Sakura's hands shook as she reached for the oil, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Himari forced herself to stay still as Sakura's slick fingers brushed her inner thigh—feigned a gasp when they dipped between her folds. Every touch burned like betrayal, but she arched into it anyway, her moan pitched high and sweet as Moriko's whip traced her spine. "Good girl," the instructor crooned, her free hand fisting in Sakura's hair. "Now make her come." Sakura's fingers curled inside Himari with brutal efficiency, her own tears dripping onto Himari's stomach as she twisted her wrist just so—just like the instructors had taught them.
Across the room, Tenten choked on a sob as she rutted against Hinata's thigh, her hips jerking in frantic, involuntary circles. Moriko's laughter was a dark ripple as she pressed a kunai's cold edge to Tenten's throat. "Beg for it," she whispered, and Tenten's voice cracked around the words—"Please, please, please"—as her climax tore through her with a violence that looked like pain. Himari closed her eyes against the sight, but Sakura's fingers inside her didn't stop, didn't slow, even as her own shoulders shook with silent weeping.
Moriko's whip lashed across Himari's collarbones, the sting sharp and sudden. "Eyes open," she commanded, her heel grinding into the tender flesh of Sakura's thigh. "Watch what happens to girls who fake it poorly." Sakura's fingers stilled inside Himari as Moriko dragged Ino up by her hair, forcing her onto her knees. "Again," she ordered, pressing Hinata's face between Ino's thighs. "Until I believe you." Hinata's tongue flicked out with mechanical precision—Ino's responding scream was half terror, half traitorous pleasure—and Himari bit her own lip bloody to keep from crying out.
The door slid open with a whisper of wood, but Himari didn't turn—couldn't, not with Sakura's fingers still working inside her. Naruto's sharp inhale cut through the wet, rhythmic sounds, his shadow stretching across the tatami as he took in the scene: Ino writhing against Hinata's mouth, Tenten's thighs slick with her own arousal, Sakura's tear-streaked face pressed into Himari's neck as her fingers curled deeper. Moriko's smile was a sickle moon. "Join us, Uzumaki," she purred, her whip tapping against his trembling fingers. "Or do you need a demonstration?"
Naruto's fists clenched, his gaze locking onto Himari's—wide-eyed, desperate—before Moriko's laughter shattered the moment. "Lesson two," she murmured, dragging Naruto forward by his hitai-ate, "is how to break them with your cock." Himari's stomach lurched as Moriko guided Naruto's hand to her own hip, his fingers brushing the fresh welts there. "Make her sob," the instructor whispered against his ear, her hand closing around his wrist. "Then make her thank you for it."
Sakura's fingers slid free with a wet sound as Naruto stumbled forward, his breath ragged. Himari braced for the thrust, the tear, the inevitable—but Naruto's hand trembled against her thigh, his voice cracking on a single word: "No." Moriko's whip Moriko's whip froze mid-air, her crimson lips parting in genuine surprise—no one had ever refused her before. The silence stretched razor-thin as Naruto's ragged breathing filled the room, his fingers digging into Himari's thigh not with lust, but something dangerously close to defiance. Then Moriko laughed, slow and delighted, like a spider savoring a trapped fly's struggle. "Oh, Uzumaki," she cooed, stroking the whip down his flushed cheek, "you misunderstand." Her other hand yanked his hitai-ate off, tossing it onto the oil-slicked tatami. "This isn't a request."
Behind Naruto, the door slid shut with a decisive click—sealed now by chakra-infused ink. Moriko's smile widened as she pressed Naruto's palm flat against Himari's stomach, her voice dripping honeyed venom. "Lesson three: real shinobi don't hesitate." Her knee shoved between his legs, grinding against his trapped erection. "You'll fuck her," she whispered, "or I'll let the entire chunin corps take turns breaking her instead." Himari's gasp was half-terror, half-traitorous relief as Naruto's hips jerked forward involuntarily—his body betraying him even as his fists clenched.
