Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

I thought it would be fun to explore the canon of the Dragon Ball F Universe. The story will follow the basic flow of Dragon Ball Z, but obviously there will be many differences. Some changes are made by the AI, some by me, but I think it helps to give this world its own feel besides the basic premise of it being a female-only world. I hope some of you will enjoy these stories, I’ll release them when I can!

The sterile white walls of the Wukong Hospital private suite did little to muffle the sounds of a warrior in her most desperate battle yet.

“YEEEEOOOOWWWWCH! THAT STINGS! OH, SWEET KAMI, ARE YOU RUBBING SALT IN THERE?!”

Goku thrashed on the hospital bed, her face contorted in a mask of pure, childish agony as a long-suffering nurse carefully unwound the old bandages from her heavily-taped torso. Tears streamed from her eyes. “I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE! TELL CHI-CHI I LOVE HER! TELL GOHAN TO EAT ALL HER VEGETABLES!”

From the adjacent bed, Krillin let out a long, weary sigh and slowly turned the page of her manga, refusing to make eye contact. “For the love of… Goku, you took a planet-busting energy sphere to the chest and got your ribs turned to gravel by a fifty-foot monkey. This is a little antiseptic spray.”

In the bed next to Krillin, Gohan had pulled the thin hospital blanket completely over her head, a small, muffled groan of embarrassment emanating from beneath it.

The most potent glare, however, came from the third bed. Chi-Chi, her own arm in a sling and a nasty bruise coloring her jaw, fixed her wife with a look that could curdle milk. “Son Goku, you will cease that racket this instant! You are disturbing the entire wing! You’re a mother, for heaven’s sake! Act like it!”

“But Chiiii-chiiii,” Goku wailed, her lower lip trembling as the nurse dabbed at a particularly nasty bruise. “It’s cold! And it burns! It’s a cold burn! The worst kind!”

The nurse, a woman who had likely seen everything from broken limbs to ki-blast-induced third-degree burns, simply shook her head and continued her work with the patience of a saint. “If you hold still, Mrs. Son, it will be over much faster.”

“Famous last words!” Goku screeched, squeezing her eyes shut. “I heard that in a movie right before the guy got eaten by a dinosaur!”

Krillin finally snapped her manga shut. “That’s it. I’m requesting a room transfer. I survived the Saiyan invasion only to be driven insane by your post-battle melodrama.”

Just then, the door to the room swung open, and Bulma strode in, a large gift basket overflowing with fruit, chocolates, and what looked suspiciously like a few capsules of high-grade senzu bean synthesizer prototypes. She took one look at the scene—the stoic nurse, the mortified Krillin and Gohan, the fuming Chi-Chi, and the blubbering, world-saving Saiyan—and burst out laughing.

“And here I was, worried about your spirits,” she chuckled, setting the basket down. “I see the indomitable Goku spirit is alive and well, and currently having a meltdown over a Band-Aid.”

“It’s not a Band-Aid!” Goku cried, pointing a trembling finger at the extensive wrappings. “It’s a… a torture device! A white, sticky torture device!”

Chi-Chi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Bulma, please tell me you brought something stronger than fruit. A sedative, perhaps. For me.”

The door swung open again, this time revealing Master Roshi, her sunglasses perched on her nose and a lecherous grin already forming. Hot on her heels was Launch, who promptly let out a tremendous sneeze. In a puff of smoke, her demure demeanor vanished, replaced by the wild-eyed, machine-gun-toting blonde.

“Alright, where are the hurt hotties?!” Blonde Launch barked, hefting her rifle before spotting the nurse and giving her a sharp, approving nod. “Nice uniform, sister! Very clinical!”

Roshi’s eyes, meanwhile, had completely bypassed her injured students and locked onto the poor nurse tending to Goku. “Well, hello there, Florence Nightingale,” she purred, sidling up to the bed. “Need an experienced hand with these… difficult patients?” Her hand snaked out to give the nurse’s backside a pinch.

