His hands were gentle—as they always were, always when I was good, the good boy he wanted me to be. I suffered no abuse from him if I kept in line, and I did, sadly, but I did, probably to my father's chagrin wherever he—or his soul, I suppose—roams within the confines of this universe (surely he has not gone to heaven), if he can see me. But I'm not supposed to care—at least, that's what my master tells me, over and over every day, repeated like some sacred chant or ritual in order to keep peace, as he might envision, forever stable. He tells me softly in my ear each day that my father is dead, and that there is no shame which should come from my own obedient and humiliating actions.

"He can't see you, my sweet prince," he'd murmured recently in my ear as I lay beside him, wrapped in his arms and warmth which somehow provided some comfort to me, the comfort which I so desperately wanted to hide. "You don't have to be concerned with him anymore. Concern yourself with me, my sweet one; the one who will forever fulfill your needs and keep you grounded."

That voice was soft, seductive, sometimes sexually, as his hands grip my hardened member and fondle it until I give into his teasing, or as he thrusts into me, tearing grunts and moans of pain and pleasure both from my throat as he steals my innocence again and again, stroking my body to such a point I feel I can't return from, where my humiliation controls my body and my lips and sadly I've already succumb. But there are also times when that voice is like that of a protector, someone I can come to for every comfort or warmth I may need, both physically or mentally. It's seductive in the sense that I cannot overcome its power and often do give into its softly inscribed commands, pouring out my secrets, my hopes and my dreams, my frustrations and emotions, everything my master could use and would long for in establishing a regime to properly control me—not that he hasn't already, but I suppose long ago when he first took me into his bed, when he first spoke to me in that beautiful way that now almost always occupies his voice in my presence, he found a great well of that crucial information, for he knows, and I do too, that I am weak beyond comprehension. I've stopped pretending, after all of my fighting with him as a young child; now, at seventeen, I've given into his needs to let myself rest—shameful, but easier of course.

Tonight was no different. Earlier today, though to my disoriented mind it seems it could have been ages ago, when I returned home—as my master, Lord Frieza tells me it is, and will always be—I was made to report to his throne room. I knew what to expect, after many a "session" with him when his longing for my body and spirit is so overflowing from months of not having me by his side, and his passion is unrivaled; I knew that when I returned he likes me to bathe, to clean my young body of impurities—though disturbingly to me now he tells me often how sweet my sweat is as I lay beneath him, how luscious my blood, like a delicacy barely tasted as he laps at my wounds, some made by him during his sexual advances, drinking all he can and licking it from his lips. I let him—never offering any protest than soft grunts and cries of pain as he does so. But when first returning, he does not like the idea that someone may have touched me—the dirt of another gracing my skin; so after a soak in the regen tank, I bathe with the soaps scented how he loves—exotic flower and musk, hints of spices or incense—which he picks out before my arrival and leaves for me. I dress in the clothes he's left me—sometimes tight underwear or some type of pants, but often nothing more than my ki-suppressing collar, a beautiful, gem encrusted thing which gleams and, as he says, compliments my eyes. In such a case I put on a robe before reporting to his throne room to hide my shame from the prying eyes of others on the ship, as requested by Frieza (I am for him to delight in, and for only him). I am also expected to put on perfume, to comb my hair, and to generally make myself presentable to my master. I do so, my mind wandering somewhere else, somewhere brighter.

But by the time I get to his throne room, I am usually very aroused—something that delights him with such fierceness and makes his advance on me that much more heated and done more quickly. As for me, I don't know what exactly makes me aroused; maybe it's having bathed and prepared myself (I have a light suspicion that something in the soap he gives me is the culprit, but I do recognize that such thoughts are most likely just an attempt to save my pride and relinquish my shame), or perhaps bluntly it is an effect of my anticipation for the activities which my young body will soon be subjected to. Either way, I try not to think about it. Simply I make my way to his throne room, torn: should I walk quickly so that those I pass do not see my erection, or slowly so that I can prolong my humiliation? Always, I chose the former—in the hallways there is more pain to be had than with my master, who has led me to believe, maybe falsely, that he understands me and will never judge me; will take me in with open arms. But those who don't understand will tease me and again I will be reminded of my dishonor, the things that I do with Frieza and which I do alone which would make my father turn away from me and refuse to address me as son. Sadly now, I find more comfort (not the healthy kind that a child derives from its parents and their embrace but the kind a child lost in the dark cold wilderness might a tattered blanket left behind, or a bush to provide enough cover so that they may sleep peacefully) in my master's arms than I do with the idea of being reunited with my father—in fact, I dread it, actually. I'm good for Frieza so that he won't have to kill me and make me face him again—and Frieza knows it, too.

