Chapter 6: Failed Attempts
The air in Training Ground 3 hung thick and humid, pressing down on the two women like a damp blanket. Sakura’s breath sawed in and out of her lungs, a raw, grating sound that echoed in the stillness. She stood, feet planted wide to support the unfamiliar center of gravity, trying to replicate the simple Ram seal. Her arms, now padded with soft flesh, felt heavy and sluggish.
Between her raised forearms, the staggering swell of her breasts strained against the thin, sweat-soaked fabric of her tank top. They were no longer just large; they were monstrous, a twin pendulous weight that pulled at her shoulders and spine with a constant, aching drag. Each slight movement sent them swaying in a heavy, painful jiggle that made her nauseous. A deep line of sweat had carved a canyon between them, soaking through the cloth and darkening it to a deep emerald.
Across from her, Ino attempted the Tiger seal. Her fingers, still elegant, now pushed through flesh slightly plumped at the knuckles. Her once-sharp jawline was buried under a soft, full cheek and the beginning of a second chin, which glistened with perspiration. The confidence in her blue eyes was fraying, replaced by a stubborn desperation.
“We have to… get this right,” Ino panted, her voice thick. “He can’t just see… this.” She gestured weakly at her own body. Her famous hourglass was now a hyper-exaggerated parody, her waist still indentable but buried between the shelf of her bust and the tremendous, jutting width of her hips. The snug shorts she wore cut deep into the soft flesh of her stomach, creating a bulging muffin top of pale skin above the waistband. “We need to prove we’re still kunoichi.”
Sakura didn’t answer. She focused on the chakra, trying to circulate it from her core. But her core was a buried, distant memory. A dense, food-laden belly the size of a large beach ball sat in its place, a firm, swollen obstacle. She pushed her energy downwards, and instead of a smooth flow, she felt a deep, internal cramp, a gaseous shift.
A low, bubbling groan emanated from her midsection, loud in the quiet clearing. It was followed by a sharp, involuntary spasm. Her body clenched, and a short, wet fart ripped from her, echoing embarrassingly against the tree line. The smell, sour and organic, mingled with the scent of damp earth and their own sweat.
Sakura’s face burned a brilliant crimson. She squeezed her eyes shut, humiliation a hot wire in her chest.
Ino let out a strained laugh that turned into a cough. “Nice one, Forehead.” But her amusement was cut short as she tried to shift her stance. The motion caused a similar, deep gurgle in her own gut. Her eyes widened. She pressed a hand against the side of her swollen abdomen, where a breakfast of bean paste and double-portioned rice still sat heavily. A deeper, longer rumble traveled through her, and she let out a thick, guttural belch that tasted of miso. She didn’t even bother to cover her mouth. “Ugh. It’s like there’s a war in there.”
This was their new reality. Their bodies, these immense, soft fortresses they had built, were in constant, noisy rebellion. Sakura attempted a basic substitution jutsu, a puff of smoke to replace herself with a log. She channeled chakra, her fingers fumbling the signs. The release of energy triggered another, deeper response from her digestive tract. As the smoke poofed weakly around her—the log appearing a few feet away, lopsided—a long, drawn-out release of gas escaped her, a bass note of protest from her colon. She stood there, exposed, the acrid scent clinging to her, her failed jutsu a pitiful mockery of her former skill.
“Forget it,” Sakura gasped, dropping her hands. Her armpits, she realized with a fresh wave of shame, were damp and dark with sweat, a patch of stubble she’d neglected glistening there. Every part of her felt unkempt, animal. “I can’t focus. Everything is… muffled. Like I’m trying to scream through a pillow of fat.”
Ino sank to the ground, not with her former grace, but in a controlled collapse, her ass hitting the earth with a soft thump that made the ground tremor. She leaned back on her hands, her massive chest heaving. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy. But this…” She looked down at her stomach, a solid mound that obscured her view of her own feet. “It’s not just weight. It’s like my chakra pathways are… clogged with lard.”
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by their labored breathing and the occasional gurgle or sigh from their overloaded guts. The dream of winning Naruto by matching his fetish now felt like a grotesque joke. They had become caricatures, struggling to perform the most basic ninja arts, prisoners in bodies that smelled, erupted, and ached.
“He looked horrified,” Sakura whispered, the memory of Naruto’s stunned face in his office flashing behind her eyes. “Not attracted. Horrified.”
“He was surprised,” Ino insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. She wiped sweat from her brow, leaving a smudge of dirt. “Shizune was already big. We’re just… bigger faster. We need to own it. Be confident. Like she was.”
