Chapter 56 Val.

Chapter 56: 56 Val.

The tattoo artist, Val, arrived precisely at noon. She was shorter than I’d expected, but also older and much more confident than any woman walking into a strange man’s house probably should be.

Her own arms were covered in intricate sleeve tattoos, and her undercut hairstyle revealed additional artwork on her scalp.

"Nice place," she commented, glancing around my living room. "Remote. Peaceful. I always wanted a place out in the country, but, you know. Gotta work."

"Right. I bought it for the remoteness, so I totally agree," I replied, helping her with the several cases of equipment she’d brought. "Privacy is worth the longer drive into town every now and then."

Val nodded appreciatively, then turned her attention to Elsa and Ayra, who were hovering nearby with very different expressions and demeanors. She must have thought they looked funny with a beret and a baseball cap on indoors.

"So, you folks all want the same design?" Val asked, setting up her workstation efficiently.

"Them, yes. Mine is similar, but without the hearts and wings," I explained, showing her my drawing. "The ladies want the full design on their stomachs, but I just need these central runes on my chest, over my heart."

Val examined the drawing with a neutral look. "Interesting symbols. You drew the hearts kind of shitty but I’ll clean that up for you if that’s okay. Is this your own creation?"

"It’s a... religious emblem," Elsa improvised. "We follow the same... god."

"Cool," Val replied, clearly not particularly interested in the backstory. She was already transferring the design to stencil paper. "Who’s going first?"

Elsa stepped forward with the superior dignity of someone volunteering for sacrificial execution. "I shall be the first, as I am the First Maiden."

"You’re definitely not the very first," Val muttered as she continued redrawing the design.

The next hour went by fast for me, but I had to suspect the princess didn’t share my sentiment.

Elsa lay on the tattooing bench in the center of my living room, her stomach exposed from her navel to just an inch or so above her womanhood as Val transferred the stencil onto her skin.

When the needle first made contact, Elsa’s hand shot out, grabbing mine and squeezing a lot harder than I assumed she could.

"This agony is barely noticeable," she announced through gritted teeth. "Like being tickled by a feather. A sharp, angry feather wielded by a vindictive dark and evil fairy."

"You’re doing great," I encouraged her, trying not to wince as her nails dug crescents into my palm. "The outline is always the worst part, so I hear."

"You will compensate me for this suffering," she informed me, her eyes narrowed to slits. "I expect at minimum a full day of uninterrupted pampering. Possibly two. With frappuccinos! And—and lots of kissing!"

Val worked steadily and did her best not to react like a champ. She kept her focus on the job as she brought the intricate design to life on Elsa’s pale skin.

Despite her complaints, Elsa managed to stay remarkably still, only occasionally requesting brief breaks when the needle hit particularly sensitive spots.

After the better part of two hours, Val sat back, wiping away excess ink to reveal the completed tattoo—bat wings gracefully framing the simple runes, all surrounded by the delicate heart halo, centered perfectly below Elsa’s navel and just above the waistband of her panties. The fresh tattoo was red and swollen, but it was an undeniable success.

"Beautiful work," I complimented as Val applied a thin layer of ointment and a protective covering.

"It does have a primitive elegance," Elsa admitted, examining her new marking.

"Who’s next?" Val asked, changing her gloves and sanitizing her equipment.

Ayra bounced forward before Elsa had even fully vacated the bench. "Me! I’m ready! I’m a brave pup!"

Val eyed Ayra with weary disdain. "First tattoo?"

"Yes," Ayra replied. "But I am not afraid! With my master here to punish me should I step out of line, I—"

Elsa slapped the back of her head so hard the dog-girl looked like her brain reset.

"I mean—yes. I’m ready when you are."

As Val began preparing Ayra’s skin for the stencil, she paused, noticing something odd. "Is that... are you wearing a tail buttplug or something?"

Ayra froze, her eyes widening. I jumped in smoothly: "We’ve got a D&D game later and she likes to dress up ahead of time to get into character."

"And... are those animal ears beneath her weird indoor beret?" Val asked, glancing at Ayra’s head.

"Part of the same costume," I explained. "They’re, uh, actually pretty difficult to remove once attached. Spirit gum, you know? Her whole costume is animatronic, too, so it’s very lifelike and even moves."

"That tail isn’t in my butthole," Ayra added, which was a good point of clarification until she decided to say, "My butthole must be kept ready for Master’s use at all times."

Val, Elsa, and I winced as one. "Welp, I’m starting. Just hold still, costume parts included."

"Of course!" Ayra agreed brightly. "I shall be as motionless as a princess under normal circumstances!"

Elsa giggled. "An apt metaphor."

Ayra’s promise lasted approximately thirty seconds into the actual tattooing process. The moment the needle touched her skin, Ayra’s entire body tensed, and her tail began twitching and curling.

"Ma’am, I need you to hold still," Val reminded her, pausing her work. "Especially your midsection."

"Sorry!" Ayra exclaimed, looking genuinely contrite but failing entirely to control herself. "The pain is immense. Master, hold my hand!"

"Why does she call you Master?" Val asked with very justified concern.

"Just... don’t," I said. "Let’s not."

I actually had to physically hold Ayra’s whole body down against the bench, earning a raised eyebrow from Val but no further comment.

Throughout the session, Ayra reacted to the pain in ways that were distinctly... worrisome.

Rather than wincing or gritting her teeth, she clearly enjoyed the sensation, occasionally making small sounds that bordered on orgasmic.

"The pain is exquisite, Master," she moaned in front of an increasingly distressed Val. "It makes me think of all the terrible, horrible things you’ll do to my bottom for making such a scene."

"I’m so sorry," I whispered hoarsely to the artist, my soul having more or less become one with the definition of mortification.

"Hey," Val replied noncommittally, focusing on her work. "Whatever helps her get through it."