The Jailhouse Blues

Dear reader,

I shall resume my memoir, starting with Day 2. The second day of my incarceration in Greystone Prison.

As with Day 1, it was another unpalatable foretaste of what was to come.

*****

Upon waking, at first I could make no sense of my dire and dispiriting surroundings ...

The wire bed springs, that supported the thin, dark grey mattress of the bunk above me. The dark-grey painted smooth concrete floor. The two tubular framed, dark-grey canvas folding chairs leaning against the dark-grey painted wall. The dark-grey painted bars ...

And then, as if a rudely rousing bucket of dirty cold water had been suddenly sloshed in my face, horribly it all came flooding back. The cold reality of my horrendous, nightmarish predicament.

*

At 07:30 yesterday I'd arrived at Heathrow Airport -- Terminal 5. I was on my way home from my two-week hiking/camping holiday in the Austrian Alps.

Having retrieved my rucksack from the baggage carousel, and undergone the usual Customs and Passport Control checks, I had been intending to travel on homeward right away.

But upon seeing the jovial cartoon character coffee bean cordially inviting me to 'Try me -- I'm Colombian!' from a cheery poster in the windows of one of the Arrivals Hall refreshments bars, I had been lured inside as easily as a child into a sweetshop. Apart from two cups of coffee, I'd not wanted any breakfast on the plane, and I wasn't feeling any hungrier now. But I persuaded myself that another cup of coffee couldn't hurt.

The refreshments bar was busy. At that time of the morning they were doing a brisk breakfast-time trade, and all of the tables were occupied. But by the time one of the harassed but friendly counter assistants had put a steaming cup of the advertised Colombian coffee in front of me and I'd paid for it, a table was being vacated by some travellers. A male member of staff promptly cleared away the previous customers' breakfast debris, and wiped the table down, all nice and ready for the next lot of messy customers.

I took my cup of coffee over to the newly vacated table and sat down.

I was soon joined at the table by a party of three male customers, Oriental in appearance, who took up the remaining seats. The three twenty-something guys said Hi, and smiled and nodded at me politely. And I said Hi, and smiled and nodded back. These social pleasantries duly observed, the three young guys began jabbering away amongst themselves in some sing-songy language as they tucked into their coffee and doughnuts.

I love a good cup of coffee, and this Colombian coffee was good -- the 'Caffeine Kid' wasn't kidding.

I held the thick white cup of rich and strong and full-flavoured coffee in both hands, savouring the aroma. Sipping appreciatively, I reminisced over the great, getting-away-from-it-all Tyrolean holiday I'd just had.

In their brochure the travel agents had promised a serene, Great Outdoors peace-and-tranquility sort of holiday -- and they had certainly delivered!

After the all-night clubbing and beer excesses of last summer's battery draining holiday in Ibiza, the quiet Alpine holiday was just what I'd wanted this year.

Last year's nightclub focused holiday on the lively Spanish island had been really great ... but it's not so great when you arrive home feeling like booking into a Recovery Clinic for a week.

Sitting and enjoying my coffee, I was in a contented frame of mind.

After all of that fresh Alpine air and hard daily walking exercise in my heavy-duty Trail Trekker hiking boots, I was feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready for anything. My batteries were fully recharged, and in my post-holiday mood I was feeling positive and optimistic.

On my solo holiday in the Austrian Alps, I'd been left alone with the time and space to think. To connect and commune with my inner-self, as it were.

Now though, it was time to think about re-connecting and communing with the real world again. It was time to return to the regular hustle and bustle of life. To get back to the nitty-gritty normalities of humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities. Such as work. But I was okay with that. I was one of the fortunate ones: so many people dislike their jobs, but I enjoyed my job at the Garden Centre.

At least, I'd thought I was one of the fortunate ones. If only I had been allowed the luxury, of returning to those humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities ...

I'd heard it said, that, after being befallen by some dreadful event, people sometimes said that they had actually been 'warned'. That they'd experienced some sort of disturbing, ominous foretelling. That they had sensed, that 'something' was going to happen. That they had intuited, the unalterable approach of some doom-laden, life-changing event ... That there had been a portent.

But when I'd stood up to leave the Terminal 5 Arrivals Hall refreshments bar, there'd been no portent.

All had seemed normal.