The nurse, with the reflexes of someone who dealt with all manner of nonsense, deftly caught Roshi’s wrist without even looking up from Goku’s bandages. “Touch me again, old woman, and I’ll tape your mouth shut.” She released the wrist with a slight shove.

Roshi rubbed her wrist, a look of profound respect in her eyes. “Spirited! I like that!”

With the commotion momentarily settled, Bulma held up the device. “While you were all busy having your bones rearranged, my recovery teams were sifting through the battlefield. We found this.” She clicked a button on the side, and a small, holographic interface flickered to life above it.

Krillin sat up straighter. “Hey! That’s like the thing Vegeta used! The one she pressed to call her pod!”

“Exactly,” Bulma said, a triumphant gleam in her eye. “But this one was found near the spot where Nappa died. It’s her ship’s remote. She must have lost it sometime during the fight, probably before she got all her armor blown off.” She grabbed the TV remote from Goku’s bedside table and flicked the screen on, tuning it to a news channel.

The screen showed a live feed from the ruins of East City. Dozens of scientists in hazard suits were swarming over the second, mostly-intact Saiyan pod, its alien metal gleaming under massive spotlights. A reporter was speaking breathlessly about the “extraterrestrial artifact” and its “implications for humanity.”

“See that?” Bulma said, pointing at the pod on screen. “That’s our ticket. Nappa’s ship. Its navigation computer will have star charts. It will have the coordinates for their home base, for territories… and for any other planets of interest. Like, say, the planet of the Namekians.”

A stunned silence fell over the room, broken only by Goku’s sniffles as she finally quieted down, intrigued.

“Namek?” Chi-Chi asked, her voice hushed.

“Piccolo was a Namekian,” Bulma explained, her voice gaining momentum. “Vegeta said the Dragon Balls were a Namekian creation. If this planet has them, and its people created them… it stands to reason they have a set. Maybe even a bigger, better set.” She looked around at her friends, her expression fierce. “We find Namek. We find their Dragon Balls. And we wish Piccolo, Tien, Chiaotzu, and Yamcha back to life.”

Hope, bright and fierce, ignited in the room. Krillin’s eyes widened. Gohan peeked out from under her blanket. Even Goku managed a weak, but genuine, smile.

“That… that could work,” Krillin breathed.

“It will work,” Bulma declared. “We’re not just Earth’s defenders anymore. We’re about to become galactic travelers.”

The only one not paying attention was Roshi, who was now trying to peek down the front of the stoic nurse’s uniform. “So, tell me, do you make house calls?”

“Yes! I’ll get my Tien back!” Launch exclaimed, pumping her fist. “And then we’re gonna fuck on the deck of a spaceship! It’s happening!”

The only one not caught up in the moment was Roshi. While everyone else was looking at Bulma, she had successfully cornered the long-suffering nurse against the medical supply cart. “Come now, my dear. A woman of your obvious… stamina… must get lonely in these sterile halls. How about you and I—“

The nurse deftly blocked a groping hand with a bedpan. “I have a syringe full of sedative with your name on it, pervert.”

Bulma, beaming with pride, decided to cap off her brilliant revelation with a demonstration. “And to prove it, watch this!” she announced, holding up Nappa’s remote. “With the press of a single button, I will summon our vessel from the heart of East City! Behold!”

She scrutinized the alien interface. Two buttons glowed softly. One had a symbol that looked like a pod flying toward a stylized house. The other had a similar pod, but with jagged lines coming from it. Bulma, confident in her genius, reasoned the “pod coming home” was the summon function. She pressed it firmly.

“Behold!” she repeated triumphantly.

On the television screen, the live news feed from East City showed the scientists still swarming over Nappa’s pod. For a second, nothing happened.

Then, a low-pitched hum began to emanate from the pod itself. The scientists paused, looking around in confusion. A blinding, red light began to pulse from within the craft’s seams, growing brighter and faster.

The reporter’s voice turned from curiosity to panic. “What’s happening? The artifact seems to be—“

The screen turned white. A silent, devastating explosion engulfed the pod, the scientists, the spotlights, and a massive section of the already-ruined city. The camera feed dissolved into frantic, screaming static.

