Chapter 3

By dawn, the fire had dwindled to a smouldering mound of indistinguishable detritus.

Only a few hours beforehand, my marriage had suffered much the same fate.

And to think, this time yesterday I awoke to sheer harmony. The sound of my sleeping wife and son's gentle breathing, the contenting burden of their limbs.

As I stroked Bulma's head, she stirred. "Hmm? What time is it?"

I kissed her cheek. "Go back to sleep," I said. "I'll take care of Trunks."

Her eyes closed with a flutter and she deflated with bliss. "….Oh, Honey." She slurred. "…You're the best."

After taking a shower and getting dressed, I went and shook Trunks' shoulder. "Come on, you little bed wetter." I spoke with none of the affection that I'd shown his mother. "Get up."

He snatched at the covers, pulled them over his head and twisted on to his other side. "Nrrrghhh!"

Like most kids, he had never been enthusiastic about early starts or going to school. But until Bulma let his routine go to shit, he had always managed with little more than gentle coercion.

Suddenly, I had a fight on my hands.

I ripped the sheets back, and his little body curled up like a slug dredged with salt.

"Up. Now."

That time, I was met with open eyes and a scowl. "Brrrrrr! It's freezing!"

"Well then," I said. "In future, I suggest you don't piss where you sleep."

"Huh?" He patted his groin. "Eww!"

As opposed to the half-hour bubble baths that Trunks had grown accustomed to enjoying with his mother, shower time under my supervision consisted of three minutes of lathering and rinsing followed by a rough towelling off.

And when it came to breakfast, his request for pancakes with ice cream and caramel was met with a bland, steaming bowl of microwaved oatmeal.

By the time I ushered him into the backseat of my car, we were no longer on speaking terms. At first, I was grateful for the silence, relieved that he didn't start with one of his insufferable games - the kind where he'd choose a colour at random then count every passing car that happened to match said colour. But, about halfway to West City Elementary, a glance in the rear-view mirror revealed a deep frown, wet eyes, and a quivering pout.

It didn't take a genius to realise that a bunch of get-out-of-school excuses were on the cards. So, before he could spout any, I decided to cheer him up with his favourite distraction.

I had never played 'tag' or 'hide 'n' seek' with the boy. His pleas for me to join in with board games were rebuffed with my point-blank refusal. And I'd sooner tongue kiss Kakarot than grant Trunks' request for me to grab one of his d̶o̶l̶l̶s̶ action figures and take part in good guys verses bad guys role-play.

But now and again, when it was just the two of us, I invited him to sit on my lap and 'drive the car'.

'AWESOME!'

And while I dealt with shifting gear, accelerating and braking, Trunks took the wheel.

'THIS IS SO COOL!'

Eyes twinkling, laughter erupted from him in ecstatic little squeals.

'YOU'RE THE BEST DAD EVER!'

From the day my car was delivered to Capsule Corp, all shiny and new on the back of a transporter, Trunks had been awestruck. Indeed, it was a stunning piece of engineering and never failed to draw looks of envy from all who set eyes upon it. I'd had it souped up so much, it was barely road-legal. And thanks to all the bursts of high speed, effortless overtakes, and the way the other kids marvelled when we pulled up outside school, any thoughts Trunks had about backing out were quickly forgotten.

Bulma knew nothing of our father-son joy rides. And not just because it was dangerous and illegal.

After giving her a hard time about spoiling the boy, I'd have never lived down the hypocrisy.

Back home, I found out (via a quaint little note stuck on the refrigerator) that Bulma had left to assist her father in the lab. That snippet of insignificance was of no interest to me. However, I perked up when reading the last sentence.

P.S. Thanks again for taking Trunks to school. You know how much I love my beauty sleep (not that a stunner like me needs it!) Just for that, you can look forward to an "extra special" reward.

Love,

Bulma

It was tempting to fritter away the day imagining how Bulma planned to gratify me. Nevertheless, I pulled myself together and buckled down to training. My regime was gruelling. But the anticipation of a keen to please wife and a strictly childfree bedroom had me grinning all the way through.

In the end, excitement got the better of me and later that afternoon, I grabbed Dr Brief's cat under the pretence of letting it outside just so I would have an excuse to show up at the front door when Bulma arrived home with Trunks.

The boy ran to me with a smile as wide as a halved melon. "Daddy!"

He threw his arms around my waist and pressed the side of his head against my hip. I gave his hair a quick ruffle before peeling him away from my body. "Guess there's no need to ask how school went."

In a fit of excitement, he started doing star jumps. "I had loadsa fun with my friends!" He panted. "We did math, then art, then…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sounds great," I said, in a friendly yet dismissive tone. "How about you go watch TV?"

"Awesome!" He stretched out his arms like the wings of an airplane and ran towards the living room, leaving me and his mother alone.

"So," I said. "When do I get my reward?"

She arched an eyebrow as if I'd spoken in a foreign language, then chuckled when she realised that I was referring to her note. "Oh, that."

With shopping bags hanging from her clenched fist, she closed in, raised her free hand and ran her index finger over my chest in random swooping trails. "Wanna know what it is? Or would you like it to be a surprise?"

