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 relentless sun beat down on the cracked earth of the canyon, but for the first time in weeks, there was a temporary, unspoken truce. Gohan sat on a flat rock, gnawing contentedly on a thick, smoked strip of T-rex tail, the rich, gamey flavor a small comfort in the harsh landscape. A few yards away, Piccolo sat in the lotus position, her form perfectly still, her crimson eyes closed in deep meditation. The only sign of life was the slow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest.

Gohan swallowed a mouthful of meat, her curiosity, never far from the surface, finally bubbling over. “Ms. Piccolo?” she asked, her voice small in the vast silence.

Piccolo’s eyes didn’t open. “What is it, brat?”

“How come you never eat? Don’t you get hungry?”

“My body is not like yours,” Piccolo replied, her voice a low rumble. “I am demon. I require only water. My energy is drawn from the light of this planet’s sun and my own inner ki. Food is… an unnecessary complication.”

Gohan considered this, her head tilting. She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as she studied the powerful green woman. The differences were endless and fascinating. “So… you don’t have a belly button?” she asked, her tone one of pure, childish inquiry.

Piccolo’s left eye twitched open, a flicker of profound annoyance in its crimson depth. “That is a personal and irrelevant question.”

“But I’m curious!” Gohan pressed, undeterred. “My mom has one. My other mom had one too, I think. Do you… you know… go to the bathroom?”

A faint, green blush tinged Piccolo’s cheeks. She was a warrior who had faced down countless threats, who planned to conquer the world, and she was being interrogated about her biological functions by a four-year-old. “I expel waste as a vapor. It is an efficient process.” The words were clipped, forced out through gritted teeth.

Gohan’s eyes widened. “Whoa! So you just… puff it out? Like a cloud? Is it like a fart?” She leaned forward, her snack forgotten. “What about… you know. The stuff that makes babies? Do you have that? How does that work?”

Piccolo’s other eye snapped open. She was now fully, visibly flustered, her usual imposing demeanor cracking under the relentless, innocent inquisition. “I do not… make babies in that manner!” she snapped, her voice rising an octave. “Like my mother, I reproduce by… by laying eggs from my mouth! It is a sacred, spiritual act, not some… some messy mammalian process!”

She realized she had shouted, and that she had just divulged one of the most fundamental and private aspects of her biology to a child who was now staring at her with an expression of utterly fascinated horror.

“Ewwww! You spit up eggs?!” Gohan gasped, her nose scrunched up.

Piccolo sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire badlands. She pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “This conversation is over. Finish your snack. Your next lesson begins in five minutes.” She closed her eyes again, trying to sink back into her meditation, but the image of Gohan’s disgusted face was now permanently seared behind her eyelids. Training the child was one thing; surviving her curiosity was an entirely different battle.

—–

The air on the Lookout was thick with the scent of exertion and the low, rhythmic sounds of pleasure. Krillin, her bald head gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, was a study in focused intensity. She was on her knees behind Yajirobe, her short, powerful body driving forward with a steady, piston-like rhythm. Her hands gripped the larger woman’s ample hips, her knuckles white as she buried herself again and again into the slick, welcoming heat of Yajirobe’s pussy. Each thrust made Yajirobe’s substantial ass jiggle and clap against Krillin’s toned abdomen, the wet, slapping sound a lewd counterpoint to Yajirobe’s deep, guttural groans.

“That’s it… take it, you big… fatass…” Krillin grunted, her own breath coming in ragged pants, a triumphant smirk on her face as she felt Yajirobe’s inner muscles begin to flutter around her length.

Nearby, Chi-Chi, Yamcha, Tien and Chiaotzu watched, their own bodies still humming from their earlier spar. The sexual display was as much a part of their training as the fighting, a familiar, if intense, routine.

“Do you think they’ll come in a single ship, like Raditz did?” Chi-Chi asked, her voice conversational as she took a sip of water, her eyes calmly observing Krillin’s efforts.

Yamcha, leaning against a pillar, shrugged. “Probably. Arrogant pricks like that probably think one ship is all they need for a planet like ours.”

Tien, her arms crossed, nodded in agreement, her third eye seeming to observe both the conversation and the carnal act with equal detachment. “It’s a tactical advantage. A smaller signature, a single point of entry they can control. We should prepare for a concentrated assault.”

Their strategic discussion was suddenly interrupted by a shift in the dynamic on the mats. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength, Yajirobe reached back, grabbing Krillin by the back of her gi. In one fluid, powerful motion, she twisted, flipping their positions and pinning the smaller woman beneath her considerable weight.

