordelia.

Other than to start crying again, female prisoner number two didn't react.

Prison officer Cordelia said, "Janice ... do you want the Standard Six?"

Janice emitted such a wail of despondent grief, as tore my heart in half to listen to.

"This is the respect that I expect from you, Janice. The reverence, that I want ...

"Kiss the sole of my foot. Start kissing, and keep on, kissing. Start at the pads of my toes. Kiss each one, and then slowly, slowly, slowly work your way up to the bottom of my heel. And I want to feel your lips, Janice. Kissing.
Actually kissing. Kissing, in respect. Kissing, in reverence."

Still, female prisoner number two couldn't bring herself to do it. Couldn't bring herself, to hit rock-bottom. Couldn't bring herself, to so lower herself. To so humble herself. Couldn't bring herself, to actually touch her lips,
respectfully, reverently, to prison officer Cordelia's expectantly proffered bare sole.

Janice emitted some kind of keening, wretched wail. It was barely audible, but nonetheless it conveyed articulately the depths of her misery.

I realised that Janice was making her tormentful choice: It was either Foot Service ... or the Standard Six.

"Janice ... I'm waiting," prompted prison officer Cordelia.

And Ross and I looked on, mesmerised, as female prisoner number two capitulated. Her eyes streaming in shame, in unspeakable humiliation, Janice began kissing the pads of prison officer Cordelia's toes ... starting with the little toe.

I wanted to look away. I wanted to do the right thing ... but I just couldn't.

"Okay then, Cordelia," said prison officer Candice, apparently satisfied, at watching the positive rehabilitative progress made thus far with female prisoner number two, Janice.

"That's her brought to heel. She was an easy nut to crack – bitch material, if ever I saw it. She may even be one of us ... she just doesn't realise it yet. Because I can't believe she is that frightened, of the Standard Six. Before
long, Cordie, Janice is going to be pining for you. She'll soon be more than happy, to be your toe-sucking, foot-licking, heel-sucking little hussy.

"Tina, though ... she's another matter, Cordie. She's not so easy-peasy. She's stubborn, resistant, confrontational – noncompliant. Tina is made of sterner stuff than her cellmate. She's standing up to me. She's got some real backbone.
But I won't let her defy me. I won't let her say 'No' to me. I'll get there. I'll break her. She's just going to take a little more work, that's all ... and then her conquest will be all the sweeter."

I felt a tug on my handcuffed wrist.

"Yes, prisoner Lightwood ... female prisoners," said prison officer Bella Donna. "Here, in Greystone Prison. Admitted from today. And why? Because, unlike the vast majority of adult females in the UK today, who know which side their
bread is buttered – they don't! They don't know when they are on to an incredibly good thing."

"That's right – they don't!" said prison officer Billie Jo feelingly. "After all the Authoritarian Female Party has done for them!"

"Now you see, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Bella Donna conversationally, "just what happens to such females. Females, who are so very foolish as to reject the female-friendly ideology of the AFP. Females, who are so
incredibly ungrateful as to spurn the caring, loving bosom of the supreme sisterhood.

"From now on, these errant females are to be brought to specialist correctional facilities, such as this one. In Greystone Prison and other such remedial institutions nationwide, these females will be put through thorough, intensive-
treatment rehabilitation.

"These troublesome females' anti-establishment movement is growing alarmingly. And along with ourselves, our sister institutions are gearing up to absorb their fair intake of these troublemaking female prisoners."

"That's exactly right, Bel," agreed prison officer Candice. "And I'll be 'rehabilitating' prisoner Marshall, here – my new bitch." Nipple-tweaking away again with her abusing, golden slender toes, prison officer Candice said, "Aren't
you, Tina?"

"No! Never – bitch lesbian!" shouted the outraged Tina.

"Tina!" remonstrated prison officer Candice. "I won't tolerate such disrespect! You will accord me the respect I des—"

"And I promise you, Candice: one day you'll pay. Oh, I'll see you pay! You – and all of these other AFP bitches! One day, Candice, justice will catch up with you – all of you! And ... and get your dirty, stinky foot off me!"

"Yes, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Bella Donna equably, totally unruffled by female prisoner Tina Marshall's grossly disrespectful outburst.

"Prisoners Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton: two of the ten dissident female prisoners admitted to Greystone Prison today.

"And why?" said prison officer Bella Donna, asking my unasked question for me. "Because, unlike the vast majority of females in the UK, equality-loving females such as Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton don't want to live in a society
where our menfolk are put in their proper place – and rigorously kept there.

"They don't want to live on Easy Street: where life is made easy for females, by making life hard for males. They don't want to live in Luxury Lane: where females live a life of luxury, financed and provided on the backs of the
counterbalancing restraints and obligations that we impose upon our menfolk.

"Easy Street, Luxury Lane ... call it what you will. But Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton, here? They don't want to live in a land, where only males pay tax on their income. While females – who, for whatever personal reasons of their
own, still choose to work – receive their salaries tax-free. They just simply don't want, such a perfect female-favoured counterbalance. They just simply don't want, to be the rightful and lawful recipients of such marvellous,
unprecedented lifestyle benefits.

"And what is worse, insurgent females such as Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton, would deny all of that to their more sensible sisters. They would deny all of those hard-won prizes, to the rest of us intelligent, right-thinking females.


"Rebels such as Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton don't want to live in a female-friendly society, where females have the upper hand, at last. Where the fairer sex, at last, hold the whip-hand.

"Where males, should they fail to respond promptly and obediently to the rightful and lawful summons of a service-availing female, are subject to arrest, summary jurisdiction trial – or, in the case of recidivists, immediate re-
imprisonment – and enrolled into our female-friendly rehabilitation Refresher Course programme ... and up to now, there haven't been many repeat offenders.

"At a click of their fingers, any man in the land, not already engaged in the active service or commission of another female, could be summoned at zero notice to do these females' bidding.

"At their merest whim, they could assign a man to their own beck and call. They could have any available man they wanted, at their service. Have him wait on her, hand and foot: respectfully, humbly, obediently, compliantly – until she is
ready to dismiss him.

"Yes, prisoner Lightwood. Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton could have all of that. But no. They don't want to be the beneficiaries of such life-changing easements. Instead, they and their wrong-minded activist cohorts eschew their
female-friendly societal rights. They refuse to take advantage, of their elevated, up-on-a-pedestal statuses, upon which, every man in the land must look up to them.

"Why? Because they just simply don't want them. They just simply don't want to avail themselves, of their rightful, lawful dues – their AFP-mandated entitlements.

"Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton, and the rest of their disruptive and backward-thinking band, don't want to be the authoritarian mistresses and tyrannical commissioners of second-class citizen, obsequious, kowtowing, unfailingly
servile, fawningly reverent males, in our female-friendly society. They have no wish, prisoner Lightwood, to hold the whip-hand.

"Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton, and other females of their ilk; other ... foolish reactionaries, don't want to keep you males under their thumbs, by dint of such AFP-vested powers.

"Difficult to comprehend, isn't it, prisoner Lightwood? That these females don't want to partake of the sumptuous fruits of our hard-won privileges. That they don't want to taste the sublime wines, of the Authoritarian Female Party's
glorious achievements. That they do not want to be a part, of this golden new era. This Utopian dream, come true."

"That's right," agreed prison officer Billie Jo disgustedly. "They don't. They reject out of hand, the fundamental principles of female supremacy.

"They don't want to live in our female-dominion Utopia," said prison officer Billie Jo scathingly. "Instead, they want to go back to the bad old days, and the bad old ways. Back to the fundamentally flawed – and fundamentally wrong! –
male-female equality system. And, worst of all, these foolish females want to drag the enlightened, newly empowered female population back down with them! They would have the jam-tomorrow Preservative Party back in power!"

"Hard to believe, prisoner Lightwood. Isn't it?" said prison officer Bella Donna.

"Assembling in the streets of our towns and cities, and protesting with their anti-AFP banners, placards, and sandwich-boards. Criticising our cherished Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt, with their vile, heretic slogans and delusioned
pronouncements. Decrying all of our brilliant leader's wonderful female-friendly advancements. Denigrating her ever growing list of realised brainchilds: her visional quality-of-life improvements, commissioned in the interests and the
furtherance of womankind."

"Yes!" agreed prison officer Billie Jo zealously. She was getting increasingly hot under the collar, such was the staunch fervour of her AFP fanaticism, and her strong opinions on these particular vexed issues. "And everywhere, are these
female insurgents' egregiously defamatory – and inflammatory! – posters, pamphlets, and flyers.

"Their Preservative Party posters: blatantly displayed in the windows of their houses. Their pamphlets: intrusively pushed through people's letterboxes, shamelessly handed out to pedestrian passers-by, and slipped under the windscreen-
wipers of people's cars like so much annoying bumph. Their flyers: brazenly posted on lampposts, on trees, in bus shelters – and even in telephone kiosks!"

"Clearly," said prison officer Bella Donna, "females such as Tina Marshall and Janice Middleton, cannot be of sound mind. In rejecting out of hand, such unprecedented privileges: all of their AFP-gifted female-friendly societal rights,
benefits, entitlements, and empowerments – they cannot possibly be in their right minds. Can they, prisoner Lightwood?"

"Um, er ... no, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully. "I suppose they can't be."

Which earned me another withering stare, from the brave and heroic female prisoner Tina Marshall.

"Which is why," continued prison officer Bella Donna, "they have been brought here, to Greystone Prison: to put thinking-caps on their heads. To be made to see the errors of their ways. To be made to see reason. To have irrational
thoughts expunged from their minds. To enable them to think straight – think coherently and logically."

I'd been hearing this utter nonsense, this brainwashing balderdash, every single day for the past year. Usually, I was subjected to it during Foot Service, when the jailhouse blue prison officers were at their most zealous and
instructional.

But though I feigned to listen, and adhere – though I gave every outward appearance of taking on board, and taking to heart these daily female-friendly ideological 'teachings' – actually their brainwashing, mindset adjusting
philosophising rants and ravings went in one ear, and straight out of the other.

I felt another tug on my handcuffed wrist, sharper this time.

"Jaws! Gummy! Come along now," said prison officer Bella Donna. "The show's over. Governor Monroe is expecting you ... And so is her visitor."

*

Polished and buffed up to a nice sparkly shine every day by a member of the prisoner Clean-Up Detail, the impressive gold-coloured plaque on the dark hardwood door was gleaming. It read: 'Meredith Ursula Monroe – Governor of Greystone
Prison'.

Prison officer Bella Donna grabbed my elbow and hissed at me in annoyance. "Just what, prisoner Lightwood, are you finding so funny?"

"Nothing, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

I'd never noticed it before, but the initials of the Governor's full name were an acronym for 'MUM'. Which I thought was sort of ironic, since Governor Monroe's attitude and behaviour towards her prisoners was hardly what most of them
would consider motherly.

"Enter!" called Governor Meredith Monroe, upon hearing prison officer Bella Donna's firm but polite-sounding double knock.

Like two female High School prefects bossily escorting a couple of younger errant male pupils to the dreaded Deputy Head's study for a good talking to, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo hustled Ross and me into the Governor's
office. "Reporting as requested, Ma'am!" announced prison officer Bella Donna.

"With prisoners Lightwood and Chapman!" prison officer Billie Jo felt inclined to add.

"Thank you," said Governor Monroe. "At ease, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. And you may now unhandcuff the two prisoners."

"Ma'am!" said prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo simultaneously.

"Ah!" cried the AFP's Minister of Prisons delightedly. "Officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo! I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, officers. An absolute pleasure, I assure you. I am Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons."

"Ma'am!" responded prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo earnestly. This was a real and rare treat: they were actually getting to meet in person an Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet Minister.

"Over coffee with the Governor, just now, I have been hearing so much about you both, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. So many good things! Meredith— I mean Governor Monroe, speaks so very highly of you, so very highly indeed. She has
expressed to me her utmost confidence in you both. Such glowing praise, she has showered on you. Such acclaim!

"Her decision to pair the two of you together, she tells me, was an inspired choice. It has paid such high dividends!

"Yours, she enthuses, is a standout, top-notch prison officer partnership. Absolutely first-rate. You seem to have a mutual, symbiotic understanding. There is a chemistry between you, that reacts to bring out the very best in each other.
Individually, Governor Monroe tells me, you are young women of substance. Powerful personalities, in your own rights. But when partnered together, and complementing each other's considerable repertoire of strengths, abilities and
talents, you combine in such a formidable and effective team.

"The Governors of our prisons always keep a keen talent-spotting eye open. Ever on the lookout, for excellence. Ever on the lookout, for potential. Ever on the look out, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, for precocious young officers.
Officers, who show the early tell-tale signs that they have a real aptitude for their work. Early tell-tale signs, that they are made of the right stuff ... And your excellent prisoner-management abilities, Governor Monroe assures me,
are already second to none.

"All of our prison officers possess a natural air of authority, which of course is a key requirement to their recruitment as rehabilitators.

"But you, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, are particularly gifted. Gifted with even more exceptional natural qualities. Naturally gifted, in fact, with the tools of the trade.

"As I myself, can now attest, you are both possessed of such an unsettling, disturbing, intimidating authority, such as any prisoner with half a brain will quickly bow to and submissively acknowledge.

"So many times, Governor Monroe tells me, you have distinguished yourselves with your admirable prisoner-control skills. You have benefitted so many prisoners. You have straightened them out. So many difficult, stubborn, recalcitrant
inmates, you have put on the road to rehabilitation.

"Especially so, the prisoners who at first were not responding positively to our therapeutic treatment procedures – the slow learners. You have put thinking-caps on their heads. You have made them see the errors of their ways. You have
made them see reason. Thanks to you, so many of them are now thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. You have successfully instilled into them, once and for all, the concepts of propriety, where females are concerned.

"And so I am taking very seriously indeed, Governor Monroe's most persuasive recommendations that you both be considered for promotional fast-tracking.

