She's a Druggy
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Masashi Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Warning: Morbid Content and Strong Language. Reader discretion is (strongly) advised.
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Cup clattering to the floor . . . the quick sounds barely made it to his ears, and he went down fast, dropping like a bag of stones on the bed. It did not give any romantic swoops, a hard thing; and the mattress was made of the oldest cotton Orochimaru had laid his sickly fingers on. He could feel the lumps on his back; the women had not tramped on it well . . .
His head was hanging off the bed, and he saw the whole room turned upside down: grey curtains, smooth and clean, and the window behind them was open; he saw clouds beyond the dried up boughs. A cool draught passed through them, but this time, he was not spending the night alone . . .
He felt a weight on his hips, but he did not need to strain himself to see who it was: the feisty red-head had finally done it! She had been rather persistent about the tea since morning. He should have known better. Orochimaru had gone out to tend to the messy business of burying more bodies in a ditch somewhere; Kabuto, his lackey, always in his wake. The two made an eccentric couple. They left this wild girl to her own devices. She reminded him so of the pink-haired girl and her never-ending chase of him. How unfortunate for her that this one would get the fruits of her tricks and labours—tonight!
She was chatty in the morning, talking of the effectiveness of drugs she concocted by burying her nose into one of the ghastly scientist's books: it was meant to make one weak and heighten the baser pleasures. Why did his serpentine mentor have such a devious treatise on him? He had wondered, veering his mind away from the faintest possibility of being a victim of her girlish tricks himself. Sometimes, his lack of awareness almost made him weep. Almost . . .
She did not weigh much, but she had always been thin and waif-like. Eager hands roamed his breast and that was when he realised how sweaty he was; her hand, clammy and cold against the sensitive skin; her fingers, little pins that pushed excitement into his skin, and he felt it twitch uneasily; and, in spite of himself, he let out a gasp of surprise and protest. It felt so odd . . .
He had never invested much of his attention on matters of sexual nature. Orochimaru took excessive pleasure out of dragging him off to shady brothels from time to time, just to look at the embarrassment he tried to conceal with all his might. For him, this coldness was skin-deep, a companion he had learnt to cherish. He had allowed one harlot to pleasure his cock with her rosy mouth and plump breasts by propping them on her arms: it was quite the show the way she pushed them together and shoved them up nearly to her chin. He had erupted too eagerly on her face and bosom—messy, and in spite of the broadest smile pasted on her painted face, he did not think she enjoyed the generous spilling of his passions, stark white on her lead-coated face, almost partitioned by the rude rouge that was the mouth . . .
That was nearly a year ago. He thought that he had left such matters behind to focus on his precarious future and the (seemingly) well-planned murder of the wicked brother; but Kami had different ideas to amuse themselves with. They were probably laughing how he was at the mercy of this wee girl's evil tricks and Orochimaru's terrible hobbies of keeping a bizarre collection of books—at arm's length no less. Sooner or later, this was bound to happen!
The minx had always been thoroughly infatuated with his outward semblance of beauty: she was bold enough to ask him to bed her—more times than he thought necessary. He, naturally, had declined her humble offers that kept coming, intermittently, with no hopes of ever stopping. She was even happy enough to carry his child for nine months (with few drug-induced extra months thrown in just to make sure!) and birth it inside the confines of Kabuto's grim, grimy, ghoul-ish laboratory, in the hopes that it would be a compelling start of the revival of his long-dead clan. He had shuddered at the ways her diabolical mind worked; but he had never imagined her to be so brazen in subduing him to have her way. She was mad!
His gaze wandered to the cup and the last dreadful dregs of that awful tea, which had spilt over the holed mat. He tried to turn to his Sharingan, but it was hopeless: it flickered a couple of times, not eager to cross over, to focus on the cobwebs that dangled from the old ceiling, but then it went quiet. Accursed thing—it had abandoned him in this theatrical show for the cruel Kami!
Her lips were soft when they descended on his throat, and, sweetly, she suckled on the skin as though this was what she had desired all along. He heard sounds of rustling and the zipper moving, and then he saw her clothes fall down to the floor in a heap; she really intended to have sex with him tonight. She was hopeless!
Her hand went down; she moved it under his black trousers and took him in her slick and smooth grasp. He drew in a discomforting breath that shook him, sweat pouring into his eyes from the strained cheeks as she freed the desire-heated flesh. Her breath fell upon the head, and it jumped in the excitement of a possibility that he might enjoy this. Shifting his back a little, he strained his head up to look at her kneeling over him, thighs opening wider to take that twitching thing straight into her womb; it looked so vulgar, odd, new. There was a puff of soft red hair between her legs: they had yet to attain the coarseness of youth.
