Foot Parole, Part 1
by

Vanessa

Published on Tuesday, September 18, 2007

To read this author's 1st story, click An Afternoon in the Stocks.

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Amanda didn’t know what to think as she sat strapped into a chair while light-pink –almost clear- nail polish was applied to her painfully cuffed toes. The day before Amanda had applied a coat of Rogue-Red to her toenails, but that had been harshly removed shortly after the toe cuffs had been ratcheted down onto her big toes.

“Class system?” Amanda asked, taking her attention away from the woman who was working on her painfully clasped toes which were attached to the floorboards with a short chain.

“Yeah,” the woman replied, and then coughed a couple of more times before continuing.  “The darker the color they put on ya, the closer you are to gettn’ out of this hell hole.”

Amanda glanced down at the woman’s feet and saw that a dark brown was being brushed onto her toes.

“I’m almost out’a here, thank God!” She exclaimed, and nodded down to her feet.

“How long have you been in here?” Amanda asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

“Only three weeks this time,” she answered and coughed again, this time almost uncontrollably. 

“This may sound rhetorical,” Amanda said once the incessant hacking had stopped, “but don’t you find this toenail painting shit a little fucking weird?”

When the lady looked back at her, a stone cold expression had replaced the nonchalant one that Amanda had witnessed before. 

“Those chicks up there take the shit very seriously, too,” she warned, nodding towards the ceiling.  “With those pink little toenails you are sporting, you best prepare yourself to be violated.”

Amanda swallowed hard as beads of sweat began to leak from her forehead.

Before her trip abroad, the extent of Amanda’s legal run-ins in northern California had been limited to a few minor traffic violations.  Yes, like more than a few twenty-something women, she had been known to enjoy a little marijuana from time to time, but it was never more than recreational use in her case. But she found out the hard way that not all countries share the same, lax view of being caught possessing a controlled substance.  A fine and maybe some community service and you were off the hook where she came from; what awaited her after being nabbed by the local authorities was an anomalous nightmare, so bizarre in nature that you have to read about it to believe it.

After graduating from college Amanda’s well-to-do parents gave her a gift that they knew she would enjoy: a two-month trip abroad.  The first month of her excursion went without incident, with the exception of the first lesbian experience of her life which she thoroughly enjoyed, by the way.

The first week of her second month overseas is definitely noteworthy though. It went this way: Sometime after 2:00AM in the late summer, Amanda had exited the apartment of a newly found friend who was having a modest shindig at her place. Drugs were being used by the majority of the party patrons, mostly weed, but some mushrooms and coke were also being eaten and snorted.  As she was exiting the premises, one of her new friends gave her a small bag of dope for the road.  She thanked her with a tongue-kiss, put the bag in her pocket and walked out.  While she waited for a cab she smoked a rare cigarette down to the filter and then flicked it on the sidewalk.  A police officer, who just happened to be walking by, had witnessed her littering and immediately approached her.

“Some identification, please,” the officer said to her in broken English, his hand extended awaiting his request.

Amanda was not surprised that the man had spoken to her in English; a tall, brunette dressed the way she was had to be an American.

“Why do you want my I.D?” She asked, feeling her own words tumble out of her mouth into a slurred sentence.

“Littering is against the Law here, ma’am,” the officer succinctly answered.

Amanda fumbled in her pocket for her I.D. and amidst her clumsy efforts the bag of marijuana dropped to the concrete sidewalk.  Time seemed to slow way down as she watched it sink, a falling leaf slowly dropping to the ground.

The officer squatted down and slowly grabbed the clear, plastic baggie.  “What have we here?” He said, a sinister smirk consumed his face.

Amanda was flabbergasted; her mouth moved but no words came out.  What could she say?

“On your knees, miss,” he ordered, “hands behind your head.”

The search began like many that Amanda had witnessed on television, but then it got a little strange. She couldn’t see what was going on behind her, but she felt her boots being taken off.  After her new pair of black, Kenneth Cole, mid-shaft, dress boots were had been removed, she felt the soft, feminine hands of the officer reach up the right leg of her blue-jeans. Those same supple hands then slid off the black, calf-length nylon that was covering her rock hard calf.  The same was done to her left leg and then Amanda was told to spread her toes.  Amanda was confused, but once she had obliged to the request those same, soft fingers began to inspect the areas between her perfect toes at the end of her size-eight feet.

After the female officer was convinced that Amanda was clean, she was helped to her (still bare) feet and placed into the squad car that the lady cop had cruised to the scene in.

“What about my boots?” Amanda asked.

“Evidence,” the male officer said and gave the inside of them a long, deep sniff.

Then he flashed her that all-to familiar, sinister smile and closed the door to the squad car in her face.