Vizem
patreon
Chapter 66 - Finish What He Started
🕑 Added 2025-06-28 10:25:08 +0000 UTCSAKURA HARUNO
The stillness stretched between them, his fingers a warm weight against her most private place.
They remained perfectly still, just resting there with gentle, reassuring pressure. And somehow, impossibly, it felt... right. Like a warm stone nestled in her palm on a cold day. Like sinking into a hot bath after training. Like the moment before sleep, when all her worries finally quieted.
But….. but…..
Sakura's heart hammered against her ribs as two voices warred in her mind.
This is wrong, the first whispered urgently. No one should touch you there. Not like this. Not without... The thought scared her—the way her body was responding, the heat building low in her belly despite her confusion. That fear only made the strange anticipation coiling through her veins burn brighter.
But it's medical treatment, the other voice insisted desperately. Sensei knows what he's doing. He's perverted and crude, sure, but he's still a jounin. He must have reasons... Even as she thought it, she knew how flimsy it sounded. What medical condition could possibly require...?
Her internal debate shattered when his fingers began to move.
The touch was feather-light, barely there through the thin layers of cotton, but it sent electricity racing up her spine. A soft gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.
"Sensei, I don't think—" The words came out breathless, uncertain.
His finger traced a slow line along her covered folds, and her entire body jerked, a sensation she'd never experienced flooding through her nervous system. It was nothing like her own hesitant touches in the dark—this wasn’t clumsy or curious, sending sparks through pathways she didn't even know existed.
"The chakra pathways here are particularly congested," he said calmly, as if her entire world hadn't just tilted sideways. "This requires very precise treatment."
Another gentle stroke, and this time she couldn't suppress the small sound that bubbled up from her throat. Her hands fisted in the pillow, torn between the urge to pull away and the terrifying desire to press closer.
This…. isn't normal medical treatment, Sakura's rational mind protested weakly. But the thought felt distant, muffled by the floating heat that made everything fuzzy and beautiful and bad.
How could something wrong feel so... necessary?
His fingers moved with maddening precision through the thin barriers of fabric, tracing patterns that made her breath catch. The touch was nothing like her own fumbling explorations—this was knowledge, experience, fingers that knew exactly where to press and how to make her entire nervous system sing.
Heat coiled tighter in her belly with each stroke. Her breathing grew shallow, little gasps escaping despite her efforts to stay silent. The sensation built like a wave gathering strength, and she found herself caught in its pull, helpless against the mounting pressure.
Why is…. How is he doing this so easily?
The thought flickered through her scattered consciousness. She'd barely begun to understand her own body, yet here he was, playing it like an instrument he'd mastered long ago. The realization should have terrified her, but instead it sent another spike of heat racing through her veins.
"Stay still," his deep voice commanded as his other hand, big and strong and warm, pressed firmly against the small of her back, holding her in place.
Only then did she realize she'd been moving without meaning to—her hips shifting restlessly, seeking more contact like a flower turning toward sunlight.
The awareness hit her like a physical blow, shame flooding her cheeks. Here she was, supposedly receiving medical treatment, and she was acting like... like she was enjoying it. Like she wanted it.
The shame felt ridiculous. Shouldn't she be more concerned about where his hands were than whether she was behaving properly? But somehow, the idea that she wasn't being still and obedient felt more mortifying than the intimate nature of his touch.
"Sorry," she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it. She didn't know what she was apologizing for—moving? Responding? Existing in this impossible moment? The word just felt necessary, like what she should do.
She wanted to analyze why she'd said it, but coherent thought scattered as that brilliant warmth approached and lights danced.
Her body tensed, every nerve singing as the sensation crested toward something inevitable, something that would shatter her into pieces and remake her completely—
Then the pressure vanished.
The sudden absence was like stepping from sunlight into shadow, leaving her suspended at the edge of something monumental. Her body cried out at the loss, muscles still trembling with unfulfilled promise.
"What—" She turned her head, the complaint escaping before she could think. "You can't just stop like that!"
The words hung in the air, their meaning hitting her a heartbeat too late. Heat flooded her face as she whipped her head around and buried it in the pillow, mortified by her own boldness.
"Interesting reaction for a medical treatment," he said, amusement threading through his voice. "Very... responsive."
Irritation flared through her embarrassment. This was exactly the moment to tell him off. This wasn't medical treatment — if it ever had been. This wasn't normal; teachers shouldn't touch students like this. She should demand he stop, should storm out, should—
The warmth returned, fingers settling snugly between her thighs again, wadding off the cold and loneliness.
Sakura found all that righteous anger crumbling into something more petulant. W-Well, if…. if he's going to do this, she thought, the least he could do is finish what he started. The reasoning felt flimsy even to her, but she found herself clinging to it anyway.
With the comforting albeit wrong pressure returning, Sakura felt herself dissolving back into that honeyed haze.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, and Sakura could feel it, each pass setting her nerves alight. Not sharp or clumsy, but sure and smooth and maddeningly gentle, like her body had been waiting for him to come back to this spot.
Through the rushing in her ears—her pulse thundering like a storm—she caught a different sound. Not just the skin on fabric, but... wetter. Much wetter. The rhythmic, slick sounds of his fingers working against thoroughly soaked material made her stomach flip with mortification.
Oh, no. She knew she’d been wet when the bastard put his fingers in her mouth earlier. But this… this was more. A shameful kind of more.
She must be absolutely drenched. The evidence was unmistakable in every wet slide of his touch.
Without thinking, she let her legs fall further apart, hoping somehow the additional space might... what? Make it less obvious? The logic was laughable even as she enacted it. There was no hiding this level of,….
