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Vegeta had not been to a doctor very often in his life.
There were a few such instances, when he was a small boy still on Vegetasei, that his father insisted the healers evaluate his growth and power level.
The rest of the times had been standard visits to a regen tank when he was much too battered to passively heal.
This visit, however, was…something else.
The entire ordeal had begun a few weeks before, just as he crossed into his thirty-first year. At first he thought it was a fluke, or a minor irritation. Another inconvenient and ignorable quirk in a body bred for mostly war.
He had woken before dawn on some ruined world whose name he hadn't bothered to learn, finding his cock to be ruthlessly hard.
The occurrence itself had not been anything new, of course. Morning erections were hardly foreign to him. He'd often woken sticky and tender as an adolescent, having left a mess in his sheets. However, he took pride in the fact that he'd never purposefully touched himself. He had learned to tamp down any vile urges or weaknesses through training, killing and fighting, and the occasional dip in a cold shower or river.
What had been different in this case was the intensity with which it presented itself. His penis had been thick and aching, pressed upright against his lower stomach with a throbbing that was begging for the touch of another.
He remembered lying there on his bedroll, staring at the sky, waiting for it to go away.
By the time Nappa and Raditz had begun to stir, irritation had turned to panic.
He'd shoved himself away from the group under the excuse of reconnaissance, found the nearest body of water, and waded in up to his waist. The cold bit and the mud sucked at his boots, but he'd stood there breathing through his teeth until the thing finally softened enough that he could at least function without humiliating himself.
He’d told himself it had just been stress or some combination of hormones and battle lust. Definitely nothing more than a temporary malfunction.
But then it happened again the next morning. And the next.
The episodes began to occur randomly, lasting anywhere from an hour to half a day before finally subsiding. It would rise under his armor in the middle of briefings. During meals. Once while he was actively strangling someone.
Thankfully, the plating of his armor hid it, however that wasn't the point. The point was that it was happening at all.
And sooner or later, someone would notice.
In spite of everything, he refused to take care of the problem. To duck into some washroom or toilet and pull on his cock like some desperate animal until he found relief.
The issue would just need to go away on its own, like it always had.
And it did, until one day, it simply didn't.
He'd woken hard, and this time it hadn't softened. Not after an hour. Not after three. The sensation had not been any type of pleasant arousal, either. He was painfully swollen, his cock furiously feeling like it was on the edge of exploding, trapped between his skin and the layers of his armor while his bladder filled itself to bursting.
That had been the other issue. He'd been so engorged that he could barely relieve himself, no matter how hard he tried to relax. What should have been simple had become agonizing—standing over a toilet for minutes at a time, straining, managing only weak dribbles that did nothing for the building pressure.
Every step jarred him, and every movement rubbed.
By mid-afternoon, nearly ten hours into the nightmare, he'd finally grown desperate enough to try to do something about it. Thankfully he was in between assignments, and so he had slunk back to his assigned chamber on base in order to attempt to slake his lust. However, it was seemingly too late, as the hard touch of his hand to the bare skin of his cock was more painful than pleasurable, and he was completely unsuccessful in finding relief of any kind.
So he'd found himself doing the unthinkable.
There luckily happened to be a medical facility on an asteroid encircling the planet of the base he was currently stationed on. He knew from rumors that it was anonymous and discreet. A place run by a species of creature recently conquered by the PTO. Contrary to his nature, Lord Freeza had left many of them left alive due to their intelligence and had sold them as slaves to various other species of the empire.
He loaded himself up into his pod and flew over, as he was very nearly incapacitated and unable to fly there himself.
He told himself that he only needed medication or a hormonal suppressant. Something that would force his body back into obedience.
Then he could forget this whole experience ever happened and go back to what he was good at.
Being a weapon.
And now here he sat in a room. Alone and stripped down to his waist, perched on a cold metal exam table which leeched the heat from his thighs.
He was beyond uncomfortable, his bladder screaming after an entire day of barely being able to empty it.
After what felt like an eternity, the door to the room slid open, and Vegeta’s head snapped up.
The creature who had entered was not what he had expected.