Moriko's whip cracked again, this time against Tenten's bare back. "Watch closely, girls," she purred. "This is how Konoha turns boys into men." Naruto's first thrust was clumsy, desperate, his face buried in Himari's neck to hide his expression—but the second was sharper, deeper, his fingers tangling in her hair exactly as the instructors had taught him. Himari arched against him with a sob that sounded suspiciously like gratitude, her nails raking down his back in silent apology.
Across the room, Sakura's whimper broke into a moan as Ino's teeth sank into her collarbone—no longer pretending, no longer fighting. The scent of jasmine oil and sweat thickened as Moriko circled them, her whip tracing lazy patterns on their shuddering skin. "Good," she murmured when Naruto's rhythm faltered, her hand guiding his hips back into a punishing grind. "Faster. Harder. Until she forgets her own name." Himari's thighs trembled as pleasure coiled tight beneath the shame, her broken gasp echoing Hinata's muffled cries against Tenten's thigh.
The lesson wasn't over. It never was.
The whip's crack split the air like a thunderclap, and Himari's body arched off the table—not from pain, but from the electric jolt of Naruto's fingers suddenly twisting into her hair, yanking her head back with a roughness that made her whimper. His breath was ragged against her throat, his thrusts losing rhythm as Moriko's laughter coiled around them. "See?" the instructor purred, her gloved hand sliding between their sweat-slicked bodies to press down on Himari's clit. "Even dead-lasts learn fast when properly motivated." Naruto's hips stuttered, his teeth gritting as Moriko's fingers guided him deeper, harder, until Himari's moans dissolved into choked sobs. Across the room, Sakura's fingers were tangled in Ino's hair, their mouths locked in a kiss that looked more like a scream swallowed whole. Tenten's back bowed off the floor as Hinata's tongue lapped at her tears—each movement precise, practiced, a grotesque pantomime of pleasure. Moriko's heel ground into Naruto's spine, her whisper venomous: "Come inside her, Uzumaki. Let her feel what failure tastes like." His climax ripped through him with a sound like a wounded animal, and Himari's body clenched around him, betraying her with a shuddering orgasm that felt like surrender.
Moriko's whip tapped against Naruto's spent thigh as she surveyed the panting, sweat-slicked students. "One final lesson," she murmured, her gloved fingers tilting Himari's chin up to examine the bite marks on her neck. With a laugh, she traced the bruises left by Naruto's teeth. "Every kunoichi needs to learn her place—on her knees, under a boot, or bent over for correction." Her gaze swept the room before landing on Sakura, still trembling from Ino's attentions. "Haruno. Front and center."
Sakura's legs nearly gave out as she stumbled forward, but Moriko caught her by the collar, dragging her toward a low wooden bench. The instructor's nails scraped down Sakura's spine as she bent her over it, her kimono rucked up to expose the reddened welts from last week's "training." Moriko's chuckle was dark as she pressed Sakura's cheek against the wood. "Six strokes from each of you," she purred, handing Tenten the paddle—a smooth, polished oak that gleamed ominously in the lamplight. "Make sure she counts them."
Tenten's first swing was hesitant, the smack echoing dully—but Moriko's hand clamped around her wrist for the second stroke, guiding it down harder. Sakura's gasp dissolved into a whimper as Hinata took her turn, her delicate hands wielding the paddle with terrifying precision. By the time Ino's blows landed—sharp, rhythmic, just like they'd practiced—tears streaked Sakura's face, her knuckles white around the bench's edges.
Naruto's turn came with Moriko's kunai at his throat, her whisper hot in his ear: "Put your back into it, Uzumaki." His first strike was too light, drawing a derisive snort from the instructor—but the second cracked like splitting wood, leaving Sakura sobbing into the varnish. Himari's hands shook as she took the paddle, her stomach twisting at the sight of Sakura's welted flesh. Moriko's fingers dug into her shoulder blades. "Harder," she hissed. "Or it's your skin next."
The final strokes came from Moriko herself—two brutal swings that sent Sakura crashing to the tatami, her breath coming in ragged hitches. The instructor knelt, tilting Sakura's chin up with the paddle. "Thank your classmates," she murmured. Sakura's voice was raw, broken, but the words came automatically: "Th-thank you for correcting me."
Moriko's smile was all teeth as she straightened, her whip coiled lazily around her wrist. "Class dismissed."