“She wasn’t trying to be anything!” Sakura snapped, a flare of her old temper cutting through the misery. “She just was. We’re… we’re performing. And failing.” She gestured to the sad, mistimed log. “We’re failing at everything.”
The walk back to the village baths was a slow, public ordeal. They moved with a wide, waddling gait, their thighs chafing with every step. People stared. Children pointed and were hushed by their parents. The humiliation was a physical coat they wore, heavier than the fat itself.
The women’s bathhouse was steamy and quiet in the late afternoon. They shed their sticky, smelly clothes with difficulty, grunting as they bent and twisted to peel fabric from damp flesh. Naked, the full extent of their transformation was staggering. Sakura’s body was a landscape of soft, rolling pale hills, stretch marks like silvery rivers mapping her rapid expansion across her hips, belly, and the undersides of her colossal breasts. Ino’s form was more sculpted in its abundance, her waist still visibly indented before flaring out into dramatically wide hips and a rear so large it seemed a separate entity.
They sank into the hot water with twin groans of relief, the water level rising significantly. The heat soothed their aching muscles and chafed skin. For a few minutes, they just sat, submerged to their necks, eyes closed.
“What if he never wants us?” Sakura’s voice was small in the steamy silence. “What if we did all this for nothing? We’re… broken, Ino.”
Ino opened her eyes, staring at the vaulted ceiling. “We’re not broken. We’re different.” She turned her head, her gaze sharpening. “And he does want this. He wanted Shizune. We just have to show him we’re not just copies. We’re us. But… more.”
She let her hands drift over the vast, floating curve of her belly beneath the water. A competitive, familiar fire flickered in her eyes, mixed with something darker, more desperate. “He needs to see what more means. Not in an office. Not on a training ground.” She looked directly at Sakura. “He needs to feel it.”
A strange, charged understanding passed between them. The shared humiliation, the shared sacrifice, the shared, terrible hunger for one man, had twisted their rivalry into a tangled alliance. They were in this together, down in the muck of their own making.
Later, in the humid changing room, they toweled off with difficulty, the large cotton sheets catching on damp rolls of flesh. The air was thick with the smell of soap, steam, and their own clean, female scent. Ino, standing naked before the foggy mirror, let the towel drop.
She looked at her reflection, at the water droplets tracing paths through the valley between her breasts, over the slope of her stomach. She saw Sakura behind her, struggling to dry her back, her pink hair clinging to her damp, flushed skin.
“He’s alone now,” Ino said, her voice low. “Shizune’s gone. His apartment is empty.”
Sakura froze, the towel pressed against the small of her back. “So?”
“So we don’t wait for an invitation.” Ino turned, her full body facing Sakura. Water dripped from her nipples, tight from the change in temperature. “We show him what he’s missing. What we can be. Together.”
The suggestion hung in the steam, obscene and electrifying. Sakura’s first instinct was to refuse, to call it madness. But then she saw it in Ino’s face—the same terrible, yearning need that clawed at her own insides. The need to be seen, to be desired, to make all this pain and degradation mean something.
“How?” Sakura whispered, her heart pounding against the inner wall of her chest, a frantic bird trapped behind a mountain of flesh.
Ino stepped closer. The space between them vanished, occupied by the sheer bulk of their bodies. Sakura could feel the heat radiating from Ino’s skin, smell the clean sweat and floral shampoo. Ino’s hand, still damp, came up and cupped Sakura’s cheek. It was not a gentle gesture. It was possessive, challenging.
“We remind ourselves what we’re working with,” Ino breathed, her voice a husky promise. “If we can’t control our chakra, let’s control something else.”
Her mouth descended on Sakura’s, not asking, taking. The kiss was nothing like their childhood rivalry. It was wet, deep, and hungry, a clash of tongues and shared breath. Sakura gasped, then melted into it, a dam of frustration breaking. Her hands, clumsy, found Ino’s hips, the flesh there impossibly wide and soft, her fingers sinking into the give.
They staggered back against the wooden bench, their combined weight making it shriek in protest. Ino guided them down, Sakura falling onto the slats with a grunt, Ino settling on top of her. The feeling was overwhelming—a crushing, smothering weight of warm, naked flesh. Ino’s massive breasts pressed against Sakura’s own, a soft, heavy collision. Their stomachs, two giant pillows of fat, compressed together, a hot, seamless merge.
Ino’s mouth left Sakura’s to trail down her neck, biting and sucking. Her hand groped roughly between them, fingers sliding through coarse pubic hair to find Sakura’s clit. Sakura cried out, her back arching as much as it could, a futile gesture against the weight pinning her.
“You like that, you desperate slut?” Ino growled into her ear, her fingers circling hard and fast. “You think about him when you touch yourself? Think about him fucking this fat cunt you made for him?”