I felt my expression change from mild amusement to one of deep intensity. "You know I hate surprises."

She winked. "Alright." Her hand abandoned my body and delved into one of the bags. "Close your eyes."

Usually, I found such antics tedious and childish. But wishful thinking compelled me to play along.

Plastic rustled. Behind the dark screen of my eyelids, I was picturing everything from skimpy lingerie to leather whips. Handcuffs locked onto wrists. The clinking of chains as they strained around headboard bars.

"…You can open them now."

When I did so, I was confronted with Bulma's beaming smile…and a large vacuum packed, blood-soaked steak.

"I went to the best butcher in town and got your favourite!" She dangled the raw, red flesh in front of my face. "I'm gonna cook it extra rare, just the way you like it and…."

Her smile faded and she tilted her head. "What's wrong? You look disappointed."

I blinked a few times and refocussed. "It's not that I'm ungrateful," I said. "It's just that I was hoping for a different kind of carnal delicacy."

Her glossy pink lips slanted into a grin and her kohl lined eyes grew narrow and challenging. "Oh, really?" She said, while putting the steak away. "And what, exactly, did you have in mind?"

What did I have in mind? The opposite of the rushed hook-ups we'd made do with thus far. I wanted the kind of foreplay that needed to have time taken over it. I wanted torturously slow head. I wanted her gagging on my dick as it mashed her tonsils into her throat. I wanted strip tease. I wanted her to lay back, masturbate and let me watch. I wanted to cum over her tits.

My gaze bore into hers.

And if our son's inquisitiveness had kicked in a second later, I would have dragged her away and made real my dark fantasies.

"MOM! DAD!" Trunks came jogging towards us. "What're you guys doing back here?" When he saw that we were mid-embrace, he paused with a look of mild disgust. "…Are you doing kissy stuff?"

With a bashful giggle, Bulma pulled away from me. "Maybe a little."

Trunks' nose wrinkled in utter disapproval. "Gross!"

Mine wrinkled in utter resentment.

As the evening went on, I lightened up.

Bulma overcooked my steak. But for the sake of having my sexual wishlist fulfilled, I ate the leather-like brawn without complaint.

At least there wasn't much to do in the way of parenting. An after-dinner video game binge kept Trunks quiet until it was time to go to bed.

And speaking of beds, Bulma was true to her word and explained to him that, as of that night, he was to sleep in his own.

"From now on," she said. "Me and Daddy are gonna sleep together."

He took the news surprisingly well. He seemed a little forlorn perhaps, but accepting all the same.

…Then, at bed time, there came a change of heart.

Hidden from view, I peered into Trunks' room and watched on as Bulma pulled his pyjama top down over his head.

"…Mommy?"

"Yes, Sweetie?"

"…Can I sleep with you tonight?"

Bulma smiled meekly and guided each of his arms through a sleeve. "No, Baby," she said. "We discussed it earlier, remember?"

He took a breath but didn't exhale until he'd thought of a suitably manipulative comeback. "I don't wanna sleep in here. It's scary."

The woman knelt in front of him. "Now, what would a big, strong, super saiyan like you have to feel afraid of?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. I just hate this stupid room."

Then, before his mother could offer any further reassurance, his face reddened and his eyes watered. "I don't wanna stop sleeping with you!"

A look of deep concern came over the woman's face. "Oh, Sweetie…" She wiped his tears. "Don't cry." Her hands gently clasped his shoulders. "I loved when we were bed buddies…But I shouldn't have let it happen."

He sniffled. "Why not?"

"…You know what a mistake is, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, that's what it was," she sighed. "I thought I was showing how much I love you by letting you sleep with me. But I was wrong."

Trunks' sad, puffy face suddenly morphed into a vindictive little scowl. "…Daddy made you say that."

A burst of involuntary laughter escaped from Bulma. "No, he didn't, Sweetie. It's for your own good."

Limp arms tensed and two small, tight fists formed. "I wish Daddy would go away!"

I felt my top lip twitch.

Bulma gasped. "Trunks! That's an awful thing to say."

The irate brat stamped his foot as if to kill a cockroach scuttling across the floor. "I don't care!"

Bulma rubbed her forehead and gathered her thoughts. "…How about this?" She said. "On school nights, you stay in your room. Then, on weekends, we can have one of our little sleepovers. Deal?"

The kid chewed over her proposal, but he was fully aware that the new offer on the table was nothing compared to the cosy little setup he'd previously enjoyed.

"…No!" He barked. "I wanna sleep with you every night."

Bulma sighed. Though it was not a sigh of guilt-ridden despair like before. It was a gust of pure annoyance. "Honey, you can't! And that's the end of it."

Hot, plump, tears rolled down Trunks' face and his bottom lip trembled. "You don't love me."

And within half a second of playing his ace in the hole, the woman toppled forward, threw her arms around him and began shedding tears of her own. "Don't ever say that."

Back and forth, mother and son plead to have their own way.

"Please Mommy…plee-hee-heeze lemmie sleep with you, just one last time."

"I can't…I can't, Baby."

On and on, they whined at each other until eventually Bulma succeeded in bribing Trunks into bed with the offer of reading him a story.