She was small and delicate looking, shockingly close to Saiyan in features. Humanoid, but with strange blue hair pulled back from her face in a top knot. She wore a white coat over dark pants that hugged her generous hips, and she carried a thin datapad in one hand.
She was extremely…
Vegeta banished the thought before it could finish in his mind.
Her eyes were blue, and unnervingly bright, and they flicked over him once. He saw her pause. Then her gaze traveled across his bare chest and shoulders, before snapping back to his face.
“Good afternoon mister uh...well I see you just barreled in here and refused to give the clerk your name,” she said looking at the pad. “That’s just fine. If that’s how we’re rolling, I’ll be your nameless technician today. I understand you’ve been experiencing some…discomfort?”
He rolled his eyes at her facetious nature. Discomfort was certainly one way to put it.
“I need treatment,” he responded roughly and more harshly than was really necessary.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
He squirmed where he sat, feeling a droplet of sweat roll down his back.
“I can see that,” she nodded with a little smirk to the situation in his battle suit and moved closer. “But I’m going to need you to explain what’s going on in your own words. When did this start? What symptoms are you experiencing?”
Of course.
Of-fucking-course she was going to make him say it.
His hands fisted on his thighs, and he looked over her at the wall.
“I woke up with a fucking erection, and it won’t go down. Fix it.”
Annoyingly, she didn’t seem at all intimidated by him.
“How long ago?” She asked calmly.
Vegeta felt as if his jaw would snap in two.
“Ten hours ago,” he growled out.
Her eyebrows rose. “Ten hours is a very long time for most species. Have you experienced this before?”
"Not like this." He hated every fucking second of this conversation, but he was too desperate for relief to hold anything back at this point. "It's been happening for weeks. More minor…episodes. But they would...resolve on their own. This time it obviously hasn’t."
"And you've tried...?"
"Everything." His face burned. "Cold water. Waiting. I tried—" He cut himself off, unable to say it.
"Masturbation?" she supplied.
"Yes."
"And?"
"I don’t make a habit of…” he trailed off, then finished with, “It hurt. Didn't work."
She nodded, making a note. "Any other symptoms?"
He wanted to die.
"I can't piss," he admitted.
Her expression shifted slightly, and he thought he might see a note of sympathy there.
"That's common with this level of engorgement," she said. "Your urethra is likely compressed. You're probably experiencing significant bladder discomfort as well."
"Yes."
"Can you urinate at all, or is it completely blocked?"
"I can. Barely. Not enough."
“Hm. Do you believe you may have any sexually transmitted infections?”
He looked away. “Not possible.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes.
“I see.”
She made another note, then set the datapad down and moved closer, her eyes scanning him clinically.
"I'm going to need to examine you," she said. "Is that alright?"
He gave a curt nod.
She stepped between his legs, and he had to force himself not to close them. Her eyes traveled down to where his erection was obvious even through his pants.
"May I?" She gestured.
He nodded again.
Her hands were steady as she pulled the fabric of his suit down.
His cock bobbed free, feeling surprisingly better in the open air. He heard her small intake of breath.
Vegeta looked up to see her eyes lingering on him for just a fraction too long before she seemed to catch herself.
"This is severe," she murmured, and he noticed her voice had gone slightly lower. She cleared her throat. "How long did you say the episodes have been occurring?"
"Few weeks."
"And you haven't sought treatment until now?"
"No."
She made a thoughtful sound, then without warning, her bare fingers seemingly accidentally brushed against the base of his cock.
He hissed, pulling back.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding particularly sorry.
"The tissue is very inflamed.’ She continued, “If this continues much longer, you risk permanent damage."
He swallowed hard.
"Can you fix it?" he demanded.
"Yes." She pulled back, meeting his eyes. "But I need to ask, what species are you? I'm not familiar with your physiology."
"Saiyan."
"Saiyan," she repeated. "I don't think I have any data on your people. Is this—" she gestured at his cock, "—normal for your species? Some kind of reproductive cycle?"
"I don't know," he admitted, hating how ignorant he sounded. "There aren’t many of us left."
