Writer's Block!

Hey Y'all!

I know you're all waiting on the next great MJ erotica and really, I want to write the story, but gosh, I got a writer's block that won't quit.
I don't understand how I get the block anyway. Michael Jackson is my muse, and as gorgeous he is, I figure I should have no trouble in writing for him. but in the last couple of days almost everything has hit a standstill.
The writing of eroticas, horror stories, and even on Strawberries. I mean it's really strange to me. I just hope I'm not getting burnt out.

I mean my writing is my way of keeping MJ's memory alive. I would feel like a failure as a fan if I couldn't continue writing for him.

I'm working on it. Trust me.

Trying Hard...

Hey Y'all.

I'm trying my best to start to work on the "romantic" fanfic. But in the mean time I'd like to do something that speaks to my roots and to my readers. Another story with Michael, of course, being a little agressive panther. I figure anyway it goes when I do post the "romantical" MJ story, I'm kind of planning for that story to have a "Dangerous" era Michael and I'm trying to decide if I should make a story with an agressive "Dangerous" Michael or maybe a different Michael to contrast  the softer gentler one.
Or should I use a different era?

I'm just sorting out ideas here because I'm going batty between dialysis, looking for a better Jacksons concert outfit and launching a diet to FIT into the outfit.

But I am trying to write.

It is difficult for me because I was a child when Michael was already a grown adult man. My mind was always in the thought pattern of "oh, he's older...he knows more...look at him dance. He must be a beast." That was me at ten-years-old. That's what I thought. LOL. I'm working it out.

A New Challenge!

Hey Y'all!

If there's one thing I like to get, it's a challenge when it comes to my writing and earlier today I was presented with one.

My friend Ash, who's always reading and critiquing my stories asked a favor of me. She wants to know if I can write an all romantic erotica. With no swearing. Now I think even in the most romantic of circumstances, Michael would let at least a "damn" fly out his mouth, but I'm always up for a challenge and trying to work my mind for stories.

So, soon, I will be posting an all-romantic, erotica.

Stay tuned.

Post Work Pleasure!

In my seventeen years as a Michael Jackson fanatic, I have come across just about every type of fan there is. There’s the ones that will get in a bloody fistfight if anyone so as much says anything against Michael, to the ones that would have probably jumped in front of a bullet for him. (Just for the record, I’m one of the fighting fans.) On the fringes, I ran across the rare ones that literally did live, breath and exist solely for Michael. Ones would let Michael control every single move with them if it meant they could be near him. Loved by him. I wrote this story with the latter, extremely rare faction of fan in mind. Enjoy.

