Jailhouse Blues - Part 2 (New Version)

This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk


The Jailhouse Blues – Chapter 2 (of 3).  

Chapter 2:  The Wheel of Chastisement.

Dear reader,

this was the scariest, most hair-raising moment of my life to date.
On the outside, I was affecting a calm, untroubled, almost nonchalant demeanour.
But, on the inside ...

Prison officer Bella Donna stood ice-statue still, as though frozen in shock. Being defied by an inmate of HM Greystone Prison, I thought, must be a very unusual experience for her.

Her pale blue, chips-of-ice eyes radiated cold ... no wonder I had started shivering. With chilling certainty, I knew that she would now make me pay an exorbitant penalty. A very high price indeed, for refusing to 'assume the position', and denying her her Prisoners' Foot Service 'privileges'.

When she didn't immediately say anything, in response to my flat refusal to do her bidding; didn't instantaneously react, to my stubborn and steadfast refusal to bow to her authority and obey her odious commands, her colleague, prison officer Billie Jo, blurted in dismayed incredulity, "Bel! You are not going to let prisoner Lightwood get away with that, are you? He has defied you!"

When she received no reply, prison officer Billie Jo threatened to take it upon herself to administer an instant and painful remedial response against me. "He needs a good slap! That's what he needs – and a damn good caning! Shall I fix the little squirt, Bel?" she offered. "I'll soon sort him out! First, a few good, hard slaps – I like the personal touch; the satisfying sensation of feeling the palm of my hand smacking into an uppity prisoner's face and making his eyes water – and then I'll restrain him to the bars of his cell. And, so help me, I'll soon get him thinking straight! I'll cane him like there's no tomorrow! Oh, I'll make his eyes water, all right! I'm certainly not going to just idly stand by, and let him get away with all kinds of—"

"No – wait!" cautioned prison officer Bella Donna. "Hold your fire, BJ. And calm down – it's just not worth getting all het up over a prisoner. Besides, I can see how much you are enjoying yourself ... so stay where you are. Of course I'm not going to let prisoner Lightwood get away with defying me – you know me better than that. No, BJ. Quite the contrary. I was just thinking, that's all. Thinking about what to do about his noncompliance; about what would be the appropriate corrective measures to take." 

"Well, I know what I'd do, Bel."

"Hmm ... This is an important decision. And careful consideration is called for, if I'm to achieve optimal results. In a case such as this, where the ultimate aim is to ensure that a satisfactory outcome is secured long-term, choosing the right corrective-discipline option now, right at the outset, is key." 

"I know you'll make the right decision, Bel: The choice that will most benefit prisoner Lightwood."

"So ... if I'm going to mould prisoner Lightwood, BJ, the way you have moulded prisoner Chapman: if I'm going to train him— no, condition him, to automatically accommodate all of my own personal likes, preferences and requirements with regard to Foot Service – to serve me, now and in the long-term, the way that prisoner Chapman is now so slavishly serving you – I think I should break him in right from the get-go." 

"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Bel."

"I'll need to crush that rebellious streak right out of him now, immediately – first as last. Purge it from his system. I'll prescribe a rebalancing therapy for prisoner Lightwood. A single-course programme, that will not only put an instant stop to his irksome serial misdemeanours, but will also serve to eradicate such inappropriate-behaviour patterns permanently: Post-therapy, there will be no more speaking out of turn, from friend Lightwood. No more troublesome antics. No more disrespect. No more noncompliance. No more defiance. In short: no more saying 'No'. All of his present misbehaviour patterns will be safely consigned to his past."

"Sounds like a plan, Bel."

"The new, reformed prisoner Lightwood will be an altogether more agreeable person: Unfailingly respectful. Unfailingly compliant. Unfailingly obedient. In other words: he won't be saying 'No' anymore. Not to me. Not to you. And not to any other prison officer." 

"Well, you'll get no argument from me on that score, Bel."

"So, I think there's only one thing for it ... If I'm to successfully nip prisoner Lightwood's errant ways in the bud, the ultimate sanction is called for. Correctional treatment of the highest order: a Ball-Bust, administered on the Wheel of Chastisement."

"Now you're talking, Bel!" 

"As you've said so yourself, BJ, it's a sure cure for prisoners' defiance. At least, it's as close to a surefire remedy as we've been able to devise. Occasions when prisoners have actually remained unbroken – have not responded positively to the treatment; not even to the follow-up double, and then finally triple-dose treatments – are few and far between."

"The 'One-in-a-hundred's, Bel?" 

"Yes, BJ. The prisoners we refer to as the 'One-in-a-hundred's: The freak minority, who are so totally averse, just so overwhelmingly repulsed by the prospect of submitting to Foot Service, that even repeated Ball-Bust treatments can't cure their phobia-like disinclination."

"The actual failure rate of the Ball-Bust therapy is extremely low, isn't it, Bel? And I'm not surprised!" 

"The statistics speak for themselves, BJ. When administered on the Wheel of Chastisement, the prison's ultimate reformative sanction delivers an almost perfect success rate: ninety-nine per cent. Hence the so-called 'One-in-a-hundred' freak minority of failures – those rare breed, tiny-minority prisoners, who would actually prefer to let us ruin them in our attempts to cure them. Those unbreakable One-in-a-hundred exceptions, who are the tiny flaw in our almost perfect Ball-Bust statistics, are an anomaly – an aberration." 

"Well, if we can't cure them, Bel, no one can!"

"And then on the opposite side of that same coin, BJ, are the prisoners who are equally unsuited to being institutionalised in Greystone Prison – but for the exact opposite reason: the foot fetishists. Those other freak-minority prisoners, who, upon their being discovered to have a foot fetish are transferred to another institution." 

"And I should think so too – prisoners aren't sent here to enjoy themselves! Foot fetishists – of all things! I ask you! I couldn't believe it, the first time I found a prisoner actually enjoying tongue-cleaning the soles of my dirty feet – actually getting a humungous erection from it! Or at least, he was, until I went into his cell and dragged him out of his assuming-the-position position and gave him a damn good caning to help take his mind off it before putting him in the prisoner transfer holding cell. Naturally I'd assumed he was getting so hot under the collar from me letting him look right up my skirt – especially since I wasn't wearing my panties that day ... But Bel, I knew you'd be thinking along those lines. And it's exactly what I'd do, too – I love a good Ball-Bust!"

"BJ, if ever a prisoner needed his balls busting, it is prisoner Lightwood. Look at him, BJ. Even now, he is still brazenly staring at my face, instead of respectfully staring down at my feet. And he's still sitting in that folding-chair, even after I've expressly told him that he must stand in the presence of prison officers – and so actually he is also disrespecting and defying you too, BJ." 

Prison officer Billie Jo glared malevolently at me. "He needs fixing, Bel," she said. "And fixing good."

"Well, BJ, I'm going to fix him, all right – once and for all. I'm going to make him wish he'd never set eyes on me. Disrespect me, will he? Disobey me, will he? Defy me, will he? Say 'No' to me, will he? Well, not any more. I'll soon get him thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. After today, prisoner Lightwood will never dare say 'No' to me again – ever. I'm going to cow him, crush him, break him – bring him to heel."

"Good for you, Bel. He can't be allowed to get away with treating you this way – and as you say, when he disrespects and disobeys and defies you he is by implication actually disrespecting and disobeying and defying me and every other prison officer too. And it's not on, is it? I mean, where would we all be, if we let such behavior go unchecked? Where would we all be, if we let prisoners cock a snook at our authority whenever they felt like it? And you've got the right idea, Bel: if there's anything I've learned, it's that in matters of correctional discipline it's better not to pussyfoot about with the prisoners – it's better to be cruel to be kind." 

"That's exactly my way of thinking, BJ."

"When prisoner Chapman first flouted my authority, I thought I'd stomped down good and hard on him. I thought I'd done enough to get him thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically – right there and then. I thought I'd straightened him out. But I was wrong. It turned out I hadn't put my foot down even nearly hard enough – you know, Bel; with the dental thing, when I had the prison doctor pull all of prisoner Chapman's teeth, because he'd threatened to bite my foot if I put it in his mouth?" 

"Ha ha ha! How could I forget? That was an inspired comeback, BJ. What a perfectly suitable comeuppance, for the disobedient little scrote. Hey! We'll have to give prisoner Chapman a nickname ... I know, how about ... 'Gummy'?"

"Ha haaaaaa! Suits him perfectly, Bel. Oh, and that reminds me: now that I know I'll be retaining old Gummy here long-term, I'll have to see if I can get some NHS second-hand dentures for him from the prison doctor ... I'll be sure to choose him some nice ones, heh heh heh."

"Ha ha ha ha! BJ, you are a star! Serves him right! I can't wait to see his new choppers – well, new to him! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Heh heh heh ... Anyway, Bel, where was I?"

"You were telling me about what you did about prisoner Chapman – old Gummy, here – defying you. When for some reason he didn't like the idea of you putting your foot in his mouth."

"Oh, yes ... Well, I'd obviously not stomped down on prisoner Chapman hard enough. Because when I returned to his cell a week later, just as I'd told him I would, it was only to find that he hadn't learned his lesson. I'd thought that, when I'd had all of his teeth removed from his mouth, I was simultaneously removing the word 'No' from his vocabulary – at least, in as far as the word pertained to me. But he still wasn't thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. He was the sort of prisoner the Governor likes to describe as a 'slow learner'. When I told him to assume the position, and ready himself to provide me with Foot Service, he told me, in that snivelling, plaintive voice of his: 'We've been through all of this, Miss Billie Jo! Don't you remember, Miss Billie Jo? About the line I won't cross?' You can imagine my surprise, Bel."

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna, greatly amused at prison officer Billie Jo's cruel parodying of Ross. And I had to admit: prison officer Billie Jo's imitation of my whinging-voiced cellmate was astonishingly spot on. She definitely had quite a talent for mimicry.

Prison officer Billie Jo went on, "I think after the damn good caning I'd given him a week earlier, he was prepared to massage my feet for me; even reconciled himself to letting me use his face as a footrest. But he was still hung up about letting me put my foot in his mouth. I could hardly believe it, Bel, to be honest with you. I mean, how stupid is he? He'd had a full week to get his head around what was expected of him; that should have been plenty of time to come to terms with it. I was going to have my way with him in the end; surely he had to know that? Is he a moron, or what? Did he actually think I was going to allow him to cherry-pick? Why did he have to make things so difficult for himself – and for me? I thought: 'Right! No more pussyfooting about! If this, is what being nice does! If this, is where being lenient gets me!' Suffice to say, Bel, I wasn't best pleased, with his pointless intransigence."

"I'll bet!" said prison officer Bella Donna, glaring angrily down at my cellmate, who was assuming the position for Foot Service at prison officer Billie Jo's feet. "And neither would I have been, BJ, if faced with such wilful obstinacy."

Prison officer Billie Jo continued, "So, when he defied me that second time; tried to take advantage of my good nature again, I was having none of it. I didn't pussyfoot about this time – oh no! I thought: 'I'm going to bust his slow-learning balls for him!' So I did what I should have done in the first place, instead of being so softhearted: I applied to the Governor for a Written Approval Order, to have him put on the Wheel of Chastisement."

"It's the old 'Be-cruel-to-be-kind thing again, isn't it, BJ? So much of our prisoners' needless pain and suffering could so easily be saved. But they will insist upon bringing it upon themselves. The prisoners are their own worst enemies, BJ. They need saving from themselves." 

"I know, Bel. The Governor thinks that Greystone's rules and punishments are strict enough and severe enough already. But I would very much like to see them much further reinforced. A more stringent, tough-love regime could only be good for the prisoners' welfare; could only help them to stay in line, and out of trouble. But we have no say in these matters, Bel. We are just prison officers, aren't we? We don't make new rules, we just ensure that the current ones are strictly enforced." 

"I absolutely agree, BJ. The prisoners have much too cushy a time of it here – much too cushy a time! Oh, things would be very different, if we had any say!"

"Yes. Anyway, Bel, as I was saying ... The ball was in prisoner Chapman's court, wasn't it? How he played it, was entirely up to him. Simply by doing what I'd told him to do – assume the position – he could have saved himself from all of that pain and suffering, down in the gymnasium. Simply by using his own initiative – obeying my orders to provide me with Foot Service – he could so easily have avoided his harrowing ordeal; could so easily have spared himself his terrible humiliation, in front of an audience of female prison officers. But he chose not to. Instead, he chose to resist futilely. Like I said, Bel, he wasn't thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically ... But he is now."

"BJ, maybe that's what the Greystone Prison motto should be: 'Be Cruel to be Kind'. It says it all, doesn't it? It would be such a good policy to adopt. I mean ... it does no good, does it, to go too easy on the prisoners? Not in the long run. We'd be doing them no favours, if we cut them some slack. That could only be to their detriment. We wouldn't be acting in their best interests, if we didn't bring them to book – didn't forcefully address the errors of their ways – each and every time they behaved with impropriety, where females are concerned. If we came over all hearts-and-flowers all of the time, and let them make a song and dance about every little thing, well, it would only have a negative, rehabilitation-hindering influence on them, that could only in turn adversely affect their life-chances ... And, I remember the Governor was quite amenable to your Ball-Bust request, wasn't she, BJ?"

"The Governor was as good as gold about it, Bel. Once I'd explained my case; made her fully aware of the nature of prisoner Chapman's repeated noncompliance, she immediately approved my request to have a Ball-Bust. She was absolutely all for it. She told me that such obdurate noncooperation from prisoners was intolerable, and can never go unchecked. She said: 'Officer Billie Jo, whatever needs to be done, must be done. We can't have prisoners saying 'No' to us!' She said she was rather surprised that prisoner Chapman's first course of treatment hadn't done the trick, but that, unless he was one of the rare breed One-in-a-hundred category of prisoner, the stronger medicine I was now prescribing for him would be sure to cure him. She even fast-tracked the Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement so that I could administer prisoner Chapman's remedial therapy without delay ... And, as you can see, Bel ... he's been all the better for it. The results speak for themselves, don't they? Oh, it did him a world of good, his little ride on the Wheel. He's never said 'No' to me, since."

"Yes, BJ, and that's exactly what I'm thinking ... That a ride on the Wheel of Chastisement will do prisoner Lightwood the world of good, too. That it will clear his head. That it will get him wearing his thinking-cap. That it will make him see reason. That it will get him thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically."

"Oh, I think it will, Bel ... prisoner Lightwood doesn't look like a One-in-a-hundred to me."

"He doesn't to me, either ... I think he's just being stubborn. Just being obdurate. In disrespecting me, in disobeying me, in defying me, in not bowing to my authority, he must know that he is letting himself in for a world of pain and humiliation – surely, his cellmate must have warned him? I think he's just showing token resistance, that's all. Pseudo macho bravado. That's why he said 'No' to me. He's trying to save a bit of face. He doesn't think much to the consequences of his noncompliance."

"Yes, Bel. Just like his cellmate – and we all know what happened to him!"

"Right, BJ. I'm going to radio Control, and do exactly as you did: I'm going to ask Natalie to see if she can get the Governor to fast-track a Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement. So that I can get things in motion for the Ball-Bust now, straight away, and administer prisoner Lightwood's remedial therapy without delay."

"It's all for the best, Bel. You'll see. Prisoner Lightwood is obviously every bit as stupid as his idiot cellmate, and he needs his retarded mind making up for him as well. Absolute imbeciles, the both of them. Talk about slow learners! What a pair they make. Obviously they were both right at the very back of the queue when the brains were given out, and they've had to make do with what was left."

Turning to me, prison officer Billie Jo said with malicious glee, "Did you hear all that, prisoner Lightwood? Eh? Officer Bella Donna is going to have your balls! She's going to bust your balls! And it is going to really, really hurt! And, do you know something? I hope I get to watch it. And not just the Ball-Bust itself, but also what happens to you right after. In fact, with any luck I might even be assigned to the caning-party. The Wheel of Chastisement is a sure cure for prisoners' defiance – just ask your cellmate. I soon crushed the resistance out of him – not that the little worm was much of a challenge ... And look at him now, prisoner Lightwood. Just look at him now ..."

I looked at him now ... As far as my cellmate was concerned, there was no arguing with prison officer Billie Jo's grasp of the state of affairs. 

"Just five minutes on the Wheel of Chastisement. That was plenty of time to sort prisoner Chapman out. More than enough. By the time I'd finished with him – finished administering my five barefoot kicks to his fully exposed testicles – he was all nice and clear-headed. Oh yes. He was certainly wearing his thinking-cap! All of a sudden, lo and behold: he was thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. At last, he'd seen the errors of his ways. He was suddenly seeing reason: he'd knelt at my feet, grovelled with apology, vowed his future obedience, and literally begged to provide whatever manner of Foot Service I might wish to avail myself of him – he'd do anything, he told me, to avoid another Ball-Bust."

My god! I thought. What sort of woman was she?

"Yes: he'd finally managed to cross his stupid 'line'. You know, the line he'd told me he wouldn't cross? But, believe me, he crossed it the hard way. So hard, he cried himself to sleep that night – and for nights after, too ... And, prisoner Lightwood, by the time officer Bella Donna has finished with you, you'll be all nice and clear-headed, too. Oh yes. You'll be wearing your thinking-cap. And then you'll be thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically: You'll see the errors of your ways, at last. And then you'll start seeing reason. You'll be grovelling with apology, vowing your future obedience, and literally begging officer Bella Donna to let you provide whatever manner of Foot Service, for her! And, prisoner Lightwood, when you are crying yourself to sleep tonight – and for nights after, too – remember: you asked for it!"

My blood had turned to ice-water. 
I remembered some of what my cellmate had told me of his own experience on the Wheel of Chastisement. Some of the ... highlights of his own Ball-Bust "remedial therapy", administered by prison officer Billie Jo.

And now, prison officer Bella Donna was talking of administering to me, the very same "rebalancing therapy" corrective-punishment treatment.

Though there may have been a small number of occasions when I might possibly have deserved it, I'd never been kicked in the testicles before. Fortunately, up until now I had managed to avoid – or my aggrieved girlfriends had mercifully spared me – the ... "ultimate sanction".

But I thought I had some idea of what the pain would be like. Some idea, of how it would actually feel. Some idea, of the sorts of anguishment I would go through, when prison officer Bella Donna kicked me in the testicles.

Or did I? How could I? How could I possibly?

Ross had told me it was "beyond imagining". 

And, it hadn't been just one kick, either. 

Ross had said he'd suffered kick, after kick, after kick, right between his restrained, widely-spread-apart legs, from prison officer Billie Jo. This, while other prison officers, taking it in turns, had expertly and mercilessly caned his bare bottom. 

And as they did so, these caning-party prison officers of sadistic leanings had enthusiastically encouraged each other. Had applauded each other, in mutual appreciation. Had high-fived, in congratulation. Had whooped and whistled, in malicious excitement. Had laughed, giggled, tittered and chuckled, in malevolent merriment. Had leered, sneered and jeered, in derision. Had hooted with glee. In short: the assemblage of female prison officers had revelled, in the sad and sorry spectacle of his unspeakable misery.  

And now, administered by prison officer Bella Donna, I was about to get a dose of the same 'therapeutic treatment'. 

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, I was sure, could now sense my fear, see my fear – smell my fear. 

Prison officer Billie Jo, looking scornfully down on my cellmate, assuming the position for Foot Service for her, said with scathing, utter contempt, "As for you, prisoner Chapman, I'm done with you – for now. Get back to your bunk!" 

