Using the Devil's Whisper to grease the wheels of her compliance didn't lower the satisfaction of the result. Not really. If anything, watching her rationalize the insane made the victory sweeter. But as usual, I couldn't just settle for good enough. I always had to push, to test the boundaries, to dance right on the razor's edge of what I could get away with.
Wasn't this incurable impulse the whole reason I got to bang Kushina in the first place?
So when Sakura opened her jaw wider to my praise, eyes fluttering shut, offering me her inner sanctum mouth like the good little student she desperately wanted to be, I didn't hesitate.
I offered no polite introduction. I didn't test the waters. I drove my index and middle fingers past the barrier of her teeth, slicking over her pink tongue and shoving straight back, poking aggressively at the delicate hang of her uvula.
Gack.
Her response was violent and immediate. Her eyes snapped open, wide and panicked, and her entire body jerked backward at the intrusion. A wet, guttural sound tore from her throat as her diaphragm spasmed. Her hands shot up, fingers digging hard into my forearm, nails biting through the skin in a desperate attempt to pull my hand away.
I didn't let her.
My free hand shot up, fingers tangling brutally into the long pink hair at the back of her head, locking my grip against her skull. I held her fast, forcing her face forward, keeping her impaled on my fingers even as her throat constricted around them.
"Shh," I murmured, voice low and soothing like I was calming a frightened animal. "Easy. No, no, don't pull away. Stay. You're alright. Just breathe through your nose."
Sakura glared at me.
Sakura let out a choked whimper, tears instantly welling in the corners of her eyes—a physiological response she couldn't control. She glared at me over the bridge of my hand. The look was fierce, wet, and angry. It was that unearned pride of hers flaring up, the indignity of the situation slapping her in the face.
Man, she was so fucking hot when she looked at me like that.
Messy, vulnerable, humiliated, and yet still trying to burn me with her eyes. Those green irises were swimming in moisture, her face flushed a blotchy, beautiful crimson.
Usually, Sakura Haruno had a temper. Usually, a violation like this would earn a punch that could shatter a cliff face powered by nothing but sheer indignation. But I'd already dismantled that reflex. I'd fucked her mother, slapped her reality in the face, spanked her until she sobbed during a high-stakes mission, and then twisted it all around to make myself her savior and teacher. I had conditioned her to think three times before raising a hand against me.
And it showed.
Despite the glare, despite the tears threatening to spill, she didn't pull away. She stayed there, mouth open, breathing hard through her nose, her grip on my forearm tight but not fighting.
Progress.
I hummed, deliberately relaxing the pressure of my fingers but not removing them. I let them rest heavy against her pink tongue. "Too sudden for you, Sakura?" I asked, my voice laced with faux concern that masked a cruel amusement. "I thought you said you were ready for discomfort."
Her glare intensified, searing and bright. I'd hit the bullseye on her fragility.
But despite the glare, the tension in her neck bled out. She didn't push away. She slumped slightly, her head resting heavy in my palm, surrendering to the grip I had on her hair. Her eyes darted away from mine, unable to hold the contact, and her grip on my forearm loosened from a desperate claw to a tentative hold.
"Good," I said, adjusting my grip on the back of her neck, threading my fingers more securely through her long hair. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for. You've already figured out the purpose of this exercise."
I had already explained everything to her, but it didn't hurt to hand her some free credit with praise….. it would also remind her of how to behave.
"It's control training," I explained. My thumb swept over the soft skin behind her ear. "It's about fighting your instinctual response. Your body wants to reject the invasion, just like your mind wants to reject harsh truths or fear on the battlefield. You gag because you lose control. You panic." I stared down at her. "A medical-nin who panics when their hands are deep inside a chest cavity gets their teammates killed. Control is everything."
It was complete bullshit wrapped in just enough professional jargon to be palatable. But she swallowed it. I could see the analytical gears turning behind her watery eyes, legitimizing the inappropriate, boundary-violating act — my fingers in her throat — as a necessary hurdle to becoming "elite."
And since Sakura was highly susceptible to professional pretexting and had a strong urge toward self-delusion, I didn't need Devil's Whisper anymore. She'd take it from here herself. She was extremely good at talking herself into compliance if the authority figure sounded confident enough.
I licked my lips, eyes roaming over her—mouth open, lips stretched, tears clinging to her lashes, that pink tongue pressed flat against my fingers.
I imagined it was my dick she was taking right now.
Not yet. But soon enough, she would. Wasn't that what this training was for anyway? Training her mouth to accept intrusion without complaint would serve me well later.
Ino was already able to take most of my length in her throat without complaint; it wouldn't do for my star pupil to lose to her rival in the one few metrics that actually mattered.
"Let's try again," I whispered. "Fight your instinctive reactions, not my fingers."
She blinked a little bit apprehensively, but she had already accepted the praise; she couldn't argue now.
I started shallow this time.
I ran my fingertips over the ridges of her hard palate, tracing the roof of her mouth with slow strokes. I felt the wet warmth of her, the softness of her inner cheeks. My fingers explored the inside of her mouth, tracing along her teeth, feeling the smoothness of her gums. Her tongue was warm and slick beneath my touch, shifting nervously as I mapped out every sensitive spot.