“My turn, short stack,” Yajirobe grunted, her earlier passive groans replaced by a hungry growl.

Before Krillin could even protest, Yajirobe had her face buried between the smaller woman’s ass cheeks. Her tongue, thick and relentless, delved into Krillin’s tight hole with a hungry, lapping pressure that was both shocking and intensely stimulating. Krillin’s smug composure shattered instantly. A high, sharp cry was torn from her lips, her back arching lewdly as Yajirobe ate her out with a fervent, single-minded hunger, her large hands holding Krillin’s hips in place, proving that even the most gluttonous of them had their own formidable appetites.

—–

The turquoise waters around Kame House were parted by the sleek, white form of Bulma’s personal airship. It settled onto the sand with a soft hum, and the hatch hissed open. Bulma Briefs strode down the ramp, a triumphant grin on her face and a large, heavy bag slung over her shoulder.

She was greeted by a peculiar assembly. The ancient Master Roshi was lounging in a beach chair, her sunglasses on and a Swimsuit Illustrated magazine in hand. Beside her, floating serenely on her crystal ball, was her even more ancient sister, Fortuneteller Baba. The shapeshifting pig, Oolong, and the floating blue cat, Puar, were bickering over a seashell nearby.

“Bulma! You’re back!” Roshi cackled, peering over her sunglasses. She immediately shuffled over, her wrinkled hands making a beeline for Bulma’s backside.

“Get off, you old lech!” Bulma snapped, swatting the groping hands away with the practiced ease of someone dealing with a persistent insect. She didn’t even break her stride, dropping the heavy bag onto the patio table with a solid thump. The bag jingled with a familiar, ceramic sound.

“I did it,” Bulma announced, her voice ringing with pride. She unzipped the bag, revealing the seven orange orbs within, each containing a different number of glowing red stars. “All seven Dragon Balls. We can bring Goku back whenever we want.”

Baba let out a dry, cackling laugh from her crystal ball. “Not so fast, young one. I’ve spoken with Kami. The Guardian of Earth herself. She wishes for you to wait.”

Bulma’s triumphant grin faltered. “Wait? Why? We need Goku back now!”

“Patience,” Baba croaked. “The girl is training. Queen Kai, a deity of immense power, is going to instruct her in the Other World. To bring her back now would squander a priceless opportunity. Kami believes this training is our best, and perhaps only, chance for victory. We wait until the Saiyans are almost upon us. Then, and only then, do we make the wish.”

Bulma sighed, running a hand through her blue hair in frustration. “Fine. But if this backfires, I’m blaming you.” As she spoke, Roshi’s wandering hands found their way to her waist. “I said knock it off!” Bulma yelled, elbowing the old woman sharply in the ribs without even looking at her.

Roshi just chuckled, rubbing her side. “Can’t blame an old woman for trying, my dear. You’re looking as… vibrant as ever.”

Bulma’s brow furrowed, her mind racing with logistical nightmares. “So we just sit on these things? What if they get stolen? The radar’s locked onto them now, but anyone could just stumble upon them out here! And what’s the signal? How do we know when it’s the right time to wish her back?”

She was so engrossed in her planning that she barely registered the slow, creeping progress of Master Roshi’s hands. The initial swats and elbow jabs had become less forceful, her defenses down as her brain worked overtime. Baba, floating on her ball, simply shrugged, her eyes twinkling with amusement at her sister’s persistence.

“Kami will provide a sign,” Baba croaked, her voice like dry leaves. “Perhaps a great darkness will blot out the sun. Perhaps the very air will tremble. You’ll know.”

“That’s not a plan, that’s a fortune cookie!” Bulma retorted, throwing her hands up in exasperation. It was in that moment of distraction that Roshi achieved total victory. Both of her wrinkled, surprisingly strong hands found their target, cupping Bulma’s tits and giving them a firm, appreciative squeeze.

Bulma froze. She let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. The fight just… drained out of her. It had been a long, stressful journey collecting the orbs, and now this waiting game. She was tired.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She didn’t push the old woman away. She just stood there, leaning slightly against the patio table, her blue eyes staring out at the horizon while Master Roshi happily kneaded her breasts with a triumphant, gleeful cackle. Sometimes, on the path to saving the world, you just had to pick your battles. And this was one she no longer had the energy to fight.