She nodded slowly. "I’m sorry to hear that. Well, if I could hazard a guess, you could be experiencing some sort of delayed onset of sexual maturity, perhaps, or a biological imperative related to mating. Something like the beginnings of a rut. Without more information, I can only speculate."
Then she stopped and looked at him curiously.
“You have reached the age of majority…for your species, haven't you?”
He scoffed. “Of course I have.”
She nodded, and moved back to the counter, pulling on a pair of thin gloves.
"Here's what I can tell you," she said. "The fastest way to resolve this is orgasm. It'll trigger the release of hormones that should bring down the swelling and allow you to urinate normally."
His face felt as if it was on fire now.
"I already tried—"
"I know. But you were doing it yourself, in pain, probably too tense to actually finish." She turned back to him, her expression completely professional despite what she was saying. "I can help. If you'll allow it."
Help?
She was offering to—
"You’re saying you want to—"
"Manually stimulate you to orgasm, yes." She said it like she was discussing a routine procedure, but he could see a tension forming in her shoulders. "With your consent, of course. And I am going to be up front with you, this is not the most ethical solution, and I shouldn’t even be offering it to you at all. However it’s either that, or I give you a shot and shove a catheter in you, which will be my next option, but this one could be less traumatic for your body."
His brain was at war with his body, his instincts screaming at him to refuse and get up and leave and handle this himself somehow.
But he'd already tried that, and he was in so much pain he could barely think. There was also something about her that intrigued him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he should indulge in pleasurable weakness. Just once. It was for a medical reason, after all.
She had been right, however. It was unethical for her to offer something so vulgar, as if she were some sort of back alley pleasure girl.
“Why?" He asked curiously.
She blinked at him. "I just told you, it's the fastest—"
"No." He held her gaze. "Why are you offering? What’s in it for you?"
She was quiet for a moment, studying his face.
"I could be wrong, but you look like you could use some gentleness in your life," she said simply. "And I don't really have anything to lose."
The look on her face as she said it reminded him what this place was. What she was.
A conquered species. Her people enslaved by the PTO. Working here because they had no choice.
She was right.
She had nothing to lose.
And he really had never been touched gently in his life.
"Alright," he said.
"Then...do I have your consent to bring you to orgasm?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," he sighed. "Hurry up and do it."
“Just what every girl wants to hear.” She winked at him, and kept speaking before he could respond. “Alright, pants off and legs on the table, lean back against the wall for me, and please, try to relax.”
He did as he was told, feeling completely exposed before her, and yet somehow anxious to see it through.
She reached into a cabinet and squirted something shiny and wet into her palm.
Lubricant, he realized distantly. She was putting lubricant in her hand because she was about to touch his cock in a way he never even had.
“I won’t lie to you,” she said. “This may not feel good at first. In fact it’s probably going to feel pretty intense until you relax a little.”
“Just get on with it.” He crossed his arms and looked away, wishing she would just touch him already.
She smirked, and her gloved hand wrapped around him. He couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath when he felt her touch. The contact was slick, warm, and firm. She gave him an experimental stroke from base to tip.
It didn't hurt as much as when he'd tried it. But she had been right, it really didn't feel good either.
She must have seen something in his face because she paused.
"Too much?"
"No. It's—" He struggled for words. "It doesn't feel like anything."
"You're very tense." Her other hand settled on his inner thigh. "And you've been hard for so long that you're probably somewhat desensitized. We'll need to try different things."
He watched her watch him as she concentrated on what she was doing. Minutes passed while she tried different techniques—twisting her wrist, varying the pressure, focusing on the head, the base, everywhere.
Nothing worked.
He could feel his anxiety mounting. Could feel the pressure in his bladder getting worse, the ache in his cock intensifying.
He stared at the ceiling. This was humiliating. Worse than the erection itself. Worse than coming here in the first place.
He was a fucking failure who couldn't even get off when a beautiful woman was actively trying to make it happen.
"This isn't—" he started, frustration bleeding into his voice.
"I know." She pulled back, thinking. "You said you're a Saiyan. Is there anywhere else on your anatomy that might be particularly erogenous?"
His tail twitched behind him traitorously. Her eyes zeroed in on it.
