V

V is for Vagina; V is for Victory; and V is for the V-shaped upper rims at the backs of the prison-officer mistresses’ chunky, flat heeled, black leather, laced up, uniform ankleboots that allow the privileged prisoner-slave no. 7778 to catch a furtive view of their non-uniform socks inside their boots, as he transports them along the dimly lit, claustrophobic corridors of unbridled, female power inside the cramped confines of the underground, maleslave prison.

It is a privilege he has earned, thanks to his good behaviour – after 20 years of solitary confinement in a narrow, windowless cell deep inside the dank and dismal, male dungeon; a single cell in which he was, like all the prisoners, further confined in a heavy set of wooden kneeling-stocks, thus keeping him completely immobilized in his lonely misery. Twenty years of enforced bondage and immobility – by way of a severe punishment!

So he hadn’t exactly had much opportunity for any bad behaviour in the past 20 years!

But the Gynarchy Prison authorities are nothing if not merciful, and he was now released from his lonely cell, and the stocks, for 10 hours every day, in order to help transport the prison-officer mistresses around the rest of the dungeon as they sit above him on their makeshift ‘prisoner-slave cart’ – yet another wooden contraption for him to endure, this time in the form of a seat strapped to his back on which the mistress can sit, with the backs of her boots resting in two metal stirrups in front of his face (hence his opportunistic sneaky peeks at the backs of their socks inside the V-shaped upper rims at the backs of their boots, as he conveys them along!).

Such cart-servitude saves the officer-mistress from having to walk along the dusty corridors of the prison, and from getting the soles of her uniform boots dirty – so it is a service prisoner-slave no. 7778 is foolishly proud to deliver! In fact, he can’t wait every day to see who his transport-mistress will be for the day, and eagerly languishes in the stocks inside his cell for the heavy, metal door to creak open, so that he can catch the first glimpse of the boots of his designated officer-mistress for the day as they enter his humble, confined abode.

…

Creak…

This morning, he espies the broad based, black leather, uniform boot-toes of officer-mistress Victoria (Vicky to her friends) entering through the cell doorway. His heart leaps simultaneously with both joy and fear; fear, because thirty-something, officer-mistress Victoria is a highly experienced prison-officer mistress, who sure knows how to whip a ‘pony-slave’ (as privileged prisoners such as no. 7778 are known colloquially throughout the prison); and because she is a big girl – quite heavy, and a real burden to have to carry around on one’s wooden-saddled back!

So he knows he is in for a day of pain and effort.

But, at the same time, his heart is full of joy, for he knows that beautiful, fat, redheaded, officer-mistress Victoria always wears nice socks inside her boots – thick, creamy, bobbled-cotton ones. The prison-officer mistresses choice of bootsocks, you see, is their very own; everything else they must wear – their navy-blue blouses; their feminine, navy-blue neck ties; their navy-blue trousers; their black leather utility belts (containing handcuffs, and their prison-issue, brown leather, bulls-pizzle whips!) – is dictated by the Female Prison’s strict uniform policy; but they, happily, get to choose their own underwear and sockwear (not that prisoner no. 7778 ever gets to see his mistresses’ underwear; nor is he even interested in doing so!)

The ‘uniform’ for the male prisoners, incidentally, is a solitary pair of flimsy and demeaning, pale pink slave-shorts; that’s all prisoner no. 7778 gets to wear as he pushes his smartly uniformed officer-mistresses along! And, unlike their white shoulder stripes, denoting their rank, his shoulder stripes are red, denoting his whipmarks.

But back to officer-mistress Victoria’s socks; as he humbly, but fervently, kisses her heavy, reinforced, black leather, uniform boot-toes prior to being released from his wooden cell-stocks, prisoner no. 7778 is quietly confident that she will indeed be wearing her usual pair of thick, cream-coloured, creased and bobbled bootsocks inside those ubiquitous, uniform boots, and that the backs of those female socks – or rather a small slither of them – shall be more or less constantly ‘in his face’ for the next 10 hours or so, as fat and lazy officer-mistress Victoria rarely seems to walk anywhere when she has the use of a prisoner-ponyslave! She is a born user of the human-transport facility provided by the so-called ‘privileged’ prisoners.

