It was seven thirty when I woke up that night—after having been put to sleep at a mere three in the afternoon, I'd had a considerable nap but unfortunately woke groggier than when I gone to bed—and more disoriented. And what was more to make me regret that long slumber: such dreams I'd had—dreams I still remember now and suppose I will never forget no matter how long I live, possessing the vividness that it did. My current lover would have called it a nightmare, though I don't think so; rather, bluntly put, I think it was more of wet dream, a very pleasurable one at that. I still think of the dream sometimes at night, when it's late and my lover is asleep and I am longing desperately for pleasure, which this dream gave me, plenty. I woke that night, aroused and wet.

Frieza was a beast—an animal like creature which had stalked me through some wooded area, some place of my past which I can't place or really relate to but which I know had a significance, that though I'm not sure. I was naked, but my hair flowed around me like my old friend Raditz's when he'd been younger. As if I'd become…feral, I wild animal as our race had always been in the dark ages, and when the moon glows brightly and fully above our heads. I was a monster in this dream, a creature of the night, and so was Frieza—the dominant sort of creature that preys on the softer creatures, that which was I. As I leaned against a tree and caught my breath after what seemed like an eternity of slow motion running, I heard it howl and hiss and purr, all somehow at the same time, in nearby bushes. The wind was at a standstill, non existent, and there were no animals or other sound—simply that of the beast. And in a flash of a moment—because I was moving so slow and Frieza was moving so fast—I found myself pinned against the bark helplessly; there were claws in one of my hands and one on my waist, and a tail had struck me in the lower groin, making me lurch back into the tree.

In the night, the eyes were some of the only things I saw—and they were not that usual hellish red that they always so often seemed to be; instead, they were a bright, yet somehow diluted yellow, like that of the moon on a crisp fall night, a haunted moon lurking in the sky—or the eyes of a beast, a swamp creature or werewolf—something unpleasant. And they were fixated on my own. Another thing I saw were two sparkling, razor sharp fangs in an open mouth which glinted in the low light, maybe that cast by the eyes alone, I didn't know, but I saw them, clearly. He was foaming at the mouth, and the jaw was snapping wildly, hungrily, all the while saliva dripping onto my neck as he brought his face dangerously close.

His claws had tightened and I let out a howl as my flesh was torn in this manner, especially in the tender areas he had chosen—an exposed wrist riddled with veins and a tender thigh unused to any touch, let alone those razor sharp talons. I felt blood drip and run down my body, finding the crevices and flowing there like tiny rivers—and these only increased as the monster applied more pressure, as did my howls. Then he brought his claws out roughly and took my shoulders in his hands, and then again applied pressure. Suddenly his lips were against mine, and we were passionately engaged with each other's tongue; but this didn't last long because he sunk his teeth into mine, biting it off to silence my cries. Then—then he leaned in and licked my neck, before sinking his teeth into that flesh with such untamed ferocity that for a moment there was nothing but the feeling of sharp, undiluted pain—as if that was the entirety of my life and there was nothing but that cruel sensation.

And he fed on that blood; while my world deteriorated to red and pain ruled my domain, he fed like an animal until I drown in my own blood. And when I was dead, I watched him devour my body like the ruler of some religious and ancient people, who believed in sacrifice to their higher god.

When my eyes were open, finally, though my mind was still not quite here with me, still lost in that bloody but somehow so stimulating dream, I had them fixed upon the origin of this odd sensation I was getting—in my groin area. Beneath the sheets, which were now remarkably snug against my groin, there was a noticeable lump, which I noticed sleepily was swiftly growing as something within that cocoon was slowly and rhythmically stroking the appendage—what looked like a hand.

"Good morning, my Vegeta," a voice purred softly to me, and my eyes, still covered with a layer of sleep-fog, but which was clearing swiftly, traveled there.

"M-master…F-Frieza…" it was meant to be a question, but it came out like a statement as if I'd actually expected my master to be sitting in a chair next to my bed, watching me presumably as I slept that night and dreamed—and to be honest, I think I had. After all, after so many years of having such intimacy with my master—having him knowing all my secrets and turn ons, and, myself having somehow figured out a few of his, it wasn't as if it was an odd occurrence to wake to find him at my side—or even on top of me, or already inside me.

He smiled at me as he mused, "You're aroused already—did you have some nice dream, my Vegeta?" I noticed now, more awake, that he was purring steadily and my attention was turned to the lump beneath the tight sheets, where I had realized his missing hand was, why he was hunched over, his arm beneath the blankets. He was stroking me—again, not odd, but still unnerving, as usual, I suppose the idea that he was fondling me in my sleep and he was enjoying such a natural, uncontrolled reaction from me…but I gave those when I was awake, too, so I shouldn't have seen a problem—but there was something wrong—horrendously wrong with this night and this time and this place, more so than usual, even as perverted any actions he took or my responses in the past. Simply put—and honestly as best as I can explain it to you—something was seriously wrong.