"Post Work Pleasure"
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave

Santa Ynez, California
Spring, 2005

I don’t know what came over me.
I wasn’t usually this way. I liked to think of myself as a woman with a mind of my own. A strong individual with even stronger morals and willpower.
In reality, I was weak--even flimsy--when Michael was around.
I couldn’t control myself when I was near him. I wanted only to please him.
Do as he said. I was at his beck and call. Whatever he wanted from me, he got and he knew his power. He wasn’t ignorant.
No. he was smart, intelligent. Perhaps even demanding.
I just knew that when Michael said he wanted sex, which was quite frequent given his insatiable appetite, I had to be there.
Simply to obey.
This was a day just like so many innumerable others before it.
When I just had the overwhelming, almost frightening compulsion to obey Michael Jackson.
I remember, it was a cool afternoon early in the month of April. And it was raining. It had been raining off and on for nearly a week and a half. You know what they say about April showers bringing May flowers? It was happening liberally outside the windows of that large, sprawling, Tudor style manor.
I had been called earlier that morning, with Michael requesting I be at home when he got off from work.
It was a request I quite used to hearing, as it had been uttered so often in the eighteen months I had been seeing Michael.
I knew what it meant.
It meant that Michael Jackson “wanted” me that afternoon.
And really, Michael had never masked his feelings or wants from me.
The very first time I had met Michael, a year and a half ago, I had been working at the steakhouse across the street from Diamond in the Rough, his jewelry store.
I had never really paid much attention to the store, because as only a lowly waitress, I could never have afforded the type of merchandise he was moving.
One day, as the lunch rush was clearing out, and I was bussing the al fresco tables, I felt a hand touch my arm.
There, at one of the tables I had just cleared, Michael Jackson just seemed to appear.
Out of nowhere.
I remember I had broken out into a cold sweat when I first saw him.
He had such an arresting, glorious appearance. I haven’t seen anyone before or since that looked like him:
Michael was tall, quite slim, and at the time wearing a dark brown silk suit over a white shirt with a striped tie. The brown of the suit brought a warmness to his rather fair, milky complexion and made his dark eyes shimmer.
He had fine, chiseled features, with lovely cheekbones, a slim nose and a tiny cleft to his chin.
His hair, thick, black and just grazing his shoulders had been straightened and flipped away from his face in the most becoming way.
This man was beautiful.
I recall rushing and getting him both of the food and drink menus, before poising myself to take the drink order of this creature, while he decided what he wanted to eat.
What really caught my attention about Michael, other than his unique appearance ,was just how he ordered his drink.
He never looked at the drink menu, instead, he focused those large, dark eyes of his on me and spoke in a deliberately low, and soft voice,
“I’d like a martini…but not in a martini glass. I want it in a highball glass, with a splash of blood orange juice. And a black olive, not a green one.”
I didn’t even know what a highball glass was then, but just the same, I jotted down the order and went to retrieve the specialty drink.
By the time I came back with the tall glass of faintly reddish tinged liquor, I found Michael deep into the food menu, appearing to read it intently.
When I asked if he was prepared to order, Michael replied yes and began to recite what he wanted.
And it wasn’t quite on the menu.
“I’d like a young woman, in her early-to-mid twenties. About five-foot-six, around one-hundred-twenty pounds or so. A slim, comely figure. Slightly larger bust. I’d prefer her with long, light brown hair and grey eyes. Freckles on her nose, if possible.”
Michael had closed the menu and set it down, looking as satisfied as if he’d ordered a thirty ounce porterhouse with all the trimmings.
Me.
He’d ordered me. Right down to my damned freckles.
He wanted me.
While I stood going scarlet, sputtering and not quite sure what I wanted to say--was I going to slap him or punch him for being so forward?--Michael stood and took hold of my arm.
I felt somehow weakened as his large dark eyes washed over me.
I very faintly heard him mention that I was quitting being a waitress, as he couldn’t stand the idea of his girlfriend having to work when he could provide more than enough for her.
In less than twenty minutes, I went from being a minimum wage earning dish-slinger to leaving on the arm of one of the wealthiest men in California.
Directly, I was taken back across to Michael’s store, where he flipped the sign as “Closed”, and spent the next three hours laying out jewelry for me, telling me to pick any and everything I wanted. That he wanted me to have what I liked. I never knew how much I was given in diamonds and gold that day, and Michael never revealed it.
Michael confessed he’d noticed me weeks ago and it had taken him just that long to work up the nerve to come speak to me. That he’d watch me out the windows of his store as I worked, and desperately had wanted to take me from it.
I didn’t go back to my home an hour away in Los Angeles, my little, too hot apartment. No, when Michael and I left from his store, he took me out to his mansion in the Valley.
