A/N: It seems Sakura's chapters are just as long, if not longer than Ino's, hmm.
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Some often used the words 'inn' and 'hotel' interchangeably. To the uninitiated, they offered the same basic equation. But the distinction was not merely semantic.
An inn was intimate and cozy. A place where breakfast came homemade, where rooms had character, and the owner might remember your name and ask about your day. Personal touches like that everywhere. Quilts instead of duvets, mismatched furniture with history, and architectural quirks that made each room unique. It was hospitality with a soul.
Hotels were transactional. You paid, they gave you a key, maybe four sentences exchanged if you were chatty. Standardized rooms that could've been anywhere. Same layout, same bland prints on the walls, same sterile efficiency. The staff was professional, sure, but in that distant way where you were just another face passing through for as long as you paid.
And that was exactly what I needed.
The inn would've been all wrong for what I had planned. Too cozy. Too memorable. The hotel gave me exactly what I wanted. A transaction, a room, and nobody giving a shit what happened behind the closed door.
I'd paid extra for the bathroom. The room was standard fare. Cream-colored walls, a generic landscape painting bolted to the drywall, a closet built flush into the wall, and a queen-sized bed that dominated the center of the floor. I'd paid extra for the ensuite bathroom, which was visibly clean, smelling faintly of bleach and lemon.
"Better than a tent in the mud," I muttered, unzipping my flak jacket and tossing it casually onto the duvet. It landed with a heavy thump, the only sound in the stagnant air.
Sakura had followed me in, but the moment the door clicked shut behind her, she froze.
She didn't step further into the room. She stood with her back pressed almost against the wood, her green eyes darting around with the skittish energy of a trapped rabbit. Her gaze flickered over the heavy curtains, the sterile walls, and then snagged on the bed. She swallowed, her throat bobbing, and tore her eyes away a fraction of a second too quickly.
She was innocent enough to miss half my suggestive wordplay, sure. But not so innocent she couldn't figure out what a young man and a young woman alone in a hotel room usually meant.
My words seemed to snap her out of whatever spiral she'd been sinking into. She straightened, trying for professional, but her voice came out confused and too tight. "Uh… sensei?" A pause. "Just to make sure—we're here for training purposes, right? I mean—obviously." She let out an awkward laugh. "Of course. I'm just… clarifying."
Even the queen of self-delusion couldn't gaslight herself past this one, apparently.
I hummed noncommittally as I leaned down, checking my leg. Still hurt after those successive body flickers, but the injury hadn't reopened. No blood seeping through the bandage. Good enough.
"This place is fitting for the proof I mentioned," I said. "But the preparations for that will take some time. So while we wait…" I rolled my shoulder, feeling the satisfying pop. "Yeah. Training."
Sakura let out a breath she'd been holding since the lobby. Shoulders dropping, tension bleeding out of her neck. She started again, hesitant. "Um… when you say proof, what exactly—" She stopped herself, shook her head like she was physically cutting off the question. Then embarrassment flooded her features, embarrassment at feeling relieved.
She nodded too quickly, then forced herself to slow it down, trying to look composed. "Right. Good. Training's good." Her voice was tighter than she probably wanted. "I'm ready—just tell me what you need."
She kept her arms close to her sides, still hadn't moved more than a foot from the door.
I nodded, then let myself look at her. Openly and brazenly ogling her from head to toes.
Long pink hair falling past her shoulders, those big green eyes that could go from determined to uncertain in a heartbeat, that cute little nose she'd probably inherited from her mother. Her outfit didn't help. Black painted shorts underneath a useless pink apron skirt that was way too short to be practical for shinobi work or anything really. The skirt served no real purpose other than to be there and tempt; honestly, I could see, just fine, the lean muscle of her thighs, pale skin glowing against the black fabric of those knee-high boots.
Sakura wasn't athletic like most kunoichi, but she had that natural softness that came from never having to push her limits hard enough. While not as shapely as Ino, her Sakura had decent feminine curves in all the right places, hips that had filled out nicely, and a tight little ass. Her chest pressed against that red shirt, modest but definitely there, and if you focus, you could see it moving with each breath she tried to keep steady.
Nice. Sakura, while not the prettiest or the most sexy in the village, was undeniably a goldmine for the eyes.
And she noticed my gaze. Of course, she did; she would just be as dumb as Naruto if she missed the obvious.
Her lashes fluttered. Her eyes dropped, then came back up, then dropped again like she couldn't decide where to look. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, boots scuffing against the floor. A tight smile pulled those pink lips tighter. Her cheeks went pink, matching her hair.
She reached up in this adorable, embarrassed gesture and tucked her hair behind her ear.
It was a weird mix, being uncomfortable with the attention but also loving it, like she didn't know whether to lash out or preen.