"Governor Monroe and myself agree on most things, and on this issue, too, we are like-minded: the likes of you, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, don't come along every day. You and your ilk are a rare breed indeed.

"And particularly now – at this critical juncture in the Authoritarian Female Party's budding development, when things could still go so terribly wrong for us – you are a highly sought-after commodity.

"Officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo ... the AFP needs you," said Ms Lynne Truss solemnly.

"Ma'am!" shouted prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo fervently.

"You and other young women like you, are the high quality raw materials with which we will fortify our societal infrastructure. Together, we will create the conditions necessary for our dream's fruition. Together, we will clear the way,
and lay the high-grade, resilient foundations upon which can be built a better, female-friendly future.

"Little by little, with carefully timed insinuations of more and more of our Female-Friendly Code legislations, we will solidify our grip on our menfolk.

"We shall establish a new, female-friendly societal framework. A stronghold, in which we will restrictively contain and rigorously control the male population – and impose upon them our rightful, enshrined-in-law, unquestioned and
unchallengeable authority!

"We will pave the way, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, to a glorious new reality. The likes of which, before the rise of the Authoritarian Female Party government, we could only dream of: a female-friendly society. Together, we shall
realise our cherished ambitions. We will make our dream come true: A female-supremacy Utopia!

"Governor Monroe and myself agree: once discovered, officers of such high calibre as yourselves should be ushered through, as it were, as expeditiously as is prudent, to roles in more senior positions. With judicious mentoring, you will
rise to be the stars of the AFP's tomorrow. The future custodians, of our golden new era.

"Once recognised, such valuable and uncommon talents as yours should be assessed at an early stage. So that, guided by our mentors, your fledgling potentials and promise will develop apace, and so be fully realised and tapped into and
capitalised on all the sooner. So that we can rest assured, that the future integrity of our higher-management briefs will be doubly and triply ensured and protected, in such capable hands and such right-thinking heads as yours.

"Well, let me tell you: many indeed, are the opportunities for advancements within the Service ... for the right people. And I can tell you also, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo: Governor Monroe's glowing testimonial of your triple-A
credentials augers so well for the rapid furtherance of your Prison Service careers!

"I can see no earthly reason, why the both of you won't swiftly rise to the top of the promotional ladder. Rung, after quick-climbing rung. You are just the sort of strong-minded, no-nonsense, tough but fair young women the Prison
Service is crying out for these days: you are not frightened of being cruel, to be kind."

"No, Ma'am!" agreed prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo emphatically.

The light of rabid political fanaticism glinting in their eyes, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were thoroughly enjoying Ms Lynne Truss's AFP-agenda pep talk. All ears, they were absorbing the Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet
Minister's every inspiring word ...

"In the sort of rehabilitation establishments that the UK electorate entrust us to run, prisoners do not respond well to kindness.

"No. The convicted criminal elements delivered unto us, would laugh, at such softhearted slack-cutting. To them, kindness means weakness: to act kindly, is to act weakly. And, faced with weakness, and not with strength, they would take
gross advantage ... There is a lot of truth to the adage: 'Give them an inch, and they will take a mile'.

"And then, with our authority so catastrophically compromised, we would find our rehabilitation treatment programmes rendered unimplementable. Prison officers' commands to prisoners, would have no hard currency behind them: biddings,
instructions, orders – would be just so many empty, ignorable words.

"Given such latitude, prisoners would be emboldened. They would become brazen, disobedient, noncompliant – and they would not come to heel. Prison officers, attempting to impose their authority – attempting to perform their lawful duties
– in commanding prisoners to assume the position for Foot Service, would be scoffed at."

Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons, took a couple of sips of her coffee, and then resumed her morale boosting pep talk.

"Which is why it is so necessary— no, so absolutely vital, to put our collective foot down. To stamp down on, crush, and obliterate the slightest sign of prisoner uppityness as soon as it appears.

"And so, while it hurts us, much more than it hurts the prisoners, we have to be cruel, to be kind. It is the only way. There can be no easy-going, tenderhearted, mamby pamby slack-cutting. It is simply not good for prisoners. Lenient,
concessionary, mollycoddling treatment is counterproductive. It is simply not in their best interests – and, as their rehabilitating custodians, it is certainly not in yours!"

"No, Ma'am!" said prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo in wholehearted concurrence.

"As Chairwoman of the Prisons Promotions Board, I can promise you will both have my future full support and favour with regards to matters of career advancement. Indeed, you may consider me your patron.

"From now on, I shall be taking a close personal interest. Not just in your upcoming Annual Assessment reviews, but in all of your future promotional pay-scale and allowances reviews. Not to mention your other work related benefits and
entitlements reviews, too. And ... strictly entre nous ... I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised, if one day the Prisons Promotions Board recommends that you are both awarded your own prison Governorships ..."

"Ma'am!" prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo almost yelled.

"In fact, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, given the most vexatious and hugely problematical issue facing the AFP today – that of female-led insurgency – that day could come much sooner than you might think.

"Stirred up by the seditionist movement's cabal of ringleader agitators, the fomentation of anti-AFP sentiment is still stubbornly on the rise.

"Though inevitably, in their increasingly elaborate efforts to avoid detection and evade capture by our security services, their movement's key leadership will soon be forced underground.

"But then, they will adapt ...

"Their disruptive and damaging anti-AFP operatives' criminal activities will become much less daring. And much less blatant: we will no longer see their unwary heads and blithe faces popping up above the parapet. They'll no longer be
sticking their tongues out at us, as it were. No longer so bold, they'll start playing it safe. We will find ourselves facing more of a hit-and-run style of opposition."

While her audience contemplated her disquieting words, Ms Lynne Truss took another sip of her coffee. "Mmmm ... this coffee is good, Meredith. Very good indeed," complimented the UK Prison Service's top banana.

Without being asked, wordlessly and unobtrusively prison officer Bella Donna stepped up to Governor Monroe's desk, picked up the half-full jug of coffee from the percolator hot plate, and topped up her two superiors' coffee cups with the
steaming hot black liquid.

Acknowledging prison officer Bella Donna's polite considerateness, Governor Monroe and Ms Lynne Truss smiled their thanks, and took appreciative sips from their freshly filled cups.

Neither the Governor or her much esteemed visitor added anything to their coffee, I noticed. They both took their coffee black. Just as I had ... Yes: had. Past tense.

The aroma of that freshly brewed coffee was like torture to me. Not least because I thought I recognised, and was trying to place the freshly poured coffee's distinctive scent.

I loved a good cup of coffee ...

Although I had my favourites, I enjoyed trying out new beans, too. And these days there was so much choice; so many varieties available to try. There seemed to be tempting new beans in the shops every week: Colombian, Brazilian,
Guatemalan, Kenyan, Ethiopian, Java ...

But after a year of being incarcerated in Greystone Prison, I had forgotten what good coffee tasted like. Prisoners were limited to just one plastic beaker per day of supermarket own-brand instant coffee, served with their equally
cheerless supper.

"Of course," resumed the caffeine refreshed Minister of Prisons, "our informants – whether willing, or ... persuaded – are everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

"You would not believe, Meredith, some of the places our people are lurking, all but invisibly. Unobtrusive, unnoticed, undetected ... like human wallpaper.

"You could not imagine, some of the places we have quietly infiltrated: corporation boardrooms, factory floors, company offices, colleges, university campuses, health and fitness clubs – innumerable workplaces, learning centres, social
venues, and health and leisure facilities of every kind.

"But that's not all. They say that walls have ears ... and now they do. Thousands of them: our ingeniously hidden microphones. And of course, walls have eyes, too: our vast network of cunningly concealed CCTV cameras. Monitored
constantly, around the clock, by our ever vigilant counter-insurgency teams. Listening, and watching, and ... recording.

"And that's not all, either. All the time, our counter-insurgency and data gathering agents are on the prowl.

"Our people ride the Tube. The buses. The trains ...

"Our agents-at-large walk the major thoroughfares of our towns and cities: to all intents and purposes, they look just like any other about-town pedestrian. They browse in the High Street shops: to look at them, there's nothing to
suggest they are not just another bargain-hunting shopper. They frequent cafes everywhere: for all the world, they are just like anyone else – they've popped in for a nice cup of tea.

"It's surprising what our agents-at-large can learn, from loose lips. Quietly blending in, among the unsuspecting hoi polloi, and ... eavesdropping.

"So, sooner or later we will inevitably find out who these confounded agitators are. Their days are numbered ...

"We shall not permit these thankless upstarts to stand in our way. We shall not allow these disruptive, selfish nuisances to impede our work. No! We will not let these conscientious objector, reactionary, behind-the-times females
forestall the furtherance of our female-friendly cause! We will not let them thwart our cherished ambitions! No! We shall remove these pesky, ingrate females from our path – and in so doing, clear the way to our destiny! They shall not
deny us our Utopian dream!

"As and when we identify and learn the locations of each of these ringleader rebel elements – and their easily-led followers, too – we will pounce. We will capture, arrest, and rehabilitate them!

"As sure as I am Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons, we will make all of these silly women see reason! We will put thinking-caps on their heads. We will expunge irrational thoughts from their minds. We will make them see the errors of
their ways. We will get them thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically."

The AFP's Minister of Prisons' oratorical exertions had apparently worked up a bit of a thirst in her. But after Ms Truss had wet her whistle again with a few more sips of that damn good coffee, she was good to go.

"But, having said all of that ... As astonishing as it might sound, the Authoritarian Female Party is not every female's cup of tea. And for some – such as female prisoner Tina Marshall, one of Greystone's new intake of ten female-
insurgent prisoners – it never will be. And very worryingly, Meredith, Tina Marshall's case is an increasingly common theme ...

"Tina Marshall went off the rails when her head was turned by a handsome young man.

"Tina had been a content enough Canford town burger-bar counter assistant, who as far as we know had no previous interest at all in politics. Until, of course, that all changed when she got a soft spot for the young man in question: a
community servant Sock Room worker, called David Smith."

With a sad-sounding sigh, Governor Monroe said, "Ah, yes, David Smith. Of course, as a known associate of female prisoner Tina Marshall, a copy of his Person of Interest file has been forwarded to my desk. I perused his dossier this
morning ... here it is," she said, retrieving David Smith's green-binded case file from her desk's bottom drawer.

"Hmmm. Yes ... quite unfortunate. But, well, rules are rules ..." Governor Monroe said with a note of regret as she leafed through the four or five pages of David Smith's Person of Interest file. A moment later, she returned to the first
page of the Low-Level Threat document.

"From what we know of David Smith, he is a sad case, really ...

"David has no criminal record, and it is only because of his romantic involvement with female prisoner Tina Marshall that he has come to our attention at all.

"From David's file, reading his history and judging his character I am quite confident that he would otherwise have stayed well below our radar.

"Like prisoner Tina Marshall, David Smith is also from Canford town, south London. And it was in the town centre burger-bar you mentioned, Lynne, that they first met.

"In her daily Citizen Surveillance report, our agent-at-large in the burger-bar at the time – ostensibly having just popped in for a cup of tea, and reading her fashion magazine, as is her 'custom' – says it appeared to be a classic case
of love at first sight, for Tina Marshall.

"Tina was clearly attracted to David, and, constantly emitting signals to that effect, she made no secret of the fact.

"Our agent says that David Smith, though, clearly preoccupied with his first-day, Sock Room related woes, was to all appearances insensate and unresponsive.

"He was apparently oblivious to Tina's considerable charms. He seemed to barely notice the warmly smiling, jovial, bubbly Tina – even though all of her smiles, joviality and bubbliness were all directed at him.

"Our agent records that David was polite and well-mannered towards the very pleasant and outgoing counter assistant filling his food order, but he did not respond in kind to her chirpy, jokey banter. Despite Tina's enthusiastic and
determined attempts to cheer him up, David's aspect remained glum and gloomy. David picked up the plate of burger and chips Tina served him, but he didn't pick up Tina's persistent and increasingly conspicuous mating-call signals.

"David seemed absolutely unaware, of Tina's playful, breaking-the-ice badinage. Seemed totally insensible – both then, and while seated alone at his table – to the very attractive young woman's bright and breezy, irresistibly engaging
personality. He didn't appreciate her one bit.

"Other than satisfying the polite protocols of employee / customer etiquette, David paid Tina no attention. He wasn't interested. He'd had no more of an appetite for Tina, than he'd apparently had for his burger and chips, most of which
he'd left.

"Try as Tina might – at first, with her cheery, mildly flirtatious joshings, and then with her progressively saucier, increasingly obvious overtures, and finally with her blatant come-ons – David remained unheeding and unresponsive. He
seemed totally incognizant of Tina's very obvious allure. Clearly, his mind was on other things.

"Still ... we know David went back to the burger-bar, just a few days later. Went back to Tina. Obviously, the penny must have finally dropped. He'd heeded, and responded. And the rest, as they say, is history."

Governor Monroe took a sip of her coffee, and then turned to the next page of David Smith's Person of interest file.

"The youngest of four siblings, David is from a loving, caring, close-knit family:

"David's mum and dad run a modest but quite successful florist shop in Canford town centre, called Roses are Red. They employ a female cousin of David's, who works part-time and, whose name, actually, is Rose.

"David has two sisters, Alison and Denise. They both earn good salaries, working for the same prestigious firm of solicitors, also in Canford town centre.

"And David has a brother, John, who is the second-oldest sibling. Like his two older sisters, John also earns good money. John works as a chef for an Aberdeen-based catering company, on an oil rig in the North Sea – the Omega Three.

"As you can imagine, Lynne, all of his family are terribly distraught at the dreadful predicament David has found himself in.

"Naturally, especially upset are his parents: While their other son and their two daughters are all doing very well, pursuing meaningful and rewarding careers, their youngest son, David, is ... ah. It's tragic, really, Lynne."

Governor Monroe took another sip of her coffee, and then turned to the next page of David Smith's Person of Interest file.