And I had been there ever since.
I didn’t usually act so impulsively. So recklessly. Moving in with a man I knew nothing about other than his name.
Hell, it was three weeks before I found out he was forty-five years old.
But I couldn’t help myself. There was just something about Michael that made me so drunk, so high off of him, that I couldn’t really organize my mind.
It was like an illness really. I was addicted to him, and just wanting to be around him all the time was the only thought in my mind.
Often I spent my days as a fixture in his jewelry store--my fingers, wrists, neck and ears were often used to display different gems to customers.
When I wasn’t called into to model--usually on a day when Michael’s clients were all men and looking at men’s baubles--I was at home keeping house and counting the hours till he came back.
And just like this afternoon, I knew Michael wanted to make love to me.
There were two specific ways that inquiry went off.
Both always occurred between the hours of noon and one p.m.--Michael’s lunch hour.
If I was in store, Michael would find someway to come up behind me. Wrap his arms around my waist and pull me back against his chest. He never cared if the store was empty or filled to the brim with patrons. It didn’t phase him when he was touching me.
His little pink mouth, warm and moist would bump my ear and he’d tell me to knock off for the rest of the afternoon. To go home and he’d be there soon.
If I was at home, at the aforementioned hour, my cell phone would ring with Michael requesting I be at home when he arrived from work. His voice, light and airy would ask me,
“Lina, please meet me when I get home.”
That was the extent of it. Always the same.
I would spend the next few hours, really, invariably, going crazy.
Rushing back and forth, making sure my hair and make up were perfect, adorning my body, always with a matching set of lingerie and robe, as I had nearly a hundred in my own closet separate from my boyfriend’s.
Damn near drowning in one of a dozen scents Michael hand-picked for me.
Just the thought of being near Michael, having him look at me, touch me, kiss me, make love to me…was maddening.
The things he did to me. The things he had me do to him.
God, I was just a junkie for him.
So there I was, standing in the kitchen, preparing a drink for Michael, as I knew, he was about ten or fifteen minutes from the house on that rainy afternoon.
The only alcohol Michael ever seemed to drink was that martini with the splash of orange juice--and the black olive.
Going over to the refrigerator, I produced bottles of both gin and vermouth--always gin, never vodka--imported from France at Michael’s insistence. He also always took his drink icy cold rather than room temperature as was the norm for a martini. No ice, never ice. It diluted the flavor as I had learned when Michael turned green after he had an iced martini.
I took a clear, crystal highball glass, frosted it was so chilled and began pouring the alcohol into it.
Then I took a pitcher of the blood orange juice--squeeze specifically for the drinks, and not to be used for anything else--and was carefully putting it into the glass. Too little, it wasn’t discernable, too much, the drink was too tart to enjoy.
Taking a small stirrer, I whisked the drink together until it showed faintly red and bringing it to my lips, I sipped it.
Perfect. The drink was perfect.
All that was needed for Michael to arrive.
As I put the liquor and juice back into the fridge, and the glass of ready martini in a special place on the door of the fridge, I busied myself placing two black olives on a toothpick in the shape of a tiny sword and placed it in the glass. Why Michael took his drink with the black olives wasn’t ever explained to me. I just knew he liked it.
Honestly, there weren’t any green olives to be found and Michael never mentioned them.
Doomp!
I nearly leapt out of my skin at that sudden sound, my nerves were so raw, as I was impatient for my lover.
Rushing to the window beside the fridge, I saw that outside, in the driveway, a long, black limousine had pulled up.
Disbanding from it in the wet outside, was Michael Jackson, surrounded by five other men, one opening an large black umbrella over his head.
Michael, in the last six months, always traveled with these men, whom he called simply associates, but I knew what they were.
They were bodyguards.
As Michael was so wealthy, and often moved copious amounts of high-dollar jewelry, he was a good target to rob. And really, it was my idea that made him get the guards.
I knew around our estate, another ten were on hand to look after me. I didn’t really ever see them, but I knew they were there.
Gazing through the window, I could feel my heart starting to pound as Michael stood a moment, in the rain, chatting with one of the beefy men, towering over him.
He was so breathtaking in his black, light wool suit, over a dark, merlot colored satin shirt and tie. For a whimsical accent, he wore deep hued, floral vest.
Black, rimless and rectangular lens sunglasses hid his eyes.
It was astounding to believe he was mine.
Michael lingered a moment outside, and I watched as one of the guards, reached back into the car and came up with three small boxes, each in the lilac leather that was the trademark of Diamond in the Rough.
I had seen boxes like that more than once--Michael was coming bearing jewelry from his store for me.
