The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03

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.