Behind Bars
I suppose I should consider myself lucky, really. The good lady judge could have sentenced me to incarceration for life in one of the Gynarchy’s many foothole dungeons – deep underground; windowless; never to see the outside world again. But instead she had mercy on me, and ordered that I be incarcerated for life in a dingy, basement cell that looks out onto the town square. It’s not much of a view that I have from my cell. Just the ground; and feet – mainly ladies’ feet – from behind bars. But as I kneel in the dirt and look out of my ground-level cell window at least I can see life going on around me. I can observe and admire the feet and footwear of my free betters as they go about their daily business. And I not only get to admire them from afar. Many of the idle, and the not so idle, young women milling around in the town square outside choose to taunt me, and torment me, by resting their feet on the lowest bar of my ground-level cell window, and by using me as a kind of unofficia