AN: There was so much I wanted to hit on in this chapter and I don't know that I nailed it. And then there was this thing where I have this whole damned story written but I keep rewriting certain scenes thereby pushing back updates for me and life and so on and so on...So I'm sorry. Please forgive me and love me unconditionally because I do this for free.
The most ill-tempered-looking wallflower at the fringes of the packed gym, Vegeta oversaw all the grunting, stinking, testosterone-fired Saiyans with a palpable air of complete and utter boredom. But over the sounds of weight-lifting soldiers and the intergalactic top 40 hits blaring over a radio somewhere, Vegeta just couldn't calm the thoughts buzzing irately around and around in his head. He was offended, naturally, that such a high-ranking, brilliant warrior like him had to babysit a gaggle of dimwitted soldiers, who were now bellowing, tone-deaf, to the upbeat pop song on the radio. Glorious leaders didn't rub elbows with the peons. And yet, deep down, the fact that he was given the task to stand there and look important was making him feel mighty smug, because he couldn't argue with looking important, even if the task itself was trivial. Today's leadership role, mixed with the sexual relief of last night's phone call, and Vegeta was practically oozing arrogance.
The other Saiyans seemed to feel it in the air and were doing their best to avoid him.
Vegeta was busy cursing his luck and also making sure to look mighty important when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He slipped it out irritably and glanced down.
Today's underwear, it said, above a picture that caused him to immediately flush crimson.
He jerkily looked around him for prying eyes. His stomach tumbled with panic, even as he was unable to tear his eyes away from the picture before him.
The back of her purple panties were cut suggestively over her round ass, her thighs luscious under it, signed at the bottom only with a winky face emoji.
In the thick of the chest-thumping and clueless Saiyans, Vegeta's dick flared rebelliously to life. Thankfully the groin protector of his uniform shielded his shame.
But with a euphoria and self-importance that couldn't be explained, Vegeta continued ogling the picture, smirking insolently.
Bulma smiled as she zipped up her jumpsuit and headed from the locker room out into the hangar. She waved and said hello, good morning to the other women streaming past her, jubilant enough to let out a little whistle and dangerously close to a "zippity do dah, zippity day."
She startled as her pocket vibrated, sipping coffee from her thermos as she slid her phone from her pocket, her boots thumping in the hall.
I want to put my face in it.
Bulma choked on her coffee and coughed violently.
"Oh my," she croaked, pounding her chest with her fist. Her disbelief—at her daring actions last night, at his acceptance—hadn't stopped her from strutting out of work with wet panties and a stupid smile stretching her face, or from sliding into bed and curling her toes under her sheets with a giggle, daydreaming wide-eyed into the thick dark before falling asleep with a feeling filling her chest. She'd sung a little tune in the shower this morning and made her lunch with a little prance in her step, and, just a few moments ago, glanced around the empty locker room before stretching her arm behind her to snap a pic of her magnificent behind.
Finally, someone recognized the perfection that was her ass.
She smiled helplessly, clutching her phone to her chest.
She could get used to this.
...
And she did. Each night, when the sun had sunk below the city skyline and night had stretched its fingers into every corner of their apartments, a phone might ring or a text message might ding and alert one of them in the hush of their apartments that they weren't alone. Each night was theirs and theirs alone, and theirs together, at first to bashfully flirt, mostly on his part, before jumping right into the escape that cocooned them from the perceived failures in their lives.
And eventually their intimacy crept from the nights into the days, in locker rooms or empty hallways or the enormous, vacuous engines of a starship whose thrusters would take it to distant sights all over the galaxy, when one might open up their phone to see a very gratuitous set of tits or a dick pic that could only make the two dummies that were on the receiving end of it happy.
...
"What panties are you wearing today?" Vegeta's voice dipped dangerously, striding down the hallway with his scouter pressed to his ear. The Saiyans who lined the hallway chatting as they ate lunch startled, watching the General's back with wide eyes.
"All black, but quite see through," Bulma purred, grinning upwards into the star ship drive train, which provided soundproof insulation and prevented trauma to her co-workers ears. "The best part is," she continued with excitement, "is when I bend over, the skinniest slip of fabric at the crotch," her voice dipped, "barely covers me..."
