SAKURA HARUNO
The taste of his skin lingered on her tongue—salt and something else she couldn't name, something that made her stomach do strange little flips. Sakura's heart hammered against her ribs as she stared up at sensei — her sensei — his finger still pressed between her lips, her mouth sealed around it like... like...
She couldn't finish the thought. Wouldn't let herself.
This is training, she told herself, her perverted sensei had told her that. Just training. Nothing weird about it.
But her face burned anyway, heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck. Even if everything else felt foggy and distant and hued, Sakura was acutely aware of how her lips felt stretched around his digit, how her tongue kept, unceasingly but diffidently, accidentally, brushing against it when she tried to breathe.
Each contact sent little sparks through her that she didn't understand and definitely didn't want to examine too closely.
Am I doing this right? The question bloomed in her mind before she could stop it, and she hated herself for caring. For wanting his approval. For the way her chest felt tight, waiting to see if he'd call her that again.
Those two words had done something to her—made her knees feel wobbly and her thoughts scatter like leaves. She'd felt proud and confused and... something else. Something that made her want to be good, to be perfect for him, even though she couldn't understand why.
It's because he's my sensei now, she reasoned frantically. Students are supposed to want their teachers' approval. That's normal. That's fine.
Her breathing hitched slightly through her nose as his long and thick finger pressed deeper, making her throat flutter in alarm, again.
This time, though, she fought the urge to pull away, remembering his words about control, about restraint. About not panicking when things get uncomfortable.
She forced her hands down when they made to move up.
He's right, she realized with a flutter of shame. I do panic. I do let my emotions take over.
But this was not right. It was not!
A sensei and a student should not be doing this, whatever this was. It's training. Her mind supplied, but it was not really convincing.
And why had she even accepted such a shameless pervert to be her sensei? After what he had done and the mission and the humiliation and —and—and—and the affair with her Mom!
This is weird, she thought desperately. This is so, so weird and I should stop it and I should pull away and I should...
Then he said those words.
"Good girl." The way his voice had gone soft when he said it, almost gentle. Like he was proud of her. Like she mattered. Like she wasn't just the loud, pink-haired burden trailing behind her team.
And it nearly made her knees give way under her.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. She could smell his skin, feel the warmth radiating from his body, see the slight flush that had crept up his neck. Her own breathing had gone shallow and quick through her nose, making little sounds that seemed too loud in the silence.
She really was a mess, wasn't she? No wonder he had to train her mouth—it was always getting her in trouble. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
She was really…..
No, no, she earned them, those words; she had kept herself still and in control and had not made that embarrassing sound…. alright maybe she did make a little noise but it was so small. He didn't hear it.
No, he didn't. Otherwise….. otherwise he won't be looking at her like that.
His gaze made her feel powerful and vulnerable all at once. Like she had some kind of effect on him that she didn't understand. Like maybe, for once in her life, she wasn't invisible.
Her tongue moved again—not intentionally, just a nervous flutter—and she felt him tense slightly above her. Something darkened in his expression, something that made her pulse skip.
What am I doing to him? she wondered, then immediately felt foolish for the thought. She wasn't doing anything. She was just... learning. Being trained.
And if her tongue pressed more against the invading finger, it has nothing to do with that.
It was…. it was because her mouth felt dry. And she needed to swallow. She was also nervous. Yes. That's it. Certainly not because of the little sound he made when she did it, barely audible but there.
The taste was stronger now, more distinct. She didn't hate it. Clean skin and salt, and something that made her want to... she didn't know what. Her thoughts felt sticky, harder to grasp.
His finger pressed deeper, making her throat constrict reflexively. She tried to power through, but the sensation was overwhelming. When she started to pull back, his other hand tightened slightly in her hair. Not painful, just... firm. Keeping her in place.
"Breathe through it," he murmured.
So she did. Tried to, anyway.
Her chest rose and fell more rapidly as she fought the urge to gag, to flee. This wasn't like anything she'd experienced before—nothing in her training had prepared her for this kind of... discomfort. This presence taking up space where it didn't belong.
Her fists made to raise, but his eyes….. his eyes again…..
Sasuke had never looked at her like this. Had never looked at her at all, really. Cool and distant and untouchable, like a perfect marble statue that existed somewhere she could never reach. Even in her wildest fantasies, he remained ethereal, untouchable.
This was different. Real. Immediate. He may be cute, but he is a brute. There was nothing cool about the way her sensei's breathing had changed, nothing distant about the heat radiating from his skin. He was solid and present and there, demanding her attention in a way that made her feel small and important at the same time.
His finger withdrew slightly, giving her a moment to catch her breath, before pushing forward again. Deeper this time. Her throat spasmed around the intrusion and her eyes watered, but she didn't pull away.
It was worth it because…..