…Only, she was too soft-headed to realise the negotiations had not ended. The kid was simply buying himself more time.

One story led to another. Then another.

Halfway through some dross about a crazy inventor that lived in a village full of freaks, Bulma went from perching on the side of the mattress to curling up next to the boy. Eleven pm came and went and I was pissed to say the least.

I entered the room. "Enough!" I glared at my suddenly disgruntled son. "You can hear the rest tomorrow."

Bulma sat up. Once the surprise of my intrusion faded, she set the book down on Trunks' nightstand. "Daddy's right," she said. "C'mon, Sweetie. Time to call it a night."

Trunks' eyes darted from me to his mother several times. The shine over his blue irises increased with each blink and told of the fresh batch of tears about to spill. "Don't go, Mommy! You promised to read! You promised!"

With tenderness far beyond my comprehension, Bulma kissed his forehead and eased him back against his pillow. However, her affectionate gesture only served to exacerbate the boy's sense of injustice. "It's not faaaaaaaaair!"

The pitch of his voice – all drawn out like the loudest, longest part of a yawn – cut straight through me, striking audio sensory nerves I didn't even know I had.

Agonized fury manifested within me, and it was plain to see that Bulma didn't fare much better.

She stood in silence, fingertips against her temples, massaging in firm circles as she absorbed the dreadful sound of every whiney, dramatic, sob.

As I stared at Trunks' chubby, miserable face, my hands dropped to my sides and both fists clenched.

Then, before I could cave in to the urge to take him by the throat and shake him t̶o̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶, I walked away.

He unbuttoned the nightgown from her throat to her navel, and let it whisper over her skin to the floor. Wordlessly he began to arrange her body, spreading her legs until she lay mortifyingly exposed. Focusing his gaze on the petals of her womanhood, he saw it was glistening, seeping with dew that dampened her inner thighs. Her labia were swollen, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of pink weeping flesh. Suddenly her hips arched up and just like that, he was upon her. Yanking open her legs further, needing her, as a dark, heavy hunger lashed through his body, He buried his mouth between her thighs and feasted on the meltingly tender flesh he found there. She cried out and lifted to meet his mouth as he sipped the cream from her body. He slid his fingers deep into her channel, finding her achingly hot and throbbing. The melting sweetness of her almost made him climax without a single touch from her. Intense emotion possessed his senses, gripped his heart. Meanwhile, she'd barely registered his change in position when he grabbed her knees to spread them. Then suddenly, he buried his heavy erection deep into her core and she screamed at the power and fury of it. Her sweet, hot cream poured over his plunging cock. S he could do nothing but writhe beneath his wild assault. Slowly at first, he dragged his cock through her love tunnel, brushing every pleasure spot. "My darling," he crooned. "My love." His words rolled over her, sank in, buried deep with each thrust and then he quickened his pace and she couldn't think at all. Only feel. Sensations tore through her like a quickly burning flame that threatened to render her a pile of ash. When he rotated his hips, grinding against her quivering bud, she felt her body clench around his thick member. He tensed above her, pierced her with his gaze. Then he drove deep, harder and faster than she'd ever imagined possible. The blasting sensations rocked her like an earthquake and she screamed her pleasure as her mind, body and soul broke into a million pieces.

As Bulma schlepped into our bedroom, I lowered the book. It was hers, of course. Smutty and flowery in equal measure.

Having come to bed to simmer down and wait for her to finish up with Trunks, I had picked up the novel out of curiosity and spent the last hour sniggering as I skipped from sex scene to sex scene.

"I'll never understand why women read this nonsense," I said.

Bulma frowned. But, other than that, ignored me.

"I mean, if a cheap thrill is what you're after," I continued. "I could recommend a few movies your father stashed in the den." Holding the book by the spine, I used my thumb to fan through the pages. "Sure would save the hassle of wading through all this filler."

Bulma made straight for her vanity table and sat down hard. "Go to hell!"

She poured some blue liquid on to a cotton pad and wiped her face with such vigour, I feared she might strip off a layer of skin along with her make-up.

I casually tossed the book back into her nightstand drawer. "Perhaps a change of subject is in order," I said. "…My reward, for example. We never finished discussing it earlier…"

"Reward?" she said, voice dripping with bitter condescension.

Thereafter, she took off on a rant about Trunks' bedtime and how it had been "a total nightmare". For the most part, I ignored her. Then, when I sensed her bitching was coming to an end, I tuned back in just as she was crowing some pissy advice for me to take out a dictionary and look up the definition of 'support.'

I responded with a polite(ish) reminder that I did, in fact, order a halt to story time and that I played no part in her decision to stay behind and indulge the child's crocodile tears.

At that point, she paused and twisted around to glare at me. "That's your idea of helping?"

I was about to ask (with minimal sarcasm) what else I could have done, but she cut in.

"All you did was stress Trunks out, which meant I had to stay with him even longer!"

Then, once again denying me the right to reply, she turned to her mirror and went straight back to sloughing off layers of bronzer, blusher and foundation.

I desperately wanted to snap. 'Idiot! All of this is your fault!'

But it was stupid o'clock. I was still hoping to get rewarded and decided it wasn't worth blowing my ever-shrinking chance on an unwinnable argument.