In the hospital room, the triumphant mood evaporated, replaced by a deafening, horrified silence. The only sound was Roshi, finally giving up on the nurse, plucking a grape from the gift basket.

Bulma stood frozen, the remote held limply in her hand, her face a perfect mask of dawning, catastrophic realization.

Krillin slowly pulled the covers over her head. Gohan’s hopeful smile vanished. Goku blinked.

“So…” Goku asked, her voice small in the ringing quiet. “Does that mean we’re not going to space?”

The wave of hope that had swept through the room crashed into a wall of stunned silence. Everyone just stared at the TV as the news feed cut to an error screen, asking viewers to please hold.

Bulma stood frozen, the remote held limply in her hand, her face a perfect mask of horrified realization. “Oh,” she said, her voice very small. “I… I think that was the self-destruct.”

Chi-Chi put her face in her one good hand. “We’re doomed.”

From under the covers, Krillin’s voice was flat. “Just so I’m clear. The last hope for resurrecting our friends, for fixing everything… was just vaporized because you pressed the ‘blow it up’ button instead of the ‘come here’ button.”

Bulma’s shoulders slumped. “In my defense, the iconography was very ambiguous! It looked like a pod coming toward a house, not… exploding.”

Launch, who had been gleefully envisioning a tearful reunion with a resurrected Tien, let out a sound that was half-sneeze, half-growl. A puff of smoke later, the timid, blue-haired Launch was back, wringing her hands. “Oh dear… did something bad happen?”

Roshi popped the grape into her mouth. “Well,” she said cheerfully, “looks like we’re grounded. Anyone for a sponge bath?” She waggled her eyebrows at the nurse, who was already making a swift exit, muttering about needing to sedate an entire wing.

The silence in the wake of the spaceship’s destruction was thick enough to chew. Roshi, seeing the mood was officially ruined, gave a philosophical shrug and shuffled out after the retreating nurse, her hopeful “Wait up, sugar!” echoing down the hall.

Krillin remained a lump under her blankets. Gohan had retreated back into her shell of shame and grief. Goku just looked confused, as if the concept of irreversible failure was taking a long time to compute.

Chi-Chi, ever practical, broke the silence. “Bulma, you and your father are the smartest people on the planet. Can’t you just… build one? A spaceship, I mean.”

Bulma let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. “Build one? Chi-Chi, we’re brilliant, not magical. We can make capsules that hold houses and cars, not engines that can traverse the interstellar void! The power source alone, the navigation for lightspeed travel, the life support for a journey that could take years… we’re centuries away from that kind of technology. We’d have a better chance wishing for a spaceship from the Dragon Balls.” She slumped into a chair, the picture of deflated genius. “Which, thanks to my trigger finger, we no longer have access to.”

A soft tap-tap-tapping sound came from the window.

Everyone turned. Hovering just outside the tenth-story window, seated cross-legged on a small, ornate magic carpet, was Ms. Popo. Her dark, featureless face was as placid as ever, her red lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

“I may know of a ship,” she said, her voice a calm monotone that seemed to bypass the glass. “Though I am not entirely certain that is what it is.”

Bulma shot to her feet, a scream trapped in her throat. She managed to choke it down into a strangled gasp, her eyes wide as dinner plates. She was a scientist, a woman of logic and reason. Flying carpets and… and that thing… were so far outside her paradigm it caused a legitimate system crash in her brain.

“G-Goku? Krillin?” Bulma stammered, trying and failing to look anywhere but at Popo’s unsettlingly smooth face and those deep, black eyes. “Who… what is… that?”

Goku, oblivious to the horror, brightened. “Oh, hey, Ms. Popo! You know about a spaceship?”

Popo inclined her head slightly. “For many years, it has rested where Kami left it. It is a large, round vessel. It does not look like the one that just exploded on your picture box. But it is not of this world.” She tilted her head. “It may be what you seek. Or it may be something else entirely.”