Roshi’s groping hands grew more insistent, her cackle turning into a low, wheedling purr right next to Bulma’s ear. “Come now, my brilliant girl. All that stress, all that planning… an old woman knows just what you need to relax. The sand is soft, the sun is warm… let us show you a different kind of ancient technique.”

Bulma opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but a strange lassitude had stolen over her. The fight had gone out of her, replaced by a buzzing, traitorous curiosity. These were legendary figures, masters of forgotten arts. What other secrets did they hold?

Baba, seeing her sister’s success, floated closer on her crystal ball, her dry chuckle a rustle of parchment. “She has a point, child. The body holds tensions that the mind forgets. We could… exorcise them for you.”

Before Bulma could form a coherent thought, Roshi was guiding her down onto the warm sand, her movements surprisingly deft. Baba drifted down, her spindly but strong hands joining her sister’s. They were a practiced team, their aged hands working in unison to divest Bulma of her designer shorts and top with an efficiency that was both shocking and mesmerizing. The sun beat down on her exposed skin, and a flush that had nothing to do with its heat spread across her chest and cheeks.

“I really shouldn’t…” Bulma mumbled, but the protest was weak, her body arching of its own volition as Roshi’s mouth found one breast while Baba’s skilled fingers began tracing intricate, knowing patterns on her inner thighs.

From behind a large rock further down the beach, two pairs of eyes watched, wide with a mixture of horror and fascination.

“Are you seeing this?!” Oolong whispered, her piggy snout twitching.

“I’m trying not to,” Puar squeaked, covering her eyes with her paws, though the gaps between them were suspiciously wide.

They watched as the two ancient women descended upon the brilliant heiress, their aged bodies moving with a vitality that defied their years. Roshi’s mouth was everywhere, while Baba, with a mystic’s knowledge, seemed to find every hidden pressure point, every secret trigger of pleasure. Bulma’s weak protests quickly dissolved into ragged moans, her body twisting in the sand, no longer fighting but surrendering completely to the unexpected, overwhelming ministrations of the legendary sisters. It was a bizarre, surreal tableau under the bright Kame House sun—a scene of legendary debauchery witnessed only by a shapeshifting pig and a floating cat.

The warm sand shifted beneath Bulma’s back, a granular bed for her surrender. Roshi’s mouth, surprisingly skilled and voracious, latched onto one of her breasts, the old woman’s tongue circling and sucking the hardened nipple with a relentless pressure that sent jolts of sharp pleasure straight to Bulma’s core. At the same time, Baba’s spindly fingers, possessing a mystic’s intimate knowledge of the body, parted her lower lips with an unhurried precision.

“The body is a temple, child,” Baba rasped, her voice a dry whisper against Bulma’s thigh. “But even temples need a good cleansing.” Two of her fingers pushed inside, a slow, deep invasion that made Bulma gasp, her back arching off the sand. Baba’s thumb found her clit, applying a firm, circling pressure that was utterly devastating in its accuracy.

Bulma was trapped between them, a doll in the hands of two ancient, decadent artists. Roshi switched breasts, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin, while her own hand slid down Bulma’s stomach, fingers joining Baba’s in the slick, hot space between her legs. The sensation of being filled and manipulated by four different hands, by two mouths, was an overload that shattered her last vestiges of resistance. A broken, keening wail was torn from her throat as a climax, violent and unexpected, seized her, her body bucking against their hold.

But they were far from finished. Roshi, with a grunt of effort, shifted her weight. She guided Bulma’s leg over her shoulder, opening her wider, and lowered her head. Her tongue, thick and experienced, delved into Bulma’s ass, probing the tight ring of muscle with a lewd, wet insistence that made Bulma cry out again, the sensation so taboo and intense it bordered on pain. Baba, meanwhile, focused on her pussy, her fingers now three, stretching and fucking her with a steady, piston-like rhythm that matched the lapping of her sister’s tongue.

They were a symphony of depravity, their aged bodies moving with a practiced, obscene harmony. Bulma was nothing but a instrument for their pleasure, her mind blank, her world reduced to the twin, overwhelming sensations of being eaten and fucked simultaneously by the legendary sisters. Her cries echoed across the empty beach, a soundtrack to her complete and utter defilement.

Behind the rock, the spectacle had a profound effect. Oolong, her piggy body trembling, found herself pressed against Puar. The floating cat, usually so demure, was breathing heavily, her blue fur standing on end.

“They’re… they’re really going at it,” Oolong whispered, her voice husky.

