The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03

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

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

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

And prison officer Billie Jo had been right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

In fact, it was something of a rarity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Furious with indignation, Governor Meredith Monroe had exploded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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