My gaze lingered too long to be anything but intentional. I didn't stop.
She cleared her throat. "…Is my stance off?" Another throat clear. "I can adjust it if you want."
What stance? Was she really trying to gaslight herself into thinking that standing awkwardly by the door counted as a combat stance?
The young woman was grasping for normalcy. For any explanation that didn't involve acknowledging what my staring actually meant.
I didn't say anything. Just kept staring.
She shifted again, more pronounced this time, and added more nervously, "…Did I wear the wrong thing for this type of training?" Her hands went to the edge of her apron skirt, fingers playing with the fabric. "I can change if—if this is too—"
"Seems…." I sighed, letting disappointment color it. "I've got my work cut out for me with you."
Those words hit her like a gut punch. The fidgeting stopped instantly. I watched all that nervous embarrassment drain right out of her face, replaced by that stung look. But…. Sakura Haruno was many things, insecure, delusional, obsessive, but she had a fascinating, brittle, and sharp kind of pride.
She inhaled slowly through her nose, straightened her spine, and lifted her head. The uncertainty bled away, replaced by that stubborn fire I'd seen flickers of before. Her eyes hardened, jaw set, and she looked full of wounded pride and determination.
"If that's your assessment, then fine." Her voice came out steady now. "But I can improve. Faster than you think." She took a step forward, finally leaving the safety of the door. "Just tell me what needs fixing, and I'll fix it."
I smiled.
There it was. That fire. That pride. Unearned pride. A pride born of never-challenged illusions. A barely out of the Academy genin with extremely limited field experience, extremely limited real combat, and emotionally unstable decision-making. Yet, for whatever reason, believing herself to be an elite and on the same level as Naruto and Sasuke.
To put things in perspective, even I don't think myself that highly.
Oddly enough, this was also what made her interesting. This was what would make her so fucking hot to…..
"First," I raised one hand, extending a single finger. "You need to understand where you failed."
She kept that determined look locked on her face, chin lifted.
I decided to see how long she could maintain it.
"One." I lifted my index finger. "Even under social or psychological pressure, a shinobi must maintain awareness of exits, windows, potential eavesdropping risks, and safe defensive distances." I tilted my head. "You kept glancing at the bed and the door—social cues, emotional reactions—instead of actually scanning the room tactically. You prioritized your feelings, your little social anxieties, over situational awareness. Like some Academy student on her first C-rank."
She didn't like that. But I suspect it had more to do with the fact I openly used infantilizing wording when she wanted to appear so mature than the correction. A tiny crack appeared in her expression. Just a flicker.
"Two." Second finger up. "A shinobi must remain physically unreadable to prevent opponents from exploiting fear, doubt, or hesitation." I gestured vaguely at her. "Your posture, your micro-expressions, those involuntary gestures—all of it screamed discomfort. An enemy would've read you like a children's book."
The fire in her eyes dimmed a bit. Her shoulders tensed.
"Yeah, but sensei you had alrea—" She opened her mouth to argue, that reflexive defensiveness already kicking in.
I cut her off with a look.
Classic. She was gearing up to justify herself, to argue, to redirect the blame back onto someone else. To say I'd misread the situation, that I was being unfair, that she couldn't have known what I expected.
Yeah, most of those points were exaggerated bullshit. But I had a sinking feeling she would've argued even if every single one had been valid and undeniable.
She was her mother's daughter, after all. And with Mebuki's kid, it was always someone else's fault. Never hers.
"Three." Third finger. "Maintaining composure when being watched is fundamental. Enemies use silence to unsettle, to probe for weakness." I let the silence hang for a beat. "You couldn't even handle me looking at you without scrambling for explanations."
Her jaw clenched. The determination was still there, but doubt was creeping in around the edges.
"Four." The fourth finger joined the others. "Shinobi must compartmentalize fear, curiosity, and personal discomfort so decisions stay clear. Your inability to set aside what this situation might imply compromised your tactical thinking before we even began."
Her hands had gone still at her sides. The pink in her cheeks wasn't from embarrassment anymore; it was from shame, perhaps anger, and the effort of not reacting.
"Five." All fingers up now, my whole hand displayed like I was counting off her failures. "Loose talk or tangential questioning—"
"I get it," she cut in, voice tight with barely restrained frustration. Her hands clenched at her sides. "I messed up. You don't have to keep—"
I raised an eyebrow.
She snapped her mouth shut, jaw working like she was physically biting back words. The fire in her eyes wasn't determination anymore—it was anger. At me, maybe. But mostly at herself.
"Five," I repeated and gave her a moment to interrupt. She didn't. "Loose talk or tangential questioning in tense situations reveals weakness and leaks information. A competent shinobi clamps down on reflexive chatter." I lowered my hand. "Just like last time, you couldn't help it….. you couldn't stop yourself from asking nervous questions, from trying to fill the silence with explanations nobody asked for."