"David Smith is essentially a decent, good-natured, law abiding, harmless enough individual, who we believe actually voted for the Authoritarian Female Party.

"Despite the apparent cajoling and remonstrances of his worried parents, David didn't apply himself as well as he should have done at school – his year-on-year grades show that he just didn't knuckle down to learning. He was consistently
at, or very near to the bottom of his class ... No wonder his parents were pulling their hair out, Lynne, when they saw his exam results!" exclaimed Governor Monroe, showing said dismal exam results to Ms Lynne Truss.

Continuing reading from David Smith's green-binded Low-Level Threat dossier, Governor Monroe said, "As a consequence, a full six months after leaving full-time education, David still hadn't found gainful employment. Though of course
thanks to our Data Protection Act – legally requiring companies and businesses to file all records permanently, and forbidding deletion – from his job application records we know how very hard David had tried in vain.

"So David Smith is most definitely not a malingerer. No. At least that can not be said of him. If only he had knuckled down to learning, at school! Like his older brother John, he could have made something of himself. Because he is
certainly not one of those lazy bones, workshy ne'er-do-wells who the Job Centre staff have been cracking down on so very hard lately, trying to move the scrounging, shiftless lot of them off the dole and into positions of gainful
employment."

Right, I thought: I'm not workshy! I was in gainful employment! And I was making something of myself, working at the Garden Centre ... But look where I am now!

Having reached the end of the page, Governor Monroe took a couple more sips of her coffee. She then turned to the next page and, first glancing it over, prepared to continue reading from David Smith's Person of Interest file.

I felt that I had a lot in common with David Smith.

I was finding David Smith's story quite intriguing. Not least, because with my own eyes I had just seen (and saw more than I'd wanted to!) his very attractive girlfriend: the feisty, noncompliant, confrontational – defiance personified
–Tina Marshall.

Among the first intake of ten female-insurgent prisoners, the lovestruck Tina was here. Stuck in this damned hellhole called Greystone Prison – which was now a mixed prison ... The AFP certainly had a lot to answer for!

Would David be allowed to visit Tina? I wondered. Maybe one day I would see him. See the guy, who had turned Tina's world upside down ... in more ways than one.

His girl was in Cell 13 – unlucky for some! And at that moment, she was steadfastly refusing to "be nice" to the stunningly beautiful and sexy lesbian prison officer Candice, who had promised to smooth the way of Tina's rehabilitative
path, if ... only she would.

As if she was just any common male prisoner, Tina was rendered completely vulnerable and totally helpless, restrained in the ultra humiliating assuming-the-position position for Foot Service.

Defiantly and determinedly, with every fibre of her being Tina was resisting prison officer Candice's persuasive wiles ...

Tina's bare breasts, being molested by the marauding bare soles of the dastardly prison officer Candice's expertly teasing and diabolically titillating feet. Her responsively budding nipples, being gleefully tweaked and toyed with;
mercilessly manipulated by the lustful lesbian prison officer Candice's slender golden toes – sending wave after relentless wave of involuntary ecstasy shuddering through Tina ... David wouldn't want to see that!

David Smith could certainly be very proud of Tina. She was a girl in a million. She had landed herself in this hellhole – for him! He must be some guy!

"But, well, rules are rules ..." said Governor Monroe, in that melancholy tone again, bringing me out of my thoughts of David and Tina's inhumane human-interest story.

"David Smith had finally run out of time. He had reached the government's statutory time limit for claiming Welfare Benefit – the handouts are stopped after one month now, but the cut-off point was six months, back then.

"So then David was duly assigned work duties, to earn his reduced Unemployment Benefit payments under the AFP's Placement scheme – as it happens, by his local Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman.

"Apparently – and I am sure you will appreciate the irony, Lynne – David Smith voted AFP because he saw our all-female government as his best chance of finally landing himself some work. And ... he was right.

"Oh! It so annoys me!" bemoaned Governor Monroe. "Tina Marshall: Such a foolish, ungrateful young woman. She needs to wake up her ideas! Before it's too late! Oh ... I could go into her cell right now, and cane her bare bottom myself!

"What on earth is she thinking of? All of her life ahead of her – and what does she do? Just think what she is giving up! Oh, just think what she is throwing away ... All of her lifestyle enhancing societal rights! All of her AFP-decreed
entitlements and benefits! All of her female-friendly empowerments! All of her amazing privileges! She is forfeiting such wonderful, marvellous, male-dominating opportunities!

"And for what? All for the love of an untrained, unskilled, virtually unemployable young man: A community servant, assigned by Canford town's Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, to work in his town's Sock Room – hand-
washing the town's females' dirty socks!"

Governor Monroe shook her head in sad bewilderment and despair at female prisoner Tina Marshall's unfathomable behaviour. Shook her head, at the sheer inexplicability of the bright and attractive young woman's AFP-rejecting life choice.

"It's all here, Lynne," said Governor Monroe. "It's all here, in the Sock Room attachment glossary to David Smith's Person of Interest file ...

"While female prisoner Tina Marshall is ... spending some time with us, her broken-hearted beau, David Smith, is earning his reduced Unemployment Benefit payments by spending his days in his town's Sock Room, laundering the town's
females' dirty socks. Painstakingly, and to a very high pass-muster standard:

"Turning all – every last one! – of those females' dirty, stinky socks inside out, so as to ensure that all of the sweat and flaky dead skin is completely washed right out of them. Hand-washing them, in steaming-hot soapy water in a deep
stainless-steel sink. Hand-rinsing them, in clean cold water in a similar, adjacent deep sink. Squeezing water out of them, by putting them through an old-fashioned handle-operated mangle, one by one. Pegging them all out on clotheslines
in the Sock Room's courtyard to dry. Bringing them all back in again when dry, to his ironing-station. Pulling each and every last one of the socks back through, the right way again – so that no sock-changing female will be
inconvenienced by having to perform that tedious little chore for herself. Steam-iron pressing them ... and by so doing, David continually restocks Canford town's Sock Room's ever depleting floor-to-ceiling shelves.

"Two Community Service Officers – they are in their early twenties, and their names are Karen and Linda – are assigned as Sock Room supervisors by Canford town's Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman.

"By whatever means, at their own discretion, the two CSOs are tasked and empowered to ensure that not only does David Smith work his fingers to the bone for his reduced Unemployment Benefit payments, but that all of the finished results
of his unspeakably miserable, and intentionally and purposefully futile sock-washing labours pass muster: pass CSOs Karen and Linda's own, nitpicky, hypercritical inspections.

"For every sock that either of the two CSOs find David Smith has failed to turn inside out before hand-washing – or has similarly failed to pull back through the right way again, afterwards, thereby causing unnecessary and unpardonable
inconvenience to a sock-changing female – both as punishment, and as an aid to help keep his mind more keenly focused on the strict requirements and responsibilities of his Placement, David receives from each of them one stroke of the
cane, to each of his bare buttocks.

"In view of whomsoever Sock Room attending females, David's two supervisors pull down his pair of white, community servant issue shorts, and they both administer a summary chastising stroke of their AFP-issue flexible bamboo canes to his
bared bottom. This usually elicits a lot of laughing, clapping and cheering from the witnessing sock-changing females.

"Upon completion of his summary chastisement, with their waspish admonishments ringing in his ears, and their just-administered cane strokes burning his buttocks, David is put right back to work by his two supervisors.

"David Smith must thank his supervisors – or, as the case may be, an observant, scrutinising sock-changing female – for helpfully spotting and pointing out to him his sock-washing deficiencies. And also thank CSOs Karen and Linda, for
taking their ensuing ... mind-focusing corrective measures.

"And always, David must respectfully address the cruel, tyrannical pair, as Miss Karen, and Miss Linda ...

"Good heavens, Lynne, can you possibly imagine? Can you possibly imagine David Smith's daily miseries? Oh, I know I shouldn't: he's there for a very good reason, after all – but I actually feel quite sorry for the young man!

"But there's not only that, Lynne. Apparently there are other contributing factors to David Smith's utter wretchedness," Governor Monroe further elaborated, upon the decidedly unfortunate situations of David Smith, in particular, and of
the UK's Sock Room community servants, in general, under the Authoritarian Female Party government's Sock Room policy. A policy, that was actually one of the original brainchild schemes of the AFP Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt.

From the Sock Room glossary attached to David Smith's green-binded Low-Level Threat Person of Interest file, Governor Monroe read: "Nationwide – whether it be England, Scotland, Wales, or Northern Ireland – sock-changing females seem to
exult in making the Sock Room community servants' lives as miserable as possible. Goading, demoralising, and generally picking on Sock Room community servants, has become something of a national sport.

"Sock-changing females everywhere, seem to go out of their way; seem to make a special effort, to try and instill into their Sock Room community servants an unutterable sense of despair. A soul-crushing despondency. Cruelly goading them
– gloating, mocking, taunting, laughing and joking – over their dreadful, often inescapable predicaments.

"And the crueller sock-changing females, rather than just simply tossing their pairs of dirty used socks – predominantly white leisure socks – into one of the colour-coded wheelie-bins provided, these more wicked, malevolent-minded
sock-changing females relish taking the opportunity to rub their Sock Room community servant's nose in it, as it were. Taking a malicious, gleeful delight, in personally handing over to him their just-removed pairs of dirty, stinky
socks: 'Here's my dirty, stinky socks for you to hand-wash – Sock Boy!' is a common cruel Sock Room taunt. And: 'Don't forget to pull them through the right way again!' is another particular favourite.

"The prevailing thinking, is that the Sock Room brings out the bitch in them.

"But then, there are the particularly malicious, Sock Room 'regulars'.

"These nothing-better-to-do-with-their-time, Welfare Benefits lifestyle females are the real bane of the Sock Room community servants' lives. They are the real bullies.

"These frightful women are notorious for their cruel perpetrations. They can be incredibly hurtful. Especially when in the company of their cohort cronies, when, egged on by their like-minded friends, they are at their ridiculing and
tormenting worst ... There's a lot more, Lynne, about these dreadful so-called 'regulars', and the sorts of diabolical humiliations they inflict upon their Sock Room community servants, documented a bit further on in the report.

"Being so handily and conveniently situated, as they are, our town's and cities' Sock Rooms are highly popular and much-frequented establishments," continued Governor Monroe.

"To many females, their town's Sock Room is a useful hub; a congenial meeting place to rendezvous with friends. Perhaps before going on shopping in the nearby town centre, or to the multiplex cinema, or to a fast-food restaurant ... with
clean socks on.

"But, to the so-called 'regular' sock-changing females, visits to their local Sock Rooms are much more than that – much more, than just a quick, sock-changing pop-in venue.

"To the 'regulars', their visits to their local Sock Room has become a pastime, a hobby ... a leisure activity. The ideal place, for a jolly get-together. To them, the Sock Room is a place of entertainment: their social club.

"But to them, the Sock Room is more than that, too: it is their magnet. Their attraction. Like iron filings irresistibly drawn to an electromagnet, these Sock Room 'regulars' are just as irresistibly drawn to their 'Social Club'. Just as
they have been, right from the very first day of their Sock Room's much trumpeted opening.

"Hmmm ... and the Sock Rooms are actually quite well-appointed, Lynne. Just as one would hope, if one was in the habit of spending serious time there.

"There are comfortable seats provided – some recliners, even. All overlooking the Sock Room community servant's lower-level work area.

"So that the Sock Room 'regulars' can relax.

"So that they can comfortably partake of the refreshments they've brought along with them in their coolboxes and sports bags ...

"Enjoying their food and drink, while they enjoy looking down on the Sock Room community servant, working so very hard in his senseless sock-laundering labours.

"Chewing the fat, while they chew their food, gloating over the Sock Room community servant's mindless toil, hand-washing his town's females' dirty, stinky socks.

"Observing with malicious glee, the Sock Room community servant's insane endeavours: futilely slaving away, in the town's sock-changing females' behalf ... and working especially hard, and slaving away even more futilely, in their
behalf.

"These Sock Room 'regulars', Lynne, are the ultimate wind-up merchants. They are the Sock Room community servants' worst nightmare. They are the true harbingers of despondency and despair – the real soul-destroyers. The expert inflictors
of misery.

"Quite often, apparently, some of these Sock Room obsessives walk around shoeless, for days on end. In socks that they have worn, for days on end. They find it delightful fun, to deliberately dirty and stink up their socks as much as
they can. So as to make their sweaty, grubby, grimy, filthy dirty white leisure socks all the harder and all the more problematical for the already overworked, overburdened – overwhelmed – Sock Room community servant to hand-wash clean
again.

Governor Monroe took a few more sips of her now cooling coffee. "It's Italian-style, actually, Lynne ... the coffee, I mean," she informed Ms Truss, Minister of Prisons.

"Ah, what a shocking waste, Lynne, of a person's time," further bemoaned Governor Monroe. "What a terrible, appalling waste ... So I've assigned officer Candice as principal overseer for female prisoner Tina Marshall's rehabilitation
programme.

"Not that I'm hopeful – given her apparent undying devotion to her sock-washing boyfriend. But if officer Candice can't bring prisoner Marshall around to our sensible way of thinking, well, at least we'll know that Tina is being ...
dealt with, for her defiant noncompliance."

Ms Lynne Truss said, "Yes, Meredith. No wonder prisoner Tina Marshall is so very concerned for her boyfriend. Sock Rooms certainly are the most dreadful establishments – unless you are a sock-changing female, of course. Being assigned to
work in a Sock Room, is to my mind not only particularly difficult, but also the most horrendous of Placements.

"And once assigned to a Placement – either by Job Centre staff; or, as was the case with David Smith, by the local Community Service Liaison Officer herself – it is nigh on impossible, for a community servant to then extricate himself
from his predicament by finding gainful employment ...

"A previous Placement occupation on a CV doesn't look too impressive to a prospective employer. In fact it is extremely off-putting. More than a disadvantage, more than a mere handicap, it is a stigma. And so a community servant can find
himself stuck in his assigned Placement for a very long time.

