Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 53

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he's decided to share them with.

Last time: The supply crew leaves Narmis because Eighteen was spotted by someone who can place her as part of Vegeta's team. Yul, the 6-breasted dancer from Harbour Colony contemplates alerting the authorities. Back on Tech-Tech, Vegeta ends up in the regen tank after testing out Bulma's ki-draining circlet.

THIS IS AN NC-17 RATED CHAPTER. IF YOU'D LIKE TO READ AN EDITED, M RATED VERSION, PLEASE HEAD OVER TO FANFICTION.NET AND FIND ME UNDER THE SAME PEN NAME.

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“I hate getting called back to the ship.” Recoome flopped heavily onto the couch in the common area of the Burter Brigade quarters. “It's so boring here.” He stretched his massive body over the cushions and laced his hands together to crack his knuckles.

“Stop whining,” Guldo said, sneering at his comrade. “You forget how lucky we are that Lord Frieza-“

“You're lucky,” Jeice interrupted. “The rest of us earned the right to be here.” He slapped a high-five onto Recoome's outstretched hand as he passed, to park himself on the other end of the couch. Jeice shoved Recoome's legs out of the way and Recoome grunted, kicking back.

“I have as much right to be here as you!” Guldo shouted, but as usual, no one paid him any mind. They were too busy roughhousing to even notice that he was still talking.

“Get your fucking feet offa me, Recoome.” Jeice was trying to shove the bigger man's massive legs away but they were heavy, and backed up by brute strength. “They stink.”

“I was here first,” came the pouted reply.

“Well maybe there'd be more than one couch, if you hadn't cannonballed into the other one and smashed it to bits. You've got to share, you overgrown meathead!” Jeice gave another shove.

“Make me.” Recoome sat up, and Jeice shifted, coiling his body to spring.

“Children! You're nothing but overgrown children!” Guldo shook his head. “I hope you both die in a fire.” He missed Ginyu so much.

“Well of course you do,” Jeice said, forgetting his feud with Recoome so easily. “It's the only way you'll ever move up in the squad.” He grinned and Recoome delivered another high five, guffawing like an idiot.

“Fuck you guys!” Guldo shouted, taking a big breath and clamping his mouth shut.

“What the?” Jeice grimaced as he realized his finger was two knuckles deep in Recoome's nose. He most certainly hadn't put it there himself, and of course Guldo was nowhere to be seen. “That little shithead space toad fucker,” he swore, yanking his hand back and trying to ignore the slime that coated his glove. Recoome grunted in surprise, as though it was only just occurring to him that Jeice's finger hadn't always been a part of his anatomy. “These were new.” Jeice yanked the gloves off, balled them up, and threw them in the trash. “How far do you figure he could have gotten on one breath?” Jeice asked, poking his head out the door into the hall.

“Dunno.” Recoome was rubbing his nose, still a little confused over the whole ordeal. “Why'd you do that?”

“Are you an idiot? Guldo did it, with his cheater-face, time-stopping bullshit.”

“Oh.” Recoome said, but it was plain he didn't quite grasp it.

“Ugh, whatever.” Jeice flipped his hair over his shoulder and stalked back to the couch. “Where's the remote? All My Starsystems should be on right about now. Layla and Faxnor's wedding is for sure going to get interrupted by her evil quintuplet sisters.”

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Frieza steepled his fingers together, and stared out into space over the pointed black tips of his nails. His gaze flickered downward and he sighed. He was desperately in need of a manicure, he thought, as he noted the chipped edges and dull, lifeless surface of his once-shiny fingernails. They needed a good buffing, and his cuticles were an outright disaster.

“Do you give a good manicure?” he asked Burter, who flinched in surprise at the absurd question. “No, look at your hands, of course you don't.” Frieza sniffed and took a sip of his wine. “This one here is useless,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him, to where his latest assistant stood. She didn't react to the insult. Her face was perfectly still and blank, and Burter wasn't sure if that meant she was strong, or if it meant she was already broken.

“Apologies, my Lord,” Burter said. “I could polish your skull plate to a fine gloss, but fingernails are beyond my expertise.” He spared a quick look at the assistant's hands, but she wore the standard issue white gloves over her golden skin. Her hair was a pale mint colour, and there was something Zarbonish about the tilt of her mouth. Burter wondered how long she would last.

