Disclaimer: Dragonball Z is the creation of Akira Toriyama, © Toei Animation and Funimation

Hi :) Welcome to 'The Rebound'. This fic is a direct sequel to Affair After Affair - The Surveillant. So, things will make a whole lot more sense if you read that first.

Polite Notice: Contains graphic sex scenes involving a 17 year old anime character.

Re: CANCELLATION THREAT

So apparently both Affair After Affair fics have been reported for being too naughty. Of course I will continue to post future chapters on ff but I also post on AO3 under the same pen name so if I get cancelled on ff, readers can continue to enjoy this fic on AO3.

Wishing you safe and happy reading always xXx

Chapter 1

Flames danced.

Crackling like crushed bubble-wrap, the fire grew as big as a house. Orange sparks darted over Capsule Corp. Higher still, smoke melted into the night sky and erased the stars.

There would be questions to answer in the morning. Until then, I let myself slip into a reflective trance.

Two weeks had passed since seeing off the Sons, and up until the last forty-eight hours Bulma and I spent the whole time rediscovering the joys of marriage.

After our passionate reconciliation behind the sofa, we drifted into a kind of honeymoon daze. Strolling through the park, we held hands like kindergarteners on a field trip. We went out for dinner and split dessert, spoons clashing playfully as we fought over the last bite. (For the record, I let her have it.) During movie night, we cozied up on the sofa – my arm draped around her, her pretty head resting on my shoulder.

With our newfangled liberal take on romance in full swing, the woman and I were sometimes caught in the act of expressing affection. Every little hug and kiss drew twinkly-eyed glances and irrepressible giggles from Trunks and his grandparents. And though they were all for our happiness, if I'd had to endure their unwanted attention for much longer, I'd have d̶e̶m̶a̶n̶d̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶s̶h̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶u̶p̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶q̶u̶i̶t̶ ̶g̶a̶w̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ asked them to kindly direct their prying eyes elsewhere.

No matter. The harmony between Bulma and I didn't last long enough for our family's onlooking to become an issue.

For despite our attempt at a fresh start, we hit a few stumbling blocks.

Bit by bit, the heart of the fire - a black pyramid of fixtures and fittings - began to collapse. Tumbling down its jagged sides, wooden furniture frames snapped and crunched. Scraps of upholstery flailed like crippled bat wings.

Even by my hard-nosed standards, it was a devastating sight to behold. One made all the worse when I cast my memory back and contrasted the smouldering destruction with mine and Bulma's delightfully tactile start to the day before yesterday.

There we were, in the kitchen. A picture of domestic bliss. And while she filled a cereal bowl on the countertop, I stood behind, going at her shoulder with something crossed between a kiss and a bite.

"Ooh, Vegeta." The woman giggled like a ticklish child. "You sure know how to distract a girl."

I hasten to add, the breakfast being prepared was not for either of us. Sugar frosted cornflakes went in first, followed by some other tooth-rotting rice krispie shit laced with marshmallow shapes. Finally, everything was topped off with milk and a generous squeeze of chocolate sauce.

Suppressing my urge to criticise the dire lack of nutrition in Trunks' first meal of the day, I swept Bulma's hair aside and spoke softly behind her ear. "The kid's running late." I followed up with a tender kiss to reassure her that it was a concern and not a criticism. "Don't worry about driving him to school. I'll fly with him."

She tensed.

"…He isn't going."

I paused, then took a deep, temper-controlling breath. "…We agreed he would return today."

Slowly, she exhaled. "…He's not ready."

I stepped back and crossed my arms. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

The woman placed a spoon into the cereal bowl, stirring and folding until a lumpy, cocoa marbled slop formed. Then, just as I started to think that I was being ignored, she calmly plead her case. "He's in first grade. All he does is colour pictures of kitties and read fairy tales. It's not like one more day at home is gonna hurt his college prospects."

A disc of stress suddenly formed behind my brow bones. "That's not the point," I said, rubbing my forehead. "He needs to get back into a normal routine."

"He will," she said with dubious sincerity. "…In his own time."

