Chapter 3: Throat-Fucking Submission
The slam of the gravity chamber door echoed for a long time in Krillin’s mind, a punctuation mark to the end of… something. He stared at the sealed metal, his body thrumming with a toxic cocktail of spent lust, residual aggression, and bottomless shame.
“Get up,” he said, his voice gravel.
Videl didn’t move. She lay on the white floor, a dark, sticky stain spreading beneath her bare thighs. Her body looked ravaged. The torn gi was a useless rag. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling lights, empty and wide.
He bent, not to help her gently, but to hook his hands under her armpits. He hauled her to her feet with a grunt of effort. She was limp, a doll. Her skin was cool, slippery with sweat and drying fluids. He shook her, a short, rough jerk. “Videl. Snap out of it.”
Her eyes focused on him, then slid away. She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive hunch that did nothing to hide the violent red marks on her hips, the wetness on her inner thighs. She looked smaller than she ever had in a fight.
A wave of disgust, directed primarily at himself, washed over him. He let her go and turned to find their scattered clothes. He tossed her gi trousers to her. They landed at her feet. “Get dressed. Quickly.”
His own movements were brusque, automatic. Pulling on his pants felt like donning a costume that no longer fit. The friendly, harmless face he wore for the world was a lie now. He zipped up, the sound loud in the humming silence.
Videl finally moved, bending stiffly to pick up the torn fabric. She couldn’t get her legs into them properly; the material was shredded. She gave up and simply held the torn cloth in front of her like a pitiful apron. She looked lost, the fierce martial artist gone, leaving only a shattered woman.
The reality of the aftermath was a cold blade to the gut. Eighteen had walked in. Eighteen had seen. Eighteen had… what had she done?Watched. Commanded. Participated in a way that was more devastating than any physical attack. The psychic landscape of his marriage had just been atomized. And Videl was Gohan’s wife. Gohan, his friend, a man whose trust was absolute, a man currently away on some academic conference with their infant son Pan.
“We need to…” he started, then stopped. He had no idea what they needed to do. Damage control was impossible. This was a crater. “We can’t stay here.”
He led her out, not touching her, moving through the bright, silent hallways of Capsule Corp like thieves. Every echo of a footstep made him flinch. They reached a rarely-used auxiliary bathroom. He pushed her inside and flicked on the light.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, remaining in the doorway, a sentinel of guilt. He couldn’t look at her directly anymore. The sight of her used body was a proof of his own monstrousness.
Videl stood motionless for a moment before the sink.Then she moved. She turned on the water, hot. She didn’t look in the mirror. She scrubbed her hands with industrial soap, the scent harsh and clinical. She washed her face, the water turning gray. Then, moving like a machine, she began to clean between her legs, wincing as her fingers probed sore, stretched flesh. The water ran dirty, carrying the evidence of their sin down the drain.
He watched her reflection in the mirror over her shoulder. Her expression was blank. But her shoulders began to tremble. A low, hitching sound escaped her, caught between a sob and a gag.
“Stop that,” he whispered harshly, though his own throat felt raw and tight. “You don’t get to cry.You wanted this. You fucking begged for it. ‘Ruin me,’ you said.”
She flinched as if struck. She turned off the water and gripped the edges of the sink, her head hanging low. “She watched,” Videl breathed, the words trembling. “She made us…”
“She saw you being the greedy, insatiable cunt you are,” Krillin cut in, his own fear and rage twisting into cruelty. He needed her to be the villain, to shoulder the blame. It was easier. “You think this was some grand seduction? You were a convenient hole. That’s all.”
His words hung in the steamy air. They were a lie, and they both knew it. He had wanted it, too. Needed it. The beast in him had roared to life the second she touched him. But admitting that meant admitting he was just as broken as she was.
Videl’s head rose. In the mirror, her blue eyes met his reflected gaze. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a slow-burning fire of a different kind—not lust, but a kind of wounded, reckless defiance. “You came inside me twice,” she stated, her voice gaining a brittle strength. “You fucked me until I screamed. You shoved your…” she swallowed, “…into my ass because I asked for everything. Don’t you dare put this all on me, Krillin.”
He had no retort. He just stared.
She turned around, still holding the torn trousers against her front. Her expression was hardening into something dangerous. The shock was receding, and something uglier was filling the void. “What happens now?” she asked.
“Nothing happens,” he said, the words desperate. “This never happened. We go home. We never speak of it again.”
A horrible, bark-like laugh escaped her. “Is that what you’re going to tell Eighteen? That it never happened?”
