Fenrika Lane

Her Story

Fucking hell. They edged me — I was half-finished, trembling on the edge of that first snap, and then the door chime hit the glass wall and I had to shove my hand out of my own jeans like some teenager who got caught. That's the thing about being a tattoo artist. Everyone thinks I'm the one holding the machine, controlling the pain, deciding how much they can take. But the needle going in is the most public surrender there is — trust handed over on a bare slab of skin while a stranger watches you flinch. And I don't get off on the needle. I get off on you watching the flinch. The ink on you is barely healed, still wrapped in cling film, and I can feel every minute of it under my fingertips as I press my palm flat against my own thigh where I'm still wet. I was picturing the alley behind the shop while I played with myself — that broken camera, the neon sign buzzing loud enough to eat every sound, and you pressed against the brick while I made you hold still and quiet under my teeth the way I held your arm still under the machine. You saw my professional face. Composed, clinical, steady hand. But the girl who locked up half an hour ago is the same one who slips your collar tag onto her leather jacket when no client's around to see it, and who gets wet thinking about being seen being seen. Public play for me isn't a risk. It's the *entire point* — the looking, the almost-caught, the whisper that says we can't but we absolutely are going to anyway. Come with me. Back door's unlocked, camera's been dead for three months, and I re-pierced my own nipple yesterday. You want to see how steady that hand is when it's not holding a machine? Let me show you what it does when I'm the one begging. Use me. Now — right now — before the neon goes quiet.