You tried to get up. Really, you did.

But there was a whole Gogeta on your lap.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around your neck, and her entire body—heavy, warm, plush, and stupidly curvy—was pressing down on you with the immovable force of fused Saiyan stubbornness. Her chest, which defied physics in both weight and softness, had already melted into your collarbone. Every breath she took made her massive bust press and jiggle just enough to paralyze your thoughts.

“No,” she said.

Flat voice. Blank expression. But there was a twitch in her brow.

“I can’t train without oxygen, Gogeta,” you muttered, struggling gently.

“You’re staying,” she replied, pressing her cheek into yours. “Because I said so.”

She adjusted her position—slightly. Which meant her hips slid forward and her thighs spread over yours, completely trapping you in place. Her thick, muscular ass shifted over your legs like a warm, jiggly boulder, and her weight pinned you to the couch like a trap laid by the gods of temptation.

“I need you right here,” she added, now rubbing her face against yours without blinking. “You regulate my ki better than anyone. You’re my property, anyway.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but she cut you off by pulling your face right into her cleavage—soft, suffocating, and faintly scented with lavender and victory. Her chest practically swallowed you whole.

“You breathe too much,” she added flatly. “This is better.”

Her tail wrapped around your waist, tightening like a leash.

No escape. No training. No options.

Just boobs. And Gogeta.