The Traveling Pussy

Chapter 7: Tsunade’s Message

I woke up in my own bed feeling great. It was sunset, and the orange light was making my bedroom’s rose walls glow a beautiful rich apricot-pink. It was like waking up in the heart of a big rose, and one of the best things about waking up at sunset in a room with windows facing west. I lay on the bed admiring my choice of a paint color when suddenly it occurred to me I had last been conscious in Ibiki’s office.

I sat up and looked around wildly. There was only one thing in my bedroom that wasn’t normally there—an envelope decorated with the official seal of the Hokage of Konoha. I grabbed it and tore it open. It was on Tsunade’s personal stationary, personally signed by the Hokage herself, and stamped with the official seal. In other words, it was an order to be obeyed. The message itself wasn’t very complex, “Do not contact Gaara or any member of the Sand delegation. Do not leave Konoha. Turn in all notes and files on Gaara and the Sand not at the Gatehouse to Ibiki within one day.”

When I read Ibiki’s name, my heart jumped. I dropped the note on the bed and examined my wrists. There wasn’t a cut on them. I put my hand to the small of my back. I could remember feeling pain as a pair of metal cuffs dug into this part of my back, but my skin was smooth. Nothing hurt. I felt between my legs, and there seemed no evidence that I had had sex recently. I was confused. Surely that had happened? Then I remembered my paper cut on my right hand. I checked for it. It was gone.

Wow, so the rumors that ANBU could rough you up, heal you, and drug you to make you think it never happened just might be true. I had to have been drugged—I couldn’t image that I wouldn’t have woken up being taken from the ANBU building to my apartment. I wasn’t a heavy sleeper, and I wasn’t the type to pass out. I’d heard of women who passed out from great sex, but I never expected that to be me. Maybe it wasn’t—there were plenty of ways that a jounin could send someone to unconsiousness.

It was probably something on Ibiki’s gloves I thought—the blood vessels in the vagina were ideal for absorbing drugs quickly. Gloves were a good way to make sure that Ibiki didn’t get any of the drug on himself. But then again, he always wore gloves, so maybe I hadn’t been drugged that way. It didn’t really matter—I was home, healed, and a hot suspect. How embarrassing—I wasn’t sure which was worse, to be thought I was an assassin gunning for Gaara or maybe just a traitor trying to sell him secrets or a pathetic sexual pervert whose efforts to get a lover were only slightly less retarded than those of your standard stalker.

Shit, Tsunade wanted Ibiki to go over all my notes and files on Gaara and the Sand not at the Gatehouse. She seemed pretty confident I had some at home. What was the point of asking? Why wouldn’t ANBU just search my place when they left me in my bed? I leaped up to go check out my papers. I bolted into the living room and froze at the sight of Ibiki sitting at my desk reading some of my notes. His back was to me, but I knew he knew I was there. I panicked and bolted for the bathroom. I didn’t want to piss myself out of fear—that was so not cool.

Once in the bathroom, I decided on a shower. Hell, it had worked that time I’d woken up with Ino-Shiko-Cho and Kiba—by the time I’d gotten out of the bathroom, they’d all been gone. The problem had gone away. But Ibiki, shit, did I want the problem to go away? If my memories of that sex on his desk were not hallucinations, no I didn’t. I stopped standing in the shower just enjoying the warm water and got to scrubbing myself clean.

I was rinsing the conditioner from my hair when Ibiki said, “You still want to cook or should I?” The little shriek and leap got no reaction from him—I guess that’s sort of what he’s used to. I leaned my back against the tiled wall of the shower and pulled open the shower curtain. He was just as sexy and scary as I remembered, only more so in my little yellow bathroom. I let myself look him over slowly up and down. Not a lot of guys can handle a full head to toe examination from a naked woman without a single reaction. They tend to blush or start winking and wiggling to show off or just leap on you before you even get a good look. Not Ibiki. He just stood there as if it was completely normal to be getting splashed by shower water as a naked ninja checked him out. Hell, maybe this was pretty normal for him.

His grey and black uniform looked sinister in the tiny butter-colored bathroom. He still had that heavy black overcoat and his black gloves on. His headscarf was so low over his eyes, not a bit of eyebrow showed. I had seen his naked head only once, back when I was a genin. It was standard practice to have Ibiki scare the shit out of little genins with his scars. I had been so startled about the holes in his head, I hadn’t noticed if he had eyebrows or not. I wondered if he did, but I was also interested in other body parts. I’d never seen his naked hands—they looked like real hands, not fakes. I wondered how bad the scarring was on them. Would he ever take the gloves off? Would he cook with them? Wait, he cooked?