Upon her freeing Ross's wrists from the restraints inset to the cell's bars, but before he could move, prison officer Billie Jo dealt a malicious back-heel kick to his nose; the wickedly executed blow from the bottom of her bare heel bringing a deluge of fresh tears of pain, hurt and humiliation to Ross's already red-rimmed and tear-crusted eyes. He seemed stunned; dizzied, by the cruelly delivered, deceptively powerful kick, as if the brutal blow had sent his brain sloshing about in his head, and he was waiting for it to resettle. 

"I said move!" snapped prison officer Billie Jo impatiently when Ross failed to respond with instant obedience to her command. "Do as I tell you, you snivelling little specimen! And now! Do not make me repeat myself. Well ...? Go on – Gummy! If you are not back beside your bunk within the next twenty seconds, you will receive ten strokes of my cane!" 

Only a few minutes ago, I would have stood up for Ross. I would have protested bitterly at this outrage, and vehemently accosted prison officer Billie Jo in my cellmate's behalf.

But that was a few minutes ago. 

I'd been slow on the uptake – but I was learning fast ... Now, I kept my mouth firmly shut. 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," replied Ross wretchedly. "And, thank you, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo, for allowing me to serve you. And for choosing me, to—" 

With her astonishing capacity for spot-on mimicry, prison officer Billie Jo parodied cruelly, "'Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo. Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Thank you, Miss Billie Jo'— Shut up, cretin!" she yelled, her attractive, olive-complexioned face contorted now with unrestrained aggression. 

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Bella Donna, tickled pink at her colleague's cruel but startlingly accurate and true-to-life imitation of my cellmate's pathetic grovelling. "Ha ha ha ha! You are too much, BJ!"

"I don't want to listen to any more of your pathetic grovelling!" yelled prison officer Billie Jo, further haranguing my hapless cellmate. "You make me sick! Do you know that? No – you can really have no idea! Get back to your bunk, Mouse man. And quick – or I'll put you on the Wheel of Chastisement too! I've given up being nice to you! Given up being such a soft touch! Such a namby-pamby tenderheart! There'll be no more flowers-and-chocolates treatment from me, in future! So you had better get that inside your head – and fast! Because the moment you start slacking, Gummy, is the moment I'll be paying the Governor another visit!"

Half sob, half croak, Ross replied, "Yes, Miss Billie Jo. Anything you say, Miss Billie Jo. Whatever you want, Miss Billie—"

"I said shut up, you ... my god, words fail me – Nincompoop! Get back beside your bunk. And now – Gummy! If I have to repeat myself again ..."

With great alacrity my cellmate began extricating his legs from the floor-level torpedo-tube like holes under the cell's bars, into which they were fully inserted. 

It was much more awkward and laborious to get out of the assuming-the-position position, I now saw as I sat and watched, than it was to get into it – especially so, in a panicky race against time. 

I looked on anxiously as Ross strove desperately to beat prison officer Billie Jo's cruelly imposed deadline; surely at least half of her twenty-second time limit was up. 

He'll never make it! I thought, concerned for my cellmate – he was about to get ten strokes of prison officer Billie Jo's cane!

I wanted to grab Ross's arms, and help him to get his legs out of those damned holes in the wall. Help him to quickly extricate himself, from his assuming-the-position position. 

But I hesitated to do so. 

I was wary as to how prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo would react: was this another, of their one-month-extra-prison-time incurring traps? I didn't want to risk it – couldn't afford to risk it. I had already fallen for them three times, thereby enabling prison officer Bella Donna to incrementally increase my original three-month sentence up to a soul-crushing six months.  

So this time I kept my own counsel: I kept my mouth firmly shut, and stayed the hell out of it.

As it happened though, I needn't have worried. Ross's movements were quick and fluid and methodical – he'd obviously been getting in lots of practise – and he made the designated safety of the bunks just in time.

"Pity," said prison officer Billie Jo disappointedly. "I was just starting to look forward to a nice bit of caning practise."

"Don't worry, BJ," consoled prison officer Bella Donna. "You'll get plenty more opportunities."
Prison officer Bella Donna then detached the walkie-talkie radio that was clipped to the waistband of her uniform pale-blue short skirt. Boring into mine, her ice-blue eyes were unwavering; piercing, like mind-reading orbs as she spoke into her transmitter.

"Control ... This is officer Bella Donna. I have a situation. Over." 

There was a short burst of radio static, and then prison officer Natalie's voice came on. "This is Control ... Yes, officer Bella Donna? What is your situation? Over."

"Control ... Assistance required. Repeat: assistance required, at cell sixteen, Level One. Officer Natalie, could you please request the Governor to fast-track a Written Approval Order, in the name of prisoner Leonard Lightwood, for the Wheel of Chastisement? And send any available officers to assist officer Billie Jo and me in escorting prisoner Lightwood down to the gymnasium, in case he won't go quietly? Over."

After a brief pause, prison officer Natalie came back on. "Received, officer Bella Donna. Copy that. Stand by, please, for imminent confirmation on your Written Approval Order request. But assistance on way. Repeat: we have assistance on way. Officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora are now proceeding with all speed to cell sixteen, Level One. Over and out."
Within seconds, the air came alive with the by now familiar, highly irritating and annoying slap slap slap slapping sound of flip flops; the multiple pairs of rapidly approaching thin-rubber soled flip flops, an ominous cacophony of slapping against the bare heels of their urgently proceeding female prison officer wearers. 

Commingling, was the dreadful sound of the four rapidly responding Jailhouse Blues' canes. Rattling against the dark-grey painted bars of each prison cell they hurried past, the threatening sound of the prison officers' instruments of chastisement noisily resounded; their bamboo battle cry, reaching each and every part of the five Levels.
As one, prison officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora arrived at cell 16 – and they made a formidable and intimidating sight. With their specially adapted, uniform regulation concave bob hairstyle, and wielding their instruments of deterrence and chastisement in an eager, ready-for-anything attitude, their demeanour was very distinctly no-nonsense and all business.

Slightly breathless from her on-the-double dash, prison officer Cassandra inquired with a frown on her face, "Bel? BJ? What's going down? We just got the call from Nat, requesting the four of us to get here at the double."

Prison officer Bella Donna replied, "Take it easy, Cassie. It's nothing that BJ and me couldn't handle on our own. It's just that I believe in using overwhelming force."

"Well, we can supply that!" hinted prison officer Louise, flexing her whippy bamboo cane. "I can always use an opportunity to hone my caning skills. And besides, a bit of practise never does any harm – except to the prisoners' backsides! Ha ha ha ha!"

"And you might get your chance, Lou ... down in the gymnasium," responded prison officer Billie Jo meaningfully.

Prison officer Cora said, "What ... there's going to be a Ball-Bust?"

Prison officer Bella Donna replied, her voice all matter-of-fact, "We're just awaiting the Governor's official endorsement. But yes, Cora, there's going to be a Ball-Bust. For prisoner Lightwood, here. He's not thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. He said 'No' to me. As we speak, the necessary paperwork is being processed; the Governor is fast-tracking my requested Written Approval Order for the Wheel of Chastisement. As sponsor, I'll be the principle administrator of prisoner Lightwoods therapeutic treatment."

Prison officer Victoria, a leggy, early twenties, incredibly gorgeous blue-eyed blonde, who had only the previous week joined the 'Blues', said excitedly in her posh, Home Counties accent, "Oh, my gosh! Can I kick prisoner Lightwood in the balls, too? I've never kicked a man in the balls before. It must be the coolest thing! Of all of the amazing benefits of working here – great salary; long holidays; generous duvet-day allowance; medical insurance; fabulous early-retirement pension plan – it was the thing that most attracted me to the prison officer's job at Greystone Prison: The promise of opportunities to kick men where it hurts the most – and with no possible comebacks! Actually being able to kick them right in the goolies – and they can't do a thing about it! Not a thing! Ha ha ha ha! So ... can I, do you think? Kick prisoner Lightwood in the balls?"

Prison officer Cassandra replied, "No, Vicky. I'm sorry, but no. The regulations clearly state that only the prison officer administering the Ball-Bust chastisement can perform the actual ball-kicking. That's what Bel meant, when she said that as sponsor she would be the 'principle' administrator of prisoner Lightwood's punishm— I mean, therapeutic treatment." 

"Which is sort of the point, Vicky," prison officer Louise explained further. "It's to enable the particular prison officer in question – in this case, officer Bella Donna – to drive home the point, to the particular prisoner in question – in this case, prisoner Lightwood – that she is never to be defied, and always obeyed."

"Oh," said prison officer Victoria, the single word speaking volumes in crestfallen disappointment. "I know about the routine, every-day ball-kicking practise sessions, with the One-in-a-hundred prisoners. The prisoners who won't, and can't be made to submit to Foot Service. The unbreakable, ruined prisoners, with the nearly extinct balls. The Governor told me about those, during my interview. And I'm scheduled to attend one of those ball-kicking practise sessions tomorrow afternoon. But it won't be the same, kicking them in the balls, will it? I mean, if they are almost beyond hurting. Where's the fun in that?"

"Kicking the dead-nut One-in-a-hundred prisoners in the balls, during routine ball-kicking practise sessions, isn't the same, no," admitted prison officer Cora. "There's no denying that. Obviously, you don't get anything like the same level of satisfaction, that you get from administering an actual Ball-Bust treatment. Because I can tell you, Vicky: there's absolutely nothing – and I mean, nothing – that can compare with the wonderful sense of achievement you experience, when you see your own, personally administered Ball-Bust treatment curing a prisoner's irrational thinking." 

"But it's still a hoot, Vicky," said prison officer Louise consolingly. "I mean, kicking the One-in-a-hundred's right in the plums, time and time again – and some of them will barely react! It's so funny. So it's still worthwhile, Vicky. And after all: practise makes perfect. Which you'll pretty much need to be, Vicky, before the Governor will endorse your performing an actual Ball-Bust treatment."

"But, not to worry, Vicky – you little vixen!" said prison officer Cora. "You'll get plenty of opportunities here, in Greystone prison, to kick men's 'live', unruined balls. Pretty soon, you'll be a seasoned ball-kicker yourself – and a quite expert one, too, I don't doubt!"

At that, prison officer Victoria's face brightened, and her face was incredibly lovely as she said, "Do you think, Cora?"

"Yes, I certainly do! But the idea of a Ball-Bust, Vicky, as Lou just alluded, is to bring stubborn, but treatable prisoners to heel. To get prisoners who at first say 'No' to us, like prisoner Lightwood, here, thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. To give them a second chance – and even a third, and final chance, in the extremely unlikely event of that drastic action proving necessary. So the objective of the Ball-Bust treatment, Vicky, is to rehabilitate such ... reluctant prisoners. To reform them. To cure them. Not to ruin them." 

Prison officer Bella Donna added, "But, Vicky, the One-in-a-hundreds ... well, they can't be cured. They just can't. With them, it's not about standing up for themselves as a man, because it's an intolerable affront to their manhood – though of course there is that, too, but such ... alpha, female-domination averse males don't usually resist beyond a second Ball-Bust treatment. No. The actual, dyed-in-the-wool One-in-a-hundred's can't be made to submit to Foot Service, because it's anathema to them. They are simply just too grossed out by the idea. It's a mental thing. A phobia. When they say 'No' to us, they mean 'No'. And their minds can't be changed. They just can't cope with the thought, of assuming the position, and serving at our feet. The very idea of it is wholly repugnant to them. It's an insurmountable aversion to feet, that even all of our best-effort ball-kicking treatments can't overcome. They simply let us ruin them, in our attempts to cure them. It just doesn't matter, Vicky, how many times I, or BJ, or you might kick a One-in-a-hundred in the balls, he still won't submit to providing Foot Service." 

Prison officer Billie Jo said, "So, Vicky, if those prisoners won't cooperate in the administering of their own therapeutic treatment – if they won't provide Foot Service for us, thereby laying down the necessary foundations for us to cure them of their improprieties, where females are concerned – until we finally move them on to another institution we just get some other uses out of them – such as ball-kicking practise."

Prison officer Victoria was about to reply again – no doubt, I thought, to take issue with what she'd just been told about the proclaimed 'invincibility' of the One-in-a-hundred prisoners – but then suddenly there was a crackle of static from the prison officers' radios as prison officer Natalie came back on-air. "This is Control ... Control, calling officer Bella Donna. Over."

"Received, Control. This is officer Bella Donna. Over."

"Officer Bella Donna, you can go ahead. Repeat: you can go ahead, with prisoner Lightwood's prescribed therapeutic treatment. The Governor has granted your Written Approval Order request. As we speak, prison officers assigned to attend the Ball-Bust are readying the Wheel of Chastisement for use. As usual, the Governor herself will be presiding over the operation. The Governor has asked me to inform you that she has assigned you and the five officers with you to make up six of the caning-party's twelve-officer complement. You are clear to proceed, officer Bella Donna. Please escort prisoner Lightwood down to the gymnasium forthwith. Over and out."

"Yes!" exclaimed prison officer Billie Jo gleefully. "Okay, then. Let's get this show on the road!"

Prison officer Victoria looked me right in the eye ... and she scared me. She really scared me.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't like what she was thinking. Wouldn't like, one little bit, just what was going on inside her lovely head.

Her angelic face was a picture of gleeful, barely controlled excitement. Of dark, delicious anticipation. The shining orbs of her bright blue eyes spoke of a cruel passion. Spoke, eloquently, of a sadistic yearning.

"Oh my gosh – yes! Let's!" she gushed enthusiastically in her posh, Home Counties accented, privileged-and-pampered sounding voice. 

She wanted to get the show on the road, too.

*            *            *

Dear reader,

I invite you to accompany me. 
Down to the basement of Greystone Prison, to the prison officers' gymnasium ... to the Wheel of Chastisement ...
Mob-handed, the six prison officers came crowding into cell 16, and Ross, who'd respectfully remained standing in the presence of prison officers, leaped up onto his top bunk like a baboon evading a pride of lions, and I offered no resistance as prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo handcuffed my wrists to theirs.

"We'll go down in the lift," said prison officer Bella Donna to her five colleagues. "It'll be a bit of a tight squeeze, but it can carry up to seven people at a pinch."

Handcuffed to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo on either side of me, I was thus marched along Level 1's West Wing walkway to the nearest of the two lifts; prison officers Cassandra and Victoria led the way, while prison officers Louise and Cora fell into prisoner escort formation behind.

As it happened, the lift was already at Level 1, and the doors opened immediately upon prison officer Billie Jo pressing the Call button. "Come on, you," she told me, as she and prison officer Bella Donna entered the lift first. Prison officers Cassandra, Victoria, Louise and Cora followed. Once we were all shut in, prison officer Cora pressed the 'G' button that would take us down one Level to the Ground Floor.

With seven people in the lift, it was so cramped that, with prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo and myself at the back of the lift and facing towards the door, and the other four prison officers facing towards us, prison officer Victoria's not insubstantial breasts were pressing into my chest. 

Smiling prettily, and with her face so close to mine that I could smell her sweet-scented breath, the angelic-looking prison officer Victoria told me as the lift slowly descended the one Floor, "I hope you defy me, prisoner Lightwood, when I come to you for Foot Service. I hope you say 'No' to me. I'll soon get you thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. I'll kick your balls so hard, you'll think you've grown a couple of new Adam's apples."

And I believed her. 

So did the other prison officers too, who chuckled in amusement; prison officer Billie Jo, exclaiming with delighted approbation to prison officer Bella Donna: "We could do with a few more like her – she's a natural!" 

Me, though? I thought better of saying anything in reply, as, standing chest to chest with prison officer Victoria, through the thin fabric of her uniform pale-blue blouse I could actually feel her nipples hardening in sadistic lust as I stared back at her up-close sugar-sweet face.

There was no elegant 'ping' to announce the lift's arrival at the Ground Floor, just a very sudden jolt, that might have rocked its passengers off their feet had we not been crammed into the thing like too many pilchards into a can.

Upon exiting the lift my six escorts regrouped into formation, and they marched me across the open expanse of the Ground Floor; the slapping of their flip flops sounding all businesslike and purposeful as we strode on the diagonal towards the steps that led down to the basement. 

When we were about half-way across, something made me look up. And I saw that, leaning on the safety-rails on every Wing walkway on all five Levels, Wing-patrolling prison officers were staring down at us ... or rather, staring down at me: the 'condemned' man.

Prison officer Billie Jo suddenly jerked me to a standstill, and angrily glowered at me. "Do not provoke me, prisoner Lightwood!" she snapped. "You will keep your eyes respectfully lowered, focused upon the feet of officers Cassandra and Victoria in front of you!"

I respectfully lowered my eyes to her own, olive-complexioned feet, focusing my gaze upon her unvarnished toenails. "Yes, Miss Billie Jo," I said respectfully. Because I knew she'd give my face "a good slap" there and then if I didn't.

Above the dark-grey painted smooth-concrete stairway, was a large sign, indicating that the prison officers' Bar, the Foot Massage Room, and the gymnasium were all to be accessed downstairs.

As before, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo and myself were sandwiched between the other four prison officers; prison officers Cassandra and Victoria again leading the way, while prison officers Louise and Cora followed behind as we descended the steps of the narrow stairwell.

At the bottom of the steps, directly facing us across a narrow corridor was a double-door entrance. Above the white-painted doors were three signs, all with pale-blue letters printed on a white background. 

The sign in the middle had a downward-pointing arrow, and read simply: Gym. The sign on the left had a leftward-pointing arrow, and read simply: Bar. The sign on the right had a rightward-pointing arrow, and read: Foot Massage Room. These last two facilities were accessed as directed, via the corridor leading off to left and right.

Prison officers Cassandra and Victoria crossed the corridor and pushed their way through the double-door entrance, leading the way into the gymnasium. The rest of us followed.

The gymnasium was larger than I'd imagined. At first glance, it seemed pretty much fully equipped. Over-equipped, in fact ... with the Wheel of Chastisement.

Already assembled in the gymnasium, were the twenty or so prison officers who had been assigned to attend – and, some of them, actively participate in – my "therapeutic treatment" ... Including, I noticed with great trepidation, prison officers Natalie and Melanie – I'd seen quite enough of those two today already!

A woman of unmistakable authority then looked our way, upon her noticing our entrance into the gymnasium. 

Instinctively, I knew she was not a woman you said 'No' to.

She saw me, and caught my eye right away ... and, once direct eye contact was made, she was hard to look away from. She was stunning to look at, and the power of her gaze was incredibly magnetic. Hypnotic. The phrase 'Held in thrall' came to mind. Because that's how I felt.

A study in lady-like deportment, the deeply suntanned, extremely attractive blonde-haired woman walked over to us; her measured, elegant stride regulating the stately-sounding slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping rhythm of her thin-rubber soled pale-blue flip flops against the bottoms of her bare heels. 

Though she wore the same specially adapted concave bob hairstyle, and was dressed in the same body-hugging pale-blue uniform as the 'Jailhouse Blues' prison officers under her command, she was more mature than the average 'Blue' – in her early thirties, I guessed. 

And now that she was standing right up close, and looking right into my eyes, I was finding myself greatly affected by her. Finding myself unsettled, by her aura of presence. Finding myself in awe, of her charisma. Finding myself excited, by her attractiveness – finding myself disturbed, by her pulse-quickening sex-appeal.

"Welcome, prisoner Lightwood!" she said in sardonic greeting. "I am Meredith Monroe, Governor of Greystone Prison. I hear you are in need of a bit of straightening out."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything.

