Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Urban Concubine ❯ Act I ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: All DBZ characters property of Akira Toriyama and official licensees.

A/N: NC-17. Gh x Y, V x Y, Gk x Y, domination, strange kink, OOC Yamcha (but since we don’t see that much of him after Cell, who can prove it’s OOC?) ;p I’ve made a few edits from the version I submitted to Dark Serapha’s contest. Nothing big, just correcting some errors and reworking a few sentences to make them read better.

Urban Concubine

by Orchideater

Act I

---

Velvet swipes across my cheek.

I hear a commotion in the distance, and suddenly realize I am no longer dreaming. Such a shame– and I was having such a satisfying night’s rest, too.

I stir, raising a hand to my face as I wrench myself out of sleep’s comfortable embrace and return to the land of the living. For a moment I stare mindlessly at the filtered morning light streaming in through my curtains, then gain presence of mind enough to turn and focus on whatever’s touching me.

Oh. I see now. Puar is smacking me across the face.

“Yamcha-samaaaa!”

He’s whisper-shouting at me in a panic, and I wonder what’s got him so worked up this early in the morning.

“All right, Puar, enough already,” I say, sitting up and rubbing my face. “What the hell?”

He stops smacking me and gesticulates wildly as he hovers above my chest, stuttering about incoherently. “Yamcha-sama– that girl you brought home– she’s there– your wallet!”

He emphasizes the last word, jabbing his paws in the direction of the kitchen. So that’s what’s going on. I leap soundlessly out of bed and slip on my boxers before peering discretely out the door, just enough so I can see her in the hallway mirror.

Yup, there she is, rifling through my billfold, still in her revealing club-wear from last night. She’s going to look funny walking home in broad daylight like that. I glide silently up behind her and lean against the door frame ten feet away, just watching her work. This appears to be nothing new to her.

“If you think you’re due something,” I say, and she jumps with all the grace and poise of a thief who knows they’ve been caught red-handed, “go ahead and take it. Though, I wasn’t aware I’d taken home a whore.”

She turns scarlet with rage and embarrassment and her jaw swivels comically, but she can’t seem to find the words to contradict me.

“I-I was just looking for a souvenir!” she blurts out at last.

“Oh yeah? Our one night together was that memorable, was it?”

Unable to come up with anything else, she hurls my wallet at me and spins around, marching toward the door with as much speed and dignity as four-inch heels allow. Does she think I don’t notice she’s still got my property?

I am behind her in less time than she can blink, grabbing her wrist and retrieving the 400 zenni she apparently thought her presence was worth, twisting her arm to her back to keep her in place.

“Not today, baby,” I say, and she gawks up at me for a moment, stunned that a human being could move so fast. “If you’re looking for a sugar daddy or a chump, go find some other guy. I’m not playing those games.”

I take pity and stuff twenty zenni for cab fare down her cleavage, then turn her roughly to face me.

“It is a shame. I was hoping for many more one-night stands together.” Leaning in, I steal one last kiss from those plush, sugary lips. For a moment she yields, then remembers herself and thrashes in my grip. I release her, laughing, and she shoves at me and then storms off down the apartment building hallway and out of my life.

Good riddance. But still, I enjoy the view as she leaves.

She was a tasty piece of ass, and last night was a refreshing departure from my usual fare. Though she was angry at the end, I know she had a damn good time also. Too bad. She could have provided some fine entertainment.

I stroll back into my condo and Puar floats up to me, looking utterly exhausted. “Thanks for the help, Puar,” I tell him.

“Lord Yamcha,” he pleads, “Can’t you please try to be a little more discriminating about whom you associate with? Why must you always bring home such questionable women?”

“Hey, she seemed fine at first. And besides,” I grin over my shoulder at him as I walk past, “she was fun.”

“She almost stole all of your cash! You call that fun?”

“Yup. All of it was fun.”

Puar just shakes his head and follows me to the bedroom, where he goes to work making the rumpled bed.

“Anyway, forget about her,” I say. “I’ve got more important people to see today.”

The certain look I give him tells him all he needs to know.

