"Is this how you speak to your sensei?" I asked quietly, my voice carrying just enough edge to cut through her fascination.
The card trembled in her hands as her eyes snapped up to mine, that dreamy absorption shattering like glass. Her pupils dilated slightly—a little sparrow suddenly realizing the hawk was watching.
"I... I didn't mean..." she stammered, her grip tightening on the card like a talisman.
What she'd said wasn't even particularly challenging—barely a flutter of rebellion to mend her bruised pride. But the insight it provided was invaluable. She'd called me a pervert so casually, like it was simply an accepted fact.
Naruto did that too, annoyingly a lot, but Sakura was different.
It wasn't an accusation. It was accommodation. And that was what made it useful.
The psychological normalization was textbook beautiful.
More importantly, what I'd done with her mother had been reduced to merely "gross" in her mind. Not a devastating betrayal that shattered her world. Not an unforgivable violation of trust. Just... gross. Like stepping into something unpleasant. Like finding expired milk in the refrigerator. Like discovering your teacher had bad breath.
Progress. All those careful mentions of protecting Mebuki's honor, of speaking about her mother as someone worthy of affection and respect—each reference had slowly drained the venom from the wound. Made it smaller. Manageable. Trivial.
Sakura didn't realize I'd been training her long before she'd officially become my student.
Speaking of training…..
My gaze dropped to her lips—soft pink petals that had never been touched, still carrying that innocent curve that belonged only to girls who'd never been kissed. The knowledge that I could just lean in and steal that first moment, claim that untouched sweetness, sent a heat through veins.
"Indeed," I murmured. "That pretty little mouth of yours really needs some training in proper respect."
Her eyes darted frantically around the room—to the door, the window, anywhere but my face—searching for some excuse, some escape route that would let her avoid taking responsibility again. That little pink brain firing like it always did when she wanted to wriggle out of guilt and still feel virtuous afterward.
"No, What? You're misreading it—what I meant was—"
She always didn't mean to. That was her favorite thing to mean.
I jabbed my finger between her lips and past their softness.
Not hard. Not rough. Just in.
Warm. Wet. She froze. The sound caught in her throat like she'd swallowed her own voice. Her mouth wasn't built for silence. It was all pout and protest and puffed-up pride. But now it held still around my knuckle, her eyes wide, shoulders pulled back like someone had slapped a hand of ice down her spine.
She didn't pull back. Just stared. Like the world had skipped a frame and hadn't caught up yet.
She blinked.
Then again.
The air between us went very still. Her cheeks flushed, unsure whether to be ashamed or angry or something she hadn't prepared for.
"Whath the hell ay you thoing?" she said, lips barely moving around my finger.
She froze once more, her startled green eyes dragging down to the hand connected to her mouth, and she flushed so red it felt obscene.
The moment stretched.
Then she jumped away.
"What the hell was that?!" She wiped her mouth like I'd cursed her.
"Tactile punctuation," I said. "You were rambling."
"Ugh, gross," she muttered.
I deadpanned at her reaction. The bratiness had returned in full force, it seemed.
Psychologically speaking, I should retreat now.
Push-pull dynamics required careful spacing. Too much pressure after both punishment and reward would create excessive confusion rather than conditioning. The smart move was to let today's lessons settle, allow her mind to process what had happened.
But I was just a man. An extremely horny man. And when a brat like her stood there wiping her mouth and glaring at me with those defiant green eyes, practically begging to be put in her place...
All brats need taming. Need reminding of their position.
Time to clarify what being my student actually meant.
I sighed, then quickly moved forward and grabbed a fistful of her long pink hair, not gently. She yelped as I forced her head back to meet my eyes, her hands flying up to grasp my wrist, not to pull away, just to anchor herself as she stared up at me with startled confusion.
"Your mouth is going to get you in serious trouble, Sakura," I said in my most professional teaching tone. "Calling what your mother and I share 'gross' disrespects her. You've been slapped twice now for that exact behavior, yet you continue making the same mistake."
She made to protest, but I pressed that still-wet finger across her lips.
"You didn't mean that," I finished smoothly.
Her eyes darted away rather than admit she was in the wrong.
"That's the problem — no, never did," I continued, maintaining my grip on her hair. "The first thing you need to fix to improve as a shinobi is impulse control. You speak before thinking, react before analyzing, and let emotion override strategy. In the field, that gets people killed. As your sensei, it's my duty to help you develop proper discipline."
"I—" she started, then caught herself as my finger pressed firmer against her lips. Her eyes flashed with frustration, caught between wanting to argue and knowing I'd just proven my point about her lack of control.
Her jaw clenched. "You're being ridiculous about this," she muttered against my finger, but her voice had lost some of its fire. "I can control myself just fine."
Even as she said it, she was proving the opposite.
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you really?" The sarcasm dripped from my voice like honey. "Wasn't it this mouth that nearly got your teammate killed?"
That found its mark.
Her green eyes widened, pupils contracting as the memory surfaced—and with it, the lingering tenderness from the spanking that mistake had earned her. I could see it all play across her face. The flash of guilt and shame, the phantom ache, the way her body unconsciously shifted as if her bottom still stung.
I traced my finger along her lips, feeling their soft fullness, naturally plump with that slight asymmetry that made her pout so distinctive. They were slightly chapped from the habit of chewing when she thought too hard. Nervous mind. Nervous mouth.