She will, of course, have to dismount from the human pony from time to time – when she is required to whip-punish a prisoner in his dirty cell, for example. But transport-prisoner no. 7778 knows full well that rotund and lethargic officer-mistress Victoria would quite happily spend her entire shift being transported around the corridors on his back, expending her lacklustre energy merely on whipping him, if she could get away with it!

…

She laughs mockingly down at him as he feverishly kisses her dusty, leather boot-toes – as eager to get down to the work of being her human prison-pony, as she is to utilise him as her human pony! She’s not allowed to speak to the prisoners, other than to admonish or scold them – yet another of the ridiculous prison rules (and, similarly, prisoner no. 7778 is not permitted to speak to her, other than to plea for mercy if and when she is beating him on his flanks with her short and stocky, bulls-pizzle whip in order to make him move faster; but that particular rule, of course, is much more understandable, since he is nothing but a dumb beast of burden in this prison; a human donkey!)

After some 2 minutes of having her boot-toes kissed, officer-mistress Victoria bends down to release the pining prisoner from the solid stocks which have held him firmly in place for the last 14 hours. It is always a huge relief for the prisoner to feel the heavy, wooden crossbeam being lifted from his shoulders and, despite the no-talking policy, he can’t help but a let out a little sigh of maleslavish gratitude.

Kind and compassionate officer-mistress Victoria overlooks this little indiscretion on his part – as she does his subsequent involuntary whimper of despair as she replaces the heavy wood of the crossbeam with the equally heavy and rough, un-sandpapered wood of the saddle on his still-kneeling prisoner-back (a prisoner-slave is never allowed to stand up; he must spend his entire sentence on his hands and knees, whether confined in the stocks or not!).

Experienced and highly-respected, plump officer-mistress Victoria deftly ties the leather straps of the wooden-seat contraption with her podgy, white fingers tightly beneath the prisoner-slave’s whipmarked belly, causing a few more involuntary winces of pain from her human donkey.

Mind you – that’s nothing compared to the grunt of breathlessness he emits when she finally sits her fat arse down into the saddle above him!

We should explain at this point that, although the saddle is wooden and rough on the underside – the side in contact with the prisoner-slave’s back – it is leathery soft and luxurious on the upper side – the side in contact with the ‘driver-mistress’s’ posterior. So mistress Victoria madam is in for a comfortable ride, whatever happens!

Prisoner no. 7778’s arms quiver and buckle under the initial strain of the buxom, redhead’s weight, but with an almighty effort he steadies himself, inspired to no small degree by the sight of her flat, black leather, uniform bootheels coming to rest directly in front of his kneeling face in their metal stirrups. Sure enough, officer-mistress Victoria’s navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems have raised up to reveal the V-shaped upper rims at the backs of her heavy ankleboots, and her anticipated creamy-bobbly, thick cotton bootsocks. Truly he is in for a prisoner-slave treat today – the sexy sight of two small slithers of beautiful, fat officer-mistress Victoria’s thick, cream coloured, cotton bootsocks!

Right now, though, it is the sight of the business end of her thick, brown leather, single tailed, bulls-pizzle whip being unhitched from her belt, and being readied to make initial contact with his scrawny, prisoner-slave ribs, that catches his eye! He has no choice but to await the biting sting of the whip – by way of his signal to start walking – since, as we have already explained, verbal communication between officer-mistresses and prisoner-slaves is Verboten! A system of whip signals has therefore developed over time within the prison between the officer-mistresses and their prisoner-ponies:

· One whip-cut on the prisoner’s right flank, whilst he is stationary, indicates that he is to start crawling

· Two whip-cuts on the prisoner’s right flank, whist he is crawling, is the signal for him to stop

· One whip-cut on his right flank, whilst he is crawling, indicates that he is to turn right

· One whip-cut on his left flank, whilst he is crawling, indicates that he is to turn left

· Three or more successive cuts to either, or both, of his flanks, whilst he is crawling, indicates that he is to crawl faster

Unless, of course, the officer-mistress is left handed, in which case the signals are reversed. It’s so simple, even a dumb animal could understand it – which is why it is so suitable for male prisoners like prisoner no. 7778 to grasp!

Fortunately for his tiny brain, officer-mistress Victoria is right handed!

Swish…Crack!