“Oh. Well, you’ll need a good meal before you set out. I’ll make breakfast!” He soars off, and I hear him clattering dishes and pans while I wash up and finish getting dressed, then comb my hair out and pull it back. I’ve been letting it grow a little longer again lately, and at present it’s about down to my shoulders.

I enjoy a meal of Puar’s good home cooking, then prepare to set off. As usual, Puar worries over me like a mother hen.

“Who are you seeing today, Lord Yamcha?” he asks, trying to sound like he’s not prying.

“Gonna be busy. Today, I am doing a...” I kick my favorite baseball cap off its hook on the back of the door, bounce it off my heel, then my knee, then with a complicated flourish of the arm, sweep it onto my head.

“A hat trick!” he exclaims. “All three in one day, again?!”

“Right. Wish me luck.” I hook the baseball cap over his head, give him a casual salute, and head out the door.

“Lord Yamcha, please don’t overexert yourself!”

“Have a little faith, Puar. Don’t wait up.” I give him a final wave and leave.

---

It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to fly there on my own power. At this speed the people below will only see a streak in the sky, so no worries for causing a scene. I run some errands, check out the new selection of air cars and let a sales guy try to wheel and deal me, then head for my real destination, Soaring Eagle High.

I touch down on the deserted school roof and smooth out my windblown hair and clothes. The only door leading down is locked, but with a bit of ki manipulation that’s easily fixed.

I descend the stairs and then roam the halls idly, the thud of my boots echoing in the mostly deserted halls. Sometimes a lone student on a mission passes by, staring at me as he goes.

The students are in class, and the drone of teachers lecturing before their blackboards grinds on my ears as I pass by each occupied room. The students inside near the doors turn their heads to observe me as I pass, glad for any distraction.

Just walking through here gives me the chills. I never got much formal education, and frankly I’m not sorry. These places have the air of a glorified prison, with the kids trapped inside and dully resigned to their role as a captive audience.

Ah, and here comes a warden now.

A young girl holding a clipboard and wearing a laminated badge turns the corner and heads in my direction. She can’t be more than 14. Her eyes widen when she spots me, and I can see her face grow redder and redder the closer she gets. I smile at her, hands in pockets, and she averts her eyes to the floor, flicking nervous glances up at my face.

Too cute. She must be the bashful type. Or it could be the red fitted shirt, black leather jacket, and ass-hugging black jeans I’m wearing.

As I reach her she screws up the nerve to address me. “Umm... sir? Do you have a hall pass?”

I flash a big smile and she turns even redder. “Not really,” I say. “I just let myself in.” I smile down at her and run a hand through my hair, just to tease her some more.

“Actually, I’m looking for one of your teachers. You know where Son Gohan is right now, sweetheart?”

“Oh! Um. Yes, hold on...” She fumbles with her notebook and scans a printout of information. “I think he’s at the teachers’ lounge right now.” She looks up at me for approval, pleased with herself for having the answer to my question.

“Hey, that’s great. Think you could take me there?”

She averts her eyes again and nervously agrees. I follow her down a flight of stairs, down hallway after hallway until we come to a boring, institutional door with “Teachers’ Lounge” in block print on the frosted window. Looks like a thrilling place to spend your time off.

I knock on the door and let myself in. The room inside is just as dull and low-budget as expected. The place instantly goes quiet as eight pairs of eyes all turn in my direction, out of habit at first, then stare in astonishment.

“Hey, there,” I address the crowd. “I’m looking for Son Gohan?”

Now all heads turn to the man sitting at a table against the wall, papers and books and lesson plans surrounding him like so much jetsam on the shore. He looks horror-stricken, frozen with a deer-in-the-headlights look, then comes to his senses and covers with the inherited Son family gesture: hand to the back of the head and a sheepish chuckle.

“O-Oh! You’re early!” With all the eyes alternating between boring holes in him and scrutinizing me, he feels the need to add, “This is Yamcha. He’s an old friend of the family. We had plans to get together for lunch.”

This seems to satisfy the onlookers, if only partway. He stands up, sparing a glance at me over his shoulder as he starts cleaning up his great pile of junk. “Can you wait for me outside? I’ll be there in a minute.”