“Zarbon used to do it,” Frieza said petulantly, ignoring Burter's words. “He used to spend hours buffing and polishing to perfection, rubbing oils into the cuticles, massaging it into my hands.” Frieza trailed off and Burter grit his teeth against the wormy discomfort in his belly. “He liked it when my hands were soft and pretty.” Burter clenched his fists and all over his body, muscles clenched with the effort of staying in place. Frieza's dreamy, faraway voice turned flat and bitter. “He said it felt nicer, when I touched him.” The assistant behind the chair made a startled, choking noise but regained her composure quickly and if Frieza had noticed, he ignored it. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Burter, taking him in from head to toe.

Burter swallowed, sudden fear cutting him to the core. There was something dangerous lurking in Frieza's gaze, something that made Burter's skin crawl. “He was a traitor, my Lord. He deserved his punishment,” he said, deliberately playing dumb. It was no secret in the upper echelons that Frieza had been enamoured of his pretty general. With the recent string of replacements, it was quickly becoming obvious that the obsession ran deep.

“I gave him so much,” Frieza said, and Burter remained silent. He'd known about Frieza and Zarbon for years and beyond mild jealousy, it had never really bothered him. The prospect of actually having Zarbon for himself had never been real enough.

“He was unworthy. A worm,” Burter said, and was surprised a split second later to find Frieza bearing down on him.

“He was EVERYTHING to me!” Frieza shrieked, delivering an open-palmed slap to Burter's cheek that sent the captain reeling. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but wisely stayed down on the floor. His cheek throbbed painfully, and he could feel it begin to swell. Behind the throne, Frieza's golden woman watched with carefully blank eyes, as Burter cowered before their master.

“He was mine. MINE.” Frieza stood above Burter's crouched form, heaving with rage. “Make no mistake, I will have him back,” Frieza said, and Burter felt his skin crawl at the tone of abject longing that fed his master's fury. “And when I do, I will make it so he can never betray me again.”

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“You look pale, boss-man,” Jeice said, from his spot on the living room floor. “You know, `cept for that bit.” He gestured at Burter's swollen cheek and the angry bruise that was spreading beneath his scaly skin. Recoome sat cross-legged beside Jeice, and behind the pair of them, the couch lay in ruins.

“What happened to the couch?' Burter asked. Then he caught sight of the television and groaned. “Nevermind,” he said. “Were you two arguing about this fucking soap opera again?”

“…No.” Jeice said, unconvincingly.

“How many times is this going to happen?”

“Until this punk admits that Fiona and Faxnor belong together,” Recoome grumbled.

“Can you believe this meathead?” Jeice exploded, jumping up from his position on the floor. “Fiona is one of the evil quintuplets! She's been trying to murder Layla since they were babies, and she only wants Faxnor because it will hurt Layla!”

“You're wrong about that. She only pretends but she's really deeply in love. And Faxnor would love her too, if that prissy child Layla wasn't there.”

“Love? She poisoned him last season!”

“Pah, he was only in a coma! If she'd wanted to kill him, he'd have croaked.”

“I'm fucking done. I can't handle you idiots today.” Burter turned and stomped from the room, shaking his head. He had no patience for the petty squabbles of his foolish subordinates, after watching Frieza's meltdown.

“Boss?” Jeice called after him, but Burter retreated to his room, and mashed his fist against the door button. It slid closed with a whoosh and a ding to indicate that the lock was engaged. He kicked off his boots and yanked his armour up over his head, cursing in frustration when it caught on the tank top he wore beneath, with a tearing sound. Burter dropped the chest plate dropped to the floor with a satisfying thunk, tore the rest of his ruined shirt away, and whipped it at the garbage can…and missed. He stood, bare chested and heaving, in the center of his bedroom, wanting to scream.

“Fucking Zarbon,” he hissed, “that fucking fuck.” Burter threw himself into his desk chair, but instead of turning on his computer, he braced his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. He had to get himself under control. Hell, he didn't really know why he was out of control in the first place.

