Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Thee Untamed Soldier ❯ I Spy ( Chapter 2 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

note: *Growls* Right now I am irritated beyond a doubt. I want to personal first off appologize if some chapters may come up slower then others, I’m getting ready to deploy to Iraq so I have less and less time right now to update, but don’t worry there is internet in Iraq, and I will update when I am given the chance to.
___________________________________________________________________ __________________

_____________________________________________________________ ________________________

A lovers’ tryst. Bulma could not help smiling to herself as she hurried away from the keep of the Capsule Corps. Compound which was connected to Earths Empire. She slid out into the lands of an exotic world of Earth, her home world. She was careful not to be seen. It would be her very first rendezvous and excitement filled her at the thought. She was in disguise. She had shed her fine outer tunic with its long, jewel-encrusted sleeves for a peasant’s coarse woolen shift. Her golden girdle had been exchanged for a braided leather belt, her pointy silk shoes for wooden clogs. She had even been clever enough to borrow a par of rough wool socks from the dairymaid, and old linen veil covered her azure locks from venture eyes. Although her lover was her betrothed, a clandestine meeting was out of the question for any lady, much less herself, and she was determined not to get caught.

Bulma’s smile broadened. She was immersed in visions of her handsome Prince sweeping her into his arms for her very first kiss. Her marriage had been arranged for political reasons, of course, so she knew very well how lucky she was to have fallen in love with Yamcha, a young exotic desert bandit who had been her friend since childhood.

The sound of voices slowed Bulma. For an instant she thought that Yamcha must have company, but then she realized that the voices were not speaking in Japanese, or anything from earth’s languages that she could distinguish. With a grasp of fright she scrambled behind a willow tree. Crouching down in the grass and hiding under the long drooping sway of the branches. She glanced around it, for an instant she could not move, frozen with disbelief.

Saiyans Soldiers filled the small clearing in front of her. Abruptly Bulma hunched down even more, her heart slamming against her chest. All thoughts of her tryst with Yamcha fled. Had she taken just one more step out of the woods and into the sunny glade she would have walked right into their camp!

Bulma was afraid to move. For it had been many years sense the cruel Saiyans had left Earth, leaving behind Bardock the Great, who later had his three sons and an adopted daughter who he had obtained from her fallen family during Earths first purge (Even so she had hated much of the Saiyan race because of the purge, and the death of her friends and family). She’d only heard the stories of horror this race brought forth with the name of Frieza behind there cause, and it was enough to send her into a shiver of fear. She had been teased by her foster father many times that she was far to clever for a girl, and now her mind was already spinning out its own conclusions. Why were the Saiyan Soldiers here, on earth? Did they know of the wedding of the herself and Yamcha the Desert bandit Prince. It was important outpost for her father, Bardock, Holding all boards of Earth to his domain, as well as the moon and the outskirts of small planets around the solar system that directly effected earths protection from outer attacks---it was better to have the strength within the walls and have Yamcha’s allied forces, then to have the marauding, treacherous Saiyan soldiers here. A fragile peace had reigned in the past two years since Bardock had sworn fealty to the Saiyan Prince, and King---and was force to subject his loyalties to the Kold Empire which her foster father despised above all things. Frieza the Lizard Lord, of the Kold Empire. Had the Saiyans been so clever, then, knowing that Earth would be so preoccupied with the wedding festivities that they could camp under its very nose and spy---or do worse? Outrage swept through Bulma. The allied enemies of the Kold Empire were up to no good; and she must relay this information immediately to her father.

Her knees began to ache from squatting behind the tree. She raised herself slightly to take another peek at the Soldiers. They were making camp despite the simple fact that it was still several hours before dark. Scanning the group of men in front of her, she instantly saw, why. Her eyes widened. One of the Soldiers where hurt. Two soldiers were helping a short, yet very masculine built man He seemed small in height but by know means in stature. How gave of a huge stance. He seemed battle torn and weak. Blood pouring down one of his powerful legs. Bulma hated the site of blood, but she did not look away. She could not. For she was looking at a man she had seen just once before, but had been unable to forget.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe---her lugs felt crushed and her mouth had gone dry. If only she had been able to forget him. Two years ago an alliance meeting with Earth and The Kold Empire, he had stood behind his rotten Lord. Lord Frieza, tower over the lizard Lords head which was not by much, even so he was a shorter type man. But the Lizard lord was a lot more shorter then the man before her. His face was a hard mask, while Frieza was openly smug. And beneath Frieza, on his knees in the dirt, had been her foster father Bardock, the King of Earth. Forced at the point of a wicked finger of the evil lizards glowing orb of distruction, to swear allegiance to the King of the Kold Empire, and to Lord Vegeta his alliance republic.