I respond with a two-fingered salute to him and the rest, then shut the door behind me, closed but not latched so I can still hear the rest of the teachers bombard him with questions and hear pieces of Gohan’s shaky answers, catching snippets such as “friend of my dad’s,” and “old friend of the family,” and “professional bachelor,” when a female voice commented on my attire and asked if I was single.

Oh, my little guide is still here, looking uncomfortable. I guess she didn’t know if she was allowed to leave or not. Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

“Hey,” I say, and she looks up at me, face growing red again. Gohan pokes his head out the door in a hurry just then, catching me in the act of teasing the hell out of one of his students. He scowls fiercely but doesn’t interrupt, so I decide to finish her off.

“Thanks for the help. It was nice to have such a pretty escort,” I say with a wink. Her eyes grow huge, then slam to the floor again. She mumbles an unintelligible response (I doubt even she knew what she was saying) and speeds off in the opposite direction.

I turn my attention to Gohan, who’s shut the door tightly behind him and is also red in the face, but for entirely different reasons. He’s flustered, his clothes are rumpled and ill-fitting, and he’s clutching a briefcase with papers and booklets and other work items sticking out of the seam from having been crammed sloppily inside, and of course he’s wearing those awful clunky plastic glasses. At the moment he looks every inch a “nutty professor.”

I give him a fresh smile and play innocent just to piss him off more. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

He puffs like an alligator preparing to strike, then grabs me by the arm and drags me thirty feet down the hall, out of hearing range of the people in the lounge, before he blows up.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” he hisses at me, waving his unoccupied hand about in the air. “You were supposed to wait for me on the roof. Now not only have the students seen you, so have my coworkers!”

“So what? The explanation you gave them was fine.”

“You didn’t even go through the front desk, did you?” he accuses, and I shrug.

“That’s even worse! Parents and teachers freak out when a stranger just shows up inside the school. It’s supposed to be locked for security!”

“Jeez, what a prison complex.”

“Gahh! Come with me.” He grabs hold of my wrist, and the next moment he’s moving us at superspeed, so fast no normal eye could see us. I just go along for the ride, since he’s the only one who knows where he’s going.

We shoot through a door and then stop. Gohan shuts it carefully and leans up against it, sighing in relief, while I take a look around us.

Ugh. The boiler room?

“This is a new one. You sure you want to do this in such a dirty place?”

Gohan shakes his head. He seems to have calmed down some. “No, not here. This way.”

We walk past heaters, A.C. units, and back-up generators, and a multitude of various mechanical and electrical equipment. Wires and vents and an abundance of pipes– large white PVC pipes, thin and rusty metal ones, pipes wrapped in old, crumbling insulation– wrap around the main units and branch off, spreading out and traveling along the walls like veins from a heart. The air smells musty and metallic, and our footsteps echo on the concrete floors.

Gohan leads me along a narrow back hallway crammed with boxes and junk, and finally at the very end he stops. He moves an old metal storage locker to the side just enough to reveal a small, narrow door behind it that had before been completely hidden.

He opens the door with a creak, and we squeeze inside. A flip of the ancient switch on the wall lights a single bare bulb suspended from the ceiling. It’s obvious he’s cleaned the place up for our use, because the room is spotless, no cobwebs or grime, with only a few boxes stacked neatly in the corner, an old student’s chair and desk, and a plain blanket occupying the space.

“Damn, Gohan. How’d you ever find this place?” I ask as I continue looking around.

He pulls the storage locker back in front of the door and shuts the door. “Well, a while back there was a rash of stomach flu among the students, and one of them puked right in my class–”

“Wow, the life of a scholar is so glamorous.”

“Shut up! You’re the one who asked.”

“Sorry, you’re right.” I cross my arms and smirk at him. “So, you were saying something about vomit? You sure do know how to set the mood.”

He fumes for a moment then elects to continue his story. “Anyway,” he huffs, “I went down here to look for an extra mop and bucket, since the janitors were all busy cleaning up other messes, and I found this door by accident. The lock was rusty so I figured no one ever came in here anymore. I broke it off and came back and cleaned the place up after hours.”

“Couldn’t wait for the janitors, huh? You just wanted an excuse to snoop around down here, didn’t you?”

He sulks and looks away sheepishly, a small blush on his face.