Bulma forced a wobbly, terrified smile, her hands gripping the back of the chair for support. “A… a large, round vessel? Not of this world? That… that sounds… perfectly… normal and not at all terrifying.” She gave a shaky thumbs-up. “Great. Just great. Let’s… let’s go look at the possibly-alien, definitely-spooky not-ship.”

A beatific smile spread across Ms. Popo’s face, a sight so unnerving it made Bulma’s skin crawl. “Excellent,” Popo intoned. She made a slight gesture with her hand, and the hospital window unlatched itself and slid smoothly open, letting in a gust of cool, high-altitude air.

“Come,” Popo said, patting the empty space on the carpet in front of her. “We shall go to the location.”

Bulma stared at the floating rug, then down at the ten-story drop to the manicured hospital lawns below. “You… you expect me to get on that? It’s a carpet.”

“It is a very reliable carpet,” Popo replied, her smile unwavering.

“Right. Reliable.” Bulma’s scientific mind screamed in protest. There was no visible propulsion, no anti-gravity field she could detect, no logical reason for it to be floating other than ‘magic,’ a concept she filed right next to ‘leprechauns’ and ‘a fair tax system.’ But the alternative was giving up, and her pride was still smarting from the whole ‘accidental spaceship demolition’ incident.

With the cautious movements of someone disarming a bomb, Bulma swung one leg, then the other, over the windowsill and onto the carpet. It sank maybe an inch under her weight but held firm, the fabric feeling strangely solid beneath her. She settled into a cross-legged position directly in front of Popo, her back ramrod straight.

“Okay,” she breathed, white-knuckling the edge of the carpet. “Okay, I’m on. Now, let’s just take this nice and—AAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Without any warning, the carpet shot forward and straight up into the sky like a rocket. Bulma’s scream was torn away by the wind as the hospital shrunk to the size of a toy building in an instant. Instinct took over. She threw her arms around Ms. Popo’s waist, burying her face in the dark, pillowy softness of her breasts, clinging to her for dear life.

Popo simply hummed a tranquil, tuneless melody as they soared through the clouds, the screaming genius glued to her front.

Back in the suddenly quiet hospital room, the timid, blue-haired Launch sniffled slightly and looked over at Goku’s bed. “Um, Goku? That fruit basket looks really nice. Do you think… maybe I could have an apple? I’m feeling a little peckish after all the… the excitement.”

—–

The sterile, fluorescent hum of the supply closet was a stark contrast to the frantic energy emanating from Master Roshi. The door clicked shut, plunging them into a world of shelving units stacked with bandages, bedpans, and neatly folded linens. The nurse, a woman named Anya who prided herself on her unflappable professionalism, found her back pressed against a cold metal shelf, Roshi’s surprisingly strong frame caging her in.

“Now, now, my dear,” Roshi purred, her voice a low, gravelly thing that smelled faintly of senile mischief and the grape she’d just eaten. “No need for syringes or threats. A woman of your… considerable assets shouldn’t waste her prime years changing bedpans.”

Anya’s usual steely resolve was cracking. The day had been too long, and the bizarre, aggressive charisma of this ancient pervert was a strange, dizzying distraction. “You need to leave. Now,” she managed, but her voice lacked its earlier conviction.

Roshi’s hand, gnarled and spotted with age, came up to cup her cheek. Anya flinched, but didn’t pull away. “Such smooth skin,” Roshi murmured, her thumb stroking her jawline. “Wasted on such a stern expression.” Her other hand slid down, palming Anya’s hip through the crisp white fabric of her uniform, a possessive, intimate gesture that sent an unwelcome shiver down the nurse’s spine.

“Stop…” Anya whispered, the protest weak, almost a plea.

“Why?” Roshi challenged, leaning in closer, her breath ghosting across Anya’s ear. “You’ve been fighting all day. Holding it all together. Let someone else take control for a few minutes.” Her hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, pressing their bodies together. “Let an old woman appreciate a true work of art.”

Anya’s breath hitched. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a confusing, warm lethargy. Roshi’s hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat, the other roaming over her uniform, groping and squeezing with a brazen familiarity that should have been appalling. It was. And yet, a traitorous heat was coiling low in her belly. The sheer, audacious need in the old woman’s touch was a potent antidote to the numbness of the day.