This afternoon was no different. I bathed in a sweet scent which reminded me of peppermint or cinnamon and flowers, strong and light at the same time and very seductive. He left me nothing but my collar, which I took around my neck and latched without much thought. Donning my satin robe, I was already aroused, and didn't make any effort to try to quell this as might have in the past. I checked myself in the mirror and noticed, making my arousal increase, how very beautiful I looked tonight—how very feral, yet somehow tame. Moaning I looked down as I felt wetness between my legs—oh how Frieza would be pleased!—which reminded me that I must report to my master, who was impatient and would be about ready to jump on me the moment I entered. I didn't have time so clean up, and I knew Frieza would have been disappointed had I done so. Subconsciously I was already setting out to please him, as always, but again, it was so much easier not to think about it—just to do as I was told like the good boy I was.

I walked quickly, clutching my member so that it would not drip down my legs as I walked and would not be visible to others, but to my gratification the halls were relatively empty, and I made it without running into anyone. Once there, I knocked on the door.

"Yes," the voice came from inside, and I could hear the lust laced within it. "Come in, Vegeta, my love." He had of course been expecting me.

I did. Inside he sat upon his throne, a glass of blood red wine in his hands. The room was empty; Zarbon and Dodoria, who normally flanked Frieza, were rarely seen by my eyes—to my understanding, it was our private time and Frieza would not let even the closest of his henchmen intrude. Therefore I was not surprised when he gave me the command, "Come in my baby, shut the door behind you."

I did as I was told, closing the door and stepping inside the well lit room, and letting my gaze fall upon my master. He was wearing his underwear but nothing else, as if he wanted to cut to the chase the minute I entered. Immediately, I could see his eyes filled with lust and arousal, even before he began to look me over, seductively as he did. He took in the image of me with the robe on first, carefully studying me and not immediately ordering me to take my robe off as he sometimes did, as if he were trying to first formulate a mental image of me, his dream one, undressing me with his eyes before he saw the real thing.

"Turn around for me, my little one."

I did, staring at the wall now in front of me, happy to have my front, which began to drip even more and throb achingly the moment he began looking me over, out of his line of vision, if just for a minute. Unfortunately, however, my precum was beginning to drip down my legs, much to my mortification, and was forming a small puddle beneath me as thought about him looking at my backside which he would soon undoubtedly penetrate. I could hear Frieza purring even from the distance between us—and he could wait no longer.

"Turn around my sweet prince, take off your robe, let Frieza see you."

Grunting with the discomfort of my member, I turned, and let the robe fall away from my shoulders and onto the ground. Nude except for my neck-piece, he now once again looked me over, his purrs growing exponentially louder as they settled on my erection, dripping even more now. I couldn't stifle a little moan which trickled out my throat, brought on by my intense arousal at watching him watch me. This made his purrs become so loud I thought I could hear them echo throughout the room, but what was more—he had quite an erection himself now, too.

"Oh my poor sweet Vegeta, have you missed your master so much, really?" he asked me softly after a minute, swirling his wine glass in amusement, his eyes still locked onto my groin.

I knew what he wanted, and I would not withhold it from him, of course not. "Y-yes master Frieza," I stuttered, uttering a little gasp at the end, so incredibly uncomfortably, and wanting nothing more than release of this feeling. Frieza knew it, too, but he liked to tease me and I was not ignorant to the fact that he would not give me this release for a while, until I worked for it; it aroused him to see me uncomfortable and completely at his mercy, as was typical of him.

"Tell me, Vegeta," he murmured softly, a seductive smile gracing his lips. "What goes through your mind right now? What are you thinking of to make you so nice and hard and wet?"

That was an odd question—certainly, one he hadn't asked before. Of course, he didn't skip the foreplay just because he was yearning for this release, too—especially if I wasn't already aroused, he would make it a point to bring me there, so that I would be more pleasurable to him when he came onto me—but this was odd. Typically, he would ask me to come to him, and I would. He'd sit me in his lap, spread my legs, and nudge my entrance with his erection or use his fingers to explore, or both, or would simply fill me while stroking and tugging at my limp member, all the while purring and murmuring in my ear until I got up. It didn't take long, and once I did, he'd typically finish me until I came before actually beginning our intercourse. He didn't ask me how I felt, not before our sex, at least, and I had thought that was simply because it wasn't a concern for him—he could get me up this way and it would be much quicker and more pleasurable to him (or so I thought, and wouldn't think again after this odd, humiliating night, because I had no idea what I was in for). Still, as an obedient servant, I would answer him, and unfortunately I would do it truthfully (at least, truthfully in the sense that I was not lying, but I was not gratifying it either simply because it was truthful), something I regret now as I lay next to him and we are both filled with the knowledge of what I had done, and what I'd said, thought about.