A month had passed since Bulma cut dead her extramarital affair. Yet there seemed no end in sight to the accompanying guilt trip. Consequently, she continued to spoil Trunks rotten. And his absence from school went on all through December.

Like most educational institutions, West City Elementary closed for the winter holidays. And it was during that time I convinced Bulma that the new trimester would be the ideal time for our son to start back.

We floated the idea to him and, much to our delight, he fizzed with excitement.

"I can't wait to see all my friends! Can I take my new action figures to show 'em?"

However, when that ill-fated January morning came around, he griped about everything from having to wake up early to feeling sick with anxiety.

Bulma folded instantly and without question. "Honestly, Trunks looked like he was about to have a panic attack. So, I told him to take a duvet day."

I, on the other hand, was all set to wrench the malingering little bastard out of bed so hard, I didn't care if his arm dislocated from its socket.

Bulma blocked my exit from the kitchen. "Please, Honey," she whined. "Don't get mad."

She closed in. "Trunks'll fall back to sleep right after breakfast." A mischievous glint beset her sapphire eyes and she stroked the underside of my chin like a pet. "Once my parents set off for the plant nursery, you and I will have the rest of the morning to ourselves…" She held up the chocolate sauce bottle, allowing it to dangle between her index finger and thumb. "Just think of all the fun we could have."

That clinched it.

Trunks would nap half the day away, and I'd end up spending an inordinate amount of time in the shower, rinsing away any sweet, sticky goo that his mother didn't lick off my junk. Damnit, that's what I got for letting my dick have a say in deciding whether to listen to the woman.

Although, by that point, sex had become our answer to everything.

What with the boy and his grandparents, my training schedule, Bulma's shopping trips and beauty salon appointments, time together at home was rare. And so, whenever she and I found ourselves alone, we went nuts.

Quickies happened at a second's notice. We tore each other's clothes off, reducing them to rags in the process. Any and all waist-high furniture became liable to get fucked on.

The antique console table in the hallway was three centuries old. It had survived wars and journeyed across oceans and continents. It had been bought and sold countless times, spent decades in storage and had been painstakingly restored to its original glory only to buckle beneath our frenzied copulation.

And just as our furnishings suffered the consequences of our intense and spontaneous lovemaking, so too, our bodies bore all the hallmarks.

Bulma ended up with carpet burns on her knees after I fucked her from behind, rough and fast, on the rug in the sun room.

When I ravished her on the dining room table, capillaries broke around her throat and blossomed into a necklace of love bites,

Bruises, like tattoos of storm clouds, appeared on her rib cage not long after I bent her over the balcony and rammed home until her pussy overflowed with cum.

And thanks to her fake nails, I sported scratches down my back and ten red half-moons on my shoulder blades.

The special high we got from make-up sex was worth every shot of pain and drop of blood. With each orgasm, we felt like champions stepping out of the ring, convinced that our relationship was uniquely indestructible.

What's more, the sexual overcompensation didn't stop at conventional intercourse.

"…Ooooh!…Ow…Ow…Ow…Honey!…Agh!…Real slow, ok?"

Anal was overrated. I could've lived without it. But I wanted the one part of Bulma that no one else ever had. And I suppose I thought that shoving my dick in her ass was preferable to inflicting the crisp, burning slap across the face which, in my darker moments, I felt she deserved as payback for cheating.

"…Baby!?…Ooh!...I could take you in my pussy all day long but…agh!…this tooshie-loving is a challenge and a half."

Staring into the inferno, its fierce heat caressing my eyes, I cursed myself and the woman for squandering every moment of solitude. If only we had kept our hedonistic ways in check, just enough to get a grip on our son's.

Trunks was constantly in the way. In front of him, Bulma and I were not free to talk as we pleased. All those sensitive little conversations we needed to have about his education and decline into a spoiled brat, were put on the back burner. And with no real parenting going on, he carried on thinking that it was acceptable to slob out on the sofa, yelling food and drink orders without so much as a 'please' or 'thank you'.

