The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 03

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time for my 'lunch date'.

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

*

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

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

"Yes, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I said now!" shrilled prison officer Julie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Miss Julie," said Ross respectfully.

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

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

I didn't wait to be told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it wasn't.

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

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

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

No, it wasn't.

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

Of my own free will.

Kissing, and meaning it.

Kissing, in reverence.

Kissing, in exaltation.

Kissing, in worship.

I was still resentful and outraged.

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

But none of that mattered.

No, it didn't.

Because I am a leg man.

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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