The filthy words, so unlike Ino’s usual graceful taunts, sent a jolt of pure lightning through Sakura. She was dizzy, overwhelmed by sensation—the ache of the bench on her back, the hot, sweating pressure of Ino’s body, the skilled, punishing fingers on her clit.
“Yes,” Sakura moaned, her own hands scrambling, grabbing handfuls of Ino’s enormous ass, the flesh spilling over her fingers. “God, yes.”
“Then imagine it’s him,” Ino commanded, shifting her weight. She slid down Sakura’s body, her breasts dragging wet trails over skin. She pushed Sakura’s thighs apart, a task made difficult by their size, and buried her face between them without ceremony.
The touch of Ino’s tongue was expert and ruthless. She ate Sakura out with a fierce, competitive intensity, licking and sucking as if trying to win a prize. Sakura thrashed beneath her, her own hands knotting in Ino’s damp blonde hair. The sounds were obscene—wet, slurping noises, slaps of flesh against flesh as Sakura bucked, ragged moans that echoed off the tiled walls.
Sakura came with a choked scream, her body convulsing, her stomach clenching and releasing. The force of the orgasm triggered another, deeper physical response. A series of short, sharp farts burst from her, muffled by the bench and Ino’s proximity. She didn’t even have the capacity for shame anymore. It was just another release.
Ino pulled back, her chin glistening. She looked feral, triumphant. “My turn,” she panted. She rolled onto her back on the floor, a pale, sprawling vision of abundance. “Come here. Fuck me with your mouth. Make me come so hard I forget my own name.”
Sakura, still trembling, obeyed. She maneuvered herself off the bench, her movements ungainly, and lowered herself between Ino’s spread thighs. The smell was musky, potent, completely female. She used her hands to part the soft, full folds, and pressed her mouth to Ino’s cunt.
She licked and probed, copying Ino’s fervor. Ino’s hips ground up against her face, her hands fisting in Sakura’s pink hair. “Yes, just like that, you fucking pig,” Ino moaned, her head thrashing side to side. “Eat it. You love it, don’t you? You love being his fat, disgusting whores together.”
Ino’s climax was louder, a raw, shouting release that shook her entire body. A long, resonant fart accompanied it, vibrating against Sakura’s chin. Ino didn’t flinch; she leaned into it, pushing it out as she rode the waves of her orgasm, her body lax and spent on the damp floor.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the drip of water from a faucet. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and intimate, bodily emissions.
Sakura finally pulled herself up, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She looked down at Ino, a magnificent, sweaty, exhausted ruin on the bathhouse floor. They were a mess. They were broken kunoichi. They were accomplices.
Ino opened her eyes, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. It was a hard smile, devoid of its usual playful light. “Now we’re ready,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Now we know what we are. And we’re going to show him.”
And they did.
The encounter in the bathhouse forged a new, unspoken pact. Their desperation was now a shared fuel, their bodies a shared project. They moved through the next few days in a haze of forced normalcy and secret strategy. They avoided the training grounds, the site of their humiliation, and instead focused on the only form of control they felt they had left: consumption and presentation.
They ate, not with Shizune’s former unthinking gusto, but with a grim, strategic purpose. Calories were calculated, meals were engineered for maximum expansion. Their apartments were stocked with dense, rich foods that promised to solidify their new forms, to etch them permanently into this reality.
A few days later, under the brittle sunshine of a Konoha afternoon, the new pact faced its first external test. Sakura and Ino were waddling slowly back from the market, each carrying bags of groceries that seemed pitifully small against the scale of their bodies. They were debating the merits of a new cream for stretch marks when a familiar, but altered, figure turned the corner ahead.
It was Shizune.
But not the Shizune they remembered. The woman walking toward them moved with a lightness that seemed alien. She was still curvaceous, undeniably so—a voluptuous hourglass figure that would turn heads on any street. But the staggering, monumental mass was gone. Her stomach was flat, her waist nipped in, her hips and breasts full and generous but contained, proportional. She looked healthy, vibrant, and most strikingly, unburdened. She carried a single, small basket of medicinal herbs.
She stopped short when she saw them, her dark eyes widening. A flicker of surprise, then a complex wash of sympathy and understanding passed over her face. “Sakura. Ino,” she said, her voice neutral, professional.
Sakura felt the world tilt. Here was the woman they had tried to emulate, the blueprint for their own destruction, standing there… reduced. Yet she looked complete. She looked free. A hot, poisonous mix of envy and a perverse, swelling pride flooded Sakura’s system. She instinctively sucked in a breath, pushing her own stomach out further, making the vast shelf of her breasts strain the threadbare fabric of her dress.
