Civilians in Power - Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"Yondaime-san. I'm glad to see you."

The voice of councilor Genzai Morimoto was quiet yet firm as he addressed the man sitting behind the hokage's desk.

Minato Namikaze, the Yellow Flash, clasped his hands and met the dark eyes of Konoha's trade representative. Broad-shouldered and grizzled with heavily calloused hands, Genzai certainly looked the part of a seasoned craftsman, even though he hadn't done an honest day's work in decades.

But that was politicians, for you. They liked to say they spoke on behalf of the people even while they sipped imported tea from antique crystal china and sat in polished, over-cushioned chairs. Minato could not decry the man for his attempts to maintain the air of an honest, hard-working arbeiter without considerable hypocrisy on his part. After all, did not he himself betray his own constituents on a much deeper and more fundamental level?

"You as well, Morimoto-san," Minato said, nodding to the councilor and swallowing his regrets. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Genzai smiled.

"Ah, you always cut straight to the point, Hokage-sama," he said, giving the honorific a slightly ironic inflection. "Can't I simply drop by to say hello to the most important political figure in Konohagakure?"

Minato smiled in turn, but the expression did not meet his eyes.

"We both know that's a lie, Morimoto-san. I am merely a servant of the people."

"Yes, yes. As should be all great leaders," said Genzai with a gracious wave of the hand.

But there was a glint of something else in his eye, and the councilor looked sidelong at a family photo sitting on the Hokage's desk. He saw Minato and his wife, and their two children also: the son Naruto, and the daughter Naruko.

Minato followed Genzai's glance, seeing where the councilor's eyes fell upon Naruko and Kushina.

The blond forced himself to smile.

"Have my children proven themselves acceptable to their stations?" Minato asked politely, thinking ruefully of how he and Kushina had consigned them to inescapable servitude under the civilian council.

"They have," said Genzai, smiling. "I favor the girl, myself, but then her duties run much closer to my own interests."

Minato knew Genzai wasn't referring to Naruko's role as a bodyguard.

"And Naruto?" he asked lightly.

"He keeps the militants in check," Genzai said, gesturing disinterestedly. "He is simply a shinobi, no matter how powerful. At the end the day he is just a saber to rattle, a threat with which to keep troublemakers in line. But Naruko, now, she is a kunoichi. I like kunoichi."

The grin that spread across the trade representative's face following this remark left no room for illusions as to why it was that he liked the female class of shinobi, kunoichi who were widely known for their precisely cultivated beauty and sexuality.

Minato did not allow himself to feel guilty about this. He and Kushina had made their decision years ago. They had ceded power to non-martial civilian factions in hopes of reducing the influence of hypermilitaristic partisans like Danzo, an example followed by many leaders of the other great villages who were also tired of such people in their ranks who clamored for war and constantly pushed the limits of their treaties.

It had even kind of worked. There had been little real international military conflict in the past seventeen years, no significant battles and certainly no war. Were it not for the other costs, this would have seemed a perfect solution, but as the saying proves, power corrupts, and the civilian council was perfectly willing to exert its newfound authority on the shinobi who had once lorded over them.

"I'm glad she is satisfactory," Minato said.

"Much more than just satisfactory," said Genzai, grinning pervertedly. "But I digress. Let's talk business, you and me."

Minato did a very good job of crafting a smile from his grimace.

"Kurenai-chan, my darling, won't you show my friends that wonderful thing you do with your tongue?"

Kenichi Morimoto, sixteen year old nephew of civilian council member Genzai Morimoto, leered at his wife. Kurenai Morimoto nee Yuuhi stared miserably into her lap while Kenichi's friends hooted and whistled. Her dress was embarrassingly slinky, cut so low at the breast that she showed as much underboob as cleavage, and slit so far up the thigh that it was clear she wore no underwear.

She glanced furtively around. If they were in a private venue this request might have been within the tolerance of her long-broken dignity and self respect, even if all his friends were still watching. But they were in a park, and many other people watched and stared at their gathering besides.

At Kurenai, in particular.

So that they could not be mistaken for civilians, all shinobi were made to have the village's mark branded somewhere visible on their bodies. For men, often it was the back of the hand, or the upper arm, or the forehead. For women like Kurenai, that tattoo was usually placed in more intimate places. Like the chest, thighs, navel, or buttocks. Kurenai's was around her right nipple. According to law she could not cover much more than half of the mark without risking prosecution, either, and trying to remove it would revoke what precious few rights she still had. Therefore she had to wear exclusively these sorts of embarrassingly low cut shirts and blouses—embarrassing even for her, who had never been a stranger to showing cleavage.

