Chapter 125: Sarada [1] 18+

Sarada stood in the middle of the apartment with the word *okay* still hanging in the air between them like a door she could no longer close. Her mind kept turning over the same impossible geometry. All her life Naruto Uzumaki had been the loud, bright constant at the edge of her family—her father’s rival and closest friend, the man who became Hokage, the father of the boy she had loved with the stubborn, one-sided certainty of a child who grew into a kunoichi. In every version of the future she remembered, he was Uncle Naruto. Standing here now, having just agreed to take the place of the women he slept with, felt like stepping into a room whose floor had disappeared.

She turned toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Kael’s voice was mild.

"What do you need from me right now?" she asked, not looking at him.

"You’re taking their place," he said. "Right now. That means you do the same things they do."

He walked into the bedroom without checking whether she followed. After a moment she did. The room was ordinary—low bed, single window, the faint scent of soap and old wood. Kael stopped at the foot of the mattress and pointed to the floor in front of him.

"Sit."

Sarada’s jaw tightened. She lowered herself to her knees on the wooden boards, spine straight, hands resting on her thighs. The position alone sent a hot pulse of shame up her neck. Kael looked down at her with open, uncomplicated satisfaction, the way someone might look at a new tool that had finally been placed in his hand.

"Crawl to the fridge," he said. "Bring me water."

She stared at him. "I will never do that."

"No?" He tilted his head. "Sakura always does. Maybe I should just call her."

The name landed exactly where he intended. Sarada’s fingers curled against her knees. She stayed where she was, refusing to move, while the image of her mother on her knees that morning replayed behind her eyes. Kael waited a few seconds longer, then reached for the jacket he had dropped on the bed as if the conversation were already over.

"All right. I’ll call her. You can go."

"Wait." The word came out sharp. Sarada’s throat worked. "Wait. I’ll do it."

She placed both hands on the floor. The boards were cool under her palms. She began to crawl.

The shame was immediate and physical. Every forward movement felt exaggerated, ridiculous, wrong. She kept her back straight out of stubborn pride until Kael’s voice cut across the room again.

"Move your hips. Bitches don’t walk that straight."

A flash of pure anger lit behind her eyes. She forced her hips to sway with the next few motions, the movement small and reluctant, and continued toward the kitchen. At the fridge she rose onto her knees, opened the door, and took out a bottle of water.

"What are you doing?" Kael called. "Keep both hands on the floor."

Sarada looked back at him over her shoulder. "Then how am I supposed to carry it?"

"Grab it with your teeth. Crawl back."

For a long second she simply knelt there, the cold air of the open fridge against her face, the full weight of what she was doing settling onto her shoulders. She had fought beside legends. She had survived the end of one world. Now she was on her knees in a small Konoha apartment being told to carry a water bottle in her mouth like an animal. The worst part was that she could feel the difference in power as clearly as a chakra signature. In this body, at this strength, she would not win a direct fight against him. The knowledge sat bitter and heavy.

"Do it now," Kael said.

She set the bottle between her teeth, bit down hard enough to keep it steady, and crawled back across the floor. The plastic clicked softly against her teeth with every movement. When she reached him she stopped at his feet and waited, face burning.

Kael took the bottle from her mouth, unscrewed the cap, and drank. Then he set it aside and rested his hand on her head, rubbing her hair in slow, deliberate strokes the way someone might praise a dog.

"Good girl."

Sarada’s eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards. The anger inside her had nowhere to go.

"Put it back," he said. "Then bring me the jam."

She crawled to the fridge again, replaced the water, and located the small jar of jam on the lower shelf. This time she did not need to be told. She took the jar between her teeth and returned the same way, hips moving because he had ordered it, face hot with humiliation. When she reached him she set the jar down carefully.

"Don’t you need bread with jam?" she asked, voice flat.

"No. Just the jam."

Kael opened the jar, dipped two fingers into the dark sweetness, and looked at her.

"Strip."

Sarada’s head snapped up. "What?"

"Strip. I’m going to eat the jam off your breasts."

She stood in one sharp motion, hands curling into fists. "Never."

Kael rose as well. The shift in his posture was small but unmistakable—the same quiet readiness she had seen in her father before a fight. The pressure of his chakra brushed against her senses like a warning.

"You wanted their place," he said. "Do what they do."

Sarada’s mind raced through every alternative and found none that did not end with him calling Sakura or walking next door to Sumire. She could refuse. She could leave. She could try to hit him and discover, in the most immediate way possible, exactly how far the power gap stretched. Or she could stay inside the agreement she had already spoken aloud.

Her hands moved to the zipper of her flak jacket.

She removed it, then the shirt underneath, then—after a long, burning hesitation—reached back and unhooked her bra. The cool air of the apartment touched her skin. Her breasts were full, heavier than her mother’s, the pale skin already flushed with shame across the upper curves. She crossed one arm over them instinctively.

"Please," she said, and hated how small the word sounded. "Naruto. Let’s find another way."

Kael sat back down on the edge of the bed and opened his own shirt, the movement casual, almost bored. "I won’t tell you again."

Sarada lowered her arm. She dipped her fingers into the jam jar, the sticky sweetness clinging to her skin, and began spreading it across the soft weight of her breasts. The sensation was cold and humiliating. She worked in silence, covering the full curves, the nipples, the undersides, until the dark jam glistened against her pale skin. When she finished, Kael reached out, caught her sticky fingers, and brought them to his mouth.

He licked them clean in slow, thorough passes, tongue moving between each finger, eyes never leaving hers. The wet heat of his mouth on her skin sent an unwilling shiver up her arm he then put her fingers inside his mouth sucking them like you suck a lollipop. When the last of the jam was gone he released her hand and looked at the glistening mess she had made of her own chest.

Sarada stood in front of him, bare from the waist up, jam cooling on her skin, the taste of her own shame thick in the back of her throat, and waited for whatever order would come next.

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