"Why haven't I been sent me a picture?"
"Whoops."
"I'd say so. Tonight I want to see your hands underneath them, and I'm going to tell you exactly what to do with them. Are we clear?"
This was the second time he'd ordered her around and gotten kind of military on her.
It was so hot.
"Crystal," Bulma replied breathlessly.
...
"I want to be on bottom this time."
Bulma lay on her back in an extra large shirt with a kitten print on the chest and her phone against her ear, her tone inarguably whiny.
"But if you get on top," her stranger cajoled, rough and dangerous and oh-so-hard to deny, "I can stroke the tip of it. Rub it right against your lips. And then you can straddle me and and slide right down it until you're stretched tight..."
Vegeta never knew how good he was at being descriptive until he started having phone sex, but he guessed any man was capable of dirty talk if they'd watched enough porn.
"Oh," Bulma sighed contentedly. "Yeah, I like that idea." She tugged her underwear off her legs with one hand and turned her purple vibrator to its lowest setting.
Bulma's phone then began to chime, and she glanced at it through dusky eyes.
ChiChi.
She ignored the call and put the phone back to her ear, rolling onto her knees and readying the vibrator between her thighs, the music on the radio murmuring from her nightstand. "Okay, I've crawled on top of you," she said with cheerful anticipation. "I'm straddling your thighs, just waiting for your instructions, big guy."
"Big? I like the sound of that," her stranger crooned. Vegeta's size—the size of him in all places—was a familiar theme in their late-night escapades. At least, what he'd alluded of his size. He hadn't outright lied about how tall, how endowed, and how extraordinarily gifted at battle he was; he'd just stretched the truth in the imaginative spirit of their sexual capers. "Call me big again and maybe I'll give you what you want, once I've taken what I want for myself—"
Then the ding of a text—and then another ding, and another—
Bulma scowled and looked down at her phone.
ChiChi.
I'm free tonight, want to hang?
Why aren't you picking up?
Bulma Briefs!
Bulma sighed forcefully through her nose, turned off her vibrator, and put the phone back to her ear. "Eight nine? Hold on."
Bulma's long claws typed quickly.
Busy tonight
ChiChi responded rapid fire.
What?! YOU are busy?!
"Gah!" Bulma typed furiously.
IM GETTING LAID LEAVE ME ALONE
Oh. Ohhhhhhh
"What the hell," said the man waiting for her on the other end.
ARE YOU BACK WITH YAMCHA?!
"Goddamnet!" Bulma yelled right into the man's ear.
NO! LEAVE ME ALONE
Fine. You don't have to all-caps me, jeez
"Eight nine," Bulma said with restraint, enunciating very carefully, her knees digging into the mattress. Her finger lifted imperiously. "I am on top of you."
Wait…NOT Yamcha?!
Bulma's eyes flicked from the screen of her phone back to her pink bedroom wall stoically. "And I am going to let you take from me exactly what you want. How do you want it tonight?"
"I don't want to be interrupted."
Bulma stared deadpan at her comforter. "Let me put your big, throbbing dick inside of me, eight nine," she said with false sweetness, flipping onto her back, her short hair falling back onto her sheets. Her arm was listless above her head on the rose-printed sheets.
There was a long pause.
Finally: "I'm listening."
"You're so big," Bulma tried. "…Uh, everywhere…."
Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "Hmm." He wasn't buying it.
The truth was, Bulma really liked playing into the big buff soldier aggressor fantasy just as much as Vegeta. So it wasn't like she had to fake it or anything. She wanted to be taken, she wanted his dick and cum to fill her up in all its virile glory just like in her romance novels. She wanted to lay on a man's chest, spent, after hours and hours of mind-shattering sex, and curl like a cat on top of his rippled abs.
…Sometimes, when one of them had maybe drank a little too much wine or (in Vegeta's case) cheap beer, they'd pretend he'd just gotten off the battle field and was all sooty and the breeze was rippling his luscious hair against a backdrop of destruction and, like a princess, she'd greet him with an exultant "Oh! My hero!" And then promptly get taken doggy-style against her bed frame.