I'd felt no disturbing presentiment of impending disaster. I'd received no subliminal advance warning that my heinous fate was about to be sealed. No mental alarm bells had rung. The hairs on the back of my neck hadn't stood on end. Nor had I gone all goose-pimply. I'd had no sixth-sense premonition, advising me of my imminent doom. In short: I hadn't intuited, that I was about to be consigned to an unspeakable future.

A few minutes after leaving Terminal 5 Arrivals, I'd been arrested by two camera-concealing Community Service Officers (CSOs).

The CSO uniform is immediately identifiable: blue blouse, red, short skirt, yellow cotton ankle socks, and black, backless, thick-rubber soled clog-like shoes.

Though somewhat incongruously, even laughably, attired, these female Authoritarian Female Party government enforcer-type employees are certainly no laughing matter. They are very definitely not to be messed with or in any way disrespected. You laugh at them at your peril. Take them lightly, to your great cost -- a harsh lesson, that many males have learned the hard way since the AFP won the General Election.

By dint of the powers vested in them by the AFP, CSOs inspire fear and strike dread in male minds and hearts. Which is, of course, their primary function.

Whenever they are seen, and wherever they are happened upon, the CSOs are to be avoided if at all possible ... before they happen to you. And if they can't be avoided? Avoid direct eye contact, and say nothing unless spoken to is the wisest precaution.

The two CSOs were wearing their customary standard issue black nylon utility belts. Attached to which, were their handcuffs, pepper spray, taser, and their walkie-talkie radios. Also conspicuous on their persons were their wicked-looking AFP issue flexible bamboo canes. And to top it all off, as it were, no less intimidating was their helmet-like hair: Styled in the AFP government's severe, militaristic-looking adaption of the concave bob, the scary hairdo gave many males (me included) the heebie-jeebies.

The two CSOs apprehended me outside Arrivals, brandishing their canes and ordering me to 'Stop, right there!'.

"We are Community Service Officers," one of them informed me, and I almost foolishly said 'No way!', but fortunately reason prevailed as my sense of self-preservation duly kicked in.

Their melodramatic accosting of me caused a few heads to turn. But otherwise I hadn't been particularly concerned: the stopping and harassment of males by patrolling power-mad CSOs was commonplace ... But that soon changed.

The two CSOs ordered me to assume the Defenceless Position: to stand facing them with my legs wide apart, and with my hands clasped on top of my head.

As soon as I'd complied, they began searching me -- and to my consternation they confiscated my passport, bagged my wallet ... then they informed me that they had been secretly filming me.

In a decidedly smug, self-satisfied— no, gleeful manner, the two CSOs pointed to their buttonhole cameras, and told me they had secured three separate counts of "bang to rights" video evidence against me.

What the ...? I'd thought.

The two CSOs told me that my three contraventions of the Female-Friendly Code had occurred: 1 -- In the Terminal 5 Arrivals Hall concourse. 2 -- In one of the Arrivals Hall refreshments bars. 3 -- Outside the Arrivals Hall.

I'd respectfully suggested to the two CSOs that there must be some kind of mistake. Perhaps they were confusing me with someone else? Since I hadn't the slightest idea what they were talking about.

So they had told me what they were talking about.

I'd then politely explained to the two CSOs that I had committed these offences unknowingly. I'd told them that I'd been abroad. That I'd just returned to the UK after a decidedly solitudinous two-week hiking and camping holiday in the Austrian Alps. I'd been in the middle of nowhere, as good as. Trekking during the day, and camping out in my one-man tent at night. I'd watched no TV, read no newspapers, and I hadn't had a radio -- which was the whole point of the holiday: getting away from it all. And so I was totally unaware of the AFP government's enactment of their latest female-friendly legislation. So therefore there was at least room for mitigation, I'd contended, even if I wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely innocent in the eyes of the law. Perhaps just a friendly warning this time, would suffice?

But to males, CSOs aren't friendly. And they rarely give warnings.

The two CSOs told me that an ignorance of the law was no defence. So I was not innocent, they'd asserted. Merely ignorant. And soon, someone would be speaking very strictly to me in a court of law. Because there was no question of their letting me off with a warning. And neither was there room for mitigation.

I had committed three separate offences under the Female-Friendly Code, and thanks to their sly surreptitious surveillance they had caught me in the act each time. Thanks to their cunning clandestine camerawork they had the irrefutable video evidence to nail me ... And I was going to go down for those offences, they'd assured me.