"Your tail," she said slowly. "Is that sensitive?"
Every Saiyan knew the tail was sensitive. Weaknesses were usually identified early and trained out. His father had made sure he could function even if someone grabbed it in battle.
But in the way she was implying?
"I don't—" He swallowed. "I don't know."
Although, that was a lie.
He'd never let anyone touch his tail. Not like that. Not ever.
"May I try?"
The idea of her touching his tail, of anyone touching his tail, made his stomach flip. It felt much more intimate and vulnerable than her hand on his cock.
But nothing else was working, and he was running out of options.
"Fine."
She moved her hand from his thigh and reached behind him.
He felt her fingers brush against the fur, searching, and then she found it where it had been pressed against the exam table.
The moment she touched it, electricity shot up his spine.
"Gods," he breathed, his hips jerking involuntarily.
And then it was like every nerve ending in his body had suddenly woken up.
"Mhm," she confirmed, and there was a shade of curiosity in her voice now.
She stroked gently along the length of it, and his cock jumped.
"There we go," she murmured.
Her hand returned to stroking his length while the other continued working his tail, and suddenly, finally, it felt good.
Really good.
The difference was staggering.
Where before there had been nothing, now there was everything.
He couldn't stop the noise that escaped his mouth.
"That's it," she said softly. "Just relax.”
She steadily pulled at his cock while her fingers were on his tail, squeezing gently at the base, petting him all the way up to the tip, then back down.
The dual sensation was overwhelming.
He looked up at her face without meaning to.
She was watching where her hand moved on him, her lips slightly parted. A faint flush had spread from her neck up to her cheeks. Then her pink, slick tongue darted out to wet her lips.
The thought of her being just as affected as he was caused his hips to move without his permission, thrusting into her hand in shallow, desperate jerks.
He was making all kinds of noise. Low grunts and gasps that he couldn't control or stop, and would definitely regret later.
But in that moment, he couldn't make himself care.
"You're doing such a good job," she said. He couldn’t help but notice that her voice had gone breathy and unsteady. "Just breathe. You're almost there."
Almost where?
Then he felt a pulling at the base of his spine. His balls drew up tight against his body.
Oh fuck.
This was it.
This was actually happening.
Her hand sped up, focusing on his tip, and he arched up off the table.
She took the opportunity to slide her other hand down to the base of his tail once more and give it a gentle tug.
"Does that feel good?" she whispered, and her voice was shaking.
His eyes fluttered shut.
His thighs were trembling so hard they were nearly vibrating. His whole body was teetering tautly on edge.
He could barely do more than nod.
He felt a wet, thick warmth dripping onto his belly and forced his eyes open to look down.
He was leaking.
Thick white strands oozing from his slit without his control, running down his length and onto her gloved fingers.
Oh gods, he was actually going to—
"I'm—" he gasped. "I think I'm—"
"Yes, yes you are," she hissed. "Don't fight it."
His thighs shook so hard his knees clacked together.
Every touch of her hand burned, wicking like a flame all the way down to the core of him.
And then his orgasm simply happened.
His back arched clear off the table and a hoarse, shocked sound ripped from his throat as his cock throbbed violently in her hand.
Thick jets of cum burst from him splashing across her gloves, onto his stomach, dripping down to pool on the table underneath him.
He stared down at it, unable to process what he was seeing. His cock was pulsing in her grip, ejaculating over and over, and it was more than he'd ever produced in his life.
Each spray of cum seemed to come from somewhere deeper than he thought possible, wringing him out from the inside, pulling everything out of him in waves that wouldn't stop.
“Yes…fuck, so good.” He heard the words growled, but realized through his haze it wasn’t he who had said them.
He forced his eyes open and looked at the woman through the blur of his pleasure.
She was staring at his face as she worked him, her lips parted, and the former blue of her eyes nearly completely swallowed by the black of her pupils. She was breathing so hard she was nearly panting.
He couldn't look away from her or close his eyes even though the sensation was almost too much to bear.
He simply stared back at her while his body emptied itself in her hand, while she looked at him like she wanted to—
Like she wanted to devour him.