“You cook,” I said with a grin and jerked the shower curtain closed. Once I had this stuff out of my hair, I was so going to be there to watch. In under a minute, I had the water off and was toweling dry. I pulled a comb through my hair as fast as possible, brushed my teeth, used mouthwash and deodorant, and sprayed my favorite perfume on my thighs, forearms, and neck. A little lipgloss, and I was heading for the kitchen. I thought about clothes but decided against them. Ibiki had enough on for the two of us.

When I got to the kitchen, Ibiki was at the counter doing something with food. I really didn’t care what. I plopped down in my favorite chair and put my feet up on the only other chair. I wanted him to have to touch my legs at least once before sitting down. “So is this standard assassin and spy suspect treatment? It’s damn impressive,” I said.

“No,” replied Ibiki, “this is the standard treatment I give my women.”

Oh, wow. Oh, yeah. I quivered with excitement and felt myself getting aroused. My mouth was hanging open a bit when Ibiki turned to look over at me. His dark eyes, those slicing scars, his angular cheekbones—oh god, I was his woman, I thought, and my body gave one of those little shakes of excitement that meant I was seriously ready for sex. Cripes—I’d been in the kitchen less than a minute, and I was already having trouble breathing normally. God, I was pathetically easy. He turned back to the food, and I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling trying to calm down.

Oh, shit, what was the point in trying to hide my desire from him? If he’d read my notes, he knew I was obsessed with him more than Gaara. I’d heard Gaara’s sand protected him from everything, so I’d speculated his body would be scarless and very white. I’d been a little worried it would make him look too child-like to be sexy. I’d written at least a page on whether or not I could get aroused if Gaara got naked since he was likely scarless. I was pretty sure I’d written something along the lines of, “So probably no one is in Eye’s league with the scars, but surely he must have at least one to distinguish him from a little boy.” I’d listed all the major fights that I knew Gaara had been in from his first chuunin exam in Konoha to his problems with Akatsuki, along with my guesses as to if any of them had left a mark on Gaara’s pretty body. It’s hard to be scared of pretty, but Gaara’s kill record really made up for the girly looks and lack of scars.

I really liked scars for some reason. They just made my want to lick them and kiss them. They spoke of danger and death and risk to me. They made me feel lucky to be alive and whispered to me how this might be this man’s last time for love, how this might be his or my last moments of pleasure. They were a testament to bravery and suffering, to a will to survive. In short, I thought they were fucking hot, and here in my kitchen was THE man with scars. I wanted to probe each hole on his head with my tongue. I wanted . . .

“Oh, god, do we have to eat? Can’t we just get naked and fuck some more?” I asked.

The sound of my teapot falling into the sink and shattering startled me. Ibiki had dropped something? THE Ibiki had dropped a teapot because of me? He was supposed to have iron control. I was standing up behind him, and my hands were around him, running down the front of his uniform, my naked body pressed into that heavy black coat in seconds.

“You have too many clothes on,” I said, trying to undo some of his jacket’s little buttons. “I want to lick every bit of your body, or didn’t you read enough of my notes to figure that out yet?”

He had me back against the counter with my hands over my head hand-cuffed to the upper cupboard’s door handle in just seconds. Oh goodie, I thought as I wrapped my legs around his waist and tried to pull him closer.

“If you pull the handle off the cupboard door or the door off the cupboard, there is going to be no fucking until it’s fixed,” he said in his deep, rough voice.

“Don’t ever try to take my clothes off without my permission,” he added. I opened my mouth to protest that, and he put one black-gloved finger over my lips. “People wearing gags don’t get to lick things,” was all he said. I nodded my head to indicate I understood and started to suck on his fingertip. I was hoping it would remind him of this morning. Just thinking about this morning made me tighten my legs around him.

The finger was pulled from my mouth, and the gloved hand smacked my thigh loudly but not painfully, and he said, “Legs down, feet about eighteen inches apart.”

I obeyed, sort of confused about why eighteen inches and how exactly far apart was eighteen inches. I looked at my feet to try to figure out if I was close. “Head up, keep your eyes on my face. Be still, no moving,” came the next command.

I had to press my lips together to keep my tongue from licking them. I wanted to groan and beg, moan and drool, but I was going to be good. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be having any fun if I didn’t do exactly what he wanted. It was an incredible turn-on for me.