A sinister smirk stretched his face. "There you go," he encouraged her, patronizingly. "Keep it up."
"And you're such a bad boy. God," she blurted. "Just…so…..naughty. Bad boy."
"I am bad," Vegeta agreed, thumb stroking his chin contemplatively. "But you know what I'm really hungry for?"
Bulma blinked at the ceiling. "What?"
"Making you pay for your interruption tonight. So I want you to lie back and spread your legs, and I'll only let you cum once you've apologized to my satisfaction."
Bulma stuttered.
She set her jaw with determination, and, with a decisive click, turned her vibrator back on.
"Fuck me," she commanded.
...
And the hunky aggressor-sexy princess dynamic worked, because Bulma wanted to be adored and what better way to receive the adoration she so deserved and desired than to be the object of a super hot man's fantasy?
"I'm going to tie you up and blind fold you today." The voice on the other side of the line brooked no argument.
Bulma grinned, toeing off her shoes. Closing the front door behind her and tossing her keys onto the counter, Bulma wanly set a pot of water to boil on the stove. Her cat ran over eagerly to greet her. "Oh?" The smile was private, adoring, even as her tone was playfully haughty. "You're getting confident, pulling something like that."
"I know what you like." His voice was smug. "You want to be manhandled. And I'm just the person to do it."
She watched the water simmer, mirth dancing in her eyes as she rested her head against the wall. "You look for any excuse to manhandle a person. Is that a military thing?"
"It's a me thing."
"I can't say that I dislike it," she assured him.
"I think you like when I take control."
"I'm not trying to hide it."
"Good. Because I'm not going easy on you."
Bulma stirred the pot, a trace of a shiver skimming her neck as she smiled. The heater kicked on with an aging, slow commencement, humming and clacking quietly in the small laundry room just off the kitchen. She stepped on something as she made her way to the sink, something slippery that caused her stride to slide a little, and with barely a cursory glance she kicked it out of the way with her toes. The dusty picture of her and Yamcha that had fallen from the fridge months ago slid under the refrigerator.
"You can't see or touch, but suddenly you feel my dick at your mouth. What are you going to do?" She poured the cooked noodles into the colander, her phone shoved up against her ear with her shoulder. She could feel the knot between her shoulders from work begin to loosen with the sound of his voice. She really liked his voice, the rough sensuality of it, the emotion in it despite his cool front that always had him tipping one way or the other, from being outright flabbergasted and prudish to heatedly confrontational. He was fun.
"Open my mouth," she replied. "I want it to slide between my lips real slowly, and then you'll feel my tongue slide over the tip—"
Bulma suddenly tripped over her cat, holding the colander tightly to her chest to avoid spilling her dinner. "Scratch!" She yelled, and he bolted away, nails slicking against the linoleum. "Sorry," she sighed. "Now where were we?"
Vegeta tsk'ed."If you're not going to give me the proper respect, you don't get the reward."
And then Bulma lost her top at what she'd later realize, with humility, was anger at being denied a dick in her mouth.
"What?!" Bulma glowered at her yellow kitchen walls. "That's bullshit."
Normally Bulma was much more…passive…in their (fictional) sex life, because she just adored feeling wanted by a man whose single purpose in life in an insular moment was her. Me, me, me. Could her ass make a man crazy with lust? Could her tits move mountains and sway affairs of state? Yes. Yes they could, in this world they'd crafted. He'd be licking up her legs one moment and reciting sonnets about her pussy in the next, every night, just because he couldn't get enough of her. And her phone sex partner must have been cock blocked for awhile, because he had a lot of ideas of things he'd like to do with her.
And like any proper, swooning maiden, Bulma wanted to be taken, fiercely, possessively, passionately. A woman didn't know what she was missing until it was gone, and she was enduring quite the dry spell. And so she wanted to be consumed with passion and taken with lusty fervor.
Except today.
