Tenten's slip fluttered to the floor unread—Rank C, *Weapons maintenance via genital stimulation. Servicing armory staff nightly.* Himari caught it mid-fall, her fingers brushing the wax seal just as the armory's heavy doors groaned open behind them. The scent of oil and male sweat rolled out in a wave, punctuated by the metallic click of a dozen weapon racks sliding aside. A deep voice chuckled from the shadows: "Late for polishing duty, kunoichi?" The first calloused hand clamped around Tenten's wrist before she could reach for a kunai pouch—not that it would've mattered. The armory's rules were clear: *No blades drawn during servicing.*Tenten's breath hitched as the armory master's fingers traced the seal on her mission scroll—a crude illustration of a kunai plunging into a vulva, the ink still warm from Tsunade's approval stamp. "Full servicing protocol," he read aloud, his thumb smearing the characters for *genital polishing* and *edge maintenance*. The other blacksmiths crowded closer, their leather aprons stiff with dried oil and something muskier. Tenten's knees hit the stone floor before the first belt buckle clinked; she'd memorized the mission parameters during the walk here—every weapon in Konoha's armory required *direct chakra infusion*, and the only viable transfer method was *thermal exchange via orifice stimulation*. The first blacksmith's calloused grip tilted her chin up, his other hand already working the ties of his pants. "Open wide, little grinder," he chuckled, pressing the heated tip of a freshly forged tantō against her tongue. "This blade needs *tempering*."
The armory master's grip tightened as Tenten's tongue slid along the tantō's blade—hot enough to sear but not deep enough to scar, her saliva hissing as it evaporated against the steel. "Full servicing means *full*," he growled, nodding toward the row of oil-stained workbenches where the other blacksmiths stood, their tools already glistening with pre-heat. Tenten's knees ached against the stone floor, but she knew the drill: every weapon in Konoha's armory required *individual* chakra infusion, and the scroll's fine print specified *minimum three staff members per shift*. The second smith's fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. "Starting with the polearms," he muttered, the blunt tip of a naginata nudging her lips apart. Tenten's nostrils flared—this wasn't her first time polishing weapons, but it *was* the first time they'd included the *full* armory inventory in her mission parameters. She closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm: *lick, swirl, coat*—just like sharpening any other blade. Except this time, the whetstone was her throat.
The armory stank of molten metal and sweat as Tenten knelt between the first two blacksmiths, her mouth stretched around a still-warm wakizashi while her fingers worked the oiled length of a chokutō buried deep in her cunt. The mission scroll had been explicit—*weapons must retain wielder's chakra signature for optimal performance*—and her body was the conduit. She timed each stroke to the smiths' thrusts, channeling chakra through her clenched walls just as the third craftsman dragged a freshly forged kunai down her spine, his breath hot in her ear: "This one's for close-quarters combat. Grip it tight, girl." Tenten gasped as he shoved the blade handle-first into her ass, her muscles instinctively clamping around the cold metal to imprint her chakra pattern onto its core. The scroll's final line pulsed behind her eyelids—*complete servicing requires all orifices engaged for maximum efficiency*—as the fourth smith unrolled a fresh set of senbon across her trembling thighs. "Now for precision work," he murmured, pressing the first needle to her nipple. *One down*, she thought, bracing as the armory doors creaked open to admit the night shift. *Hundreds to go.*The armory's heavy oak doors groaned shut behind Tenten, sealing her inside the dim, oil-scented chamber where the blacksmiths' shadows loomed against racks of gleaming steel. The mission scroll's final line burned in her mind—*Full servicing: minimum 200 weapons per orifice before sunrise*—as the first smith unbuckled his belt with a metallic clink. "Starting with the tantō," he grunted, pressing the searing-hot blade flat against her tongue. Tenten's chakra surged instinctively, coating the steel as her saliva sizzled—first weapon imprinted, 199 to go. The second craftsman's calloused hands spread her thighs wider, his oil-slicked fingers probing her entrance before driving a cold kunai handle deep into her cunt. "This one's for close-quarters killing," he muttered, twisting the blade to scrape her inner walls. Tenten arched, channeling chakra through clenched muscles to etch her signature into the metal—every gasp, every flinch part of the forging process now. The third smith didn't bother with preliminaries; he simply flipped her onto hands and knees and shoved a naginata's splintered shaft into her ass, the wood grain catching on her rim as she choked back a scream. *Three down*, she thought wildly, bracing as the fourth smith unrolled a bandolier of senbon across her back. "Precision work next," he chuckled, pressing the first needle between her shoulder blades. Somewhere beyond the clatter of falling tools, the armory's water clock dripped—counting down the hours till dawn.