“I can’t look away,” Puar moaned, her own small paws trailing down her body.

Driven by a shared, voyeuristic heat, they came together. Oolong’s thicker, stronger body pinned Puar against the sun-warmed rock, her mouth finding the cat-girl’s neck in a series of hungry, biting kisses. Puar’s delicate claws scraped down Oolong’s back as Oolong’s hand shoved its way between her thighs. It was rough, frantic, and fueled by the raw, explicit scene unfolding just meters away. As Bulma screamed her way through another shattering orgasm under the relentless assault of the old women, Oolong and Puar found their own frantic, muffled release against the rock, their small bodies shuddering in a shared, secret climax, forever bound by the memory of the day they watched the world’s smartest woman be utterly undone by its two most ancient lechers.

The two old women lay back on the sun-warmed sand, their aged bodies glistening and spent, their chests heaving. But the look in their eyes was one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Roshi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a smug, triumphant glint in their eyes. Roshi’s hand was still possessively resting on the curve of Bulma’s hip, a final, claiming touch.

It was Bulma’s turn.

She moved with a new, focused intensity. She knelt between Roshi’s spread thighs, her hands stroking up the wrinkled skin of her inner legs, her touch deliberate and knowing. She began stripping the elderly sisters of their garments. “Now, you old cunts,” Bulma purred, her voice raspy from screaming. “Let us show you the true meaning of gratitude.”

She started with Baba, her blue hair falling forward as she took the ancient crone’s small, surprisingly firm breast into her mouth, her tongue and lips working with a skill that made the old woman’s breath catch. Bulma’s mouth was hot and demanding, her tongue swirling around a hardened nipple before trailing down the center line of her body. She parted the sparse pink hair at the junction of her thighs, her tongue delving into the old woman’s dry, wrinkled pussy. She worked her tongue with a relentless, corkscrewing pressure that soon had Baba arching her back with a thin, reedy cry, her body trembling as the climax washed over her, leaving her gasping.

She then turned her attention to her sister, Master Roshi. She was less gentle here, her hands gripping Roshi’s thick thighs, pushing them further apart. Her fingers found the tight, puckered entrance to her ass. She pressed the tip of her tongue against it, then pushed, breaching the tight ring of muscle. She fucked her with her tongue, a lewd, wet penetration that was both shocking and intensely arousing. She parted the soft, wrinkled labia, her tongue thrusting deep inside, a violation that was also the highest form of worship.

She leaned in, her tongue delivering a long, slow, flat stroke from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her throbbing clit, a single, focused point of contact. Roshi gasped, a high, thin sound, as Bulma’s mouth found its mark. Her tongue was a skilled and relentless instrument, tracing the outer lips, then delving deep into the wet, hot center. She didn’t just lick; she feasted. She sucked the engorged bud into her mouth, applying a rhythmic, pulsing suction that made Roshi’s head thrash back into the sand. Bulma’s focus was absolute. She licked and probed, her nose buried in the sparse white hair, inhaling the deeply musky, uniquely Roshi scent and taste. Her nose and chin pressed against Roshi’s flesh, her tongue delving into her entrance with a deep, thrusting motion that mimicked the act of fucking. She lapped at the gathering juices, drinking her in.

Bulma fingered Baba as she ate out Roshi’s dripping cunt. Roshi’s body arched, her back lifting clear off the beach as Baba’s climax approached, her own body tensing in response. The old woman’s climax was a raw, shuddering release that left her panting and spent.

The two ancient sisters could only moan and writhe, utterly at the mercy of the heiress’s skilled, relentless mouth and hands. They were the students now, learning the final lesson of their training: the intoxicating, soul-binding power of absolute, reciprocal surrender. It was the final, perfect note in their symphony of training, a promise of the fierce, unyielding strength they would need to face the coming storm.

She left Roshi and Baba panting and slick with sweat on the sand. Her own breath was still coming in ragged gasps, her body humming with the aftershocks of her own pleasure, a potent energy she now channels back into them. She moves from one to the other, her mouth a slick, demanding instrument of gratitude.

With Roshi still shuddering from her climax, Bulma turned her attention to the two voyeurs. She approached Oolong and Puar, who were still tangled together in their hiding place, their own arousal a palpable force in the air. She began with Oolong, turning the plump woman over to expose the full, jiggling expanse of her ass. She delivers a sharp, stinging spank that makes the pig-woman yelp, the sound a sharp crack in the seaside air.