“You really have a knack for finding out-of-the-way nooks and crannies like this. It’s a strange gift. I’m impressed though; it’s actually kind of cozy. It’s so cut off from the world, though. Not your usual style.”

“Not completely cut off.” Gohan smiles and walks to the back of the room, kneeling in front of a large rectangular grate in the wall. “Come here and listen.”

I get up and join him, and sure enough, a noise emits from the grate, subdued but distinct if you trained your ears to it. I can hear clinking and clanking noises, and over it all, the murmur of many voices. Student voices. My eyes widen in realization. Holy crap. Only a wall away, through this air vent is–

“The student cafeteria!” I burst out laughing. “Oh my god. Gohan, you’re a genius. Leave it to you!” He grins brightly, thrilled that I understand the great find he has in this room.

The moment fades, and we are left staring at each other. As usual, he is unwilling to make the first move.

“Well,” I say, standing up. I shrug off my jacket and toss it into a corner, and approach him. “Time for my private lesson, eh, teacher?”

He chuckles and looks away, rubbing the back of his head. He’s always so bashful at the start. So adorably virginal.

I stand before him and make him look me in the eyes. Taking hold of each arm of his glasses, I pull them gently from his face, then ruffle his hair a bit, pulling down a few strands of bangs. It makes him look younger and much less uptight.

I’d love to throw those horrible glasses in the garbage, too. He only needs them for reading yet he wears them all the time, and insists on that ancient, bargain-basement style of plastic frame. He seems a bit concerned for their safety, so I flick the glasses into the corner on top of my jacket.

“There, much better already,” I say as I cradle his face in my hand, running a thumb over where the glasses had rested on his cheeks. He looks up at me, eyes full of yearning and that chronic uncertainty. He almost always needs some loosening up at first. I’ll start by getting rid of the rest of this travesty of an outfit.

A shiver runs through him as I slide my hands up his shoulders, pushing the blazer off his broad shoulders. Time to piss him off a little.

I move in close and pull the sleeves of the blazer from his arms, and hiss in his ear, “Damn, why the hell do you dress this way, Gohan? I’m surprised Videl lets you out of the house looking like this.”

That hit a nerve. He pulls back and snarls, “Do NOT mention my wife at a time like this!”

Undeterred, I press on. “Oh yeah? Then, who? Please tell me your mother isn’t still picking out your clothes.” He blushes scarlet.

“No!” he says, though I have to wonder about the truthfulness of that statement. “I picked them out myself.”

“That’s just as sad,” I quip as I begin undoing his shirt buttons. “So if you don’t want me ragging on your clothes, come shopping with me sometime. We’ll snag ourselves a cute little salesgirl, and she can help you pick out some hot new styles. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“There is nothing wrong with these clothes,” he insists.

“Except they’re dumpy, and they make you look like an old man.”

“I have to look like a professional. A school teacher can’t dress the same way you do.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to look awful. Are you afraid of this?” I run my hands over his bare chest, parting the shirt wide to reveal his magnificent torso. He bites his lip and hisses at my touch. He’s pent up.

“Afraid they might find out about this ripped body of yours?” I spin him around and yank the shirt off him, run my fingers over his sculpted back. He gasps and breathes more heavily, hands pressed against the wall.

“Afraid those sweet-faced little girls in your class– and maybe some of the boys– would sit there getting wet over Gohan-sensei? The way I made that little girl today?”

“Sh-Shut up! You’re so vulgar... They’re just kids.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, wrapping my arms around him tightly, pressing my chest into his back. “They say those feelings start around age 12. How old are your students, again?”

He refuses to answer me, and I make quick work of his belt and fly, then divest him of the last of his garments, ripping the shoes off as I go. His cock is already straining. He moans as I wrap my hand around its thick, twitching length and begin to stroke roughly.

“Yeah,” I hiss as I tug at his earlobe with my teeth and pull the tie from my own hair, letting it fall around my shoulders and tickle his neck. “You’re afraid of those girls looking at you with lust in their eyes, afraid you won’t know how to handle it. Pathetic.”

I pull back, not releasing his cock, and pump my still-clothed hips into his ass once, then lean back down to hiss in his ear, enunciating every word with a harsher squeeze of his cock and a squeeze of one of his pectorals.