"…Whatever," I said. "At least the kid's asleep now."

The woman froze. Her shoulders sagged and her head drooped.

With an arched eyebrow, I regarded her suspiciously. "He is asleep, right?"

She blew out a long, exasperated sigh. "…Not exactly."

She explained that she had only dropped by our bedroom to remove her make-up and change into her pyjamas. After that, she intended to return to Trunks.

With a limp, defeated flick of her wrist, she tossed her used cotton pad into the waste basket by her ankles. "I promised to read some more."

An unpleasant prickly emotion warmed my body like a shot of cheap whisky. "…Don't you realise, he's playing you for a damn fool?"

She grabbed her brush and dragged it through her hair so hard, strands snapped with every stroke. "So, I'm a fool, am I?"

"That's not what I…"

!*!

She slammed the brush down.

I had every intention of starting over, taking a stab at diplomacy and admitting that I could have chosen my words more carefully.

Little did I know, every last scrap of goodwill was about to be torpedoed.

Bulma massaged the nape of her neck and tilted her head to talk longingly at the ceiling. "Trunks' bed time was a breeze when Gohan was around to tucker him out…"

…!...

At first, I made excuses for her.

Mentioning Gohan had been nothing more than a split-second, absent minded error of judgment. She was tired, ground down. She had only passed such an insensitive remark to get back at me for pointing out that our six-year-old had her wrapped around his little finger. It was nothing that couldn't be rectified with a simple, heartfelt 'sorry'…

…

…

…

Suddenly, my eyes felt dry and uncomfortable. And I realised that, while waiting in vain for an apology, I had been staring at the back of her head without blinking.

"…Let's not forget," I said with frost in my voice. "So much of the credit belongs to you."

The woman stiffened.

"Afterall," I smiled callously. "The only incentive Gohan needed to hone those outstanding childminding skills…was the promise of fucking you."

Spite has always had a strangely calming effect on me. I loved nothing more than bringing up an adversary's sore points and weaving them into a witty insult. And, of course, it was all the more satisfying to remain calm while they exploded in a sputtering rage.

Right on cue, Bulma's eyebrows jumped halfway up her forehead and her tired eyes switched to high alert.

Here we go, I thought.

She stood, fixed me with a formidable stare and unleashed a screaming, expletive-filled opera.

"YOU JUST HAD TO GO THERE, DIDN'T YOU!? AS IF I DON'T BEAT MYSELF UP ABOUT IT EVERY SINGLE DAY! DIRTY, TWO-TIMING SLUT! THAT'S WHAT I CALL MYSELF!...CRADLE SNATCHING, COCK SUCKING WHORE!"

I was so distracted by her flailing arms and the way she paced back and forth, that much of the vitriol escaped me.

"GO AHEAD VEGETA, SEE IF YOU CAN COME UP WITH ONE I HAVEN'T ALREADY THOUGHT OF!"

Warm, prophetic sensations rolled through my gut. All I could think about was how good the sex would be that night. We'd go at it hating each other. Wrestling, biting, pulling each other's hair, panting, snarling obscenities until all of our emotional chaos was smashed apart with cunt-punishing thrusts and sheet drenching orgasms.

…!...

My sleazy musings came to an immediate halt.

"I MADE ONE MISTAKE, VEGETA! ONE!"

The door opened to reveal our teary-eyed son. Bulma fell silent.

"What's happening?" Trunks murmured. "Why are you guys fighting?"

The woman's scowl deepened as she glowered at me. "See what you've done?" She hurried over to the boy. "Everything's fine, Sweetheart. Come on, let's get you back in bed."

He lurched away. "No!" He yawped. "I wanna know what's going on!"

Bulma knelt and wiped his face. "It's nothing." She shot me a cold, dirty look. "Daddy and I were just having a silly grown-up conversation and…got a little carried away."

"You were fighting!"

Trunks bawled; and despite the woman's attempts to comfort him, he was inconsolable. And so, she picked him up, lay with him in our bed and stroked his head until his mewling died down.

"…Mommy?"

"…Hmm?"

"Can I pleeeeease stay here with you?"

She sighed from the bottom of her lungs. "…Alright."

Would you believe it? The kid's tears dried faster than ink. And any distress caused by mine and his mother's bickering faded into a non-issue.

He sprang forward, punching the air. "Yay!"

Bulma pressed her hand against her forehead to nurse, what I'm sure was, a rapidly forming headache.

Trunks tugged her wrist. "Can we watch cartoons?"

Within seconds of handing him the television remote, robots with flashing red eyes filled the wall mounted screen. The sound of machine gun fire and jet plane engines boomed, and a deep, sinewy throb started up in my temple.

"Mommy?" Trunks leaned over her chest, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Can I have cookies?"

Bulma ran her hand through her hair and slumped forward, ready to oblige.

"…And chocolate milk?" He chirped.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed but before she could stand up, I stepped forward to stop her. "You can't be serious."

From under heavy eyelids, she beheld me. "I'm done," she said. "At this point, I'll do whatever it takes to get through the night."

All her fight had gone, her spirit vanquished. I hated seeing the woman like that, so un-Bulma like.