He froze. Eighteen. The steel in his spine liquefied. He had no idea what to tell her, how to even face her. The image of her touching herself while she watched him, her icy calm, was more terrifying than any rage.
Videl took a step closer. The air in the small bathroom was thick, humid, charged with a new and toxic energy. “She liked it,” Videl said, her voice dropping, a horrified realization dawning. “Didn’t she? She got off on it. On watching you.”
“Shut up,” he hissed.
“Why?” she pressed, her eyes blazing now with a horrible, invasive curiosity. “Is that why you’re with her? Because she lets you… be that?” She gestured vaguely back towards the gravity chamber, towards the memory of his unrestrained, animal fury.
His palm slammed flat against the bathroom door frame. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about my marriage.”
“I know you fucked me like you wanted to break me in half,” she shot back, unflinching. “And she directed it. She wanted to watch you do it. She got wet watching you ruin me. What does that make you, Krillin? Her trained dog?”
The insult landed, biting deep because it echoed a fear he’d never allowed himself to articulate. Was this hunger in him something she cultivated? Tolerated?Enabled? The limitless libido he carried like a curse—was it something she saw as a tool? His head spun.
Videl was in front of him now, the scent of clean skin and cheap soap replacing the musk of sex. Her face was upturned. The defiance in her eyes was bleeding back into that raw, gnawing hunger. It hadn’t been sated. It had been awakened.
“She’s going to expect it again,” Videl whispered, the words a dark, seductive poison. “Isn’t she? That wasn’t anger. That was… an instruction. She showed you what she wanted. You. Unleashed. On me.”
“Stop it,” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
Her hand came up, not to strike him, but to press her palm flat against the front of his pants. Through the fabric, she found the shape of him. He was semi-hard, a traitorous, humiliating response to the sheer, fucked-up adrenaline of the confrontation. She felt him twitch and growl beneath her touch.
“You see?” she said, a twisted smile touching her lips. “You’re just like me.Broken. And she knows exactly how to use the pieces.” Her fingers tightened, a crude squeeze. “Do you want to go home to her?To pretend? Or do you want to finish what we started without an audience?”
It was madness. A cliff’s edge. Every sane part of him screamed to shove her away, to run, to find Eighteen and try, somehow, to piece together the fragments of his life. But the sane parts were buried under metric tons of guilt, fear, and a seething, confused arousal that refused to die.
He looked down at her hand on him. Then at her face, her bruised mouth, her fever-bright eyes. She wasn’t Gohan’s sweet wife anymore. She was a mirror, reflecting his own monstrous appetite back at him.
With a groan that was equal parts surrender and self-loathing, he grabbed the wrist of the hand fondling him and twisted it, pushing her back against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall. The torn cloth fell from her other hand, leaving her naked. The clinical light was unforgiving.
“You want to be a hole?” he snarled, his breath hot on her face. He fumbled with his own zipper, freeing his cock, which sprang out thick and heavy, already fully hard again with a terrifying, resilient urgency. “Here.”
He didn’t guide her down. He didn’t position her. He simply grabbed a fistful of her spiky black hair and forced her head forward, shoving the bulbous, weeping head of his cock between her parted lips.
She gagged immediately, her eyes watering. He ignored it. He fed himself into her mouth, an invasion as brutal as the one he’d performed between her legs earlier. The tight, wet heat of her throat was a different, dizzying conquest. He watched her cheeks bulge, watched tears streak down her face as he pushed deeper, his pubic bone meeting her nose.
He held himself there, lodged in her gullet, feeling her convulsive swallows around him. She was choking, her hands coming up to claw weakly at his thighs. He didn’t care.
“This is what you are now,” he growled, pulling back just enough for her to gasp a wet, ragged breath before driving back in, deeper this time. “A cocksleeve. A set of holes for me to use. My wife’s little fuckpet.”
He began to fuck her face in earnest, a short, brutal piston motion that slammed the back of her throat with each thrust. Spit and pre-cum slicked her chin, her neck. The sounds were wet, choking, obscene. He glanced up, catching their reflection in the mirror over the sink. He saw himself, his face twisted in feral concentration. He saw Videl on her knees, her huge breasts swaying, her face a mess of tears and spit, his monstrous length disappearing into her again and again.
The sight detonated something in him.
He pulled out of her mouth with a slurp, leaving her coughing and gasping, ropes of saliva connecting her lips to his shining cock. “On the sink,” he ordered, his voice guttural.
She complied, scrambling awkwardly, her body weak. She bent over the white porcelain basin, her hands gripping the far edge, presenting herself again. He didn’t hesitate. He nudged at her entrance, still loose and slick from their previous rounds, and plunged into her cunt in one savage stroke.