He started to make a fresh pot of tea to replace the one he had broken in the sink. The old saying is that the watched pot never boils. Well, the wretched thing takes too damn long to boil whether you are looking at it or the face of the man you are waiting for. Even keeping my eyes on his face, I could tell when he finally had made the tea again. The smell of tea filled my little kitchen. “Nod if you want a cup,” he said looking over at me.

I didn’t nod. I was too impatient for him to hurry up with the whole drinking and eating thing and get to the good stuff. I tried to tell him that with just my eyes. He slowly drank his tea. I watched each movement of his mouth and throat as he swallowed the steaming cup. Some men can make the simplest things erotic. Watching Ibiki slowly sipping that tea was incredibly more interesting than it should have been—I was obviously so infatuated that he could probably sit around farting, and I’d be fascinated. I was ridiculously pathetic. I made a mental note never to go two months without sex again.

Ibiki put down his teacup and came closer to me. “No talking, and no touching this or taking it off your eyes,” he said, pulling off his head covering and tying it over my eyes, so I couldn’t see. “If you try to peek or talk, you won’t be allowed to touch or taste. I’m going to undo the cuffs now. You can move anyway you want and make any sounds you want, just no words, no looking. Nod if you understand and will obey.”

I nodded immediately and let myself make a noise of assent, “mmmm.” I felt and heard him unlock the cuffs, and then my hands were free. My arms were a little sore from holding them over my head, so I let them fall down to my sides. I moved forward until I was against his body; and, sighing with pleasure, I just leaned into his strong chest. I rubbed my nose and cheeks against the wool of his uniform, and then I just let myself hug him close to me. I had the crazy idea in my mind that he was shy about his scars and about sleeping with a suspect and the no-looking and no-talking rules were to protect himself from me turning this into some cruel joke on him. It made me feel incredibly tender and loving. I started kissing his chest in its heavy jacket, lightly running my hands up and down his well-covered arms. I let myself moan out my happiness and desire as I continued my row of little kisses across his chest.

Then his hands were framing my face, holding it still. I opened my mouth and tilted my head back and let out a few whimpers to indicate I very, very much wanted a kiss. His lips were soft against mine, gentle. I put my hands up to keep his head close to mine and the feel of his tortured and pitted bare skin made me groan with desire and push my tongue out into his mouth. He answered my groan with a little growl that made me shake with pleasure. Our tongues met and began to mate, sucking, sliding, savoring.

Then he was pulling my legs up around him and walking me to the bedroom, still kissing me. When my butt felt the bed beneath it, I tried to pull us both down to the bed. One of his hands jerked my hair, forcing my face from his. I complained without words in whimpers and moans.

“Just lay back on the bed for me, let me look at you,” he said his voice quieter, breathier, more intimate. I liked this voice, and I wanted to please it. I moved back on the bed and lay there. I was panting now, with my mouth open, conscious of my erect nipples and arching my back just a little to try to show off my breasts. I remembered how he had wanted my legs a little apart in the kitchen, so I spread my legs a bit, so he could see everything down there too. I was hoping he was undressing, but it was hard to tell from the few sounds I could hear. But surely he had to be—hadn’t I been promised taste and touch if I was good?

Yes, it had to be, that was definitely the sound of fabric rustling. Then I felt a finger on my nipple—a naked finger, an ungloved finger. I pushed my breast up into his hand and lifted up my head whimpering my desire for a kiss. Somehow it seemed important to wait for his lips before reaching out with my hands and touching. I felt him move over me on the bed, and then he kissed me and slowly lowered his naked body to touch more and more of me. When our lips met, I let my hands begin to feel him without his uniform. His strong, well-defined muscles were not a surprise, nor I suppose, were the many rough spots, odd bumps, and strange crevices. I had seen the marks of torture on his head, so I was sort of expecting other marks on his body. I wasn’t really expecting quite so many, however. But it just made me want to love him more, to be the one to help celebrate surviving all that.

I checked for eyebrows—he still had them. I felt for chest hair—and was horrified to discover one of his nipples had been complete removed. My god, if they cut off one nipple, I was lucky they’d left any of his testicles or cock for me. For some stupid reason, it made me feel like I was running out of time, as if some torturers were waiting outside my apartment right now to snatch him away from me and cut off something else. My kisses became more frantic.