Today, Bulma had had a bad day at work. Today, she was reminded of her tenuous and expendable position in a world that didn't care if she succeeded or not—or was even alive and kicking. Today she had been told to basically put out or get out by her boss, and as she'd walked out the double doors of a factory that would chew her up forever if she let it, she'd felt an overwhelming isolation overcome her from all sides. The night sky, blanched violet from the city's light pollution, was unwelcoming in its sharp coldness. She was one face out of thousands making their way home from the industrial district. A face she'd once been so certain was so breathtakingly gorgeous that no man could resist her and women wanted to be her, was now a face that hundreds of dirty, cross-eyed, balding factory workers ignored on their way home, who'd probably only care to give her a generous helping of hostility and resentment if they knew she'd been rich and famous in the first place. The fact that she was no longer important was immediate and inescapable tonight.
This former socialite and heiress was a nobody now, penniless and inheritance-less, with nothing to offer but a passing knowledge of space travel.
Bulma was really entertaining a pity party tonight.
And then, when she'd gotten to her apartment complex, she'd clumsily walked right into the front door, smacking her forehead against the glass and giving herself a red mark on her forehead, and when she'd unlocked her mail box, there was a past-due bill and date for shut-off awaiting her, with rent due next week. And to cap it all off, she'd been surprised by a text from Yamcha—cue vomit noises—as she'd trudged up the stairs. He'd left his watch at her place and wanted her to drop it off in his mailbox, too busy, sorry. There was no mention that he'd left it there eight months ago or a hey how you doing I haven't spoken to you in TWO. WHOLE. MONTHS.
There was a man whose voice tonight fought the shitty mood that was bubbling up from the most sour parts of her guts. There was just this thing that he hadn't been introduced to formally yet, and that was, uh, her temper.
Tonight, she needed relief from what she was starting to believe was the downward march from the peak of a life. And tonight Bulma Briefs wasn't going to beg anyone for anything. If she expected a cock in her mouth, than by kami, she'd get a cock in her mouth. She was Bulma fucking Briefs. How did everyone keep forgetting that?
"Maybe I feel generous and I'll negotiate the punishment," her phone sex partner was saying. "I'm sure we could come to some compromise, if you'd get on all fours and beg for it."
Bulma's shoulders inched up to her ears and and she flushed red with anger. "I'm not compromising shit. Eight nine," she warned him testily, "I'm getting what I want tonight. And I'm not taking any of your lip to get it."
Vegeta gaped with surprise and tried to regain control. "You're getting awfully uppidy—"
"So just shut the hell up!" Her voice was stern in the kitchen. "I reject your negotiation and demand your surrender. So get the hell out of your clothes. I want you naked and I want you to sit the hell down so I can figure out what I want to do to you." Bulma watched the noodles steam in the colander from probably the power of her glare alone. "How about that?"
Silence.
And then:
"Holyshityouaresohot."
"Like that?" Bulma smiled coyly, anger dissipating, leaning against the counter and folding her free arm over her chest, phone coddled against her ear. She felt the anger in her chest unfurl and relax. "Maybe you should be the one tied up and blindfolded."
"I don't think so," he answered flatly.
"Oh, I think you might find that you like it rather well."
"I doubt that. I don't willingly let my adversaries restrain me or take advantage of me." He rolled his eyes and chuckled at the idea.
"But what if I tied you up?"
There was silence.
"You can't see, or touch," she continued softly, putting the spoon to her mouth to hide a giddy smile. "But suddenly you feel my tits at your mouth..."
"Okay," Vegeta gave in roughly. "Just once. And you can't tell anybody."
Bulma burst out laughing.
"You're ruining it," he complained snappily.
"I am not. Just, just hold on." But the whopping laughter wasn't coming to a stop.
Vegeta's patience was unraveling. "See, this is why you should be tied up and blindfolded. And gagged."
"Keep talking like that and I'll take out my paddle," Bulma warned grimly.
Another pause. "...A paddle?"
She waited, smiling serendipitously, feeling like at last she'd found her calling. Wouldn't ChiChi be amused to know it was phone sex?
His voice was both incredulous—he was so uptight about some things—but curious. "What, do you have like a whole arsenal of sex toys over there?"
"Maaaaybe. Wanna find out?"
And suddenly the whole thing came to a halt.