His vision kept trying to white out at the edges but he fought it by keeping his eyes on her face, on that wild, hungry expression.
His tail, now limp in her grip, gave one final weak twitch.
For a few seconds, there was nothing else in the universe except the release, the relief, her hands on him, that feral hunger in her eyes, the overwhelming sensation of finally.
Then, slowly, it started to fade.
And with it, his erection.
He lay there, dazed and boneless, every part of him buzzing pleasantly in the aftermath.
His legs were slack, spread open. His tail hung limply off the edge of the table. And his cock rested against his stomach, still slick from release. The tip lay just above his navel, a smear of cum cooling beneath it.
He thought vaguely that he should probably get up, ask her where the bathroom was. But his muscles were more pleasantly loose than he could ever remember them being, and he just wanted to exist in the calmness for a moment longer.
He heard the woman moving around as he floated back into reality, heard the sounds of water running and felt her hand on his thigh as she approached.
She had a clean cloth in her hand, steam rising from it.
"Let me just quickly—" she started, her voice still slightly unsteady.
The first touch of it to his skin made him shiver. The cloth was warm and damp as she wiped gently across his stomach, cleaning away the evidence of his release. She worked downward with careful, methodical strokes.
It felt good. Soothing even.
And then she reached to lift him.
Two fingers cradled the soft length of his cock, pulling it upwards from where it lay against his stomach to wipe underneath.
And that's when it happened.
The moment the warm wet of the cloth touched his bladder, a sudden and unstoppable pressure surged forward from deep in his core.
A sharp warmth spread through him that he recognized with dawning horror.
No—
Not that—
He gasped as his body let go involuntarily.
A stream of urine shot out from the tip of his cock, arcing upward at first, high enough to spatter across his lower chest and ribs before gravity pulled it back down.
It ran in hot streaks over his belly, pooling where her cloth had just cleaned.
"Shit—!" he choked, hips jerking violently.
His thighs shook, and his hands scrabbled for the edge of the table, trying to push himself up, to get away, to do something, anything but what was currently happening.
His eyes went wide as he looked down at the scene unfolding below him. He was pissing himself, right there in front of her, and he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. It was simply leaving his body at an alarming rate and spattering everywhere.
He felt her hand draw back immediately, and she moved away running to the cabinet under the sink.
"Sorry, sorry—" she called out, her voice tight. "Try to hold it if you can. Just give me a second."
Vegeta shoved himself up, nearly slipping on the wet table. He sat all the way up, hunched forward, and grabbed himself with both hands, angling his drizzling cock down, pointing it away from his body.
Then he forced every muscle in his core to clench down.
He was barely able stop.
His hands were shaking, and he was panting. The enormous pressure was still there. Threatening to overwhelm him.
His bladder felt like it was going to split in two.
Come on, come on, come on—
His tail lashed violently behind him, puffed to twice its normal size.
Across the room, metal clattered.
Faster—
But his body had reached its limit.
He felt his muscles begin to give the moment before it happened.
No. No, not yet—
Another vicious wave of desperation hit him.
His stomach cramped so hard he doubled over with a strangled grunt, and suddenly, his grip on himself meant nothing.
A torrent poured through his fingers and hammered against the metal table between his thighs with an obscenely loud splatter.
"Ngh—!" he choked out.
He was leaning over himself now, watching it happen with growing mortification. A puddle began to form immediately beneath him.
This isn't happening—
This can't be—
But it was.
His thighs were trembling so violently he could barely stay upright, and the puddle was growing.
He could see it spreading outward, running in rivulets across the metal surface toward the edges.
And he still couldn't stop.
"Fuck—" he gasped.
He watched as piss reached the edge of the table and began to drip, then streamed off in multiple places at once.
The sound of it hitting the floor grew loud, echoing off the tile.
A whimper escaped his mouth. He was gasping shakily now, his bladder still clenching, forcing everything out whether he wanted it to or not, his lower abdomen visibly deflating as he emptied.
And there was so much.
Too much.
How could there have been this much—
The mess was everywhere.
He was going to flood the entire fucking room at this rate.
"Here—" the woman’s voice cut through his panic.
She was back and moving quickly, carrying a shallow metal pan in her hands.