Sure enough, he feels a sudden burn of pain to his right flank (the most tender and raw flank since it inevitably receives the majority of whip-signals, as explained above) and, with a Herculean effort, he starts to crawl out of his cell with obese, but beautiful, redheaded officer-mistress Victoria seated imperiously on his straining, prisoner-slave back.

Swish…Crack!

Aiii!

The whip-cut signal to start crawling is swiftly followed by a further, flesh-burning blow to his right flank (somewhat unfortuitously for him, a skilfully-delivered overlay of the first cut!) indicating that he is to turn right into the dingy and dimly-lit corridor. It follows ‘swiftly’ because his cell is so tiny – it only takes him a second or two to crawl out of it, even with his heavy burden on board!

He guesses that they are headed for the female prisoner-officers’ mess, since he knows that officer-mistress Victoria is nothing if not a fat creature of habit, who likes to begin her 10 hour shift with a relaxing coffee break. She won’t bother to dismount from him, since the coffee will be served to her by one of her fellow-guards – a junior officer, in all probability – whilst she is still mounted on her ‘pony’. But, despite being in the presence of pretty, junior-prison-officer boot, transporter-prisoner no. 7778 will keep his eyes firmly fixated on officer-mistress Victoria’s creamy bootsock-slithers throughout her coffee break, since he likes to really study her socks throughout the long, working day – count the bobbles and the creases; even the stitches in the individual lines of sock, if he possibly can. That’s because, pathetically, the sight of a fat girl’s socks is the most intimacy he can ever hope to have with a woman in this place!

…

He is not whipped as they make their way down the corridor at a slow, but steady pace. Officer-mistress Victoria is clearly in no hurry to get to the officers’ mess; she has her whole shift ahead of her. And the prisoners eagerly awaiting her arrival in their cells so that they can kiss her boots and be fed, can just damn well wait until she has had her early-morning coffee.

You will have noticed that her human donkey was not fed prior to being released from the stocks and saddled up; that’s because the Female Prison authorities consider that it is better for a ponyboy-slave to work on an empty stomach, lest the burden of carrying a heavy officer-mistress around all day on his back makes him feel sick, thereby causing him to involuntarily empty the contents of his stomach onto the prison-corridor floors! No, prisoner no. 7778 must wait some 10 hours until the end of his transportation shift for his sustenance; and, even then, it will only be a meagre bowl of bland and tasteless slavemush!

That’s partly why the prisoner-slaves lick and kiss their officer-mistresses’ boot-toes so fervently in this God-forsaken place of male punishment – the female officers’ bootdust helps to supplement their meagre, maleslave diet and line their stomachs; and it tastes of something – albeit only of dust and boot-polish!

What wouldn’t prisoner no. 7778 give for a taste of officer-mistress Victoria’s bobbled sock-lint to fill his stomach right now! But, sadly, that is an impossibility; male prisoners are forbidden to kiss female-officer sock – yet another cruel and unusual, frustrating prison rule!

As he crawls along the corridor at an appropriately slug-like pace towards the officers’ mess, prisoner no. 7778’s first impressions of the backs of officer-mistress Victoria’s bobbled, cream bootsocks today is that they have been put on her feet rather hastily this morning, for, not only are they both creased, but he is convinced that one of them – the one on her left heel – has been put on inside out! The cotton material of her left sock is much fluffier, and bobblier, than that on the right!

This is truly a unexpected treat for him, as it means he is, albeit inadvertently, being afforded a view of the inside of esteemed officer-mistress Victoria’s thick, cream-coloured bootsock – the side of the sock normally hidden from view, and inevitably seeped in her heel-sweat DNA! Oh to be able to kiss, or at the very least nuzzle, that inner sock! It is such a cruel prison rule that prevents even nasal contact with an officer-mistress’s exposed sock-heel – especially since the V-shaped upper rim at the back of her boot is just made for a foot-prisoner slave’s nose to rest in!

If he could but place his nose onto that V-shaped rim at the back of her boot he would even be able to see down into the warm and clammy confines of her uniform boot; and smell it! Oh this is torture – being so near, and yet so far, from the inside of officer-mistress Victoria’s cream-coloured sock!

Swish…Crack!