Kurenai looked down and saw that Kenichi had undone his zipper and allowed his dick to flop out of his trousers. It was still flaccid at present, but it twitched and visibly swelled as he looked at her and grinned, no doubt envisioning her doing just as he 'requested'.

Kurenai swallowed. For the most part, laws concerning public decency were the same as before the paradigm shift. Public nudity was generally prosecutable, the only major exceptions being if the offender was a ninja, or engaging in sexual congress with a ninja. Civilians called this a privilege for the proud defenders of Konoha, but everyone knew the real intent of this exception.

Feeling wonderfully ashamed and knowing the penalty she would face if she failed to serve these men, Hinata spread her legs and hiked up her skirt. At a silent command from Kitaguchi she turned in her chair so that her body was facing out to the rest of the restaurant. Other diners watched from the corners of their eyes, many with a great deal of interest, as Hinata lifted herself off of the chair far enough and long enough for Kitaguchi to get under her, his fly unzipped.

The Hyuuga heiress dropped herself back onto the man's lap, biting her lip as a throbbing dick sprang up between her legs. Its bulbous head rubbed her labia, and her eyelids fluttered as a jolt went through her body. It was arrogant to think as such, as if she had any right to it for herself, but Hinata felt genuine pleasure from his touch. She felt the warmth of his co*ck and knew that she wanted it inside herself.

With a wretched, adorable moan Hinata arched her back and gripped the back of the chair as Kitaguchi reached around to grab her breasts and thrust himself up into her c*nt. Nakagawa watched in amusem*nt.

The onlookers smiled to themselves, thinking what a whor* the heiress of the Hyuuga clan was, and how shameless and perverted kunoichi were.

Those uppity, overpowered slu*ts really were only good for this kind of thing.

Tazuna the stout, aging bridge builder from the Land of Waves smiled at his grandson as the boy—a young teen, now—ordered their escort onto her knees so he could adjust her collar. It was an article fashioned from bright red leather, a dog collar with a shiny brass name tag that read Hana Inuzuka.

Connected to the collar was a leash. This leash had sealing scrit woven into its surface, and while Tazuna did not understand the mechanics, the Konoha craftsman he bought it from had sworn that this made the leash effectively unbreakable. While Tazuna didn't especially care—they had only bought the leash to use on their escort, after all—he knew that Inari was quite pleased to yank the leash and drag the woman stumbling after them.

She was a buxom brunette, and her flak vest was impractically low-cut. It exposed maybe two thirds of the woman's modestly tanned bust, and while Tazuna was no military strategist, he was fairly certain this made the article quite useless as protection. Again, not that he cared about that. All that mattered was that it made her nice to look at, nicer than she would have been otherwise, and she was quite easy on the eyes to start with.

Apart from the vest, she wore knee high socks in blue shinobi sandals. They could peg her socks as knee-high because those were the only things covering her legs. Below the waist and above the knee all that she wore was a pair of tight, skimpy booty shorts, and these were cut indecently high. More than a little undercheek was exposed, maybe a third of each buttock left bare. They gave her a considerable camel toe, as well.

She obviously didn't dress this way for her own comfort. The shorts were so tight that she had visible trouble walking at anything more than a civilian's pace. If there was a fight with another ninja she would be useless in terms of combat, even if not in protecting her charges. After all, should someone waylay Tazuna and his grandson, they could simply point to Hana and offer to give her to the attacker in exchange for safe passage. It was a tried and true method.

And sure, doing such would likely result in the bitch getting raped or beaten or broken into slavery and sold on the black market.

There was no "but" to be made about that statement. If it happened it would be a desirable outcome, whether or not it actually served any purpose for Tazuna and Inari. Hell, once he got home he was seriously considering just keeping Hana and sending a message back to Konoha to say that she had been lost on the way. The kunoichi would make a nice coming-of-age present for his grandson, if nothing else.

Inari was clearly interested in her, too, judging by the way he let his hands wander away from the collar to trace their way down Hana's front, delving into her vest and exploring the hidden reaches of her tit* under her shirt. The Inuzuka moaned weakly at this treatment, but she didn't protest.