She quietly positioned it on the table beneath him, angling it to catch what was still coming out.
He couldn't bear to see her face.
The only thing he was capable of was staring down at the mess he’d made, at the way his cock was still releasing in hard squirts and spurts that splashed into the pan.
The sound changed as it hit the pan, and somehow that was worse. It was louder and undeniable proof of exactly what he was doing.
He shuddered, and then all the fight went out of him at once.
Small, involuntary sounds continued to leave his mouth as he let go. Harsh breaths caught in his throat as he felt the pressure finally releasing. Ten hours worth of desperate retention emptying all at once.
It just kept coming.
And coming.
Time stretched impossibly.
He was trapped in that very moment, hunched over a pan peeing, while a near stranger stood right there holding it steady.
But beneath the panic, beneath the humiliation so profound it felt like drowning, he felt an overwhelming, devastating sense of relief as the ache finally eased, his bladder emptied, and the pain that had been crushing him for hours finally let go.
Another trembling breath escaped him.
When it finally slowed, weakening to a trickle, then scattered drops, his whole body sagged forward.
He stayed in the same position for a moment, completely wrung out and ruined.
"Hey..." he heard her say.
But he couldn't look at her. He didn't even want to think about what had just happened.
He'd just—
Gods, he'd just pissed himself in front of her. All over himself. All over the exam table.
After the only real sexual experience he’d ever had.
This was, without question, the most humiliating moment of his entire life.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
His eyes snapped to her face.
She was looking away, her cheeks flushed, clutching the pan.
"I should have anticipated—" She shook her head. "I was going to clean you up first and help you to the toilet. I didn't think it would happen that fast.”
She carried the pan to the sink, emptied it, and he heard water running.
He sat there, staring at the wall as she worked, trying to will his body to stop existing.
When she returned, she had fresh towels and another warm cloth.
"Can you stand up?" she asked gently.
He managed it, pushing himself upright on shaking arms.
She stepped up to him, and began cleaning him without a word.
The cloth was warm as she wiped down his chest where he'd sprayed himself. She moved on to his stomach and his thighs where it had run down.
She was methodical and thorough, and while she refused to look directly at his face, he caught her eyes once or twice and saw no disgust there. He realized that she was giving him what dignity she could.
When she reached between his legs, cleaning his cock and balls with gentle efficiency, he had to close his eyes.
He couldn't watch that or think about the intimacy of it after everything else.
"There," she said finally, stepping back. "Better."
She pulled off her gloves—the ones that were soaked with his piss and come—and dropped them in the waste bin, then grabbed fresh ones.
Then she came back and started wiping down the table around him, cleaning up the mess like it was all no big deal.
He wanted to say something. Thank you. Sorry. Anything.
But his throat had closed up and he couldn't make words come out.
She must have somehow sensed it because she looked up.
"Hey," she said softly. "It's alright. That was normal."
Normal.
Right.
She finished cleaning the table and handed him a towel as well. "Here. For—" She gestured vaguely at him.
He took it, using it to wrap around his waist even though she'd already seen literally everything.
"Your bladder should function normally now," she said, pulling off the second pair of gloves. "Though you might experience some urgency or frequency for the next day or two while everything regulates. That's expected after retention like this."
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
She moved to the counter, making notes on her datapad.
He picked up his clothing and began to redress.
After a moment, she pulled out a small data chip and what looked like a card. "There's a suppressant prescription on here," she said, holding up the chip.
"Take one daily. It should help with the hormonal episodes if your plan is to ignore them." He took it from her, careful not to let their fingers touch.
"And this—" She held up the card, hesitating. "This is my personal comm number. In case the suppressants don't work. Or if you have questions. Or if..." She trailed off.
He took that too, looking at it. It was just a string of numbers, nothing special. Except it felt like something more than that.
She seemed to realize something.
"I'm Bulma, by the way." He looked up at her.
"Vegeta," he said quietly.
"Vegeta." She tested the name, a small smile crossing her face.
"Well, Vegeta...I hope you feel better. But I have a feeling I'll see you again."
"You won't," he said.
Neither of them believed him.