debbiechan fanfiction

Always A First Time

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I can make no claim to owning DBZ, yet I have a masochistic compulsion to tell this damn story.

A/N: I’m unworthy of the long beautiful reviews I’m getting! (but I’ll take them! ;-) Thank you so much, Gohan’s Onna and others, for your generous feedback. And ahorse, thumbs up for catching the water motif! I thought I was going overboard with that one! ^^ Now this chapter is short, but I’m cutting to the chase with the lemon here. Rest assured that this story is not all about Vegeta and Bulma’s sex life (although there will be more lemons as the story calls for them!^^)

LisaB is my beta and character-accuracy sounding board; if you like my stories, you should read hers! She keeps me honest, and her stories raise the fanfic bar with their simple emotional drama.

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Chapter Five: I Am Not Your Whore

"She’s stronger than I thought.”—Vegeta, episode 119


Had he finally learned how to negotiate the treacherous terrain of Earthling shirt buttons?

Vegeta was sitting on a grassy slope in a far corner of the dinosaur atrium. Barefoot, arms crossed over his knees, he was still as a lawn ornament, not even watching the small iguanodon eating a fern a few feet before him. He was wearing those tight black training shorts and a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt buttoned almost all the way up to the top button.

Bulma smiled. The top button was popped off. Training had broadened Vegeta’s neck muscles in a miraculously short period of time.

For months after Vegeta had come to stay at Capsule Corporation, Bulma had watched him not bother unbuttoning his shirts. He would tear them off. He walked around shirtless. At some point, Bulma’s mother began stocking his room with stretchy tank tops that were more like the alien fabrics he was accustomed to, but--surprisingly--every now and then, he still put on a button shirt. Maybe he couldn’t be bothered to make dress decisions when coming out of the shower?

He looked so goddamn delicious just sitting there. Broad noonday sun shining through the glass roof over his muscular arms and legs.

Bulma steeled herself to what she had to do. She pressed an array of buttons on the wall. The code would lock out servants with access and even family members for a full two hours.

Vegeta noticed the odd sequence of blipping sounds on the atrium door controls and turned to look as the portal hummed shut. The woman was wearing an expression he didn’t like. He’d seen that face on opponents before when they thought they were about to launch an unbeatable tactic. She was walking towards him, her eyes bright and confident. I have to give her one thing--she’s brave.

She had been brave to come to the battlefield the day the boy from the Future killed Frieza. She had been brave to look the Prince of Saiyans in the eye and tell him to kill her or….

She wasn’t wearing anything special. The usual belted khaki shorts, a snug-fitting top, boots with the CC logo on the ankles. Why did she look as if she had just stripped naked before him? Her face was flushed, her limbs moving with premeditated sensuality, her hips tilting towards him. No, she was just walking. Just walking.

Vegeta shifted, dropped his palms to the grass, began to push off the ground to stand up--

And then she was standing over him, and he could hear how slow and measured her breathing was. She knelt before him. He didn’t look at her face. Her chest heaved a deep sigh.

And then her hand touched him.

Fingertips resting on the center of his chest! If she had been an adversary, he would’ve been dead by now. He hadn’t seen the gesture coming? He could not have blocked it. He could not have stopped--

Bulma was glad that he was looking at her hand and not her face when she started to unbutton his shirt. When she had done this for Yamcha their first time, the desert bandit’s chest had turned bright red as a poppy, his chest rising and falling in panicked breaths.

First button. Vegeta was as still as a statue. Second button. His chest was a deep bronze color. Hairless, smooth. Third button. In the bright sun, Bulma could see tiny scars etching the area around his dark nipples. She had never noticed those tinier scars before. Vegeta had barely bled after the capsule explosion and had healed so quickly. What could scar a Saiyan like this? Fourth button. The white shirt fell away and revealed a perfect ladder of abdominal muscles.

Her fingertips ran the length of the torso from his neck to a navel that was folded shut from his sitting position. Bulma marveled at how human it looked. Vegeta had been an embryo once, drinking nutrients from an umbilical cord. Her palm flattened against that navel. And still, he didn’t flinch. He seemed to scarcely be breathing.

She ran her palm back up that bronze torso, paused at the deep v at the beginning of his neck, looked up.

His eyes met hers. He looked implacable, fathomless, not a clue of emotion anywhere in those black pupils. But he hadn’t made a move to stop her, so Bulma--not heartened but not discouraged--lowered her face against his chest.