She was very well trained, and she looked like she would make a better whor* than a kunoichi.

Tazuna almost chortled at this thought.

As if there was any difference between the two.

Haku was bent over a table. She was naked, her small breasts mashed onto the hardwood surface, her firm and white posterior quietly slapping the pelvis of an overweight, florid faced construction worker.

She felt the man's co*ck inside of her. It was bigger than she initially expected, if not the biggest she'd ever encountered. He was respectably sized and possessed of moderate stamina. At least, he'd been f*cking her for more than a few minutes now with no apparent signs of slowing. But she doubted it would be long before he was done, either way.

Before he was done, and the next man switched in.

Haku closed her eyes and thought of Zabuza-sama. Her insides warmed in bittersweet gladness at the memory of the man, even as they writhed at the reminder that he was no longer here to guide and protect her. She tried not to think about how she had begged for her life after failing to protect her master, about how the citizens of Wave had sneered and accepted her service in repayment of the evils Gato had done them.

She wished she had possessed the courage to stand and fight and die honorably beside Zabuza's fallen form. She hated herself for the cowardice she had shown on that day, the fear that had consumed her when the notion of death transformed itself from a vague inevitability into an immediate and all-too present possibility. She hated the cold, hollow feeling that had filled her at the thought of death, the fear despite all teaching that this would be the uttermost end of her thought and being.

She hated how she had abandoned all pride, all honor, all dignity, and fallen on her face, bowed to the people of Wave and desperately begged them to spare her life. She hated them for showing her what they called "mercy", herself for believing them when they had called it "mercy", and the fact of her womanhood for what it led them to make of her pleas.

Had she been a man they might have just killed her, or even if they spared her at least simply put her to work in some menial and nonessential but laborious job. They might have just branded her a prisoner and set her to make-work tasks until the day she gave up the ghost and died of exhaustion.

But Haku was in another way still mortally afraid of dying. Only now it was not a fear of cessation, a fear that dying would end her. Now she feared death as a continuation, feared that death would not end her suffering but bring her into new realms of misery and shame. She feared that whatever she found after death would be too much like what she lived through now. That thought, that irrational fear, was enough to make her despair of being, whether alive or dead.

The man f*cking Haku came, interrupting her thoughts. She felt his thrusting reach a fever pitch, then stop, his co*ck twitching and convulsing as it disgorged its load of sem*n, shooting another wad of sperm into her maiden sex. Despite herself she felt a perverse, morbid pleasure.

Unbidden, she thought of how much it would hurt to give birth. She had not done so yet, not herself, but she had heard tell of labor pains and maternal fatality. Childbirth was dangerous, harmful and excruciating for humans as it was not for most beasts. In shinobi villages there was medical ninjutsu, healing arts and sciences to ease the pain and make life all but assured. She did not know if this was the case in the Land of Waves. Even if it was, she did not think they would give her very much in the way of medicine for the pain. All she could hope was that she would be able to endure it when the time came.

Not if.

Even as the next man grabbed her by the hips and lined himself up with her c*nt, Haku knew that it was only a matter of when she got pregnant. This was a breeding program, after all. Ostensibly a project to ensure the survival of her valuable bloodline, although in reality it was likely as not just another way to wear her down into dust with continuous, degrading punishment.

She would be make to copulate with civilians until she became pregnant. She would be made to have their children, and she did not think the people of Wave would be so kindly as to let her keep and care for the offspring herself. Likely they would be sold off to the highest bidder, the boys as potential weapons for the civilian-run shinobi states, the girls as future breeding stock for the Yuki family's hyouton bloodline limit. Haku knew with a grim, crushing certainty like the weight of a mountain atop her breast that she would be bred and bred, f*cked and f*cked and made to give birth again, again, again until she was too old and worn out and broken to do it anymore.

Truthfully, this was not too different from how Kirigakure probably would have treated her, if they'd gotten hold of her first, and it was this understanding that really smothered her hope. Zabuza-sama had risen against this new, twisted system, and he had been put down like a dog. She had followed Zabuza-sama and believed wholeheartedly in his teachings, and now she was tied down and forced to breed with complete strangers. Not even fellow shinobi. Just civilians with no bloodline, no concept of chakra or ninjutsu or honor.

She felt like she was the only human in a world of animals. Least of all life, made to obey the cruel appetites of every brute to cross her path.

Could there be any worse fate than this?