He spoiled me rotten and refused to hear it if I even mentioned he was giving me too much. Truly, for myself, I possessed more jewelry than was in stock at the store. Much custom designed by Michael himself. He didn’t want anyone to have anything like I did.
That was really a point for Michael--that no one have what he had.
That was why he had the odd martini, had me, had the things he did.
Right down to his suits. Tailored to fit him and no one else, over four hundred separate ensembles hung in his closet.
He wanted to be a lone man--with no copies.
Standing in the window, I watched as Michael took the boxes, and canvassed by guards, was making his way around to the front door.
Michael would enter alone. He always did. The guards were never permitted inside. Especially on a day like this.
By the time Michael appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, I had the blood orange martini in my hands, standing beside the island, quaking with excitement. So much so, the skewered olives were bobbing wildly.
The sheer power Michael had over me…it was ridiculous.
And yet, I didn’t want it any other way.
Boxes in hand, Michael came sauntering over to me, his movements like wordless poetry, as he was removing his shades and placing them in his jacket pocket.
“Hello, Darling.” He whispered and leaning, was mashing his soft, somewhat damp lips against mine, kissing me with such a quiet force, I almost dropped his drink I was so taken.
(I had dropped nearly a dozen glasses on the floor at this greeting before.)
“Hello…” I whimpered as he drew his lips from mine, the scent of his cologne, heavy with jasmine, wafting into my nose.
Setting the boxes down, on the island, Michael ran his fingers over the shoulder of my robe. His touch was electrifying me.
“You wore the grey Chinese silk…I love this. It makes your eyes pop.”
He informed me as he took the glass and was tilting it to his mouth.
I looked on as he gulped a mouthful and was placing the glass down.
“Perfect. No one makes a blood orange martini like my Lina…” He giggled, grinning broadly, a gesture that was threatening me with a heart attack, and was turning to the boxes.
I wanted him happy. I liked him this way, smiling and jolly.
He was so sexy.
“I know you don’t like for me to keep bringing you jewelry, but I think pretty women need pretty things. And when this came into the store, I knew it was for you.” Michael explained and was opening up the boxes, revealing a gem-laden wardrobe. “Besides, I’m a jeweler, its what I do.”
A necklace, bracelet and pair of earrings shimmered at me.
Set with radiant cut emerald baguettes and diamond princess stones, set in platinum, I was looking at a dangle earrings, a choker and cuff bracelet set with swirls and whirls, looking more like art than anything else.
“It’s so beautiful…thank you, Michael.” I whispered, still not used to being given things like this.
“Let’s see how you look with all these sparkles on. These are the best emeralds in the world--Brazilian. Not everyone has this…” Michael was explaining as he began lifting the baubles from their setting and placing them on me. Let Michael have his way, no one had what I had.
Grasping my shoulders, he was looking me over so intensely, I had to turn my head from him. I’d have fallen down on the floor with him staring like that.
My chin was gripped with long white fingers, and I was forced to look back into his face.
“You’re so beautiful Lina…I think about you all the time. That’s why I do the things I do .I have to spoil my Lina. To keep you happy and pleased--” He began and I spoke up over him, timidly.
“I want to please you, Michael.”
Hugging me against him and stroking after my hair, making me gasp in distress his mouth sought out my ear and pecking my earlobe, he whispered
“You know what to do to please me, Lina.”
I was then let go of, and leaned against the wall for support, hand to my pounding chest, as Michael hung over me a moment, before taking his drink in his hand and was walking away from me.
Headed for the stairs that led to the second floor.
And the bedroom.
As he got to the door, back still to me, Michael raised his free hand, and was wiggling his index finger, indicating I follow him.
I didn’t walk after him, so much as I floated, little invisible wings moving me along.
Upstairs, in our bedroom, Michael went about, silently setting the mood for the evening.
Dimming the lights, pushing back the curtains of the two large doors that out onto our balcony. (Doors that remained closed because of the rain)
Finishing his drink and eating the two olives, he spoke through a full mouth at me.
“Go over to the bed…take off everything but the jewelry…Go, Lina…”
The same long finger that had beckoned me, was now pointing at our bed. The king-sized, canopied number, swathed with light blue Egyptian cotton sheets. (We used to have satin sheets, but we soiled them so much they had to be burned.) Cotton was easier to clean.
Standing at the end of the bed, I began to do as I was told, undoing the belt on my robe.
Across the room, at the windows, Michael was shrugging out of his jacket, dropping it to the floor.
“Slowly, Darling. Take it off slowly…”
I was instructed tensely, as Michael, began rubbing at his crotch through his pants. Even from where I was standing I could see the naughty bulge beginning to arise at his touch.