"Relax your jaw," I instructed softly, my thumb stroking the nape of her neck in what could've been mistaken for comfort. "Let the tension go. Fighting it only makes it worse."
Sakura's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, her breath hitching. She tried to follow the instruction, her jaw loosening slightly, and I felt the wet heat of her mouth surround my fingers more completely. I took that as an invitation.
"There you go," I murmured. "Much better."
I slid deeper, rubbing my thumb over her bottom lip while my fingers inside teased the fleshy sides of her throat. She flinched, her breath hitching.
"Focus," I commanded softly. "Breathe through your nose. Don't focus on the object. Focus on the space around it."
I pushed a little deeper, fingers sliding further back over her tongue toward the soft palate. Her eyes snapped open, a flash of panic crossing her face, and she made a small sound in the back of her throat, half whimper, half protest.
She inhaled shakily, nostrils flaring, and I felt her body relax incrementally. The tension bled out of her shoulders, her hands loosening their death grip on my forearm.
I pushed past the soft palate again.
My fingers brushed against the back of her throat, and Sakura's entire body seized.
She gagged—hard—a wet, choking sound tearing from her throat. Her hands shot back up to my arm, nails digging in through the fabric of my sleeve. Tears spilled over, streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, thighs pressing together as her whole body tried to reject the intrusion.
I didn't stop, but I slowed. I pulled back an inch, just enough to let her draw a ragged breath, but stayed inside the warmth.
"Easy, easy," I soothed, using the hand on the back of her neck to massage the tension points at the base of her skull, firm and rhythmic. "You did well. That reflex is normal. We're just training it to relax."
Sakura gasped for air, her chest heaving, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth and starting to drip down her chin. She looked up at me with watery, unfocused eyes, mascara beginning to smudge.
"Try to keep your throat open next time," I advised, as if this were a perfectly normal jōnin lesson. "Swallow when you feel the urge to gag. It counteracts the reflex." I tilted her head to look at her, "Does it hurt?"
She shook her head as best she could with my hand stabilizing her skull. A string of saliva escaped the corner of her mouth, dripping onto her chin. She looked mortified.
"Don't worry about the mess," I said, catching the droplet with my thumb and smearing it across her lower lip. "A shinobi isn't afraid of bodily fluids, are they? You want to be a medic? Get used to the wet."
She nodded weakly, still breathing hard.
I love her compliance; my dick pushing hard against my pants was enough proof of that, but it felt like something was missing. I expected a little more, well, not push back, but glaring and indignation to spice things up.
I pushed again. Deeper.
She made a wet, gurgling sound, her eyes flying open. I held her gaze, challenging her.
"Pathetic," I teased, smiling darkly. I went all in on this one. "Is that all the control you have? The Great Sakura Haruno, defeated by two fingers?"
Her brow furrowed in anger. She tried to say something, a defiant retort, but my fingers pressed down on her tongue, silencing her. I turned her reaction against her, using her indignation to keep her mouth open.
"Mm tryin'," she tried to argue anyway, though the finger in her mouth made the words thick and muffled. "Jus' gimme a minu'—"
"Don't speak," I said sharply. "Endure."
I pushed until my knuckles brushed her lips. She gagged hard, her stomach muscles contracting, but I held firm. I massaged her neck, scratching my nails lightly against her scalp. It was a confusing overload of sensory input—the violation of her throat mixed with the soothing, pleasure-inducing touch on her head.
Gradually, the resistance began to melt.
Man… I'm losing it too. I nearly fucked things here.
"That's it," I encouraged, my voice a low rumble. "You're learning. Just like that."
Her body trembled under my hand. She was fighting every instinct to pull away, to bite down, to reject the violation. But she stayed. She endured.
I teased her delicate uvula once more, and she made a muffled sound of protest—not quite words, but the intent was clear. Her eyes flashed with frustration, with the desire to argue, to say this was too much, too fast, too wrong.
But she couldn't speak with my fingers in her throat.
And by the time I pulled back enough to let her, she'd forgotten what she wanted to say.
I massaged the inside of her mouth with my fingers, pressing gently against the roof, the sides, finding the sensitive spots that made her squirm. Her tongue twitched beneath me, and I felt the flutter of her throat as she tried to swallow around the intrusion.
"Relax," I murmured again, stroking the back of her neck. "You're doing so well, Sakura."
She was getting messier. Saliva was flowing freely now, coating my fingers, dripping down her chin in thin, glistening strands.
She made a small sound of humiliation, trying to turn her face away, trying to hide the mess she was making. But I held her firm, forcing her to feel it, to accept it.
"Don't hide," I commanded softly. "This is part of it."
Her eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears leaking out.
I pushed deeper still, and this time when she gagged, it was weaker. Her body jerked, thighs clenching together, but she didn't pull away. She stayed there, mouth open, taking it.
"Good," I breathed. "Very good."
I withdrew slightly, letting her breathe, massaging her neck and the inside of her mouth in tandem. She melted into the touch, her rigid posture softening, her analytical mind finally shutting the fuck up and just submitting to the lesson.