The scene with Frieza had caught Burter off guard. He'd gone in expecting to deliver a mission report, maybe weather a bit of a tantrum about his failure to find Vegeta. But then again, he should have known better than to think he could anticipate the master's moods and actions.

Frieza was mental, always kind of had been, and everybody knew it. He offed an average of three servants per week, for offenses as trivial as messing up his breakfast order. Just that morning, a kitchen girl had been disintegrated for preparing his Highness' toast with krendelberry jelly, instead of krendelberry jam.

It was no surprise that he was frothing at the mouth over Zarbon's desertion. And disconcerting as it was to watch the parade of not-quite-Zarbons making their way through Frieza's bedchamber, it didn't keep Burter up at night. He looked out for his own ass, and that was about it. Maybe Jeice's too, because they were sort of friends, and Reccoome's, but only if it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

It all came back to that gods-be-damned asshole, Zarbon. There was little chance now of giving him a clean death. All along, Burter had known he'd rather slit Zarbon's throat than hand him back to Frieza but now…well. It was clear that whoever dared to take away Frieza's revenge would soon be answering to the emperor. And as much as he didn't want Zarbon to end up back in the torture chambers, he wasn't about to write himself a one-way ticket down there either.

“Fucking Zarbon,” he said again, refusing to give in to the creeping sense of discomfort in his belly. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

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“If I tell you a secret, will you keep it?” Yul leaned over her salad to get close to Crane, who sat across the table. She took a quick glance around the restaurant to see if other diners might be listening, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind.

“Of course, I would never tell,” Crane said, reaching out to grasp her hands. He watched her look around, eyes narrowed and suspicious, a little bit afraid. Her fingers twitched in his hand, and he squeezed them in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. She'd been acting oddly ever since the dress shop, distant and jumpy. And though she was obviously trying to cover it up, Crane had spent many hours staring adoringly at this woman; he could tell something was upsetting her deeply.

“That woman,” she swallowed thickly and looked down at the table, “at the dress shop.” Yul paused and Crane squeezed her hand. “If she's here, then Vegeta probably isn't far off.”

“V…Vegeta?” Crane gaped at his companion, wondering if he'd heard wrong. That certainly was not what he had been expecting. Despite the sunny act she put on, he'd long since figured out that Yul had a past…he just never thought it'd involve one of the most wanted men in the galaxy. “You mean…?”

“Yeah. That guy,” Yul said, nodding. Her lips were pressed tightly together, a thin slash across her face, and Crane could see faint lines where her face powder had settled in the fine creases around her mouth. Beneath her makeup, Yul was pale but her cheeks flamed. She looked feverish.

“And how is everything here?” Yul and Crane sprang apart like a pair of guilty teenagers as their waiter swooped in to refresh their water glasses.

“F…fine, just fine,” Crane stammered. He locked eyes with Yul, though neither could look at the waiter. He took a breath, and tried to still his sudden nerves. “Everything is fine.” He squeezed her hand, and after a long, tense moment, she squeezed his back.

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Frieza sighed as the door to his bathing chamber whooshed open. He was resting in his favourite spot, submerged to the neck with his head resting on the tub's ledge. His eyes were closed, and he did not open them even as the intruder stepped inside and waited to be recognized. He knew exactly who it was - she was the only one with access to his chambers, other than himself.

“What is it?” Frieza finally snapped, after a painful stretch of silence while Aprika, his latest aide, waited to be recognized. She was cold, hard, and quiet, speaking only when necessary and even then with reserve. Frieza didn't know if he loved it or hated it.

“My Lord, we have just received an intelligence report that places Vegeta's allies in the Pallas system. Some backwater trade planet called Narmis.”

Frieza opened his eyes and stared blankly at Aprika. She wore full armour but her golden feet were bare, as she'd dutifully left her boots outside the bathing chamber. Frieza's eyes lingered on her clawed toes. She was standing in a puddle, a dip in the floor where the tiles had settled. He knew the golden scales that covered her feet ended up around her knees, melting into the softer skin of her thighs. Her hands and forearms, beneath the long uniform gloves, were the same.

“Intelligence from whom?” He asked, skimming pale fingers over the water's glassy surface. Frieza had hardly moved in the last hour. The vid-walls were a flat grey, and the sound system churned out white noise, an almost disturbing hum that rattled Aprika's bones and made her scalp prickle.