"If a job seeker was fired from his previous employment, for say ... persistent lateness, or for taking too much time off work, or for incompetence, or even for petty theft – his chances are still excellent for finding himself a new job.
With so few females taking up menial and unpleasant jobs since the introduction of the AFP's Ladies of Leisure legislation, his job prospects are still extremely good.

"But when a personnel manager learns that the job applicant was once, or still is, on a Placement ... Well, as a desperate last resort, in the event of a sheer need to fill the job vacancy, the personnel manager might then offer the
unattractive and difficult-to-fill post to the stigmatised job applicant. But, for such a 'favour', the personnel manager will undoubtedly attach many ... strings.

"Occasionally, in the event of CSOs reporting to the local Community Service Liaison Officer that a community servant under their supervision is displaying symptoms of Burnout Syndrome, in hopes of averting his fully succumbing to this
increasingly common condition she will arrange for him to be transferred to another Placement.

"The thinking behind this, is that a change is as good as a rest.

"But more often than not, a community servant is hardly any better off for his change of scene. It is usually a case of: 'Out of the frying pan, and into the fire'. Disturbingly, all over the UK, CSO reports of community servant Burnout
Syndrome are rising sharply. It is becoming an epidemic.

"And of course, Tina Marshall has seen for herself, hasn't she, Meredith? Tina has seen for herself, first-hand, just how shockingly and cruelly her boyfriend David Smith is treated in Canford town's Sock Room. By his two supervisors,
Karen and Linda. And by his own town's sock-changing females."

"Yes, Lynne. And especially so, by the so-called Sock Room 'regulars' ...

"According to David Smith's Person of Interest file, an across-the-road neighbour of his, a Mrs Norma Newlove, is the worst of them all.

"On the day of David's arrest – by CSOs Karen and Linda themselves, who in their AFP van had gone to David's home to pick him up – one of our agents at large, notified of David's imminent arrest, made note of Norma's ecstatic reaction.
Our agent at large says that Norma was beside herself with joy. That she was – and I quote: 'Dancing in the street'.

"Apparently, for reasons that we don't yet know, there is a mutual, hostile dislike. A simmering animosity, between them. Enmity, almost, on the part of Mrs Newlove."

"Really, Meredith?" said Ms Lynne Truss, interestedly. "I must say, that certainly sounds like very bad news for David!"

"Yes, Lynne. Because now, of course, Mrs Norma Newlove has got David Smith exactly where she wants him ... Imagine her glee! It's like a dream come true!

"According to the daily reports filed by CSOs Karen and Linda, who as I have said are Canford town's two Sock Room supervisors, on a daily basis Norma Newlove really goes out of her way to make sure that David Smith is made as miserable
as possible. More often than not, with a little help from her Welfare Benefits lifestyle friends ... Oh, she doesn't half give David something to think about, according to CSOs Karen and Linda!"

"Really, Meredith? How interesting! What else does it say, in David Smith's Person of Interest file?"

"Well, Lynne ... Quite a number of times, the hawk-eyed Norma has spotted various deficiencies and faults, either in the methods, or with the final results of David's sock-washing labours.

"On such occasions, Norma makes it her business to report David to his supervisors, pointing out or explaining to them the fault- or faults, she has spotted. Why? Because Norma Newlove wants to see David Smith being summarily chastised –
caned, by his two supervisors, CSOs Karen and Linda. Norma wants to watch, from her 'ringside seat', her across-the-road neighbour David being caned, on his bared buttocks.

"On one particularly notable occasion, Lynne, Norma really hit the jackpot ...

"Norma reported to CSOs Karen and Linda every single word of David's being, in Norma's own words: 'Very impudent, extremely insolent, and grossly disrespectful' to Canford High's PE teacher, Miss Polly Pardew – who, to cap it all, just
happened to be CSOs Karen and Linda's much-liked former teacher.

"Norma repeated, verbatim, David and Miss Pardew's decidedly discordant conversation. I have here the whole, unabridged transcript. But I'll just read you the gist ...

"Miss Polly Pardew had come struggling into the Sock Room, that morning, burdened with several big bagfuls of her Year Five schoolgirls' dirty sports socks for David to hand-wash – two hundred socks, in total.

"Norma, who'd been watching and listening from her recliner, said David had just stood there, looking vacant, watching Miss Pardew struggle her way in through the doors, and not even offering to help her.

"Norma said: Yes, at the time, David was extremely busy – up to his eyes in the huge backlog of females' dirty socks ... A dozen colour-coded wheelie-bins overflowing with them; the big hopper, full right to the top, with hundreds of
pairs of dirty white socks; his hot-and-soapy-water soaking tank, full of them; as were his two stainless-steel sinks, his washing lines, and his ironing station – and now, here came another great big load.

"But that was no excuse, asserted Norma: When a male – especially a community servant – sees a female in need of assistance, he should drop whatever he is doing, and respond appropriately at once, as per the Female-Friendly Code
regulations.

"According to Norma, when Miss Pardew had told David she would return late-afternoon the next day to collect the one hundred pairs of clean sports socks, David told her that he couldn't promise her they would be ready, at such short
notice.

"David told Canford High's PE teacher that he already had a mountain of his townswomen's dirty socks to hand-wash, and so her Year Five schoolgirls' dirty sports socks would just have to wait their turn. And so her consignment of sports
socks might not be ready in time. In fact, he'd said, he might as well tell her now: she could save herself the trouble of coming for them – because the socks most definitely wouldn't be ready for collection so soon. After all, he only
had one pair of hands, he'd told Miss Pardew, indicating to her his already overwhelming workload.

"Well, when Norma repeated this conversation to David's two supervisors, there was hell to pay. CSOs Karen and Linda were absolutely livid.

"The result was that CSOs Karen and Linda offered to let Canford High's PE teacher cane David's bared bottom herself – and Miss Polly Pardew gleefully took her two former students up on their offer.

"CSOs Karen and Linda stood David facing the bare brick wall of his lower-level work area, and handcuffed his wrists to the safety-rails of the Sock Room's upper-level 'viewing area' – right where his face was on a level with the foot of
the padded black leather recliner occupied by the gleeful Mrs Norma Newlove; the soles of her dirty white-socked feet, right in David's face ... An added, ignominious cruelty, to David Smith's painful and humiliating chastisement.

"CSOs Karen and Linda then pulled David's white, community servant issue shorts down to his ankles, and signalled their former PE teacher to proceed with administering David's chastisement: as many cane strokes as she liked ... 'That is
not the way I expect to be spoken to – by a community servant!' Miss Polly Pardew is reported to have repeatedly yelled, as she had personally caned David Smith's bared buttocks, literally dozens of times ...

"Norma Newlove is often in the company of and in close cahoots with a bunch of her like-minded Sock Room cronies. In particular, there's a Gina Stainham, and a Cheryl Chubb, malicious-minded cohorts of Norma's who both get special
mentions by CSOs Karen and Linda in their daily Sock Room write-ups.

"All of these Canford town Sock Room 'regulars' are on Welfare Benefit – which of course is their prerogative. Under the AFP's female-friendly Ladies of Leisure legislation, they are free to spend their time however they like.

"Norma and friends attend their Sock Room pretty much every day – originally, Sock Rooms were openly open from Monday to Friday, but now they are open seven days a week. It gives the Sock Room community servant the chance to try and
whittle down his workload a bit ... and his CSO supervisors, the chance to earn overtime at truly amazing rates of pay.

"Norma and her cruel cronies bring along with them plentiful supplies of food and drink refreshments. Plenty to keep them going ... while they watch David Smith, earning his reduced Unemployment Benefit by hand-washing their dirty
socks."

"As it happens," said Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons, "Sock Rooms are another of Caroline's brainchilds. What you have just read out, Meredith, is a microcosm of what happens in Sock Rooms throughout the UK every day in our towns
and cities ... Ah, Meredith! On my next visit to Greystone, you must remind me to tell you about another of Caroline's Placement brainchilds: her hilarious airborne Air Purification Technician wheeze! Oh, Meredith – you'll laugh!"

Returning her attention now to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, Ms Lynne Truss said, "And so, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, to return to what I was saying ... Officers with such superlative rehabilitative qualities as
yourselves will always be in demand.

"Ma'am!" said prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo.

"And the Authoritarian Female Party is very generous, when it comes to rewarding its best people ...

"In fact, in my capacity as Secretary of the Special Imbursements Committee, I've already arranged with Governor Monroe to have your present salaries doubled – backdated to the beginning of the year.

"This may seem a somewhat irregular, arbitrary reward. But it will become increasingly less so, since it is now within my Cabinet-Ministerial portfolio gift to personally reward such deserving and well-thought of personnel as yourselves.
And furthermore: as a direct consequence of Governor Monroe's rave reviews, you can be sure that I shall be mentioning you both to the Prime Minister, during my next briefing with Caroline at Number Ten."

"Ma'am!" replied prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo.

They'd replied simply and succinctly. But contained in that one, exclaimed word, there was a whole world of eloquence.

Maintaining an air of sober professionalism as best they could, in the circumstances, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo didn't allow themselves to run away at the mouth like two excitable schoolgirls awarded first-prizes by a
local minor dignitary on sports day. But they couldn't help their big, Cheshire-cat grins.

Their faces aglow, they were both clearly overcome with heartwarming emotions. Clearly overwhelmed, by such powerful reaffirming stirrings-up of their fanatical AFP-affiliated fervour.

At hearing the AFP government's leading penal officer's liberal lashings of fulsome praise in acknowledgement and appreciation of work well done, and her assurances of her future patronage with regards to advancement in their vocational
Prison Service careers, so very difficult was it, to maintain such self-restraint and observance of professional decorum, that prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's faces were flushed bright pink, suffused with the pent-up pleasure
that was bursting to get out and give joyous voice.

But that wasn't all, of course: Ms Truss herself had personally ordered that their present salaries be doubled – backdated to the beginning of the year.

This was a reward in the immediacy, and a most generous one. And no doubt the extra money would be most welcome. Both in the future; and in the present too, in the form of their lump sum backpay windfall.

To prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, this just went to show that the powerful high-ups of the AFP were not aloof. It proved that the higher echelon Party big cheeses really did care about the welfare and the wellbeing of each
and every one of their cause-carrying subordinates; their ... foot soldiers, as it were.

Even, as just exemplified, to the extent of patronising their favourites, and taking a personal interest in the aiding and abetting of the furtherance of their favoured underlings' careers.

But, to cap it all – talk about 'The icing on the cake'! AFP Cabinet Minister Ms Lynne Truss was actually going to mention them both to the Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt.

For Authoritarian Female Party ideologues like prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, this was a day that would live long in their memories. A veritable red-letter day.

Seated upon plush black leather, castor-wheeled swivel chairs behind Governor Monroe's large desk, the Governor and her high echelon government visitor were both facing towards the four us. Governor Meredith Monroe was to our left-hand
side of the desk and Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons, to our right-hand side.

Governor Monroe's large desk was open-fronted. And so from where I was standing, the two senior-position women's legs and feet were plainly visible in the generous leg space.

Just like her outstandingly good-looking, glamour chick 'jailhouse blue' prison officers, Governor Meredith Monroe wore the standard Greystone Prison issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops. She was barelegged, and her shapely legs
and elegant feet were beautifully suntanned. In her late thirties, she was somewhat maturer than most (but not all) of the prison officers under her command. But she was just as stunningly attractive as any of them – with the possible
exceptions of prison officers Candice and Cordelia, who with their particularly exquisite drop-dead-gorgeous looks were very out of the ordinary.

The Governor's much esteemed Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet Minister visitor, also in her late thirties, was a slim, very attractive blonde woman.

Just like Governor Meredith Monroe, not only did Ms Lynne Truss project a natural air of authority, but she too also exuded that more undefinable characteristic; that further distinguishing quality, which was the trait possessed by all
of the AFP's high-ups, and also by their mid- to senior rank, Heads-of-Department local government minions – such as Canford town's Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman: presence.

But, not only that ... In the leg space of Governor Monroe's open-fronted desk, I could see that the AFP's Minister of Prisons was possessed of another distinguishing quality: a very shapely pair of legs.

Ms Lynne Truss, in fact, was a leg man's dream. And for the past ten minutes or so, she had been tweaking away at my Achilles' heel.

But, there was something else ... Ms Truss was one of those females who, seemingly without realising they are doing so, always seem to be playing with their shoes.

Inexplicably, as I watched Ms Lynne Truss's under-the-desk feet doing all sorts of things with her shoes, she was causing me some real excitement.

Ms Truss was one of those absentminded shoe-players, who just do what comes naturally. Foremost, but by no means exclusively, she was a dangler. And a skillful one: with her right leg crossed over her left knee, she wasn't allowing her
precariously balanced, to-and-fro swinging right shoe to fall from the tips of her toes.

Governor Monroe and Ms Lynne Truss were still talking, but I was no longer taking on board what they were saying.

I was finding the under-the-desk show somewhat mesmerising. It was difficult to look away – in fact, I just couldn't.

Ms Lynne Truss was stirring something within me, I realised, with her somehow sexy shoeplay. Stirring something new. She was actually awakening something. Something that had lain dormant ... Until now.

Some new ... appreciation.

I angled myself away slightly. If anyone should happen to glance at the front of my shorts ...

I didn't know what remark she'd found so funny, but fortunately Ms Lynne Truss's sudden burst of laughter brought me out of my perilous trancelike state, before my ... excitement was inevitably noticed.

Ms Lynne Truss's blonde hair was cut in the AFP-adapted concave bob style. The militaristic-looking hairdo actually suited her.

The AFP's head prison official was impressively attired, too. She wore a two-piece, dove grey jacket and above-the-knee skirt, a white blouse, and she was wearing a pair of tights or stockings of a sort of a see-through, almost
transparent material. On her feet, Ms Truss wore a pair of black leather, two-inch heeled office-style pumps.

