This is, of course, a continuation of "Conjiggle Visit."  No time 
elapses between the end of that story and the beginning of this one.





                    Conjiggle Visit II

                            by

                       C. Lakewood



    So there I was, deep in the wilds of West Second Street, 
standing irresolute in front of Blue Moon Tattoos.  Should I, 
or should I not?  

    I had ridden the bus westward for almost half an hour, watching 
the streetscape deteriorate -- skyscrapers and highrises giving way 
to squat apartment houses and small businesses and eateries, which 
in turn were replaced by strip bars and pawn shops and seedy 
consignment stores, and then by crack houses, empty storefronts, 
and over-grown, junk-filled vacant lots.  I had wondered -- with 
some reason -- if this scenic descent symbolized my recent life....

    The façade of Blue Moon Tattoos was gaudily painted, but its 
windows were opaque.  So who knew what it might be like inside.  
One thing WAS certain: for me, what the shop was selling was 
humiliation.

    But I got off on humiliation, didn't I?  Yes, but I'd always 
before been able to keep my respectable identity separate from 
my submissive slut persona.  I could cycle between being "Connie 
Maurice" and being "Connie Johnson" pretty much as it pleased me.  
But, once I bore The Mark, things would be different.  That Mark 
would proclaim what I fundamentally was Whenever I went to the 
doctor's office or the beach or the gym or....  Moreover, I 
probably wouldn't be permitted panties very often and then only 
thongs.  I shivered.  

    On the other hand, I didn't dare see Marsellus again without 
The Mark.  And Shamballa -- "Mommy" -- would be furious with me.

    I never really made a conscious decision.  Prompted by who 
knows what, I just made a sharp right-face and marched jnto the 
shop.

    Inside, it was starkly lit by industrial-strength fluorescent 
tubes, and the walls were decorated with intriguing photos of 
tattoos past.  Behind the counter was a small Oriental female who 
might have been any age between 18 and 40.  She was wearing a black 
turtleneck shell and faded jeans.  She had a gold tooth, and a 
scarlet dragon writhed its way up her left arm.

    "Yesss?" she sneered.

    "My name is...um...Connie Johnson...."

    The girl turned her head toward a doorway behind her.  "Meester 
Moon...SHE is here."  

    A moment later, a big man -- say 6'4" and at least 250 pounds 
-- appeared in the doorway.  He could have been a gypsy or some 
sort of Arab -- swarthy skin, coarse black hair in a ponytail, 
scruffy stubble, hooked nose, and a scowl.  A smoldering stub 
of a cigarillo dangled from his thick lips.  He nodded at me.  
"Yeah, we got a phone call 'bout you....  Yer the uptown girl 
who loves big black cock, eh?"
  
    "Y-yes, sir."

    He turned to the Asian girl.  "Okay, Lê.  Do the paperwork 
an' then send her on back."

    I signed some forms, including a waiver, and then had to 
deliver myself to "Meester Moon."  I thought bitterly that 
there should be a warning above the doorway to "abandon hope."  
I glanced up; there was only a Pepsi sign.

    The back room was spotlessly clean -- obviously much cleaner 
than Meester Moon's mind.  He was sitting beside a padded table 
that was covered by a paper liner.  He had exchanged the scowl 
for a leer.  (I was eventually to learn that those were his two 
primary expressions.)  He wore an off-white sleeveless undershirt, 
purple sweatpants, and latex gloves.

    "I unnerstand you want a Queen of Spades tat two inches high 
on yer left butt-cheek.  Right?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Okay.  Then strip.  Everthin' off."

    I immediately started to undress and was half-naked before the 
absurdity occurred to me.  Why in god's name would I have to take 
"everthin'" off?  Just so he could see me naked?  But still I 
didn't question his order.  I guess I'd already become pretty well 
conditioned to obey people of color.... 

    When I was completely naked, he looked me over, front and rear, 
and then sniffed theatrically.  At the scent of my arousal, his 
leer broadened, and the lump in his pants rose.  I stared at his 
crotch and -- oh, god! -- licked my lips.  What a slut I'd become!

    "I got one, too," he rasped.

    "One...what?" I blinked.

    "A big...black...cock.  But there's time enough for that later. 
Get on the table...prone."  And he slapped me sharply on the bottom.

    I squealed and scrambled onto the table...and then deliberately 
paused on all fours until he slapped me again, twice.

    He clicked on a CD player, and there ensued, not moronic rap or 
barbaric heavy metal, but Tschaikovsky's peerless violin concerto. 

    After sterilizing my butt-cheek, he began the actual tattooing 
process.  The needle hurt, but not as much as it might have, 
because I was distracted by fantasies of his "big...black...cock."  
I knew I was going to leave quite a puddle of cunt-juice on his 
table.  ("Connie Maurice" would have blushed at this behavior, but 
"Connie Johnson" reveled in it.  Having an alter ego is very 
liberating.)

    After who-knows-how-long drifting, only half-aware, I was 
jolted back to reality when he said, "All done," and slapped 
my right butt-cheek.  He showed me the tattoo in a mirror and 
then deftly bandaged it.  As I eased myself off the table, he 
commented, "Looks like shit now, but, after it's healed, it'll 
be cool.  Lê'll give you a sheet of instructions on how to 
take care of it.  In a month or so, I want you back here so we 
can take a picture of it.  That's all."

    I stood nervously before him.  "S-s-sir?  Please...um....  
M-may I see it?"

    "See what?"

    "Your...um...your b-big, bla-ack c-cock...."

    He stood up.  "I don't mind."  He pulled down his sweat pants, 
letting his dark, semi-rigid cock spring free.  As I watched it, 
it grew in size and stiffness until it was bigger even than 
Marsellus's.  I actually began to drool.  I wanted it.

    "I want it," I said.

    "Heh.  I do like straight talk.  Okay, sweetheart, go ahead."

    Sinking to my knees, I leaned forward, and kissed his cock.  
It was slimy and musky and tasted unwashed.  (Just the way I 
liked them.)  I sucked the head into my mouth and went to work 
on it with my lips and tongue.  I moaned.  And so did he.      

    I must have been doing it to his liking, because he soon gushed 
a sizeable load of cum -- thick and salty -- into my mouth.  I held 
it there for a moment, savoring it, before swallowing. 

    He pulled me up by my ears.  "Fergit whut I said 'bout waitin' 
a month.  Yer welcome to come back any time an' polish my knob."  

    I thanked him -- sincerely -- dressed, and left.

		******************************  

    When I emerged from the shop, there were still a few people 
here and there.  They might have been the same ones who'd been 
hanging about before -- black pimps and their whores, or who 
knows.  I was still not like them.  But, unlike before, when I 
could still flatter myself that I was better than them, I knew 
different now.    

    As a precaution, I rode the Eastbound bus standing up.

		******************************

    "Yer breath smells like cum," Shamballa hissed.  "You sucked 
off Ray Moon, dintja?"

    "Yes...and Mr. Moon's big black cock is delicious," I replied 
smugly.

    "Black?  Shit!  He dark, but he ain't no nigger....  'Course, 
if Ho-bama can forget all about his white mama and call hisse'f 
'black' 'stead o' myew-lattoh, I guess anybody can call 'emse'ves 
purt' near anythin'.  Now, girl, you go gargle wi' mouthwash an' 
then git to eatin' my snatch."

    I ate her for nearly an hour, and then we attended to my tat.  
We followed the instructions I'd been given, gently washing the 
area with antibiotic soap and then applying the recommended 
antibiotic ointment.  For the next two weeks, we repeated this 
process three times a day.  A few days into the healing period, 
the skin around the tattoo started to peel (like a sunburn).  
By the eighth day, the top layer had all sloughed away and left 
shiny new skin.  By the end of another week, the tat appeared to 
be completely healed, though we knew we'd have to be somewhat 
careful of it for about another four weeks.

		******************************

    But the days passed fairly quickly for me.  First of all, I had 
Shamballa to satisfy, and, with a live-in Caucasian tongue at her 
disposal, she was becoming increasingly demanding.  And she began 
pimping me out to her friends -- all black, of course, men and 
women.  She also had plans for me to go to the beach in a thong 
bikini and was even going to arrange a job for me -- as a nude 
b-girl -- at "The 'Hood," the bar where we'd first met.  Her ideas 
for me were wonderfully exciting.

    In obedience to Marsellus, I was conditioning my asshole with 
a series of thicker and thicker butt-plugs.  It was a deliciously 
naughty process.   

    Moreover, I was visiting Mr. Moon six days a week, doing chores 
around the shop, besides sucking him off...and often taking care 
of Lê as well.  (She turned out to be an anthropology major in 
college and was really nice once she'd decided she liked you.)  In 
return, I got to listen to much great music -- his collection being 
larger than my own -- and was even given a series of drawing 
lessons.  

    Life was good.

    Then, about the middle of July, it was picture day.  My tattoo 
was duly photographed and printed off.  One copy was inserted into 
Mr. Moon's sample book, and another was posted on the shop's wall.  
To celebrate the occasion, he butt-fucked me.  It was somewhat 
uncomfortable and utterly humiliating, but unbelievably thrilling.  
I loved it and begged him to do it again, but he said he didn't 
want to butt-fuck me very often, in order to minimize wear and tear 
on my asshole. 

    Once again, I rode the Eastbound bus standing up.

		******************************

    That evening, Shamballa threw a "party" to celebrate.  Her 
parties all turned out pretty much the same: three to five nigger 
lesbians would come over, Shamballa would play endless so-called 
"music," and I'd prance around naked and cater to their needs.  
For some reason, though, Shamballa seemed unusually jacked about 
this one.

    When the guests arrived, I discovered why.  There were five: 
four nigger lesbians...and Faye.  The expression on her face -- 
especially when she saw my tattoo -- was excruciatingly 
humiliating (and not in the good way).  I had never hated 
Shamballa...until then.  

    But I obediently played the game.  I ate each of the nigger 
bitches until she couldn't cum any more...and then I did Faye.  
She was so inhibited by the situation that she took forever to 
climax, but, when she did cum, she almost turned inside out.  
Afterward, her look of shock and scorn gave way to one of 
diffident admiration, and she didn't hesitate long when 
Shamballa ordered HER to go down on ME. 

    Faye was pretty good at it, I must say, and I made a mental 
note to find more opportunities for queening her.

    The black dykes eventually went home, but Faye stayed the 
night.  The two of us licked Shamballa into unconsciousness, 
and then alternated chat and 69 until dawn. 

		******************************

    Life seemed to continue the pattern it had followed lately, and 
another visit to Marsellus was arranged.  Yet, in the back of my 
mind lurked the awareness that the new semester would be beginning 
in about six weeks.  True, I could use last year's syllabi, so I 
had nothing new to prepare.  Still, "Connie Johnson" would be 
going dormant and "Connie Maurice" reawakening.  Could I deal with 
that...and with other changes?

    In due course, the morning of my second "conjiggle" visit 
arrived.  I dressed in the same tube top, mini-skirt, and 
flip-flops that I had worn on my previous visit, but omitted 
panties, since I figured they'd just be confiscated as they had 
been before.    
 
    At "Visitors' Reception" the process was replayed.  I signed 
in, blah-blah-blah, was told to strip, blah-blah-blah, was ogled 
by the several matrons and three male guards, blah-blah-blah.  I 
didn't feel intimidated at all.

    I was searched by the same matron as before.  This time I had 
presence of mind enough to check her name-tag: "M. Sanchez."  
Having a name now, her air of authority seemed to diminish.  The 
greasy dyke did have a good laugh when she spotted the tat, but 
then she apparently sensed that I was different now and searched 
me with a lot less innuendo.  The gang shower, blah-blah-blah, 
then off to the trailers.

		******************************
    
    Marsellus was as big and black and stupid as before.  He 
expressed pleasure with the appearance of my tattoo and 
satisfaction with the condition and cleanliness of my asshole.  
Having finished what passed for "sweet talk," he then got down 
to the nitty-gritty.

    As before, we spent the time fucking in various positions when 
I wasn't sucking him....  He butt-fucked me repeatedly, and it was 
like life in Hobbes's state of nature: nasty and brutish...but 
also, thankfully, short.  Though he used me thoroughly, in a 
moment of clarity I realized that I was no longer his bitch.  

    He told me he wanted me to visit some of his "home boys," 
starting the next available day...and I dutifully wrote down  
their names on the back of a Wendy's receipt.

    All day, I was pretty much just going through the motions, but 
he was too arrogant and dim-witted to notice.  

    Once again, lunch was delivered mid-afternoon (beef stew, mac 
and cheese, peach cobbler, and iced tea), supper late in the 
evening (pepper steak, baked potato, mixed vegetables, spiced 
pears, and tea), and breakfast in the morning (waffles and syrup, 
sausage, orange juice, and coffee).  Simple stuff, but probably 
better than Shamballa would have given me.  (I wondered again if 
this were a special visitors' day menu.) 

    After breakfast, we had a final tumble, and then it was time to 
return to "Visitors' Reception," where I was again processed in 
reverse: strip, shower, search, dress, sign out -- blah-blah-blah.  

    There are some things that are exciting the first time...but, 
with repetition, quickly become, well, boring.

    I crumpled the Wendy's receipt and dropped it into the trash 
bin at the bus stop.

		******************************

    The following day, my "Connie Maurice" persona resurfaced, at 
least in part.  I did a lot of critical thinking and had a long 
debate with myself.  Marsellus had become part of the past, like 
Phil (my ex-husband) and those earlier lovers whom I could barely 
remember.  Shamballa, too.  But who was my present and future?  
That question was surprisingly easy to answer.

    Monday morning I said farewell to Shamballa's crib.

    This time the bus ride West was one of hope.  And, at the end 
of the journey, when I alit in front of the Blue Moon, I knew that 
I was home. 

		******************************

    That was then.  Now I'm Connie Moon, and we live together in 
a loving ménage -- my husband, Lê (our adopted daughter), and I.  

    It was a sordid and bumpy ride, but somehow I still reached a 
safe haven.