Guilt stabbed at me, but was quickly consumed by anger.

I scooped up the woman's legs and set them back on the bed. "You're not going anywhere."

Next, I snatched the remote control from Trunks. The TV screen turned black and he blinked in shock.

"SWITCH THAT BACK ON!"

A loud knock resounded as I dropped the remote on the nightstand. "…Bed. Now."

Trunks grimaced and snorted, then burrowed under the sheets next to his mother.

I pulled them back. "Your OWN bed."

His face contorted with panic. "But Mommy said I can stay here!"

"Too bad. I say you can't."

He sucked in breath after breath, brewing up a tantrum. "NOW I GET WHY MOMMY WAS YELLING AT YOU! YOU'RE…YOU'RE…DESPICABLE!"

I was struck, and not in a bad way, by his use of an adjective that seemed so sophisticated relative to his age. "Get a load of you," I said. "Someone's been improving his vocabulary." Determined to remain good humoured, I suggested that he share any other 'big words' he could think of to describe me, no matter how uncomplimentary. "We'll make a game of it," I said. "See how many you can think of in the time it takes to get back to your room."

And while I inwardly praised myself for that spurt of creative parenting, Trunks' eyebrows dipped, his eyes narrowed, his little nose wrinkled like a kitten mid-meow.

"How about…stupid…mean…no good…MOTHERFUCKER!?"

Bulma gasped.

I remained deadpan. "…What a vivid choice of noun. If you could spell it, I might even be impressed."

In an attempt to meet my eyeline, he stood up on the mattress. "GO AWAY! I sleep with Mommy now. Not you."

Strange. The swearing didn't bother me but that did. In fact, I felt horribly sensitive and was lost for words at his audacity.

While my teeth gritted and my jaw locked, Bulma piped up.

"Trunks!" She pointed at the door. "Go to your room, this instant!"

The kid dropped to his knees. "But! But! But! YOU SAID I COULD STAY!"

"That was before you ran your mouth off!" She snapped. "Honestly, I couldn't be more ashamed of you right now."

Devasted, he flopped onto his belly, balled up his hands, and began pounding the mattress and flutter kicking like a swimmer. "I HATE YOU! I HATE BOTH OF YOU!"

~^!~!^~!^~!^~!^~!^~^!~!^~!^~!^~!^~!

The divan rattled and the floor shook with the force of his outburst.

Bulma crawled forward and placed a hand between his shoulder blades. "Trunks! Calm down! Please!"

But without warning, he lashed out and shoved it away. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

!#*! With a pain-filled shriek, she recoiled against the pillows.

And while she cradled her wrist, I intervened.

I slotted my hands under Trunks' arms and picked him up. "As of now," I said. "You are never to set foot in here again." Having placed him on the floor, I applied pressure to his back and ushered him towards the door.

Then, just before we were about to exit, he ran around in back of me, pulled off his pyjama pants, took hold of his maggot dick and pissed directly onto the carpet. "This is what jerks like you two deserve!"

Bulma's palm shot up to cover her mouth. "TRUNKS!"

Within seconds, her shock faded and she was scolding him for being a naughty, dirty, little boy.

I, however, decided to take drastic measures.

I ambled over to the walk-in closet. There, Bulma's collection of clothes and shoes dwarfed my own. While she went shopping for new outfits week in week out, I had never taken to the flimsy, ill-fitting rags that passed for fashion on Earth. If dressing 'like a normal person' hadn't been a requirement for going out in public, I would have happily worn nothing but armour and training gear.

I was, however, partial to a nice belt. Leather, of course. None of that cheap, fake shit that the likes of Yamcha sported.

I had a drawer full of them, all neatly coiled up in square compartments.

My hand hovered over a particularly well-made specimen.

Thick, black, with a nickel-plated brass buckle, and a good bit of weight to it.

When I returned to Bulma and Trunks, she was standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Look at this mess!"

"You look at it!"

"Am I gonna have to put you back in diapers?..."

She froze when she spotted the belt wound around my fist. "…Honey? What are you doing?"

I approached. "…Housetraining."

She pulled Trunks against her body, then stepped in front to shield him.

"No!" She demanded with a raised hand. "I'm dealing with it."

Trunks poked his head around her waist. "What's Daddy doing?"

She pushed him back. "Nothing, Sweetie. Just keep quiet."

I closed in, and reached around the woman. "Too late." I said, yanking Trunks out by his forearm.

"Hey!"

The woman clutched at my collarbone. "Please don't…"

"Mommy? Why's Daddy got that belt?"

"…Vegeta, please…"

"Mommeeee, I'm scared."

"Don't hurt him. Don't you DARE hurt him!…"

I started to lead Trunks away when, suddenly, I felt weight on my back, legs around my torso and claws scoring at my neck and chest. "YOU BASTARD! I WON'T LET YOU!"

Bulma had jumped on me as if I had offered her a piggyback ride. But with a quick, one-handed tug, I forced her to dismount.

Trunks howled, twisting and pulling to try and escape my grip. I held him tight to my leg, meanwhile, I fisted a clump of hair at the side of the woman's head.

