The Traveling Pussy

Chapter 22: Ibiki’s Punishment

Since I’d met Ibiki, blacking out was becoming a terribly bad habit. I still wondered if Ibiki was using some sort of drug that was absorbed in my vagina to knock me out after I came. A lot of guys don’t want to deal with the post-sex thing, though drugging your lover so you don’t have to deal with her talking or needs or feelings after sex is pretty extreme. Or maybe I was just making up for the fact that I had never once blacked out in my childhood or teens. At any rate it wasn’t a surprise to come to feeling whole and healed.

I opened my eyes, looked around the room I was in and decided it had to be a sex fantasy, and shut my eyes. I waited until I was pretty sure I was awake—hell, I was feeling that morning need to pee and brush my teeth, and then took another look. It was exactly the sort of room I used to fantasize about having sex with Ibiki in. The ceiling was covered with a metallic silver wallpaper that reflected the room. Unlike a mirror, it was safe for earthquakes and easy to drill into. There were a lot of hooks and chains embedded into the ceiling. I looked up at the reflection of myself—it was soft and wavy, as if from a very, very old antique mirror made of glass backed with silver—that sort of wavy, softened reflection that flatters and hides wrinkles and spots and makes everything look smooth and flowy like a beautiful watercolor.

The watercolor above me was of a naked woman on a bed covered in plushy black fur—no doubt fake since it was such a big piece. She had a black leather collar around her neck, and black leather around her forearms, wrists, chest, thighs, knees and ankles. The only thing that was out of place was the IV drip and needle on the one hand. I tilted my head to look down at my right wrist. The leather cuff on my wrist was chained to the side of the bed and an IV drip was in that wrist. My other wrist was chained down loosely, just enough that I couldn’t pull the IV out of my arm.

Hmmm, well maybe that was why I felt so completely healed—no sore rib, no aching leg muscles, no aching arms, no pains or soreness between my legs. I might have been kept out of things for a while. I looked around at the black walls with mirrored glass lined little cabinets set into the walls at intervals. On the glass shelves lit by hidden lights were what I first though was some art collection of glittering glass and metal statues. But a closer look revealed that most of the glass and metal objects were clearly some supremely elegant sex toys—something only a fairly well-off pervert could afford.

I lay back and gazed at my soft shimmery reflection in the silver paper on the ceiling and found I could think of nothing but needing to go to the bathroom. This was so me—I wake up in a lover’s nest, in leather and chains in a room set up for sex, and all I could think about was needing to pee. The idea of lying chained on a urine-soaked fur was not appealing. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the soft black cord with a tassel hanging from the ceiling within reach of my left wrist was a bell pull. I jerked it and heard a distant ringing.

The entrance to the room was in the right corner back where my head was. In the dim light, I watched in the ceiling's reflection as a figure moved into the room. It was, thank heaven, Ibiki in his normal grey uniform, long black coat, black gloves, and black headband. I rolled over as much as the chains let me and smiled at him, “Hi.”

He was in Iron Ibiki mode, however, and didn’t smile back. But he said, “Good morning, do you need something?”

“I need to pee.”

He moved over and unhooked my right wrist and detached the IV. “It looks like you won’t need this any more,” he said, pulling the needle out of my hand. He pulled an alcohol swab out of his pocket and wiped off the spot were the needle had gone in, then pulled out a band-aid and covered the little bleeding hole. My chains attached to the black leather cuffs on my wrist were removed, and then Ibiki took out a thin little leather leash and clipped it to the collar around my throat. He tugged on the leash and said, “Stand up.” I sat up on the bed and slid my legs down and stood up. Despite the leather bands buckled around my body and cuff my limbs, there was nothing but the ridiculously thin leather strip held loosely in Ibiki’s hand that was restraining me. It wouldn’t have held back a cat or dog, I suspected, and probably a ferret would strain it. This was symbolic.

