Kakarotto's Balls

Warnings (a.k.a. causes for celebration): testicular obsession, perverse humor.
Disclaimer: I don't own Toriyama's characters or their testicles.

Saiyajin balls should reek, Kakarotto. They should give a rich stink of glorious and untamed power. Worthy Saiyajin balls summon soldiers to war and lovers to fuck, no matter how well armored they are. Whether hidden beneath many-layered garments or bared to the heavens, Saiyajin balls are worthy, compelling, magnificent. But yours balls, Kakarotto, are pitifiul. You have third-class berries, light-scented and uncommanding when they should be heavy, overripe fruit. Lesser warrior of a lesser family, it should not surprise me that your balls are inferior. And yet, they call to me, Kakarotto and I must know why. I must.

Ah, Kakarotto, I watch you bare yourself in the stream, cleaning your sweaty, hard-muscled body. Cool water drips from your tangled hair, runs in rivulets down your back, trickles into the crack of your ass. The chill tightens your balls. They shrink and wrinkle beneath your lazy cock. I lick my lips. You wash them with casual indifference. My hands curl into fists. What are you doing? Grip them firmly! Massage and tug them! Invoke their power! Release the fragrant strength to compel both ally and enemy! Oh fool, you know nothing, and I will not stoop to teach you.

I test you when you are unaware, Kakarotto. In peacetime there is too little to do, too much talk and too little action. We eat at the same table. The women serve us, and we let them. My hands slips into my pants where it cannot be seen. Your woman babbles, oblivious. The blue-haired vixen senses something, but only vaguely. Her suspicion hardens my cock. Her shrewd shrewishness lured me to impregnate her. But never mind. It is your attention I seek. Smell me, fool. Recognize your Prince. I tug and squeeze. You look into my eyes. I summon you.

You tell me I need a bath "or something," and I laugh openly. The woman questions you, tells you I showered that morning. I don't need her to defend me, but I enjoy your reaction. I smell like "an animal," do I, Kakarotto? I step closer, and you sniff my armpit. No, child of the homeworld who does not know what it means to be Saiyajin, that is not whence the rich aroma arises. I grip my package and shake it at you. You tell me to fuck off, and I chuckle again. The dance moves us both, doesn't it?

I wake, sweating and shuddering in the night. I sit up, throw off tangled blankets that lack the warmth of Saiyan furs remembered from childhood. My mouth is dry; the nightmare lingers. I'm on my knees, gagged not by Freeza's hard white fist but by your soft hairy balls, Kakarotto. Sweet torture! It's you who should kneel, should lathe my regal testicles with your subservient, inferior tongue! In dream as in life, you were born to serve. But my sleeping world has so long been filled with torment, I should not be surprised. I lick my lips with open longing.

"You're gonna suck my balls," I growl, a thread of desperation in my voice as I pin you to the floor of the gravity chamber. The blue-haired female has left us to our "training," and I can stand no more. You cock your head, chuckle, push against my grip. We're both the worse for wear, our garments torn and bodies glistening, and your Saiyajin balls are calling to me. They're wrong, all wrong, but the need is right. As I fumble with my belt, you press your luck, throwing me over your head into the wall with a cockeyed grin.

No longer will I allow you and your inferior balls to torment me, Kakarotto. You can smell my princely superiority, yet you do not bow to it. I will prove my worthiness and you will confess it. I will show you what you and your balls could become under my control. I find you, alone and napping, and act without hesitation. I bind you hard and release your cock and your twin globes. You protest, struggling, as I extend a commanding tongue. But I suck you well, and at last you yield. Together, we share your perfect testicular submission, Kakarotto.