“The source is dubious at best, Lord Frieza. If I may?” she asked, gesturing at the wall. At Frieza's nod, Aprika stepped to a control panel near the door. A moment later, the intelligence report popped up on the vid screen to Frieza's right. “Secondhand knowledge. The source has learned that a woman was seen on Narmis, who was seen in Vegeta's company on Harbour Colony.”

Frieza breathed heavily through his nose and Aprika tensed. She had debated heavily with herself over whether to bring this to Frieza's bathing chamber. Normally she was under strict orders not to disturb him there unless requested, and she was happy to stay away. But he'd also made it clear that any information regarding Vegeta was to be brought to him immediately.

“I hate the Pallas system,” Frieza said, finally, and Aprika relaxed just a tiny bit. “Worthless collection of piddly little planets. No natural resources in quantities to be worth the bother, no strong races since we wiped out the Gralicans three hundred years ago. It's a dump.”

“Your nearest outpost is in the Oncilla system,” Aprika supplied, and pulled up a map on the screen. “Right here.” Frieza frowned at his reflection in the water.

“That far away, eh?” he asked. “Makes it the perfect place for disloyal little weasels to hide. No wonder they've managed to stay off of my radars. Vegeta and those pea-brained Saiyans of his would fit right in with the ignorant bumpkins that breed at the far reaches.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Aprika did not mention that she came from Crepsa, in the Serval system, which was nearly as far away in the other direction. “Shall I have a team sent from the Oncilla base?”

“Yes, do that.” Frieza flicked the water petulantly with his fingers and huffed. “And tell the bridge to start us off in that direction.”

Aprika disappeared from sight with a nod and a quick salute, and the door whooshed shut behind her. If she'd been surprised by his desire to pursue this pathetic shred of information personally, she knew better than to show it.

Frieza stared at the intelligence report on the wall for a moment, before closing his eyes and turning away. He was getting sick of this little cat and mouse game - it was time for a show of strength. Vegeta would be long gone from the Pallas system (if he'd ever been there) by the time Frieza arrived, but there was nothing wrong with wreaking a little havoc with the grubby little star system.

The rumour of Vegeta's location would break, and punishment for Narmis and all her neighbouring planets would follow. Nobody would dare shelter the monkey prince if they thought it might mean Frieza's armada showing up at their doorstep. He would show the universe that any sort of rebellion, even the suspicion of disloyalty, came with dire consequences.

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Vegeta's eyes came open slowly and he glared out at the room through the murky haze of regeneration fluid. He hated the feeling of the mask on his face, and the way the tubes and sensors hampered his movement.

Through the glass front of the tank, he could make out Bulma's blurry form. It was dark in the infirmary, but the meek glow of the emergency lighting was enough for him to see the shaggy blue bun atop her head. She lay curled upon the padded examination table, covered by one of the modesty sheets the humans liked to use for medical examinations.

Vegeta reached out with his senses, grateful that they were working again, to feel her sleeping ki. The control panel chimed the end of the healing cycle and the tank gurgled as the regeneration fluid drained, but Bulma did not stir. Vegeta removed the breathing mask and peeled the sensor nodes from his skin, carefully coiling the tubing and wires back into place so they'd be ready for the next occupant.

The lock disengaged and Vegeta stepped from the tank onto the cold tile floor, naked and dripping. There was a fluffy, soft towel folded on the counter, waiting for him. He scoffed at that, glancing toward the sleeping woman on the table, but snatched it up and rubbed vigorously at his sopping wet hair. The astringent smell of the regeneration fluid clung to his skin, and he briskly dried his body, before wrapping the towel around his waist.

Vegeta crossed the floor on silent feet, and stopped beside the exam bed. The clock on the wall read two in the morning - the damn woman had told him just a few hours in the regen tank, but that had been just after lunch. Obviously the circlet had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.

The memory of the experience sent a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid infirmary air. His eyes slid toward the black case on the counter, knowing the circlet was housed within. He never wanted that thing on his head, ever again.

Vegeta's gaze drifted back toward Bulma, who slumbered on, unawares. She grumbled in her sleep and curled a little tighter into herself. He stared at her, and remembered the crush of pressure inside his skull, the feeling of his blood turning to steam within his veins, and the bone-deep sense of helplessness and futility her crown had engendered in him.