He’d already noticed. He had to. It was impossible not to.
At least I packed extra underwear for the mission. A distant thought drifted through her pleasure-fogged mind.
She'd been so practical, so prepared... though she certainly hadn't anticipated this being the reason she'd need fresh clothes. The absurdity of her own foresight would have made her laugh if she could focus on anything beyond the insistent pressure building between her thighs.
This time the sensation built differently.
Faster and hungrier. Where before it had been a gentle tide, now it crashed over her like a dam bursting. Her body arched instinctively, chasing something that felt essential as breathing. It was like being swept up in her father's strong arms as a child, that same desperate need to surrender completely to someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Her fingers curled into the fabric beneath her, trying to ground herself, but the ground kept slipping.
The heat in her stomach coiled tight, and tighter still, not sharp like before—this one was molten, rolling, a tide pulling her out with no promise of return. It was heady, dizzying, and strong enough to knock something loose inside her, something soft and aching that had nothing to do with pain.
And then… it stopped.
Not gone, but paused. His hand didn’t leave her. It just stilled, fingers resting right where they’d been seconds ago, maddeningly close to the edge she’d been racing toward.
The devastating absence left her suspended on the knife's edge of release, her body screaming its protest.
The ache bloomed instantly in the absence. Sakura blinked hard, trying to remember where she was, why she was breathing like this.
Annoyance flickered, weak and aimless. She wanted to glare. Maybe curse. But the pleasure-haze made even forming coherent thoughts impossible. All she could manage was a soft whimper of frustration.
Her limbs weren’t listening, and neither was her pride. Instead, Her hips moved without permission, pushing back like a starved thing fed scraps, desperately searching for the touch that had been stolen away.
A traitorous motion. A silent plea. Like her body had made up its mind without her. And maybe it had.
The sharp crack of his palm across her rear, a sting blooming where warmth had just been. A startled noise left her lips, half-gasp, half-moan. The jolt of it went straight through her, tightening that knot deep in her belly again, reigniting everything she’d thought she’d lost.
"Students need to learn patience," he said, his voice carrying that hunger that made her knees weak. "Do we forget our place so quickly?"
She didn’t need to see him to know the look on his face.
He was the same man who scolded and slapped her for disrespecting her Mom. The same man who stepped between her and a thousand falling needles like his body meant nothing.
The same man who saved her life and was now her sensei.
"I'm... I'm sorry, Sensei," she breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I just... I need... you stopped so suddenly..."
His hands gripped her hips, spreading her wide. The soaked fabric pulled taut between her cheeks, making her intensely aware of every intimate detail. Heat flooded her face at the exposure, at how thoroughly he could see her need.
"Please," she whispered.
Please stop that. It’s embarrassing. She wanted to say, instead her legs shifted again, opening just a bit more.
Sakura didn’t even remember deciding to move. She only knew how slick the fabric felt now, how embarrassingly soaked, how the air kissed everywhere his hands had spread her open.
His touch returned to her most sensitive place, gentle but commanding.
He sensei was such an unfair, unfair man; he didn’t let her off that easily. “Please, what?”
How was Sakura supposed to resist when his voice held that perfect blend of authority and care? When her thoughts were cotton-soft, too tangled to unravel. Her pride, already threadbare, gave one last sigh and let go.
"Please... please don't stop," she whispered, swallowing what remained of her pride. "Make me feel good, Sensei... please finish what you started..."
This was not what she wanted to say, and a part of her to mute to matter pronounced how shameful that was.
Shame, however, was a luxury Sakura couldn't afford when every nerve ending begged for completion.
His fingers stilled for just a heartbeat—barely perceptible, but with how sensitive she was down there, she caught it.
"Good girl," he breathed, voice rough with something that made her stomach flip.
The words alone nearly shattered her, pleasure spiking so sharply she saw stars behind her half-lidded eyes.
The heat didn’t just build—it coiled, spiraled, knotted. It pulled tight around her spine and twisted behind her eyes until even blinking felt too much. Her lashes fluttered, breath stuttered, and uncontrollably, unable to focus on anything beyond the sensation consuming her.
She couldn’t tell if she was holding on or letting go.
Something stirred in her belly—low and urgent. A rush. Not the usual kind. Not something she recognized from those clumsy, shameful nights under her blanket. This felt bigger, almost alive, like her own body had turned stranger on her.
The pressure swelled, so much that her mind shrank from it. Something is coming. Panic scratched at her ribs. Her mouth opened around a scream, but no sound came out.
Her feet pushed frantically at the sheets, toes curling and digging as if she could somehow escape the overwhelming sensation. To run from his touch. To run from herself—run from this thing, this wave she couldn’t stop or name.
She was going to die! She was going to die! She was going to die!
She wanted it. Kami she wanted it—but it terrified her.
The pressure rose and rose until she felt ready to shatter—
Then everything exploded into brilliant white.
Her body convulsed as that pressure in the form of waves of liquid heat poured through her, something warm and wet and blissful flooding between her thighs in a way that should have mortified her but felt too incredible to process.
Words dissolved into meaningless fragments—broken syllables that might have been his name, pleas, or pure nonsense spilling from her lips as her mind went completely blank.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even remember her own name. Only the rush—wet and wild and mortifying—flooding out of her like something had finally, completely, given way.
Then…. nothing.
The intensity drained from her all at once, leaving her boneless and utterly spent.
Her strength vanished. Her mind followed. Her forehead dropped against the pillow, the breath stolen clean out of her lungs. Darkness wrapped around her gently, like arms tucking her in.
He….will never…. call me good….. after this…..
The thought managed to slip through, and Sakura… was gone into peaceful darkness.
