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Chapter Beneath the Illusion 119
🕑 Added 2025-09-20 15:27:54 +0000 UTCThis chapter is 100% NSFW content, and since it involves Kuro, it violates policy and has therefore been posted elsewhere.
If you wish to read it, please use the following link https://archiveofourown.org/works/66075871/chapters/184965896
Chapter 119 (Rewrite)
Kuro and Koji moved fast. Koji swapped into fresh clothes that made him look unfairly good; Kuro shook out his fur and settled by the door, ears high, watchful. I wasn’t afforded the same mercy. The tail still jutted from my ass, the plug deep and insistent. My hair was a wild, sweaty mess; my face shone with sweat and the slick sheen of Koji’s pre. My breasts and belly were streaked where he’d teased me and then denied me—again.
“Alright. Dinner,” Koji said, casual as thunder. He clipped the leash to my collar. Kuro padded to his side, posture perfectly heel—no ninjutsu showmanship needed; the message was clear without it: I was theirs to guide, and Koji was the one giving orders.
“Ready, Yuki?” he asked.
I nodded. Heat rushed my cheeks as my mind reeled with what was coming; anticipation and dread braided tight in my chest.
“Let’s go,” he said, and tugged.
I followed on all fours into Konoha’s evening crush. Lanternlight gilded storefronts; voices washed over us in a warm tide. The pavement scraped my palms and bit my knees, every rough patch amplified by how exposed I was—collar ringing softly, tail plug shifting with each crawl so my hips couldn’t help but sway. I kept my eyes low. People looked. Of course they looked.
The genjutsu I wore blurred the truth for most—showing a harmless little scene of Koji walking a well-behaved companion on a short lead. But the technique took razor control: threads of chakra teased across a hundred networks at once.
If anyone resisted, if anyone’s chakra bucked me off, they’d see what was really there—me, naked, ass up, tail swaying like a flag of surrender. The risk made my skin prickle. It also made my pulse pound in a way I couldn’t pretend I hated.
Koji kept me close, chatting idly with Kuro as if I were a piece of luggage and not a woman dripping down the stones in his wake. The deliberate indifference made everything worse—better. My nipples tightened under the breeze; my thighs felt slick and unsteady. More than one man in the crowd turned his head to watch the leash ring and tag chime against my throat.
“You’re loving it,” Koji murmured without looking down. “I can smell it. What if we let the genjutsu slip? Let them all see the Hyūga princess on all fours? Let them memorize the way your precious Byakugan looks with a tail wagging above it?”
A shiver tore through me so hard my hands faltered on the stone.
“Imagine it,” he went on, velvet-cruel. “Gasps. Laughter. Whispers. Your name traded like a sweet. They’d know exactly what you are with me: obedient, needy, mine.”
My heart hammered. The thought terrified me. It also had my ass clenching helplessly around the plug.
“Keep up,” he said mildly, and I did.
By the time we reached the bright sign of Yakiniku Q, my arms trembled from crawling and my composure hung by a chakra thread. The rush of grill smoke and rendered fat hit us at the door. I followed Koji’s boots to the host stand, head bowed.
“Good evening,” the hostess said, professional smile locked in place. Her gaze flicked to me, then back to Koji. “If you’re bringing… an animal, we’ll seat you in a private booth.”
“Perfect,” Koji said smoothly. “We prefer privacy.”
She led us down a narrow hallway into a dim room with a centered grill and lacquered benches. The door slid shut with a soft click. Koji unclipped the leash; the silence jutsu followed a heartbeat later, sealing the world outside.
“Drop it,” he said.
I released the genjutsu. The illusion peeled off like wet silk, and the air hit my bare skin in a way that felt more intimate than any touch. Kuro settled beside the door—upright, ears forward, silent guard. He didn’t look away.
Koji shrugged off his overshirt, rolled his sleeves, and started the fire like a man preparing an altar. “Did you enjoy our little walk?” he asked without turning.
A whimper escaped me before I could catch it. Everything—the crawl, the risk, the leash in his hand—had my nerves singing.