Vegeta stalled. He blinked at the walls across from him in the dark. Did she mean it?
It was…it was…
A nightmare. An intoxicating offer. He could have her just the way he was pretending to. Right now. Would she be willing, after meeting up, just to fuck? If he could even function or get it up in front of her. He looked away with embarrassment. This was all so sudden. Tonight? Could she meet tonight? Where should he suggest meeting? Was a restaurant too gauche? He glanced around his apartment with his heart beating thunderously in his ears. Should he clean up? Should he take a shower?
But seeing each other would complicate what was otherwise something he really didn't want to make real and make vulnerable to reality, where he was always getting shit on and what if she didn't find him attractive or he broke her heart and...
"Don't sweat it." The woman dismissed his whole crisis easily. "I was just teasing. But I do get to tie you up tonight. That's what you get for questioning my authority. So you're tied up to a chair and blindfolded, no doubt painfully regretting that you can't see my beautiful, luscious body." Bulma smiled with newfound confidence. "You can't touch me. You can't kiss me." She blushed a little. "You can't speak to me. And when I count to three, I want you to be hard for me. And I'm going to sit the fuck down on that dick, and ride you."
There was a bunch of scrabbling over the line that sounded like things being knocked over and someone running into a wall, but Vegeta just said, "Holy shit I'm so fucking hard right now."
"Are you ready?"
"Of course I'm ready," he snapped, as if the question were an insult. He was a Saiyan! "I was born ready."
"Good." She smiled smugly, tossing the noodles leisurely into the sauce. And then leaned tiredly against the wall, dragging her hair back from her eyes with her fingers, a small smile mischievous at the corners of her mouth.
She didn't need to touch herself tonight. Tonight, she just needed to have an impact on someone.
Even if it was just making a stranger cum.
"One… Two…."
Her boss watched her apathetically.
Bulma stammered. "You can't be serious."
Her boss sighed, scratching notes on paper. "You're the daughter of Dr. Briefs. You should be able to handle this."
Day in, day out. Indignity, ahoy. Since in the blink of an eye she'd been made an outcast among the other debutantes. Since her father and mother had sold the suddenly imploding family business and taken off on a starship cruiser to distant and tropical planets to lay out in the sun and go on intergalactic safaris and enjoy their retirement. Since she'd been severed from life as she'd known it, Bulma'd been made a pauper and had had to work for a living. Yamcha, sweet, guileless Yamcha, had grown conniving in order to survive the upper echelon, and then overnight he'd become the one who held all the power and he'd bailed, too. And now no one showed her any kindness, she'd only received postcards from her parents for the last year, and she had no leverage with Yamcha or her ungrateful, slimy boss….
Bulma felt her eyes heat.
And now she was going to cry in front of him.
There was no bottom of the barrel of shame, evidently.
"Yes, I'm the daughter of Dr. Briefs," she choked. "A fact you bring up only when it's convenient for you."
Bulma no longer talked back. She knew better, having learned the hard lesson when they'd been ruined publicly. Lead men hadn't taken well to her demands for control and special treatment. And even if this was a booming city and she was the daughter of the world's most famous scientist, they didn't want to babysit some mouthy heiress who'd never worked a day in her life. In order to make ends meet, Bulma had learned to be complacent and meek.
"I deserve a pay raise."
Her boss looked up at her slowly. And then sighed. "You know I would if I could..."
"Then I want to helm the project," Bulma said, and the lead man looked at her with surprise. "I'll keep my pay if you give me this chance," she continued. " I don't just want to turn wrenches. I want to design." Bulma's chest filled with new purpose. "And if you give me the project, I'll win." She leveled a look of absolute certainty at him. "I win, you win."
Her boss sighed again and looked down into his clipboard.
"You know that's out of my control—"
"And you'll be short fame and fortune, one military-grade star ship engine, and an engineer if you don't."
Her boss swallowed.
For the first time in her life, Bulma didn't want to use her family name as leverage. Right at this very moment, she wanted to stand up by herself. But the world needed to be reminded, just one more time. "You get Dr. Briefs' daughter designing your ships if you do."