She cowered. "Aigh! Let go! I…I…I'm gonna call Goku!"

I lowered my mouth to her ear. "One word to Kakarot, and I swear I will tell our precious little prince everything that went on between you and his homewrecking brat. And mark my words, it won't be the pg-13 version."

She took a sharp breath. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Blue strands spilled from my unclenching fist, and the woman staggered back. Her trembling hands covered her mouth as she shook with deep sobs of devastation.

"Daddy?" Trunks said, all solemn and humble. "I'm ready to say sorry now."

His remorse was genuine. But I wasn't remotely interested in his apology.

"Vegeta, please, he's learned his lesson."

I loosened the belt around my knuckles and doubled it back on itself to form a loop.

The boy stared. He was still figuring everything out, maybe even thinking this was some sort of bluff and that I was simply out to scare him. I'd hit him several times since he'd first developed the ability to misbehave, but I had never used an implement.

I bent my left knee and pulled Trunks over it.

"Oh God! Vegeta! No!"

The air rushed from his lungs as his chest connected with my thigh, and I held him around the waist with my left hand while stretching out my other leg for stability.

"He's terrified! That's punishment enough!"

His bare ass stuck up in the air, his tiny hands were clinging to my calf muscle.

"Let go," I said.

He did so. Fists tight, his arms hung straight and the anticipation of pain had him convulsing with every sob and sniffle.

"Don't do it! Honey, please don't do it!"

I held the belt up high and without a single shred of mercy, I brought it down so hard and fast that it cut the air with a whoosh !

Trunks jerked forward. "AAIIIIIIIGHHHHH!"

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH! NO! NO! MY BABY! DON'T HURT MY BABY!"

But before he could beg me to quit, I lashed him again; harsher than before.

"VEGETA! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! JUST STOP!"

Trunks kicked up his heels. "WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! IT HURTS, IT HURTS!"

"CHILD PROTECTION WILL TAKE HIM AWAY! I'LL NEVR SEE HIM AGAIN!"

Over and over, I lashed him. Each strike connecting with a clean, sharp, snap.

Trunks sucked in breath only to squeal it back out. "AIIIIIIIIGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Stinging shockwaves spread over his butter soft posterior. His pitch was nothing short of blood curdling.

"STOP, VEGETA! YOU'RE GONNA KILL HIM!"

But I had to keep going because if I relented when he begged me to, it would have meant bowing to his will.

SNAP!

And what was essential…

SNAP!

…was that he bowed to mine.

SNAP!

SNAP!

SNAP!

His snarly lion cub cries faded to sporadic grunts.

SNAP!

SNAP!

SNAP!

His body limpened, his groans were barely audible.

SNAP!

One for good measure.

SNAP!

Silence.

Finally, I tipped Trunks back so that he stood upright. He reached behind to stroke his burning ass and staggered for a moment before his balance returned.

I crossed my arms, the belt dangling at my side. "Anything to say for yourself?"

Head hanging in shame, he snivelled and tugged the front of his pyjama top in a futile attempt to cover his dick. "…Sorry for swearing and peeing on the floor, Daddy. I won't ever do anything like that again."

"And?"

"…And I promise to sleep in my own room from now on."

With a quick nod, I let him know that I accepted his apology and went to return my belt to the closet.

On the way, I noticed the woman. I don't know when it happened, but at some point during Trunks' flagellation, she had slumped against the wall and sank to the floor. Hoarse from screaming, her face was frozen in horror.

She remained motionless until I passed, then scrambled frantically towards the boy.

When I returned, Bulma and Trunks were hugging and exchanging hushed words.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, Baby."

"I'm ok, Mommy. Don't cry."

More than a dozen red stripes spanned Trunks' rear end. The skin was broken in places, but it was of no concern to me. Saiyan hide heals fast and by morning, most of the welts would have faded.

I cleared my throat. "Say goodnight." Two pairs of streaming blue eyes turned on me. "It's late, and tomorrow's a school day."

Bulma wiped her tear drenched cheeks. "…Trunks can sleep in here with me," she said, choking back emotion. "Um…You should probably go sleep someplace else."

I glowered at her. "…I go to great lengths to make him see the error of his ways, and you want to undermine me?"

Her jaw quivered and her response struggled to break free of her mouth. "…I'm keeping him home from school tomorrow too."

After disciplining the boy in such a traditional fashion, I suppose it was too much to expect her to side with me. The harder pill to swallow was the idea that Trunks' bedroom privileges had been fully reinstated, while mine would probably be revoked for several sex-free months.

As it became clear that I was hurtling back to square one, I made the insolent decision not go down without a fight.

"Alright." I said, with an upward inflection. "Have it your way." I smirked for added effect. "Before we hit the hay…"

Trunks looked back; his eyebrows raised.

"…Who wants to hear a story?"

He turned in his mother's arms to face me, eyes flooded with intrigue. "You're gonna read to me?"

"No, son," I said. "The story you're about to hear isn't written in any book."

I crouched down.

"Once upon a time, in a city much like ours, there lived a woman." I glanced at Bulma. "…A desperate, lonely woman."

Her mouth parted.

Trunks tilted his head. "Was she pretty?"

