All she’d wanted was a little butterfly on her shoulder.

When she’d been surprised at the cost the grizzly old tattooist had smiled and given her a choice. Instead of paying, he told her, he’d lock her in a chastity belt for a week. If she could last that, her debt would be paid. 

How bad could it be, she thought, it might even be fun.

She was always very horny but being unable to even touch made it 20 times worse. By the end of the first day she was already climbing the walls, trying fruitlessly to get to her aching, dripping cunt, sealed away in steel.

It was only three days in that she came back with the money, asking to be unlocked. But it was too late for that, he told her, she could masturbate, but only while he added a tattoo to her skin of his own choosing. It took two more days for her to agree.

That was over a year ago now. She’d kept failing, more tattoos got added, more time was added, and the restraints increased.
But she didn’t care any more. She could only even get aroused while the whine of tattoo needle filed her ears, could only climax while the sharp pain pierced her body. 

She lived in the parlour now, on display for the customers all the time. Still mildly embarrassed when her arousal was pointed out to customers after she watched them being worked on. They mostly thought it was cute. 

Certainly it was the perfect marketing ploy to get going men queuing up to get work done. It was actually her own suggestion she service them while they were tattooed to help distract from the pain. They’d never been so busy in the parlour. 

She was just happy she had so much skin left to ink.

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