Anko Mitarashi could remember a time when to be a kunoichi was worthy of honor and respect, a time when shinobi were feared and revered as the dangerous but noble protectors of the village and its people. This was not unusual, not yet. Many still were old enough to have lived in a time before the great change, before the Yondaime and his Red Devil of a wife sold them all out.

Anko was an intelligent woman for all her bluster, for all her brashness and theatrics a kind and empathetic and aware person who knew the world and the people and the meanings of that which most overlooked. She understood more deeply than most the notion that one day it WOULD be rare for someone to remember a time before this, an age of the world when shinobi were more than tools of the ignorant masses, when kunoichi weren't treated as lower than prostitutes.

Eventually there would be no one who remembered such a time, if things did not change. Eventually this new way would be the only way anyone had ever known, and then it would never change, not without some great and cataclysmic upheaval, possibly not until centuries had passed. And by then, what would have become of shinobi, of the great and noble clans, of the lesser families, of the common citizens who strove against all odds to prove their worth and defend their homes?

Their history was being erased. The faces of the first three hokage on the mountain were vandalized and allowed to decay. Chips were knocked from the faces by irreverent civilians, and vulgar words were plastered across their brows. Schoolbooks were rewritten to paint Hashirama Senju as a petty warlord, Tobirama the Nidaime as a racist empire builder, and Hiruzen Sarutobi as a doddering fool. Minato the damned Yellow Flash, meanwhile, was made out to be an enlightened leader, a peaceful revolutionary who had overthrown the corrupt, warmongering system of the previous three hokage without taking a single life.

Propaganda, plain and simple. It was sickeningly black-and-white, simplistic beyond all semblance of reality, twisted and bent over backwards to glorify the new civilian leaders of Konoha, of the great ninja villages. Those who knew what was good for them, who did not wish to be expunged from the records and made an unperson, would do whatever they could to suck the dicks—literally or metaphorically—of Konoha's new overlords. Men fearfully sang the praises of this new world order and did the dirty work of the civilian council without a single question voiced. Women bent over and stripped off their clothes and submissively gave up their bodies to the cruel, lustful whims of their civilian masters.

Anko, no matter how much she loathed it in her heart, no matter how much she raged inwardly at the horrible, oppressive machinery of this backwards new order, was no different from the rest. Whatever his faults, Orochimaru had taught his students how to survive; Anko knew better than to fight, no matter how it galled her to surrender.

She was a ninja, not a samurai. Whatever the propaganda of the previous regimes about ninja code and duty foremost—and for all the rose-tinting of nostalgia Anko was smart enough to recognize the talk for what it had been—survival came first, then success, then honor at a very distant third. If it meant she could live another day, she would lie back and take whatever they did to her. If nothing else, she could pray for a day when the chance would come to turn the tables. If that should pass, then every one of these events, these indignities, these abuses, would serve as fuel for retaliation and justice. Should revolution ever erupt, Anko did not doubt that kunoichi would prove the most viciously zealous in avenging themselves.

But it did not seem likely that this would happen anytime soon, if ever within her lifetime.

Anko tried not to think too hard about that as she was pinned to the alley wall by a huge, meaty fist with far more size than actual power. There was no discipline in this great oaf's grip, none of the bone deep, steely sinew firmness of shinobi. He was a civilian, whoever he was, and in all likelihood so were his little buddies.

They moved slowly, clumsily by her standards, seeming to blunder about like hamstrung bulls. If she made the effort she could easily knock them down without doing any actual harm, bump their pride back to a more appropriate level and teach them not to take kunoichi lightly. But Anko knew just as certainly that if she raised a hand against these thugs she would be prosecuted for assault, never mind that they had started it, that her actions would be deemed as self defense in any sane, reasonable society.

A bony, rat faced young man leered at Anko as her cheek was pressed hard against the wall. He yanked on her trench coat and leered at the fishnet underneath, her upper body practically naked below the open, tan coat. More than once Anko had been told that she looked like a flasher in her preferred get up, but this how she liked to dress herself. She knew of course that it led men to think she was easy, to think that she was asking them to stare and approach and solicit her. She knew how it made civilians view her, the way she dressed herself.

She didn't care. It drew their attention? It made them pick her out from the crowd? It led them to believe she was some kind of horny slu*t begging for a good, hard f*ck?