When I pressed gently, revealing the flash of her small, perfectly white teeth, slightly overlapped incisors that gave her smile its particular charm.
She tried to turn her head away. Eyes half-lidded. Playing at indifference like a girl playing dead in a bear's den.
"Open up," I ordered quietly.
Her green eyes flicked up like she'd loaded them with a bullet and meant to shoot me where I stood. But the fire dimmed the moment our gazes locked. Like she remembered too late that this wasn't a fight she was allowed to win.
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
Sakura's eyes dropped. Her lashes fluttered. Those expressive eyebrows trembled as she, slowly, hesitantly parted her lips, opening just enough to accommodate my finger. Obedient. Uncertain. Beautiful.
I slid my finger in.
Warm velvet wrapped around my digit. Her tongue flinched from it like a startled cat, quick and panicked, then tried to press itself against her molars, like maybe hiding there would make the intrusion go away. It didn't. I moved slowly, savoring the feel of it. The heat of her.
"Good girl."
And maybe I said it for her. Or maybe for me.
I liked those words. They made the world simpler. They painted girls into neat little boxes I could open and rearrange. I liked believing they worked, that they meant something. That obedience could be cultivated like a habit. Like my Shihu. Like any of my girls. And maybe that made me a bastard.
I was that kind of bastard.
Sakura's reaction proved I wasn't imagining things.
She exhaled. Slow. Her shoulders slowly relaxed, tension bleeding away as her hands released their grip on my wrist and dropped uselessly to her sides.
And just like that, she left herself open, effectively giving me free rein to position her however I pleased, her body language shifting from resistance to reluctant submission.
The psychological surrender was as clear as if she'd spoken it aloud—caught between wanting to fight and craving approval, she'd chosen the path that earned her praise.
I exhaled. Heavy. Slow. Like it might carry the heat out of my bloodstream and into the floor.
It didn't.
The rush was already there. I didn't need to look down to know what part of me had woken up hungry.
The softness she didn't mean to show. The obedience she didn't know she'd given. That mouth….
Pin those slender wrists above her head and watch her arch beneath me. Feel those soft lips wrapped around something much larger than my finger. Hear her voice break as she called my name. Mark every inch of that pale skin until she understood exactly who she belonged to.
The things I wanted to do.
I didn't let the thoughts finish. I knew where they led. And I knew I'd follow.
I exhaled again, fighting for control. Not yet. She's not ripe yet.
But another voice whispered seductively: Could she be any more ripe than this? She'd accepted me as her sensei, trivialized what her mother and I shared, and now stood open and defenseless, implicitly offering her little mouth for "training." If she'd give me this, what else would she offer with just a little push?
A little push.
So I pushed.
My finger slid deeper into the heat of her mouth. Past the soft resistance of her tongue. Past the reflexive flinch. Until it tapped that delicate place at the back. The one that doesn't lie.
Until the tip touched her vulnerable uvula.
Sakura gagged reflexively, head jerking back, but my grip on her hair kept her anchored. One small hand flew up to rest against mine—not pulling, just touching—while her green eyes flickered to meet mine. Surprise mixed with something else in those jade depths. A flutter of uncertainty, the faintest tremor of her lower lip, pupils dilating slightly as her breathing quickened through her nose.
"Shh," I murmured, voice gentle and reassuring. "It's just training, nothing more."
The excuse seemed to satisfy us both, ridiculous as it was.
She didn't fight. Just let the moment hang. Sakura lowered her hand when I held still, her lips instinctively closing around the intrusion like she'd decided that if she couldn't stop it, she might as well contain it.
Probably trying to hide the interior of her mouth. Out of shame, probably. The seal of her lips around my finger sent another surge of heat through my system.
"This teaches restraint," I explained reasonably, my voice steady despite the chaos in my blood. "Besides learning when to keep quiet, learning to control your… involuntary reflex, to breathe through discomfort—these are valuable skills. In many scenarios, you need to maintain composure even when..."
Even when what? When someone's violating your mouth?
My pulse hammered as I felt the wet heat surrounding my finger, her tongue's tentative movements.
I kept talking, half on autopilot, half wound around her breath and tongue's rhythm.
"Panic in the field," my voice rougher than intended, "you freeze, you stop breathing... and dire consequences will befall you."
Her tentative contact was like silk against my fingertip—hesitant little flutters that spoke of inexperience and uncertainty. The warm muscle trembled against my digit, making featherlight touches that seemed to ask permission before quickly retreating, only to venture forth again with shy curiosity.
Each contact sent electric jolts through my nervous system as I felt the delicate ridges and smooth surface, exploring with innocent hesitation.
I was talking about control and restraint, and she was showing me she had none.
My breathing grew unsteady as my gaze dragged from her lips wrapped around my finger up to those big green eyes.
The expression there nearly undid my control. Wide and trusting, with a particular puppy-like quality of seeking approval. Am I being good? Am I doing this right? Those jade depths seemed to ask, earnest and vulnerable in a way that made my chest tight and my blood burn hotter.
I swallowed hard. My throat dry.
This was training, I told myself. I need to believe that lie if I were to keep control.
This was training—just not the kind she thought. Yes. I was conditioning her thoughts and mouth, teaching her to accept invasions and become comfortable with… cylindrical objects in her throat.
The rationalization betrayed me, however, and acted against my intention, giving me permission to continue this educational exercise instead of stopping.