The moment the circlet had cut him off from his power, Vegeta realized that he'd been underestimating this woman since he'd first learned of her existence. He'd studied her from afar, learned of her activities and her tactics. When he met her he'd learned just how smart she was, how cunning and fearless. Up till that point in the training room, he'd not properly considered just how dangerous she could be. The idea of being scared of her had been ludicrous, laughable. But no longer.

Bulma Briefs was a fucking monster.

Vegeta flexed his muscles in the dim light, felt the spread of ki through his veins, in the tips of his fingers and toes, the point of his tail. He felt stronger than he had this morning. His heart beat hard in his chest, and he cracked his knuckles before reaching toward the sleeping woman on the exam table.

She wasn`t the only monster in the room.

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Bulma gasped awake as her body slid across the exam table, moved by power that was not her own. She surged up, sudden adrenaline driving away the last of her dreams and forcing her into consciousness. The rattle of the safety restraints echoed in the cold infirmary, freezing her for a moment. She was bound at the wrists, strapped to the table by the padded leather belts that were normally used to prevent a hysterical patient (AKA Goku) from thrashing too much.

She sat, panting, blood rushing in her ears, trying to make sense of what had happened. She'd been awake for all of three seconds. What the hell?

Bulma pulled on the restraints again, but they held fast. She gasped as a heavy hand clamped her shoulder, pushing her downward to lay on the table. Her shoulders hit the end, leaving her head to hang over the edge.

“Vegeta,” she said, and from her upside-down vantage point she could see that the tank was drained and empty. She'd slept through the cycle alarm. How long had he been out? He wasn't dressed, naked but for the towel wrapped around his waist, and when he moved she caught the faint antiseptic whiff of regen fluid on his body.

“What are you doing?” Bulma asked, trying to sit up again but Vegeta's hand held her fast to the table. With his other, he reached over and yanked her tank top up, bunching it above her breasts. Her face was practically buried in his towel-clad crotch, and she could feel his hardness pressing against her cheek through the terry cloth. She shivered as the cold air hit her skin, and her nipples puckered against the lace of her bra.

Vegeta's hands were warm through the thin fabric, cupping and squeezing her breasts. Bulma squirmed and tugged against the straps again when his fingers turned cruel, pinching and rolling her nipples. A jolt of heat zipped through her veins and she groaned, feeling the sudden pulse between her legs.

“Vegeta!” she gasped. “Stop it, untie me!” She wanted to slap him silly at the same time as she wanted to pull him closer and dig her nails into his skin.

“Stop it?” Vegeta chuckled. “I can smell how much you want it.” He made a show of removing his hands from her body and took a step back, before crouching down so that his face was level with hers. She glared at him, upside down, and he smirked back at her. “Go ahead, deny it.” His fingers traced her jaw, swiped across her lips, and she thought about biting him. His other hand fisted in her hair, dislodging the elastic that held her mess of a bun in place. He bent and kissed her roughly, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth. She moaned against his lips, some part of her brain wanting to urge him on despite the indignity of her situation.

“I'm cruel, Bulma, but not made of stone. You have your pride. I won't make you admit how much you want me to fuck you senseless.” His whispered words against her ear sent tingles across her scalp. She shivered and felt her insides clench with want. “What was that word you said earlier? Dragonball?”

Bulma's eyes widened and she gaped at him, instantly divining the meaning in his eyes. “We need a safeword”, she'd said that morning, before agreeing to turn on the circlet. “If you can't stand it any longer, say `dragonball' okay?”

“D…” the word stuck in her throat as Vegeta stood and untied the towel from around his waist, revealing his hard, naked body. Bulma swallowed and balled her hands in their restraints. Should she say it and stop him instantly, or should she allow him to play with her like a toy?

“Open your mouth,” Vegeta said, and when she did not comply, he grasped her jaw and pried her mouth open with his thumb. He stared down into her face, and while the dim light shrouded his expression from her, Bulma knew that he was giving her a chance. She glared up at him, but said nothing.

