Ouji Island Resort, Present
Bulma yawned and shifted her body slightly on the large, blue beach-blanket. She would have turned over, but she had taken off her bikini top earlier so that her back would tan evenly. That in and of itself would be a miracle—with her creamy alabaster complexion, surely a throwback to her Irish roots, her pale white skin burned at the drop of a hat. Which was yet another reason that she had to turn over—if not, her back would be a giant mass of peeling, flaking skin in the morning, something she sorely wished to avoid. If she turned over, however, her breasts would be exposed for all the world to see. Although the Ouji Island Resort allowed nudity at its private ‘adult’ beach, Bulma preferred to keep her private parts just that—private. Although she was still very much an attractive woman, at the ripe old age of 35 Bulma felt like an old hag compared to the young, bouncing blond airheads prancing about the beach. She refused to subject herself to humiliation by allowing anyone and everyone to see the effects of age and gravity on her once perfect bustline.
She shifted again; lying atop her stomach was getting to be very uncomfortable. She looked at the folded-up lounge chair and umbrella lying beside her, just begging to be used, and with a sigh she gave in. She’d come here to relax, not to let her vanity get the better of her! And she had to admit, the relaxation definitely seemed to be working; since she’d arrived a week ago, she hadn’t had any dreams or visions, no disturbances whatsoever. All in all, this little vacation had gotten off to an excellent start.
Still smiling to herself and thinking that this relaxing vacation might just be the true cure to her little problem, Bulma adjusted the dark sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and sat up on her knees. She stretched with a small laugh, for once not caring that she was topless, not caring who might get a nice, big look at her breasts. They might not be anything compared to the younger generation, but they were still a damn fine pair!
Her mood suddenly vanished, however, when she saw him.
He was short for a man, probably only an inch or two taller than her. His skin was perfectly bronzed, as though he’d spent his entire life perfecting his tan. His dark hair was upswept in a flame-like style that surely consumed at least a gallon of hair-gel per day, from the gravity-defying look of it. To the naked eye it looked black, but over the rims of her sunglasses she caught a hint of red wherever the sunlight glinted off the silky strands. His frame, although short, she noted, was incredibly well-muscled; the muscles fairly rippled over his body, covered only by a scanty pair of swim trunks, gleaming in the sun like those of a modern-day Adonis. But although his body was superb, the thing that drew her attention was his face.
The man was staring at her.
Or, rather, at her breasts.
With a small shriek, Bulma lurched forward onto her stomach again, clutching her beach blanket to her chest and glaring up at the man through her sunglasses.
"What do you think this is?" she shot at him, "A peep show?"
The man smirked. "It did look that way," he commented wryly.
"Oh, fuck off," Bulma growled at him, her temper blazing.
The man chuckled, much to her dismay and annoyance. "You don’t know who I am, do you?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.
"Don’t know and don’t care," she snapped. "Look, if you’re not going to move, then why don’t you at least turn around so that I can put my top on with at least a little dignity, hmm?"
The man crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "But the view from here is so …" he took a moment to search for the right word before finishing, "invigorating."
Bulma’s eyes sorely wanted to wander down to see if he was telling the truth, but she forced her gaze to remain upon his face. She snorted. "Yeah, I’ll bet." Under her breath, she muttered, "Pervert," among other, less euphemistic words.
"The way I see it … I’ll need more of an incentive if you want me to turn around for you."
Bulma grumbled to herself angrily before asking, "Alright, what do you want?’
He pretended to think for a minute, his hand stroking his chin, and Bulma had no doubt that he enjoyed this charade thoroughly.
The smirk returned to his face. "I want you to let me put suntan lotion on you."
Bulma blinked. She hadn’t seen that one coming.
The smirk widened. "And," he added, "I want you to let me sit next to you." He nodded to the spot on the beach beside her.
"Is that all?" Bulma asked, surprised. She’d thought he’d ask for a bit more than that! Then the thought suddenly occurred to her: An attractive man like him, single if the even tan on his ring finger were any indication, could have any woman he wanted. She could feel the stares of the other, younger women with the younger, bouncier breasts staring at him. She knew that any one of them would kill to sleep with a man like this. So why would he waste his time with her?
"And," he added with a wicked glint in his dark, obsidian eyes, "I want you to have dinner with me tonight in the resort hotel."
"That’s it?" Bulma asked again. It might be fun going to dinner with him, actually. She’d order the most expensive thing on the menu, then leave the jerk to pay for it. She had to hold back a chuckle at the devious thought.
"That’s it," he said, watching her expectantly.
Bulma shrugged. "Alright. Now turn around."
The smirk still firmly in place, the man turned around obediently as Bulma sat up and started putting her bikini top back on.
Unbeknownst to her, he’d slipped a pair of mirrored sunglasses out of the pocket of his shorts and angled them in such a way that he could see everything going on behind him.
It was with great reluctance that he slipped the glasses back in his shorts and turned back around when she gave him the ok.
As she started ordering him around, telling him to set up her chair and umbrella for her, he saw the sunlight glinting off the gorgeous length of aquamarine hair cascading down her back and his heart skipped a beat.
