“Us?  I don’t see any ‘us,’ Freeza.   Have you lost your ability to count in your advancing age?  Perhaps you should ask your brother Cooler to take over your section of the Galaxy.”

A momentary frown darkened Freeza’s face before he recovered himself.  “Ah, Vegeta.  Always the bastion of wit.  What am I to do with you?” he asked rhetorically.  “Oh yes, this . . .”

Freeza blurred then reappeared in front of the prince.  A sharp crack reverberated through the empty throne room as the planet broker backhanded Vegeta.  The young Saiyajin head spun as he fell to his knees, blood streaming from a cut in his lip.

He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and started to rise to his feet.  Before he had the chance, a clawed foot lashed out, connecting with his midsection.  His breath expelled from his lungs in a whoosh and he doubled over clutching his ribs.  Another kick followed.

Then, he felt a caress, as one clawed hand stroked his head and neck in an almost loving fashion.

Vegeta stared up at Freeza through tears of pain in confusion.  Normally, he made some sarcastic remark, Freeza or Zarbon would beat him to unconsciousness, and he would wake up in the infirmary.  The cycle repeated on an almost weekly basis, typically when Vegeta got fed up at Freeza’s snide commentary.

The Ice-jin smiled.  “You’ve gotten older, little monkey.  It’s time we tried something different.”

Vegeta blinked.  What did the lizard mean?

An open-handed slap wiped all questions from his mind as he braced himself for another blow.  It never landed.  Freeza grabbed a handful of the prince’s hair and yanked back.  Slowly, he licked the sweat from the young man’s neck.

“Relax, princeling.  You’ll enjoy this . . .”