Ibiki began to move, turning his back to me, the little strap pulling on my collar. I didn’t have to follow of course. But I wanted to pee, and I didn’t want that savage Ibiki slicing up his bedding and smashing his furniture to come back either. I let him pull me over to a black velvet curtain that covered a tiled black shower room set with a drain. There was a metal bucket on the floor by the drain. There were hooks and chains set into this ceiling as well. Ibiki just stood in the doorway and gestured to the bucket, my leash held loosely in his hand. I used the bucket with my back to him. When I stood up, looking around for a way to clean myself, he said, “Empty the bucket in the toilet.”

The toilet? There was a toilet, and I had just squatted over a bucket? But a wall slid back, a false wall, and that familiar metal prison toilet was there. I dumped the bucket in the toilet and flushed it. I let him pull me back out in the shower area with the leash feeling a bit annoyed and unaroused. But he pulled a hose out of the wall and said, “Hold out the bucket.” I held it, and he rinsed it out. After that was done, he cleaned my hands and sprayed down the bottom of me.

I thought we were done then, but he just said, “Hands over head.” The cuffs around my hands were hooked to a chain, and the chain pulled up so I was balancing on my toes with my hands over my head. The straps around my knees were hooked to two other chains and hoisted up. I had wondered about those, but I was now seeing the genius behind the whole system. The straps on my thighs were hooked to the cuffs on my ankles.

Ibiki moved between my legs and pulled out the nozzle and hose again. “Hi, baby,” he said smiling and put the nozzle against my clit. “I guess we never got to eat lunch together last weekend.” Aw, man, this was diabolical. He wanted to talk about what had happened when I was chained up and getting stimulated? I started to giggle, however—Ibiki was my kind of guy—messed up, twisted, horny, and evidently crazy about me. Nobody goes to this much effort for sex without the motive of making money or a lot of serious obsession or feeling. But then I started to cum—I held back, of course, trying not to make any noise or to give into the quivers, but my body was not listening. The nine thousand or whatever ridiculously high number of nerve cells that exist on the female clitoris were all very much appreciating Ibiki’s solicitous attempts to wash me off.

“No, no, we didn’t—get—to eat or to—ahhh—hook up, baby,” I managed to grasp out.

Ibiki moved the nozzle down to my vagina at this point, so I could calm down a bit. It always took longer for stimulation on my vagina to get me to a state of incoherence.

“I hear you turned down a job on Kakashi’s team,” he said.

“Bullshit—like that was serious—you don’t offer to put someone on an elite ninja team and then fire them,” I said.

“Fired? You were fired? You didn’t quit?” asked Ibiki.

“I’m on some—ooohh—some sort of, of uhhhmmm, retirement, no, ah, disability, no, inactive duty thingee, ah shit, Ibiki, oh god, oh god—“ and the rest of what I probably said at that point was the usual incoherent moans of a woman having her second orgasm of the day. Mercifully the water stopped.

“Well, you went a little suicidal there, a little berserk, you know. Most chuunins don’t take on an ANBU nin and Kakashi with a broken arm,” said Ibiki, restarting the water, this time focusing on my anus, “We don’t like ninja who might suicide or go berserk, you know—that was the lesson learned from Orochimaru and Itachi.”

“Hmmm, I’m flattered to be put in the same class with two S-Rank Missing Nins, but I’m--I’m not that deadly.”

“No,” agreed Ibiki, “You look pretty helpless right now.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I said, feeling pretty proud of my ability to still talk while that water was throbbing at my asshole, feeling so, so good.

“Maybe,” said Ibiki letting the hose slid back into the wall.

He leaned over me and took one of my nipples into his mouth. I moaned his name.

Evidently he didn’t like that because he left me for a while and came back with a gag—a small bar that fitted in my mouth between my jaws that was strapped around my head.

He stood behind me to fasten the gag and stayed there. His hands came around and fondled my breasts, teasing and tugging on my nipples. His head bent down to my ear, and he whispered, “I’ve forgiven you for the bathroom incident, by the way. This is for what you got Shino to do to you.”

Then he put two nipple clamps on me and moved around back between my legs. He shoved a vibrator up my ass and just watched me struggle, cry, and twitch for the longest while. He waited until I just hung there passive, exhausted, and that’s when he unzipped his pants and started to fuck me.

God, I love that man.