The fire was gone now. Completely extinguished.
Sakura stood there looking smaller somehow, despite not having moved. Her eyes had lost that hard edge, gone soft and uncertain again. Her lips parted slightly like she wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. Those pink strands of hair framed her face, and her green eyes were wide, almost glassy.
She looked demolished. Vulnerable without the hard shield of her unjustified pride raised. She was soft now, in all the ways that made my dick hard.
Her thighs pressed together slightly, an unconscious gesture. Her hands came up to cross over her stomach, protective. Her breathing had gone shallow, making her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that drew my attention whether I wanted it to or not. That pretty face of hers—all delicate features and pale skin—looked so perfectly lost.
I wouldn't consider myself a sadist. But there was something deeply satisfying about putting a brat in her place, watching that cocky pride crumble into uncertainty. Like tempering steel. You had to break it down before you could forge it into something useful.
To be fair, half those points were exaggerated. Some I'd made up entirely, just dressed them up in enough tactical jargon to sound legitimate. I was baking her, preparing her, softening that stubborn mind so it'd be easier to reshape later.
She forced a laugh, a brittle sound that didn't quite reach those wide green eyes. "Right. Well. It seems I… I have so much to improve on. Which makes sense! That's why I'm here, after all." She tucked a lock of long pink hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling just slightly. "To fix the gaps."
…. gaps, right.
"Indeed," I said, unable to keep a hint of amusement out of my voice. "We can start now." I crooked a finger, gesturing for her to approach. "Come here."
Like a moth to a very dangerous flame, she didn't even hesitate. The good student algorithm in her brain engaged, overriding the awkward tension. She walked over, her knee-high boots clicking on the room's wooden floor, and stopped right in front of me. She looked up, expectant, waiting for instructions, that defiant fire fighting to stay lit behind her irises.
"We'll continue the training we started in Wave Country," I said, unceremoniously reaching forward with two fingers extended toward her mouth. "Open up."
Sakura's eyes tracked from my face down to my fingers. She blinked at first, but then reeled back slightly—an instinctive flinch—before catching herself. That forced smile snapped back into place as she looked up at me.
"I—" Sakura blinked once more, her face flushing a deep, ripe crimson. She forced an uneasy smile. "Do I… is this really necessary, Sensei?" She laughed again, shorter this time, nervous. "I mean, it feels… a little…" She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at my hand. "It doesn't seem like… traditional ninjutsu training."
I'd expected the resistance.
Putting your fingers in someone's mouth was invasive as hell. Improper on every level. No amount of self-delusion could convince someone that it was a normal, acceptable thing. There was no defensible tactical purpose she could rationalize. No psychological explanation that would make it fine.
She'd allowed this exact treatment last time because her mind had been in shambles. Vulnerable. Broken down. I'd spanked her ass until she cried, then violently and positively flipped her emotions around while she was still raw and defenseless, and made her my student while she was too emotionally wrecked, and added to that the stress from the mission…..
She'd been in survival mode. Desperate for validation, for someone to tell her she wasn't worthless, for any kind of grounding. And I provided that, hence she hadn't questioned letting me have access to one of the most intimate parts of her body.
But now she'd had time to think. To question. To feel the wrongness of it.
I raised an eyebrow, letting a look of unimpressed boredom slide over my face. It was meant to challenge her resolve, like all that bravado she'd shown thirty seconds ago was just hot air, evaporating the moment things got real.
The look landed. Partially. She squirmed under the scrutiny, her tongue darting out to lick those soft, pink lips. A purely nervous tic that drew my attention straight to the wet sheen she left behind.
But it wasn't enough to make her cave.
"I just don't see the… the tactical benefit," she stammered, shifting her weight. Her hips swayed with the movement, that short pink apron skirt fluttering over her black shorts. "Unless there's a specific jutsu that requires… oral… positioning?"
Unbeknownst to her, my dick made a small jump at her choice of words.
That aside, she was trying to logic her way out. Classic Sakura, thinking she was smart enough to negotiate.
I sighed, letting the sound convey that she was exhausting me. "I understand this is uncomfortable, Sakura. But you just told me you wanted to improve faster than I thought possible."
"I do!" Her hands came up in a placating gesture. "I'm not doubting you, sensei! I just don't understand what this is supposed to accomplish." Her voice pitched higher. "It feels… weird."
I watched her for a moment. She was stubborn. I liked that about her almost as much as I liked the way her thighs touched when she stood with her feet together. But words alone weren't going to pry those jaws open this time.
A pity. It didn't feel quite right to cheat, but then again, a shinobi uses every tool in the arsenal.