"Wh-what ...?" I'd said disbelievingly. "You can't mean ...? You don't mean—"

"Yes! We do mean! The AFP are having a clampdown on the likes of you, citizen Lightwood! You have no conception of propriety, where females are concerned!"

And now, warned the two arresting CSOs, they would tolerate no further backchat from me. I was to quietly come along with them, they told me.

I did so. It would have been a gross error of judgement not to. An error, that would have resulted in lots of pain and lots of humiliation.

Though I had been fortunate, until now, to have stayed safely out of their way, anecdotally I knew more than enough of the ways of the notorious CSOs.

More than enough, to be certain that any failure to: accord the CSOs a reverent-like respect; recognise their unquestioned and unchallengeable AFP-vested authority over male citizens; and comply immediately and fully with whatsoever orders and instructions issued by them -- would result in their 'chastising' me on the spot.

The two CSOs would severely cane my bared buttocks, right then, right there. In front of whomsoever present in the Arrivals Hall: passengers, flight crew, meeters and greeters, taxi drivers -- the two CSOs would pull my trousers and my underpants down to my ankles, and between them administer six no-holding-back cane strokes.

This was the official Standard Six, summary chastisement penalty, that any male could expect to receive in the event of his failing to satisfy any of the above stated CSO-obeisance criteria.

So I went quietly.

Taking my elbows, the two CSOs escorted me to a white van with darkened windows parked conspicuously at the kerb. Painted on the van's sides, in large black letters, was the increasingly familiar -- and increasingly feared -- logo: AFP.

The Authoritarian Female Party had only been in power a matter of months. But already, Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's newly elected all-female member government had made a lot of big, 'female-friendly' changes.

The two CSOs opened the van's back doors, and between them they carelessly tossed inside my brand-new Trail Trekker rucksack. "Go on, citizen Lightwood! Follow it!" said one of the CSOs with unnecessary harshness. And as I did so, planting her foot right in the middle of my right buttock the other CSO gave me a helpful shove with the thick-rubber sole of one of her black, backless, clog-like shoes, sending me sprawling onto my rucksack.

Laughing, the two CSOs slammed the van's back doors shut on me and locked them.

Before heading back into Terminal 5's Arrivals Hall, one of the camera-concealing CSOs slapped the van's nearside side-panel, signalling the driver to take me away ...

Following my summary jurisdiction trial, and resultant conviction for three offences under the Authoritarian Female Party's most recent Crimes Against Females Act legislation -- the Female-Friendly Code -- for which the twelve-woman jury had returned a unanimous Guilty verdict, tariffed at one month per offence the female judge had duly awarded me a "richly deserved" three months' prison sentence.

And I was to serve my sentence, the lady judge had told me, at one of the UK's Corrections and Rehabilitation facilities: Greystone Prison.

*

My drab and dreary environment was my cell: Cell 16 -- Level 1. My cellmate, Ross, was in the top bunk ... And I was an inmate of Greystone Prison.

Greystone Prison: A male behavioural correctional facility where, at the feet of their flip flop-wearing female prison officer guards, on a daily basis the prisoners are inducted and instructed in the protocols of propriety, where females are concerned.

So that, as dictated by Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government, upon their eventual release back into society, these re-educated offenders will know how to behave appropriately towards females -- respectfully, obediently, compliantly.

Whether in the company or in the presence or merely in the vicinity of females, males will conduct themselves with the utmost reverence, constant consideration, and law-abiding obligation as is due to females.

In short: males should consider themselves at all times to be at the click-of-the-fingers, beck-and-call, readily available service of whomsoever females may summon their attendance for whatsoever purpose ...

Immediately upon waking, I was acutely aware of the burning soreness of my buttocks ... the lingering painful aftermath of yesterday's caning.

I remembered, now, all of the harrowing details of my being caned yesterday ... Caned, sixty times, by an overenthusiastic caning-party of twelve no-holding-back female prison officers. Each of them, mercilessly and expertly caning my bare bottom five times.

And I was equally alive to the tenderness of my groin area ... Still painfully sore, after being expertly and flamboyantly Ball-Busted by prison officer Bella Donna.

As principal chastiser, prison officer Bella Donna had duly administered a total of five barefoot kicks to my defenceless testicles. Culminating, in her piece de resistance, ultra devastating grand finale: her coup de grace, double flick-kick affliction.