At last, and as though suddenly remembering that Ross and me were actually present in her office, Governor Monroe, barely able to keep from chuckling in amusement, said to her august visitor, "Oh ... and, th-these, heh heh heh ... these
are the two prisoners I was telling you about, Lynne ... heh heh heh heh."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ms Lynne Truss excitedly. "The famous Jaws and Gummy!"

"That's right, Lynne," confirmed the Governor with another mirthful chuckle. "Jaws and Gummy: aka prisoners Lightwood and Chapman. The one on the left, is, heh heh heh ... Gummy," Governor Meredith Monroe informed Ms Lynne Truss,
Minister of Prisons.

Governor Monroe said, "Officer Billie Jo. Would you kindly show to Ms Lynne Truss, the improvements that you had Doctor Blatherhead perform on Gummy?"

"Of course, Ma'am!" replied prison officer Billie Jo.

"Come on, you!" said prison officer Billie Jo, directing my cellmate over to the side of the Governor's desk where the AFP's Minister of Prisons was sitting.

"Gummy!" snapped prison officer Billie Jo. "Take out your NHS dentures, and go to your knees at her Ladyship's feet! Show her your oral cavity improvements, that I had the prison doctor perform on you. Show her Ladyship all of the extra
wiggle room I've created. Kneel here, Gummy!"

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," said Ross respectfully, going to his knees on Governor Monroe's office floor, exactly as instructed by prison officer Billie Jo.

The castor wheels of her swivel chair making no sound as they rolled smoothly over the Governor's top quality thick-pile office carpeting, the AFP's Minister of Prisons scooted out from behind the Governor's large desk. Clearly, Ms Lynne
Truss was eager to get her first view of the intriguing oral excavations she'd been told about by Governor Monroe over coffee.

Peering intently and at great length with her blue-eyed gaze into Ross's wide-opened oral orifice, Ms Truss at last exclaimed, "How ... ghastly! Ha ha ha ha! How ... absolutely appalling – ha ha ha ha! Quite honestly, Meredith, I am at a
loss to decide which is the most unsightly: prisoner Chapman like this, with his ruined, toothless mouth – or when he's wearing his dreadful NHS dentures!"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Governor Meredith Monroe. "I know exactly what you mean, Lynne," she said, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye with her fingertip. "Not a pretty sight, is he? Ha ha ha ha!"

"I have never seen the like!" exclaimed Ms Truss. "Where on earth did they get those teeth from – last year's Grand National winner? Ha ha ha ha!

"But fine work, officer Billie Jo. This is a great bit of oral engineering. There are some jolly convenient toe-hold cavities, aren't there? Particularly in Gummy's lower jaw. Highly conducive, I should imagine, to easeful, surefooted
relaxation whilst enjoying an e-cigarette during Foot Service. And yes: I can see you've certainly created lots more cosy-toes wiggle room!"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Governor Monroe. "That's absolutely right! I know! Please! Try him out, Lynne. It's really very nice – you'll be surprised!"

"Ugh! I don't think so!" said Ms Lynne Truss, parodying a shiver of revulsion. "Thank you – but no, thank you! Really, Meredith! I don't want to put my feet in ... in there! I couldn't possibly! I mean ... Ugh!" said the AFP's Minister
of Prisons, with another theatrical shudder of distaste.

Ms Lynne Truss said to Ross, "Am I to understand, prisoner Chapman, that this was the direct result of you saying 'No' twice, to officer Billie Jo?"

"Um ... not exactly, your Ladyship," said Ross respectfully. "It was a direct result of my saying 'No' to Miss Billie Jo once – when I'd threatened to bite her foot if she put it in my mouth. The second time I said 'No' to Miss Billie
Jo, she Ball-Busted me on the Wheel of Chastisement."

"Ah! Yes: the Wheel of Chastisement. Those excellent behaviour-correction devices are installed in all of our rehabilitation institutions now. In fact, we now have a Wheel of Chastisement installed in every Town Hall ...

"Of course, under the Female-Friendly Code, any female can report a male citizen's ... remissness. Either by alerting a patrolling Community Service Officer, should one be in the immediate vicinity, or by submitting the details of the
infraction, along with the information printed on the offending male's identity card, to the local AFP authorities.

"But it could be, that one of our agents-at-large have reported a male citizen, for something he has said, or done – or for something that he hasn't, said, or hasn't, done.

"Or perhaps a patrolling CSO herself, spotting a violation of the Code, might think the errant male citizen is in need of a little ... reminder.

"Whichever the case, the male subject is duly arrested and taken into custody at the Town Hall. Most days, there is usually a small handful of such off-the-straight-and-narrow males, who have been picked up by patrolling CSOs, and
brought in. They are all put into the Town Hall's holding cell, and left to ponder the errors of their ways.

"Before they sign off work for the day, the last duty of the CSOs is to chastise each of the offending males in custody before releasing them.

"Each time one of the CSOs administers the summary barefoot, single-kick Ball-Bust penalty to one of the detained errant males, she then pushes the Start button, and her cane-wielding colleagues await the errant male's bare bottom to
come around to them as he goes around on his one-rotation, sixty-second journey, on their slowly revolving Wheel of Chastisement ...

"They are a cruel, but kind, sure-cure treatment: effective, in ninety-nine per cent of cases. Both for incarcerated slow-learner prisoners, requiring stronger-dosage therapeutic treatment; and for errant male citizens, deemed to be in
need of just a little ... reminder.

"And I'll bet, prisoner Chapman, that you haven't said 'No' to officer Billie Jo, since she Ball-Busted you. Have you – Gummy?"

"No, your Ladyship," said Ross respectfully. "I haven't."

"Oh – Lynne!" exclaimed Governor Monroe. "As luck would have it, there's a Ball-Bust scheduled to be carried out in less than an hour from now!

"A new inmate has grossly insulted receiving officers Melanie and Natalie. He called officer Melanie a violent bitch, when she disciplined him with a slap to the face for his insolent attitude. And he called officer Natalie a cruel cow,
for describing to him in graphic detail just what he had to look forward to in Greystone Prison.

"In fact, I have already granted officers Melanie and Natalie's supplementary request, to bags firsts on the prisoner: they want to be the first, tomorrow lunchtime, to have him provide Table Service in the Staff Canteen.

"As co-offended, they'll share the principal chastiser privileges for today's Ball-Bust. I'll let officers Melanie and Natalie decide between themselves, which of them gets to have a third kick, in administering the prisoner's five-kick
Ball-Bust chastisement.

"The Wheel of Chastisement is being readied down in the gymnasium right now, Lynne, as we speak. And of course, it goes without saying that you would be welcome to attend the prisoner's chastisement. In fact ... just to keep within the
rules and regulations, why don't I deputise you as an acting-member of the caning-party? My officers would be so thrilled! Or wait – even better still: why don't you, Lynne, administer the fifth and final ball-kick? Would you, Lynne,
like to have the pleasure of administering the prisoner's coup de grace?"

"Oh! What a pity! Another time, certainly, Meredith. But unfortunately I'm rather pushed for time today. It's just as well we in Cabinet now have our own personal Jet Ranger helicopters at our disposal, on constant stand-by. I still have
another two prisons to visit after Greystone. So my pilot will have to put her foot down, as it were.

"And Caroline has called another emergency meeting of Cabinet for early this evening. I understand it has to do with the female-insurgent problem – again! It's so annoying, Meredith. What a nuisance! It is an increasingly irksome affair.
Really! I mean, don't these women know when they are onto a jolly good thing? With all of our female-friendly policies? I mean – really! We are putting our menfolk at their feet, for heaven's sake!"

"Ah, well. Another time, Lynne. Another time," consoled Governor Monroe.

"Oh – and I would most certainly have enjoyed it! There's nothing like it, is there? The sheer, heartwarming satisfaction of it. But no, Meredith. Really. I couldn't possibly. I wouldn't dream, of depriving officer Melanie or officer
Natalie of one of their rightful chastising barefoot kicks to their insulter's testicles.

"Oh, and how lucky you are, Meredith: at liberty to take your cane for a walk, any time you please! All of those prisoners' bare bottoms – just waiting to be caned! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Governor Monroe in shared amusement. "Yes. And believe me, Lynne, I am very fond of taking my cane for a walk, as you so nicely put it."

"Perks of the job, Meredith!"

"Absolutely – ha ha ha ha! Oh yes, Lynne. I am exceedingly fond of taking a leisurely stroll, up on the Levels. And ... and do you know something, Lynne? It's ... it's the strangest thing, and I know just how ridiculous it sounds ... but
I really do believe, that the prisoners actually recognise the sounds of my approaching flip flops: they never look surprised to see me!"

"Why, Meredith!" exclaimed Ms Lynne Truss fascinatedly. "How very interesting! But, could such a thing be possible? Surely not! I mean, surely the sounds of one pair of approaching flip flops sound just like any other ... don't they? And
there are so many prison officers here – and all of them wearing the same, standard issue Greystone Prison flip flops ... No, Meredith. You must be imagining it. I mean, come on! The prisoners ... recognising the sounds of your
approaching flip flops ...? Indeed!"

Governor Meredith Monroe turned to me and said, "Prisoner Lightwood. You never seem surprised to see me. Why is that? Do you recognise the sounds of my approaching flip flops?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I said respectfully. "I do. The sounds of your approaching flip flops are very distinctive, Ma'am. In fact, particularly so. Quite unmistakable."

"Oh, is that so, prisoner Lightwood?" said Governor Monroe sceptically, despite having just voiced her suspicions to that very effect.

"Yes, Ma'am. But, now that you come to mention it, Ma'am, I'm reminded that not only can I recognise the unique distinctions of a single pair of prison officer's approaching flip flops, but I can also actually recognise, distinguish and
differentiate between several – as many as five or six – pairs of simultaneously approaching prison officers' flip flops. And thereby, Ma'am, the individual identities of the flip flops' wearers are revealed to me in advance."

"Um ... Let me be clear, prisoner Lightwood: Are you telling me that you can reliably recognise my officers in advance – while they are still out of your sight – just from the differentiating sounds of their approaching flip flops? All
of them?"

"Ma'am, I wouldn't like to overstate my ability, and I don't claim it to be infallible. But, on those occasions when I do fail to recognise a particular set of approaching flip flop sounds – albeit, even when intermingled and confused
with the distracting combined signature sounds of several other pairs of prison officers' approaching flip flops – almost invariably these unidentifiable approaching flip flop signature sounds turn out to belong to a newly appointed and
as yet unknown to me prison officer."

"I can hardly believe it," said Governor Meredith Monroe. "You are doing it to me again ..." she told me, pressing her fingertips to her temples, as though she could feel a headache coming on, "... signature sounds."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said respectfully.

"Are you actually telling me, in all seriousness, prisoner Lightwood – because you had better not be pulling my leg! – that I am right? That you, and, by the sounds of it, other prisoners too, can actually recognise and distinguish
between the ... signature sounds, of my approaching flip flops, and those of any other prison officer? Even when they are mixed up and confused with multiple other prison officers' commingled flip flop sounds?"

"Ma'am, it is inconceivable to me that other prisoners haven't developed this ability for themselves. But I can only speak for myself."

"Ah ... I know I'm going to regret this, because I always do ... All right then, prisoner Lightwood: speak for yourself," instructed Governor Monroe.

"Well, Ma'am ... At first, it was just driving me nuts: having to listen to the almost constant, almost relentless slap slap slap slapping sounds of the prison officers' thin-rubber soled flip flops slapping against the bottoms of their
bare heels as they walked along. It was just so incredibly irritating!

"And I don't mean just the flip flop slapping sounds emanating from here, on Level One – which would have been bad enough. Sound really travels in here, Ma'am, it being so very open. From here, on Level One, not only can you clearly hear
the flip flop slapping sounds made by patrolling prison officers on each of the five Levels, but those from down on the open expanse of the Ground Floor concourse as well.

"Ross – I mean prisoner Chapman, Ma'am – told me it was something I was just going to have to get used to. He said he'd never even noticed the sounds, until I'd mentioned them. He told me to try and ignore the annoying slapping sounds –
as he himself would now have to try and do, since I'd brought them to his attention. Try and tune them out, he'd told me, if they were bothering me that much.

"But, it wasn't long, Ma'am, before I began to notice ... things. Different, individual, characteristic things, that sort of interested up a bit all of those flip flop slapping sounds. And, instead of trying to tune the flip flop
slapping sounds out, I started to ... tune them in."

With a resigned sigh, Governor Monroe said, "Go on, prisoner Lightwood. What ... things, did you begin to notice?"

"Ma'am, over the past year, based upon extrapolations of phenotypical data – mentally analysable perceived information, Ma'am, supported by visual observance verification – I have formulated from my extensive and exhaustive study, what I
believe to be a feasible if not entirely foolproof prison officer advance-identification model."

"My word! That was a bit of a mouthful, prisoner Lightwood!" exclaimed Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons. "It's good to know that prisoners are putting their time to such good use!" she added dryly.

"Ma'am, Jaws is always spouting such nonsense ... but I know the best way of shutting him up," prison officer Bella Donna informed Ms Lynne Truss.

"Hmmm ... I'm still not convinced," Governor Monroe told me. "This is an extraordinarily tall story you are asking me to swallow, prisoner Lightwood."

"Well, Ma'am, I have convinced my cellmate of my advance-identification theory's workability. He was dubious at first, too. He thought I was joking; that I was making it all up. He'd thought I was just lucky in my prison officer identity
predictions. Until it became obvious that nobody could be so persistently lucky ...

"I'd hear a prison officer's approaching flip flop sounds, Ma'am, and I'd say to my cellmate: Oh-oh, here comes Poison Ivy— I mean, here comes officer Bella Donna. Or: Here comes officer Billie Jo. Or: Here comes officer Victoria ... And
then: voila! There they'd be.

"But now, Ma'am, he is almost as capable as me. He still struggles a bit with multiples; it's a bit of a tricky knack to master. But now, almost as well as I can, he also can pre-recognise – reliably discern, and distinguish in advance,
Ma'am – the unique signature sounds of almost any given individual prison officer's approaching flip flops."