I focused, weaving the power into my vocal cords. Devil's Whisper. Not enough to mind-control her, but enough to grease the wheels of her own rationalization, to make the insane sound logical and the perverse sound profound.
"Sakura," I said, my voice dropping an octave, resonating with a silky, persuasive weight. "You're thinking like a civilian. You see 'weird.' I see discipline."
She stopped fidgeting, her eyes locking onto mine.
I stepped closer, invading her personal space just enough to make her breath hitch. "This exercise forces controlled breathing under direct discomfort. It trains silence discipline and stops reflexive talking—something you clearly need work on." I kept my tone measured, reasonable, letting the subtle power work its way into her perception. "It enhances mental composure under scrutiny. Teaches you to manage involuntary reactions instead of letting them control you."
Her eyes tracked my face, listening despite herself.
"It helps calibrate emotional compartmentalization—separating what you feel from what you do. And most importantly, it forces you to listen rather than react." I leaned down, staring deep into those green pools. "Is that enough reason, or should I keep going?"
"…. no," She swallowed hard, her pupils dilating as the Devil's Whisper seeped into her gray matter, rearranging her doubts into a narrative that justified compliance. She looked away, flushed and breathless. "No, it's just… it's…"
I sighed, softer this time, and placed my hand on top of her head. Her hair was soft against my palm. I patted her gently, almost paternally.
"It makes you uncomfortable," I stated.
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yes."
"Good."
Her head snapped up, startled, confusion written across those delicate features.
"All worthwhile training exercises are uncomfortable," I let Devil's Whisper saturate my words for good measure. "Discomfort is a shinobi's best friend. Comfort breeds complacency. Comfort is where growth goes to die. If you are comfortable, you are not learning."
Two manipulations working in tandem. Linking that discomfort to legitimate training, to growth, to becoming stronger. It works because it was the truth. Her mind would connect the two. Training was uncomfortable but necessary. Therefore, this was necessary.
That was solid logic she could easily accept. Logic that bypassed the screaming wrongness.
I watched the gears turn behind her eyes. The Devil's Whisper was stripping away the social stigma, replacing it with the twisted logic that she needed this discomfort to prove she wasn't the weak, useless girl from the Wave mission. If she refused, she was choosing comfort. She was choosing mediocrity.
The confusion gradually melted into something that looked like understanding. Those big green eyes gazed up at me with dawning comprehension, as I'd just explained something profound instead of feeding her justifications for letting me violate her boundaries.
"Tell me, Sakura, " I held back a smile. "Would you rather your training be comfortable?"
The question was a trap. Saying yes meant admitting she wanted the easy path. That she wasn't serious. That she was still the weak, useless genin who'd failed in Wave Country.
"…..no." It came out dazed at first. Then she frowned, her brows knitting together in that fierce, misguided determination. "No. I don't want comfort." She straightened her spine, puffing out her chest. "I can handle discomfort. I can handle anything you throw at me. I'm not… I'm not a child who needs to be coddled."
I hummed thoughtfully.
Good. But perhaps too good. Nothing to complain about, truly.
Devil's Whisper shouldn't have been this effective on her, not with how stubborn she usually was. But it seemed her natural ability to self-delude and gaslight herself was actually helping the suggestive power take root deeper than it should. She wanted to believe this made sense, so she twisted her own mind into accepting it.
"That's the spirit," I said softly.
I smiled, patted her head once more, then lowered my hand to hover in front of her mouth again. I didn't say a word. I just waited.
Sakura eyed my extended fingers. She looked at me, checked my expression for any sign of mockery, and found only the calm mask of a teacher waiting for his student to commit.
Her jaw worked. I could see the war behind her eyes. The part of her that knew this was wrong battling with the part that was terrified of disappointing another teacher, of being cast aside as not serious about training. I was about to push her a little bit more when—
"Alright," she whispered, more to herself than me. "I'm ready,"
Then, slowly, hesitantly, she parted her glossy lips and opened her mouth.
My smile widened, just a fraction, as I slid my index and middle fingers past her soft lips and into the warmth of her mouth.
"Good girl," I murmured.
Oddly enough, the praise seemed to short-circuit her lingering resistance. She opened wider, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to mine, glossy and submissive. She was such a good student. So eager to please, so desperate to be "good."
Her tongue reflexively pressed against the underside of my fingers—a defensive instinct, trying to push the intrusion out. But she caught herself, forced her jaw to relax, her tongue to flatten submissively. Her breathing went shallow through her nose, her eyes wide and locked on mine. Waiting for instructions. Waiting to be told she was doing it right.
My dick made another jump in my pants, but man….. We were going to have some fun while we waited for our guest.
A little appetizer before the main course.
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