A sharp blow of the bull’s pizzle whip on his left flank not only brings him back to his senses, but reminds him to turn left into the officers’ mess. Sure enough, officer-mistress Victoria’s coffee cup is waiting for her, respectfully filled up by one of the junior officer-mistresses – pretty, blonde-ponytailed, 20-something , junior officer-mistress Leanne. So prisoner no. 7778’s fat, human burden has no need to dismount from him in the coffee lounge, and remains superciliously seated on top of him as she engages in girly gossip and conversation with her female prison-officer colleagues around and about him, whilst he, for his part, switches off his ears (such superior, female gossip is not for the likes of him), and concentrates on counting the bobbles on officer-mistress Victoria’s, inside-out, left socktop!

He is, as you can tell, pathetically intrigued by it – this is such a rare treat for a prisoner-slave; the inside surface of an officer-mistress’s sock!

If he was her personal, household footservant (which he often dreams about being) he would, of course, get to see, touch and smell the warm and clammy insides of off-duty officer-mistress Victoria’s socks all the time! He likes to imagine that she would entrust him with sniffing her discarded, sweaty bootsocks in the corner of her master-bedroom whilst she made after-work love to her husband. He would also, out of respect for her and her husband, be a good and diligent sockslave to her, and would ensure that she never went out of the house in inside-out socks!

However, on the other hand, if officer-mistress Victoria did have a personal, household sockservant back home he, the prisoner-slave, would not now be having the honour of observing her inside-out sock on the back of her left heel – so, somewhat selfishly, he is glad that officer-mistress Victoria cannot currently afford a personal sockservant at home on her modest, prison officer wages!

Typical, dirty prisoner-slave – always thinking of himself!

Somebody must have said something witty or funny to officer-mistress Victoria, for, suddenly, there is movement in the back of her left sock, and it creases up with laughter. The newly formed laughter-line in her sock interrupts his ‘bobble-counting’, but prisoner no. 778 doesn’t mind; he just starts counting the bobbles all over again!

Swish…Crack!

Aooww!

A stinging cut on his already raw and smarting, right flank. Officer-mistress Victoria has evidently finished her warming cup of coffee. It’s time for her to do her rounds of the other prisoners’ cells – and to have her boots kissed whilst feeding them!

…

Needless to say, prisoner no. 7778, being the selfish and self-centred individual that he is, gets a bit jealous whenever he is obliged to watch other prisoner-slaves kissing his officer-mistress’s boots in front of him, and benefiting from her nutritional, female bootdust. But at least fat and lazy officer-mistress Victoria, unlike some of the other officer-mistresses he could mention, tends to remain seated on top of him whilst feeding her charges and having the fronts of her boots kissed, so that he still gets to observe the backs of her boots and socks during feeding time at the ‘zoo’!

In fact, lazy officer-mistress Victoria will only dismount if she has to punish the prisoner-slave in front of her – usually by whipping him. And the first prisoner-slave of the day must have been behaving himself – for there are no whip-cuts to be administered in the first cell they visit, other than the stinging whip-cuts to prisoner no. 7778’s own flanks indicating variously that he is to first turn left, and then stop.

As his fellow-prisoner no. 19654 strains his neck forwards in the kneeling stocks in order to eagerly taste prison-officer mistress Victoria’s reasonably fresh bootdust (it is always a joy and a privilege for a dirty prisoner-slave to have ‘second bite of the dust’, so to speak – after the lucky ponyboy-prisoner, of course) prisoner no. 7778 doesn’t, actually, envy his stockaded colleague all that much. He well remembers what it is like to be perennially confined in the cruel kneeling stocks – unable to move a muscle. And, to be confined in the darkness of such a lonely cell, with no-one even to mock one, is somehow even more cruel – since the stocks were surely designed for public mocking? What’s the point of locking prisoners in the stocks when no-one else can see them, and when they are already confined in a 4 foot x 4 foot cell – other, perhaps, than to humiliate and denigrate them even further, by preventing them from masturbating?

Still, that’s what the Female Courts in their wisdom have decreed, and prisoner no. 7778 supposed, on reflection, that the perennial lack of mobility made his now limited mobility, after 20 years of confinement in the stocks, even more of a privilege to be appreciated, and to be grateful to the unforgiving female for!