“Good girl,” he said, and she squirmed on the table as the timbre of his voice shivered down her spine. He stepped closer, took himself in hand, and laid the tip of his cock against her lips. “Lick it,” he commanded, and a bolt of lightning shot straight through her groin.

Vegeta sucked in a breath as he felt the first touch of her tongue, warm and wet against him. His hands tangled in her hair, cupping her skull. He held her head still and pushed himself into her mouth. Out, and then deeper into her throat. One hand left the nest of her hair to find her breast, and Bulma squealed against his cock and rattled her restraints as he pinched her nipple through her bra. He let go long enough to shove the fabric cup down. His other hand released her head, allowing her to pull back a little.

Bulma breathed heavily around him, craning her neck back further so that he slid from her mouth. “Vegeta!” He had both of her nipples bare and in hand, and was tugging them upward. Bulma's heels scrabbled and slid against the vinyl padding of the exam table. She squeezed her thighs together in a vain attempt to ease the pressure in her core. She was aching to be touched, and cursing her bound hands.

Vegeta's cock was back at her lips and this time she opened up, taking him in greedily. She did her best to relax her throat as he pushed himself to the hilt, pulling back just as she began to think she couldn't handle it anymore. She had a split second to breathe before he was thrusting back in, a little harder this time.

Bulma struggled to accommodate the new angle as Vegeta shifted, leaning over her prone form. She moaned gratefully at the heat of his hands on her skin as he shoved her panties halfway down her thighs. “You're soaked,” he said, straightening up and pulling back from her throat, though not out of her mouth. Bulma wriggled on the table before him, inching her panties down her legs, lifting her hips toward him.

Vegeta pulled away, taking himself in hand again as he left her mouth. He stood before her, stroking himself, watching her writhe, revelling in it. “You want me to fuck you bad, huh?” he asked, smirking down at her, as her expression turned stormy. “Want to beg for it?”

“Fuck you.” Bulma thrashed against the restraints, chest heaving. “You're a goddamn asshole, Vegeta,” she said, and he laughed at her.

“Yeah,” he said, tapping the tip of his dick against her cheek while she glared at him. She tried to duck away but was stopped by his other hand. “Open up.” He jammed his thumb into the corner of her mouth. “Be good and I'll fuck you soon.” He held her head in his hands again, gripping her by the hair and supporting her neck as he pushed his cock past her lips and deep into her throat. “Relax,” he commanded, as she gagged around him. He pulled back, to let her breathe. “You're going to have to do better than that,” he said, and she squealed angrily in reply, mouth too full for words.

“Vegeta,” Bulma panted, when he pulled out again. The apex of her thighs was slick and hot, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded from too long spent with her head hanging over the edge of the table. “Vegeta,” she said again, not really sure what was meant to come after. She wanted to swear a blue streak at him. She tilted her hips up, felt the quivering in her thighs and the clench of internal muscles that desperately needed to be filled.

“Last time,” Vegeta said, and it sounded like a warning. Bulma closed her lips around him again, moaning as he took her breasts in hand again and pinched her nipples, hard. Her breath was ragged through her nose, cut off with every thrust into her throat, but she quickly found her head bobbing up to meet him, voracious.

She felt him quiver against her tongue, a brief tightening before he came, flooding her mouth with heat. “Swallow,” he said, raggedly, as one of his hands moved to keep her jaw shut around his dick. The other found the back of her head, sweet pressure on her aching neck. She felt his muscles pulse with the last few spurts and gulped obediently.

He pulled out, still half hard, and Bulma watched him warily, not really sure what to expect. She was sweating, sticky against the vinyl cushioning of the exam table, though the cold air of the room had raised goosebumps along her skin. Her nipples stood, plump and hard, begging to be pinched, tugged, bitten.

Bulma had always enjoyed Vegeta's aggression in bed, but this was new, almost punishment, and she was a little surprised by her response to it. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to be filled to bursting, split in half.

No fucking way she was telling him that.

Vegeta was breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and Bulma heard the scrunch and slide of the vinyl cushion as he gripped it tightly. He was still leaning over her, but stiffly, far from the relaxation his orgasms normally brought. Instead, he looked like he had on the mat, fighting against the circlet, against himself, for control.