"Tomorrow morning." He didn't blink. "A 10 am interview with the buyer. That's the most I can do."
She nodded crisply and strode out of the room, without being struck by lightning by an act of god because, for the first time in a very long time, she'd stood up for herself. And only when she was taking the stairs up into the hangar two at a time did she allow herself a moment, a brief grin, because this time someone had stood up for Bulma—she had.
She felt like she could do anything. She felt like a million bucks.
And she pulled out her phone as it vibrated.
Can I call? It read.
Yes, she answered the universe.
At some point they'd tightwalked and then marched right over a fine line in the sand that separated "Strictly Sex" and "Relationship." What kind of relationship? Well, neither of them were even aware of the transformation, and since their goings-on were highly secretive—except when Vegeta dirty-talked her at work and made all his soldiers want to drink bleach—and except that ChiChi kept pestering her now about who was this guy she was fucking and had told Eighteen all about it—and except that Bulma had told all her co-workers that she was having a fling with a very hot soldier, earning their friendly and jealous ire—there was no one to hint to them that things were getting serious, no one to poke them and say, "Uh, are you guys, like, a thing now?" and point to the mounting evidence of whatever was between them that might be weird or kinky or just plain sad which was now growing into…well, a well-rounded, mature, long-distance relationship from two very immature people.
Just one that revolved around sex.
"I want it," she moaned desperately.
"I know you do," he assured her, his own voice tight with need. "You can't have it yet."
"Please," his woman whined, breathing hard.
He pumped himself furiously. He was violently close. His voice was low and demanding. "Beg for it."
"Please," she pleaded, crying out. "Please!"
But she was already giving in, with the swell of a rushing tide breaking over sand.
"Fuck!" Vegeta came, spilling himself on his thighs and hand.
"Fuck!" Bulma's eyes rolled up, her back arched as she came around the vibrator, hard.
The pair took a moment to learn to breathe again. The silence on the line was cozy between them.
Finally, Bulma sprawled out on her bed, raking her fingers through her hair and laughing deep in her throat. "I'm going to need you to do that one again tomorrow."
Vegeta tossed the sticky tissues in his kitchen trash, slinking through the dark apartment. "Like it that much?" He asked with his typical conceit.
She liked his bravado, honestly. It was charming.
"I have something of a big interview tomorrow." She smiled lazily, needling her pillow with her toe, the fuzzy aftereffects of pleasure making her body heavy. "I could use a bottle of wine or four when I get home, after the day I expect to have."
"Moving up in the star ship business?"
Bulma scowled at her ceiling with determination. "Finally."
He opened his fridge, peering in. "What are you going to wear to it?" His voice dipped conspiratorially.
"Blue," she purred, and his cock jolted. His favorite color, and they both knew it. "A blue thong, lace at the hips, but just a triangle of fabric at the crotch. Lace so fine," she assured him throatily, "you could open it easily with just your teeth."
He leaned against the kitchen counter. "I'll put my tongue all over it tomorrow." His eyes narrowed with deadly intent. "Then I'll peel those underwear back and slide my tongue over those pretty lips, gripping your thighs…"
"Kami yes," she moaned, feeling the electric tingle start up again from below, and she buried her hand in her hair before dropping her arm heavily above her head on the plush comforter. "But I have to get ready for bed now," she said with disappointment. "And I have a stupid event I have to go to this weekend that will take up all of my Saturday..."
"Yeah." Vegeta stared at the unpalatable frozen dinner lying like a rock on his kitchen counter. "I still have to eat."
"Well, eat. Take care of yourself. We'll talk tomorrow, at least."
"Good luck."
A smile curled her face, making her look the spitting image of a teenager with a head full of romantic fancies. "Thank you." She leaned her head against the wall dreamily. "Don't forget you have to pick up your dry cleaning tomorrow."
"Shit. Thanks for reminding me."
"Good night," she sang softly.
"Affirmative," he replied.
And then they drifted into a companionable silence, neither of them pressing the button to end the call.
And for a moment, Vegeta imagined himself reaching out, and touching her.
It took another moment for either of them to hit the button and hang up the line.