"How ... singularly bizarre!" exclaimed Ms Lynne Truss. "I can hardly believe it either, Meredith. Flip flop 'signature sounds' – indeed!"

"Yes – indeed. And I'm still not convinced. If I thought ... if I thought, for just one second, prisoner Lightwood, that you were pulling my leg ... Okay. I know I'm going to regret this, but ... All right then, prisoner Lightwood: tell
me and Ms Truss, about your theory; about your ... advance-identification model," invited Governor Monroe. "Let's see if you can truly convince us, as to the viability of your ... extensive and exhaustive study."

"Ma'am, there's a lot to the equation; there are so many dynamics at play, such a nuanced complex of confused and confusing formulaic variables for the fallible self-trained ear to interpret. But I believe the secret lies in the
comfort-oriented design of the Greystone Prison issue flip flops' thin-rubber soles.

"Ma'am, the prison officers' flip flops' thin-rubber soles, being so very flexible and extremely manipulable, is of course, key.

"But then, Ma'am, when I add in the critically important variations in the shapes and sizes of the prison officers' feet; and factor in also, the broad spectrum of highly influential variances in the prison officers' weight, height,
gaits, and stride lengths – all of which have their own, individual crucial formulaic bearing in the calculus ... I am left to conclude, Ma'am, that the phenotypical data extrapolations I've described are what enables my discerning ear
to pre-recognise, and thereby successfully advance-match, the unique signature sounds of any given approaching pair – or pairs – of flip flops, with the individual identity – or identities – of their prison officer wearers.

"Um ... if I may take yourself, Ma'am, as a case in point. Yours, Ma'am, are the most easily recognisable of approaching flip flop sounds."

"Yes, you've already said, prisoner Lightwood. But how do you account for that? I mean, I wear the standard issue flip flops. I wear exactly the same Greystone Prison issue flip flops, as all of my officers. So ... what's so special,
then, about the sounds of my approaching flip flops?"

"Well, Ma'am, you have a very elegant gait. That's where the visual observance verification aspect of my analysis comes into play: in supporting and confirming what my ears are telling me.

"That's how I learn, Ma'am. By very closely watching, and minutely studying, the varying interactions being played out between your walking feet – or any prison officer's walking feet – with their highly flexible thin-rubber soled flip
flops.

"Because these interactions, Ma'am, are where all the clues are: It's in the gait. The unique way, in which a perambulating prison officer carries herself; walks about.

"Ma'am, a prison officer's weight, her height, the shape and size of her feet, and her deportment – all of these criteria combined, go to make up the equation.

"The gait is the key determinant, Ma'am. The key determinant for the successful advance-matching of any given prison officer – or officers – with the unique slap slap slap slapping sounds of their thin-rubber soled flip flops slapping
against the bottoms of their bare heels as they walk along.

"Your gait is so very majestic, Ma'am. The regal slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping signature sounds of your approaching flip flops, are so regular, and so very precisely measured, as to make them so incredibly easy to recognise. So
very distinguishable – even when intermingled and confused with multiple other prison officers' approaching flip flop sounds."

"Fascinating!" exclaimed Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons. "Absolutely fascinating! My word! This will certainly make for an entertaining anecdote, during Cabinet coffee-break this evening! Heavens above! I wouldn't have believed a
single word of it, had I not personally heard it from prisoner Lightwood's own lips. But I do believe I am convinced! No one could possibly make it up. How absolutely extraordinary! It's like a ... flip flop phenomenon!"

Governor Monroe said, "Yes, Lynne. Prisoner Lightwood has quite convinced me now, too ... But, not for the first time, he has also managed to give me the beginnings of what promises to be the most awful headache. What, with all of his
extrapolated, formulaic, advance-identification model, extensive and exhaustive flip flop signature sounds study results!"

Well, Governor, you did ask! I thought, but didn't say.

Governor Monroe said, "I must say, Lynne, you are a lot more easily entertained than me. What interesting conversations prisoner Lightwood and his cellmate must have – not!"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Ms Lynne Truss. "Jaws and Gummy: the prison officers' flip flop advance-identification experts! Ha ha ha ha! Just wait until I tell Caroline!"

To Ross, prison officer Billie Jo said waspishly, "What I want to know – Gummy! – is if you can pre-recognise and advance-identify the sounds of my approaching flip flops ... why, when I arrive at your cell, aren't you already assuming
the position for Foot Service? To save me the trouble of having to tell you!"

"Um ... prisoner Lightwood is exaggerating my advance-recognition ability, somewhat. I ... I haven't quite mastered identifying the signature sounds of your approaching flip flops yet, Miss Billie Jo," fibbed Ross.

Indicating to me, Governor Monroe said, "Officer Bella Donna, would you kindly ...?"

"Of course, Ma'am!" replied prison officer Bella Donna.

"Come on, you – Mister phenotypical data!" snapped prison officer Bella Donna. "Giving Governor Monroe another terrible headache! Later, I'll give you something to study exhaustively! Something to analyse minutely!"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

"Now kneel here!" ordered prison officer Bella Donna, indicating the position Ross had just vacated. "On your knees, at her Ladyship's feet! Show her your mouth modifications, that I had the orthopaedic surgeon at Brighton General
Infirmary install."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

About to get her first view of the second set of fascinating mouth-modifications that Governor Monroe had told her about over coffee, from her swivel chair Ms Lynne Truss leaned forward, and peered closely at my face.

I pointed to the centre of my chin, helpfully indicating to Ms Truss exactly where she should press ... but she didn't understand. I could have explained. But I thought it best to stay silent: I would only incur prison officer Bella
Donna's wrath, I knew, for having the temerity to speak to an AFP high-up without first being given permission.

At last, when she couldn't see what all the fuss was about, Ms Truss said to Governor Monroe, "Um ... Meredith ... what, exactly, am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Governor Monroe. "Yes ... you would never know, just to look at him. Jaws looks quite normal, doesn't he? His improvements aren't as obvious as Gummy's. You first need to press Jaws' Start button, as it were,
Lynne," the Governor explained.

"Officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo ... would you like to demonstrate the operation of Jaws' mouth modifications to Ms Truss?" invited Governor Monroe.

"Ma'am!" said prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo enthusiastically.

Instantly, from behind me I heard the intermingled and confused slap slap slap slapping sounds of two pairs of rapidly approaching thin-rubber soled flip flops – but I had no need to pre-recognise, and advance-match them with the
individual identities of their prison officer wearers!

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo couldn't wait to show off in front of the Authoritarian Female Party's Minister of Prisons!

"Um ... on second thoughts," said Governor Monroe. "I think I'd like to perform the demonstration for Ms Truss myself."

"Ma'am," said the crestfallen prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo.

"Jaws," said Governor Meredith Monroe. "For the purpose of this demonstration, you will behave just as if you were assuming the position for Foot Service in your cell."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said respectfully.

"Sit on the floor, and insert your legs into the open front of my desk – and open them wide, leaving enough room for me to stand in front of you. So that I can rest my hands on my desk for support and balance, while I stand on one leg
with my back turned to you."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said respectfully.

"I'm improvising, you see. Because I don't have the usual ease and convenience of having the bars of your cell to lean back on, or to cuff your wrists to."

"Yes, Ma'am. I understand," I said respectfully, complying with Governor Monroe's instructions.

Governor Monroe then positioned herself in front of her desk, standing between my wide-open legs, and with her back to me. "Move back a couple of inches, Jaws," she instructed, gently back-heeling me in the groin.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said respectfully, hurriedly complying.

When in the assuming-the-position position in my cell, because the cell's floor was on a lower level than the walkway outside the cell's bars, my face was at the mid-leg, or calf level of the Foot Service availing prison officers. Being
a dyed-in-the-wool leg man, at least this was not without its crumbs-of-comfort consolations.

Positioned as I now was, my face was almost on a level with Governor Monroe's bottom. But the close-up sight of Governor Meredith Monroe's buttocks pushing against the snug confines of her Greystone Prison uniform pale-blue short skirt,
I found, was also a far from disagreeable experience ... and prisoners had to take their consolatory crumbs of comfort from wherever they found them.

To the Authoritarian Female Party's Minister of Prisons, Governor Monroe said, "You see, Lynne. By whichever method one finds most easeful, one can avail oneself of the pleasures of Jaws' mouth-modifications, by first pressing ... here
(with her forefinger Governor Monroe indicated the slightly raised nub at the centre of my chin), with the bottom of one's heel, ball of the foot, or with the pads of one's toes. Personally, I prefer to use the pad of my big-toe. But
first, I'll let Jaws have a little whiff of my personal perfume ..."

Governor Meredith Monroe then rested her hands on her desk for balance and support and, looking down on me over her right shoulder she raised her right foot until her lightly suntanned sole reached my face. Cupping her toes around my
nostrils, and resting the bottom of her heel upon my weight-bearing upper forehead, Governor Monroe settled herself as comfortably as these imperfect conditions permitted.

"Ah ... this is the life. I always like to let prisoners have a good sniff, Lynne, during Foot Service. Before they lick away the worst of the stinky-feet smell.

"But not only that: together with resting the bottom of one's heel upon his forehead, a prisoner's nose is an excellent place to perch the ball of one's resting foot. The way it takes the weight off one's feet – or rather, off one's
standing foot – is so incredibly comfortable and relaxing. Ideal, for enjoying an e-cigarette.

"But, as you can see, Lynne, this present arrangement isn't terribly conducive or convenient. In fact, it isn't particularly relaxing at all; the height of Jaws' face is all wrong. But this is just for show. Pre-demonstration. Normally,
of course, one avails oneself of the prisoners' Foot Service attentions at the bars of their cell, where the conditions for Foot Service are perfect by design."

Ms Lynne Truss said, "Meredith ... from what he has just told us about his amazing ability to pre-recognise, and thereby advance-match any given set – or sets – of approaching flip flop signature sounds, with the identity – or identities
– of the flip flops' prison officer wearer – or wearers – I bet prisoner Lightwood could recognise your personal stinky-feet perfume signature blindfold! And not only that: I bet he could blindfold-recognise the stinky-feet signatures of
every other prison officer, too!"

"Oh, please, Lynne," groaned Governor Monroe. "Let's not go there!"

After another minute or two of her having me inhale the cheesy fumes of her in-between-the-toes foot stink (I knew better than trying to avoid the disagreeable odour by breathing through my mouth), Governor Monroe said, "Now, watch what
I do, Lynne, to make use of Jaws' mouth modifications ... With the pad of my big-toe, I press ... here."

"Meredith, what was that clicking sound?" inquired Ms Truss. "When you pushed the pad of your big-toe into the middle of Jaws' chin, there was a distinct clicking sound."

"That clicking noise you just heard, Lynne, was the sound of two metal clasps being deployed. By pressing Jaws' Start button, as we call it, located right in the middle of his chin, I've engaged the two clasps to the two ratchet-wheel
operated stainless-steel telescopic pins, that are surgically embedded in ... Jaws' jaws."

"Heavens!" said Ms Lynne Truss.

"Don't the two stainless-steel pins make your jaws ache, Jaws?" asked Ms Truss.

"Only when there's rain on the way, your Ladyship," I said. "But the prison officers help take my mind off it."

Governor Monroe said, "Now watch, Lynne. And if you listen closely – and you'll have to, because the orthopaedic surgeon has done the most amazing job – you will actually be able to hear the two ratchet wheels turning on their self-
lubricating cogs; hear their teeth, softly grinding inside the two stainless-steel telescopic pins' casements as they are extended.

"When the desired extension is reached – up to a maximum of four and a half inches – as soon as a user releases downward pressure on Jaws' chin, the two ratcheted cogwheels' leading teeth automatically back-lock in place.

"And similarly, post-use: to disengage the two clasps from the telescopic extension pins to restore control of Jaws' mouth to him once more, one simply reverses the opening-up procedure."

Upon seeing the look on Ms Lynne Truss's face, laughing, Governor Monroe said, "It's not as complicated as it sounds, Lynne. For the purpose of this demonstration, I'll extend Jaws' jaws right up to the four-and-a-half-inch limit."

Using the bottom of her bare heel, Governor Monroe slowly pushed down on my chin, until the two telescopic stainless-steel pins embedded in the living bone of my jaws were fully extended.

As usual, I felt the weird grating sensations; felt the vibrating in my jaws, as the ratcheted cogwheels softly grinded inside the two telescopic stainless-steel pins' casements as they turned.

Though the procedure of my "minor op" was reversible, I knew that for as long as the Authoritarian Female Party remained in power, it never would be reversed. Prison officer Bella Donna had told me that expenditure on such a frivolity
could never be justified – and besides, she liked me just the way I was now.

Governor Monroe said, conversationally, "It really is quite extraordinary, Lynne, the feat of oral engineering performed by the orthopaedic surgeon. One can actually feel the resistance, Lynne, as one depresses Jaws' jaw. It's almost
hydraulic."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Ms Truss, as she beheld the sight of my fully extending jaw. "How ... extraordinary!" she said, gawping incredulously into the increasingly yawning chasm of my oral orifice.

"Impressive, Lynne, isn't it?" said Governor Monroe, having ratchet wheel back-locked my now fully extended jaws.

"And of course, Jaws can't talk while he's like this. He can't say a word – ha ha ha! No ... We put his tongue to much better use."

"Meredith," said Ms Truss, peering into my wide-open mouth. "Those two telescopic stainless-steel pins, are rather like miniature versions of ... the extending aerial on my kitchen radio."

"Yes, Lynne, it's the same principle," said Governor Monroe. "In fact, the equipment is actually the same as can be bought from any TV and Radio electricals shop. Of course, Jaws' telescopic pins have been specially adapted. They've got
their internal ratchet-wheel operated mechanisms, and docking nodes for the two Start-button operated clasps."