That was the point. Not because she enjoyed being treated this way, being looked at like a harlot and dragged into alleyways by two-bit chumps who wouldn't have been so much as speedbumps were she allowed to fight back. Of course she didn't like this. She knew there were a few younger kunoichi who had known nothing but this life, like Naruko the Hokage's daughter. A number of those poor things DID enjoy this, if only because they were taught that they should, that being treated this way was right and proper and natural for them.

It was foolish sentimentality on her part, perhaps, but Anko felt like it was her responsibility to do what she could to alleviate the pressure on those girls. She was a seasoned kunoichi, would have been a jounin if not for the system's descent into this perverse farce. Some of those girls might have become her students, or her subordinates, were things still as they ought to have been. It was practically her duty to draw fire off of them, to divert the enemy's attention onto herself. That was something every Konoha ninja had been taught for generations, a sometimes furtive and sometimes open defiance of the Ninja Code. From the First Hokage down to herself and her peers, it was understood that the elder shinobi, the veterans, were responsible for the well being of those beneath them.

The next generation was what mattered most.

This was not battle, and this was not death, but Anko still held to those ideals. She still believed, and she was still shinobi. She would endure it. If she could help even one girl to find some brief respite from the lustful depredations of these bastards, Anko felt like her life would still be able to have some meaning, like she could still have pride in herself as a kunoichi. That was just the kind of person she was. It didn't matter if she herself was dragged off and gang-raped. Every co*ck getting shoved inside of her was a co*ck that didn't go inside one of those poor young kunoichi who might have been her students, her charges, her soldiers.

It hurt. It was miserable. It was disgusting and degrading and hellish like nothing else. She hated the taste of their disgusting, unwashed co*cks, a mix of sweat and testosterone and stale piss. She hated how it felt when they threw aside her trench coat and seized her tit* through the fishnet, the way they squeezed and stroked and handled them so brusquely, indelicately, uncaringly.

It was humiliating to have her face thrust down on their nasty, brutish co*cks, a hundred times more size than sense. To have her ass cheeks spread apart by their weak yet calloused grips, her anus rammed into without so much as a drop of lubricant, her asshole ripped apart by a fat, throbbing, meaty erection.

It felt abominable to have their co*cks stuffed one after another into her c*nt, her labia spread so far apart that they could no longer close the whole way, her once pink and lush insides now worn, dark from constant use, smoothed out by continuous penetration, loose and much stretched if still hot, still wet, still good enough to f*ck and get these apes off.

They were like animals. They f*cked her every way their little used brains could devise, the majority of their meager cunning spent on inventing vaguely new ways to degrade her and use her and f*ck her. They raped her in the alley, not out of sight but just a foot from the sidewalk, their forms still half in the light, and Anko's body thrust out for all who cared to look and see.

She hated them so much. She wanted to hurt them, to beat them, to kill them. She wanted to exercise every last lesson she had ever been taught by Orochimaru, to erase these worthless ruffians from the face of the earth, to end their lives with such insidious creativity that all who looked on their corpses would know the meaning of true fear. But these idiots were as powerless as co*ckroaches in the grand scheme of things. Killing them would do nothing but earn her a quick and painful end, if she was lucky.

If she was unlucky, she would end up like Naruko or one of the other young girls sold out to the civilian council to buy favor for their spineless coward families. She would be taken apart in mind and soul, stripped layer by layer of ego and history and morality. She would be reduced to an unthinking doll, part sex toy and part guard dog, just a bundle of prettily-arranged holes and mounds for some fat old merchant to play with and use as a bodyguard.

A part of Anko wondered if that wouldn't be preferable to this. At least then she would be blissfully oblivious of the disgrace, reduced to the most basic senses of gladness and pleasure with no concept of shame, discomfort, or ignominy.

But the rest of her thought of the girls, the young ones who had known no world but this, no way to live but this, and she knew that she could—if not endure this treatment, then at least do some good before she finally broke and forgot herself. And as the co*cks drove into her again and again, stirring a shameful and unacceptable pleasure somewhere deep in her belly, Anko thought with quiet resignation that this might not be very far off.

She closed her eyes and relaxed, allowed the men to rape her in the alley, in full view of all passerby.

It almost felt... good, now.

Yes, it really wouldn't be much longer.

But that was fine.

Anko...

Anko didn't really care about anything, anymore.

Civilians in Power - Chapter 1 - EvilFuzzy9 (2024)

Chapter Text

References