He chuckled. “Good girl.” Meat hissed as it met the grate; fat popped, scent blooming wild and rich. My stomach betrayed me with a low growl. My thighs ached with a different hunger entirely.
Koji set plates down, poured tea, looked at me from under his lashes. “You’ve been a very good slut today,” he said, voice warm with pride. “But your night isn’t over. You’re going to follow every order I give you.”
“Yes, Alpha,” I said, throat dry. “What would you like me to do?”
“You’ll see.”
When the first platter came—thin-cut beef, marinated pork, glossy vegetables—Koji handled the tongs and fire, turning slices with maddening patience. Then he set a familiar metal bowl on the floor in front of me. My name was engraved along the rim. The sight of it made my cheeks burn.
He unsealed a small scroll for a second, private container—nothing elaborate, nothing anyone else in the world would recognize but me. He swirled, considered, and poured a single thick ribbon into my bowl: the day’s denial distilled, Koji’s alone. Heat climbed my chest at the sight, at the audacity—the way he made me complicit in it without a word.
“Look at this,” he said, almost fond. “All that effort you earned.”
He tonged a slice of beef, still hissing, and dipped it into the bowl—turning it, soaking it—before laying it back in the mix with a few vinegared vegetables. He tossed it all together with a pair of chopsticks, ritual-careful, until steam and salt and him rose like incense.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Y-yes.” It came out a growl.
“Then eat. Everything I give you.”
I lowered my mouth to the rim, hands behind my back, and lapped. The heat of the meat and the slick weight of Koji’s taste collided on my tongue—salty, musky, a faint bitterness that made my eyes water. It was obscene and perfect and exactly what he wanted from me.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
He fed me piece after piece: dip, swirl, command, swallow. I didn’t use my hands. I didn’t look away from his eyes. When my breath hitched or my tongue faltered, he only smiled and tipped the bowl to make it easier. My face flushed hot; my collar tag chimed against steel with each mouthful.
“How’s my sauce?” he asked, voice roughening.
“Intense,” I managed between swallows. “It… tingles. Strong.”
“That’s right,” he said softly. “You taste what I give you.”
Kuro shifted once—no more than a rustle of fur—then settled again, head up and watching, posture calm as stone. His presence didn’t lessen the humiliation; it made it deeper, more total, because there was no performance for him to applaud—only witness.
Koji’s breathing grew heavier as he watched me eat. He unfastened his belt and let himself out—unhurried, unapologetic. He didn’t touch himself yet; he just looked, eyes going darker every time my tongue stroked the curved edge of the bowl.
“Open,” he said.
I did, and he slid two fingers into my mouth, pressing them flat to my tongue, gathering taste. “Swallow.”
I swallowed around them, the motion obscene. He withdrew and traced the mix down my chin and throat, marking me all the way to the dip between my breasts.
“Good slut,” he whispered. “You love this.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
When the bowl was nearly clean, he crouched and tipped the last of it against my tongue himself, knuckles brushing my lip. The metal rang once as it hit the tatami; I licked it clean anyway, chasing the last shining smear.
“Atta girl,” he said, raking a hand through my hair—affection rough enough to sting. He stood, refastened his belt with careless hands, and finally sat to eat his own dinner like a man who’d just said grace.
We finished in our private silence, the only sounds the sizzle of meat and the soft clink of chopsticks. My face still felt hot and damp; the tail moved inside me every time I shifted, keeping me tuned like a string.
When the plates were empty and the fire low, Koji rose. He clipped the leash back on with a decisive click that made my stomach drop deliciously.
“Same way we came,” he said, eyes glittering. “Collar. Tail. Crawl.”
I nodded. Kuro stood smoothly, fell in at Koji’s heel, and looked back at me with that steady, unreadable gaze—guardian, witness, pack.
I followed them out—my tag chiming, my skin flushed, my hunger far from satisfied and wound even tighter by every step in public. The risk licked at my heels; the leash pulled me forward. And I couldn’t deny it: the possibility of being seen felt as intoxicating as any meal.