Brave woman. Vegeta allowed himself to close his eyes and lean backwards slightly as she opened her mouth against his flesh. She was pressing her lips against him. Her warm wet mouth grazed his collarbone. This could turn out alright. She was kneeling before him like a whore. Her mouth was relishing his body. How far would she go without encouragement? If he grabbed her head now and thrust it against his groin, would she stop? Would she scream? He wanted--

No! Her lips had inhaled his nipple and were tugging at the tissue with the most unexpected sweetness. That such a tiny gesture could ignite his whole body! Vegeta’s throat burned with the vowels he fought to restrain from escaping, from letting her know he was helpless now. He swallowed. He turned his face to the sun. Then there was some relief as her mouth left his nipple and began to kiss the rest of his chest.

Dozens of wet kisses, and now her palms were kneading his skin. She was--yes, she was.
Fingertips underneath his waistband. She was pulling down his shorts. Vegeta bent backwards to allow the gesture, bent back even more, lay down against the grass. The glass ceiling of the atrium was blinding white. Glaring sunlight. The very idea of such sunlight…enraged him.

Bulma held what most vulnerable in a powerful, murdering alien in her hand. That feeling alone was intoxicating enough, but the naked organ--it was beautiful. Fully erect, a majestic length, and the tip was glossy and round as a full moon. The exposed flesh surprised her. She had expected the strange hairlessness because Son-kun was that way. Bulma had never failed to check out her friend when he went skinny-dipping, but….

Vegeta looked so human and alien at the same time. She kissed it. She touched the tip with her tongue. She swirled her tongue lightly around the shiny moon. He should be grabbing her hair by now. Yamcha had. She moved both hands into the hot space framed by his thighs. Her tongue continued to explore the length, the textures of skin. One hand felt for the swelling in his balls. He should be grabbing her shoulders by now.
He should be making sounds….

There was no sound but the distant cawing of a pterodactyl when she took him into her mouth. Vegeta’s thighs were deadly still. There was no breeze in the sunlit clearing that smelled of ferns and forest moss, no hint of direction to the event at all. Bulma held him there, not moving. The trees, the birds, the world didn’t care. He should be moaning by now. She wanted to hear him moan.

She moved her open mouth tentatively back and forth. Again, without hesitation. Again, even more forcefully. No, no, no, I can’t do this. She stopped.

The blinding light before Vegeta’s eyes seemed to dim somewhat. Brave woman! To begin such a thing with the Prince of Saiyans and then to…stop?

“Vegeta….” It was a brave voice. He could hear the bravery in it even though the woman was obviously terrified. “You’re supposed to touch me back, you know. I can’t do this alone. I am not your whore.”

And then her face was leaning over him. Strands of blue hair falling against her flushed cheeks. “Touch me, Vegeta. Touch me with your mouth, with your hands, with this,” and she closed her palm around his aching arousal.

The crazy, shameless, infuriating woman! Vegeta grabbed her by the shoulders. She let out a gasp of pain. Kill me or fuck me. He wanted to do both. He wanted to fuck her until she was dead.

Her face was twisted with anguish but it softened, even though his grip on her did not soften. “That hurts, Vegeta. I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

But he did want to hurt her.

She lay her cheek against his. Even though she was aroused with fear and lust, her skin felt so cool. Like water. Her hair against his face was as soft as he had imagined it would be. “It can feel so good, Vegeta. It can feel so good.”

He didn’t know how it happened, but his hands were in her hair, their mouths were opening against one another, and the soft cool feeling was pouring over his face.

Hands everywhere, on his face, on his own hands guiding them to touch her breasts, hands running across his brow, through his hair. Vegeta had never felt touch like this before.

He wasn’t even trying to excite her. After she unbuckled that sharp pointy belt of hers and cast it aside and after her shorts were off, he ripped the little white panties, put his hand between her legs and felt for an opening. It was mere exploring; he didn’t know what human females had there or what they didn’t have there. But she spasmed at his first touch. She threw her head back and let out a soft cry.

He couldn’t wait. Her shirt was still on and her shoes were still on, but he opened her legs wide with his hands and thrust into her.

She was lying, blue hair fanned against the green grass. Her eyes squinted against the sun, but she never stopped looking at him. And she never stopped touching him.

Dodoria, I would not expect a ruffian like you to understand, but resistance is not the only delight. The boy pleases me not because he can be vanquished like your filthy disposable whores, but because he cannot be. I am the only one who touches the little monkey prince, is that clear?

She touched his shoulders, ran her palms against his biceps, fingered his nipples. And when she shuddered the second time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and somehow pulled him against her. Her voice in his ear was too much. He didn’t realize he had been trying to restrain himself until he let go. His own voice caught in his throat, and he grunted as he pumped her one last time. It was the only sound he made; it was not too loud at all, and for this, he was grateful. The Prince of Saiyans was in charge of his own body. He and he alone controlled it.

And so he rose onto his elbows off her body so he wouldn’t crush her.

She did not look triumphant at all, and he told himself that’s why he would not kill her. Her arms were still around his neck. “Vegeta,” she whispered. “Vegeta, I want more.”

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