“Just what I’d expect from a weakling mama’s boy.”

The moment he snaps is always glorious. He throws me against the wall with one wrenching arm movement and a blast of ki.

“You’re such a fucking asshole!”

Exactly what he needs.

He rips my shirt open, popping off every one of the buttons, yanking my pants and boots off in a similar manner until I am as naked as he, and then attacks my mouth, lowering us both to the floor.

“Asshole...” he whispers in a reverent growl when he is forced to take a breath. He clutches my shoulders and devours my neck, forcing me backwards.

We are constantly in motion. Hands roam frantically over muscled flesh.

Underwear models and weight trainers have got nothing on him. The bastard hardly ever trains anymore, and yet he can still look like this. Makes me sick, I swear. Some of us have to work to keep our bodies.

As if reading my thoughts, he kneads his hands over my waist and chest and purrs lowly in satisfaction. “Nice. You feel especially good today. Have you been working out more than usual?”

Having a saiyan compliment my body is like manna from heaven, and I’m more than a little pleased that he noticed, and noticed well, as he continues to fondle my chest and arms.

“Yeah, thanks,” I breathe. “I can’t exactly let myself go to pot when I have you guys depending on me. Gotta do the best I can to keep up with you.”

“Hmmm...” He moves in again, kissing over my shoulders and cheek, and plays with my hair. He’s frowning slightly, and I realize this is because I used the word “guys,” plural. Sure enough.

“Are you seeing anyone else today?”

“I have Vegeta in a couple hours,” I say, pausing, “and then Goku tonight.”

His brows crease. I know it creeps him out to know he’s sharing a man with his father, however private and separate my relationships with them may be. Plus he doesn’t like the idea of Goku being with anyone other than Chichi, although he knows he has no right to complain when he also has gone elsewhere for satisfaction.

“Are you jealous?” I ask with a smirk, taunting him.

“Hmph. Maybe a little.”

“You’re hilarious.” I run my hands down his lower spine and curl my hands around his sublime ass cheeks, finishing the move by pressing my thumbs vigorously into his tail scar. He cries out, the cry drawing out into a desperate moan.

With a deep growl and baring of teeth, he lifts me off the floor by my hips and lays me over the old student desk. My limbs dangle, but he remedies this quickly by hooking my legs over his shoulders and slamming the desk up against the wall.

I close my eyes and pant. Somewhere along the line he has found the time to slather on some lube, and he enters me with one long, forceful, insistent push, wringing a trembling whimper out of me. In turn, he moans lowly at the intense sensation. His head rolls, and with one gasp of breath he regains control, locking shaded eyes with mine, and he begins to move.

Moans, gasps, and a variety of other sounds of passion stream from my lips.

Burn, kid, burn. Burn me with all your pent up fire.

Why does he do it, with a beautiful wife and daughter that he loves dearly? He has a nice house, good job, perfect family. Job well done, Gohan. So ideal.

So safe.

I give him what they can’t. His saiyan blood is his blessing as well as his curse. It devils him like a criminal locked in the basement of his mind, demanding something more than that easy, mundane living, no matter how pleasant that life might be.

The saiyan in him demands aggression and power and, above all, danger. To push the limits. To escape mortal danger with adrenaline pumping and blood pounding in your ears, to feel that rush of life and the thrill in your belly.

Gohan is a brilliant kid. He achieves the thrill he needs by dancing on the razor’s edge; that is, having our illicit trysts in places just barely removed from the public eye, just a hair’s breadth away from being caught and ruined. Yet he is smart enough to find places that give off that quality while still being mostly safe. An empty rooftop, a deserted parking lot late at night. Tucked-away rooms next to but just apart from the bustle of crowds. Like this one, perhaps his best yet. Private yet public, the risk level at its highest, for just a wall away are his fellow teachers and students.

A particularly hard thrust jolts me out of my thoughts, and through my haze of arousal I notice how close we are to the air grate, and just how much noise I’m making, and the devil in me moans louder.

As though we were on some sort of mental connection, I hear voices of students, probably those seated nearest the grate in some distant corner of the cafeteria. “Do you hear that?” I hear a boy say. “Like a moaning off in the distance. Inside the walls. It’s a ghost, a real ghost!”