Roshi’s mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and Anya let out a soft, shuddering gasp. Her hands, which had been braced against the shelf behind her, came up to clutch at Roshi’s dress.

“That’s it,” Roshi grunted against her neck, her voice thick with triumph. “No more fighting. Just feel.”

Roshi’s victory was absolute. She felt the nurse’s body go pliant against hers, the final surrender in the soft, yielding gasp against her neck. The crisp white uniform, a symbol of sterile order, was now a barrier to be conquered. Her gnarled hands worked with a surprising deftness, popping the buttons of Anya’s dress one by one, the soft plink of them hitting the linoleum floor the only sound beyond their ragged breathing.

The fabric fell open, revealing the simple, practical bra beneath. Roshi didn’t hesitate. She shoved the uniform from Anya’s shoulders, pinning her arms gently but firmly at her sides with the bunched-up fabric. Her mouth left Anya’s neck, trailing a wet, possessive path down her collarbone to the swell of her breast. She took the lace-covered peak into her mouth through the fabric, her tongue a rough, insistent pressure that made Anya cry out, her head thumping back against the shelves.

“Quiet now,” Roshi murmured, the words vibrating against her skin. “Wouldn’t want your colleagues to hear what a naughty nurse you are.”

The humiliation, the sheer wrongness of it, only fanned the flames of Anya’s arousal. This wasn’t a tender seduction; it was a claiming. Roshi’s hands were on her hips again, yanking down her sensible white panties and the stockings beneath in one rough motion. The cold air of the closet hit her bare skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of Roshi’s body as the old woman pressed against her, one hand sliding between her thighs.

Anya was wet. Profoundly, embarrassingly so. Roshi’s fingers, calloused from a lifetime of martial arts, found her clit with an unerring accuracy, rubbing rough, tight circles that stole the breath from Anya’s lungs. Her other hand groped and mauled her breast, squeezing the soft flesh with a force that bordered on pain.

“Please…” Anya begged, but she no longer knew what she was begging for. For it to stop? For it to never end?

Roshi answered by driving two fingers inside her, a sudden, stretching fullness that made Anya’s eyes roll back. Her rhythm was ancient and primal, a fucking that was all base instinct, her fingers curling to find that spot deep inside that made Anya’s legs tremble and her professional composure shatter into a thousand pieces. She was being taken apart in a hospital supply closet by a centuries-old pervert, and her body was singing a hymn of gratitude for the destruction.

Roshi watched her face, the play of agony and ecstasy, the way her mouth fell open in a silent scream as her climax ripped through her. She kept her fingers moving, drawing out the convulsions, milking every last shudder from the nurse’s body until Anya was a boneless, trembling heap against the shelves, held up only by Roshi’s firm grip and the shelf digging into her back.

Only then did Roshi slowly withdraw her slick fingers, bringing them to her lips with a wicked grin. “See? Much better than a sponge bath.”

Anya’s legs gave out completely, the last of her strength melting away under the aftershocks of her climax. She slid down the metal shelving unit, landing on her knees on the cool linoleum floor. Her head swam, her vision blurry with unshed tears and a strange, dizzying sense of liberation.

Roshi looked down at her, a predatory gleam in her eyes behind the sunglasses. She saw the submission, the raw vulnerability, and she knew the power dynamic had irrevocably shifted. “That’s a good girl,” she purred, her voice thick with approval. “Now, it’s only fair you return the favor.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She hiked up the hem of her own dress, revealing surprisingly sturdy, aged thighs, and stepped forward, guiding herself toward Anya’s face. The musky, intimate scent of her own arousal filled Anya’s nostrils. “Open up, nurse. Time for your medicine.”

A final, fleeting thought of professionalism tried to surface, but it was drowned out by the roaring in her blood. Anya’s lips parted obediently, and her tongue tentatively met the soft, wrinkled flesh presented to her. The taste was earthy, primal, utterly foreign. She began to lick and suck with a growing, desperate hunger, her hands coming up to grip Roshi’s hips, holding the old woman steady as she feasted. She explored every fold and crease with her tongue, losing herself in the act of service, in the sheer degradation of it.