The senbon pierced her skin in rhythmic succession, each needle embedding with surgical precision along her spine as Tenten focused on maintaining chakra flow—every puncture point a data node transmitting weapon signatures back to Konoha's forgemasters. The fifth smirth dragged a freshly quenched katana down her sweat-slicked back, its edge catching the flickering forge light as he growled, "This one needs *tempering*," before forcing the blade between her lips. Tenten's jaw ached as molten steel met tongue, her muffled groan vibrating through the sword's tang—another imprint logged, another weapon claimed. The sixth craftsman's hands were already working a knotted rope around her wrists, his breath hot against her ear: "Time for the *heavy* artillery." Behind her, the armory's largest anvil groaned under the weight of a cannon barrel being rolled into position.
The cannon barrel pressed against her thighs—cold iron stinging her overheated skin—as the smiths ratcheted it into position with chains that bit into her hips. Tenten's breath fogged the metal as she forced her chakra into its grooves, every inch requiring her body to *yield* against the unforgiving steel. The seventh craftsman smirked, tapping a mallet against her clit like a forge bell. "Big weapons need deep conditioning," he grunted, shoving the barrel deeper until her vision whited out—but her fingers kept moving, oiling another tantō with practiced strokes even as her cunt stretched around cannon-grade iron. Somewhere past the pain, the mission clock ticked: *137 weapons down, 1,863 to go.*
The eighth smith didn't wait for her to adjust—he simply yanked the cannon free and replaced it with a cluster of senbon bundled like a bouquet, their needle-sharp tips pricking her cervix as he hammered them home. Tenten's scream dissolved into a choked gasp as her chakra flared, encoding each needle with her signature through sheer, shuddering necessity. Across the room, the ninth blacksmith tested a freshly polished kunai on her nipple, the blade's edge drawing a thin line of blood that dripped onto the mission scroll—now more red than white. "Halfway there," he lied, palming her ass as the tenth smith lined up a row of shuriken along her spine.
Metal met flesh in a relentless rhythm—tantōs thrust between her lips, naginata handles pistoning in her cunt, kunai hilts grinding against her ass—each weapon demanding her chakra like a lover demanding tribute. Tenten lost count somewhere after the 400th imprint, her body operating on muscle memory alone as the smiths rotated shifts, their sweat mingling with hers in the oil-slicked air. The armory's water clock dripped incessantly, each drop a taunt: *Dawn is coming. The mission isn't.*
By the 700th weapon, her thighs were streaked with blood and oil, her cunt stretched around a double-bladed kodachi that required *both* holes to accommodate its length. The lead smith chuckled, twisting the hilt to scrape her insides raw. "Specialty items need extra attention," he murmured, watching her sob as her chakra flared involuntarily—another signature etched in pain. Nearby, an apprentice heated a branding iron with her name on it: *Property of Konoha Armory*.
The 1,000th weapon was a kusarigama's chain, its weighted ball lodged in her throat while the sickle end sawed between her thighs. Tenten's vision blurred as the smiths worked the links back and forth, her body now just a conduit—a living whetstone for Konoha's arsenal. Somewhere past the 1,500th imprint, her nails broke against a rack of kunai, her blood sealing their edges as the night shift arrived with *reinforcements*—a cartload of explosive tags needing "oral activation."
The final stretch was a haze of searing metal and split skin, her chakra reserves flickering like a dying flame. As the 1,999th weapon—a barbed arrow—pierced her nipple, the head smith grabbed her hair and hissed, "Last one's the *Hokage's* personal tanto." He sheathed it in her with a twist, her scream echoing off the vaulted ceilings as dawn's first light bled through the high windows. Mission complete. For now.