“Your turn,” she murmured, her voice thick with arousal and power. She pushed Oolong’s face down into the sand, then knelt behind her, her hands gripping the generous curves of her hips. She delivered another spank, then another, the sharp impacts echoing the lewd sounds still coming from the center of the beach.

She began by spreading the ample cheeks of Oolong’s ass, exposing the tight, pink furl of her asshole to the warm air. Then she leaned in, her tongue pressing flat against the pucker, then probing, breaching the tight ring of muscle. She ate her ass with a slow, deliberate intensity, her tongue probing deep into the forbidden entrance with a wet, relentless rhythm.

But she wasn’t done. As she worked her tongue into Oolong’s ass, she reached around, her fingers finding Puar’s small, dripping pussy. She worked her fingers inside the cat-girl, a dual penetration of tongue and touch that left Oolong moaning and pushing her hips back against the invasive, worshipful pressure. She then turned her attention fully to Puar, her mouth latching onto the cat-girl’s clit, sucking with a firm, pulsing suction that made Puar cry out, her small body arching.

She moved from Oolong’s ass to her pussy, her mouth a vortex of sensation. She then switched, licked and sucked, her nose buried in the soft blue fur of Puar’s mound, her tongue delving into her entrance, lapping up her unique, musky-sweet flavor. Her other hand continued its work on Oolong, spanking her plump rear, the sharp slaps a counterpoint to the wet, squelching sounds her mouth made on Puar’s pussy, a messy, primal act of devotion. The sounds of their pleasure—Roshi’s low groans, Baba’s reedy cries, and now Oolong’s own guttural groans as she was rimmmed and eaten out simultaneously, their shared, voyeuristic heat culminating in a final, shuddering release that left them all locked in a shared, intimate crucible, forging the final, unbreakable bonds of their shared purpose through the most primal, intimate of acts.

Bulma wiped the back of her hand across her chin, clearing the glistening evidence of her thorough work. The four other women lay in a spent, glistening heap on the warm sand. Roshi, her sunglasses askew, managed a weak, trembling thumbs-up from her prone position.

“Knew it… knew you had it in you,” Roshi panted, a grin spreading across her wrinkled face despite her exhaustion. “A perfect slut… always knew we could count on you for a good time.”

A hot blush instantly flared across Bulma’s cheeks. The blunt, crude praise, coming from the lecherous old master, sent a jolt of something warm and traitorous straight to Bulma’s core. She looked away, focusing on the horizon. “Yeah, well… don’t let it go to your head, you old lech.” She tried to sound annoyed, but the warmth in her face betrayed her. Her gaze then drifted upward, past the blue sky, to a place only she could see.

“Goku…” she murmured, the name a soft exhale into the sea breeze. The thought of her former traveling companion, alone on that impossible road, was a constant, dull ache in her chest, a companion to the more physical soreness. “I hope you’re getting stronger, you big idiot. We’re all waiting for you.”

—–

The golden path of the Serpentine Highway, after what felt like an eternity of relentless running, simply… ended. It didn’t taper off or connect to another road; it stopped abruptly, its glowing coils dissolving into the star-dusted void. Goku skidded to a halt at the precipice, her boots scattering a few last motes of light into the infinite black.

“Huh? That’s it?” she muttered, hands on her hips as she scanned the emptiness. “A million miles for a dead end? That doesn’t make any sen—”

Her eyes caught a flicker of something high above. She squinted. There, floating in the void, was a tiny, perfect little planet. It was no bigger than Kame House looked from the air, a miniature world with a single, small house sitting neatly beside a single road and a red 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air hardtop.

“That’s gotta be it!” Goku whooped, a massive grin splitting her face. “Queen Kai’s planet! Alright!”

She crouched low, her muscles coiling with the immense power she’d gained from the Fruit of Might and her own relentless journey. With a powerful burst of ki, she launched herself upward, a human rocket shooting toward the tiny world. She expected to land lightly, maybe bounce a little on the strange, small surface.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the planet’s atmosphere, it felt like the entire universe had dropped onto her shoulders.

The insanely high gravity seized her body with the force of a physical blow. Her triumphant cry turned into a grunt of shock and pain. Her controlled flight became a helpless, screaming plummet. She crashed into the planet’s surface not like a warrior, but like a meteorite, her body plowing a deep, ragged furrow through the white paving stones of the yard before slamming to a bone-jarring halt, face-down in the dirt. The impact echoed across the tiny world, a final, brutal period at the end of her million-mile sentence.