"Y-you m-master Frieza," I grunted, my member dripping more and now throbbing so painfully I wanted to scream. "I t-think of you."

His purring immediately grew louder, if that were possible; his erection, longer. The tone of sexuality and seduction in his voice increased dramatically, his eyes dimming with need. "Oh, do you now, my sweet, sweet little prince? And what about your master makes you so aroused, hmm?"

I didn't really know what he expected me to tell him—after all, I hardly knew myself why I was so aroused, though of course in the back of my mind the idea resided that I could be genuinely attracted to Frieza and could be reeling in anticipation of what he would do to me, how he would turn me out. But could I tell him this? Something so revealing and personal, so essential in my downfall? Would I be able to tell him? What was more—did I want to? So many people in my future, I would come to learn and know so well, would ask me how I'd survived Frieza—how'd abused me, or how he'd murdered my dreams and turned me into a monster; but was that actually true? How easy was it for me, in truth, to tell him everything he might want, how the words slipped softly off my tongue and into his close ears, as if he were anything but that killer they fabled. I was so broken and maybe my hesitance was simply from my own uncertainty about my feelings. Would I tell him? Yes; who else was I to confide in? My dead father or mother, who would reel in shame at my feelings. I juggled the idea that I loved my master with my hate for what he had made me and tried to make sense of them; only in him would I find the answers or at least a placation so that I would not continue to endlessly ponder. He was there, always, to remove that burden.

So I did my best—after all, so used as I was I found no reason to hide anything else; no reason as he'd already explored the very reaches of my body and mind, every crevice, each night when we made love. I was his, all his, and perhaps it was unfair to him to withhold what he should be so rightfully entitled to.

"Y-you," I stuttered; because I didn't know what I was feeling I told him what I wanted—what he deserved. "Y-you my master, e-everything about you…t-take me…"

Well—I hadn't expected to give him that much, and I was surprised about my own words. But I at least knew that they were half truthful, because I was longing for release so badly, wanting nothing more than to leave my body and escape the excruciating pain and pleasure of my humiliating arousal. At least, I would muse gently, detached, unreal, my master was pleased—but unfortunately he was not the type to provide such release when he was enjoying himself, as he was now, and as I've told you.

"Oh, sweet boy, calm yourself—patience. You will feel me inside you soon enough, but lately I've been thinking about our relationship…tell me my prince, have you? Do you think about me when we are apart? Do you long for my arms around you?"

I would now say whatever I could in order to gain my release more quickly, even if it meant succumbing to these games he played. I suppose I hadn't realized then how much control I'd really let him have over me—how much he really controlled my life, each and every aspect. Truly, after twelve years of servitude, I was a hull, an empty shell which found it easier to linger in this darkness rather than to kindle a fire of rebellion and take back my body, my mind, my heart. This man was cruel in so many ways, so tactful, so purposeful, meaningful, so caring…my love…

"Y-yes, always…always…"

He smiled at me; not the kind of smile which he sometimes regards his business persons with but the genuine, loving smile—that which has been solely reserved for me. "Do you, my Vegeta? Do you really?"

"Y-yes—m-master please, I'm aching."

"Vegeta, prince, you can be very one-track minded, my love, you know this? Try to practice some patience, child. I know that I arouse you, but is that all you think of me? Do you only think of my physical pleasure, that which I give you? Perhaps I have given you too much," he said, and I could hear it—his purring was swiftly lightening, his tone almost returning to normal, and he was just barely hanging on to his erection.

"N-no, master, n-no, b-but I can't…n-not now…please…"

Sighing, he picked up his wine glass and stirred it lazily. "Fine Vegeta, you may rub yourself until you're done."

I couldn't believe it; it was the first time I think he'd ever refused to take me, especially not when I cried for him to fill me and to pleasure me. But it was then that I realized there was something instantly different about him—something overriding his lust, and I thought: perhaps I've gone over the top with this, perhaps I've turned him off. Is he so concerned with this meaningless stuff that he will not just quell my arousal? I was so dumbfounded, because this was not the Frieza I knew—the Frieza who wanted anything from me but my body and my obedience and to hear something other than a robotic programmed speech about how I loved him. This Frieza was suddenly more concerned about my actual soul than my dripping member which he had previously so craved, and I could only wonder distantly—what had changed? And so quickly? There had been no clothing for me—nothing but my ki-collar. A sultry fragrance. His evaluation of my body, his wondering what about him aroused me. Where had it gone wrong? Was it simply that I had begged so thoroughly for release, and if so, why was that suddenly a problem when it had never been before?