Rosi groaned, her head falling back. “Yes… just like that… you’re a natural-born cunt-licker, aren’t you?” Her hips began to move in a slow, grinding rhythm against Anya’s mouth. “Such a talented little mouth on such a proper nurse.”

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the shelves on either side of Anya’s head, fucking her face with more insistence. “You know,” Roshi grunted, her voice husky with pleasure, “I’ve got a little… enhancement on me. A futa bean. I could pop it, give you some real meat to suck on. A proper cock for that hungry throat of yours. What do you say, sweetheart? You want thus old woman to fill you up for real?”

Anya’s eyes, wide and glazed, looked up at her from between her thighs. The question hung in the air, a line between the depravity they were already committing and something even more profound. She could refuse. She could end this here.

Instead, a shudder of pure, wanton anticipation wracked her body. She nodded frantically, her mouth still working, a silent, desperate plea in her eyes.

Yes.

A feral grin split Roshi’s face. “That’s my girl.” With a magician’s flourish, she produced the pale bean from a hidden pocket and swallowed it dry.

The transformation was swift and grotesquely magnificent. A thick, veined cock, impossibly large and already weeping with pre-cum, sprang forth from between her aged thighs. It was a monument of perverse power, a stark contrast to her wrinkled skin.

She didn’t give Anya a moment to process it. She grabbed a fistful of the nurse’s perfectly styled hair and guided the swollen head to her lips. “Open wide, sweetheart. Take your medicine.”

Anya’s eyes widened, a mix of terror and raw, undeniable hunger in their depths. She obeyed, her jaw straining to accommodate the girth as Roshi pushed forward. There was no gentle easing, no slow descent. It was a brutal, face-fucking from the first thrust, Roshi’s hips pistoning with a vigor that belied her years.

The thick shaft stretched Anya’s throat, each thrust hitting the back with a wet, gagging choke that Roshi seemed to relish. Tears streamed from Anya’s eyes, tracing paths through her smudged makeup, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands, which had been gripping Roshi’s hips, now clawed at them, urging her deeper, harder. The sounds were obscene—the wet slaps of flesh, the guttural grunts from Roshi, the choked, muffled moans from Anya as she was used as nothing more than a living, breathing sex toy.

“That’s it,” Roshi grunted, her voice a ragged growl of triumph. “Take it all, you filthy little nurse. Swallow every last drop.”

She fucked her face with a relentless, punishing rhythm, her own climax building with each thrust into that tight, willing throat. This was the ultimate corruption, the final surrender, and both of them were lost to the glorious, degrading truth of it.

Roshi pulled her slick, throbbing cock from Anya’s throat with a wet, popping sound. The nurse gasped for air, her lips swollen and bruised, a string of saliva and pre-cum connecting her to the old master. Her eyes were glazed, her professional composure utterly annihilated.

“Not yet, my dear,” Roshi purred, her voice dripping with lecherous authority. “A face-fucking is a fine appetizer, but the main course deserves a proper serving.”

She manhandled Anya with surprising strength, turning her around and bending her over a low cart stacked with sterile gauze and bandages. The cool metal bit into Anya’s stomach, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her own skin. Roshi’s hands roamed over the nurse’s exposed ass, groping and squeezing the pale flesh, as Anya trembled beneath her.

“Look at you,” Roshi chuckled, delivering a sharp, stinging spank that made Anya jolt and cry out. “All prim and proper in your little uniform, but underneath, you’re just a desperate, dripping slut begging for an old woman’s cock.”

She positioned herself, the head of her thick length pressing against Anya’s slick entrance. “You want this, don’t you? You want this dirty old pervert to wreck your tight little cunt.”

“Yes! Please, Master Roshi!” Anya begged, the title falling from her lips without a trace of irony, her hips pushing back against the pressure.

“Then beg for it properly, you whore.”

“Please! Please fuck me! I’m your slut! Your dirty little nurse slut! I need it! I need your cock inside me!”