"My word, Meredith! The wonders of modern technology!" marvelled Ms Truss.

"See, Lynne?" demonstrated Governor Monroe, inserting her foot into my mechanically-opened mouth. "I used to only be able to get my toes in here, with any real degree of comfort."

"Hmm," said Ms Lynne Truss. "I must say, Meredith, it does look rather agreeable."

"Oh, it is, Lynne, it is. By and large, prisoners' mouths aren't very roomy. Albeit unintentionally, their teeth can be apt to scrape and scratch our feet, which is obviously detrimental to one's deriving the fullest possible pleasure
and satisfaction from Foot Service.

"I can't help thinking, Lynne, that the obvious solution to the problem would be to simply extract prisoners' teeth upon their arrival at prison. After all, for committing offences against the Female-Friendly Code, they deserve nothing
less.

"And then – just like Gummy, here, who's replacement teeth were chosen for him by officer Billie Jo – we'd cheaply kit them out with second-hand sets of NHS dentures. Can you imagine, Lynne? It would be like the House of Horrors in here
– but it would give us all a heck of a good laugh!"

"Good thinking, Meredith," agreed Ms Truss. "I'm with you. I'm all for anything that will put a smile on our prison officers' faces. And of course it would have the extra benefit of ramming home to prisoners, right from the get-go, that
we don't pussyfoot about with prisoners. That we are not in the business of slack-cutting. Because the sooner they realise they haven't come to a holiday camp, the better off they'll be. I'll put your proposal to Caroline, at the next
scheduled meeting of Cabinet. Caroline's always open to new, innovative ideas."

"It's a nice idea, Lynne. But realistically, I can't see it happening, can you? Not on such an industrial scale. Even the AFP government would balk at the cost."

"You are probably right, Meredith. Funds do need to be prioritised."

"In an ideal world, Lynne, it would be nice to have the 'Jaws' model as standard. Because prisoner Lightwood's oral capacity is even more generously accommodating than Gummy's."

"It certainly looks it, Meredith!"

"Such an extremely good-looking young man as he is, even prior to his oral alterations he was a particular favourite with my officers – but now! Prisoner Lightwood is always in demand, Lynne. In fact, officer Bella Donna sometimes has to
declare him temporarily off-limits."

"Yes, Meredith. I can see why prisoner Lightwood makes such a wonderful foot servant. And – whether or not they opt to use his special facility – I'm not surprised he is so popular with your officers."

"As a former ladies' man; a former man of the world, who's really been around, my officers are particularly attracted to prisoner Lightwood. They were so happy, when officer Bella Donna had him ... idealised."

"Yes, indeed. But as you say, Meredith, there's the matter of cost. As it is, we are plowing so much money into introducing and developing so many new Placement schemes; investing heavily and over-budget in so many female-friendly
projects ... So Jaws will almost certainly be a one-off."

"Very probably, Lynne. More's the pity."

"And, as for kitting out newly arrived prisoners with second-hand NHS dentures ... well, despite the relatively cheap cost, your idea would certainly be met with outrage, and with fierce resistance ... Faced with such an unprecedented
demand on their services, our dentists would soon be pulling their hair out, as well as the newly admitted prisoners' teeth."

"Hmm ... Yes, Lynne. I suppose they would. It is a big ask."

"But you never know, Meredith. Caroline may one day give the 'Gummy' model project the green light. It's just a question of priorities."

"See, Lynne," said Governor Monroe, continuing her demonstration. "I can now quite comfortably insert my foot – with absolutely no unpleasant scraping or scratching whatever – to ... here. See, Lynne, how far I can now insert my foot
into Jaws' mouth ...? Right up to my heel. I was very pleasantly surprised, actually, to find just how much extra one-legged balance and sure-footed stability it affords one during Foot Service."

"He ... doesn't choke?" asked the incredulous Ms Truss.

"No, Lynne, he doesn't. Not on my dainty feet, anyway – ha ha ha ha! That's all down to officer Bella Donna: she has trained Jaws not to gag on our toes."

"How absolutely ... bizarre!" exclaimed Ms Truss. "This will make for another entertaining Cabinet coffee-time story!"

What Governor Meredith Monroe said was true: prison officer Bella Donna had actually taught me how not to choke on her, or on any other prison officers' horribly invasive bare toes. But still, it was always a desperate effort not to gag,
on their throat-invading disgusting digits.

And now, with Governor Monroe's demonstrating right foot plunged deep into my mouth and, desperately trying to control my gag reflex as my increasingly dirtied saliva trickled down my throat, tickling horribly, I could only stare
resignedly at the bottom of Governor Monroe's grubby, sweat-smudged bare heel, right in front of my eyes.

"I told you you'd be impressed, didn't I, Lynne? Well ... come on then!" said Governor Monroe, having now removed her right foot from my mouth and returned it to its flip flop. "Come and have a go!"

"Can't I have a go of Jaws from here, Meredith? From my swivel chair? I think I would be rather more comfortable."

"Well of course, Lynne, if you prefer! Naturally! I was simply demonstrating an approximation of a cell-side Foot Service situation."

"Jaws!" snapped prison officer Bella Donna, taking her cue. "You heard her Ladyship! Reposition yourself: On your knees, before her!"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully – even as she and prison officer Billie Jo helpfully assisted me to my new Foot Service position.

On her castor-wheeled swivel chair, Ms Lynne Truss, the Authoritarian Female Party's Minister of Prisons, eagerly positioned herself in front of me. Expectantly, the AFP Cabinet Minister extended her right, see-through stocking clad leg
towards me.

But then, there was an audible whooshing sound of suddenly released trapped air as, facilitating her shoe's easy removal, she herself popped her heel from her black leather, two-inch heeled office-style pump. "Shoe!" snapped Ms Lynne
Truss authoritatively.

Had I been able, I would have said, "Yes, your Ladyship," respectfully. But I wasn't able – because my mechanised mouth was locked wide-open, in the four-and-a-half-inch limit, fully-extended position.

But, had I been able, no doubt my respect would have been very evident in my tone.

My reverence, even. My awe, even. My adoration, even.

Because now, the sight, the extreme close-up sight, of Ms Lynne Truss's now dangling pump ...

Suddenly, I was all nervous. All jittery. All out of sorts. Because suddenly, I was ... overcome.

Overcome, with feelings of such respect. Such ... reverence.

Overcome, with such an upheaval of body and mind, as I couldn't believe. Because I felt a ... rightness.

On my knees, before such a beautiful woman. On my knees, before a woman of such enormous, incredible power. On my knees, at the feet of a woman of such unlimited and unrestrained authority, I couldn't help but feel ... a rightness.

As I took hold with my left hand, the scuffed leather sole of the AFP's Minister of Prisons' black leather office-style pump, and the two-inch heel, with the fingers of my right hand, I felt faint. Lightheaded.

I was breathless. Breathless with tense, giddy excitement. Dizzy, with mind-shattering awe. All out of sorts, with feelings of ... rightness.

Imbued with such a sense of privilege, such a sense of honour, it was in an attitude of great, adulatory solemnity that I removed the dangling shoe from Ms Lynne Truss's right foot ...

Through the almost transparent material of her stocking, I now saw that Ms Lynne Truss's toes were polished a glossy pale pink. And as I placed the well-worn office-style pump down on the carpet beside me, I noticed that the shoe's
once-white or light-grey insole was darkened from much wearing: at the heel, the ball of the foot – and there were five dark, distinct toe depressions.

As soon as I faced forward again, before I knew what was happening Ms Lynne Truss had firmly planted her nude-stocking clad right foot right into my face; the undersides of her freshly unshod toes, effectively sealing up my nostrils.

Such was my unpreparedness, and my shocked surprise, that Ms Truss would undoubtedly have pushed me over from my kneeling position were it not for prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo holding me in place.

Ms Lynne Truss's nude stockings were of a thicker, slightly rougher material than the more regular tights or pantyhose that some of my former girlfriends wore. When Ms Truss had so unceremoniously planted the sole of her foot against my
facial skin, her stocking had made a sort of rasping sound, and felt a little coarse to the touch.

Behind me, holding my arms and pushing down on my shoulders, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo held me firmly in place, enabling Ms Lynne Truss to hold in place with ease the reinforced-toe section of her almost see-through
stocking: clamped tightly around my nostrils.

The slightly coarse material felt warm and moist, as if it had been absorbing Ms Truss's foot sweat all day. And, as the material was rather thick ...

"Sniff!" commanded the AFP's premier penal officer. "Come on – Jaws!" she ordered. "Inhale! Breathe in my in-between-the-toes foot scent – my personal perfume. And then we'll see how much of my foot you can take!"

I felt two hands grabbing at the back of my head; felt my hair being roughly gripped, and being tightly entwined around strong fingers. With the palms of their other hands, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo endeavoured to cover
up as best they could my gaping, fixed-open mouth, trying to seal it – because when my mouth was locked wide-open like that, it was an impediment to sniffing.

"I know ..." said prison officer Billie Jo, removing her right, pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop. She placed the wide, ball-of-the-foot part of the flip flop's foam-rubber upper over my mouth ... it was a perfect fit.

"Good work, officer Billie Jo," complimented Governor Monroe. "That's what I like to see, in my officers: initiative!"

"You heard her Ladyship!" prison officer Bella Donna yelled in my left ear. "She told you to sniff!"

Snarling in my right ear, came prison officer Billie Jo's voice. "If her Ladyship isn't entirely happy with you, Jaws, there's going to be hell to pay. Do you hear me? I'll trample your face to a pulp!"

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were just showing off, of course. Throwing their weight around, trying to impress Ms Lynne Truss, the AFP's Minister of Prisons – their new patron!

It went without saying, that I would have obeyed her Ladyship's orders without demur – whatever they were. To do otherwise was unthinkable. No one in their right mind said 'No' to the Minister of Prisons.

But now, I would have wanted to obey her Ladyship – Ms Lynne Truss, Minister of Prisons – anyway. Because of the sheer ... rightness, of it.

As it turned out, Ms Lynne Truss's stocking-feet odour wasn't particularly offensive. Certainly no more disagreeable, and no more distressing than the stinky-feet smells of many of the barefoot, thin-rubber soled flip flop wearing
jailhouse blue prison officers – and a lot less offensive, disagreeable and distressing than some!

It was when the AFP's Minister of Prisons inserted her nude-stocking clad foot into my mouth, that things eventually got a little out of control ...

In the assuming-the-position position for Foot Service, I was quite used to having my tongue gripped and clutched in the jailhouse blue prison officers' dirty, sweaty, stinky bare toes. And as Governor Monroe had said, thanks to prison
officer Bella Donna's tuition I no longer gagged on her or her officers' toes when they happened to go a little too far.

When Ms Truss managed to grip my tongue in her nude-stocking covered toes, I had no problem with that.

It was a brand-new sensation, in that it felt much different than being tongue-clutched by bare toes; toes, that were often as capable and controlling as the nimblest of fingers. But it wasn't any harder to deal with.

Ms Lynne Truss stared at me, as though half-expecting me, at any moment, to perhaps show signs of mild unsettlement.

But, as I automatically worked up a saliva, and felt and tasted the accumulated foot sweat dissolving and leaking from the reinforced-toe section of Ms Truss's nude stocking, the flavours being released onto my tongue from the rather
thick, slightly spongy material were certainly no more repulsive and revolting than the in-between-the-toes flavours of many of the flip flop wearing jailhouse blue prison officers – and certainly a lot less repulsive and revolting, than
some!

But then Ms Truss released her toe-grip on my tongue and, little by little, she inserted more and more of her nude-stockinged foot into my gaping, fixed-opened mouth.

Ms Lynne Truss stared at me, as though fully expecting me, at any moment, to start exhibiting marked signs of acute distress.

And, hopelessly unable to cope with the strange new scratchy sensation in my throat, I duly obliged, helplessly gagging on Ms Lynne Truss's nude-stocking covered pink-painted toes.

And the last thing I remember hearing, as prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo firmly and determinedly held my convulsing, frantically bucking and thrashing body in my kneeling position as I choked, was the detached voice of
Governor Meredith Monroe, standing behind Ms Lynne Truss's castor-wheeled swivel chair to prevent its being rolled backwards.

"Do you see what I mean, Lynne? Thanks to Jaws' mouth modifications, there is absolutely no danger, of either me or my officers scraping or scratching our feet on his teeth, or of you tearing your expensive stockings."

*


Returning to consciousness, the next thing I knew was that I was lying on my bunk, back in my cell.

"Oh, so you're finally back in the land of the living, Len," said Ross, sitting on one of the cell's two tubular framed dark-grey canvas folding chairs.

"Wha ... what happened? What—"

"You conked out, Len. You blacked out. Fainted. Nothing to worry about, mate."

"I ... fainted? I ..."

"You had me worried there for a while, mate. But Poison Ivy said to just let you sleep. A nice little lie down, and you'll be fine, she said."

And then it all came horribly flooding back to me.

"Ross. I ... I've been ..."

"What, Len? You've been what?"

"I've been ... choked out."

"Yeah, I know, Len, but you'll be okay in a bit. Just have a nice lie down. Poison Ivy said—"

I couldn't believe my cellmate was being so cool about it. So casual. So nonchalant!

"Ross!" I yelled. "I've been choked out! I've been choked out – by Ms Lynne Truss, the Authoritarian Female Party's Minister of Prisons!"

***

Epilogue.

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

2070. (Twenty seventy).


Dear reader,

I shall now return you to the present day ...


The Authoritarian Female Party are still in power.

Caroline Flynt, the first leader of the AFP, finally stood down as Prime Minister after her all-female party won a record number of re-elections to government.

On their manifestos of female-friendly policies – not least, Caroline Flynt's own brainchild projects and Placement schemes, including her ever popular community servant operated Sock Rooms – the Authoritarian Female Party have gone from
strength to strength.

Colloquially, if not officially, both at home and abroad the UK is known as the Femocratic Republic.