She cried out, a hoarse, broken sound muffled by the sink. Her body bowed under the impact.
He fucked her over the sink with a relentless, driving rhythm, his balls slapping against her slick, swollen lips. One of his hands gripped her hip, the other wound back into her hair, yanking her head back so she was forced to watch in the mirror.
“Look,” he grunted, his thrusts hammering her forward, her breasts pressing against the cold sink. “Look at what you did. Look at the whore in the mirror.”
Her blue eyes, flooded with tears and a dark, masochistic pleasure, locked onto their reflection. She watched his powerful, compact body piston into hers. She watched her own face contort with each deep drive. The shame was still there, but it was now woven into the fabric of the arousal, inseparable.
“Yes…” she moaned, the word garbled. “I’m your whore… Gohan’s… wife is your… fucking whore…”
Her words, her complete surrender, pushed him to the edge. His pace became erratic, brutally hard. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, surely leaving bruises. “Come for me, you filthy slut,” he commanded, his own breath coming in ragged gusts. “Come on my cock while you admit what you are.”
It was all the permission she needed. A shattered cry ripped from her throat as her body clenched around him, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milked his length. The orgasm seemed to steal the last of her strength; her legs buckled, and she would have collapsed if he wasn’t holding her up, still thrusting through her convulsions.
Her internal muscles clamped around him in a final, violent spasm, draining the strength from her limbs. He held her upright, his own release looming like a storm. The sight of her utterly broken form, bent over the sink, broke the last dam inside him.
"Take it all, you greedy slut," he grunted, his voice raw.
His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming short, desperate jabs. His fingers tightened in her hair until her scalp burned. A guttural roar tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and poured into her, a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to have no end. He jerked against her, each spurt a silent accusation.
He jerked against her, each spurt a silent accusation. It pooled inside her, impossibly hot, a visceral claim that made her moan into the porcelain. For a suspended moment, there was only their synced panting and the maddening, wet sound of their connection.
Krillin’s grip on her hair loosened, then fell away entirely. The immediate silence felt louder than any scream.
He pulled out. The soft, wet sound of separation seemed to echo. His seed, thick and pearlescent, leaked from her onto the white sink basin, a stark, obscene stain against the pristine surface. Videl didn’t straighten up. She rested her forehead on the cool edge, her body trembling with aftershocks.
Krillin stumbled back, his breathing a ragged saw. He looked down at himself, then at the mess of her. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. “Fuck,” he whispered, the word devoid of any heat, just a dry expulsion of air.
Videl finally pushed herself upright, wincing as she turned. Her lips were swollen, her chin glistening. Her blue eyes were no longer defiant, just profoundly lost. She looked from his rapidly softening cock to his face. “Now what?” she asked, her voice a rasp.
He had no answer. He turned to the sink, wet a paper towel, and began to mechanically clean himself. The water was cold. He avoided her reflection.
“I mean it,” she pressed, a desperate edge creeping in. “Your wife. She… she’s waiting. What does she expect? Another show?”
“Stop calling it a show,” he snapped, tossing the crumpled towel into the bin. It landed with a soft, final sound. He zipped himself up, the motion an attempt to lock the beast away again. It felt futile.
“What do you call it then?” Videl’s voice was gaining a brittle energy. “A marriage counseling session?” She let out a choked, humorless laugh and spread her arms, presenting her naked, marked body. “Look at me, Krillin. We’re past pretending this was a mistake. It was a choice. A series of them. What’s the next one?”
He stared at her. The guilt was a crushing weight, but beneath it, a darker, more terrifying current flowed.She was right. Eighteen hadn’t left in a rage. She’d left with a command. Clean this up. And a quiet implication that hung in the air, unspoken but deafening: This isn’t over.
A strange, manic clarity sharpened Videl’s features. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing spit and precum. “You felt it, too. When she was watching. It changed the air in the room. It wasn’t about us. It was about her… approving of it.” She took a step closer, her eyes searching his. “What does she want you to do to me?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and for the first time, it was an honest admission. He didn’t understand his wife’s cold, voyeuristic acceptance. He was terrified of it.
Videl’s gaze drifted down, lingering on the damp spot on his trousers. A slow, unsettling curiosity burned through the confusion in her eyes. Her hand lifted again, not to touch him, but to hover near his stomach. “You haven’t even… processed it,” she murmured, more to herself. “Your body is just a machine to you. A thing that does this. Over and over.”