Turning to prison officer Bella Donna, Governor Monroe said in her rich-toned and pleasantly modulated voice, "That is the case, isn't it, officer Bella Donna? And that it is you yourself, as sponsor, who have brought charges of gross impropriety against prisoner Lightwood, and petitioned my fast-tracked authorisation to personally administer his rehabilitative therapeutic treatment, on the Wheel of Chastisement?"

"Yes, ma'am," affirmed prison officer Bella Donna succinctly.

"Um ... I am in no way questioning your judgement, officer Bella Donna, but ... the Wheel of Chastisement? You are certainly not pussyfooting about, are you? I mean – and, correct me if I'm wrong – this is prisoner Lightwood's first offence, isn't it? You don't think a Ball-Bust is a ... tad harsh?"

"Ma'am, I'm as lenient-minded as the next prison officer, and a big believer in second chances. But there are occasions when one has to take off the kid-gloves."

"And this is one of those occasions, officer Bella Donna?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid it is. Prisoner Lightwood has an attitude problem. And in my opinion, ma'am, it needs to be nipped in the bud. The sooner he is made aware of the errors of his ways – made aware of his improprieties, where females are concerned – the better off he will be in the long run. It is not yet two hours, ma'am, since he was admitted to the prison by officers Natalie and Melanie, and already he has committed not just one offence, but a whole series of egregious infractions."

"Oh, has he now?" said the Governor, looking askance at me. "Could you please elaborate for me, officer Bella Donna?"  

"Certainly, ma'am. Prisoner Lightwood has treated me with the utmost disrespect, signally failing to recognise my authority as a prison officer. Despite my repeated instructions, he has brazenly stared me in the face, instead of respectfully staring down at my feet; failed to stand, in the presence of a prison officer; and he has repeatedly spoken out of turn. In addition, he has been flagrantly disobedient and noncompliant: he has refused to assume the position, at my expressed order; refused to provide Foot Service, upon my command. In summary: prisoner Lightwood has repeatedly disrespected, disobeyed and defied me, ma'am. Again and again, he has said 'No' to me. Never before, ma'am, have I come across such bare-faced impropriety in a prisoner."

"Ma'am ...?" said prison officer Billie Jo politely.

"Yes, officer Billie Jo?"

"Ma'am, I can verify everything that officer Bella Donna has just said. In fact, ma'am, when prisoner Chapman had assumed the position for me, and was providing Foot Service, prisoner Lightwood spoke out of turn to me, too – actually, he even laid a hand on me. And then on top of all that, he actually had the gall to try and take the moral high ground, taking issue with the prison's practises – not least, the manner of my treatment of his cellmate."

"I see ... Thank you for your testimonies, officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo," said Governor Monroe. 

"Ma'am ...?" said prison officer Melanie politely.

"Yes, officer Melanie? Do you have something to say?"

"Ma'am, I can vouch for what officer Bella Donna has just said, too, with regards to prisoner Lightwood's having a serious attitude problem. In the Security Checkpoint building I'd identified it straight off, since many of the classic signs were immediately apparent. In fact, within minutes he'd exhibited so many of them, that as a disciplinary measure I'd found it necessary to slap his face."

"Ma'am ...?" said prison officer Natalie, who had also just stepped forward.

"Yes, officer Natalie? Have you something to add?"

"Ma'am, I am in full agreement with the sentiments of officer Melanie. Examples of prisoner Lightwood's improprieties were manifold. In fact, I'd thought officer Melanie had shown great lenience to prisoner Lightwood, in only slapping his face once – he'd been very fortunate, I thought, not to have felt the cut of her cane for being so ill-mannered. On top of his disrespectful behavior, he'd been very inattentive, too – which I'd found extremely annoying, ma'am, and several times I was on the very point of taking my cane to him myself. During officer Melanie's prep-talk, when she'd been explaining to him what would be in store for him here; apprising him as to the ethos of Greystone Prison, throughout her discourse he'd had a silly, smirking look on his face. In fact, that's what motivated me to suggest to officer Melanie that we should bag 'firsts' – pre-book prisoner Lightwood, ma'am, for Prisoners' Canteen Service, tomorrow lunchtime. We'd soon wipe that silly smirk off his face! Oh, just the thought of it ... I can hardly wait, ma'am, to—"

"I see ... And that, I take it, is why you and officer Melanie asked me to temporarily relieve you of your receiving-officer's duties, and assign you both as members of this afternoon's caning-party?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied officer Natalie. "It is. I can overlook and even forgive one or two rough edges, but prisoner Lightwood is an extremely uncouth individual. And I can tell you, ma'am, I am more than looking forward to playing my part here today, and caning some manners into him."

"I see ... Thank you for your very informative supplementary summations, officers Natalie and Melanie. Very enlightening ... I think I've heard enough now, to get a handle on prisoner Lightwood's number."

Turning to me, Governor Monroe said, "Prisoner Lightwood. I have now been duly satisfied as to the true extent of your guilt in this matter. Consequently, I approve, and now duly endorse, the three extra months added on to your original three-month tariff, as recommended by officer Bella Donna."

Poison Ivy! I thought.

"In addition – and also on the recommendation of officer Bella Donna, who as sponsor will be the principle administrator of your correctional therapy – you will now undergo five, one-minute rotations on the Wheel of Chastisement." 

My god! I thought. I knew what that meant ... Once again, I recalled what Ross had told me about it. About his own horrific, "Never again!" experience.

This was outrageous. I couldn't let this stand. I had to stop this thing in its tracks, before it went any further. I had to say something. And say it now – before it was too late!

The Governor seemed to me a fair-minded woman. She'd listened, just now, and gave due consideration to what was put to her by her officers. Evaluated the evidence. I believed she would listen to me, too, and hear me out – hear my side of the story. 

But I had to make the Governor understand – make her see!

"Governor," I said, diffidently but urgently. "I don't mean to be disrespectful or anything, but, please may I speak? Before this ... travesty of justice goes any further, I need to tell you about—" Slap! I got no further. 

Prison officer Natalie's thin-rubber soled flip flops had rapidly slap slap slap slapped against the bottoms of her bare heels as she'd quickly and furiously approached me, and then slapped my face every bit as hard as prison officer Melanie had done earlier in the Security Checkpoint building – and, just like then, it stung like hell. "Shut up!" she yelled into my smarting face, her cheeks colouring in anger. "You will show due propriety! The Governor is speaking! You will remain silent, prisoner Lightwood!"

"Thank you, officer Natalie," said Governor Monroe. "But, actually ... though it is somewhat irregular, I think I'll grant the prisoner permission to speak. From what I've heard of prisoner Lightwood so far, I think I'd actually be rather interested to hear what he has to say for himself."

"Ma'am," replied prison officer Natalie, still giving me the evil eye.

Turning to me, Governor Meredith Monroe said, "Very well, prisoner Lightwood. You have my permission to speak. Say your piece. But make it quick – we've all got homes to go to afterwards, even if you haven't."

But now I was all nervous. Flustered. I could hardly believe that the Governor was letting me speak; actually letting me have my say. I had been right, I thought, in my estimations of her fair-mindedness. Now, I had to seize with both hands what would surely be my one and only chance. My whole future was at stake here. I had to make the Governor aware of the wickedness in her midst. I had to make Governor Monroe see! The first words out of my mouth, I knew, would be of crucial importance.

"Governor, I must bring to your attention the fact that prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are corrupt. They are two no good—"

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Governor Monroe, outraged.

"Governor, it's true! I assure you! They intend to retain me and my cellmate indefinitely – and mould us! Just for their own selfish purposes! Governor, you can ask prisoner Chapman – he'll tell you!"

"Oh, you assure me, do you? And I can ask prisoner Chapman, can I? Your fellow criminal? Your accomplice? He will verify your claims, will he? Well, that would be proof positive, wouldn't it?" 

The assemblage of prison officers all chuckled at the Governor's mordant wit ... except, I couldn't help but notice, prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, whose faces glowered with outrage.

The Governor saw prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo's outraged expressions – but misunderstood them. She interpreted their angry expressions as outraged innocence – not great umbrage.

The Governor's sense of humour was then superseded by her own sense of outrage. 

"Mother of God! You have been accused of having an attitude, prisoner Lightwood, but this surely takes the Garibaldi. How dare you, prisoner Lightwood, stand there in front of me, and impugn the reputations of two of my most valued officers? How dare you, look me in the face, and cast your groundless aspersions against two of Greystone Prison's finest rehabilitation practitioners? How dare you, assassinate their characters? I will not stand for it!"

"But, Governor! You've got to believe me! I'm telling the—"

"That's enough, prisoner Lightwood! I've heard quite enough from you – enough of your slanderous fabrications! And what's more, as a penalty for your outrageous, and totally unfounded allegations against officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, I am now awarding you a further, six-month supplementary tariff. It will run concurrently, at the end of your existing six-month sentence – so you can now expect to remain as our guest at Greystone Prison for a full year. And now, prisoner Lightwood, if I hear just one more word out of you, I shall take very great pleasure in doubling that!"

I held my tongue – I knew Governor Monroe meant it! 

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo were as corrupt as could be. But the Governor wouldn't hear a word said against them – not a word! She wouldn't hear a word, of my "slanderous fabrications". She wasn't having any of it. 

So much, then, for letting me have my say. So much, for evaluating the evidence. So much, for listening, and giving due consideration!

Just a couple of hours ago, I was looking at a three-month sentence. But now, I was going to be stuck in this damned hellhole for a full year! Because I'd failed to convince the Governor as to what appalling fates were in store for Ross and me, as prison officers Billie Jo and Bella Donna's ... moulded foot slaves!

Governor Meredith Monroe now told me, "Now, prisoner Lightwood, let us return to the business at hand ... The correctional therapy that you are about to undergo, is a highly effective treatment – successful, in ninety-nine per cent of cases. The object of the Ball-Bust exercise, is to expunge from your mind the capacity for irrational thought. By clearing your head of irrationality, you will thus become clear-headed. You will then see reason. You will be enabled to think straight – think coherently and logically. The errors of your ways, will become apparent to you.

"Now, prisoner Lightwood," the Governor continued, and now there was more than just a hint of retributive relish in her voice. "I shall explain the proceedings of the Ball-Bust to you: You will undergo five, one-minute rotations – Rounds – on the Wheel of Chastisement. And, to ... kick-start, as it were, each of the five Rounds, officer Bella Donna, as principle administrator of your correctional treatment, will administer a therapeutic kick, barefoot, to your fully exposed testicles." 

Instinctively, I tried to do a runner; tried to hightail it out of the gymnasium – but I was still handcuffed to prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. But before either of them could slap me down and rebuke me, the beyond beautiful prison officer Victoria stepped forward to do it for them ... Slap! Slap! Two very hard, stinging slaps, one to each side of my face. "You will remain still, prisoner Lightwood!" she reprimanded me imperiously.

"Whereupon, prisoner Lightwood," the Governor went on, as if nothing had happened, "I shall then set the Wheel of Chastisement in motion. Upon which, at five-second intervals, by each in turn the twelve prison officers of the caning-party – including officer Bella Donna herself and the other five officers who escorted you down here to the gymnasium – will administer one therapeutic stroke of the cane to your bare buttocks, as and when your fully exposed bare bottom comes around to their respective caning positions." 

Hell! I thought. Therapy? Treatment? This was nothing but torture, in the name of ... medicine!
"On the sixty-second mark," continued Governor Meredith Monroe, "upon the twelfth prison officer having duly administered her therapeutic cane stroke, I shall then stop the Wheel of Chastisement. This will be to allow you a moment or two, to reflect upon the errors of your ways ... and to allow officer Bella Donna the time she requires, to line up her next therapeutic kick to your testicles. Whereupon, I shall restart the Wheel of Chastisement, for Round Two. Upon which, during the next sixty seconds, at five-second intervals, you will receive another twelve therapeutic cane strokes to your bare bottom. And so on, and so on ... Are you following me, prisoner Lightwood?" 

I clenched my fists impotently – and kept my mouth firmly shut. 

To acknowledge the Governor, I thought, would be to imply willing complicity in my "therapeutic treatment". Would be tantamount, to actually condoning it. Approving it.

Again, the too lovely for words prison officer Victoria shouted in my face. "The Governor just asked you a question, prisoner Lightwood! She wants to know if you are following the details of your Ball-Bust!"

At least the Angel of Doom calls a spade a spade! I thought.

"Yes, Governor," I said. "I'm following you. But, Governor, this is a travesty of justice. Officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, they are corrupt. They are no good. They mean to mould—"

"And I promise you, prisoner Lightwood," the Governor interrupted, abruptly cutting off any attempt at further protest – quashing my last-minute appeal. "Just like many prisoners who have gone before you, in approximately ten minutes from now, when you have undergone your five Rounds on the Wheel of Chastisement, you will have learned the lesson of your life: To always – at all times, whether here in prison, or free on the outside – observe your responsibilities to females. In short: to unfailingly and unhesitatingly observe the protocols of propriety towards females, that today's society demands." 

Addressing my six escorts, the Governor said, "I have already selected six of the twelve officers required for the caning-party.  I'd like the six of you to make up the other half of the complement."

"Ma'am!" replied my six escorts eagerly.

"Officer Natalie informed me of your requirement, ma'am," said prison officer Bella Donna. 

"Good. And so now, officers ..." said Governor Monroe, inclining her head meaningfully towards the Wheel of Chastisement.

"Ma'am!" said prison officers Bella Donna, Billie Jo, Victoria, Cassandra, Louise and Cora simultaneously, who promptly began hustling me over to that terrible turntable – the Wheel of Chastisement.

En route, prison officers Natalie and Melanie goaded me. 

"Tut tut, Leonard," admonished prison officer Natalie. "I knew you had an attitude. But you've hardly been here five minutes, and already you are getting your balls busted. This must be a record."

Prison officer Melanie smiled gloatingly at me. Bending her flexible cane in gleeful anticipation, she told me, "I'm not surprised to see you here – but I am very happy about it. As much as I'd like to, I'm not allowed to kick your balls – the pleasure of that entitlement on this occasion belongs to officer Bella Donna. But, over the coming minutes, Lightwood, during each of your five Rounds you'll be feeling this five times – and I can hardly wait." By way of a demonstration of what I could imminently expect, she raised her wicked-looking cane and then brought it swiftly down in an air-cutting, very audible Whoo! "Five times, Lightwood!"

"You see, Leonard," added prison officer Natalie. "Just like the Governor said: twelve of us – including officer Melanie and me – will be caning you. And we each get five strokes, right at your bare buttocks. And trust me: we'll both be making the most of them – we're really going to let you have it! And that'll put us on nicely, until we have you for lunch tomorrow."

Prison officer Melanie added, "If you are such a slow learner, Lightwood, that you have to learn due propriety towards females the hard way – so be it! But, when you are feeling the cut of our canes on your bare buttocks, remember: all twelve of us are acting in your best interests. We are doing this for your own good. Acting with your mental welfare aforethought."

Prison officer Victoria piped up, "Yes, prisoner Lightwood. This is going to hurt us, a lot more than it is going to hurt you – ha ha ha ha!"

Hell! I thought, horrified ... Not only, was I going to be repeatedly kicked in the balls, by prison officer Bella Donna, but I was also going to have my bare backside caned by twelve really-up-for-it female prison officers. Up to a total of ... sixty strokes!

"Now get moving!" snapped prison officer Billie Jo.

And then I was there. In the centre of the gymnasium ... standing in front of the Wheel of Chastisement.

The prison officers had positioned the Wheel of Chastisement inside a white-painted circle on the gymnasium's hardwood floor. Directly above it, hanging horizontally was a tubular metal bar, that was about three feet long and was suspended from the ceiling on a retractable chain; the chain itself, fitted to a spindle so as to allow the whole assemblage to revolve freely when the Wheel of Chastisement was in operation. 

All around the Wheel of Chastisement, were the twelve caning positions. Numbers from 1 to 12 were painted sequentially on the gymnasium's floor in white. Caning Position No. 1 was situated on the far side of the device, directly across.

Like many instruments of crude torture, the Wheel of Chastisement was of simple construct. 

The Wheel of Chastisement consisted of a circular-shaped platform, that was raised about a foot above the floor, and was of the approximate dimensions of a family-sized dining-table. This was what the prisoner stood on. On the underside of the circular-shaped platform, a drive shaft was set into its centre. An electric motor powered it; its regulator set to turn the standing-platform around at exactly one revolution per minute. Also on the underside of the standing-platform, opposite each other at the outer edges, were two metal fittings, from which cable-tie restraints were attached to the ankles of the prisoner's widely-spread-apart legs – to ensure that his legs stayed widely spread apart.

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo now pulled my dark grey, prisoner's uniform T-shirt up and over my head, and pulled my uniform shorts right down to my ankles. "Step out of them!" ordered prison officer Billie Jo sharply. "But leave your bootees on," she told me.

I did as I was told.

Prison officer Bella Donna then said authoritatively, "Now step onto the platform, prisoner Lightwood! And, with your hands held behind your back, face front!"  

I did as I was told ... and immediately I felt my face getting hot. Glowing crimson, I knew, from acute embarrassment as I was left standing like that for well over a minute, being 'inspected', by Governor Meredith Monroe and her twenty-plus party of female prison officers.

"Now, stand with your legs wide apart – very wide apart," prison officer Bella Donna further instructed. "Now raise your hands above your head, and grab hold of that bar above you. Hold on to it." 

Again, I did as I was told. To put up a struggle would be futile – and furthermore, not only would any act of noncompliance result in more corporal punishment now, in the immediacy, but it would also incur yet another extension to my prison sentence. Of this, I had absolutely no doubts. In fact, I was very relieved that the Governor hadn't just now doubled my now 1-year sentence, as she'd threatened, for my further pleading my innocence.

"Stretch your legs wider apart, prisoner Lightwood!" ordered prison officer Billie Jo. "So that your feet are positioned here, and here ... right at the edges of the platform."

I did as I was told.

Now, I was standing upon the Wheel of Chastisement ... just where prison officer Bella Donna wanted me. 

My feet were placed so far apart; right up to the edges of the circular-shaped platform, that my legs were stretched wide open almost to the point of groin strain. My arms were fully raised and my hands were holding onto the suspended tubular metal bar overhead. Except for my dark grey, soft fabric prisoner's bootees I was naked. 

And I was facing front: facing Governor Meredith Monroe, and the assembled female prison officers. 

Some of whom, with practise strokes of their canes, were eagerly readying themselves to play their own active roles in my "therapeutic treatment". Play their own active roles, in straightening me out. Play their own active roles, in expunging irrational thought from my mind. Play their own active roles, in getting me to think straight – think coherently and logically.

I looked at the prison officers' faces. Faces, expressive of their gleeful anticipation. I was now seeing most of these prison officers for the first time ... But I would be seeing more than enough of them, in future.  

As if they were all sadistic members of some BDSM-style 20 to 30 club, they all seemed to fall somewhere within that age group. 

And, by the looks of them, they couldn't wait to get started – all of them! It was in their body language. In their eyes. Up for it? What an understatement! 

I was actually pleased, very glad – relieved – that the Governor was here to control them. 

Pleased, that she was here to regulate them. Glad, that she was here to stop them from getting too carried away. Relieved, that she was here to put a restraint, on their ... appetites.

Prison officer Bella Donna, speaking formally in the presence of the Governor, said, "Officer Cassandra, while me and officer Billie Jo restrain his wrists to the overhead bar, can you and officer Victoria both grab a cable-tie from that box over there on the floor near the vaulting-horse, and cable-tie prisoner Lightwood's ankles, all nice and tight?"

