Bulma's pet

Bulma’s heels clicked sharply against the polished stone path as she stormed toward her home, her jaw clenched in furious silence. The Capsule Corp hovercar had sputtered and died midway across West City, leaving her to walk miles under the fading sun, her phone dead, her legs aching, and her red heels biting mercilessly into her tender soles. She cursed every pebble she stepped on, every staring idiot who passed her, and especially the faulty engine she’d engineered herself.

Her iconic red dress clung to her figure, damp with sweat from the long, angry walk. By the time she reached the front steps, her turquoise bangs were stuck to her forehead, and her calves trembled from exhaustion. She didn't bother calling out as she entered—anyone smart enough would steer clear of her mood.

Slamming the door behind her, Bulma kicked off the cruel heels with a grunt of relief, rubbing one foot against her calf as she limped barefoot down the hallway. She moved past the living room, past the guest quarters, and made her way to the door no one was ever allowed to open—not even Vegeta. A reinforced capsule lock sealed it, but it responded to her fingerprint instantly.

As the door slid open with a hiss, the cool scent of polished tile and faint lavender greeted her. Lights flickered on, illuminating the room's only furnishings: a plush, low couch… and a kneeling woman in a yellow dress.

Chi-Chi.

Her black hair was tied up simply, her yellow outfit pristine, her hands resting flat on her thighs. She didn’t look up. She didn’t speak.

Finally a sly smile broke across Bulma’s lips.

“So, Slave” she drawled, stepping into the room, each footfall echoing. “You’ve been waiting. Good.”

Chi-Chi bowed her head lower. “Yes, Miss Bulma.”

The air in the room thickened with anticipation. Bulma sat heavily on the couch, groaning as she stretched her bare legs forward. Her turquoise-painted toenails shimmered under the light. The soles of her feet were flushed pink, moist with sweat, creased from the relentless wear of her heels.

She flexed her toes, bringing attention to the angry red lines across her insteps. “I walked all the way home, Chi-Chi. On foot. In these damn shoes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss,” Chi-Chi murmured, eyes still downcast. “I’m here to serve you as always.”

Bulma leaned back, lounging. “You’d better be.”

She thrust her feet up—both of them—pressing the hot soles directly against Chi-Chi’s face. The woman didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. She simply inhaled.

“Tell me,” Bulma said, voice heavy with amusement, “how do they smell?”

Chi-Chi trembled, her lips parting. “Sweaty… strong… perfect.”

Bulma chuckled darkly. “Perfect. Then get to work.”

Chi-Chi leaned in, her lips brushing reverently against the soft pads of Bulma’s feet. The taste was salt and heat, dust and leather. Her tongue flicked over the arch, trailing upward, gathering every drop of sweat pooled between Bulma’s toes. The taste was intimate. Overwhelming.

“Slower,” Bulma commanded. “Like you mean it. You remember our deal.”

Chi-Chi nodded, mouth full of heel. Years ago, after Goku had died in the Cell Games, the world had pitied her—left her with nothing but a house and a son. But Bulma saw a chance to earn a slave she made a deal with her she will pay gohan sclool fee and others fees in exchnage chichi will serve like a slave.

“You were always better under someone’s heel I know that from the first day,” Bulma purred, spreading her toes. “Now dig in. Between them.”

Chi-Chi obeyed, tongue sliding between each gap, cleaning diligently. The taste was worse there—musky, sharp, the sour tang of old sweat and pressure. She sucked Bulma’s big toe into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, while her hands braced against the floor.

“You missed a spot,” Bulma teased, wiggling her smallest toe. “Back there. Get the jam, too.”

Chi-Chi licked deep, swallowing every trace of grime, lips glistening. Her face reddened with humiliation, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. This was her place now—beneath the most brilliant woman on Earth, a living footstool. A servant.

Bulma sighed contentedly, crossing her legs and placing both feet flat on Chi-Chi’s face.

“That’s better,” she said, reclining. “Now stay like this and start kissing my feet gently. I’m going to take a nap. and don't even think to stop until I woke”

Chi-Chi didn’t reply. Her voice was muffled under soles and toes, her breath hot against the skin and move her lips gently to kiss.

“Good slave,” Bulma whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

The room fell quiet, the only sound Bulma’s breathing as she drifted off—relaxed, powerful, victorious. Her throne was soft, kneeling, and obedient.