He therefore lovingly stares at the backs of mistress Victoria’s bobbled, cream-coloured bootsocks as his fellow-prisoner no. 19654 licks her thick, rounded boot-toes prior to eating his slave-mush breakfast. Her socks – both of them – crease and fold slightly at the back each time she reaches forward to spoon-feed the tasteless mush into his immobilised colleague’s now bootdust covered mouth. At least it’s not ‘bitter mush’ – the mush fed to prisoners on the punishment wing of the prison, which is made to taste deliberately foul, rather than just bland! (Before you ask, officer-mistress Victoria won’t be on duty in the punishment wing today; she wouldn’t need a slave-donkey for that, since it involves her sitting in a treadmill supervisor’s chair all day, working a punishee on his heavy, individual treadmill!)

Pathetic prisoner-slave no. 7778, meanwhile, feels like excitedly crying out amidst these stark, four walls:

‘Oh pray, officer-mistress Victoria! Your socks – officer-mistress! I can see them creasing and folding at the backs, madam! Oh pray, madam! Oh pray!’

But nobody, apart from him, would be interested in her sock-creases, of course (aside, perhaps, from prisoner no. 19654 in front of him, who, because he never gets to transport an officer-mistress around the dungeons on his back, has absolutely no idea what type of socks are inside the fat officer-mistress boots he has just been kissing! Ha! Ha!)

16 times officer-mistress Victoria’s socks crease at the back; that’s 16 spoonfuls of mush for his prisoner-slave colleague to have to consume. But still, prisoner no. 7778 doesn’t envy him. Judging by his prisoner no. (19654), this stockade prisoner has a good few years to go yet, and a goodly amount of good behaviour to demonstrate, before he gets to earn the privilege that had been afforded to the much older prisoner slave no. 7778 – that of conveying the officer-mistresses around on his back, and seeing the backs of their socks!

The prisoner no. 19654 whines involuntarily as the highlight of his day – feeding time – ends, and the whip cracks against prisoner no. 7778’s sore, right flank once again, indicating that he is to turn and exit the cell, leaving his more junior prisoner colleague alone and in the dark, confined for another restless 24 hours in the stocks! Ha! Ha! No bright, creamy-coloured socks for him to study and admire!

Prisoner no. 7778 would much rather have the repeated pain of the signal whip-cuts, and the sight of mistress Victoria’s sock-backs, despite the heavy burden he must carry on his back and shoulders all day, than the loneliness, and helplessness, of the private, prison-cell stocks!

…

In the next cell, officer-mistress Victoria is obliged to dismount and whip the prisoner (no. 10076), since the Female Courts had sentenced him to not just life in the stocks, but 20 lashes of the bulls-pizzle whip once a week. And today’s the day!

Having to get up off her fat ass and whip him makes officer-mistress Victoria irritable, so she whips him hard. Prisoner no. 7778 only hopes that her irritation will not spread to his own back when she remounts him again!

She doesn’t have to feed prisoner no. 10076 either; only whip him – since that too is part of his sentence; he is not to be fed on his weekly whipping days (not that he would have much of an appetite for food after a whipping anyway; and if they whipped him before he ate, he would probably only throw it all back up again due to the pain!)

Predictably, the thought crosses selfish and greedy prisoner no. 7778’s miniscule, male brain that this means there must be a slave-mush meal going spare. But, it goes without saying, any spare meal will not be offered to him.

It goes without saying, because talking is forbidden in the footslave dungeons!

Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!... Swish…Crack!...

The twenty, stinging whip-cuts echo around the enclosed walls of the tiny prisoner-cell, but, thankfully, none of them fall onto prisoner no. 7778’s back!

Swish…Crack!

Aiiii!

That one was for him, however – delivered to his red-raw, right flank by officer-mistress Victoria just as soon as she had, breathlessly, taken up her seat in his wooden saddle once again (she is breathless because she is so unfit and out of condition – even delivering a mere 20-lash whipping to a prisoner exhausts her!)