To make matters worse, the woman routinely undermined me. For instance, Trunks would make some unreasonable, ill-mannered demand – say, an energy drink and cotton candy milkshake. I'd tell him 'no Goddamn way', then, when Bulma thought I wasn't listening, she'd whisper something along the lines of "wait until Daddy's training, then I'll make anything you want."

Her flagrant disregard for my authority made my piss boil. But challenging her on the matter only led to more strife.

"DAMNIT, VEGETA! Quit being such a control freak!"

"Woman, if you want to drag up an obnoxious, sugar addled brat who refuses to sleep in his own bed, then you're even more of a flake than I thought."

"MOMMY! DADDY! STOP FIGHTING! I HATE WHEN YOU FIGHT! WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Interestingly enough, falling out didn't stop us getting intimate.

Night after night, once Trunks was fast asleep, Bulma joined me in the guestroom; the one allocated to me back when I first moved in.

"Honey? You awake?"

We fucked until the early hours. Then, once I'd emptied my balls, she returned to the boy.

After our final and most intense session – a contortive screw that started with a 69 and ended with me on top, pinning her ankles back by her ears - I insisted that we reclaim our bedroom and make Trunks return to his.

Bulma blew out a lungful of smoke and extinguished her cigarette in the cap of my half-finished sport drink. "Give me a little time to work on him," she sighed. Then, after settling back down next to me, she laid her head on my chest. "One more night. Two, at most."

Yet, five days on, there we were preparing to feed our son, what was little more than, a bowl of sugar for breakfast and treating 'school' like a dirty word.

In trying to restore normality to our family, the days leading up to my impromptu bonfire had seen me fight a valiant battle.

"The boy should only get ice cream if he eats his broccoli."

"He doesn't need chocolate AND cake! Make him choose one or the other."

But as much as I tried to compromise, Bulma overruled me. And I knew if I pressed on, she would snap. And then I would snap back.

I couldn't risk undoing all the progress I'd made on the relationship front, so, time and time again, I b̶a̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶d̶o̶w̶n̶ held my tongue.

That included, what was to become, our last morning together.

I guided the woman's hand aside (and with it, the chocolate sauce bottle) and slid my arms around her waist. "One. More. Day."

She smiled. "Thanks, Honey. I knew you'd understand." And with that, she turned to put the finishing touches on Trunks' breakfast - a liberal scattering of rainbow sprinkles and maraschino cherries.

Relieved that harmony had been restored, and thrilled that wicked, sticky antics were on the cards, I allowed myself to relax and appreciate the beauty before me. The way her turquoise hair sat in big bouncy ringlets between her shoulder blades, the way her body narrowed at the waist and flared at the hip, the way her short, red dress (̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶G̶o̶h̶a̶n̶)̶ skimmed over every curve and clung to her thighs.

Through the layers of our clothes, my hard-on crushed against her ass, the tip pressing the base of her spine. As she leaned back, I ran my hands up her body. Tits filled my palms. Each thumb rubbed over a stiff nipple. I squeezed.

She tipped her head back against my shoulder "…Mmh…"

I went at her throat with an onslaught of slow kisses until she twirled around and caught my mouth in a passion-roughened kiss. Her hands clasped around the back of my neck and, while feeding on her tongue's sweet flavour - marshmallows plucked from Trunks' cereal - I pulled her thigh up against my waist. Relishing every inch of creamy skin, I felt my way up to her hip. My hand slid under the side of her underwear, ready to tear them off when…

"MOMMY!"

Trunks' shrill, demanding voice travelled downstairs and shocked the woman into pulling away.

"…Y-Y-YES SWEETIE?"

She stepped aside, straightening her outfit and wiping her mouth.

"CAN I GET JELLO WITH BREAKFAST?"

"SURE, HUN!"

The woman went to open the refrigerator. "Damn, I hope we have some. Otherwise, I'll have to go to the supermarket and the traffic into town is gonna be a total nightmare..."

She had barely opened the door two inches before I shut it ! And held it closed.

Fearing I had turned hostile, she broke out in a look of astonishment.

I stared back, deathly serious. "He's sleeping in his own bed tonight," I said. "And he's going to school tomorrow. Even if I have to drag him there kicking and screaming."