Naruto didn't even know where his body started and ended anymore.
He was on the bed—barely conscious, fully hard, completely at their mercy.
Sasuko rode him like she was punishing him for every day he'd ignored her. Her raven hair clung to her back, hips slamming down with bruising force, sweat dripping from her chest as she looked over her shoulder with Sharingan eyes.
"F-fuck, Naruto—deeper—you're gonna break me—"
Hinata lay beneath him, her legs open, hands gripping her thighs as she moaned for more attention—his tongue had worked her into a puddle minutes ago, and she was begging now for another taste.
"Please… lick me again—I want to cum with Sakura—"
Sakura, meanwhile, was on his face.
She'd shoved Hinata aside and lowered herself onto his mouth with raw hunger, riding his tongue with one hand fisted in his blond hair.
"Lick—don't stop—you owe me this, Naruto—ngghhh yes—"
From the side, Itachika watched with smoldering eyes, fingering herself slowly. She'd already been fucked once—hard, slow, and deep—and was letting the others go wild before claiming him again.
"You've created a monster, Naruto," she said with a soft smirk. "Now we're all addicted."
Naruto tried to respond, but Sakura moaned and ground her hips harder against his face. "Don't talk," she gasped. "Just lick."
Sasuko slammed down again—and screamed as she came, body shuddering violently, pussy clenching around him like a vice. She collapsed forward, panting, biting her lip hard.
Hinata didn't wait.
She crawled up next, positioning herself above his cock, and slowly lowered down—already wet, already trembling.
"N-Naruto—ahhh—y-you're still so hard—how?"
Sakura and Sasuko kissed deeply beside him, their legs tangled, breasts pressed together, sweat mixing.
Naruto's hips bucked.
Hinata rode.
Itachika finally stood and stalked toward him like a panther, eyes fixed on his soaked, overstimulated body.
"My turn again," she whispered.
Sakura leaned over and kissed Naruto.
"You're ours now."
And he was.
That night, he was fucked by all four—together, in pairs, over and over.
One rode him while another fed him her pussy. Two made out while moaning his name. Bodies were tangled, fluids mixed, tongues and fingers and lips explored every inch of him.
He lost count of how many times he came.
They didn't.
They counted for him—whispered the number in his ear each time he collapsed, only to be dragged back into it.
By dawn, he was broken.
Used.
Owned.
And still, the girls whispered—
"One more round?"