Then I pushed back in. Harder. Deeper. And she flared back.
Her throat convulsed around my fingertips, and she made a strangled, wet sound that went straight to my dick. Her hands gripped my arm again, but not to push me away—just to hold on. To anchor herself.
For the next half hour, I worked her systematically. Push, retreat, massage, praise. Push deeper, retreat, soothe, reward. Each cycle lasted longer than the last.
I repeated the cycle twice more.
Each time, I gained more ground. Each time, she took me deeper without gagging as hard. Each time, she looked more wrecked—more saliva dripping down her chin, more tears streaking her face, more of that proud, bratty façade stripped away to reveal the obedient little thing underneath.
Gradually, the resistance began to melt.
It wasn't that she stopped gagging entirely, but the urgency left her. She stopped analyzing the "why" and started focusing entirely on the "how." Her body went from rigid wood to pliable clay. Her hands, which had been gripping my arm, slid down to clutch at my waist, not pushing, just holding on for stability.
By the third cycle, I had my fingers buried to the knuckle in her throat.
She still made sounds, wet, obscene, high-pitched whining noises that filled the quiet hotel room, her eyes rolling back slightly, but she didn't pull away, and she didn't even gag if I held still. She took it. She was squirming, though. Her hips were grinding in a restless rhythm, her thighs rubbing together furiously, her body shifting restlessly as if trying to find relief from the discomfort, from the invasive fullness.
I held her there, feeling the rhythmic flutter of her throat around my fingers, the desperate way she tried to breathe through her nose.
I watched her face, ruinous and beautiful, and felt my control snap.
This wasn't training anymore. I didn't care about her gag reflex. I didn't care about her medical career. I just wanted inside. I was hard, painfully so, and her wet, warm mouth tight around my fingers was driving me absolutely insane.
And then she started squirming more. Hips shifting, legs rubbing together, her whole body trembling with something that wasn't just discomfort anymore.
It was driving me insane.
"Stay still," I growled, my voice rougher than intended.
It was useless. She kept squirming, lost in the sensation, her tears spilling over onto my hand.
She wasn't fighting consciously. Her eyes were blurry and unfocused, tears still streaming, her mouth slack and obedient. But her body wouldn't stop moving, wouldn't stop squirming against me.
It was annoying. I needed her still. I needed leverage.
Instinctively, I guided her backward toward the bed.
She stumbled, and I caught her, laying her down on the mattress and following her down. I straddled her, one knee on either side of her hips, pinning her in place. The bed helped—kept her still, kept her from squirming away.
I pushed my fingers deeper, even though she'd already taken the full length. There was nowhere left to go. She'd have to break her jaw, or I'd have to grow longer fingers. My dick would not have had that issue.
But I pushed anyway, angling her head up to open her throat more, exposing the long line of her throat, and she let me. She was so pliant and docile. Her mouth opened wider, jaw straining, and she made a low, helpless sound that vibrated around my fingers.
My breathing was shallow, ragged. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with sweat and saliva and lust.
"Good girl," I breathed, the words barely intelligible. "Take it all."
She whimpered around my hand, her eyes losing focus as she surrendered completely to the sensation of being full.
I held her there for a long moment, savoring the pulse of her throat around my fingers, before slowly, agonizingly, pulling out.
Saliva stretched in thick, glistening strands between my fingers and her lips, snapping and dripping down her chin. Her pink tongue reflexively followed after my retreating fingers, a mindless, trained response after prolonged stimulation, before falling back against her lower lip. Her mouth stayed open for a moment, swollen and slick and obscene.
Sakura was a mess.
Her long pink hair was fanned out across the white hotel sheets, tangled and damp with sweat. Her green eyes were glassy and teary, rimmed red, mascara smudged down her flushed cheeks. Her lips were swollen and wet, parted and trembling as she tried to catch her breath. Saliva glistened on her chin and neck, soaking into the collar of her red shirt.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, breasts pressing against the fabric with each ragged breath. Her thighs were still pressed together, shifting slightly, unconsciously seeking friction.
She looked up at me with those big, tear-filled eyes and whispered breathlessly, "Did… did I do well, sensei?"
Her voice was meek, wrecked, and so fucking…. it made my dick throb painfully against my pants.
"…. you did," I answered absentmindedly.
The tempting young woman smiled softly, a tired and content little smile. She was so gorgeous that I….
I licked my lips and slowly leaned down.
Sakura didn't flinch. She just tipped her chin up, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in anticipation.
The moment was magnetic. Thick and heavy like gravity. Neither of us could fight it. We were past the point of teacher and student; we were just heat and instinct.
I brushed my lips against hers, soft, tentative, tasting the salt of her tears and the slick remnants of saliva.
And then —
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A sharp knock echoed through the hotel room.
The sound shattered the atmosphere like a hammer through glass.
We froze, lips mere millimeters apart, staring at each other in the sudden, deafening silence.
— — — — — — — — — — —
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! 🎆 Just wanted to send a massive thank you to all for supporting this story over the past year. You guys make writing this so much fun. I hope your 2026 is amazing. See you in the next chapter/year!
You can read up to 8 chapters ahead at patreon.com/vizem