I'd afterwards sworn to myself that I'd never again give prison officer Bella Donna a reason, and therefore the opportunity, to 'cheat on me' again with her two-for-the-price-of-one, double flick-kick affliction punishment method.

And why, did prison officer Bella Donna Ball-Bust me? Because I'd said 'No' to her, when she'd ordered me to assume the position for Foot Service.

But there was no time now, for leisurely reflection upon yesterday's disagreeable and disconcerting events, down in the gymnasium. Where I'd been restrained, naked, with my wide apart ankles cable-tied to the circular-shaped platform of the slowly rotating Wheel of Chastisement.

Because a new day was already starting.

"Breakfast -- come and get it!" announced one of the two 'jailhouse blues' prison officers who were now standing outside the cell with the breakfast trolley.

The two jailhouse blues both had the seemingly obligatory dynamite legs, I couldn't help but notice. Great legs. Fabulous legs. Long, shapely, and alluring.

Which was saying something, I thought, considering they were only wearing flat footwear. I would probably blow a fuse if I ever saw them in their heels. As a leg man, I always found the sight of a nice pair of pins pulse-quickening; they were what really got me going. Of course, the sexy effect was heightened all the more by the very short, tight-fitting skirts the 'blues' wore.

It was something nice to be woken up to. And to see and appreciate throughout the day ... But there, of course, was the rub: the flaunt-to-taunt jailhouse blues prison officers are 'untouchable'.

As the two breakfast serving 'blues' disdainfully regarded Ross and me through the bars of our cell, I saw that their faces were both very attractive, too. In fact, they were absolute knockouts. And they would have been even more knockout, were it not for their uniform helmet-like hairstyle: the severe, AFP-adapted version of the otherwise attractive and sexy concave bob.

This militaristic-looking version of the concave bob lent an extra aura of stern authority to these already dominant-natured and intimidating females. Females, who as 'rehabilitators' in Greystone Prison were given what amounted to freedom-of-expression carte blanche: free reign, to indulge with impunity upon the prisoners their cruel, wicked and sadistic proclivities.

One of the breakfast-serving prison officers' concave-bobbed hair was of a purple-streaked ash blonde, while her colleague's hair was a lustrous shiny black.

And of course, they were both dressed in the uniform pale-blue blouse, pale-blue short skirt, and pale-blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, that accounted for the Greystone Prison officers' nickname: the 'Jailhouse Blues'.

In fact, on several occasions yesterday, whilst I'd performed Foot Service for jailhouse blue prison officers, several of them had 'inflicted' upon me the most exciting, unimpeded up-skirt views ... and I had duly discovered that even their panties were of exactly the same pale-blue colour. Pale-blue, thin fabric, scanty panties, that leave little to the imagination.

Staring up past those jailhouse blues' heavenly inner thighs, at the up-close sight of those pale-blue veils that don't quite conceal their womanhood ...

On each and every one of those imperiously authoritative summonses to assume the position for Foot Service, I'd been wildly turned on: "rampant", prison officer Annalise had laughingly commented, to her colleague responsible for my fully aroused state on that occasion -- the irascible Irish redhead, prison officer 'hellcat' Rita.

Despite the decidedly ... unconducive, romantically adverse conditions on each of those occasions, the raging desire for sex I'd felt was all-consuming.

Those gobsmackingly attractive, sex-kitten, flaunt-to-taunt jailhouse blue 'rehabilitator' prison officers know exactly what they are doing. They know, just what anguish they cause. They know, just what mental and physical torment they inflict. They know, just exactly what they are 'administering', to their sex-starved prisoners.

Those 'blues' had me going nuts with lust. Mad with desire. Crazy with frustration ... which was, of course, the whole cruel and wicked point of the exercise: prisoners would sometimes be allowed to see -- but never touch ...

So that, in order to relieve those terrible and intolerable longings, every sleep-deprived night, a tormented prisoner's only option was to reach for the only remedy to hand, as it were: self-satisfaction.

In order to attain out of sheer desperation what anyway for most prisoners is not only a sadly unsatisfying substitute for the real thing, but a self-loathingly indulgent, quick-fix, short-lived solution, prisoners are reduced to availing themselves of the -- in prison officer Billie Jo's words: "taking things in hand" remedy.