Bulma had been the only female present---women were not welcome at such events---and she had come in disguise. It had been a gathering of Empires, after another attempt by Bardock to invade and conquer the Kold Empire. She had been surrounded by much of Earths army, all loyal to her foster father. Yet their numbers had been pitiful in comparison to the forces facing them---the most brutal in the galaxy---that the Earl of Planate Vegeta. The man she could not remove her gaze from was the bastard heir to the earl, Prince Vegeta.

He had not noticed her then. She had been standing behind her brother, dressed as Radditz’s page, careful not to draw any attention to herself, she certainly did not want her own family to recognize her, for more then a scolding would come. Radditz had been an unwilling participant to her escaped, for, he, too knew how angry their father would be for this.

Bulma Had been mesmerized by the bastard heir, staring at him from around her brother’s shoulder. Once his gaze had connected with hers, a mere coincidence. The moment had lasted less then a heartbeat. As she stared at Planet Vegeta’s bastard now, Bulma’s fist clenched. Her gaze was riveted on the man. He was one of her father’s enemies due to his obligations to the Kold Empire, and not for his people. He was a betrayer. She prayed his wound would cause him to death.

Although he did not appear to be at death’s door. He had to be weak from the loss of blood and in great pain, he wore an expression similar to the one he had worn at Earth’s forced alliance---hard and inscrutable. She knew he was ruthless; never had he showed the Humans of Earth mercy, or anyone else in his purged missions, yes she had heard his name---written in the stars of chaos and destruction. Was he incapable of feeling? Was he even immune to physical pain?

One large black tent had been erected in the open field, and the Sayain soldiers banner already flew beside it. It was a striking flag, it’s field was divided into three diagonal bands of blue, white, and gold, in it’s center a tribal crown. Bulma watched as a slave dragged out some dashing lavished comforters and linen inside the tent, while the two Soldiers supporting Prince Vegeta helped him limp within. The tent flap closed behind them.

Bulma Collapsed. She was perspiring heavily, her mouth absolutely dry. This was worse, so much worse, than she had first thought. Prince Vegeta was not just ruthless but a great military commander, exactly like Lord Frieza, and his dexterity was undisputed. He was also ambitious. The family’s astonishing rise to preeminence from a history of enslavement in cave dwellings along the outer walls of Planet Vegeta. Many know of their story---there up rise from primates to advanced fighters, or so before Planet Vegeta had been created. Had the moon never had come, there enslavement would still be bonded into the earth of sweat and blood. Much like her own race. The whole Galaxy feared the ambition of Prince Vegeta. What was he doing here? What disaster did he intend to unleash upon Earth now?

Bulma knew she must return home and seek an audience with her foster father. Yet she was terrified of moving, to be caught by these soldiers would be a catastrophe. Nothing could be worse. Despite her fear, somehow she must dare to creep backwards, farther into the woods, until she could safely turn and run.

The camp was busy. The beasts (you could not phantom the rarity of these beasts, they were like a nightmare, but the only thing different where that they were real) that were being unsaddled and fed. A small, smokeless fire had been started. Broadswords, battle weapons, and armored gear were being placed carefully by laid down heavy saddles. Every indication told Bulma that this was a serious war party. If she did not escape now while the Soldiers were sill preoccupied with setting up their camp, she would have to wait until they slept, and then there would be watchful guards posted. Bulma positioned herself in a crouch, refusing to give in to her fear. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight, but no one heard it.

She let out a long breath, backing up a step, never taking her gaze from the camp. At that exact moment a breeze materialized, moving the swaying branches above her head. Bulma froze, praying.