He slid into me, and I tightened around him, holding him inside me. I felt so lucky. I hadn’t thought of the possibility that he’d lost his genitals to torture. Oh my god, I could easily have been madly in love with a guy with no cock. But he was proving that his torturers had neglected that part of him, or else the healers had been able to work miracles there, because that long length sliding in and out of me felt smooth, felt perfect.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that a torture expert could read my growing excitement and always keep me just from reaching that climax. When I would get close, he’d go still, stopping to linger on a kiss or to just shift a bit pushing first to one side inside me, then the other. I remembered how fast I’d cum on his desk and hoped this was meant to be a kind way of making the sex last longer, not a sign of a sadistic desire to keep me from an orgasm. It was a torture of sorts to be kept on the edge of cumming, but the sort of torture people are willing to pay a lot of money for.

When he finally began to climax and spill his seed inside me, I was close again and the thrill of feeling his orgasm was almost—almost--enough to push me over the edge. Part of me didn’t want to cum since if I did, I wouldn’t be able to focus on what he felt like and sounded like as he orgasmed. I wanted memories in case this wasn’t ever going to happen again. He was, not surprisingly for Iron Ibiki, quiet and as controlled as anybody having an orgasm can be. I wondered if I could ever push him to where he would shout or maybe, at least, make a little more noise. Of course I had yet to even see his naked body, so I had a feeling that getting Ibiki to let down his guard was going to be a tough project—in fact, it was probably not going to happen.

I really didn’t want to think about whether or not I wanted Ibiki to become just a normal lover, so I started focusing more on what I was feeling. Well, he was heavy, and if I put just a little work in, I could have an intense orgasm and not have to think. I squirmed and half rolled over to shift his weight off me, and he politely pulled out and put his weight to one side of me. His body’s shift freed one arm and enabled me to get the angle I need to rub myself into a serious orgasm. It was sort of a risky move with a new lover to be so blatantly unsatisfied, but I was a girl that loved risk. The idea that Ibiki had to know what I was doing and might get angry, made me lose it incredibly quickly.

As I was shaking and shuddering in bliss, one of Ibiki’s hands pinched sharply on a nipple. Immediately my orgasm and sounds of pleasure doubled. Nipple pain almost always made for stronger orgasms for me. Like the torture specialist he was, Ibiki intensified the pain to make the sensations more overwhelming. He moved to bite down on the other nipple, and I hit the point were I was starting to feel I was going to die of pleasure.

But he was known as a sadist. You don’t get to be the head of ANBU’s torture and interrogation squad without knowing how to push a body into states it thinks it can’t survive. Oh god, I had pins and needles in my hands, feet, and face; every muscle in my body from my breasts to my knees was out of control; and my breast were ablaze with what Ibiki’s mouth and fingers were doing to them. It was another Ibiki-class orgasm, and now I was using my sensation-deprived hands to feebly try to push Ibiki’s head and hand from my breasts.

When he released me, I just rode out the rest of my orgasm and collapsed back on the bed exhausted and ready to just sleep a bit. But then Ibiki was spreading my legs and putting down his head to lick my still pulsing center. His hands reached up to my already throbbing nipples and pinched them so hard, I screamed more in pain than pleasure. But the pain mixed with the pleasure his tongue was producing, and my screams were soon more about pleasure than pain. It’s not really something I can describe very well, but once again I was absolutely convinced this was the best orgasm of my life.

Ibiki developed a new game of easing up, so I was feeling my orgasm thankfully ending, and then using his tongue or fingers to send me back into that scary yet wonderful world that was an Ibiki-induced orgasm. When I felt myself starting to black out again, he finally stopped. I let myself be turned on my side, so we could just spoon and fall asleep. Or at least I think that happened because some time later, I woke up with Ibiki behind me. He welcomed me back to being awake with some kisses on my ear. “You can talk now,” he whispered in my ear.

I started to laugh, but my throat was dry and sore, I managed to huskily say, “Oh, yea, let me talk when you’ve just made sure I don’t have a thought in my head.” I put my hand out and tried to reach the water bottle on my nightstand.

He sat up behind me and got me the water. It was weird to still have his forehead protector covering my eyes. I was feeling too languid to even talk about it though. I yawned and sat up to drink some water.

I could hear him laughing. I remembered how I had been surprised as a genin that he actually did laugh and smile. I wondered what was making him laugh now, but wasn’t particularly motivated to ask. I yawned again, threw the empty water bottle on the floor, and lay back on my soft pink sheets.