"…Well," I said. "She had good hair days and bad hair days."

"How old was she?"

"About ten years past her prime. But still young enough that she could dress up and have boyfriends."

"Vegeta…" Said Bulma, her voice a nervous stammer.

Trunks butted in. "Did she have a boyfriend?"

I grinned. "Oh, yes."

"What was he like?"

"He was sweet and sensitive," I said. "Very naïve, though."

Trunks absentmindedly chewed the tip of his thumb. "What's naïve mean?"

Bulma was fidgeting wildly, fighting a losing battle against looking aghast.

I continued. "It means someone who trusts too easily."

"…Uhh?...I still don't get it."

I reassured Trunks that it didn't matter and continued on with the story. "See, the young man loved the woman," I said. "He adored everything about her. Problem was, she didn't feel the same. Despite that, she allowed him to think she loved him so that he'd stick around."

"If she didn't love the guy," said Trunks. "Why'd she want him around?"

"Because even though she didn't love him properly, he still made her happy in all sorts of special grown-up ways."

Bulma was stiffly shaking her head at me, silently mouthing the word 'no' over and over.

"Like what?" Said Trunks.

"For one, he had a very big…"

Bulma clamped her hands over Trunks' ears and shrieked. "NO! DON'T!"

"…Heart."

She leapt up; a hyperventilating, red-faced mess.

After taking a moment to compose herself, she stooped to tend to the boy - who seemed more interested in the characters in my little story than his mother's erratic behaviour. There were some mutterings between the two as she muddled her way through the follow-up questions he had about the 'woman' and her 'boyfriend'. Right on the spot, she even came up with an alternative ending. (One day the woman woke up, had a revelation, and decided that she didn't need a boyfriend in order to be happy.)

Unfortunately, the ending didn't meet with Trunks' approval. He thought it was 'crumby'. Bulma agreed and promised that she would read him a better story next time.

Finally, she kissed him. "…Listen up," she said. "I need you to go to your bedroom and stay there while I talk to Daddy, ok?"

She further reassured him that everything was going to be ok and that she loved him more than all the gold, diamonds and chocolate in the world.

Tired, confused, and overwhelmed by how serious everything had suddenly become, he agreed to do as she asked.

Thereafter, Bulma was a picture of motherly tenderness right up until Trunks toddled out of our room and back along the hall to his own.

After closing the door, she cast me a glare so full of hate, I thought the air in front of her face might freeze and shatter.

"You. Sick. Bastard."

Wild eyed, she came at me like a hockey player – all gritted teeth and jutting elbows. She raised her hand. "GRRRRHHH!"

Her open palm came hurtling towards my face #

But I caught her wrist in the fraction of a second before she could make contact.

I dragged her grunting and snarling, to the spot where Trunks had soaked the carpet. I pinned her arms behind her back, locked my forearm across her chest and forced her to her knees. Leaning over her from behind, I released her chest and gripped the scruff of her neck as if she were a dog about to get its nose rubbed in its business.

Her face was mere inches from the stain.

"Look at what it's come to." I growled.

I applied a little extra pressure to her neck and pushed her closer still.

She shrieked and begged to be released. But her efforts to squirm free proved futile against my unrelenting grip.

"How bad does it have to get before we get our act together?"

The stale, briny smell of piss wafted up.

Bulma sobbed hysterically. Over and over, she convulsed. Her back twitching against my abdomen with every rapid, shallow breath.

Eventually, her spine decompressed and she slumped, limp and helpless and humiliated.

I released her and her hands landed on the carpet, spread either side of Trunks' piss like a giraffe at a watering hole.

Minutes crawled by; more than a few but less than five. Finally, Bulma hauled herself up off the floor. She appeared to fall into some sort of trance and, without a word, went off into the closet.

At first, I figured she just needed a few moments alone. Then, after a while, I heard some ruffling. Curiosity implored me to go over and investigate. But pride convinced me to play cool and pretend like I didn't give a damn.

Before my indecisiveness could worsen, Bulma emerged. She was sporting a new outfit - jeans, boots, a Capsule Corp t-shirt, the kind of getup she wore on family hikes.

Unpleasant surprise drifted through me. "Don't you think you're a little overdressed for bed?"

She clipped her Dyno Cap holster to her belt, which I'm certain was just an excuse to look away from me.

"…I'm leaving."

…!...

…?...

Everything about her tone and body language attested to her seriousness. Yet, for me there was only disbelief. Amusement, even.

"…Just what we need," I said sarcastically. "More drama."

Silent and focused, the woman slipped into her pink waterproof jacket.

"If you're trying to shame me into apologising," I said, suddenly keen to get a rise out of her. "Forget it. I took necessary action and I regret nothing. But if you insist on running away to wallow in self-pity, I'm not about to stop you." I shot her a defiant smirk and half turned away, ready to make my own dramatic exit. "Bon voyage. Guess I'll see you in a day or two."

Having convinced myself that my reverse psychology tactic would have her snapping at my heels, it came as a great disappointment to hear such a weak protest. "…No, you won't."

I froze.

"I need a favour," she said. "…Tell Trunks that no matter how far away I am, no matter how long I'm gone for, I love him."