At the same time, as I let the robe drift from me and I started to unhook my strapless bra, I felt a raw, hot, throbbing starting between my thighs.
I needed Michael. I needed him so badly. Needed him in me.
And I knew he drew this situation out just to annoy me.
I was dying.
The cups of the bra fell away from my breasts and in the coolness of the room, I could feel my nipples stiffening.
Like that c*ck wanting to burst free of Michael’s trousers as he continued rubbing at himself.
“Mmm…oh, God…” Michael was mumbling as his head fell back, his skin tingeing pink with arousal. “You got the sweetest tits in the world…”
He brought his head back up, for a moment his eyes closing and his plump lips puckering in earnest.
Black loafers were kicked off and in h is socked feet, Michael approached me, gazing down at my nude body.
“I love how you look with nothing by gems on…” He whispered, a hand coming out and touching my cheek. I was so turned on, I was ready to gush right there.
“Just lie right there…” Michael was telling me as he loosened his tie, throwing it behind him, and was quickly removing his clothes.
Revealing his pale, supple, bare form.
His smooth body, with no hair on it all to mar its beauty, he was touching after his little, tiny pink nipples as he stared upon me.
His eyes were on my breasts, my eyes were on his d*ck.
Long, thick, quivering and fairly glowing, Michael Jackson’s beige-pink d*ck was fully engorged, the mushroom-head alive and red, the entire shaft pointing upward, awaiting whatever sexual splendor was soon to come.
I was already breathing shallowly in anticipation of what he was going to do.
I never knew what Michael was going to do. That’s what I liked about his sex, it was always different. What he did, what he didn’t do…everything.
“F*ck me please…” I was pleading. I needed him so badly.
This was torture.
“It’s so pretty…” Michael was saying of my p*ssy as he was dropping down to his knees at the foot of the bed.
Warm hands were clutching onto my hips, fingers mashing into my skin as he was pulling me down, so that my buttocks rested just at the edge of the bed.
His hands were pushing my legs open, spreading them and pushing them upwards so that I was completely open and exposed to him.
Then his hands were up, guiding my own under my knees, so that my legs were held open to him.
I was throbbing so hard I could feel the lips of my c*nt flapping with horniness.
It got worse as Michael licked the entire palms of his hands, wetting them and was starting to rub at my cl*t and begging slit.
“Michael…no…don’t do that…don’t…” I whined weakly, so high off of him, as he was toying with me…touching me.
Eventually making a finger disappear inside of me.
“Look at that…that sweet young little p*ssy…” Michael was talking into me, as his mouth was coming closer and closer to me.
Twisting that finger inside of me.
“Oh! Please!” I groaned, as he suddenly blew a puff of cool air on me, and I was digging my nails into the undersides of my knees trying to control myself.
Keep from coming before he really got started with me.
Finger sweeping in and out of me, Michael panted, as a smile touched his lips.
“Do you want me to eat you, Lina? Do you want me to eat this darling little p*ssy of yours?”
“YES!” The word popped from my mouth and almost instantly, Michael’s head was buried into me. It was the encouragement he’d needed.
Hands resting on my thighs, thumbs holding my fleshy folds back, Michael’s mouth was on my slit sucking away wildly.
“Ah! Ah! Michael! Michael! Yes! Oh….ugh…” I whimpered, contorting as he was sucking harder and intermittently pushing his tongue into me. Swirling it around.
I dropped my hands from my knees and was running them through Michael’s soft hair, some of which was falling onto my thighs.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
I suddenly put my hands to mouth, trying to muffle my screams of ecstasy as Michael was now sucking loudly on my cl*t, making it sore with each smack, but I would have been a fool to try to stop him now.
At once, Michael yanked his mouth from me and was staring up, slowly, deliberately licking his lips, he eyed me, as he thumbed my cl*toris.
“You like that? You like that, Darling? Baby?” He sneered, and finally taking his hands off me, was climbing to his feet.
“Yes Michael…I love you…” I gasped, my chest heaving with want.
Tugging at himself, he ordered sharply,
“I love you too--Come…come get this…suck on this sh*t”
With his other hand, Michael was gripping my arm, pulling me into a seated position.
In front of me , that mass of flesh was flipping back and forth as Michael, hand at the base of his shaft, was wiggling himself, keeping it erect.
“Come on Baby…you know you like this…you know you like sucking my d*ck…* He cooed as he was slowing pushing his ten inches of pen*s into my mouth and down my throat.
His hands were placed into my hair and Michael was tugging me back and forth, slipping my lips up and down his hard, pulsing shaft.
His flesh was sweet, and warm to me…indeed, I liked giving him “head”. I loved pleasing him this way.
“Oh sh*t…hell yeah…f*ck yeah…that’s it, Baby…” Michael was moaning as he pushed my hair out the way, pumping himself back and forth in my mouth.
“Yes…oh girl…Yes…god damn…”
Bringing my hands up and around Michael, I was rubbing on his soft buttocks, pressing on them and pinching them, getting more out of my man.
“Lina! Lina! Yes! Holy f*cking sh*t…” Michael mumbled as I took my thumb and was pressing it up his tight little ass. