Conjiggle Visit
by
C. Lakewood
I was having Thursday lunch, as usual, with my best friend,
Faye Dunn. I was drinking more than usual, however, and talking
more than usual. Finally, I blurted, "I'm sooo horny! Now that
the school year's over, and I don't have that distraction, it's
gotten worse.... I've even thought about calling Phil."
"Ssssh!" Faye hissed.
Taken aback, I looked around nervously, but there was nobody
close by, and no one was looking at us. Nevertheless, I sheepishly
lowered my voice before continuing. "I'm serious," I grimaced.
"It's been over a year."
"God, Connie, you can't actually mean you want to get it on
with your ex. He's such a geek...a computer weenie."
"No, a systems analyst.... Well, okay...it's pretty much the
same thing. But as geeky as he was most of the time, Phil always
was an absolute animal in bed." I sighed. "I'm not looking to
re-establish a long-term relationship, but I really need some
sex...r-rough sex." I could feel myself blushing. "I don't know
anybody else who can give it to me, and I can't go trolling bars
or ads or the Internet...."
Faye squinted at me and looked thoughtful. "Just how serious
-- and daring -- are you? If you really do mean what you're
saying...I may have a plan."
"What is it? I'm pretty much ready to do ANYTHING."
"Okay, then." She looked around furtively and hunched over,
closer to me. "There's this woman who lives down the street from
me.... She's a matron at the prison, name's Shamballa Monroe.
We used to be...close. Anyway, when Dan and I were going through
that trouble last winter -- you remember.... She offered to help
me 'cope' by getting me into the 'Conjugal Visit Program.'"
"The...what!"
"Ssssh! Don't interrupt until I've laid it all out. Yes,
Conjugal Visit. There's a fenced-off area in one of the prison
yards that's full of small trailers. Ultra-secure. A prisoner
who earns enough brownie points gets an overnight visit. At
first, only actual wives were allowed in, but some jailhouse
lawyer, backed by the ACLU, successfully sued, arguing that it
wasn't fair that his girlfriend couldn't visit him -- she WAS
after all the mother of most of his kids, and she was more-or-less
the equivalent of a common law wife. The case was pretty flimsy,
but the judge was practically senile, and the state was not
interested in rocking the boat in an election year, so things were
settled quietly. As long as the women visitors were screened
first, the prison officials didn't much care who they were: wife,
girlfriend, one-night-stand, whatever.... They just didn't
publicize the policy much. So the inmates were happy, the
bureaucrats were satisfied, and the general public was pretty
much ignorant."
Faye cleared her throat. "Shamballa said she could get me into
the program with a fake identity for a short-term, no-risk 'fix'....
And I'm sure she could do it for you, too."
"But...but...."
"'But' nothing. If I hadn't met Andy, I probably would have
done it. All the eligible prisoners have been tested for STDs,
so there's no danger there. They tend to be rough, but that's
what you want, and there's always a guard handy to keep things
from really getting out of hand. With a bogus ID AND a new look,
your real identity is safe...." She shrugged. "BU-UT...if that
so-called desperate need of yours is just so much bull...."
"Well, I...I don't...." I had started to temporize and then
realized how wet I'd suddenly become. My mind was a whirl of
perverted images. Almost without premeditation, I murmured,
"C-could...would you introduce me to Shamballa?"
******************************
I spent that night and most of the next day in an agony of
indecision, periods of irresistible misgivings alternating with
periods of intense fantasy and prolonged masturbation. By late
Friday afternoon, I was near exhaustion, and, despite all the
orgasms I'd given myself, I was feeling hornier than ever. I
took a quick shower -- normal water temperature at first, and
then COLD water -- but that just seemed to intensify my
submissiveness. So I decided to go ahead and meet Shamballa
Monroe; if necessary, I reasoned, I could always chicken out
later, and no harm done. A glance at the clock told me Faye
would be by soon to pick me up, so I dressed hurriedly.
I chose an outfit that was both casual and conservative:
hunter-green shell, faded denim skirt (stylishly short but
still relatively modest), white bra and panties, medium-heeled
sandals. Gold ear studs, plain gold chain, minimal makeup.
Faye arrived on time, and we drove to a bar, "The 'Hood." She
and I turned out to be the only white people in the place. As we
entered, a hush fell over the customers until a woman got up from
a booth, greeted Faye, and gestured for us to sit. She sat down
beside me.
She was younger than me and shorter -- I estimated 28 and 5'4"
-- but she was obviously used to dominating others.
"So you want to become a 'visitor,' but under an alias?" she
asked. I nodded. She frowned. "You WILL answer me verbally...and
say 'Ma'am.'"
"Y-yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Okay, I can arrange it for you, but you must obey me without
any hesitation."
"Yes, ma'am. I understand."
"Seal it with a kiss," she said. She pulled me close and into
a French kiss that everyone in the bar could see. I had never
kissed a woman on the lips before, and it was embarrassing,
but...intriguing. "Now, take off your panties -- under the table
-- and give them to me," she commanded.
"Oh, god!" I murmured, hesitating. She cleared her throat
ominously. "Well, in for a penny...," I thought...and obeyed.
I wondered if she had dominated Faye as easily. I glanced
across the table, but Faye's expression was unreadable.
Shamballa regarded Faye and made a throwaway gesture. "You
might as well head home. She'll be okay." Faye looked as if she
wanted to say something, but, in the end, she just gave me a look
and a nod...and left. I realized that I was now completely at
Shamballa's mercy. That was rather scary -- but even more of a
turn-on. She was a blue-collar, dominant, black lesbian. I'd
never known anyone like her, and I was hooked.
She slid out of the booth and said, "C'mon, girl."
We went over to the juke box arm-in-arm. The choices were
mainly rap and hip-hop, but there were some old Mo-town hits
and a few even older 50s classics. Shamballa dropped in some
coins and punched some buttons...and then we were slow-dancing
to Johnny Mathis.
We were dancing close -- very close -- and she was leading,
of course. Her left hand was under my skirt, caressing my bare
bottom....
A couple of records later, she leaned even closer and whispered
in my ear. I murmured, "No...I-I just...I c-couldn't. P-pl-lease
don't ma-ake me do that...."
Suddenly, she broke our clinch, spun me about, and said loudly,
"Hey, people!" Everyone turned to look at us, and she nudged me
forward. "Do it," she said softly but firmly.
Breathlessly, I announced, "I-I...um...I've been or-ordered
to tell you all that...that I'm...not-not w-wearing any...any
pan-ties...." I was sweating and squirming...and SO close to
cumming. The cheers and whistles and applause from all sides
were humiliating, but....
Then I realized she had left me alone in the middle of the
small dance area. I could dimly see her across the room,
talking with some big guy in a sleeveless t-shirt.
A moment later, she was back, smirking and holding a fresh
pitcher of beer, which she set down nearby. She whispered to me,
"I got to tell you that I traded your panties to that big nigger
over there for this pitcher of beer." She pulled up my skirt,
exposing my bare bottom, and spanked me -- three sharp swats --
before letting my skirt drop. "That'll tease him a tad. Maybe
make him want some more stuff later. You still got a bra and
sandals we can spare.... And I can always spank you again...longer
and harder. Right?"
"Yes, ma'am...l-longer and...and ha-harder...." I shivered.
Back in the booth, she sat close, and I could smell her musky
odor. It was intoxicating. I wondered what she'd make me do to
compensate her for her help. I wondered what I wanted her to make
me do.
As we drank, she slid her hand under my skirt and began to
finger me. My instinct was to cringe away, but instead I edged
closer to her. "You very wet," she murmured. "An' gettin' wetter.
But I wants you to get rid of the crotch hair. Unnerstan'?"
She was beginning to slur her words, sounding more and more
like a ghetto black.
"Yes, ma'am." (How could all this be happening so implacably
to an ordinary, white, generally conventional, middle class, school
teacher like me? Why was I submitting so easily? Why was I such a
slut?)
"You think bossy niggers're real sexy, doncha, girl?"
"I...I...y-yes, ma'am...." (Maybe it was just that simple.)
"'Yes, ma'am' what?"
"Yes, ma'am, I think b-bossy...um...n-nig-iggers...are...real
s-sexy. Oh, god!" She thrust two fingers into me, and I had a
massive orgasm. I was sure that everyone in the bar knew what
was happening, and that thought almost made me cum again. I was
glad that Faye had already left.
"Well?" Shamballa said. I knew instinctively what she wanted.
"Thank you, ma'am." She raised an eyebrow. "Thank you,
ma'am, f-f-for making me c-cum," I whispered.
"Louder. An' call me 'Mommy.'"
"Thank you, M-mom-my, for making me CUMMM! Oh, god...oh,
g-od!" She was flicking my clit with her thumb...and I was
cumming...and all the people were laughing at me....
"You mas'urbate a lot, baby?"
"Well, lately, several times a day, Mommy. I-I've been SO
h-horny...."
"You gonna get lots hornier, baby, but you won' be playin'
wif yo'se'f -- 'less I gives you permission."
******************************
By the time we left, I was bra-less and barefoot (as well as
pantie-less), red-assed and full of beer. She took me to her
apartment, and I wound up staying the entire weekend. I spent
most of the time naked, losing my pubic hair and learning my
"place."
******************************
"We can keep your real first name, Connie, and your age,
height, weight, and eye color...but change everything else,"
Shamballa told me. My alias was "Connie Johnson," and, Monday
morning, I rented a post office box in that name. Next, I bought
a good quality auburn wig as near as possible to my current style
and color. Then I got my hair chopped into a pixie cut and began
the process of letting it revert to my natural, nondescript
dishwater blonde. Henceforth, "Connie Maurice" would wear the
wig, and "Connie Johnson" would not. I also changed my makeup.
I looked different...and cheaper. I bought some appropriately
slutty clothes at a thrift shop.
Shamballa took some photos of me -- a couple of head shots for
my bogus ID, and several full-length nudes (which she was going to
smuggle into the prison). She had a con in mind, a big buck named
Marsellus Washington.
I had to write an introductory letter to him. (Initially, I
spelled his name "Marcellus," but Shamballa corrected that and a
couple of other things in the text.)
Dear Marsellus,
My name is Connie Johnson. I am white, 32, 5’8”, 140 lbs.,
with hazel eyes and short blonde hair. I'm divorced, bi,
and very passionate. From what I have heard about you,
you seem to be a manly, macho man...just the sort I like.
I want to meet you and get to know you, and I understand
you qualify for the Conjiggle Visit program, but have no
girlfriend. Well, I am available, for whatever....
If you're interested, I hope we can get together very soon.
Love,
Connie
"'Conjiggle'?" I asked.
"We don't want you to come across as too much of a brainiac,
now do we?" She snickered. "'Sides, he prolly won't even notice."
Finally, when everything else was done, "Connie Johnson" went
to a seedy (but approved) clinic on the West Side and got tested
for STDs.
******************************
In due course, my application was approved, and a visit with
Marsellus was scheduled for noon, the last Saturday in the month.
"Connie Johnson" was to present herself at "Visitors' Reception"
by 10:30 that morning. The letter from the prison board also
enclosed my official photo ID card, explained the rules, listed
contraband items, and so on.
******************************
The night before the scheduled visit I spent at Shamballa's,
mostly with my head between her legs. In the morning, I dressed
in a hot pink tube top, a burnt orange low-riding mini-skirt, a
lavender thong, and flip-flops. I wondered (not for the first
time) about the wisdom of this thing. If Faye had been there (and
I'm certainly glad she wasn't), she undoubtedly would have badgered
me for over-thinking decisions, as usual.
Nevertheless, after a long debate (which my throbbing cunt
won), I took a bus out to the prison and reported as ordered.
I signed in, and they checked me against my ID...and both
against the computer data base. I was committed; there was no
turning back now. Together with a few other women, I was then
herded into an exam room and told to strip. Several matrons
conducted the searches, supervised by three male guards. I was
a bit intimidated by the procedure, but not nearly as much as I
would have been without Shamballa's conditioning.
The matron who searched me was a 20-something Latina, swarthy
and stocky, with greasy hair slicked back into a duck-tail. (I
was surprised anyone still wore that style.) She looked like a
dyke -- and her manner left no doubt.
The first part of the search went fairly fast -- hair, ears,
mouth. Then it slowed down. She had me lift my boobs by the
nipples and shake them...repeatedly. She really took her time
when she felt up my hairless crotch.
She slid a finger into my pussy and wiggled it around. Then
a second finger. She kept at it much longer than necessary (and
wasn't nearly as skillful as Shamballa).
Eventually, she pulled her fingers out, told me to bend over,
and (when I did) proceeded to finger-fuck my asshole until I was
gasping and on the verge of cumming. She stopped abruptly, though,
and stripped off her exam glove with a smirk.
We were then run through a gang shower. (Why? I don't know.)
At last, having dripped dry, I was passed my top, skirt, and
flip-flops by the butch matron. She thrust my panties into her
pants pocket. At my look of surprise, she grinned maliciously and
said, "You won' need 'em, puta." When we'd dressed, we were all
told to follow a matron with a clipboard into the yard, and, one
by one, we were led off to our assigned trailers.
******************************
Mine was pretty basic inside. The decor was a mix of 1950s and
1960s, but it seemed clean. Even so, I imagined I could smell the
lingering odor of passion. A queen-sized bed took up much of the
space. I shivered (though it wasn't chilly) and sat down on the
edge of the bed.
I hadn't long to wait. A few minutes later, a big black Hulk
entered -- Marsellus Washington. Behind him the door clicked shut,
an ominous sound. We were apparently locked in. He must have been
about 6'6" and almost 300 pounds. I shivered again.
He scowled at me and said, in a flat, raspy voice, "You better
know I's the boss here. I decide how we fuck...how often...an'
what hole I use. I don’t wear no rubber. Also, when I cums in
yer mouth, you SWALLOW it, swallow it ALL. Unnerstood?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Get naked." He shrugged out of his jump suit and stood
back, hands on hips, until I obeyed. It didn't take long to strip
off what little I was wearing, but I did manage to sneak a peek at
his crotch. I blinked. Jutting straight out, chocolate brown and
dusty rose and vivid pink, was the largest cock I'd ever seen (or
even fantasized about). It was very long...but, even more
remarkable, it was SO THICK. I gaped at it. He shook his head.
"You can suck me off later. Right now, I wants t'fuck."
He pushed me down on my back and fingered my crotch. "Heh.
Won't need no extra lube, I guess," he chuckled. Bending down,
he inserted the tip of his cock into me and then, with a heave,
buried it deep. Oh, god! This was only the fourth cock I'd ever
known, and all the others had been average or below, and I wondered
how I could actually contain this monster for long.
As it happened, that first coupling was very brief. After less
than two minutes of pile-driver fucking -- which left me dizzy --
he began cumming, the pungent white goo oozing up around his
pistoning prick and spreading out over my crotch and belly.
Fucked like a slut by an African-Am...a black...a-a NIGGER! I
felt so degraded...and so fulfilled.
He pulled his limp monster out of me, rolled onto his back, and
told me to lick it back to life. When I had done that, I then had
to straddle him like a "cowgirl" and ride him to another orgasm.
This one took a long time.
I rode him hard, gasping, my boobies flopping around wildly,
with Marsellus slapping my ass whenever I faltered. But at last
I could feel him cumming again, and I was allowed to collapse face
down onto the bed beside him. It wasn't long before he lifted
himself up onto his elbows. "Well," he rasped, "that's taken the
edge off." He shifted slightly, and I knew he was looking at my
backside.
"Sweet lookin' booty. Pull yer butt-cheeks open an' show me
yer asshole." I did it. "Hmmm, looks nice an' tight. Ever been
butt-fucked?"
"No.... Just fingers."
"Then you got a real treat comin'...." He probed my asshole
with a finger.... Two fingers.... "But mebbe not this visit.
You need to get yo'se'f a butt-plug an' loosen up this li'l ol'
hole. Befo' you visit nex' time, give yo'se'f a good, big enema.
You'll haveta suck me off AFTER I butt-fucks you. Also, when you
come back fer more sugar, I wants to see a tattoo -- on yer left
butt-cheek...a Queen of Spades mark two inches high."
"Queen of Spades?"
"Yeah. Go to the tattoo place on West 2nd, out near Moses
Avenue. They'll know what I wants."
That was the longest conversation we had. Mostly we just
fucked in various positions and played with each other in various
ways and I sucked him.... In between times, we snoozed a bit. I
was his bitch.
They delivered lunch mid-afternoon (burgers, fries, cole slaw,
and iced tea), supper late in the evening (oven fried chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy, tomato and cucumber salad, and tea),
and breakfast in the morning (scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon,
toast, orange juice, and coffee). It wasn't exactly gourmet
stuff, but it was good. (I had thought the prisoners got baloney
sandwiches and kool-aid at every meal.)
******************************
I had an almost unbelievable number of orgasms, and, when the
visit ended, I literally walked bow-legged back to "Visitors'
Reception." There, I was processed in reverse: strip, shower,
search, dress, sign out. I didn't get my panties back, and I
had to ride the bus back, blushingly aware that I was naked under
my mini-skirt. (It was curious that that bothered me, considering
all that I'd been through in the last 24 hours. But I guess that,
inside the prison, I was "Connie Johnson," the slut, whereas
outside the walls, awareness that I was "Connie Maurice,"
respectable school teacher, came creeping back.)
************************************
Shamballa was out when I got back to her place, so I flopped on
the bed and fell asleep immediately.
The next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake. The sun was
casting long shadows as I struggled to sit up. It took me a moment
to recognize Shamballa. I got to my feet, aching all over.
"Well, how was it?"
I dropped my skirt, showing her my cunt. "Look." I pulled the
sticky lips apart.
She looked -- and smiled -- at my stinking, swollen cunt,
oozing cum. I smelled like nigger sex and knew it. "Tube top,"
she snapped. I hurriedly took it off. "I TOL' you, girl, when
you inside my place, you be naked. Right?
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Well, we'll see jus' how sorry." She stepped out of her
slacks and panties, sat down on the edge of the bed, and spread
her legs. Knowing my place, I sank to my knees, bowed my head,
and began licking her pussy (which was already drooling in
anticipation).
After I'd brought her off three times, draped myself over her
lap for a prolonged spanking, and confessed how much I'd enjoyed
my visit with Marsellus, I got a chance to ask her the prime
question: "Ma'am, what's a 'Queen of Spades' tattoo?"
She laughed. Marsellus wants you marked for what you are, eh?
It's like a spade ace, black, with a white capital 'Q' inside it.
You can 'magine what it means.... Ahhh, the idea of you gettin'
a Queen of Spades tat makes me horny all over again. Get down
here an' eat me some more. An' this time I wanna hear lotsa
moanin' an' slurpin'."
I gave her what she wanted.
******************************
Later, as we were relaxing, she said, "You should go get that
tat tomorrow, chile."
"Well, I don't know, Mommy...."
She shrugged. The sooner you get it done, the more time it'll
have to heal 'fore your next visit."
"I mean...well, I'm not sure I'll get it at all. Tattoos are
vulgar, to begin with, and that Queen of Spades would mark me...as
a slave to big black cock."
"AN' hot black pussy. Which you are. Well, do it or not --
it's your butt. I think it'd look sexy, an' you...you'd be
humiliated but really turned on to have to flash that tat...on
the beach, in changing rooms, at the doctor's office.... An' if
you diss Marsellus by goin' back without that mark, well, he won'
slap you aroun' none 'cause the trailer's bugged, an' a guard'd
bust that up right away, an' Marsellus'd lose his priv'leges. He
would prolly jus' fuck you, an' then won't let you visit no more.
He a con, a piece of shit, but he also a brutha, an' he don't need
no uppity white bitch dissin' him an' tryin' to bring him down.
Damn! Get off yer lazy white ass an' back to eatin' my pussy."
******************************
So, the following morning, though still not committed, I found
myself riding the westbound bus along 2nd Street. Within a couple
of blocks of leaving the central business district, I was the only
white person on board. I watched the streetscape shift, the big
department stores, government buildings, and office towers changing
to parking lots, apartment complexes, and small businesses...then
to scruffy bars, junk shops, and some residential enclaves (mostly
peeling paint and uncut grass). And, finally, we were passing
crack houses, boarded-up storefronts, and vacant lots choked with
weeds and rusty car parts. I shivered, wondering if this trip were
a metaphor for my recent life....
As we neared Moses Avenue, the ghetto receded ever so slightly,
and the scenery briefly improved. Suddenly I saw a tattoo parlor
up ahead, on the right. I rang the bell, and the bus stopped
directly in front of the shop, "Blue Moon Tattoos." The place
was garish but inscrutable. Its windows were opaque, the
splatter-painted glass resembling a Jackson Pollock.
I looked about. There was a scattering of people on the street
-- men in baggy clothing and do-rags, women with improbable hair
and ludicrous platform shoes. I was not like them, I wasn't. Yet
here I stood, at a cross-roads, perhaps THE cross-roads of my life.
I could enter the shop and subject myself to The Mark. Or I could
cross the street, and catch the eastbound bus...and never come this
way again.
Which should I choose? Which WOULD I choose?