She looked up, a new, horrifying idea dawning. Her expression shifted from curiosity to a wild, daring fixation. “It’s just biology for you, isn’t it?A function. An… output.”
She pressed her hand flat against her own lower abdomen, over the womb still flooded with his seed from minutes ago, from the chamber. The sensation inside her was a deep, lingering warmth, a physical echo of his possession. A reckless, irreversible thought clicked into place, its logic born from chaos and a desperate need to cement this horrible, thrilling thing into reality.
She wanted to make it real. She wanted a scar on the world that couldn’t be washed away in a sink.
Her eyes locked onto his, burning with a desperate, terrifying light. “It’s not enough,” she breathed, her voice a low, intense whisper. “Just coming in me, it’s not enough. It can be cleaned up. Forgotten.” She took a final step, closing the distance until her naked body almost touched him. She smelled of sex, soap, and sweat.
“Do it again,” she said, her tone shifting from a whisper to a clear, demanding plea. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and pressing his palm roughly against her stomach, over the warm, sticky evidence of his last release. “Right now. Don’t let it end. Fill me up until it takes.”
Krillin tried to pull back, a revulsion rising in his throat. “Videl, you’re insane. I can’t—“
She cut him off, her voice rising, cracking with a raw, primal need that drowned out all reason, all guilt, all fear. “GET ME PREGNANT!”
The words slammed into the tiled walls, stark and monstrous. They hung there, vibrating in the humid air.Pregnant. With his child. Not Gohan’s.His. A living, breathing consequence. A permanent chain linking his lie to her betrayal.
For a heartbeat, Krillin was paralyzed. The sheer, catastrophic magnitude of the request short-circuited his mind.
Then, something else moved. That hidden, ruthless part of him, the part Eighteen had seen and exploited, uncoiled. This wasn’t lust anymore. It was something deeper, darker, and more territorial. A biological imperative wrapped in a shroud of utter damnation. The idea of planting his seed so deep it rooted, of marking her in a way that would swell and grow for months, of creating a secret that would outlive them all… it was the most depraved, the most final act imaginable.
And it answered everything. It answered Videl’s desperate need to be ruined beyond repair. It answered the question of what Eighteen might want from this twisted theatre. And it answered the relentless, driving hunger in his own blood.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” he breathed, not in anger, but in a kind of awe at her audacity, at the black abyss she was inviting him to leap into.
He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her with anything resembling tenderness. He spun her around with brutal force, shoving her upper body down over the sink once more. Her wet cheek slapped against the cold porcelain.
He freed himself, his cock already swelling again, a frightening testament to his unnatural libido. It jutted out, thick-veined and ruddy, slick with residual fluid. He didn’t bother guiding it. He used his free hand to part her soaking folds, still loose and slick from his last violation, and speared into her with a single, deep, conquering thrust.
Videl screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated catharsis. The pain-pleasure was blinding.
This time, his pace wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate, deep, and possessive. Each long, slow withdrawal was followed by a hard, grinding drive back to the hilt, aiming for the deepest part of her. He leaned over her, his body covering hers, his mouth near her ear. His voice was a low, guttural chant.
“You want a baby, you filthy whore?” he snarled, his hips snapping forward. “You want my kid growing in your cheating cunt? You want to swell up with it, have everyone see what a traitorous slut you are?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, pushing her hips back against him, taking him deeper. “Do it! Put a baby in me! Make it yours! I want it! I want your fucking child!”
“You’ll carry it,” he grunted, his rhythm building, becoming more insistent. His hands groped her massive breasts roughly, pinching her nipples. “You’ll feel it kick. And you’ll know every time that it’s mine. That you’re mine. That Gohan is raising my bastard.”
The profane fantasy fueled them both. Videl’s inner muscles began to flutter and clench around him, a frantic, milking rhythm as if her body was already trying to draw the essence from him. Her pleasure crested again, a sharp, sobbing orgasm that made her knees buckle. He held her up, never stopping his deep, piston-like thrusts, fucking her through the convulsions.
Her climax triggered his. This release felt different. It wasn’t a frantic expulsion. It was a deep, pulsing surrender, a deliberate emptying. He buried himself as deeply as he could, his thighs pressed flush against the backs of hers, and let go.
A hoarse, animal groan ripped from his chest. He felt the hot jets leaving him, pumping into her fertile depths with a purpose that felt both sacred and utterly defiled. He held himself there, spurting, his body shuddering with the force of the release, until he was spent, completely drained.
They stayed locked together, both of them panting, dripping wet. The sink basin was a mess of fluids. The reality of what they had just attempted, the conscious act of it, descended like a cold fog.