With the realisation that she was serious about taking off, ripples of sullen emotion lapped at my insides. But more than anything, I felt disorientated. And I had to swallow hard before it showed up on my face.

"No more talking in circles." My voice was scarcely more than a rumble in my throat. "We have a damaged child. You can't walk out on him."

Bulma's face transformed in an instant. Flushed and tear-streaked, all pretence of level-headedness vanished. "Don't you get it?" She wailed. "It's because of Trunks I have to go."

I guess I must have appeared utterly bewildered because she looked at me with the kind of frustration and pity usually reserved for the mentally incapacitated.

She gently stroked the wrist that Trunks struck earlier. "My little boy…our little boy…is becoming dangerous." She paused to sigh. "What happens the next time I deny him something he wants? A slap? A kick? How long before he does something I won't recover from?" She pawed at her wet face. "Ever since Gohan, life has been chaos. First, I neglected Trunks, then I smothered him. After all he's been through, how can we possibly expect him to fall into a strict routine? He's confused as hell. No wonder he's acting up. It's all my fault." She stopped to take a breath so deep that I wondered if it made her dizzy. "If I'm not here," she said. "I can't spoil him, can't sleep with him…can't…" Her eyes closed and she pressed her hand to her mouth. "…Turn him into a monster."

She swallowed. "It's the only way."

Suddenly, the prospect of abandonment felt all too real.

I gave the side of my jaw a quick scratch. "…We have a complicated situation on our hands. There's no prescribed way of dealing with it. We…"

"Please, Vegeta!" She screeched. "Don't try and talk me out of going."

All sorts of soft-headed emotions were wreaking havoc upon me.

"…Go and see Trunks." I said, determined not to let on how uncomfortable I was with the idea of her departure. "You have to at least say goodbye."

She'd melt. Her maternal instincts would never allow her to walk out on m̶e̶ him.

She shook her head. "I can't," she croaked. "I won't be able to tear myself away if I do."

Damnit.

On her way out, she brushed passed me and I was taken by surprise at how much self-control it took to stop myself from reaching out for her hand. Instead, I followed her as casually as my increasingly flustered mood would allow. "…Hypothetically," I said. "I could very easily tail you on your little mystery tour and drag you home just as soon as I wanted."

She paused. "That's true," she said. "But I hope you don't. Afterall, one of us needs to stay and make sure Trunks buckles down at school." A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And aren't you the one always harping on about how important his education is?"

I couldn't work out whether the latter comment was sarcastic or sincere. So, before deciding that I cared either way, I allowed myself to slip back into my default mental state. The emotion with which I was most at ease. The lens through which I had spent the majority of my life viewing everyone and everything around me.

Sour-faced contempt.

"Hmph." I crossed my arms. "Seems there's nothing left to say."

Bulma nodded and fumbled with her belt. There was some awkward glancing and I got the impression that she was considering giving me a goodbye kiss. It came to nothing, then as she took that first step away, I sealed our fate.

"Except this," I said. "If you go, I can't promise that I'll want you back."

I didn't wait for her reaction, not even to see the look on her face. I turned my back on her, retreated into our bedroom and went to stare out the window. When I searched the glass for her reflection, all I saw was an empty doorway.

…Whatever.

I tried convincing myself that she'd change her mind. Any second, she would come running into my arms.

…Any second.

!

The roar of a motorcycle engine disrupted my thoughts, and from the window I watched Bulma race to the end of the road. When she turned the corner, I knew it would be a long time before I saw her again.

For a minute or so, I remained unmoving.

I just stood there, taking in the heavy stillness of the room until the silence became too much to bear.

…It was stifling. Almost mocking.

'Well done', it seemed to whisper. 'You've driven her away. Now what?'

When I finally tore myself away from the window, my gaze settled on the dishevelled bed.

And then the flashbacks started.

Trunks, on his stomach, kicking and punching, tantrum in full swing.

The yelp Bulma made when he struck her arm.

The same kind of helpless yelp she made when I fucked her…when Gohan fucked her.

!

With one flippant kick, I reduced the bed to a pile of splintered junk.

A moment of silence passed.

Then, as I glanced at the carpet, I felt sheer outrage at the thought of living with something on which a delinquent had marked his territory.

!...!...!...!...!...!...!...!

Gripper bars snapped from the skirting as I ripped every last inch of shagpile from the floor. Then, I rolled it up until it looked like a giant frayed scroll and ejected it through the window.

After that, I went on a rampage. Room by room, ripping, breaking, smashing everything that reminded me of Bulma together with Gohan. The surfaces on which they had fucked - furniture, counter tops, that hideous giant sun lounger in the pool house. Even the outfits she had worn in the teenager's company.

Within a couple of hours, I had dragged nearly all the contents of Capsule Corp out into the back yard and heaped them up into a veritable mountain that I doused with aircraft fuel, peppered with energy blasts and set ablaze.

My bout of arson did little to ease my feeling of utter wretchedness.

Still, the symphony of heat and light served to distract me for a while.

As I watched on in patient wonder, the ever-growing fire swayed and pirouetted. Wild and seductive, the flames danced like they wanted me to throw cash.