Prison officers Cassandra and Victoria responded eagerly, snatching up the black plastic cable-ties from a box full of the hateful things. And then they were both crouched at the raised platform of the Wheel of Chastisement, at my ankles ... and staring at my fully exposed genitals. 

Never before had I felt so utterly humiliated, as prison officers Cassandra and Victoria, smiling at each other in shared salacious amusement, took much longer to secure my ankles than prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo took to secure my wrists ... And, as prison officer Victoria's heart-throb face was so close, that I could actually feel the exhalations of her warm breath stirring my 'short-and-curly' hair.

Now, by my wrists and ankles I was restrained to the Wheel of Chastisement.

Prison officers Cassandra and Victoria then stood up. Prison officer Cassandra stepped back, into the throng of assembled prison officers. 

But prison officer Victoria stepped forward, right up close to me. Whispering sweetly, she told me, "So maybe I can't bust your balls today, prisoner Lightwood. So ... another time. Yeah? But I'm still going to enjoy caning your bare bottom. I'm going to really enjoy it! Five cane strokes, I've got! Five!"

Prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo stepped down from the raised platform. Prison officer Billie Jo stepped back, into the throng of assembled prison officers.

But prison officer Bella Donna stepped right in front of me. Her face was implacable. Her stare was stony. Her ice-blue eyes were glinting. Glinting with something I didn't like.

"Prisoner Lightwood," she said, loud enough for everyone present to hear. "By the time I have finished with you, never again, will you disrespect me. Never again, will you disobey me. Never again, will you defy me. Never again, will you speak out of turn. Never again, will you say 'No' to me." 

"Quite," said the Governor. And the assembled prison officers murmured their own sentiments of agreement and approval.

Prison officer Bella Donna went on. "Because, prisoner Lightwood, I am telling you now: To do so – to say 'No' to me again – will be an incontrovertible indication to us that your therapeutic treatment has sadly failed. And so a second, double-dose course of the treatment will then become necessary. In other words, another Ball-Bust. Another, double-strength repetition of this imminent therapy. Another, longer ride on the Wheel of Chastisement."

Hell! I thought. 

Prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! – was really going to let me have it. And she was really laying it on the line: post-Ball-Bust, I would at all times in future bow to her authority, and obey her every command – or else!

Corroborating my thoughts— no, confirming my worst fears, prison officer Bella Donna said, "Prisoner Lightwood. After your chastisement has been duly administered, in front of everyone assembled here you will go to your knees before me, and you will kiss my feet." 

We'll see, I thought.

"You will kiss my feet, and apologise for your improprieties. You will kiss my feet, and beg my forgiveness for your repeated noncompliance. You will kiss my feet, and you will promise your future profound respect, unhesitating compliance, and unfailing obedience to me."

I'd thought that was it; that her little speech was over. But it wasn't. Prison officer Bella Donna had another, much more explosive bombshell – but for my ears only.

Prison officer Bella Donna leaned close, and whispered up to me. "So ... Grass me and officer Billie Jo up to the Governor then, will you, prisoner Lightwood? I shall make you pay for that, over the years. I'll never forget your treachery. I can promise you that. And I've no doubt that officer Billie Jo will soon be having a little chat about it with you, too. But, for now ... prepare yourself for kick number five. The grand finale. There'll be an extra little something. If you think the first four kicks, are bad ..." 

Prison officer Bella Donna then stepped back from me, and joined her assembled cane-wielding colleagues.

Now I was shocked to the core, as well as terrified. 

Prepare myself for kick number five, the "grand finale"? And for prison officer Billie Jo's "little chat". And, for trying to shine an exposing light upon the darkness of her corruption, prison officer Bella Donna would make me pay, "over the years"? 

I didn't know which of them I was frightened of the most. Of the two of them, prison officer Billie Jo came across to me as being the most vicious and violent, the most vituperative and vindictive – not that there was a lot in it! But now, after my miserably unsuccessful and disastrous attempt at exposing the depths of their wickedness, they would be equally vengeful, I was sure.

Governor Meredith Monroe then said pleasantly, "Well, if that's the preliminaries all over and done with ... Let the Ball-Bust begin!" 

A hubbub of excited anticipation arose from the assembled prison officers. For many of them this was by no means a new experience. But the excitement of participating in a Ball-Bust never abated. The novelty stayed fresh. The pleasure never waned ... not for these females.

And it was now that the fear really hit me. That my feelings of dire dread really started to get out of hand – that I really started to panic. 

I was terrified: this thing was really, actually about to happen ... the "ultimate sanction". I may have gotten away with it in the past – or been mercifully spared it, by my aggrieved girlfriends. But now, I would be getting it in spades.

I remembered again, what my cellmate had told me about how bad the pain was, when he'd been Ball-Busted by prison officer Billie Jo: that it was "beyond imagining".

But it was going to be even worse for me! I thought, with a massive measure of self-pity.

When she came to administer kick number five – her so-called "grand finale" – because I'd tried to expose her wicked designs to the Governor, prison officer Bella Donna had promised to give me "an extra little something". What the hell did that mean? "If you think the first four kicks, are bad ..." she'd said ominously.

Self-protectively I tried to close my legs; tried desperately to at least move my upper thighs a bit closer together. 

But of course, I couldn't. Prison officers Cassandra and Victoria had done their cable-tying job very efficiently. Between them, they had fully exposed my testicles; effectively rendered my balls unprotected. Totally vulnerable. And they'd restrained my legs wide apart – ensuring that, come what may, that's the way they'd stay.

Come what may, that's the way they'd stay: fully exposed, and totally vulnerable, to prison officer Bella Donna's 'therapy-administering' feet.

"Okay then, officers of the caning-party," said the Governor. "Please take up your caning positions."

"Ma'am!" said her cane-happy prison officers. 

Responding eagerly, the twelve prison officers of the caning-party took up their positions around the Wheel of Chastisement ... took up their positions, around me

Prison officer Bella Donna took up her own position. She was standing right in front of me, in Caning Position No. 6. She looked at me, and I looked at her ... I looked away first.

Taking up their own positions, on either side of prison officer Bella Donna in that same front semi-circle, were, from my left to right: prison officers Billie Jo (Caning Position No. 4), Victoria (Caning Position No. 5), Cassandra (Caning Position No. 7), Louise (Caning Position No. 8), and Cora (Caning Position No. 9).

Upon seeing that all twelve of her caning-party officers were now in their positions, as if she was about to get some Saturday-evening TV game show underway, Governor Meredith Monroe announced brightly, "All right! Here we go, officers! The first of five Rounds. Five separate minutes, in total. And, the first minute, starting from ... Now!" she said loudly as she pressed the Start button on the Wheel of Chastisement – and prison officer Bella Donna immediately kicked me in the balls.

The thing of it was, that prison officer Bella Donna had actually managed to take me by surprise. Her movements had been so lightening-quick and so effortlessly fluid that, even though I'd been expecting it; even though I'd known it was coming, I hadn't actually readied myself for it ... for all the good that might have done.

Before I'd even realised what she was about, in a fraction of a second prison officer Bella Donna had already expertly executed her all-in-one move. 

She had slipped her right foot from her prison officer issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, raised her foot behind her in a short backswing and immediately let loose her kick, aiming right between my widely-spread-apart legs. 

In a blur of speed almost too quick for the eye to track, prison officer Bella Donna's bare right foot streaked unerringly forward and upward, and the tops of her toes crashed into my balls causing such devastating agonies as I will never be able to describe with proper justice. 

But there was no time to think about that. As, a split-second after prison officer Bella Donna had delivered her devastating kick, the Governor pushed the Start button on the Wheel of Chastisement, and with a sudden jolt that terrible turntable began revolving in a clockwise rotation.

It was like some internal power switch had suddenly been thrown to the Off position, automatically shutting down all of my body's nonessential systems. 

Instantly I found the whole of my body weight sagging down against my cable-tied wrists, as my body obeyed my mind's urgent instructions to prioritise every spare atom of energy in trying to cope with the sudden catastrophically debilitating onset of excruciating pain. 

As the Wheel of Chastisement slowly turned, and I turned with it, the avid faces of the tight circle of cane-happy prison officers in front of me changed accordingly. 

But there was the face of one such prison officer, in that moment, whose look of sheer, malicious exultation I knew I would never forget: prison officer Bella Donna's. 

I knew I would never forget the look of cruel achievement on prison officer Bella Donna's face, as she assessed the highly satisfactory results – the agonising aftermath – of her first kick. "Defy me, will you, prisoner Lightwood?" she said by way of Bon voyage as I moaned in agony, setting off on the first of my five 360-degree journeys.

"Ooh, that was a beauty, Bel!" exclaimed prison officer Billie Jo in congratulation. "Right in the goolies!"

"Gosh, yes! That was awesome!" squealed prison officer Victoria, equally appreciative. "Just awesome!"

Using energy I could ill afford, I turned my head to look at the ravishing beauty ... and I saw her angelic face looking right back at me, beaming in sadistic delight.

And the first of many loud and lingering cheers of approval went up, as all of the assembled prison officers – whether actively participating in administering my so-called therapeutic treatment, or enjoying the spectacle as a member of the non-participant audience – unstintingly voiced their admiration of prison officer Bella Donna's ball-kicking expertise.

Especially vocal, were the prison officers in prison officer Bella Donna's own, front semi-circle: prison officers Billie Jo, Victoria, Cassandra, Louise and Cora, who were best positioned to appreciate her finesse.

But then there was no time to dwell upon that either. 

As, five seconds after prison officer Bella Donna's first kick to my testicles, the prison officer standing directly behind me, in Caning Position No. 1, delivered her first cane stroke. Whoo! ... Crack! 

And again I used up energy I could not spare. Spent indisposable energy, in raising my head, and emitting my agonised cry at the white-hot explosion of pain as the prison officer's whippy cane struck my right buttock dead-centre.

"Ha ha ha ha!" I heard the familiar voice. "Great shot, Nat!" exclaimed prison officer Melanie appreciatively. "Me next!" she enthused.

So that had been prison officer Natalie then, in Caning Position No. 1 – letting me have it! And prison officer Melanie, in Caning Position No. 2, was going to let me have it next!

Now my mind was sending my body that urgent directive again: Escape!

I was frantic.

I strained desperately at the black plastic cable-tie binds at my wrists and ankles. But, soon realising the utter futility of my struggle, my panicked efforts were very short-lived. Desperation quickly turned to despair, upon recognising the zero per cent chance of escape, and accepting the ineluctable fact that I could not possibly disembark from the Wheel of Chastisement. 

Because of course, it was impossible. Prison officers Bella Donna, Billie Jo, Cassandra and Victoria had cable-tied me up good ... I wasn't going anywhere.

And before I knew it, I was caned again.

Five seconds after prison officer Natalie's initial, getting-the-ball-rolling cane stroke, came the very audible Whoo! and Crack! of the second: prison officer Melanie's. 

The first of prison officer Melanie's five allotted cane strokes struck my left buttock, just at the point where the buttock meets the top of the thigh. The pain was unbelievable. Unbelievable, as prison officer Melanie expertly inflicted an anguish that I simply couldn't come to terms with.

The wail of agonised anguishment I emitted had to be heard to be believed. It was enough to cause the hair on the average person's neck to stand on end. 

But the female prison officers of Greystone Prison are not average people. 

They responded to the evidences of my great distress, by laughing, chuckling, tittering and giggling. By loudly cheering and admiringly applauding. By whooping and whistling. By high-fiving. By leering, sneering and jeering. By congratulating their cane-wielding prison officer colleagues, in recognition and appreciation of their expertise in inflicting upon me such hideous misery.

And this was just the start. 

Just the start, of my 'therapeutic treatment'.

Prison officers Natalie and Melanie's first cane strokes, were just the first two in this, the first round of twelve prison officers' cane strokes ... The first, of the Wheel of Chastisement's five, one-minute rotations.

As the Wheel of Chastisement turned around, and I turned around with it, the next ten prison officers of the caning-party, I knew, would also be lining up their 'therapeutic' cane strokes ... and they would let me have it, too.

Whoo! and Crack! Every five seconds. 

Barely registering the devastating impact of one cane stroke, upon my fully exposed bare bottom ... and the next one was already homing in. 

The pain of prison officers Natalie and Melanie's cane strokes – one to each buttock, was incredible. 

But I'd known I was only another five seconds away from receiving the next one, administered by the prison officer awaiting my bare bottom's arrival, in Caning Position No. 3 ... Where would this next cane stroke land? 

I'd had no idea who she was. I didn't know yet, what her name was, or— Whoo! ... Crack!

"Oh, Bravo, Fiona! Well done!" cried prison officer Melanie in enthusiastic, wholehearted congratulation – while I screamed for all I was worth, upon prison officer Fiona's first cane stroke striking dead-centre, hitting both buttocks at once.

But things were about to get even worse. 

As the Wheel of Chastisement entered the second and third 90-degree quadrants of its revolution, my bare bottom would thus be presented, I knew, to the cane-wielding prison officers in prison officer Bella Donna's semicircle – my escort party: prison officers Billie Jo, Victoria, Bella Donna, Cassandra, Louise and Cora.

As my bare bottom was duly presented to prison officer Billie Jo in Caning Position No. 4, I heard her say, in malicious glee, "Now, he's for it ..." Whoo! ... Crack! 

I couldn't believe it – couldn't bear it – as the pain of prison officer Billie Jo's first cane stroke easily eclipsed the three that had preceded it. 

This time I couldn't yell out; could barely make a sound, for such was the incredible, white-hot intensity of my agony. Instead I emitted a high, thin keening; the slight sound so high-pitched, that I doubted any of the prison officers could hear it over the bedlam of their raucous cheering and applauding, and of their many other vociferous sentiments of wholehearted approval and appreciation of their colleague's caning skills. But then they didn't need to hear it: with my mouth wide open almost to the point of jaw dislocation, my near-silent scream was nonetheless quite evident to them.

"Ooh, BJ, that was epic!" gushed prison officer Victoria appreciatively, in Caning Position No. 5. "Your red stripe is much redder than the other three red stripes! Gosh! There really is an art to caning, isn't there?" she marvelled.

Prison officer Billie Jo spoke quickly, urgently. "You've not got long, Vicky – you can congratulate me later. If you want to hurt prisoner Lightwood bad, cane him in exactly the same place I just did: aim for my red stripe!"

"Okay, BJ ..." Whoo! ... Crack!

The pain was mind-numbing.  

Mind-numbing, as the too-lovely-for-words prison officer Victoria's cane stroke landed right on target: right on top of prison officer Billie Jo's hit.

This time, it was impossible not to give expression to my anguish. "Aaahhh yayaya!" I wailed. "Aaahhh yayaya! Aaahhh yayaya!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Billie Jo. "That was beautiful, Vicky! I said you was a natural, didn't I?"

In the glow of prison officer Billie Jo's praise, prison officer Victoria cooed, "Mmmm ... that felt so, so good. I really, really  hurt prisoner Lightwood, didn't I, BJ?"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Billie Jo in great merriment. "Yes, Vicky, you did – I think we can safely say that! And just think: there's still another four Rounds to go!"

But then a second later I was in a whole new world of pain, as prison officer Bella Donna, in Caning Position No. 6, administered her first 'therapeutic' cane stroke to my bare bottom just as expertly as she'd administered her first 'therapeutic' kick to my fully exposed testicles. Using her first cane stroke to overlap those of prison officers Billie Jo and Victoria, she caused me to emit such a shriek as would surely have shattered the gymnasium's windows had it had any. 

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Billie Jo delightedly. "Bel, that was an absolute peach!"

"This is such fun!" exclaimed the beyond beautiful prison officer Victoria.

From the proximity of their voices, I could tell that prison officers Billie Jo, Victoria and Bella Donna were now standing closely grouped together as they laughed. 

They stood closely grouped together and laughed as, three more times, at five-second intervals, the other three members of my escort party, prison officers Cassandra, Louise and Cora in Caning Positions 7, 8 and 9 respectively, demonstrated that they, too, were not exactly lacking in prison officer Billie Jo's espoused idea of natural ability, as they all used the first of their five allotted cane strokes in overlapping, too. 

As the Wheel of Chastisement had rotated into the last quadrant of its 360-degree revolution, not wanting to be outdone, the three remaining prison officers, in Caning Positions 10, 11 and 12, really let me have it with their canes, too. 

Upon hearing each of the first of their five allotted cane strokes being lauded and applauded by their cane-happy colleagues, I thus learned the identities of these last three harbingers of utter wretchedness. The last three merciless assailants were prison officers Teresa (Caning Position No. 10), Susanne (No. 11), and Katie (No. 12).

Now, at long last (though it had only been sixty seconds!), I had completed the full 360-degree circuit for the first time ... And I was back face to face with prison officer Bella Donna. 

The Wheel of Chastisement jolted to a stop. 

And that woman of quality and refinement, the highly charismatic Governor Meredith Monroe, walked right up to me and said, "So, prisoner Lightwood ... is your mind beginning to clear of irrational thought? Are you beginning to see reason? Are you beginning to see the errors of your ways yet? Are you starting to think straight – think coherently and logically?"

"Yes, Governor. I'm beginning to ... think straight. Can we ... can we stop now, please?"

"Stop? Now? No, prisoner Lightwood, we can't stop!" said the Governor. "Not yet. You've only gone one Round. This isn't something you can do by halves. It's just like antibiotics: for the therapy to work effectively, the full course of treatment must be administered. For you to have a ninety-nine per cent chance of being cured of your improprieties, where females are concerned, you must go the full five Rounds. It's the only way. You've still got a lot of irrational thought to be expunged from your mind. You've still got more reason, to see. You've still got a long way to go, yet, before you'll be able to think straight – think coherently and logically."

"But, Governor—"

"Okay then, officers. Here we go, with Round Two," said Governor Meredith Monroe, her finger ready on the Wheel of Chastisement's Start button. "Round Two, starting from ... Now!" she announced loudly ... and prison officer Bella Donna kicked me in the balls again.

And again, such was my catastrophically debilitating agony upon prison officer Bella Donna's left foot, this time, streaking unerringly forwards and upwards between my widely-spread-apart legs, that for the second time I found my whole body weight sagging helplessly down from my cable-tie wrist restraints. 

"Speak out of turn to me, will you, prisoner Lightwood?" said prison officer Bella Donna by way of a 'Have a good trip!' as I began my second 360-degree journey aboard the Wheel of Chastisement.

A split-second later I heard the Whoo! and felt the Crack! of prison officer Natalie's second cane stroke, from Caning Position No. 1. Followed, five seconds later, by the Whoo! and Crack! of prison officer Melanie's second cane stroke ... and then the Whoo! and Crack! of prison officer Fiona's ...

When Governor Meredith Monroe announced the start of Round 3, prison officer Bella Donna, with another smooth as silk, poetry-in-motion delivery promptly kicked me in the balls again. 

"Be noncompliant with me, will you, prisoner Lightwood?" she said by way of a 'See you later!' as I set off on the Wheel of Chastisement on my third round-trip.

By the end of Round Three, I was delirious with pain. Terrorised with fear. 

Pain: from the three expertly executed kicks to my testicles from the chastising bare feet of prison officer Bella Donna ... And from the thirty-six lustily delivered cane strokes to my bare bottom: three cane strokes each, from the twelve female prison officers of the caning-party. 