He moved suddenly, heaving up her shoulders, shoving her sweat-stuck body down the table so that, at last, her head was no longer hanging. Her neck sang with relief but the rest of her remained tense as Vegeta stalked the few steps to the side of the table.

Touch me touch me touch me touch me, she thought frantically, even as she glared at him. There was a slick spot at the small of her back, where moments before her pussy had been. She'd felt her ass drag through it, and somehow the knowledge of her own depravity fueled her further. She'd drunk him down, and she wanted the favour returned.

It was aeons before he finally made his move, hopping gracefully up onto the table at her feet. She sucked in a breath as his arm brushed her bent knees, and he looked up into her flushed face, eyebrow cocked in that smug bastard expression of his.

Vegeta inhaled deeply, making a show of it, and she fought the urge to knee him in the belly. God damn saiyan noses. “I'm going to fuck you so hard,” he said, very slowly and deliberately running his hands up her calves. One at a time, he hooked her knees over his shoulders and nudged forward, lifting her ass up off the table. His knees were at her back now, forcing her lower half nearly ninety degrees from the table. Every breath over her slick flesh drove her crazy, and when he finally dipped his head to her, she could have screamed in frustration.

Vegeta knew her body nearly as well as he knew his own. They both knew that, by that point, he could have driven her over the edge in seconds. His slow, barely-there licks were meant purely to torture her. She quivered and strained with each one, but the steel bands of his arms around her legs and hips prevented her from bucking against this mouth like she wanted to.

“I know,” Vegeta said throatily, as he parted her with his fingers to expose the swollen bud of her clit to the cold air. He flicked it once, with his tongue, before drawing the area into his mouth and sucking hard, almost as though to leave a love bite. Bulma gasped and his forefinger slid in and took the place of his mouth. “It's hard, being at someone's mercy, isn't it?” he asked.

“I hate you,” she spat, but the venom in her voice was swallowed as her words dissolved into a moan. “You fucking asshole,” she panted, and he gripped her jerking hips tighter, forcing her still as he bent his head to her once more.

“You're dripping wet, vulgar girl,” he rumbled between strokes of his tongue, and she was so close to coming she could taste it. “You want it so fucking bad.”

“Fuck you,” she huffed again, and then he was licking her properly, his tongue dancing over her clit, pressing down in just the way she liked it. Stars burst behind her tightly-shut eyelids and she cried out, hips frantically jerking against the cage of his arms. “Shit!” she swore as he lapped at her pussy, shocks of pleasure still winding through her body. Her legs and abdominal muscles were trembling with fatigue, but she could feel Vegeta's cock, hard again against her back, and she wanted more.

Vegeta walked backwards on his knees, lowering Bulma's body back down to the table as he went. She groaned in protest as the heat of his skin left hers, but he was already sliding off the table and padding across the cold floor on bare, silent feet.

Bulma's coveralls were draped over a chair, and she turned her head to watch him rustle through the pockets. His erection bobbed with each movement, and she felt the answering rush of heat between her own legs. “Inside breast pocket,” she said impatiently, directing him to her condom stash. “Zippered one.” The crinkle of foil packets echoed in the lab as he pulled them out. He made one more stop before coming back to her, to pull a tube of medical lubricant from a nearby cabinet.

“It's cold,” he warned her, squeezing a dollop of jelly onto his fingers. Bulma sucked in a breath as he touched her, but the lube warmed quickly against their skin and Vegeta hummed approvingly, deep in the back of his throat, at the hot slickness before him. He ripped a packet open with his teeth and rolled a condom down over himself, one handed. He smeared the remaining lubricant over himself with the other, and enjoyed the sight of Bulma trembling on the table before him. He was on his knees between her bent legs, and with her hands still shackled she could neither touch herself, nor squeeze her thighs together to ease the pressure.

Vegeta's chest was heaving, his fingers were sparking with the difficulty of control. He wanted to dominate, devour, to break her in two. He wanted to teach her a lesson, but he also wanted her to survive it.

He closed his eyes against Bulma's hiss as he parted her, slid slowly inside, filled her up. He was so close to bursting that he feared just breathing wrong might undo him. Bulma cocked her hips up to meet him and he growled, grabbing her hips to force them still against the table. He stretched, bent, and claimed her mouth with his own.

