The moment the instructors dismissed them with a curt wave, Himari's knees nearly buckled—not from exhaustion, but the visceral need to *fix* what had been shattered. She caught Ino's wrist first, the blonde's fingers already twitching toward healing jutsu as they stumbled toward Sakura's crumpled form. "Don't," Himari hissed, yanking Tenten closer with her free hand. "Not here." The male instructor's eyes lingered on their huddle like a kunai balanced on a wire.
Sakura's whimper was glass-sharp as Himari knelt beside her, fingers skating over rope burns with deliberate lightness. Behind them, Hinata's ragged breathing hitched—Ino's chakra flaring instinctively before Tenten smothered it with a rough hug. "Later," Tenten mouthed against Ino's temple, her own hands trembling where they clutched Sakura's torn dress closed.
The walk to the baths was a minefield of sideways glances and stifled whimpers. Himari counted each step—*eleven* to the east corridor, *twenty-three* past the weapon racks—focusing on the numbers to drown out Sakura's hitched sob when her thighs chafed. Ino's grip on Hinata's elbow turned white-knuckled as they passed a group of snickering chunin. "Breathe," Himari ordered, her own voice fraying at the edges. "Just fucking *breathe*."
Steam curled around them like a shield as Himari shoved the bathhouse door open with her hip. Tenten's hands were already moving, unraveling Hinata's kimono with surgical precision while Ino pressed Sakura face-first against the tiles—not roughly, but with the same desperate focus as field triage. "They'll heal," Ino whispered, more to herself than anyone, as Himari pried Sakura's fingers from their death-grip on her own arms. "They *have* to."
Himari's thumbs brushed over Sakura's split lip—gentle, too gentle—before dunking the cloth in scalding water. The first touch drew a gasp, the second a sob, the third... silence. Behind her, Hinata's quiet weeping dissolved into Ino's shoulder as Tenten's fingers worked the last knot free. Himari didn't look. She couldn't. Not when Sakura's green eyes reflected the same hollowed-out terror she'd seen in the mirror that first night.
The scalding water dripped from Sakura's trembling thighs as she finally spoke, voice cracked like old parchment. "It's—it's going to be Ino next week." Her fingers clawed at the tile, the admission slithering between them like a live wire. "Then Tenten. Then all of us." The silence that followed was thick with unspoken terror—and something darker, wetter, pooling low in Himari's belly despite herself.
Ino's laugh was too sharp, her hands shaking as she wrung out the washcloth. "At least Sasuke's pretty," she forced out, but her voice broke on the last syllable. Tenten's choked sob echoed off the walls as she hunched over, her thighs pressing together involuntarily—whether to stifle fear or the traitorous heat between them, none of them dared ask.
Himari's breath hitched as Sakura's fingers brushed a fading bite mark on her hip—the instructor's teeth had left bruises in the same spot. Her stomach twisted, but her cunt throbbed in vicious counterpoint, slickness smearing against her inner thighs. She hated it. She hated how Hinata's quiet sniffles made her nipples pebble under the water's surface.
"They'll make us thank them," Hinata whispered, her voice barely audible over the dripping faucet. Her fingers traced the rope burns circling her wrists—a grotesque parody of bracelets. "Like—like Sakura did for Sasuke-kun." The words hung in the steam, suffocating. Tenten's nails dug into her own thighs hard enough to draw blood, but her hips jerked anyway, a wet sound betraying her.
Ino was the first to scream—a raw, guttural sound muffled by her palm. Then she was laughing, hysterical, tears streaming down her face as she grabbed Himari's wrist and pressed it between her own thighs. "Feel that?" she gasped, wild-eyed. "We're fucking broken." Himari's fingers came away dripping, and the worst part? She couldn't tell whose shame it was.
The next five days passed in a blur of routine—morning drills, afternoon kunai practice, evening lectures on chakra theory—each hour carefully structured to avoid any mention of what happened in the dojo. Sakura's split lip scabbed over; Hinata's rope burns faded into thin pink lines. By Thursday, they could both spar without flinching when a grip brushed their wrists.