He stared at her and made a face of protest, but it was not as if she wanted to put an end to her girlish games. She slowly lowered herself on the head that was wet, needing in anticipation. Her face worked up into a knot of pain and fear, legs trembling, as she struggled to push down, to tear through Nature's barrier. She took him in, little by little, wincing, till all of him was buried completely in her tight heat. And he saw vivid drops flow down the dampened thighs, marking her in ways she was too naïve to understand.
The room was spinning; the inside of her was stirring, torrid, tight, so wet and soft. He had never imagined himself to be that man who would want the flesh in such a way; but, at this moment, he was sure enough that he wanted to spill inside her after a reckless ritual of rutting. He wanted to move his hips quite badly, but the damned drug had left his legs almost paralysed. She played her tricks well—too well!
And then she bore down on him again and again, slowly and sweetly at first, squeezing the engorged organ playfully as she lifted off him and rode him hard. Her head tipped back, and a deep arch formed in her back as though she wanted him to see her youth-coveting body: her bosom, small like a little girl's; hips, frail and thin, bony at the edges as if she had not eaten a full meal for days; and many teeth-marks adorned the skin like little stitches. Tiny, sweat-beaded red crests stood tight on her breasts; and albeit she was an adolescent, there was barely any fat there to grant her a growing maiden's shape. Mellow moonlight did not let her hide the marks; and as sweat gathered generously into the dents in the skin, covered in cerise freckles, she began to look more and more like a snake about to shed its old skin—tiny pushed-in places, another garb. Ghastly . . . so ghastly!
He grunted when she contracted her muscles again and again in pleasure; and his thoughtless body wanted to answer her playfulness with a violent upward jerk of his hips, but the present state of his body's inactivity was nothing short of the greatest torture—well, to assume this notion was hyperbolic to be sure, but, against the tunes of primal instincts, his flesh had assured his mind to think this to be true. (Oh, the shame; his Uchiha ancestors would spit on him—surely!). The room smelt strange, filling up with the odours of their fluids and wet earth from outside: it had begun to drizzle; and into the room came light, encased tightly by night's foraying black, and made shine the innumerable droplets, which still stood all over her skin, like new scales beneath flesh. She wished to be liberated from the shell: a hatchling in an old body . . .
How long did it go on? He did not know. Outside, wind slowed down to softer sighing and chilled his sweat-furnished skin, whose white hue was exalted by the labour he was experiencing; he was just so glad that thunder was there to hide his shame and the wanton noises that tore from her lips. She thrust faster and faster, and he swallowed a wave of pleasure, felt it tear at his composure and the fabric of that uncaring demeanour he always threw over himself to guard the thoughts. Her hips madly twitched, and she bent over him and dug her sharp fingertips into the trembling coils of excited muscles in his breast, as though she wanted something to hold on to. He grunted in retort, legs convulsing from being unable to move, teeth clenching in agony. By Kami, he needed to move!
And then she did few frenzied thrusts and erupted in an arc that splashed across his breast and the side of his face, quite generously. Her long-winded moan seemed to stretch on forever, and her body vibrated with the satisfaction of release. Her head tipped further back, and her thighs opened wider for him to see where they connected. The arc of her back deepened, sweat streamlets sinking into that hollow, bouncing off his skin. A viscous mass of their arousal clung to the hairs on their loins in slippery globules. It looked . . . messy.
He turned his face away into the shadows, hid away the radiance of his shame, feeling her contract very painfully around the shaft with yet another jerky movement of her hips, pressing the semen out of his crown that he bit down on his tongue—hard. Weak, spasmatic twitches in the limbs betrayed his want to spill into her womb. At last, his face twisted, and his lips pressed together as she bent down till her bosom was flush against his. A wave of emotions and rapture tore from his loins and went through the heart, spasming throat, and into the eyes that they turned red; and as if feeling them to be that necessary trigger, he erupted into her—not caring how his fluids gushed and spluttered out from her trembling cunt.
At that moment, his head fell back with a loud shuddering breath and was hanging off the edge again. His eyes roved to the same cup and the same whitish liquid that had dried hours ago; and then he felt her move down over his hardening cock again. His eyes widened, and he barely managed to lift his head up to stare at her with a look that might have been something along the lines of disapproval—shock. She still wanted to play? Damn this girl!
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EN: Suigetsu teased Karin about a very interesting incident between her and Sasuke. Anyone over the age of fifteen would've pieced the clues together to reach an obvious conclusion.
The End