I can’t stand it. I’ve become the new Soaring Eagle High ghost. Well, every school should have one.

The boy’s companion calls him a liar, so I moan again, just as loud as before. The second boy takes it back and they both jabber excitedly about the “ghost,” but by now Gohan has heard what’s going on.

“Yamcha, shut up!”

I have the nerve to laugh, and in response he yanks me off the old desk, away from the grate, and lifts me up completely until we are standing, and he slams my back against the wall, supporting all of my weight in a show of strength.

I wrap my legs around his waist, toes curling as he slams back into me. God, these saiyans know how to work.

I forget everything else as our lovemaking reaches a fever pitch, feeling the taste of sweat and ki and the stale air of the room through wild and sloppy kisses, the scratch of nails and clutch of heaving muscle, silken hair caresses and hot steamy breath, and the devastating pistoning of his cock inside me, turning me to jelly.

He loops an arm around my back to help support me where he wants me, forehead lowered to mine as he pants. His free hand stops its roaming across my body and lowers to pump my cock, and I am nearly at my end.

At that point, in the shreds left of my conscious brain, I hear the huge heating unit in the other room kick on and begin to hum, growing louder, building in intensity as the machinery gets going, the sound seeming to reflect and accentuate each thrust of cock and the hum of my own body, and when the vibrations from the unit reach this room and wash over us I am nearly sobbing for release.

I try desperately to wait for Gohan, to give him as much pleasure as possible. He feels it too, and roars as he thrusts into me at lightning pace. His ki flows from him like a tidal wave and I explode, screaming my release, and he follows soon after.

We stand, locked together, for long moments, reveling in this intense feeling, gasping, our breath slowing in time and minds returning. Gohan lowers me gently to the ground and pulls out, and I sit back against the wall.

“Now that,” I say, sweeping the hair out of my face, “was a great fuck.” He’s still kneeling, eyes cast to the ground. Here we go again.

“Oh god, Videl. I’ve got to stop this, its not fair to her. I’m a horrible person.”

I roll my eyes and cut him off as I tie back my hair. “Cripes, every time with this. I told you: you want to stop this, the choice is yours. You want to make this the last time? Huh?”

He looks away, and his refusal to answer is my answer. He’ll never quit. He needs it too badly. His saiyan blood holds him hostage in this addiction.

“Did you eat lunch at all?” I ask, changing the topic. He seems relieved. Perhaps the show of guilt is also something he needs to feel right inside.

“No,” he says. “I brought it with me, though. Want to eat with me?” He retrieves a capsule from his pants pocket and releases it, and out pops a lunch big enough to satisfy a small army.

I grin back at him. “Don’t mind if I do.”

I pop a capsule as well for the extra shirt I’d brought, a royal blue one this time, and we clean up as well as possible and eat in pleasant silence.

I eye him sitting across from me, back in those old man’s clothes. I was lying before. I hope he does keep wearing them, so every time I can have the thrill of unwrapping the drab brown paper from the glittering treasure underneath, to know that I am the only one to see the fiery, buried self he hides from the world.

He gave up the Great Saiyaman years ago, but he still wears a costume. This costume of the mild-mannered teacher, the boring dad, to hide the saiyan within. It’s a different sort of secret identity, but one all the same. And I am privy to one of the greatest secrets there is.

I brush off the crumbs from our meal and stand. “I gotta get going. Call me whenever you want next time you need me.” He gives me a constrained smile.

“Vegeta, next?”

“Uh-huh. Can’t keep our princey waiting.”

“Don’t let him do anything too weird to you, Yamcha.”

I wave off his concerns. “No worries, man. Hey, can I get some money?”

“Oh, yeah.” He finds his briefcase and the wallet within, and hands me a 1000-zenni wad of cash. A good husband has to take care of his second “wife,” after all, and he seems pleased to give it to me.

“It was fun, Gohan. Let’s get together again soon.”

He nods cheerily at that. “Don’t let anyone see you on your way out.”

“Dang, and here I was going to go to the cafeteria and tell them all how the school ghost spends his free time.”

I dodge the thrown bento box and with a laugh, I’m gone. Time to pay a visit to the man who started it all.

Vegeta.

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