A single thought took hold of his mind, just as it had moments ago when he first saw her:
He’d finally found her.
Satan City, 1927
Bulma knocked nervously on the large wooden door as she attempted, unsuccessfully, to calm her nerves.
"Enter," came the ominous voice from within.
Bulma swallowed hard, half of her wanting to simply turn around and run back to Juu’s house and forget this whole crazy notion of a job.
But when Juu had told her that Vegeta Ouji needed a new girl Friday, and had then explained to her just exactly what a girl Friday was, Bulma had been thrilled. It sounded like the perfect job for her.
Sure, her boss would be some two-bit mafia gangster straddling the law … but that would make her job all the more interesting, she’d told herself.
But now, standing here in front of his door, her legs shaking, Bulma wondered if she should just run away, leaving all this behind.
It’s too late now, Bulma, she told herself. You’ve already started this, so now you have to see it through!
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Bulma plunged forward, opening the door and quickly entering her future boss’s office and closing the door behind her before she had a chance to change her mind.
The only man in the room sat in a comfortable-looking leather chair behind a large desk. The rest of the room was rather drab, with only two other chairs in front of the desk as furniture. Bulma helped herself to a seat in one of these chairs.
The man, whom she presumed to be Vegeta Ouji due to his flame-like crown of black hair, glanced up at her and quickly dismissed her, returning his attention to he papers he was reading.
"Whaddaya want?" he asked, in a tone of voice that told her to hurry up and get the hell out of there.
Bulma cleared her throat. "I heard that you were in need of a new girl Friday. I came here to fill that position."
His entire body froze. He lifted his head to look at her—really look at her—for the first time. There was some hidden light in his eyes that she couldn’t quite fathom; something akin to anger, she thought with a start.
"Oh yeah?" he drawled. "Well, you can just tell Frieza that I’m getting along just fine without." He returned his attention to the papers on his desk again, dismissing her without words.
Bulma frowned. "I don’t know who this Frieza person is, but I can tell you that I am certainly qualified for any position that—"
"Look," he snapped, not even lifting his head to look at her again, "I don’t need a girl Friday. I never did and I never will. Now screw."
Bulma frowned. "You don’t seem to understand," she began, her patience with this annoying man growing thin. "You’re in need of a girl Friday; I’m a qualified woman in need of a job; surely we can form some type of arrangement here."
The man before her growled as he lifted his eyes to meet hers.
She nearly gasped as she looked into those endless black pools of self-loathing.
This man clearly hated himself, or at least blamed himself for something … but why?
"The only arrangement we could make is one where you’d get the hell out of here and leave me alone!" he barked.
"That’s it," Bulma said, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest. "What’s eating you? I come here to ask you about a job, and you keep trying to throw me out!" She pressed her hands onto the edge of his desk and leaned forward. "Why won’t you even give me a chance?"
Vegeta stood, pressed his hands onto his desk, and leaned forward, too, until his face floated mere inches from hers. "Because a little tomato like you wouldn’t last even a day working for me."
"Oh yeah?" asked Bulma, her anger rising by the minute. "Why don’t you try me out and see for yourself?"
Vegeta smirked. "Maybe I will."
Bulma’s heart rose in her chest. He was really going to give her a chance. She knew that if he would just see what she could do, he’d never regret making her his girl Friday.
But her hopes shattered when his arm swept across the desk, clearing it of all the clutter and papers that had previously covered it.
"Hop on," he told her wickedly, "And let’s see what you can do."
Bulma gasped—the meaning behind his words was completely transparent. Before she could stop herself, her right hand lashed out and slapped him across the face.
The stinging blow had enough force behind it to turn his head slightly, leaving a small read imprint of her palm on his cheek.
"Oh!" Bulma’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes widened. What had she done? She had been so insulted by his lascivious insinuations that she had delivered the old-fashioned rebuke without even a second thought. Surely now this would destroy her chances of ever getting a job with this man—no one, especially not a notorious gangster, would hire a woman who had struck him.
But just as she decided that her chances of gaining employment were at a complete loss, the strange man in front of her began to laugh. To laugh.
He threw back his head and let out a giant laugh unlike any she had heard before. She looked around, but no one else was in the room; what could possibly be so funny?
After his laughing stint had passed, the man looked at her, and odd glint in his eyes. What would he do now?
"You are fully aware of all the dangers concerning the job as my girl Friday?" he asked softly.
"My last girl Friday—my cousin Pan—was raped and killed by Frieza," he told her, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You’ll have to be careful if you want to avoid that fate."
Bulma swallowed hard. She, like everyone else in Satan City, had heard about the horrible fate that had befallen Pan Son. No one wished to repeat it.
"Do you still want the job?"
Vegeta smirked, his hand fondling his cheek where she had slapped him. "You don’t look like much," he said, "but you’re quite a bear cat." He chuckled.
Bulma blushed. "Only when angered, Sir."
The wicked glint returned to his eyes. "Then you’d better get ready to become an angry woman—girl Friday."
And thus began the final chapter in the life of Bulma Briefs; her time as Vegeta Ouji’s girl Friday.
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