Ino filled the silences with relentless chatter about flower arrangements and clan gossip, her voice too loud, too bright. Tenten buried herself in weapon maintenance, polishing kunai until they gleamed like mirrors—anything to avoid meeting her own reflection. Himari memorized the instructors' schedules down to the minute, mapping safe routes between classes where they wouldn't have to cross paths with certain smirking chunin.
At meals, they sat close enough for knees to touch under the table—Himari's thigh pressed against Sakura's, Ino's elbow brushing Tenten's—a silent tether. When Naruto stumbled into the cafeteria with shadows under his eyes, none of them looked up. When Sasuke's gaze lingered too long on Sakura's healed mouth, Ino "accidentally" knocked her tea into his lap.
The nights were worse. Himari lay awake listening to Sakura's muffled whimpers through the thin dorm walls, her own fingers creeping between her thighs in guilty mimicry of the instructor's cruel precision. She came with her teeth buried in her pillow, tears soaking the fabric.
By Friday's endurance run, they could almost pretend it was normal—until Hinata stumbled, and Naruto's hands shot out to catch her. The way they both froze, his fingers hovering inches from her rope-marked wrists, said everything the week's silence hadn't.
The academy bell tolled like a funeral gong, its echo reverberating through Himari's ribs as she stared at the timetable clutched in her damp palm—Advanced Coercion Tactics, Room 7, Instructor Moriko. Sakura's sharp inhale beside her said everything; Moriko's classes always left bruises that didn't fade. Across the courtyard, Naruto's sandals scuffed the dirt as he dragged his feet toward the same hallway, his orange jumpsuit suddenly dull under the weight of what came next.
The sliding door hissed open to reveal Instructor Moriko alone—no male assistants, no observing chunin. Just her, a coiled whip resting against her shoulder, and the scent of lavender oil that always preceded pain. Himari's stomach dropped as Moriko's crimson lips curved into a smile too sweet for the way her gaze lingered on Sakura's throat. "Today," she purred, trailing a gloved finger down the chalkboard, "we learn how to *fake* pleasure until it becomes real." Sakura's knuckles whitened around her desk.
Moriko's heels clicked across the tatami as she stopped behind Hinata, her breath stirring the Hyuuga's hair. "Stand," she commanded, pressing a vial into Hinata's shaking hands. "Oil your fingers. You'll practice on Ino first." The room's temperature spiked as Ino's choked protest died against Moriko's palm. "Lesson one," the instructor murmured, her thumb stroking Ino's pulse point, "is how to make *her* moan while you scream inside."
Himari's nails bit into her thighs as Moriko dragged Ino onto the demonstration table, her kimono parting with a single tug. The instructor's laugh was a velvet-wrapped blade. "Pay attention, girls. By dusk, you'll know each other's bodies better than your own." The first button of Himari's collar popped open under the weight of Sakura's terrified gasp—or maybe it was the heat pooling low in her own belly, shameful and inevitable.
Moriko's fingers twisted in Ino's hair, yanking her head back as she pressed the vial of oil into Hinata's trembling hands. "Start with her thighs," she instructed, her voice syrupy with false kindness. Hinata's breath hitched as she uncorked the vial—the scent of jasmine thick and cloying—but her fingers moved with mechanical precision, slicking Ino's skin until it shone under the lantern light. Ino's jaw clenched, her thighs twitching as Hinata's fingertips skirted higher, just shy of the junction between her legs. Moriko's whip cracked against the table, making Sakura flinch. "Don't tease," she purred. "Fuck her like you mean it."
Himari watched Hinata's fingers sink into Ino with a wet sound that echoed obscenely in the silent room—watched the way Ino's back arched against her will, her gasp strangled into something resembling pleasure. Moriko circled them like a vulture, her gloved hand guiding Hinata's wrist deeper. "Louder," she commanded, and Ino's moan was a ragged, broken thing that dissolved into a shudder. Sakura's nails dug into Himari's arm hard enough to draw blood as Moriko turned her attention to them. "Your turn," she murmured, dragging a single finger down Sakura's cheek. "Make her scream."