Bulma reared to meet him. If she could not move her hips, she could at least take what she wanted with her tongue. Vegeta moved in her and she groaned against his lips. She'd just come but could already feel another orgasm building with each thrust, each grind of his pelvis against her. He knew her body, could play her like a fiddle, but she could do the same. Bulma tightened her muscles, squeezing his cock with every outward pull.

Vegeta pumped into her, quick, hard, and Bulma wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles at his back to tug him down hard against her. She was gasping, so close, and all she could hear was the slap of wet skin and his grunts in her ear, where he'd buried his face. She felt his teeth against the skin in the crook of her neck, that animal thing he and his fellows did to possess, to control. It spurred her forward and she bucked against him like a beast, howling her release. Vegeta tipped over the edge a moment later with a groan torn from the very pit of his lungs.

They lay together a moment, panting, sweaty, dazed, sated. Bulma mewled at the loss of heat and sudden emptiness as he pulled out and back, to kneel once more between her spread thighs. She felt boneless and raw, like she never wanted to move or think again.

Vegeta was moving across the room again, this time to dispose of the condom and clean himself up. “Gonna untie me now?” Bulma rattled her restraints as Vegeta stepped into the sweats Bulma had laid out for him so many hours ago.

“I should leave you there.”

“Sixteen will find me first thing in the morning, all naked and messed up.”

“Dickless android.” Vegeta shrugged, but reached for the buckles on the wrist restraints. Bulma sighed in relief as she stretched her arms and rubbed her wrists. Belatedly, she pulled her bra back up and her tank top down.

“So…that was interesting,” Bulma said, as she hopped down from the table. She found her panties on the floor a few feet away and pulled them on, grimacing at the cold, wet spot between her legs. “Maybe next time I can tie you up.”

“Fat chance,” Vegeta snorted, watching as she shook out her coveralls and stepped into them, bunching the top half at her back and tying the arms around her waist.

“Spoilsport,” she snapped back, and he just rolled his eyes at her. “What? I could totally dominate the shit out of you. Get me some thigh high boots and a latex corset, and you can call me Mistress Bulma.” She cocked her hips and glared, and when Vegeta simply stared back at her, she allowed her gaze to slide sideways to the circlet case on the counter, before returning lazily to his. “I could have you on the floor, begging,” she said imperiously, “with the touch of a button.”

She'd meant it to be teasing, so Bulma was unprepared for the sudden violence of his reaction. Her back thumped the wall and Vegeta's fingers wrapped around her throat, not painfully, just hard enough so that she knew how easily he could cut off her air supply. Bulma's eyes widened and she stared at him, mouth open in a surprised, silent O. Playtime was over.

Vegeta leaned in very close, his hard body crowding her against the wall, and she felt all the hairs on her body stand to. Vegeta's thumb stroked up and down the side of her neck and Bulma swallowed, difficult against the pressure of his hand. “If you ever even think about putting that thing on me without my permission,” he whispered against her ear, “I will snap you like a fucking twig. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Bulma whispered, tilting her head in the barest of nods. She felt tears prickling the backs of her eyes and her throat was tight for an entirely different reason than the hand around her neck.

“Good.” Vegeta's hand dropped and he stepped away. Bulma slid down the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, watching. She could see the tension stringing through every part of him. He was breathing deeply, hauling air into his lungs as though desperate. His fingers clenched and unclenched and Bulma could feel her skin tingling with the weight of his fluctuating ki. He was trying very hard to regain control of himself, and for the first time since she'd begun taking him to bed, she felt real, actual fear of him.

At last, Vegeta huffed and reached a hand out to her. If she grabbed hold, he'd pull her up and take her to bed. He'd wrap his strong arms around her and she'd curl against him and feel safe, instead of sick and scared.

Bulma shook her head no. She watched Vegeta's body stiffen, saw the brief flash of agitation in his eyes before he shuttered it with his typical blank look. He turned away and strode from the infirmary without a word, and Bulma let her head fall forward to her knees. She needed time to process, to figure out what had just happened to turn him sour so suddenly. Maybe tomorrow, she could yell and scream, tear a strip off him and make him apologize. Maybe tomorrow, she could convince herself he wasn't serious.