Fear: from knowing I was still yet to receive another twenty-four cane strokes to my already devastated bare buttocks – another two cane strokes each, from the twelve no-holding-back, utterly merciless female prison officers – bringing the final number of cane strokes to sixty ... And another two 'therapeutic' barefoot kicks right between my widely-spread-apart legs, administered by prison officer Bella Donna ... Not forgetting the "little something extra" she'd promised me, with her fifth and final kick to my fully exposed testicles, for trying to expose her malevolent designs to the Governor.

Yes. I was delirious with pain. Terrorised with fear.

But now, I was starting to see the errors of my ways. Irrational thought was being expunged from my mind. My head was becoming all nice and clear. I was starting to see reason. I was starting to think straight – think coherently and logically.

The 'therapeutic treatment' was starting to work. 

When the Governor brightly announced the start of Round 4, prison officer Bella Donna duly kicked me in the balls for the fourth time. 

"Refuse to assume the position for Foot Service for me, will you, prisoner Lightwood?" she said by way of a 'Cheerio!' as I again sagged from my cable-tie wrist restraints like a dead weight as I embarked upon my fourth and penultimate round-trip aboard the Wheel of Chastisement.

And then, at long, long last ... finally there was a glimpse of light, at the end of the long, dark tunnel: Round 5.

Prison officer Bella Donna stepped forward, and pitilessly looked up into my tear-streaked, pain-ravaged face. Lowering her voice to a whisper so that only I could hear her softly spoken words, she said, "You haven't forgotten, have you, prisoner Lightwood, about the little something extra I promised you for trying to grass me up to the Governor? My grand finale? It's coming right up ..."

When prison officer Bella Donna had resumed her place in Caning Position No. 6, Governor Meredith Monroe said pleasantly, "All right then, officers. Prisoner Lightwood's correctional therapy course is now eighty per cent complete. So far, so good. By all appearances, he seems to be responding well to treatment. There's just one final Round to go. Just one final spoon of medicine, as it were." 

Her finger on the Wheel of Chastisement's Start button, the Governor announced brightly, "Here we go then, with Round Five. And let's make this a good one – to be extra sure of prisoner Lightwood's cure! Get ready, officers. One last, one-minute Round. Starting, from ... Now!" she announced loudly – and prison officer Bella Donna kicked me in the balls for the fifth and final time.

Ross had told me that the pain he'd experienced when he'd been Ball-Busted by prison officer Billie Jo, was "beyond imagining".

And now, I knew exactly what he meant.

Prison officer Bella Donna had told me, "If you think the first four, are bad ..." 

And now, I knew exactly what she meant!

Prison officer Bella Donna had promised me that her fifth and final kick – her "grand finale" – would have a "little something extra". 

What an understatement!

Using her right foot for the third time (she'd administered her second and fourth kicks with her left foot), just like her first four kicks, the trajectory of prison officer Bella Donna's fifth and final delivery was lightening-fast and unerring. 

But, where her fifth and final kick differed from her first four, was in the "little something extra" double-contact, flick-kick delivery.

Already wracked with pain and terrorised with dread, I'd fearfully watched prison officer Bella Donna make a show of slowly slipping her right, lightly suntanned foot from its prison officer issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop. For tension-filled seconds prison officer Bella Donna looked at me, her lips curling in a cruel smile as she kept me waiting, lingeringly savouring the moment. 

And then suddenly, in a blur of movement almost too quick for my eyes to track, prison officer Bella Donna's right foot was lost to my sight as her fast and fluid ball-kicking action once again somehow managed to catch me off guard, her right foot hurtling unerringly forwards and upwards between my widely-spread-apart legs on its collision course with my totally exposed and optimally accessible ball sac ... Thunk! Thunk!

Yes. It was beyond imagining.

Beyond imagining, as the tops of the toes of prison officer Bella Donna's right foot further devastated my already sore and tender and now fast-swelling balls, with her expertly executed one-two, double-connection delivery.

Beyond imagining, as I saw stars in the unbelievably agonising aftermath of prison officer Bella Donna's expertly administered double flick-kick affliction.

Beyond imagining, as all of the other prison officers – both caning-party prison officers, playing active roles in the administration of my 'therapeutic treatment', and the avidly watching spectators – had applauded and cheered. Had whooped and whistled. Had laughed, giggled, tittered and chuckled. Had high-fived. Had leered, sneered and jeered. And had admiringly congratulated prison officer Bella Donna on her superlative ball-kicking prowess.

Beyond imagining, as Governor Meredith Monroe pressed the Start button for Round 5 and the Wheel of Chastisement jolted into clockwise motion again, taking me on my fifth and final one-minute 360-degree rotation, and prison officer Bella Donna said, by way of a 'Have a nice day!', "Say 'No' to me, will you, prisoner Lightwood?"

Beyond imagining, as, in the immediate aftermath of prison officer Bella Donna's Ball-Bust "grand finale" – her "little something extra" coup de grace – came the Whoo! and Crack! of the fifth and final cane stroke of prison officer Natalie, in Caning Position No. 1. And then, five seconds later, the fifth and final cane stroke of prison officer Melanie, in Caning Position No. 2. And then, five seconds later ...



Dear reader,

with your leave, I would prefer not to dwell further upon those deeply disturbing Round 5 recollections. Memories that still pain me now, at the time of my memoir writings, fifty years later. 
And I think that by now you will have got the general gist. That you will have grasped the essential nature of those dreadful proceedings, down in the prison officers' gymnasium. 
The object of the exercise, of the Ball-Bust ...



"Well, officers," said that lady of refinement and class, Governor Meredith Monroe. "If I'm any judge, by the looks of prisoner Lightwood these proceedings have been an unqualified success. Most satisfactory, indeed."

The assembled prison officers' responsive murmurings clearly indicated that they were all in total agreement with the Governor's post Ball-Bust assessment.

"Officers of the caning-party. I congratulate each and every one of you on your admirable performances today. I could not have asked for more, than the professionalism and expertise you have just demonstrated in acquitting your important clinical duties. Such energy! Such enthusiasm! Such drive! Splendid. Quite splendid. I am confident that the standard of cane-craft I have just had the very great pleasure of witnessing is of a level unequaled in any of our other institutes of correctional therapy. Usually, I would hesitate to single out any particular officer for individual praise. But on this occasion I think officer Bella Donna, the, er ... star of the show, as it were, deserves a special mention. What a display! Such style! What panache! Rarely have I witnessed such sublime expertise, such supreme skill in this gymnasium, as her personalised performance has graced it with today. Such a classy, elegant exhibition of ball-kicking bravura."

Again, the assembled prison officers' sentiments were clearly in agreement with those of the Governor.   

"All that remains now," that lady of quality went on, "is for prisoner Lightwood to be presented to officer Bella Donna. Officer Billie Jo, would you and the other members of your escort party please take prisoner Lightwood down from the Wheel of Chastisement, and present him to officer Bella Donna?"

"Yes, ma'am," said prison officer Billie Jo. And together she and prison officers Victoria, Cassandra, Louise and Cora approached me to do the Governor's bidding.

"Take care, officer Billie Jo," advised the Governor. "Immediately post-therapy, he's likely to be a little bit wobbly, still."

"Ma'am," replied prison officer Billie Jo.

Prison officers Cassandra and Cora crouched at my legs and quickly untied the cable-ties at my ankles. Having done so, they stepped up onto the circular-shaped standing-platform of the Wheel of Chastisement and, crouching behind me and taking firm hold of my thighs they supported my still helplessly sagging body while prison officers Billie Jo and Louise untied my wrist restraints. The Governor made their task easier by activating the retractable chain, lowering the overhead tubular metal bar to which my wrists were cable-tied. 

By way of her assisting in this operation, the too-lovely-for-words prison officer Victoria stood on the standing-platform in front of me and circled her arms around my back in a weight-supporting bear hug. Thus embraced, she stared at my up-close, tear-streaked, pain-wracked face – pain, of which she was in no small measure responsible – smiling contentedly at my abject wretchedness. And, for the second time today, through the thin material of her prison officer's uniform pale-blue blouse I felt her nipples hardening in sadistic arousal.

Between them the five prison officers managed to manoeuvre my "wobbly" body down from the Wheel of Chastisement. And, still supporting my pain-engulfed, still sagging and ready-to-collapse body, they duly presented me to the patiently waiting prison officer Bella Donna. 

Thus held up before her, I looked into prison officer Bella Donna's implacable ice-blue eyes. 

There was no pity, in the eyes of my conqueror. No compassion, in the eyes of my nemesis. No mercy to be seen, in the windows of my mistress's soul. 

No. All I could see was malice. Malevolence. Wickedness. Cruelty ... And, despite the unspeakable, agonised anguish she had already put me through, I could see the promise of yet further painful vengeance, in the long-term.

"On your knees, prisoner Lightwood!" ordered Governor Meredith Monroe. "Show due propriety! You will respectfully lower your eyes, upon officer Bella Donna's feet!"

This was no time for foolish bravado. The time for that – if there ever was a time – was long past.

I did as I was told. I was in a world of pain, and I didn't need any more. 

I didn't want any more splendidly-delivered, gold-medal-standard barefoot kicks to my already tortured testicles. 

I didn't want any more no-holding-back strokes of the cane to my already badly bruised and weal-covered buttocks, administered with "energy" and "enthusiasm" and "drive", by the cane-happy female prison officers of Greystone Prison.

I knew I was beat. 

Prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! – had been right. Those ice-blue eyes of hers saw so much; she could read me like an open book. 

I had been "stubborn". I had been "obdurate". I had shown "token resistance", to try and "save a bit of face". 

But now it was time to throw in the towel. I'd made my "pseudo macho bravado" point ... for all the good it had done me.

So I did as Governor Meredith Monroe had told me: I knelt before prison officer Bella Donna. 

I was crushed. Humiliated. Hurting. 

To say I was feeling sorry for myself doesn't come close to cutting it; doesn't come close to describing my feelings of utter dejection and despair. How have things come to this? I wondered miserably as I stared respectfully down at prison officer Bella Donna's feet.

But then, all fired up in temper prison officer Billie Jo grabbed handfuls of my hair and pulled my head down to the floor at prison officer Bella Donna's feet. "Get down – and stay down!" she commanded angrily through gritted teeth. Slipping her right foot from her thin-rubber soled flip flop, prison officer Billie Jo then placed the sole of her bare, olive-complexioned foot on the back of my neck and head and pressed down forcibly, ensuring I did exactly that. 

Exerting more than sufficient pressure to keep my head pinned between the sole of her right foot and the gymnasium's unyielding hardwood floor, prison officer Billie Jo gave me a small foretaste of the sort of subjugation that I could expect from her over the coming years ... and the coming decades. 

"Stay down!" she snarled with terrible, frightening hostility. "With your head on the floor, under my foot!"

And I didn't resist. 

I didn't dare resist, as I felt the bottom of prison officer Billie Jo's bare heel forcefully pushing down on the back of my neck, and the ball of her foot firmly pressing down on the crown of my head. And I could even feel her individual toes; could distinctly feel the undersides of her toes and her five toe pads gripping the top of my head – gripping, with surprising strength. "So help me, prisoner Lightwood, I could ..."

Even at the best of times, it didn't take much to get the irascible prison officer Billie Jo mad. And it was now blatantly obvious that she was struggling to bide her time with me. That she was struggling to hold herself in check ... That she just simply could not wait, to make me pay for trying to expose her corrupt and nefarious "retaining" and "moulding" scheme to the Governor.

I had absolutely no doubt, that had the Governor not been present in the gymnasium to keep the lid on her violent excesses, prison officer Billie Jo would have started to make me pay right there, right then. 

And I was equally certain, that none of the assembled prison officers would have done a thing to stop her, as she proceeded to wipe the floor with me. No. On the contrary: I had absolutely no doubt that they would all have applauded and cheered. Whooped and whistled. Laughed, giggled, tittered and chuckled. High-fived. Leered, sneered and jeered. And admiringly congratulated prison officer Billie Jo on giving me such a good and well-deserved whupping. 

It seemed to take her a great effort of will, but prison officer Billie Jo somehow finally managed to find a way to remove the sole of her subjugating bare foot from the back of my neck and head. 

Prison officer Billie Jo then crouched down beside me and grabbed a handful of my hair; entwining it around her fingers for a good, tight-fistful grip. She then roughly yanked my head back, until I was looking up at prison officer Bella Donna's face.  

Like a queen, beholding the lowliest of brought-to-book, treacherous serfs, prison officer Bella Donna looked down on me.

I didn't want to look at her. I didn't want to look at the face of the woman who had just so cruelly and comprehensively brought me to heel. But I couldn't look away. 

Her very attractive face would be very beautiful, I thought, if it wasn't so stern. If it wasn't so implacable. So unforgiving. So vengeful. So wrathful.

And if her ice-blue eyes weren't so intimidating. So dominating. So daunting ... So chilling.

"You've got some talking to do ..." prison officer Billie Jo told me, her voice rasping into my ear with open belligerence, "... to officer Bella Donna." 

As if suddenly realising that she was holding onto a week-dead rat, prison officer Billie Jo then disgustedly threw my head from her hand, and stood up. 

Still looking venomously down at me, prison officer Billie Jo finally slipped her right foot back into its pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, working its toe post into a snug fit between her big and second toes. She gave me one final, malice-filled glare, and then rejoined her assembled prison officer colleagues.

Governor Meredith Monroe then said, "Officer Bella Donna. Please proceed: prisoner Lightwood is all yours."

If only the Governor had realised what she was saying! How prophetic, were her words!

"Ma'am," said prison officer Bella Donna. 

"Now, prisoner Lightwood ... here is your choice." 

At prison officer Bella Donna's opening words,  murmurs of interest and anticipation arose from the assembled prison officers.

"You will now kiss my feet. You will kiss my feet, as you beg my forgiveness. You will kiss my feet, as you make your abject and sincere apologies to me for your many improprieties: Disrespecting me. Disobeying me. Defying me. Failing to stand, in my presence. Repeatedly speaking out of turn. Saying 'No' to me ... In short: for failing to recognise my authority over you, as a prison officer – and so, by implication, disrespecting, disobeying, defying, and saying 'No' to every other Greystone Prison officer, too." 

Sentiments of wholehearted agreement, and more anticipatory murmurs from the assembled prison officers.

"You will kiss my feet, prisoner Lightwood, in the understanding, acknowledgement, and acceptance of your status. And you will kiss my feet, as you make your promises to me: That from this day onward, you will be profoundly respectful. Unhesitatingly compliant. Unfailingly obedient."

"I think you've put it very well, officer Bella Donna," said Governor Meredith Monroe. "In terms that even such a slow learner as prisoner Lightwood can understand."

"Ma'am," replied prison officer Bella Donna.

To me, prison officer Bella Donna said, "So ... there you have it, prisoner Lightwood. That is the first, of the two paths you can choose: You can now, in the presence of the Governor and my prison officer colleagues, kneel before me, and kiss my feet. Kneel before me, and kiss my feet, as you apologise to me for your many improprieties. And kiss my feet, as you then vow to me your future profound respect, unhesitating compliance, and unfailing obedience. 

"And then, upon your having duly fulfilled all of these essential requirements, I will return you to your cell. Where, upon my order, you will unhesitatingly assume the position for Foot Service. Whereupon, you will then obediently provide me with the attentions you'd earlier refused me. 

"Or ... 

"Exactly one month from today, we can do this all over again – another Ball-Bust. You'll go for another ride on the Wheel of Chastisement. 

"But next time, prisoner Lightwood, your therapeutic treatment dosage will be doubled ... You'll undergo not five, but ten, one-minute Rounds. You'll receive not five, but ten, barefoot kicks, administered by myself, to your fully exposed testicles. And you'll receive not just another sixty, but one hundred and twenty, cane strokes to your bare bottom, administered by prison officer caning-party. 

"So ... it's your choice, prisoner Lightwood ... Well? What's it to be?" 

Given the unspeakable anguish that prison officer Bella Donna had already put me through – and that she would be only too happy to put me through again; and a double-dose, at that – there was only one viable option open to me.

I had already made my mind up, though, as early as Round 3. 

I had already thrown in the towel. I was beat. All that remained, was to admit the fact to prison officer Bella Donna. 

The Ball-Bust, I was absolutely determined, must be a one-off, never-to-be-repeated experience. 

I would avoid it, at all costs. Do anything, to avoid it. Anything. 

Never, ever again, did I want to be put through such hell. 

Such hell, as prison officer Bella Donna's barefoot kick 'Number 5' "grand finale". Her coup de grace, "little something extra" double flick-kick affliction.

On my knees, I looked up to prison officer Bella Donna's face ... The face, of my conqueror. My nemesis. And now, my mistress.

Now, my mind was expunged of irrational thought. My head was all nice and clear. I had my thinking-cap on. At last, I had seen the errors of my ways. I'd been a "slow learner", but now I was seeing reason. Now, I was thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically.

The "therapeutic treatment" had worked.

I lowered my gaze, looking downwards again ... looking respectfully downwards, at prison officer Bella Donna's feet.

And I started apologising, to prison officer Bella Donna. 

And vowing. 

And kissing.

*             *             *

Dear reader,

I shall now relate to you the remainder of that day's events. 
The trials and tribulations of my first day, as an inmate of HM Greystone Prison, were far from over ...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*            *            *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain was indescribable. 

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

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

The pain was terrible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, god! I thought. Oh my god! 

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

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

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

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

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

She knew. Oh, of course she knew ... 

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

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

"Well, prisoner Lightwood ...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 

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

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

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

I could barely believe my own ears. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, so help me – I did! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonetheless, I found myself craving ... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite everything, I couldn't stop looking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted to weep ... And I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or I thought I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my relief was short-lived. 

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

The pain was insane. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was utterly terrorised.

With the meat of my tongue securely encaptured in prison officer Billie Jo's insanely powerful toe-grip, such was the measure of my acute pain and dire dread, that I felt all that was left for it now was to vow my future obedience to her.

"Please, Miss Billie Jo! Please! I'm sorry! It won't happen again! Ever! I'll do anything, Miss Billie Jo! Anything!"

Once again, prison officer Billie Jo somehow accurately translated into sense my panic-stricken stream of seemingly utterly incomprehensible gibberish.

Prison officer Billie Jo released my tongue from her vice-like toe-grip, and removed her dirty, grimy left foot from my mouth. She then turned herself around on my chest, once more, so that she was looking down on me.

I must have been a piteous sight ... 

I was still in agony, from being repeatedly ball-kicked, by prison officer Bella Donna, and from being expertly and enthusiastically caned, by twelve really-up-for-it female prison officers. 

And I was in pain, from lying on the lift's raised-ridged, bare metal grated floor and being choked, trampled, stomped, kicked and ball-squeezed, by prison officer Billie Jo. 

I was thoroughly, utterly exhausted. But prison officer Billie Jo showed me no pity. She was relentless, in the wreaking of her wrathful vengeance. Both physical and psychological.

"So ... you are sorry, are you? It won't happen ever again, will it? Ever ...? And you'll do anything, will you? Anything ...?"

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo. I will. I – I promise ... Please, Miss Billie Jo, I can't lose my tongue – on top of everything else!" 

"So ... you'll obediently assume the position, immediately upon my ordering you to? You'll compliantly provide me with Foot Service – unhesitatingly? You'll willingly do your absolute, utmost best to please me, each and every time you serve at my feet?"

"Ye – yes, Miss Billie Jo. I've ... I've learned my lesson. It was wrong of me, to try and get you into trouble with the Governor. And I'll keep my word. I swear I'll keep my promises to you, Miss Billie Jo, if you'll let me ... keep my tongue."