Several of the Saiyan soldiers nearest the woods---and to her---turned, staring directly at the tree she had been hiding behind. They saw her at once. Bulma did not need any more encouragement. She lifted her skirts and fled.

“Halt! Halt now, wench!”

She heard them crashing through the woods. She ran as hard as she could. Having been raised with three powerful brothers, she was a good runner. At least Fast for a girl, but she was unused to the clumsy clogs. Abruptly she tripped hard and went sprawling down in the grass.

Chuckles could be heard, from one of the guards. It came from on of the lecherous soldiers. Just as she gained her feet, he was upon her, his hand closing on the folds of her tunic at the nape of her neck. He jerked her back to him. Bulma screamed as he reeled her in, and when she was close enough, she tried to kick him in the groin. He easily evaded her, and both he and his companion laughed at her very real efforts of resistance. He immobilized her, enfolding her in his arms. Bulma withered, but quickly she went still. There was no way to escape his hold, for a Saiyans strength was far beyond that of a humans. She fought to catch her breath.

“What is this?” Her captor’s eyes widened as he got his first glimpse of his human captive. His friend startled into silence as well. The veil had slipped away, and they could clearly see her exotic features. Bulma was well aware that she was beautiful, for she had been told many times. Indeed, traveling merchants sang about the Foster daughter of Bardock, Earths Princess and her incomparable beauty. She had a pale, perfect complexion, a small fragile semi-buttoned nose, high cheekbones, and an intriguingly heart shaped-face. Her eyes were almond shaped and an azure tinted hue, her mouth was full---and simmered of sweet passion pink.

Yet Bulma knew that beauty of the flesh was unimportant. That concept had been drummed into her head by her Foster Father since she was a child in his care, so she had never cared one way or the other about her looks, until Yamcha had told her how beautiful he thought her to be just yesterday. And until now. Until she was caught by these two Saiyan Soldiers whose intentions were obvious. Desperately she tired to think, her wide, artic-ice-cold azure hues filled with a mixture of defiance and fright.

“Ha!” The tall goofy bald Saiyan Soldier laughed, pleasure transforming his expressions. “Look at this! Look at what I have snared in a trap.”

“Excuse me, Nappa, but we found her---we,” His cohort responded. The other Soldiers in the camp had heard Bulma’s horrific scream and began to gather around the trio. “There is no I in team Nappa.”

“Ah yes, but there is an M, and an E. Usually I don’t mind sharing, Broli, but not this time.” Nappa Replied, tightening his hold on Bulma’s arms. But Bulma wasn’t struggling. Wasting her energy was pointless, especially if she need to conserve her strength in order to resist these Saiyan Soldiers. The two Elite soldiers, began to argue over her fate, while another dozen Saiyan soldiers amused themselves by, jeering and leering. Despair welled and her cheeks flamed. Unfortunately she understood the Saiyan language perfectly and missed not one of there lecherous remarks. She thought rapidly. She would be raped like any common slave unless she revealed her identity. But if she revealed her identity, she would be held hostage, a great cost to Bardock and for Earth. Both outcomes were unacceptable. She must find a middle ground, to keep her leveled.

A flash of bright Gold, and while armor caught Bulma’s attentions but it died behind the darkness of the tents flap. Soon she saw a slave emerging from the tent, striding towards them. Both Broli and Nappa fell into silence as the older man approached, elbowing through the circle of men. “What’s the commotion about?” His cool silver hues fell onto Bulma. “You are disturbing Prince Vegeta---and what do we have here? Tonight’s entertainment I suspect?”

Bulma had had enough. “I will not be your amusement, for the likes of monkeys.” She had decided to continue her disguise for as long as possible, and she spoke in a broken form of English. “Saiyan scum!”

“Come now, girl, don’t you like Saiyans, Soldiers?” The older man was slightly amused. Broli wore a grin, his onyx hues seemed to shimmer a toxic unnamed blue-green intermix of aggression. His upper lip was curled, as he could feel his body flex with the ideals of a fresh woman’s body beneath his own.

