The past few months had been eventful, though few knew what had truly transpired.
Naruto Uzumaki had left his mark on more than just the training grounds. He had reshaped lives, bending others to his will, not through force or deception but through sheer dominance, charisma, and an irresistible presence that no woman could deny.
Sakura had been the first, surrendering completely to him. But she was no longer alone.
Two more had followed, willingly offering themselves—body, mind, and soul.
Ino Yamanaka and Hinata Hyuga, once so different, now shared something profound. They were his. His devoted kunoichi slaves, molded by his magic, perfected in form, and bound to him by a force stronger than any jutsu.
And what a sight they had become.
Ino was a goddess of temptation, a blonde siren spun from pure desire, her golden locks flowing down her back in shimmering waves, framing a face so sinful it could ruin empires. Her lips—full, glossy, sinful—parted just enough to invite, to beg, to promise pleasure beyond reason. And her eyes? Sharp, knowing, wicked, a sky-blue trap no man could escape. She knew what she was. She knew the power she held.
Her body?
An Obscene perfection.
Her waist was so tiny, so impossibly narrow that hands could easily, possessively wrap around it—fragile, delicate, a stark contrast to the delicious curves that followed. Her hips, wide and swaying like sin itself, moved with an elegance that was practically hypnotic.
And her ass?
A masterpiece of excess. Thick, juicy, shamelessly plump, so soft it quivered at the slightest motion, a forbidden cushion of pure temptation.
And her chest?
Massive, Heavy, and truly Divine.
Each lush, jiggling swell was a miracle, so round, so tight, yet so perfectly soft that just looking at them felt sinful. No top could hold them. No fabric could cage them. Every breath she took was a fight against the very laws of nature.
And she loved it. She flaunted it. She owned it.
And then, there was Hinata.
The shy little flower?
Dead. Gone. Buried.
What stood in her place was a vision of pure, submissive sensuality, a dream made flesh, sculpted into the perfect offering of devotion and pleasure.
Her hair, once short and simple, had grown into a cascade of rich, silken indigo, each strand catching the light like a river of midnight desire. And those pale, pearl-like eyes? No longer uncertain, no longer hesitant. They gleamed with something deeper, something darker—a silent promise that she belonged to him.
Only him. Forever.
And her body?
A shrine of excess. A temple of sin.
Her breasts—an impossible, mind-breaking pair of swollen, bouncing perfection—put Ino's to shame. Heavenly, ridiculous, obscene, each one a massive, plush dream, straining against every top, daring the world to look, to gawk, to worship. A single bounce could break a man's soul.
Her waist? Snatched. Delicate. Begging to be held.
But her hips? Wide, fertile, sinful. A single sway and the world lost its mind.
And that ass?
Thick. Fat. Deliciously obscene.
Soft enough to drown in, thick enough to grip, jiggling with every step, every shift, every tiny movement—a divine cushion of pure indulgence. It was unnatural, unreal, an ass made to be worshipped, grabbed, and devoured.
She was a walking temptation, a vision of pleasure sculpted for the sole purpose of submission, of surrender, of absolute, unshakable devotion.
She existed to be adored. She existed to be possessed. And she knew it. Oh, she knew it.
Only Naruto had the right to own them, ruin them, indulge in them as he pleased.
And the best part?
They knew it. They wanted it. They craved it. They lived for it.
They didn't just accept their new forms—they embraced them, reveled in them, flaunted them like offerings laid bare before their master.
They weren't just his lovers—they were his worshippers, his playthings, his perfect, sinful offerings. Their bodies were no longer their own; they existed only for him—his pleasure, his hands, his hunger.
When they were alone with him, there was no need for modesty, for shame, for restraint. Their perfect, sinful bodies were his to enjoy, to admire, to devour. They wore only what he desired—tiny, scandalous scraps of clothing, barely worth the name, just enough to tease, to entice, to beg for his hands.
Their outfits? If you could even call them that.
Their "shorts" were a mockery of decency, so tight, so obscenely small, they weren't hiding anything—just framing the filth. A pathetic scrap of fabric stretched across their thick, juicy asses, barely covering anything at all, the thin strip wedged so deep between their plush, bouncing cheeks that it was more of a suggestion than clothing.
With every step, every sway, every tiny movement, it threatened to disappear completely, as if even their clothing knew it was pointless to fight against the inevitable.
And their tops?
Nothing but sheer, flimsy nothings—thin little teases of fabric clinging to their swollen, heavy tits, straining so hard against their impossible curves that the material looked ready to surrender at any moment.
Nipples poked through shamelessly, stiff and aching, pressing against the stretched, translucent material, leaving nothing to the imagination.
It was indecent. Unholy. A display so scandalous it would bring lesser men to their knees.
There was no mystery, no illusion—just the raw, obscene reality of their bodies, presented solely for him.
But they weren't dressed for lesser men.
They were dressed for Naruto.
Because only he had the right to take them, touch them, break them.
Only he could feel their soft, warm flesh yielding beneath his fingers.
Only he could grope the thick, jiggling curves of their asses, dig his fingers into their plump, pillowy softness, squeeze until they whimpered, until they shivered, until their bodies melted against his.
Only he could spank them, hard and slow, watch the way their luscious flesh quivered, rippled, and bounced like a lewd, shameless display meant for his eyes alone.
Only he could make them moan his name with every squeeze, every slap, every possessive grip that reminded them exactly who they belonged to.
Only he could make them surrender so completely, so desperately, so eagerly, falling into his arms, pressing their bodies against him, begging for more.
Because they were his.
His to touch. His to take. His to ruin.
And they loved it.
But, for the outside world, they remained as they were—innocent, youthful, and untouched.
Naruto had commanded it so. They concealed their true beauty beneath a simple illusion, revealing their perfected forms only to him, their beloved master.
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