Still I wanted it done—over with, more than I wanted anything at that moment. I sat on the floor, laid back and spread my legs, and gripped my member and rubbed. Oddly my confusion was making me more aroused and I knew it would not take long, and I could confront this odd new Frieza then. I barely thought about what I was doing—how I was rubbing myself in front of my master, how I was grunting and moaning, how he most likely thought correctly that I was thinking of him, how he'd been rubbing himself as he watched me…which was somehow okay yet when I wanted release I could gain none? Of course, it was a double standard—a game played by him which he could control, in which his piece could do whatever it wanted. I was a little powerless, shapeless nub on that chessboard.

When I came, I laid on the ground, panting, and in an instant I found my master standing over me, looking down at me, his pants off but now no indication that he had masturbated to my actions (how foolish I was really, especially because now like myself he was completely flaccid). I looked up at him with eyes that were washed in pleasurable haze, sleepily; now I felt no need to go to him, of course, and if I had been perceptive I would have realized that that had been his problem—I was too attached to his body and what it gave me. He was my master, and he wanted more—not just the feelings I always gave him, that information, but how I felt about us. It was about time that he finally had a clear idea of where I stood, I guessed.

He sat down by my head on the ground and looked at me for a moment, before leaning down and gently kissing lips. I kissed back as I'd learned to, if half-heartedly. Luckily, it wasn't that sexual a kiss, but it was passionate on his part, loving. It was an interaction but not a call for sex or arousal. I tried to mimic it but could not; it was not one I knew when I lived in a world starkly divided between sex and pleasure and pain and zero emotion, a dead-between world like state, where there was no feeling. And there was no middle ground here—none. I couldn't—at seventeen, so lost and exhausted and abused, stolen, used, I knew none, even if I'd poured my emotions out to him time and time again, but now I know that I did so because like that erection I'd needed release, and could not get it without my partner. Those moments of weakness were nothing more than a forced action after time and time again of being pressured, by my own mind itself, to find some kind of attachment to something in this world so that I did not feel so alone—so that I could stay grounded and would not leave as my race had years before, without a trace. It was all fake, forged, and sloppily so, illegally, painfully, destructively. He was my love yet I did not love him. We had benefits, but were just acquaintances. Nothing more. Yet tonight was the night it would all change. Tonight, the two of us would come together, and he would become more than my provider—he would become the other half of my soul and I would truthfully find our separation painful. I would moan for him not of arousal but sadness, would purr simply when we were in the same room and not only when he touched my crotch. Things would change, for how, I don't know.

"How do you feel, prince?" he said when he broke the kiss. His purring was returning and I dully noted it, not caring much.

"Fine, master Frieza," I mumbled, really longing for sleep now that I'd gotten rid of that painful extension. My mission had been arduous and really there was not much more I wanted now than to curl up beneath the thick covers of my bed and lose myself in sleep—deep, warm sleep.

Of course, my perceptive master knew this, too—but I did not expect that it would make him very irritated.

"Sleepy already, my sweet love? Oh, such a predictable boy you are, you know that? When you came here you wanted nothing more than for me to rub out your little erection, and then to just lay down and go to sleep without giving me a second glance. Such a little, mean liar you are sometimes my sweetheart. I love you but, oh, I wish I didn't. I would have killed you so long ago did I not, because you are such a self, spoiled little brat, and I still wonder how I can love such an inconsiderate child. Ah, but here we are, are we not?"

My sleepy haze had left, and I was just staring up at him with these eyes which I am really sure were very wide and wet with stark fear—nothing short of horror. I was sure he'd strike my face, kick my crotch, grab at my throat, twist my tail until I howled with pain and odd pleasure. He would bind my hands and lash me until I screeched, choke me until I went blue in the face, bang my head against a wall until his frustrations were wiped out. And instantly I recoiled, for this fate was one experienced too often for me to expect anything else.

He sighed—but miraculously he did none of these things.

"Poor Vegeta, poor Vegeta, I'm not going to hurt you…not anymore…I'm going to make you mine, finally, my little one, and I will never have to hurt you any longer, and you, my baby, will never have to hurt me. All of our pain will be gone," he said softly, looking down at me, and I felt his hand gently touch my thigh, a comforting, lover's touch, yet still I could not help flinching. Thankfully he didn't seem fazed, and was rather more concerned for me—amazingly, but was. "Relax my love. Relax. Now, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that—you have every reason to be sleepy. You've done well on your mission. We will let you sleep before we continue, so your head will be clearer and you will be awake. I want you awake—I want you to enjoy it." He smiled at me, again, that reserved-for-Vegeta smile.