Once again I felt each and every one of prison officer Billie Jo's ten toe pads pressing down painfully into the soft flesh between my collar bones and neck as she leaned down towards my face and rasped, "It was wrong of you ...? Now, you listen to me – Grass-up! Do you think you are in any sort of a position to bargain? For all of your apologies, and for all of your grovelling, and for all of your promises, I'm not done with you – and I'll never be done with you. Your obedience? Your compliance? I take your obedience and your compliance for granted, prisoner Lightwood. And if you're not willing? Well all the better, because that suits me just fine. And trust me: every day, you are going to be listening out for the distinctive sound of my flip flops heading your way, and guess what? Most days you'll hear them. Because there's always going to be unfinished business between us ... Are you reading me clearly, prisoner Lightwood?" 

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," I said miserably. I was reading prison officer Billie Jo clearly. Very clearly indeed.

I should have known that prison officer Billie Jo wasn't the forgiving kind. That she wasn't the sort to put our unfortunate little contretemps behind us, and move on. That she wasn't the sort to let bygones be bygones.

"Your one hundred per cent obedience and compliance to me – and to every other prison officer in Greystone Prison – is a given. It is at all times one hundred per cent taken for granted ... Got that?"

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo." 

"And there are only two reasons, why I'm not pulling out your grass-up tongue with my toes, right here, right now – as much as I'd love to. One: Because your tongue is not mine to pull out – it's officer Bella Donna's. And two: Your tongue is going to be put to very good use, every day, by the female prison officers of Greystone Prison: cleaning and refreshing their feet. So, prisoner Lightwood, you can consider yourself lucky. I mean, what use would you be as a foot-cleaner, if you've got no tongue?"

"I'd be no use, Miss Billie Jo."

"No use to us as a foot-cleaner, no. But then, your being tongueless wouldn't be all bad news. Even then, you still wouldn't be totally useless to us. Because you'd be sadly mistaken, prisoner Lightwood, if you were to think that we would then have no further uses for you. That we would promptly wash our hands of you, and relocate you to another prison; a prison, perhaps, with a much less ... stringent regime? No, prisoner Lightwood. No. I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, here at Greystone Prison. Prisoners don't get to leave us, quite so easily. Because, what we'd do then, prisoner Lightwood, is that we'd make maximum use of your balls ... for ball-kicking practise." 

Whatever did I do, to deserve this hell? I wondered miserably.

"Because, tongueless, apart from serving prison officers in the Foot Massage Room, that's one of the few things you'd still be any good for ... You think I'm kidding, don't you, prisoner Lightwood? But I'm not. Because that is what happens to prisoners who, for one reason or another, prove to be too troublesome to us. Slow learners, usually, who we grow tired of making allowances for. Prisoners, who we finally run out of patience with. Prisoners, who keep slipping back into their bad ways, and who we get too fed up of giving second chances to, and so finally decide to treat them like the One-in-a-hundreds. 

"But sometimes, prisoner Lightwood, a prisoner can find himself in that predicament, for ... other reasons. 

"For instance, prison officers might convince the Governor, that a ... particular prisoner, is a lost cause. That this ... particular prisoner, can't be rehabilitated. That the concepts instructed here – those of males, at all times showing due propriety, where females are concerned – are sadly beyond the ken, of the ... particular prisoner." 

My god! I thought ... Was prison officer Billie Jo actually insinuating, that—

"In fact, at the moment we have a small number of such prisoners – ball-boys, us prison officers call them – who, down in the gymnasium, regularly perform this useful functionality for us ... How do think officer Bella Donna got to be so proficient a ball-kicker? You heard what she said to the Governor, about maximising the use of the One-in-a-hundred prisoners: 'Practise makes perfect'. And officer Bella Donna is right, prisoner Lightwood. She's right." 

My god! I thought.

"These ball-boy prisoners, of course, all end up totally and irrevocably ruined. But they have no one to blame but themselves, for their ruination. Because, one way or another, they have all sealed their own, ruinous fates. We merely harvest our ball-kicking practise resources, as and when such prisoners prove themselves suitable to be picked. 

"And so these ball-boy prisoners have absolutely no one to blame but themselves, when, inevitably, as a result of their steady accumulation of ball-kicking practice service sessions, their essentially defunct balls eventually downsize to just little, hardened kernels, inside their gradually drying up, leathery little pouches." 

No! I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to listen. I didn't want, to—

"As I'm sure you can readily imagine, prisoner Lightwood, these lost-cause prisoners go through an awful lot of pain and suffering, before they reach that point. Before they reach the stage, where their balls have become nullified, and almost desensitised ... almost, but not quite."

I didn't want to hear any more of this – it was too much information. She'd made her damn point! 

I knew what to expect, if she – or any other prison officer – got fed up with giving me "second chances". If they finally lost their "patience" with me. If I proved myself to be a "slow learner". If I relapsed back into my "bad ways".

"But yes, prisoner Lightwood: there does come a time, when even their limited usefulness to us finally runs out ... and at which point, they are, transferred to another institution."

I could hardly believe what prison officer Billie Jo was telling me. This place was an even worse hellhole than I'd thought!

"And, speaking of prisoners' ... ruination. Although I'm sure you have already picked up on it, I want to give you two words of warning, about your own prospects: Officer Victoria. She wants to ruin you. She's just itching, to ruin you. I don't know why, but she has taken a definite fancy to you, prisoner Lightwood. She's got the hots for you ... but not in a nice way." 

Hell! I thought. Prison officer Victoria: The angel-faced vixen. The sugar-sweet sadist ... The ball-hungry beauty. And prison officer Billie Jo was right: I had picked up on it.

"As you will have deduced by now, prisoner Lightwood, there is a skill – an art, even – to ball-kicking. Experts, such as officer Bella Donna, and; though I do say so myself: myself, are able to ball-kick a prisoner repeatedly, and on many occasions, over time, without ruining him for good: You are hurting now, but officer Bella Donna hasn't ruined you. Believe it or not, she took special care not to." 

You could have fooled me! I thought.

"Oh, you'll be very sore and extremely tender for a bit yet – that's to be expected. It is the intended aftermath, of your Ball-Bust chastisement. A beneficial aid, to help keep you thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically." 

Very thoughtful of you! I thought.

"So don't worry, you'll soon get back to normal. You'll be ... taking things in hand, much sooner than you think."

Very considerate! I wailed inwardly.

"Officer Victoria, though ...? She's not interested, in ... letting you live to fight another day. No. She just wants to ruin you. Nullifying your nuts, prisoner Lightwood, that's what she's interested in. You'll never get back to normal, if officer Victoria has her way. Your little goolies will be history, if she tries to persuade the Governor, that a ... particular prisoner, is beyond rehabilitation. Know what I'm saying, prisoner Lightwood ...? If officer Victoria has her way, you won't even be able to enjoy a decent wank."

Hell! I thought. Just how bad a hellhole was this hellhole? With each and every new diabolical revelation, it was like descending another level.

"So ... why am I telling you all this? Well, it's certainly not out of a consideration for your wellbeing – you can take that to the bank! For all I care, officer Victoria can kick you in the balls nonstop from now until Doomsday. Me, I'd like to see officer Victoria have her way with you. I'd fully support her recommendation to the Governor that you become a ball-boy. No, I'm not thinking of you – Grass-up! I'm thinking of officer Bella Donna. You belong to her, now. And she doesn't want a ruined foot slave. Which is kind of ironic, don't you think, prisoner Lightwood ...? Officer Bella Donna is both your conqueror and vanquisher, and your protector and shield. But, if it wasn't for officer Bella Donna's ... patronage? You know what happen without it, don't you?"

I remembered what prison officer Victoria had said earlier, about her anticipated lack of satisfaction in kicking the One-in-a-hundred prisoners in their nearly extinct testicles: "Where's the fun in that?"

And prison officer Billie Jo's message to me was crystal clear: If I wanted to retain the "patronage" of prison officer Bella Donna, I was going to have to earn it. If I wanted to keep the only protection, that could keep prison officer Victoria from busting my balls for good, I was going to have to work on it. If I wanted to keep prison officer Victoria from ... ruining me, I was going to have to strive, continuously, to keep prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! – sweet.

Instead of waiting for my reply, or pressing me for one, prison officer Billie Jo reactivated the lift, and the door opened automatically. 

Outside on Level 1, prison officers Bella Donna and Victoria were waiting patiently. 

Upon seeing prison officer Billie Jo standing barefoot on my chest, they smiled. And, upon seeing the bruised and battered, utterly defeated state I was in, they grinned from ear to ear.

There were also about a dozen other prison officers standing by, curious as to the condition I'd be in after my "little chat" with prison officer Billie Jo – oh yes, by now word had got around: they all knew that I'd tried to grass-up prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo to the Governor. And, upon their seeing the bruised and battered, utterly defeated state I was in, they all grinned from ear to ear too.

"Oh, good!" said prison officer Billie Jo. "Many hands make light work. And Bel and Vicky and me could use some help in getting this deadweight deadbeat back to his cell. As you can see ... prisoner Lightwood is not in the best of shape." 

*            *            *

Prison officer Bella Donna's feet were quite different from prison officer Billie Jo's feet, I now saw in my cell, as I assumed the position for Foot Service.

Prison officer Bella Donna's feet were larger, more slender, her arches deeper, her toes longer, and her heels more pronounced. 

Her skin colouring was quite different, too: suntanned a Scandinavian-like, healthy-looking pale gold, whereas prison officer Billie Jo was naturally of a more Mediterranean, attractive olive-complexion.

But the other, day-long accumulation of grim colouring on the soles of prison officer Bella Donna's feet, was very much the same as was on prison officer Billie Jo's. There was the same dirty, grimy, workaday sweat-smudged grubbiness on prison officer Bella Donna's soles, that prison officer Billie Jo – and every other prison officer who preferred to 'save up' for later, her bottom-of-the-foot filth – accumulated, resultant of spending a work shift patrolling the Levels in their prison officer issue thin-rubber soled flip flops.

Prison officer Victoria, standing by and watching me readying myself to perform Foot Service, had a sulky, pouty look on her angelic, too-lovely-for-words face ... Disappointed, because I hadn't said 'No' again to prison officer Bella Donna.

Also standing by and watching, was prison officer Billie Jo. "Honestly, Bel," she said, after exhaling a cloud of vapour from her first drag on her e-cigarette. "Now that you've decided to retain prisoner Lightwood long-term, you really should consider having all of his teeth removed. Just as I had done to his cellmate – Gummy, over there," she said, pointing over towards Ross, who was standing by our bunks. "You'll be glad you did. You'll find it much more comfortable, with the extra wiggle room and the convenient toe holds."

In my assuming-the-position position, I was at the same time both utterly dominated and greatly excited by the immediate and intimate presence of prison officer Bella Donna. 

Standing with her back to me, prison officer Bella Donna was leaning against the cell's bars. Right up close, the very shapely, lightly tanned calves of her incredibly gorgeous legs were level with my face – and my leg-man's appreciation was fast running right off the admiration scale ... But then, when I looked upwards, I could see right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, all the way up to a good but not quite unrestricted view of her scanty, pale-blue prison officer issue panties. 

My god! I thought. It was an awesome sight. So thrilling! So tantalising! 

I remembered earlier, getting exciting little glimpses— no, getting a good eyeful, up her pale-blue short skirt as I'd followed her up the flight of steel stairs to Level 1 – which had actually been a deliberate set-up; a ploy, by prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, to get me to walk exactly the right distance behind her, just so I could do exactly that. But this up-skirt view was even better. A lot better!

Prison officer Bella Donna was a mega bitch, yes. A malicious, malevolent, wicked tormentress. But that didn't seem to matter, in this situation. I was being lured by a force that was irresistible, quite beyond my control: The thought, of what was so thinly, tantalisingly veiled by those scanty, flimsy, sexy panties – prison officer Bella Donna's pussy. 

Of course, it was a deliberate, massive tease ... and of course there was a deliberate, massive downside to it. 

Which was of course, very much the point of Greystone Prison. 

Greystone Prison: Where prisoners are still, to this day (at the time of my memoir writings, in the year 2070), taught about propriety, where females were concerned. 

Where, on a daily basis, prisoners have the concept of propriety rigorously and relentlessly drilled into them, as they are made to serve at the feet of their female prison officer guards – sometimes, in the assuming-the-position position, where they are allowed, and encouraged— no, tempted, and incited, to look right up the prison officers' uniform short, pale-blue skirts. 

It is, in essence, a brainwashing programme. Designed to condition male prisoners, upon their release from prison, to be subservient to females. Conditioned, not just to be polite and well-mannered, towards females. And not just to be obedient. But conditioned also to be respectful, reverent – worshipful. Because respect, reverence, and woman-worship are the cornerstone guarantors of male subservience.

In Greystone Prison, if a prisoner finds that the sexual frustrations of such relentless wicked teasing by the cruel and sadistic "serious totty" female prison officers are getting too much for him, he can, by applying to the Governor, decide to plump for the decidedly extreme option of irreversible chemical castration. 

Otherwise, there is only one course of action available to a prisoner, that will alleviate the maddening, all-consuming symptoms of this deliberately inflicted massive downside. And it is a self-administered remedy. A do-it-yourself, "taking things in hand" cure. Except of course, that it isn't a cure, but only a short-lived anodyne, that gives only temporary relief ... as it were.

And now, though I hadn't before much used the word myself, I just couldn't get the word 'pussy' out of my mind. Not since prison officer Billie Jo had put it there— no, had implanted it there. When to my absolute amazement – and incredible excitement – she'd shown me hers. Her own, shaved pussy.

Despite myself – despite everything! – I so wanted to see prison officer Bella Donna's pussy. I needed, to see it.

Would it be shaved, like prison officer Billie Jo's? I wondered. Or would I see prison officer Bella Donna's fine, platinum-blonde pubic hair? Well, I was obviously going to have to wait for another day. Wait for another time, to see her—

"Open your mouth, prisoner Lightwood – and open it wide!" ordered prison officer Bella Donna authoritatively, looking down on me over her right shoulder.  

Upon my obediently and unhesitatingly opening my mouth wide, at her command, prison officer Bella Donna promptly put her foot in it.

She slipped her right foot from her prison officer issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, and raised her foot behind her until her filthy dirty sole was level with my horrified and dismayed face. No! Please, no, I wailed inwardly, as she hovered her foot right there, to let me see just exactly what I had coming to me. 

But I knew that my silent pleas had fallen on deaf ears, as it were, when prison officer Bella Donna then passed her dirty, grimy, sweat-smudged sole between the bars in front of my face, and inserted her toes into my compliantly waiting, widely opened mouth. 

Instantly my tongue began wettening with saliva, involuntarily responding to the vile taste. A natural and automatic reaction, I supposed, as the sharp tang of the sour and salty flavour woke up my taste buds – in fact, very much the same thing had happened earlier, in the lift, when prison officer Billie Jo had vengefully stuffed her dirty, sweaty, slightly chubbier toes into my mouth to haul on my tongue.

But now, in raising her right foot behind her, the back of prison officer Bella Donna's thigh had slightly raised and opened out the hem of her short skirt. And so now I had an even better view – in fact an unimpeded view – of her scant and flimsy pale-blue panties, as I gazed longingly and lustfully right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt. 

It was just a great pity that her longish, abusively intrusive toes were busily exploring the oral cave of her newly conquered territory, and driving me nuts: maddeningly toying with my tongue, and annoyingly playing over my teeth and gums. Spoiling the experience.

But then to make matters even worse, prison officer Bella Donna pushed her dirty, vile-tasting foot further into my mouth, so that it was filling up nearly all the space. So that the bottom of her foot was pressing hard into my nose, which hurt, and I was staring right at the bottom of her grubby, grimy heel, mere inches from my eyes ... Nonetheless, I was still able to see past her dirty, sweat-smudged heel, and look right up her pale-blue short skirt, at the irresistibly alluring sight of her thinly veiled treasure. 

One day, I thought, she won't be wearing her scanty, flimsy pale-blue panties. She'll let me see. She'll let me see her womanly treasure. Prison officer Bella Donna would actually let me see, her—

"Enjoying the view, prisoner Lightwood?" said prison officer Bella Donna, looking scornfully down on me over her right shoulder. Prison officers Billie Jo and Victoria chuckled and tittered in amusement.

"Suck my toes!" ordered prison officer Bella Donna. "If you are going to jack off to me, tonight, you are going to have to earn your little wank." Prison officers Billie Jo and Victoria chuckled and tittered some more. In fact, prison officer Victoria started giggling.

"Suck my toes individually," instructed prison officer Bella Donna. "Start with my big toe. And, as you go from toe to toe, lick thoroughly in between them. And I mean thoroughly, prisoner Lightwood. I want to feel that foot-cleaning tongue of yours hard at work. Doing its job. And doing it efficiently. You don't get to wank off to me, in your miserable bunk at night, without earning the privilege." 

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed prison officer Victoria delightedly. "This is such fun!" she squealed ecstatically.

"Use your tongue to soak, wash, and rinse," instructed prison officer Bella Donna. "Soak ... Wash ... Rinse. That shall be your foot-cleaning mental mantra. You will swallow, and keep on swallowing your dirtied saliva, so that your mouth is continually replenished with clean saliva – just like an automatic washing machine. Now, prisoner Lightwood, begin. Commence tongue-cleaning my dirty feet. Starting with my toes, in exactly the method I've just instructed you."

I responded immediately, obediently complying with prison officer Bella Donna's specified Foot Service instructions.

I knew better now, than to say 'No' to prison officer Bella Donna – or to any other prison officer. 

My mind had been expunged of all irrational thought. My head was all nice and clear now. I had my thinking-cap on. I was seeing reason. I was thinking straight, now – thinking coherently and logically.

The "therapeutic treatment" had worked. 

"Heh heh heh," chuckled prison officer Billie Jo. "He very nearly had no tongue, Bel. He doesn't realise just how close he came, during our little chat in the lift, to me pulling it right out of his head with my toes. I made him cry so much, I thought I was going to have to send him back into the lift later with a mop and bucket. I don't know my own strength sometimes – ha ha! At one point, I almost lost my balance, and I nearly plucked his tongue right out of his head – you should have heard him squeal! Heh heh heh ... what a pair they'd make, Bel: prisoner Lightwood, with no tongue, and Gummy, over there, with no teeth – Gummy and Dummy! Ha ha ha ha!"

Prison officer Victoria piped up, staring belligerently at me, "Ball-boy material, I'd say. Both of them ... but especially prisoner Lightwood."

I was still sucking on prison officer Bella Donna's big toe; my tongue, firmly playing over and over the yielding flesh of her toe pad, when she said, in response to prison officer Billie Jo's suggestion of a moment ago, "Hmm ... I think I'll let him keep his teeth, BJ ... for now. I'll just let the threat of the dentist dangle over him, as an ever-present warning. To help keep his mind firmly focused, on the utmost importance of providing me with the high-quality service that I shall expect from him, from now on."

Prison officer Victoria opined, staring balefully at me, "I think an extra Ball-Bust, every now and then, would help to keep prisoner Lightwood's mind focused."

I moved my tongue between prison officer Bella Donna's big and second toes. I then felt her toes constrict, firmly squeezing my tongue, and I was forced to labour the overworked muscle as I slid it up and down the sides of her big and second toes. I gave it a few more seconds, and then I probed my tongue deep down into the cleavage between her big and second toes, working it thoroughly with the tip of my tongue ... and felt something loosen.