“I Hate you all, damn you to H E L F.” Bulma spat. She was quaking inside, but she would never let them know it. Then her heart lurched. For behind the man, the tent flap moved again, this time to expose Prince Vegeta. He limped out, leaning heavily on a post. His face was drawn in pain and gray in pallor, but his eyes were bright and keenly intelligent. They lanced the small group.
“What the hell is going on around here?”

Bulma inhaled. Although a stone’s throw separated them, he was bigger then she remembered, bigger and more powerful and more frightening. And he was close to being naked; he had shed his amour and most of his spandex under coating. He wore only a short pair of spandex briefs, which covered his bulge between his legs, calf-high boots, and a cloth bandage, high up on one of his powerful thighs.

Intently he met her regard. Bulma swallowed. She had seen men’s legs bare before, of course, but a humans Shorts, or bathing trunks---were decently clad and different from what she was now exposed to. Now she quickly looked away, her face already flaming at the male nudity facing her, or it was more so who‘s legs she‘d been looking at.

“Nappa appears to have caught us tonight’s entertainment, Lord Vegeta.” Broli stated. Bulma tensed, glancing up. Vegeta’s gaze turned to one of inspection. He did not respond to his soldier as his gaze slid down her slim body. Bulma’s heart thudded. She did not like the way he was looking at her, and if he thought to cow her, he would not----even though she was cowed. She glared furiously back.

“Bring her to me, slave.” Prince Vegeta ordered, and then he ducked and disappeared back into his tent. The slave suddenly chuckled, a sound at odds with his features which were, battle-scarred face and cold, steel gray hues. “It appears that his lordship isn’t as badly off as it appears, and I do think he has settled your arguments, Broil and Napa.”

Both men hissed under there breath, but Bulme was paralyzed by the meaning of Prince Venetia’s words. The slaves comment brought her to life. “No!” She cried. Despite her protest, the salve grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the tent. Bulma was a small, slender girl, but nerveless she fought him every step of the way, digging her heels, twisting frantically trying to kick him. He ignored her, dragging her with him as easily as if she were a small child.

Laughter echoed in the camp. The Soldiers found her pathetic struggle and imminent fate amusing. How sick and twisted, cool blood killers! Hot tears blurred her vision as she heard the coarse of jests being issued out about the Soldiers who watched her intently. She cold not help but understand what was being so crudely said. Graphic reference were made about the sexual prowess and physical endowment of the Prince.

“Prince Vegeta will probably kill her.” Someone finally joked.

It was then that terror seized her. And then it was too late. The salve was pushing her ahead of him into the tent. Inside was dark. Bulma stumbled when the salve released her but caught herself before falling. She was trembling and out of breath as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. She finely saw him. Her enemy was half-sitting on the bed, with lavishing linen, and the comfort of a large dark black comforter, her was propped up by his pillows. His presence seemed gigantic in the small tent, and a feeling of claustrophobia and imminent danger swept over her.

Prince Vegeta sat up straighter. “You may leave us, slave.”

The slave turned, and Bulma cried out. “No, don’t go!” Bt the slave was already gone. She whirled around to face Vegeta, panicked slim hands raised. “Don’t touch me!”

“Come here.”

She froze. His words were soft, but unquestionably a command. The kind of command one automatically obeyed, but her feet did not move, and now her mind was frozen, to.

“Women, come here, now.”
Bulma searched his expression. There was no insinuation in his tone to confirm that her fate was about to be a violent rape---an act that, according to all she had just heard, would most likely murder her. Nevertheless, she was shaking. Her gaze found his again he had been studying her, too, with growing impatience. “What do you want with me?” She managed to utter out, although it came out weaker then she’d liked.

“What do you think I want?” He frowned, his curled lips twisted in a snarl. “You are a women. I am in pain. Come here and tend my wound properly, now.”

Bulma started and then relief flooded her. “Is that all you want from me, to aid your leg?” She was skeptical about his relay of what he’d wanted her in his tent for.

His jaw flexed. “I am used to instant obedience, women. Come here and do what you have been trained to do.”

Bulma knew she must obey, for his rising temper was obvious, but if she did not reach an agreement with him now, while she had some tiny portion of power, she never would. “I’ll be glad to tend to your wound, but only under the agreement that you promise to release me unharmed after.”

He was openly skeptical. “I command---and you make demands?”