“Shizune,” Sakura said, and her voice didn’t wobble. It was firm, almost challenging. “You look… different.”
Shizune’s gaze was kind, but it didn’t miss a detail. It took in the way Sakura’s dress pulled across her midriff, the sheer, breathtaking width of Ino’s hips, the sheen of perpetual sweat on their brows. “I’ve been focusing on my health,” Shizune said simply. “It was necessary. You two, on the other hand…” She trailed off, choosing her words. “You’ve certainly been committed to your… path.”
“It’s not a path,” Ino said, her trademark smile plastered on, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was a baring of teeth. “It’s just us now. This is us.”
“I see,” Shizune said softly. She did see. She saw the struggle in their eyes, the defiance covering a ocean of regret. She recognized the physical signs of discomfort—the slight sway back to offset the frontal weight, the way their shoulders were set against the constant drag. “Well. I hope it brings you what you’re looking for.” Her tone held no malice, only a profound, weary knowing.
Sakura took a step forward, a difficult, rocking motion. She looked down at Shizune from her greater height and substantially greater mass. The shadow she cast enveloped the other woman. “It already has,” Sakura lied, the words thick in her throat. “We’re everything he wanted. More. Stronger.” She meant the last part to sound physical, but it came out desperate.
Shizune just nodded, a sad, almost maternal gesture. “Take care of your knees,” she said quietly, a genuine piece of medical advice offered like a farewell. “The added weight is deceptive. It wears on the joints faster than you think.” With a final, unreadable look, she stepped around them and continued on her way, her steps light and even on the cobblestones.
They stood there for a long moment, frozen in the wake of her departure. The sound of her receding footsteps was eerily quiet.
“She’s pathetic,” Sakura hissed, the words trembling out of her. She turned to Ino, her green eyes blazing. “Look at her! She shrank. She gave up. She wasn’t strong enough to handle what he truly desires.” She ran her own hands over the colossal curve of her belly, a gesture of possession. “I’m bigger than she ever was. In every way. My breasts, my stomach, my… everything. I’m more.”
Ino watched Shizune disappear around the corner, her confidence momentarily punctured by the other woman’s quiet dignity. “She’s also walking without pain,” Ino muttered. She hoisted her grocery bag, the thin handle digging into the soft flesh of her palm. “And she’s not the one we need to convince. He is.”
They lumbered on, the brief encounter casting a new, sharp light on their mission. The plan, previously a vague notion of ‘showing him,’ now needed concrete shape. They reached the secluded bench near the old Nakano River, a spot they could occupy without feeling crowded, and lowered themselves onto it. The wood protested violently.
“Okay,” Ino said, dropping her voice even though they were alone. The river’s gurgle masked their words. “The office is a dead end. That was a professional setting. We shocked him.”
“We disgusted him,” Sakura corrected, staring at the water.
“We surprised him,” Ino insisted, grabbing Sakura’s chin, forcing her to look away from the flowing current. “Listen to me. He needs to see us in a different context. A private one. Where this,” she gestured broadly at their bodies, “isn’t a distraction. It’s the main event.”
Sakura’s mind went back to the bathhouse, to the overwhelming, smothering presence of another body. “You mean… ambush him? At his apartment?” The idea was terrifying. It was also thrilling.
“Not an ambush. A… visitation.” A sly, calculated smile touched Ino’s lips. “We go as friends. Concerned friends, checking in on him after his tough breakup. We bring food. Comfort food. Lots of it.”
“He’ll know,” Sakura whispered. “He’ll see right through it.”
“Of course he will,” Ino said, her eyes glinting. “But that’s the point. We’re not hiding it anymore. We’re presenting it. We bring the food, we eat it with him. We show him how it’s done. We fill that empty apartment with the smells, the sounds, the… reality of us. We make it impossible for him to think of us as the girls from the academy. We make him see the women we’ve become. For him.”
The plan was audacious. It was naked in its intention. It left no room for retreat. Sakura imagined it: the three of them in Naruto’s sparse living space, the air growing thick with the aroma of rich stew and their own perfume. She imagined the sounds that would inevitably escape them as they ate, the way their bodies would occupy the furniture, dominate the room.
He would either be repelled completely, or…
“When?” Sakura asked, her heart thudding against the inner wall of her chest.
“Tomorrow night,” Ino said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. “Give him one more day of lonely silence. Let the quiet get to him. Then we arrive. We bring the noise. We bring the life. We bring everything he once looked at in Shizune, but bigger, and younger, and willing.” She leaned back, the bench groaning, and looked up at the sky. “We don’t ask for his attention. We fill his world with so much of us, he has no choice but to give it.”