The countries of the UK – England, Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland – are extremely popular destinations with female vacationing and business visitors. Such are the UK's unparalleled female-friendly attractions, as extended by the
Authoritarian Female Party.

Ross and I are into our seventies now.

We haven't aged too well. With good reason. And our harrowed histories are written all over our fraught faces.

Thanks, that is, to the fifty years we spent in Greystone Prison ... and, of course, our fateful crossing of paths, with prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo.

L.I.M.B.O. care workers Bella Donna and Billie Jo don't look anything like their age, though. To look at them, you would never guess them to be seventy-three years old. But then, Greystone Prison was a lot kinder to former prison
officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, than it was to Ross and me.

And the same can be said, too, of the other former 'jailhouse blue' prison officers: 'hellcat' Rita, Analise, Avril, Siobhan, Julie, Nicolette, Candice, Cordelia, Victoria, Natalie and Melanie – all of them, now either part-time or
full-time L.I.M.B.O. care workers.

Healthy and vigorous, they have all retained their youthfulness of mind and body. They are still full of beans, with their love of life, young-at-heart spirit. They have not lost their sparkle. Not to me. They all seem just as beautiful
and desirable to me today, as the first time I laid eyes on them, more than fifty years ago.

There are no cells, and no bars, in the former-prisoners' residential care home. But, staffed exclusively by former jailhouse blue Greystone Prison officers, L.I.M.B.O. is still a prison in all but name.

So things haven't changed much, for Ross and me. And in a very real sense, we haven't left Greystone Prison behind.

Apart from all of the former-prison-officer-turned-care-workers, there are other disturbing and cruel reminders to ensure we can never forget that dreadful place ...

All of the retired jailhouse blues still wear their hair styled in their somehow intimidating, militaristic-looking concave bob. They still wear their jailhouse blue uniform pale-blue blouse, and pale-blue short skirt. And, as if that is
not bad enough, there is still the quintessential sound of Greystone Prison itself: the somehow taunting, mocking, goading sound of the jailhouse blues' pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops slap slap slap slapping against the bottoms
of their bare heels, both when they are walking along, and when seated.

Including Ross and myself, there are thirty sad and sorry, defeated and downtrodden, cowed and crushed former Greystone Prison inmates resident at L.I.M.B.O.

Ross and I still room together. As former Greystone Prison prison inmates, and now L.I.M.B.O. 'residents', we have known each other for over fifty years.

In truth, our cell-size room in the L.I.M.B.O. Residents' Home is not that great an improvement on our cell in Greystone Prison: Cell 16 – Level 1. There is not much more, in the way of home comforts ... But at least, at night, we are no
longer longer roused from our troubled dreams by Levels-patrolling jailhouse blue prison officers on Night Duty, and ordered to assume the position for Foot Service.

We aren't caned on our bare bottoms anymore, with flexible bamboo canes. Neither are we Ball-Busted. In L.I.M.B.O. there is no Wheel of Chastisement.

But, looked after by such expert face-slapping carers, who like to keep their hand in, as it were, we haven't exactly gotten out of jail.

And none of the former jailhouse blues have lost the art of browbeating.

We are all just as strictly controlled, and just as firmly kept in our place (face-slapped and browbeaten) by our now carers, as ever we were in Greystone Prison.

And then, of course, there is still the Foot Service.

Just as Greystone Prison's below-the-walkway cells are conducive to their assuming-the-position occupants' providing Foot Service to their jailhouse blue prison officer guards, L.I.M.B.O. too, is furnished with the practicalities of Foot
Service aforethought ...

"There, Leonard," said Carer Bella Donna, fastening my wrists into the leather cuffs on the armrests of my wheelchair. "All nice and tight."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully.

I'm still able-bodied, and don't need a wheelchair. But in L.I.M.B.O. wheelchairs serve another purpose ...

"Come on then, Leonard," said Carer Bella Donna, releasing the footbrake on my wheelchair. "Time for Foot Service."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully ... and resignedly.

Just off the Residents' Lounge (a decidedly flattering description), situated in plain sight upon a raised platform is the L.I.M.B.O. Carers' Lounge.

Elevated above the so-called Residents' Lounge (not just by a few feet in height, but in every conceivable way), the Carers' Lounge is reached by either of two short flights of carpeted steps, to either side. Like the twin stairways to
some palatial sitting-room, the steps are carpeted in the same deep-pile luxury weave as in the Carers' Lounge.

From the eyrie overlook of their elevated Carers' Lounge, nestled in great comfort the L.I.M.B.O. carers can conveniently keep an eagle eye on those entrusted to their care.

And, as Carer Bella Donna steered me towards them, some of the lounging carers were eying me predatorily now; those nearest to us, sitting with their backs to us, looking over their shoulders and craning their necks as they watched Carer
Bella Donna aiming my wheelchair towards one of the unattended Foot Service 'ports'.

The elevated Carers' Lounge is square-shaped. There are glass-topped coffee tables, with newspapers and magazines for the lounging carers to pick up and read. And some black leather reclinable chairs, for them to relax luxuriously while
they do so.

And situated along the four sides of the Carers' Lounge, in between sections of plush red leather banquette-style seating, are four single-seat 'thrones'.

Sixteen 'thrones', in total. Situated above the sixteen Foot Service 'ports'.

Ross, I could see, was already in-situ. His wheelchair was 'docked' in the alcove of one of the Foot Service ports.

And as she sat elevated above him, occupying one of the 'thrones', Ross was providing Foot Service for Carer Billie Jo herself.

'Enthroned' with her back to him, ankles crossed, the toes of Carer Billie Jo's right, olive-skinned foot were all stuffed into Ross's toothless mouth.

And as Ross stared glumly at the bottom of Carer Billie Jo's grubby bare heel as he sucked the toes of his 'mistress' of fifty years, working the toes of her left foot Carer Billie Jo was causing her pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip
flop to repeatedly slap slap slap slap against the bottom of her bare heel, just inches from Ross's eyes.

Sitting on the next throne along to Carer Billie Jo's, on the other side of the short section of red leather banquette-style seating, was Carer Siobhan. Beneath her, the wheelchair-accommodating niche of the Foot Service port was
unoccupied: was unattended, by a L.I.M.B.O. resident.

"Come on, Leonard," said Carer Bella Donna, as if I had any choice in the matter, steering my wheelchair into the unoccupied alcove next to Ross's.

"Look: this Foot Service port is unmanned. None of you lazy, ungentlemanly lot are providing Foot Service for Carer Siobhan. We can't have that, can we? When one of us carers is occupying a throne, it must never be unattended. Sometimes,
I think you have all forgotten what we've been drumming into your heads all these years: about the concept of propriety, where females are concerned. Have you, Leonard? Have you forgotten all about the concept of propriety, where females
are concerned? About our female-friendly ideals?"

"No, Miss Bella Donna," I said respectfully. "I haven't forgotten."

"Well, come on then. Let's have you in here, Leonard ... all the way in, at Carer Siobhan's heels. Where you can provide Foot Service next to Gummy."

"Siobhan?" said Carer Bella Donna, setting the footbrake on my wheelchair, securely 'docking' me into the Foot Service port. "Do you want to use Jaws' mouth modifications? I can set your extension requirement from down here, if you
like."

"No, thanks, Bella. It's all right," replied Carer Siobhan, looking down at me over her shoulder. "I like to let Leonard do his own thing, at Foot Service. You know? To show me he loves me. You know? I know he's always been your bitch.
But it's always been me, he loves. I can tell. You know?"

Fifty years ago, back in our cell in Greystone Prison, Ross had told me he believed prison officer Siobhan had "a thing" for me. And he'd been right: prison officer Siobhan – now Carer Siobhan – has hardly left me alone, for more than
fifty years.

"Um ... Okay then, Siobhan. Well ... I'm going out to a nice, long lunch. See you later, Siobhan!" said Carer Bella Donna brightly.

As Carer Bella Donna headed out to enjoy a nice, long lunch, I listened to the unmistakable flip flop slapping 'signature' sounds of my own 'mistress' of fifty years. Listened, as her thin-rubber soled flip flops slap slap slap slapped
against the bottoms of her bare heels as she walked briskly away.

"All right then, Leonard," said Carer Siobhan. "It's just the two of us ..." she said as she slid her feet from her pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops. Beneath the seat of her 'throne', she presented the soles of her bare feet to
me, side by side, and resting on the foam-rubber cushioned uppers of her flip flops.

"Now, Leonard ... You love me. I know you love me. So let me feel your loving lips. Show me just how much, you love me. How much you've always loved me ... Kiss."

"Yes, Miss Siobhan," I said respectfully, to the elevated, 'enthroned' carer.

Relatively speaking, it was very easy for me to kiss the soles of now Carer Siobhan's feet.

During fifty years in Greystone Prison as a 'jailhouse blue' prison officer, although she'd certainly had no qualms about hurting prisoners in her capacity as a 'rehabilitator', she had never done me any harm ... well, she had never
actually physically hurt me.

Literally thousands of times, over those five deprived and depraved decades, resultant of her 'sexploitation' of my leg man's Achilles' heel, and her peekaboo up-skirt view teasings and titillations, prison officer Siobhan had caused me
to 'worship' her.

Prison officer Siobhan had caused me to 'take things in hand'. Caused me to offer my devotions, in adoration. Caused me to self-release, in my miserable bunk at night, in adulation. Caused me to empty my balls; to milk myself dry –
thinking about her. Caused me to donate a ritual-like sacrificial token of my essence, in her honour. Caused me to 'willingly' bestow upon her, literally thousands of times ... the ultimate accolade.

But prison officer Siobhan had never caned me. She had never slapped my face. And she had certainly never Ball-Busted me. Come to that, she had never – not nastily – browbeaten me.

And so relatively speaking, it was very easy for me to kiss the expectantly proffered bare soles of now Carer Siobhan's feet.

Easy to kiss. In gratitude.

"Actually, I think I'll head out for lunch, too!" said Carer Billie Jo, informing her lounging co carers of her snap-decision intention.

Suddenly and carelessly removing her toes from Ross's long-excavated, generously capacious mouth, Carer Billie Jo snapped down at him, "Gummy: Head down!"

Upon Ross's obediently complying, pressing his forehead down into the luxury-weave carpeted floor beneath the velveteen seat of the throne above his head, Carer Billie Jo wiped her saliva-slick toes in Ross's still-full head of white
hair.

Carer Billie Jo then slipped her Mediterranean-style feet back into her thin-rubber soled flip flops, and I listened to their unmistakable slap slap slap slapping signature sounds as she went chasing after Carer Bella Donna.

But the newly vacated 'throne' above Ross's Foot Service port wasn't left unoccupied for long ...

Ensconcing herself like a magnificent queen, above serf Ross, Carer Victoria promptly availed herself of the splendid seat of power.

Perhaps it was a testimony to the efficacies of the lotions and potions and face-creams she used, but the now Carer Victoria was still to all intents and purposes every bit the beautiful, too lovely for words young woman I'd first set
eyes on, more than fifty years ago.

But, as I have long known, beauty is only skin-deep. Appearances can be deceptive ...

Carer Victoria slipped her feet from her pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops. Reaching confidently back with her left foot under the seat of her throne, with the pads of her toes she uptilted the acquiescent Ross's chin; this minor
adjustment to his forward-facing position, now affording her foot the most easeful angle of forced entry into his compliantly waiting mouth.

Assured in the knowledge of there being no danger to her bare feet from the scratching or scraping of teeth, Carer Victoria none too gently inserted her left foot, carelessly plunging her toes right into Ross's compliant, long-excavated,
hazard-free mouth.

Carer Victoria thrust her invading, abusive left foot where there was always a warm welcome: into Ross's unresisting, toothless, extra-roomy mouth.

Forcing her marauding toes into the comfortable and commodious cavern of Ross's oral orifice, Carer Victoria plunged her foot deeper, and deeper, until her left foot was most of the way in, and Ross was left staring miserably at the
bottom of her inches-way grimy, sweat-smudged bare heel.

But, the bottom of her inches-away grubby bare heel wasn't all, that the enthroned Carer Victoria, splendidly seated above his white-haired head, had left Ross staring at, with a fat, salty tear now welling up in his eye.

Carer Victoria was showing Ross, her ... anklet.

Fifty years ago, back in our cell in Greystone Prison, Ross had made a prediction: One day, prison officer (Vicky the vixen, the angel-faced ball-kicker) Victoria would have my balls – literally.

Well ... what Ross was staring at now, in utter wretchedness, as the fat, salty tear spilled down his face, was yet another cruel reminder from Carer Victoria, of the error in his prediction.

Yet another cruel reminder, from Carer Victoria, of her 'ruination' of him.

Yet another cruel reminder, from Carer Victoria, of her ball-kicking his testicles to extinction ... on his twenty-fifth birthday.

And – after prison officer Billie Jo's being permitted, by Governor Meredith Monroe, to personally perform the "minor op" – of her claiming, and taking, her ... trophy.

I had to look away.

I had to avert my eyes, from the heartrending, ineffably sad sight.

The ineffably sad sight, of my friend of fifty years' abject defeat. The heartrending sight, of his unutterable dejection. And the sight, of now Carer Victoria's ... anklet.

Because, that could so easily have been me ... were it not for the protective 'patronage', of prison officer Bella Donna.

Because she: the then prison officer Bella Donna; the now Carer Bella Donna – the then, now, and forever, Poison Ivy! – wanted to keep me in good working order. So that I could 'worship'.

So that I could 'worship' her, and every other jailhouse blue prison officer, in Greystone Prison.

Returning my full and undivided attentions to the enthroned carer, splendidly seated above my head, I showed due propriety, where females are concerned.

I bowed my head extra-reverentially low, in humble, devotee-like obeisance. And respectfully, obediently, compliantly – and in gratitude – I kissed the expectantly proffered bare soles of Carer Siobhan's feet.

In gratitude.

And yes ... maybe there was a little love, too.



The End.