She knew she had pushed him as far as she should, that she should not push him any further, but despite herself, she said. “Yes, I do.”

He smirked then. It was a cold and dangerous smirk that did not reach his dark glittering onyx hues, and it was infinitely frightening. “Very few men have dared to disobey me, and even fewer have survived to see the light of another day.”


Bulma inhaled, unable to turn her regards away from his, unable to even blink. Whatever power he possessed consumed her. Her knees had turned soft, threatening to give way. And something dangerous and terrible in its potency seemed to reverberate between them. “Do you threaten me?” She whispered hoarsely.

“Only your sex spares you.”

She had know doubt that if she were a man, or boy, she would now be dead. He was her single most hated enemy, the enemy of her people, of her family, of her foster father, Worlds King. Her situation was dire, but she must not give in to her growing panic. Bulma stiffened her spine. If ever was the time for heroics, it was now.

“Say you that you agree to my terms?”

He stared. “I think you are either the most stupid female I have yet to beet, or the bravest.”

She stared back, hardly complimented and too frightened to be furious.

“You heal me and you shall e released.”

Bulma grasp. She had attained what she sought, but she was certain she could not trust him, not as far as her youngest brother could spit. She had no choice, however. Grimly Bulma came forward, determined now to see to his injury, to tend to him as quickly as was possible. Praying to Kami that she would be freed as he had promised so she could immediately reveal all that she had so far learned to her father. She tried to ignore his brilliant gaze, which nee left her. Swallowing, she knelt by his side.

“A run in with one of your planets best and only fighters, although it was a natural draw---seems that Radditz has improved from our last encounter.”

Bulma did not reply. Her gaze was locked upon his hard muscled, sun kissed naked thigh. The bandage was already stained with his blood. The wound was high, perilously close to his privates. For a moment her glance was drawn there, where she had no business looking---at the dark area where the spandex shorts was levitated to a small mound between his legs. Heat suffused her. Her hands shook, and she clenched the fold of her skirt.

She saw only a blur of movement there, and his huge hand was clamped around her small forearm. A second later, she was laying flat on his rock-hard chest, chin to chin with him. When he spoke, his breath licked dangerously close to her lips.

“Why do you delay, women?”

Her gaze left his mouth and flew to his perilous dark onyx hues. For the first time she saw the a spark of pain there. Something twisted in her heart, compassion she refused to entertaine. She must not think of this man as a human being, or as any being that was hurt and suffering. She must only remember him as an inhuman Saiyan monster, one capable of single-handedly and cold-bloodedly killing her people and her planet to suit his antagonistic nature.

She nodded, unable to speak, the feel of him warm and solid and disturbing beneath her young ample breast. He released her then. Bulma scrambled onto her knees at his side. She touched the bandage, lightly to test both herself and the wound infliction. Cautiously, she began to remove it.

She winced. The wound was gaping, bleeding and ugly, but not too deep. The ki blast from her older brother must of just grazed his flesh. Water and lye soap had been brought to clean the injury.

“It’s going to hurt.”

His gaze quarreled with her own, but he said nothing. In the dim light his eyes seemed as a jet black as his aflame hair, and this close, they were unquestionably beautiful. She pursed her lips, refusing to contemplate on such ridicules thoughts.

She worked over him, trying her best to not hurt him, she was aware of his black regard burning into her, making her terribly warm and uncomfortable. She felt small and vulnerable next to him, dwarfed by the power he displayed even while hurt and momentarily at her mercy. It was ludicrous notion. A man like this even briefly at her or anyone else’s mercy. He would never submit to another’s domination, not even while wrenched with pain, and especially not a human female.

The wound was finally wiped clean. Bulma paused then, wetting her now dry lips, as she gazed up at him.

“It needs to be stitched. “

“There’s a needle and thread and fresh linen behind you.”

Bulma looked over and nodded. She picked up both the needle and thread, hesitating.

“Perhaps you want some liquor before we start, or a pain reliving drug?”

His brow lifted with question.

“So you do have a heart beneath those pretty little breasts of yours?”

She was tense. “I may have a heart, but not for the monster like you.”

“Do it.” It was a wicked command.

