The Hidden Camera Tattoo - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The dim glow of the tattoo parlor wrapped around me as I sat with my legs slightly parted, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and something darker. The amber lighting washed over my bare skin, making me look almost ethereal—or maybe just vulnerable.
The needle buzzed against my inner thigh, each prick sending strange, electric jolts through my body. My cheeks burned crimson, my breath hitching every time the machine hummed too close.
"Turn around. Kneel."
Ryan's voice was rough, commanding. I hesitated for just a second before biting my lip and obeying, slowly bending forward until my back faced him. The vibration of the tattoo gun pulsed through me, its path teasing, grazing—
Then I felt it.
Something that wasn't the needle.
A shiver tore through me, forcing my neck to arch, my head lifting instinctively. And that's when I saw it in the mirror—what had been brushing against me wasn't the machine at all.
My name is Chloe Anderson, and on paper, I'm the perfect college freshman.
The name might mean "ordinary," but nothing about me is.
Since I was a kid, I've been the golden girl—the one parents pointed to, the one classmates envied. It wasn't just the trust fund or the straight A's. It was the way I looked.
At eighteen, I'm already 5'9" with legs that go on forever. But my body didn't stop there.
I'm the definition of a baby-faced bombshell—soft features, wide eyes, and curves that defy physics. A 36D since sophomore year of high school, my body moves like liquid, drawing stares everywhere I go.
But beneath the perfect daughter act?
I'm something else entirely.
My parents' suffocating control twisted me into a girl who craves things she shouldn't. By night, I fantasize about being stripped bare, bound, displayed—left trembling on lecture hall podiums, on yoga mats, in front of strangers' hungry eyes.
So I test the limits.
I stretch naked in front of the two-way mirror at the pool, letting my body bounce with every movement, arching into poses that leave nothing to the imagination. I savor the thought of unseen watchers, their gazes devouring me.
And by day?
I play the role flawlessly. The sweet, innocent honor student.
But college changed everything.
No more parents. No more rules.
Then came Sophia's text.
"Chloe, bring a change of clothes to 57 Sycamore Ave. Surprise for you."
My stomach twisted.
Sophia—plain, unremarkable Sophia—always had a lineup of men trailing after her, all towering, all muscle. It pissed me off. But I went anyway.
The second I got there, I knew something was wrong.
57 Sycamore wasn't an apartment.
It was a tattoo parlor.
The windows were tinted, forcing me to press close, peering inside—
And what I saw froze me in place.
Two figures. Naked.
A woman on her knees, head thrown back, face caught between pleasure and pain. Her breasts were gripped hard, her ass marked with red handprints.
A man loomed over her, driving into her like he owned her.
"Oh God—yes! Harder!"
"Say it, slut. Tell me you love it."
The sounds—moans, skin slapping—echoed in my skull.
Heat exploded between my legs. My throat went dry, my thighs pressing together too late to stop the slickness soaking through.
I licked my lips, leaning closer—just as the man's muscles flexed, sweat dripping down his chest, each drop hitting the floor like a hammer to my pulse.
Sophia was forgotten.
All I wanted was to be in her place.
No—worse.
I wanted to be used. Hung from the ceiling, bent over tables, pinned against the glass like a toy.
The fantasy alone made me shake.
Then—movement.
Their heads turned.
Eyes locked on mine.
A gasp tore from my throat.
Because the woman on her knees?
Was Sophia.