In the past I probably would have let him finish me off, especially because I felt I was very close to release, but tonight I couldn't—tonight, this wrong night, I wouldn't give into that brief pleasure; actually, I couldn't, feeling that if I did something horrible would come about me: perhaps pain or embarrassment but what was really apparent to me, what I most expected—my death. And so tonight, exhibiting more defiance than I think I had in the entirety of my "servitude" to my master, I rolled away from his hand and to the other side of the bed, no matter how I wanted or needed that release.

I heard his hand fall to the bed with a soft flump.

And now he wasn't smiling; he was frowning, perplexity shaping his face, and for once in perhaps the longest time he looked a lot older and a lot less attractive as I could see every wrinkle in the low light cast by the moon outside my window—almost full. Almost, he looked unnervingly, dauntingly practiced, like some war veteran or retired mortician, someone who's seen a lot of shit, and it's not the kind of shit you really want to hear about. I was drawn away from him, not toward him—which, again, such a change, because often my master provided such comfort to me, humiliating, confusing, but comfort none the less. In fact looking at him he seemed to be more of a monster than the lover I had come to know, and like something of a horror movie I really wanted to release a scream which was trapped in my throat, only held back by my lingering arousal, perhaps that, a different scream.

"Vegeta, darling…" he said, looking at me with these cold, darkening eyes. I could tell immediately that he did not like this new resistance I was exhibiting—unlike my new lover who was so receptive to my wants and needs, master Frieza was more concerned about what he wanted, and now he wanted my erection in his hands and my release straining though his white fingers. But his voice was soft, although that made it much worse; it was that controlled, I'm-trying-not-to-kill-you-right-now-Vegeta-but-you're-making-it-hard voice, the same one he'd used when he'd told me how selfish I was for wanting to go to sleep and not to simply pleasure him. It was one I really didn't like and I was almost prepared to be whipped with his thick tail across the face.

But he didn't; instead, he offered up his arms to me, holding them out as if expecting embrace, normally a loving gesture but his face was still anything but happy or joyous as I imagined might suit such body language. Seriously, he said, "Vegeta, prince, come here."

I looked at him—and I don't know where I found this courage, or why I came about this state of defiance—why I was insistent on this tonight, as if I was very sure of myself and my own actions enough that I wasn't afraid of any repercussions—but I looked my master squarely in the eyes and shook my head. I wasn't going to come to him and let him rub me just because that would have felt good, would have been what I wanted—tonight, on this the full moon, I was going to follow my instincts more than sexual desires and now I found no good in the idea of going to him. I didn't feel right about it, again, not here, not now. And I wouldn't really know why until I reflected upon it years and years later, when I decided that I had felt violated, and maybe actually was, by the dream I had had—had felt my image of my master tainted and ruined, splattered with my blood. I was afraid of him and wanted nothing more than to get away from him, not wanting to make love to him, let alone let this moment be the one we'd bond in, which I didn't know them—but again, reflecting, I think instinctually I probably had some idea of what would happen between us, if that dream was any indication. And I didn't want it to happen that way. I wanted to feel attracted to him the way he was me, even if I hadn't recognized it in the moment—more than anything I wanted to wash those feelings away in that moment.

And so my defiance really amazes me—and I suppose it would make me really proud, if there wasn't some ulterior, sexually driven motive behind it. But either way I stated gently, stuttering a little on the first syllable, "Master…I'd like to shower first. Please…I feel horrible."

I watched the sternness melt away, and I knew instantly that he was concerned for me—after all, he didn't want his prince feeling horrible; really he wanted me to feel anything but, especially in his presence. And this new face he was making at me was already making me feel better—so soft and beautiful and young, loving, understanding, but oh, it did a number on my extension. My feet were itching to hit the ground and run to the bathroom, my fingers longing to twist the nob of the faucet to the coolest setting and to arch my hips so the water would pelt me in the offending area. The idea itself made me groan. Luckily, he didn't seem to be looking here anymore—and I suppose, if I speak in my weak, emotional way, this was another thing I really liked about him; the way he was so concerned for my safety and health, how loving and maternal, qualities my new lover does not in any way possess—more than anything, Kakarot is more concerned with how he feels than anything else, which is why I don't blame his wife for leaving him. He might care for me, but he's horrid when it comes to considering others and turning attention away from his own needs for even the smallest moment—which is something my master does and can do surprisingly well, even if when he thinks he knows what's best for me he'll act upon that thought without any concern for what I want; if he thinks he can pleasure me and I need pleasure, he'll pleasure me, if he thinks I should pleasure him, he'll order me to get on my knees. He's very "considerate" that way, unlike Kakarot.