What did she care if he suffered even more at her hands? Unfathomably angry, trembling with agitation, she picked up the needle. She had stitched up wounds before, but she would never grow accustomed to the procedure. Her stomach turned. She bent over him, working diligently and precisely, aware of his gaze on the top of her head, unable to forget his words. When she had finished she knotted the thread and cut it with her small, white teeth. Her lips gazing the clean flesh of his thigh, the contact felt like kissing lava---had it been a touchable object. She straightened then, relieved that the surgery was over.

Bulma had expected to see him drained of all color, his face a mask of pain. Instead, his eyes were entirely lucid but brilliant, dangerously brilliant, and they were holding hers. Quickly Bulma picked up a fresh piece of linen, dropping her gaze from his, it felt as if he was boring into her soul just then. When she had looked down though---

She was greeted with a sight she did not want to see, had no right to see. She had to cut a part of his shorts, and move the material out of the way, for the minor surgery. In doing so she had exposed his heavy genitals, and now, now she was quickly settling the spandex cloth back into place and the fresh linen over on top of his lap. Her face flamed, stinging. She pressed the linen into his leg, trying not to think. But those men were right. If he raped her, he would kill her. Her hands, small and delicate and white, contrasting sharply with his sun-kissed, powerful legs, trembled as she quickly tied the fresh bandage around his stitched wound.

The exact instant she was done, his hand cupped her face, forcing her chin up and her regard to his.

“You dress like hag, but act like a noble.”

Bulma froze. His gaze left her eyes, sliding over her features one by one, finally lingering on her lips. “No peasant women I have ever seen has a face such as yours.”

She opened her mouth but found herself incapable of summoning a self-defense. Her stunned mind could drum up only one terrible image, and that was of her captor pressing her down beneath him on his cot.

His hand left her face, but caught her own palm, turning it over. “Milk white, silk-soft.”

Terrified and mute, aware that she had not a single callus, she was drawn to his glittering gaze. She recognized the intensity there now even though she had never been faced with such an uninhibited display of male lust before. The corners of his mouth lifted---an attractive, perfectly formed mouth, in such a tempting smirk. Bulma could not help but think---in an expressing that could not be described as even the semblance of a smile; rather, it hinted at aggression and triumph and primitive satisfaction. Bulma drew back, a second or too late. He had already slipped her veil from her hair. As he leaned close, nuzzling her cheeks, he said, “Your hair is clean and it smells of exotic flowers.” He straightened, staring. “I have little doubt that if I looked beneath your clothes, I would find skin as clean and as sweet-smelling.”

Bulma drew quickly to her feet, she did not get far. He gripped her one forearm, jerking her immediately back down on her knees beside him. “Am I correct?”

“No! Not at all! I swear to you---” Bulma’s words were cut off when his hand snaked up her leg, beneath all of her clothing, a caress of a callused palm on soft, naked skin. Bulma cried out, shocked at the violent sensation sweeping through her. She was staring down dumbly at the entire length of her bare leg, from where her wool socks ended at her calf to the very top of her thigh, which he had just exposed.

“As I thought,” He said, and now there was a change in his tone, one Bulma immediately recognized despite her inexperience, one that tightened every fiber of her being and made her pulse soar.

“I…I can explain,” She whispered.

“Soft, so soft, and clean,” He said, locking regards with her again. He did not cover up her nakedness. He did not remove his hand from her thigh, his fingertips, perilously close to grazing the ripe plumpness at the apex there. Instead, nostrils flared now, he leaned close, his face---his lips---brushing her neck.

Bulma gulped. Her eyes fell closed, her body jolted as thoroughly by his kiss as if a bolt of lightning. There was no air to be had in the cramped space of the tent. His mouth moved with growing fever on the vulnerable underside of her exposed neck. His thumb slipped through her pubic hair and up against the cleft of her flesh. Bulma could not contain herself. She moaned. Her mind, once filled with hostility, was now dizzily blank, receptive to nothing but the stunning sensation he dealt her as deftly as he would a final attack.

He crooned in her ear, his mouth against one lobe, his thumb against another, “So who are you---women? And more importantly, what are you, if not a spy?”


-Respond-Review-Leave feedback-
-More to come: Depending on Reviews.