Prisoner no. 7778 turns and exits the cell, hearing the door slam behind him on the freshly-whipped, and sobbing, prisoner no. 10076 (to give the latter his due, however, he hadn’t exercised his narrow right of prisoner-speech to beg and plea for mercy during the whipping – even though the grimaces on his face clearly indicated that he was suffering mightily under officer-mistress Victoria’s bulls-pizzle whip. She may not be uber-fit, but she sure knows how to cut a man’s back with the whip – prisoner no. 7778’s raw flanks are ample, if scrawny and malnourished, testimony to that!)

He notices, as he now conveys her down the corridor towards the next cell, that officer-mistress Victoria’s right sock is now even more twisted on her right heel-tendon above the V-shaped rim at the back of her boot, thanks to her recent exertions with the whip. Oh how he wishes he could smooth out those creases, and straighten that creamy and inviting-looking, bobbled bootsock-top, with his obedient, prisoner-slave nose!

But, as we have already explained, sock-contact is completely forbidden. A privileged prisoner-slave can look, but not touch, the sock of his female better in front of him as he conveys her along. Even just one surreptitious nosing of her sock, if she felt it, would lead to the loss of his privileges forever, and his return to the stocks in his cell permanently.

It just wasn’t worth the risk!

…

The hungriest time of day for him is when mistress Victoria is seated at the canteen table, eating her mid-shift lunch. Although she doesn’t go so far as using him as her chair at the dinner table (so he does get some respite from her considerable weight on his back), he is obliged to smell the hot, delicious food wafting down from the communal table above him – and listen to officer-mistress Victoria, a noisy eater, gulping down her food as she talks to her colleagues with her mouth full.

But, let’s look on the bright side – the bright side of her cream-coloured bootsocks, as the prisoner-donkey is still obliged to kneel with his face behind his driver’s black leather bootheels, and, again all thanks to those strategically placed, V-shaped upper bootrims, he continues to get to observe a tiny slither of the backs of her socks, and to admire the subliminal creasing and folding in them as she chews and swallows her nourishing, free-human food.

Indeed, he tries his very best to concentrate solely on the backs of her socks, since it helps to take his mind off his hunger pangs and the smell of the food he shall never taste. However privileged a donkey-prisoner may be, he is never permitted to partake of the female officers’ food; not even tidbits! The received wisdom is that such tidbits of rich and nutritional, human food would make him ill anyway – since his prisoner-slave tastebuds and stomach are now only used to bland, tasteless slave-mush; flavoursome, female food would surely poison him!

Not that prisoner-officer mistress Victoria is in the least bit concerned about her hungry ponyboy; or the still stinging cuts from her whip on his flanks. She is much more interested in pursuing the girly, prison-officer-mistress gossip, and, again, along with her chewing-creases, her socks regale the lowly prisoner-slave at her heels with the sight of numerous laughter-lines in the thick, creamy-cotton material; especially in that twisted, right socktop.

Prisoner no. 7778 feels ashamed – for he knows he is somewhat abusing his privileged position beneath the officers’ dinner table to satisfy his soxual lusts; he should really be focussing on that muddy, dirt mark at the base of officer-mistress Victoria’s flat bootheel on her left, prison-officer boot, for it is the lower boot-dirt of his infinite better; but he just can’t help himself – not when sock is so blatantly visible!

That’s the other ‘V’ in his life, you see – ‘V’ for Virgin; for he will never have sex in this place of female power and male impotence. So sox is the closest he will ever get to sex; his officer-mistresses’ socks are the most intimate apparel he will ever get to see on a lady. And so he fetishises them; sublimates his sexual urges into soxual ones, and takes the memories of those sweet socks back with him into his cell at the end of his 10 hour long, prison pony-trekking shift; so that he can dwell on them, and ruminate on them. Not that he can do anything to relieve his soxual tension, being once again ignominiously confined in the stocks, his arms, hands and neck cruelly immobilised for the night.

But only until his next outing, with a prison-officer mistress riding on his back.

He wonders who it will be tomorrow? To be honest, he could do with a break from the heavier mistresses – mistresses such as the somewhat corpulent, if attractive, officer-mistress Victoria! Perhaps the equally attractive, but petite and slim, blonde-ponytailed officer mistress Valerie (Val to her friends)? She of the stripy, blue and white, towelling style bootsocks?

She also happens to be left handed, so that would give his particularly sore and tender, right flank a bit of a break from the whip!

Swish…Crack!

Aiii!

Speaking of which, seems that luncheon is over!