I didn't know what he was talking about—the idea of sex crossed my mind of course, but why would that be different from anything else we'd ever done before? And why was he talking about making me his? Hadn't he already done that the first night he took me into his bed and tore into me until I dripped with crimson blood? Of course, my mind could have probably tried to process this information and formulate some explanation—and probably would have—but I didn't really have that much time to think about it, as he was already scooping me up off the ground and pulling my robe back around my shoulder.

"Come, Vegeta, time for bed. I'll tuck you in tonight, would you like that?"

…Tuck me in? Had he ever done such a thing?—actually, had Frieza and I ever not been in the bed together? Still my mind could not wrap itself around Frieza now, this new, suddenly changed Frieza, the Frieza who'd seemed to make up his mind the minute he'd asked me how I felt about him and when I'd asked him for release. This change was odd for me, and even if our old relationship had been far from perfect, it was still one I'd come to know, and it was at this point something of comfort, the familiarity of it. I felt upended, but I still remembered my duty to provide him with the answers he wanted, and didn't imagine that would change with whatever he had planned—whatever that was.

"O-oh….y-yes master, I would…"

He smiled at me, very gently, his eyes filled with understanding as he reached up a gentle hand to caress my cheek. "You've been lying to me for a very long time, have you not, my Saiyan Prince Vegeta? Answer me honestly, I will not hurt you."

The words slipped out—from somewhere within me, the coffin within the soil that comprised this mask of falseness where I had buried by true self, before Frieza, during the glory days, they came from within that coffin, and they were so strong that I could not stop them, not even if I'd had time to think about it. "Yes, master."

He closed his eyes but the smile didn't leave. "Ah, my poor prince…you have been wronged by me…for a very long time, my prince…too long…and I want you to know that I never wanted to have you that way…I wanted you to love me naturally, you know that? But when you wouldn't…" he shook his head and looked back at me, smiling gently. "Don't worry my beautiful prince, you and I will soon understand each other, and you will feel for me what I have felt for you since the moment I laid my eyes on you. You will realize it within you."

Not knowing how else to respond, I gently said, "Yes master."

"That's my good prince," he purred, and the two of us fell into a kiss once again, he of course leading and my lips disorientedly following in a thick haze of confusion and uncertainty, but I lingered there, almost enjoying the comfort it brought me; in fact, he broke the kiss, smiling when he saw that I was still slumped over, my lips open and my eyes half closed, realizing that I was probably disappointed that our moment, this one so foreign to me, had ended. But he was concerned with my rest.

To placate me, he kissed my forehead and ran his fingers through my hair gently, and used his tail to lead me until I rested against his chest. "Don't worry, my love, we will continue this after you've had a nap. Come, let me put you to bed—I know you feel uncomfortable about it now, but soon you won't be able to shut your beautiful eyes without my command."

I followed him to my bedroom, not far from his own for those past, now seemingly meaningless reasons, which I had once thought all powerful and solely-dominating in our relationship. Perhaps in the future, when whatever this change was he talked of had been conducted, it would change. Maybe we'd sleep in the same room, every night no matter what. My mind was spinning with thoughts like this and others, still when we entered my bedroom and he pulled my robe off of my shoulders and led me to the bed, where the covers had been turned back, as if in anticipation for some upcoming bout of sex. He helped me to sit down and undid the latch on my ki-controlling collar.

He smiled as he set it down. "We won't need this anymore, Vegeta, even though you look gorgeous wearing it. But imagine it, dear prince, imagine never having to be restrained, to be able to freely express your delicious strength my Vegeta? Does that please you?"

I was so overwhelmed with all these ideas, which were being flung at me too quickly for me to catch and process, and I couldn't formulate a response of any kind. My brain, exhausted already from my mission couldn't fit these pieces together, and was not looking to, at least until I'd gotten some good sleep. Luckily, Frieza, again perceptive, realized my predicament.

"Oh, don't worry, we'll talk about this later, nap time now. Come, into bed."

I swung my legs onto the bed with his help and he pulled the thick covers up over my body and smoothed them, in a loving, maternal way, one which I would barely take note of in my state of now half-sleep.

"Good, Vegeta, close your eyes, rest—relax your mind, for all your questions will be answered when you wake. Rest now, Vegeta, my love, rest. Sleep."

My eyes were made to close shut when he kissed each lid, and I was put to sleep instantly.