With a grunt of supreme satisfaction, Roshi drove into her. The penetration was a brutal, complete invasion, stretching Anya to her limits. She set a punishing, deep rhythm from the start, her hips slamming against Anya’s ass with enough force to rattle the cart. Each thrust was a masterclass in degradation, punctuated by Roshi’s filthy commentary.

“That’s it, take it! You feel that, you little skank? That’s centuries of experience pounding into you! Your tight little pussy was made for this, for taking a real woman’s cock!”

Her hands gripped Anya’s hips like vices, holding her in place as she was ruthlessly fucked. The lewd, wet sounds of their joining filled the small closet, a symphony of her utter conquest. Roshi leaned over her, her breath hot on Anya’s ear.

“You’re gonna remember this every time you put on that pristine uniform. You’re gonna feel my cum leaking out of you while you’re taking temperatures, you filthy little angel of mercy.” She punctuated the sentence with a particularly deep, grinding thrust that made Anya see stars. “Now cum for me, you worthless bitch. Cum on your master’s cock.”

Roshi’s command was a spark to tinder. Anya’s body, already strung taut on the wire of her own depravity, snapped. A raw, guttural scream was torn from her throat, muffled by the sterile gauze packages her face was pressed against. Her back arched violently, her inner muscles clamping down on Roshi’s invading length in a series of frantic, milking spasms. Her climax was less a wave of pleasure and more a seismic event, shattering the last vestiges of her composed identity into a million glittering shards of pure, unadulterated sensation.

“YES! FUCK! YOUR DIRTY LITTLE SLUT IS CUMMING!” she shrieked, the words filthy and glorious in their honesty.

The feeling of Anya’s tight, convulsing cunt sent Roshi over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust that buried her to the hilt, she roared her own release, a sound of pure, triumphant gluttony. A hot, pulsing torrent erupted deep inside the nurse, each spurt a claiming stamp of ownership. She held herself there, grinding against Anya’s ass as she filled her, ensuring not a single drop was wasted.

When the last shudder had passed through them both, Roshi stayed embedded for a long moment, panting, the sweat-slicked skin of their bodies sticking together. She finally pulled out with a soft, wet sound, the evidence of their union immediately beginning to leak down Anya’s trembling thighs.

Roshi took a step back, admiring her handiwork. The nurse was a beautiful wreck, collapsed over the medical cart, her uniform in disarray, her body glistening with sweat and spent passion. She reached out with a surprisingly gentle hand and stroked Anya’s hair.

The haze of animal pleasure and submission evaporated from Anya’s mind with the sudden, jarring finality of a bucket of ice water. The cold metal of the cart against her stomach, the sticky sensation between her thighs, the musky scent of sex and aged perfume clinging to the air—it all snapped into a horrifyingly clear focus.

Roshi, looking immensely pleased with herself, leaned in, her lips puckered for a sloppy, post-coital kiss.

SMACK!

The sound of Anya’s palm connecting with Roshi’s cheek was sharp and decisive in the small room. Roshi’s head snapped to the side, her sunglasses askew. She blinked, more out of surprise than pain.

Anya was already in motion, her movements brisk and efficient. She pulled up her soiled panties and stockings, her fingers trembling slightly but her purpose clear. She straightened her uniform, buttoning it with sharp, precise movements, tucking herself back into a semblance of order. She ran a hand through her disheveled blonde hair.

She walked to the door, her posture once again ramrod straight, the picture of medical professionalism. She paused with her hand on the knob, not looking back.

“Thank you for the… treatment,” she said, her voice clipped and perfectly polite, as if she’d just administered a routine flu shot. Then she opened the door and stepped out into the bright, sterile hallway, closing it softly behind her.

Left alone in the supply closet, Roshi slowly reached up and touched her stinging cheek. A low chuckle escaped her, which grew into a full-bellied, wheezing laugh. She adjusted her sunglasses, a wide, unabashed grin spreading across her face.

“What a woman,” she cackled to the empty room, utterly delighted. She’d had a wonderful time.