A slow smile stretched Makima's lips, her golden eyes gleaming with an almost feline glow in the dim light.
Samui, sitting opposite her on a chair with uneven legs, finally broke the silence.
"Lord Raikage… Have you found the lair?" she asked, her voice as neutral as a military report. But her fingers, clenched on the edge of the table, spoke volumes about her nervousness.
Makima tilted her head slightly, her smile widening.
"Indeed. But there are still a few… insects to crush."
She was referring to the guards, Konoha ninjas who were watching Orochimaru.
Samui clenched her jaw, her blue eyes hardening.
"Then, when do we attack?"
Makima stood up then, her slender body unfolding with calculated grace. The shadow she cast on the wall seemed to grow, stretching like a beast ready to pounce.
"Later," her voice was soft. "For now… I have a better idea."
Before Samui could react, Makima moved – a flash of movement. Her hand closed around the jōnin's wrist, her fingers cold. With a single gesture, she pulled her from her chair, sending her tumbling towards her with disconcerting force.
Samui didn't have time to protest.
For a moment, their faces were only inches apart. Makima's breath, warm and steady, brushed Samui's skin, while her golden eyes stared into hers with an almost hypnotic intensity.
"You are far more useful by my side than chasing trash in the forest," she murmured, her voice a poisoned velvet.
Samui felt a shiver run down her spine.
She knew she couldn't escape.
…
The air in the room was heavy, saturated with the smell of musty wood and sweat. Makima, imposing in her laced black trousers and half-open shirt, allowed glimpses of the muscular curves and firm breasts of her torso. With a slow gesture, she slid the zipper down, releasing the fabric's embrace on her skin. Facing her, Samui, still dressed in her jōnin outfit, breathed with difficulty, her ample breasts straining the fabric with each ragged breath. Her cheeks were scarlet – not from alcohol, but from the silent struggle between pride and surrender.
With a sudden movement, Makima threw her against the wall. The impact made the planks tremble, a sharp crack echoing in the room. Her fingers gripped the collar of Samui's tunic, ripping the fabric with a violent tug. The blonde's heavy breasts sprang free, the milky skin flushing in the cold air, the nipples already hardened by forced arousal. Makima grasped one roughly, kneading it between her fingers, her nails leaving scarlet streaks on the tender flesh.
"You're mine, bitch," she growled, her voice hoarse, laden with an authority that defied all resistance.
Samui emitted a muffled moan, her hands clawing at the wall behind her, her knuckles whitening with the effort.
"— Fuck… you…" she spat, but her body betrayed another truth: her trembling thighs, her short breaths, the wetness between her legs.
Makima chuckled, sliding a leg between hers to spread them unceremoniously. The contact of her skin against Samui's was burning, electric. She bent her over with a sharp jerk, and the entry was brutal, a sharp cry tearing the air as the wall vibrated beneath their bodies.
"— You talk too much," Makima murmured against her neck before sinking her teeth into it, leaving a purple mark that beaded with blood.
Samui struggled, her nails digging into Makima's arms, but each movement only intensified the burning friction. She screamed, a hoarse, primal sound, as Makima's hips pounded her relentlessly, bouncing her breasts in an obscene rhythm.
Then, in a dominating gesture, Makima grabbed her by the hair, dragging her towards the rickety table in the center of the room. A sake glass fell, exploding on the floor in a spray of crystal. Samui, half-conscious, tried to get up, but a powerful hand clamped down on her throat, crushing her against the wood.
"— Stay. There."
Samui's thighs were spread unceremoniously, and Makima thrust into her again, a sinister crack accompanying the table's groan under their weight.
"— You're… sick…" Samui gasped, but her glazed eyes betrayed an unhealthy fascination, a burgeoning addiction to this exquisite pain.
Makima accelerated, each thrust making the furniture creak on the verge of breaking.
"— You love it, admit it."
A cruel pinch on a nipple drew a tearing cry from Samui, her body arching involuntarily.
'She's so weak beneath me.'
The thought made Makima smile, sadistically, as Samui, drooling, finally yielded, a hoarse scream escaping her throat as the table threatened to break.
The room reeked of sex and sweat, the air thick. With a sudden movement, Makima flipped Samui onto the floor, forcing her onto all fours, her bestial posture accentuating the curve of her trembling hips. Samui's blonde hair, plastered with moisture, fell in messy strands over her face. She groaned, a hoarse and humiliated sound, but Makima immediately grabbed her hips, her nails digging into the pale flesh like talons, leaving bright red marks.
"You're made for this."
Makima's voice flowed like poisoned honey, each syllable laden with a delightful contempt. She entered her with a single thrust, brutal, tearing, drawing a shrill cry from Samui that echoed against the thin walls of the inn.
"AHHHH!"
Samui bit her lip so hard that a bead of blood welled up, falling onto the worn floorboards with a soft plop.
"I… hate… you…"
The words came out between clenched teeth, but her body didn't lie. Her hips moved back on their own, seeking contact, friction, despite the hatred that shone in her blue eyes. Makima burst out laughing, a hard, metallic sound, and grabbed a handful of blonde hair, pulling like on a bridle.
"Liar."