"Good," he said softly, and the word sent warmth cascading through her chest. "You're learning."
Learning what, exactly? But Sakura found she didn't want to examine that question too closely. It felt safer to just... accept. To let herself drift in the strange fog that seemed to be settling over her thoughts.
Maybe this was why Mom had... with him. The thought crept in before she could stop it, unwelcome and confusing. She'd never understood how her mother—so proper, so concerned with appearances, so quick to lecture about propriety—could have done something so... improper.
But if he looked at Mom the way he was looking at her now...
Her tongue moved against his finger again, more deliberately this time, and she felt rather than saw his sharp intake of breath. There was power in that reaction, something that made her feel less like a child playing at being a shinobi and more like a kunoichi in the purest sense.
The finger pressed deeper, hitting that spot that made her whole body want to reject the invasion. This time, she couldn't quite suppress the embarrassing sound that escaped her throat—half protest, half something else entirely. Her hands were shaking at her sides as she fought the urge to push him away.
"That's it," he said, voice strained. "Just like that."
Like what? But the praise made her chest warm anyway, made her want to be good, to please him. Even if she didn't understand what she was doing or why it mattered or why his approval felt so important suddenly.
The world had gone soft around the edges, like looking through water.
Sakura's thoughts felt thick and slow, each one requiring more effort than it should. When had breathing become so difficult? When had the small inn room started spinning lazily around her?
She didn't notice when the second finger joined the first—only that suddenly her mouth felt impossibly full, stretched in a way that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. Or maybe it was, and she just couldn't tell the difference anymore. The thick digits moved together, pressing, exploring, demanding space that didn't exist.
Too much, some distant part of her mind whispered. This is too much.
But her body disagreed, or maybe her body had stopped consulting her mind altogether. Her tongue worked around the intrusion with increasing boldness, mapping the rough calluses, the warm skin, the way her breathing changed when he found certain spots.
Time felt elastic. Had it been minutes? Hours? She lost count of how many times he pressed deeper, how many times her vision went white at the edges as her throat rebelled. Each time, she thought she couldn't take more.
Each time, she discovered she could.
The taste of him filled her mouth completely, now that seemed to coat her senses. It was as if she'd never tasted anything else, as if her whole life had been leading to this moment of complete saturation. Her world had narrowed to this: the stretch of her lips, the weight on her tongue, the approval in his dark eyes.
When his fingers finally withdrew, the absence felt like a loss so acute it made her chest ache. She hadn't realized she'd been holding onto him until she felt the solid warmth of his shoulders beneath her palms, the steady strength that had been keeping her upright when her own legs had turned to water.
His shoulders were broader than she'd noticed before, solid muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. Strong enough to carry her weight without effort, strong enough to hold her steady when she couldn't trust her own body to keep her standing.
His arm curved around her back, his hand cradling her head with surprising gentleness. The contrast made her dizzy—this careful tenderness from someone who'd just been so thoroughly claiming her mouth.
"Excellent work," he was saying, his voice coming from somewhere far away even though his face was inches from hers. "My dear student," a flutter in her belly. "Your control improved remarkably by the end. As a reward, I think it's time for your first practical demonstration of medical ninjutsu. I'll treat the residual tenderness from your earlier... lesson."
The words should have meant something. Should have been registered as important, educational, and normal. However, all Sakura could focus on was the hunger in his eyes and the greed in his voice despite his professional tone.
That look hit her like lightning, sending shock waves through her nervous system. A part of her she'd only felt stir in dreams, low and shamefully alive, clenched with sudden, bewildering intensity, a physical response she didn't understand but couldn't ignore. Heat pooled low in her belly, making her feel hollow and desperate and strangely empty.
She felt like a flower suddenly exposed to direct sunlight after growing in shade—overwhelmed, breathless, blooming whether she wanted to or not.
Like a small animal caught in the gaze of something larger and more dangerous, but unable to run because running would mean missing whatever came next.
Like a student discovering a subject she'd never known existed but suddenly needed to master more than breathing.
He said more things, but the words slid past her consciousness like water off glass. All she could process was the promise in his voice, the possessive satisfaction that he wasn't quite hiding behind his teacher's mask.
One moment, she was standing, swaying slightly in his arms. Next, her sandals were beside the bed, and she was settling face-down on the thin mattress, her movements automatic and dreamlike, as if someone else was controlling her body while she watched from far away.
She bit down on her lower lip, trying to force herself to think clearly.
Fear and anticipation warred in her lower belly, making it impossible to focus on literally anything else.
Stop it, she ordered herself. Stop making this weird.
This was her sensei. This was training. She was being ridiculous, reading meaning into things that had no meaning beyond the professional.
Even as that familiar, determined voice in her head insisted on logic and propriety, her hips shifted almost imperceptibly against the mattress, seeking some kind of pressure she couldn't quite name.