Prison officer Victoria said, looking sweetly at me, this time, "I'd be happy to do it – perform prisoner Lightwood's extra Ball-Busts. More than happy!"

Trying to not allow myself to think about what I was actually doing, I plunged on – literally – further loosening and prying free with my tongue prison officer Bella Donna's rubbery-textured, slightly slimy lump of in-between-the-toes gunge ... and swallowed. Swallowed, the dreadful morsel.

It was horrible, but I swallowed. It was disgusting, but I swallowed. It was revolting, but I swallowed.

And I kept on, swallowing.

I kept on, using my tongue to "soak, wash, and rinse".

I kept on, swallowing my "dirtied saliva". So that my mouth was "continually replenished with clean saliva – just like an automatic washing machine".

I kept on, swallowing my disgusting, revolting, dirty filthy drink.

A foul mixture of my own saliva, sole-of-the-foot grime, and in-between-the-toes gunk, the thick and slightly gritty liquid was like some noxious, horrible, dirty-feet flavoured smoothie.

I thought my stomach would complain, protest – revolt. How could it not? 

But no. There was no reaction at all. No bellyaching ... as it were. No tummy tantrum. Not so much as a token grumble of gastric grievance. 

Surprisingly, it seemed that my stomach was not going to reject the vile and disgusting liquid refreshment. Incredibly, my body seemed to be having no problems at all, with ingesting the grim and gross ingredients of the sour 'sustenance'. No problems at all, with devouring the empty-calorie, vitaminless, nutritionless food and drink.

"Shall we go and get that cold beer now, Bel?" said prison officer Billie Jo. "I could use one now – watching prisoners performing Foot Service must be thirsty work! And it certainly looks like you've brought prisoner Lightwood to heel. I don't think the little toerag will be giving you any trouble from now on. He won't be saying 'No' to you again. Just like prisoner Chapman, he seems to be thinking straight, now – thinking coherently and logically."

"Yeah, BJ. Let's go down to the bar and grab that beer. I could really use a nice, cold, refreshing beer right now, after a long day of patrolling the Levels. After a long day of walking around in these thin-rubber soled flip flops, keeping our scumbag prisoners in line. And not to mention, getting stubborn idiot, face-saving slow-learner prisoners like prisoner Lightwood, down here ..." prison officer Bella Donna looked down on me over her right shoulder again "... to start thinking straight."

"Oh, I know just exactly what you mean, Bel, about wearing these thin-rubber soled flip flops all day. They are amazingly comfortable, but they don't half make my feet sweaty – and I can't believe how dirty the soles of my feet always get. Especially lately! On our feet all day, working these long, twelve-hour shifts, covering for so many prison officers who are off on their holidays. Ha ha! Lucky prisoners – what a treat! An extra four hours' worth of dirt, sweat and grime to lick up from the soles of our lovely, prison officers' feet!"

"Yes, BJ – a treat that prisoner Lightwood is enjoying, right at this very moment!" said prison officer Bella Donna laughingly, as she squeezed my tongue with her toes. 

"Lucky for you," prison officer Bella Donna told me, looking down on me over her right shoulder again, "down in the prison officers' bar there's a nice, cold, refreshing beer with my name on it. It's been sitting in the ice bucket for about twenty minutes now. And there's one for officer Billie Jo, too. So that means we're done here ... for now."

She then removed her right foot from my mouth, and turned around to face me. But as she'd returned her foot to its pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, I caught a quick glance at the undersides of her now clean toes. Caught a brief glance, at the results of my enforced foot-cleaning endeavours, in prison officer Bella Donna's behalf.

Glistening with my saliva, her toes' honeyed, lightly-tanned pale gold colouring were a gleaming testament to the efficiency and efficacy of my foot-cleaning tongue. A gleaming testament, to the "high quality" of my Foot Service.

Prison officer Bella Donna's freshly cleaned, wetly sparkling toes, I'd briefly seen, to my horror, were now a stark contrast to the rest of her still uncleaned, grubby, grimy, workaday sweat-smudged sole. 

The remainder of the day's accumulation of grime, I'd momentarily seen, to my disgust, was now horribly enhanced; the dark, dirty filth standing out all the more now, on the bottom of her heel, and the ball of her foot.

Filled with horrified disgust – with revulsion – I felt sick to my stomach, at the thought of what I had just swallowed. Distraught, at the knowledge of what I had just ingested.

"I'll be returning to your cell tomorrow afternoon, prisoner Lightwood. After officers Natalie and Melanie have had you for lunch," prison officer Bella Donna told me. 

"When you return here from Prisoners' Canteen Service, I shall begin your instruction in earnest. I shall begin to mould you. To instill into you, my own personal preferences, likes, and requirements with regard to Foot Service. Tomorrow, I shall begin training you to provide me with the standards of service that I require from you. High standards, prisoner Lightwood. Very high standards – standards of excellence – that I shall expect from you consistently ... Got that, prisoner Lightwood?"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said, trying my utmost not to betray my horrified feelings. Trying my utmost, not to make obvious my profound dismay. Trying my utmost, to convey that my heart was in it. "I've got it, Miss Bella Donna. I promise to do my best, to meet your ... standards of excellence." 

"I'm going down to the prison officers' bar now, for that nice, cold, refreshing beer. I think I've earned it, don't you, prisoner Lightwood, for bringing you so completely and comprehensively to heel, today?"

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna. I ... I think you've earned it. En – enjoy your beer, Miss Bella Donna."

"Here, prisoner Lightwood," she said, turning her back on me again and presenting me with the sole of her left foot, this time. "You will kiss the sole of my foot, before I leave you."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said.

And, like the lowliest of serfs being allowed to pay homage to his majestic, high and mighty and all-powerful queen, I began kissing the sole of prison officer Bella Donna's expectantly proffered left foot. 

From the pads and the undersides of her dirty toes, to the grubby ball of her foot, to her relatively clean arch, to the bottom of her grimy heel, I kissed and kissed and kissed. I pressed my lips again and again into all of the warm and yielding parts of her horribly begrimed sole – kissing, as if I meant it. As if my heart was in it.

Prison officer Victoria exclaimed, staring accusingly at me, "He doesn't mean it! His heart isn't in it! Don't be fooled, Bel – prisoner Lightwood hasn't learned his lesson, after all! He's not being ... sincere! He needs his balls busting again! I'll do it! Let me do it!"

Prison officer Bella Donna then turned around, facing me, and began releasing my wrists from the restraints set into the cell's bars ... smugly smiling down at me, as she did so. 

Prison officer Bella Donna knew I was scared witless of prison officer Victoria ... and why. 

She knew that I was terribly afraid, of the too-lovely-for-words terror. That I was in dread, of the sugar-sweet sadist ... The angel-faced ball-kicker.

Prison officer Bella Donna knew, that I was dependent upon her. Knew, that she was my protector and shield. Knew, that I was reliant upon her "patronage". Knew, that she – and only she – would keep prison officer Victoria at bay. Keep her, from ... ruining me. 

That is, for as long as I 'behaved'.

"Until tomorrow afternoon then, prisoner Lightwood," said prison officer Bella Donna. "When I shall begin to mould you."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I said. "Until tomorrow."

"Oh, and prisoner Lightwood? If you've enjoyed staring right up my skirt, today ... just wait until tomorrow."

My god! I thought. Tomorrow's the day! Tomorrow will be the day, then, when prison officer Bella Donna actually lets me see her—

"Come on, Vicky," said prison officer Bella Donna. "Come down to the prison officers' bar, with BJ and me. Have a lemonade or something, if you don't drink alcohol."

Looking directly at me, prison officer Victoria replied, "Okay, Bel. Let's go. But, do you know what? Actually, I might have a nice, cold, refreshing beer, too."

Prison officer Victoria was just cruelly winding me up, I knew. She must have noticed the looks of mournful yearning on my face, I thought, at the repeated mentioning of nice, cold, refreshing beer.

Something else, I'd miserably realised, that, along with "actual, proper, coital sex", I would also be going without from now on.


"So, Lenny ... you weren't prepared to do that, were you?" said Ross, who had just witnessed the whole sorry spectacle. 

Ross wasn't being sarcastic. And neither was he smugly rubbing in his 'I told you so!' Though I was now admitting to myself that he had every right to. No. He was just trying to be humorous. Trying to see a funny side, as it were, of our wretched adversity. 

But I wasn't in the mood. I didn't think I'd ever smile again – let alone laugh. This was no time for levity. And anyway there wasn't a funny side, as far as I could see, to what was happening to Ross and me.

Ross had respectfully remained standing, in the presence of prison officers. But as soon as prison officers Bella Donna, Billie Jo and Victoria had departed for the comforts and the camaraderie and the "nice, cold, refreshing beer" of the prison officers' bar, he'd promptly hopped back up onto his top bunk bed.

I knew from his wry and rueful tone that Ross was just being solicitous. Showing his sympathy. His empathy. 

Just one week after his own admission to Greystone Prison, he'd been put through the exact same Ball-Bust punishment, by prison officer Billie Jo. He knew what I'd just been through. What I'd suffered. The unbelievable, excruciating pain. The unspeakable, soul-crushing humiliation. He could actually empathise, with what I'd just been so horrendously subjected to – both on the Wheel of Chastisement, down in the prison officers' gymnasium, and right here, restrained to the bars of our cell. I knew Ross was well-meaning.

But I didn't need this now. 

I didn't need my cellmate – however well-meaning – trying to make light of the incredible magnitude of my life's disastrously and tragically altered course. Trying to lighten the mood. Trying to trivialise the untrivial.

Not now.

"Oh ... Shut up – Gummy!" I told him peevishly. 

Ah ... hell, I thought wretchedly. 

I'd bitterly regretted my words as soon as I'd said them. I felt ashamed of myself. Ross didn't deserve that. He was just being a mate, a friend – and a friend deserved better. And after all, I didn't have the monopoly on misery. Ross shared in the same unmitigated disaster – shared in the same hideous fate as myself. We were both in the same boat – and up the same proverbial creek without the same proverbial method of propulsion and navigation. Both of us, not just me, were stranded and helpless and hopeless in this damned hellhole called Greystone Prison. I wished I could take my words back – wished I'd never called my cellmate by the cruel nickname that prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo had so maliciously given him. He didn't need that. Not from me.

"I'm sorry, mate. I didn't mean it," I apologised, as I miserably headed towards my own bottom bunk, which had suddenly taken on a huge and irresistible attraction. "I'm not feeling too great, at the minute."

"Forget it, Lenny. I know you're not yourself. I've been there, remember? With prison officer Billie Jo. But at least you've still got your teeth!"

This time Ross succeeded in making me smile. Albeit a small and miserable and pathetic one. After everything he'd been through, he was still capable of making a joke at his own expense. Still capable of poking fun, at his disastrous and tragic predicament. So maybe there was some sort of hope for me, too. Though I couldn't see any obvious positives.

"Yes," I agreed. "But for how long? You heard what prison officer Bella Donna said. She said she'd let me keep my teeth 'for now'. She said she was going to let the threat of the dentist dangle over me, as an ever-present warning."

"Yes, I heard what Poison Ivy told you. And I believe every word of what she said – and so should you, Lenny. And you'll remember, mate, I did try to warn you. I did try to tell you, didn't I, what prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are like – what all of the prison officers here are like? But no: you wouldn't listen to me, would you? Remember?"

So, I was now getting Ross's 'I told you so!' after all. And it served me damned well right, I thought.

Oh, I remembered, all right. And no, I hadn't listened to my cellmate's repeated dire warnings, about the hideously cruel practises perpetrated by the hideously cruel female prison officers who worked here. Ross had done his absolute best to put me wise. I had to give him that. He'd tried to make me understand. Tried to get through to me, just exactly what and who we were really dealing with here. Pleaded with me, to listen, to absorb what he was telling me – and to believe. Because believing was the hardest part. And of course, what I'd believed was that he was wildly exaggerating.

"No, I didn't listen, Ross. And I'm sorry, mate. Honest, I am. Because I know that my not listening to your warnings not only got me into trouble, but got you into trouble too. You were due to be released from this hellhole next week. But now you're not – because of me!"

"No, Lenny. Don't beat yourself up about it, mate. You heard what prison officer Billie Jo said, didn't you? About 'retaining' me 'indefinitely'? And about 'moulding' me, to cater to her own personal likes and preferences, with regards to Foot Service? She was never going to let me go. She was determined to keep me firmly in her clutches, whatever it took – trumped-up charges, corruption, fibbing to the Governor about me – whatever. And now it's the same with you, with prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! To use the prison vernacular: we are their bitches now. You'd better get used to the idea, Lenny. They as good as own us now. And they're never going to let us go."

"Their ... bitches? My god, Ross! What sort of women are they? How can they do this to us? How can they treat us this way? They love it, don't they, having such power, such authority over male prisoners? And I don't just mean prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, either, but the prison officers in general – they all seem just as bad as each other. It's like they've all got their own personal man-hating axe to grind – and to them Greystone Prison is just one big whetstone. But, more to the point, why can they? Why are they allowed, Ross, to dominate and subjugate and torment us prisoners like this? That's what I'd like to know. How is it, that such a terrible institution as Greystone Prison can actually even exist, in the UK? There has to be something wrong with society."

"Well, it's the government, isn't it? With the Authoritarian Female Party running the country, I think this is how things are going to be. And as long as Caroline Flynt is Prime Minister, from a male perspective things are just going to go from bad, to worse, to even worse. Females have never had it so good. They've got it made, Lenny, under the AFP. They don't even have to work anymore, if they don't want to – they can just simply claim the AFP's generous Living Allowance. And if they do want to work, they get their salaries paid tax-free. Ha! I don't think we'll be seeing any female prisoners in Greystone Prison, being forced to serve at female prison officers' feet. Not unless they were to take to the streets with banners and placards and actually protest against the AFP's female-friendly policies. And how likely is that? Nah ... Do you think they would actually give up their community-servant run Sock Rooms, and all of the other male-servant attended amenities that the AFP provides them with? No, mate. The females of the UK know which side their bread is buttered. They've got the whip-hand now, at last, and they want to keep it that way." 

I knew from some female friends that that wasn't the attitude of all of the UK's females. Most females, yes, undoubtedly. The vast majority, even. But not all of them. No. Because I was aware that some females actually did want to remove Caroline Flynt and her AFP government from power, and go back to something more resembling male/female equality. They felt that Caroline Flynt and her Authoritarian Female Party hadn't just over-egged the pudding, but that they were just taking things way, way too far now. And they knew that all of these so-called female-friendly societal improvements were here to stay. Here for good. Permanent. Because there would be no going back. There would be no female-friendly policy reversals, as long as the AFP remained in power. These females felt that the AFP had misinformed— no, had actually hoodwinked the electorate, as to the far-reaching ambitions of their true agenda. And that now, having first applied the thin end of their wedge, the AFP were in the process of prying open an ever widening female/male divide. Levering open a huge, separating gulf, that would facilitate the further advancement and ensure the future entrenchment of female rule.

So, I thought ... maybe Ross is wrong. 

Maybe eventually some of those fairer-minded females would actually take to the streets of the UK, and bravely protest against the AFP's so-called female-friendly policies. Courageously protest too, perhaps, against the iniquitous politicians of the Authoritarian Female Party themselves. 

In my head, I could almost hear those equality-loving females' passionate, outraged 'Down with the AFP' chants as they paraded the streets with their protest placards and banners ... 'Caroline Flynt – out! Caroline Flynt – out! Caroline Flynt – out! When do we want her out? – Now!'

And so, I thought ... maybe someday Ross and me actually would see female prisoners being incarcerated in Greystone prison. See them being banged-up, on the five Levels.

I shuddered at the thought. 

The thought of fair-minded, right-thinking, equality-loving females selflessly sacrificing their fantastic freedoms and fabulous privileges in the cause of female/male equality ... and being sent to Greystone Prison.

All too well, I could imagine the female prison officers' reception of these imprisoned insurgent females ... 

All too well, I could imagine the vindictive female prison officers' wickedly delighting in making their treacherous, utopia-rejecting, anti-AFP female prisoners suffer terribly for their crimes. 

All too well, I could imagine the vengeful female prison officers treating their rebellious female prisoners even more dreadfully – making them suffer even more horribly, and subjugating them even more humiliatingly – than their heinously oppressed male prisoners ... It didn't bear thinking about.

But I wasn't in the mood to talk about politics. 

I didn't want to talk about Caroline Flynt, and her damned Authoritarian Female Party. It would just put me in an even blacker mood – if that was possible. Ultimately, Caroline Flynt was responsible for my being in this hellish prison. Greystone Prison was one of her brainchild projects. She was to blame, for my horrendous, unspeakable predicament ... I certainly wouldn't be voting for her again!

God, but I was so tired. I couldn't believe how tired I was. So incredibly tired. So utterly exhausted. 

And I was still hurting – hurting all over. But hurting most of all, were my testicles. Thankfully the swelling had gone down considerably now, and my balls were almost back to their normal size, which surprised me. But I couldn't believe the hurt. The hurt that still wouldn't go away. The hurt that still painfully persisted. The hurt that still nagged. No wonder I'd been so grumpy, so snappy, so short-tempered with Ross. 

Thanks to prison officer Bella Donna – Poison Ivy! – my bruised and battered balls were still relentlessly throbbing and pulsing painfully. Still radiating incessant, overlapping waves of cruelly tormenting anguish to every part of my caned, kicked, slapped, stomped, trampled, choked, ball-squeezed, ball-kicked body. No wonder I wasn't myself.

I thought that prison officer Billie Jo was right: the prison's 'therapy' strategists' theory behind the Ball-Bust's egregious, agonising and long-lasting after-effect pain, was to keep the Ball-Busted prisoner's post-chastisement mind focused for a good while longer afterwards: To keep him thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically. 

Well, they had damned well succeeded with me. Because from now on, thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically – would be my permanent state of mind. My stable mental condition.

There would be no more Ball-Busts for me, if I could possibly prevent them. I didn't want another taste, of prison officer Bella Donna's 'Number 5', expertly and flamboyantly delivered double flick-kick affliction. I didn't want to experience again, her piece de resistance, utterly devastating coup de grace, that Governor Meredith Monroe had so much enjoyed and admired and extolled.

God, I was so weak. I was so, so tired. So utterly spent, I was ready to drop.  

All I'd had today was a cup of coffee this morning in the coffee bar at Heathrow Airport – Terminal 5 – when I'd arrived back from my two weeks' Austrian Alps camping holiday, what ... about twelve hours ago now. I couldn't believe it. Only twelve hours? That seemed like a lifetime ago— no, it seemed now, like that was in another life altogether. 

I hadn't eaten a thing all day but food was the last thing on my mind – where would I find the energy to eat it? I was just so, so tired. Incredibly tired. Beyond exhaustion. All of my strength had been caned, kicked, stomped, trampled, squeezed and squashed out of me. I had nothing left. All I wanted now, was to sleep.

Never in a million years would I have thought that the scratchy, mean and miserable bedding of my bunk could look so incredibly inviting.

But never in my life before had I felt more comfortable, I thought, as I gratefully lay down on my bottom bunk's hard, thin and lumpy mattress, and threw the scratchy, threadbare dark-grey blanket over me. Never known such bliss, as I thankfully rested my head upon the hard and lumpy square-foot of inch-thick dark-grey foam that was Greystone Prison's idea of a pillow.