Either way, I was happy Frieza was concerned with how I felt and was looking into my eyes because if he had been looking at my crotch, he perhaps would have felt confused more than anything and would have most likely and painfully denied me the shower I so desperately wanted. And again, this was very endearing to me, because I knew he was very aroused, and very ready to do what he had been waiting years and years to do to me which would make me his forever and ever; the fact that he would be willing to wait should I feel better, made me feel so loved and so relevant, I could have given into him just then. But I needed to rinse myself; to cleanse myself of all these thoughts and to lose my mind for a few minutes, to dissolve into quiet and solitude and turn into a blank slate which my master could paint upon lovingly and sensually.

I almost jumped to my feet when he gave me the go-ahead: "Yes, of course, my angel, go have a shower, a bath if you'd like. If you're trying to get rid of that lump of yours, put a cool towel on it, but if you're ill I don't want you bathing in cold water; and I'm going to come in in five minutes to check that it's hot if you'd like to bathe yourself…" he said softly, and stood up and made his way quickly over to me, seeing that I was very eager to into the shower, wanting to catch me before I bolted away, I assumed, "but you know I'd rather do it myself. Would you like a little help, my Vegeta? I'd be happy to wash you."

Normally, I might have—but again, I wanted a cleanse; a release. I couldn't be stimulated by or near my lover until I'd released this dream, because each time I saw him I would remember those eyes. But little did I know that there would be absolutely no forgetting this dream and that in the heat of the moment, as we began this age old, time old ritual to unite our spirits, it would be that dream which drove me into my primal state and made me complete that which he had started—our sweet bond. And this erection? Well, it would leave the moment Frieza left my sight, and I would take a cool shower and feel relaxed. But when I came out, the moment I came out and saw him laying on the bed staring up at the ceiling dreamily, waiting to take me into his arms once again, I would stiffen instantly—with not a moment's hesitation. This erection, made by that horrible but somehow beautiful dream, would be the one which would drive our bond, and it would not leave without the help of my soul mate.

But for now, I'd try: "I"ll be fine," I stuttered, shrugging out of his embrace gently, not wanting to offend him, "I'd just like to take a quick shower and then go to bed. I promise I'll keep it hot."

He looked sadly at me for a moment, though the smile never left—it just sagged, I guess is the best way to explain it, and his eyes dimmed gently. But my lover was, as I said, very perceptive, and knew now I wanted and needed space, and he would respect that because he knew pushing me would get us nowhere, a battle not worth fighting when he knew he'd lose the war ultimately. But he was worried and I saw it in his eyes, easily, and I would note immediately how openly he'd appeared in that moment, just staring at me with an expression I could read clear as a book, one which said, "oh, Vegeta, (some noun, which I'd cringe at but internally loved when uttered from his purple lips, to address me, a "pet name" as I'd come to know it, a phrase Bulma's mother used a lot) I'm so worried for you, and I don't like to see you sad, it makes me sad," or something of the sort. And now reflecting upon that moment I realized that that night, he'd perhaps been the most emotional, the most open, the most free in the twelve years I'd lived on his ship and had ever seen him. I loved him for it; of course, I hate him for it, but I love him for it, too. And so even though I really needed to get away from my master, I let him hug me and I hugged him back, and I didn't squirm away as he placed a kiss on my cheek.

"Alright, my baby," he murmured between another kiss. "I want you to take a bath, and I want it hot. If it's not Frieza's going to be very angry, understand?"

"Yes, master."

I was about to pull out of his grip, feeling that that was our parting point, but he held me still, and I looked back up at him.

"Vegeta?"

"Yes, master."

"You know…I'd like you to stop calling me that," he said, running a finger through my hair and down to my cheek, tracing my jawbone. "Of course, I am your master, yes, but…you'd be better off to just call me Frieza. Would you like that?"

I was stunned, but again felt it was my duty to oblige…and I really just wanted to get out of his arms and into the shower—whatever it would take. In fact, I wouldn't really process it just yet, and would rather simply blindly obey.

"Yes m-…yes Frieza…"

He smiled at me and kissed my forehead. "That's better. Now, go, have your bath, and don't be too long. I've been missing you too long already."

"Yes…Frieza…" I remember saying. Stunned then, and still amazed now. How my master had changed—and how much I wouldn't really realize until after that night. That wonderful, hateful night which changed my life forever the minute I stepped out of the shower.

Dis some dutty love-at least, dis gon be some dutty love when ya masta stop trippin.

Well actually, I have been really busy and pretty tired. So by the time night rolls around I'm like fuck it and I just go to bed lol. But to be honest im glad I picked seeing fuckin phantom of the opera over writing this-I mean, holy crap, dat phantom make me feel like a straight girl! Like you'd think I'd be looking at Christines ya know what but instead I'm like checking out the phantom, like come get this playboy bunny like hugh heff phantom.

(clears throat) Lol, so anyway that was a long explanation of why I haven't written in the past few days, VLEER. Anyway, now I feel like hitting up that movie...mmm...one in the morning...watch the phantom or sleep...watch the phantom or sleep...

(and the funny thing is that these are two equally appealing options so I can't even say im being sarcastic) LOL.

~VC