Aahh ... I would be asleep in seconds now, I knew, and all of my pain, all of this horrible hurting would finally go away, anaesthetised by sleep. Just a few moments more, and I would be in the land of Nod. Oh, I was tired. So tired. So incredibly tired ... Sleep. That's what I needed. The healing powers of sleep. A nice, refreshing, invigorating, revitalising sleep. An early night. That's what the doctor ordered. That would put me on the mend. On the way to getting back to normal. Aahh ... drifting now. It wouldn't be long. A good night's kip, and I'd be—

"Foot Service!" ordered one of the two prison officers who were now standing at the bars of the cell. "Both of you!" she snapped authoritatively. She had a very strong Irish accent. I couldn't place it myself, but it was broad and obvious. "You, on the bottom bunk – assume the position!"

I couldn't believe this. 

Right on the cusp of being transported to the land of Nod, in preparation for the journey my eyelids were all battened down and air-seal suctioned shut – or so it seemed. Because I was so incredibly tired, it was now taking an act of will to break the seals and force the lids open again.

"Come on, Lenny," said Ross resignedly, who'd immediately jumped down from his top bunk, responding with alacrity to the Irish accented prison officer's harshly issued command.

"Come on – Foot Service!" ordered the second prison officer bossily. "Chop chop!" This second prison officer had a Home Counties accent, very similar to the sort of privileged-and-pampered sounding one of prison officer Victoria.

No! I wailed inwardly. This can't be happening! I'm too tired!

"Lenny ...?" said my cellmate anxiously, upon seeing that I hadn't yet moved from my bottom bunk.

"Now!"  asserted the first prison officer, rattling her cane across the bars of our cell meaningfully. "You, in the bottom bunk! Move!" she ordered harshly. "I've told you once!" Her Irish accent sounded even stronger now, with it's pronounced note of impatience. Her harsh-voiced tone of command seemed natural to her, I thought, and she certainly seemed easily riled.

I finally managed to blink my eyes open. And now I looked over to the other side of the cell's bars, at the two prison officers who were calling Ross and me to Foot Service. 

The first thing I noticed, as usual, was their legs. The two prison officers both had the seemingly obligatory great legs ... and neither of them were exactly lacking in the breasts department, either. 

One of them had very eye-catching red, copper-coloured hair, while the other early twenties woman was brunette. Their faces were very attractive, too – or at least they would have been, were it not for the decidedly off-putting effect of their specially adapted concave bob hairstyle, that looked militaristic, endowing the already dominant-natured prison officers here with an even sterner air of authority.

"You!" the redhaired, Irish accented prison officer snapped at me. "Yes, you! Who do think I'm talking to? Out of that bunk, now!" she ordered waspishly. "Assume the position for Foot Service here, prisoner. Hold onto the bars here," she told me, pointing to one of the four sets of wrist restraints set into the cell's bars. "You've got some foot-cleaning to do."

"You, prisoner!" the brunette prison officer snapped at Ross. "I require a foot massage ... Don't just stand there – you idiot!" she said imperiously. "You know what to do – or you should do by now!" she said with mind-staggering haughtiness. "Pass one of those folding-seats through the bars to me. When I am comfortably seated, you will then perform your foot-massaging service, whilst on your knees. And as always, I shall expect your best work!" 

What? I thought peevishly. Foot-cleaning for me, but only foot-massaging for Ross? But I supposed it was just the luck of the draw.

"Yes, Miss Annalise," replied Ross, apparently having previously made the imperious young lady's acquaintance. "Right away, Miss Annalise! I'll – I'll just get your seat, for you, Miss Annalise," said my cellmate, with cringeworthy obsequiousness. "I'm coming, Miss Annalise – with your seat!"

For god's sake, I thought.

"Come on, Lenny!" Ross hissed urgently into my ear. He was crouching down at my bunk, one hand holding onto one of the cell's two tubular-framed dark-grey canvas folding-chairs, his other hand squeezing and shaking my wrist in anxiety. "Come on! Don't make her tell you again – the prison officers don't like being made to repeat themselves! And that's prison officer Rita! She's a real hellcat – almost as bitchy as prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo. So get a move on, Lenny – unless you want them to cane us! And for god's sake, try to make it look as though your heart is in it!"

But Ross needn't have worried. 

I wasn't going to say 'No', to the two Wing-patrolling prison officers. And especially not, to the Irish accented redhead who had so authoritatively demanded my personal service – prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita – who was now showing even more obvious signs of irritability. 

No. Because as incredibly tired as I was, as utterly exhausted as I was, as totally spent as I was, I was still thinking straight – thinking coherently and logically.

My mind had been expunged of irrational thought. My head was all nice and clear. I had my thinking-cap on. I was seeing reason. I had seen the errors of my ways.

The 'therapeutic treatment' had worked.

Ah, hell! I cursed inwardly, as I disgustedly and despairingly threw off my scratchy, mean and miserable threadbare dark-grey blanket – along with any hopes of getting some sleep any time soon. 

This is too much! I bemoaned inwardly, as I dragged myself from my bunk, and trudged over towards the cell's bars.

But Ross had moved fast. Obediently. Compliantly. Unhesitatingly. 

In so far as it pertained to the prison officers, the word 'No' no longer existed in Ross's vocabulary. Prison officer Billie Jo had removed it, along with his teeth. Extracted it.

After his four months of incarceration in Greystone Prison, Ross knew the score. He was already something of a veteran. And before I had even reached the cell's bars, he was already on his knees, as instructed by prison officer Annalise, and he was now massaging her feet. 

Prison officer Annalise was sitting on the folding-chair with her bare feet inserted between the cell's bars. Well, her left foot was resting on the flat crossbar near the bottom of the cell's bars, while Ross held the foot of her outstretched right leg in both hands. 

Not that I was any judge, but Ross actually seemed to know what he was doing – he certainly wasn't getting any complaints from prison officer Annalise. In an apparently well-practised synchronised circular motion, he was firmly pressing both thumbs into the ball of her right foot. His right thumb was turning clockwise, his left thumb anticlockwise, and the pads of his seemingly competently ministering thumbs were kneading deep, penetrating firmly into the broad reddish-pink pad of prison officer Annalise's yielding meaty foot flesh. 

It looked like quite hard work, actually, I thought. And quite obviously it required a level of skill, too. Massaging prison officer Annalise's foot, whilst also supporting the weight of her relaxed outstretched leg, didn't look to me like an easy task to perform. But Ross seemed to be coping well enough. By the looks of things Ross had been getting in a lot of practise. Quite obviously, during the last four months he'd made significant inroads into improving and honing his foot-massage skills.

I couldn't help but notice that the sole of prison officer Annalise's right foot was very dirty. Very dirty, from her deliberately 'saved up', all-day accumulation of thin-rubber soled flip flop induced sweat-smudged workaday grime ... Soon, I strongly suspected, Ross would be doing some serious foot-cleaning work of his own.  

I now saw the name tag of the red headed, Irish accented prison officer who had so peremptorily summoned me to Foot Service, to deprive me of my so desperately needed sleep. Just as Ross had said, her name was Rita. 

"Yes, Miss Rita," I said in response to her abrupt command, while staring respectfully down at the tops of her pale-skinned feet. Which was just as well I was: it was very hard – unsettling – looking into her penetrating, danger-threatening green eyes. Irish eyes, that were very definitely not smiling. Oh-oh, I thought. This one's double-trouble.

"You took your time," she told my bowed head, with more than a hint of the redheads' proverbial fiery temper evident in her tone. Her strong Irish accent, I thought, greatly reinforced this impression. "Look at me!" she snapped irritably.

I looked up at her as instructed. But, because I couldn't maintain direct eye contact with her; was already too cowed, to look right into her predatory green eyes, I tried to focus instead upon her pale, freckle-cheeked face. 

"So ... You think it's okay, do you, to keep me waiting? To ignore me? To carry on lying in bed, long after you have been told to get yourself over here to these bars? Well, do you, prisoner ...? It doesn't matter, that you have just been Ball-Busted. We don't give a fiddler's curse, how much you are hurting, or how tired you are – and you are a fool if you think we do, so you are! Because if you don't obey us promptly, we'll just hurt you some more. Understand? So now I am telling you: In future, when a prison officer calls you to Foot Service – whatever the time of day, or whatever the time of night – you will respond at once. Do you hear me? And, unless a prison officer instructs you otherwise, you will automatically assume the position. And I mean immediately. Instantly. Without hesitation. Got that? Because if you don't, prisoner, you'll quickly find yourself in another painful bed of your own making ... Am I making myself clear?"

Nervously, I nodded my acknowledgement to prison officer Rita that yes, she was making herself clear. I didn't trust my voice.

Thankfully, I'd only said three words. But I'd still struggled to imbue into my tone, sufficient respect, sufficient reverence – sufficient obsequiousness – that would convey to a prison officer that I was duly adhering to the standards of propriety that the prison officers demanded of their prisoners at all times. Struggled to convey, that my heart was in it. It had been hard to summon the enthusiasm.

But I knew that if she thought my heart wasn't in it – if she didn't consider my forthcoming Foot Service performance to be up to scratch – when she'd done with me prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita was at liberty to leave me in my assuming-the-position position with my wrists restrained to the cell's bars. Until she – or another Wing-patrolling prison officer – decided that I was shaping up.

I can't take this! I wailed inwardly, as I grabbed hold of the cell's bars and, following Ross's earlier example, inserted my legs into two of the floor-level torpedo-tube like holes in the wall under the cell's bars ... and prison officer Rita promptly snapped shut around my wrists two of the restraining wristlets set into the cell's bars.

I just can't take this! I'm so tired! I cried inwardly. 

But prison officer Rita, who didn't care a fiddler's curse how tired I was, told me, "Now, prisoner. You will thoroughly tongue-clean the soles of my feet ..." she turned her back on me and did a quick one-two, raising her legs behind her and showing me the dirty soles of first her right foot, and then her left "... and I mean spotless. Got that?" 

"Yes, Miss Rita," I said. "I'll – I'll try and do ... a good job."

"A good job? A good job is not good enough – it's no good at all. I mustn't find fault with your foot-cleaning service. Understand? If I am the slightest bit dissatisfied with the results of your foot-cleaning work, I shall leave you restrained to the bars of your cell. Then, when other Wing-patrolling prison officers come along and see you like this, they will know the reason why: because you have provided Foot Service of substandard quality. And, because of that, it will then be all the harder for you to satisfy those prison officers; all the more difficult for you, to convince them that your heart is in it. Am I making myself clear, prisoner ...? Don't just stupidly nod, you cretin! Answer me!"

"Yes, Miss Rita," I said, my voice trembling. "You – you've made yourself clear," I assured the redhaired, fiery-tempered, sleep-depriving Irish accented prison officer.

I then heard a chuckle, followed by a titter, and I looked around to see that the brunette prison officer, Annalise, had an amused smile on her face. She'd been greatly amused, apparently, at listening to what prison officer Rita had just said to me – and, of course, at how I had so tremulously and pitifully responded to her colleague's cruel domineering. Browbeating and belittling – bullying – the loser prisoners was such great sport!

I saw that prison officer Annalise was now resting the back of her heel on the bars' flat crossbar, displaying the whole of her dirty left sole. Her eyes were half closed and, as though in pleasurable response to Ross's apparently highly agreeable ministrations, she was repeatedly splaying and then scrunching tightly the toes of her left foot. 

Ross, for his part, was studiously concentrating on his foot-massage service, seemingly focusing his full and undivided attention, now, upon massaging the arch of prison officer Annalise's right foot. What was going on with me and prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita wasn't any of his business – and he definitely didn't want to be drawn into it.

Prison officer Rita told me in warning, "Remember, prisoner: no second chances." She then turned her back on me, and stepped back until she was standing up flush against the cell's bars, right in front of me. Exactly as prison officer Bella Donna had done before her.

In my assuming-the-position position, my face was on a level with prison officer Rita's calves, which were almost milk-white. Her colouring as a redhead, I supposed.

I preferred women to have a bit of skin-tone colour on them. Redheads were almost always pale-skinned; sometimes very much so, due to their sun-averse skin type. 

But then, I thought, redheads were different. There was just ... something, about redheads. I don't know ... a certain something, that set redheads apart from all other women.

The saying went, that 'Blondes have more fun'. And that might be true. But if it was, I thought, I bet redheads have more sex.

God, I thought. This redhead had really nice, shapely legs. Really great legs, to be fair to her. To a leg-man like me, prison officer Rita's legs were knockout. Dynamite.

Right up close, like this, I was in a great position to appreciate them, and ... And now, when I looked up, I could see right up prison officer Rita's uniform pale-blue short skirt ... My god! She wasn't wearing her panties!

Oh, I didn't need this!

But then prison officer Rita, upon picking up on the vibe of my sudden excitement, promptly started getting down to the business at hand ... And then I was suddenly staring, right up close, at something I wasn't nearly so appreciative of.

Prison officer Rita slipped her right foot from its prison officer issue pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flop, and raised her foot behind her until the sole of her foot was level with my horrified and dismayed face. She then passed her foot between the bars, and let it hover there so that I could have an even closer look at what I had coming to me.

What struck me, was how incredibly white her arch looked. In comparison with the impact points of her sole: her heel, the ball of her foot, and her toe pads, her arch was almost milk-white. And though all of these impact points were all undeniably very dirty, they were made to look all the more so because of the stark, creamy paleness of her arch's almost unbesmirched skin. 

Some of the more cruel Greystone Prison officers preferred to 'save up' for later, their bottom-of-the-foot filth, letting it accumulate until their work shift was nearly over. And very obviously prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita was one of them. 

The soles of her feet had become extremely grubby and grimy; the seemingly multilayered dirt and grime all sweat-smudged, from a long day of patrolling the Levels in her prison officer issue thin-rubber soled flip flops. The evidence in front of my eyes was quite conclusive: prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita was definitely one of the fifty-shades-of-grey prison officers. 

Looking down on me over her right shoulder, prison officer Rita said, "Now, prisoner ... open that foot-cleaning mouth of yours – and open it wide. As you can clearly see, my feet are very dirty, after working my twelve-hour shift. Which is of course where you come in. First, I'll let you give my toes a nice, dirt-and-grime loosening soak. And then you can start agitating the all-day build-up of ingrained dirt with your tongue. There's no telling what you're going to find, all squished up between my sweaty toes, but you'll swallow everything. Got that? Everything. And you'll keep on, licking and agitating and rubbing and scrubbing the soles of my dirty feet with your tongue, and swallowing everything, until you are ready for me to inspect the results of your foot-cleaning work ... Got that, prisoner?"

"Yes, Miss Rita," I said, trying to inject the requisite enthusiasm into my voice: one of the prison officers' benchmark indicators, as to whether or not a prisoner's heart was in it. "I've got it, Miss Rita!"

Prison officer Annalise chuckled and tittered again – but I didn't think it was because Ross was tickling her foot.

And now, as I compliantly accepted the rude insertion of prison officer Rita's dirty, sweaty toes into my wide open mouth, once again I found myself looking right up her pale-blue short skirt, and observing – with my now perfect, totally unrestricted view – that which I most definitely was appreciative of: prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita's pussy.

But, no! I didn't need this! I really didn't!

But, just as with prison officer Billie Jo's pussy earlier, during our "little chat" in the lift, I was finding it absolutely impossible, not to look. Impossible, not to observe. Impossible, not to appreciate ... And impossible, not to want.

Sucking on and in between prison officer Rita's toes, the taste was awful. Terrible. But, as my taste buds involuntarily responded to the sharp, salt and vinegary tang of the vile, disgusting, revolting dirty-feet flavour, my mouth automatically filled with the cleaning-fluid of saliva – "just like an automatic washing machine". 

And, as my saliva-slick tongue soaked, agitated, rubbed scrubbed and loosened the all-day accumulation of dirt, grime and sweat from around and in between prison officer Rita's toes, I swallowed everything. And I kept on, swallowing everything.

But, I thought, as I continued my soaking, agitating, rubbing and scrubbing, and loosening and swallowing everything as I compliantly tongue-cleaned prison officer Rita's dirty sweaty toes, and my mouth kept automatically replenishing itself with more clean saliva, at least I had something else, to focus on. 

Something else, to focus on, to try and take my mind off the awful, disgusting, filthy-feet taste ... Because I was focusing instead, upon the awesome, mesmerising sight, of prison officer Rita's pussy.

But, I didn't need this! No, I didn't!

Hell – despite everything I'd gone through! 

Despite the state I was in: Despite my still-sore balls. Despite the awful, terrible, disgusting dirty-feet taste in my mouth – despite everything! – I was getting an erection.

Obediently sucking on prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita's dirty sweaty filthy toes, I was staring right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, at her magnificent pussy ... and at her short, copper-coloured curls.

And my erection was getting bigger.

Compliantly sucking on prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita's grubby, grimy toes, and swallowing everything, and staring up past her grubby, grimy heel right up her uniform pale-blue short skirt, at her fabulous pussy, I was becoming filled with such a pining, yearning, ravening lust, way beyond anything I had ever experienced before.

And I was getting a real hard-on!

Hell! I didn't need this! I really didn't!

Prison officer Annalise then leaned over, and ... had a look. 

"Oooh ... big boy – get him! Hey, Rita – you are really revving his engine! Ha ha ha ha! He's going right into the red!"

"Suck harder, prisoner!" commanded the redhaired, fiery-tempered, sleep-depriving Irish accented prison officer authoritatively. "I don't care, if your foot-cleaning tongue is getting tired – I only care about results! Do you hear me? About your marks out of ten – the marks out of ten that I'll be awarding you. Because only ten out of ten is satisfactory. Nothing less. Got that? You'll need to score full marks – ten out of ten. Not eight, or nine. But ten. Understand? Only ten out of ten, prisoner Lightwood, is good enough."

The brunette prison officer, Annalise, tickled pink, chuckled and tittered some more. "Prisoner Lightwood must really like tongue-cleaning prison officers' dirty feet, mustn't he, Rita? He's going crazy down there! He's rampant! Ha ha ha ha! It's a good job his hands are restrained to the cell's bars!" 

"He'd better learn to like it, Annalise. That's for sure, so it is. I think I'm going to be using prisoner Lightwood regularly. Because I can feel his tongue doing a damn fine job, so I can!"

"I'll have my dirty feet cleaned, too, in a minute," said prison officer Annalise with flabbergasting casualness. "I've got the one with the convenient toe holds and extra wiggle room. You know, Rita, the prisoner who said 'No' twice, to BJ?"

But I was barely noticing now what prison officer Annalise was saying, and what she was chuckling and tittering about. 

No. Because my mind was otherwise occupied, and fully focused.

Occupied, and fully focused, on the mesmerising up-skirt sight of pantyless prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita's magnificent pussy ... and on her short, copper-coloured curls.

Because prison officer Annalise was right: the redhaired, fiery-tempered, sleep-depriving Irish accented prison officer 'Hellcat' Rita was taking me "right into the red".

And incredibly my erection was getting even bigger. And even harder. A real boner. The hard-on of my life.

But, my god! I didn't need this! I really, really didn't need this! 

No, I didn't!

Because prison officer Billie Jo had been right, too, in what she'd told me earlier, during our "little chat" in the lift.

I knew that, just as soon as I was allowed to get back to my miserable bunk, I was going to be taking the only remedy option available, to an 'over-excited' prisoner. 

The self-administered remedy. The do-it-yourself cure. 

Except of course, it wasn't a cure. But only a temporary relief, short-lived anodyne.

But it was going to have to do.  

Because prison officer Billie Jo had been right: I would be "taking things in hand", a lot sooner than I thought!



The Jailhouse Blues continues – and concludes – in chapter 3.  


This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk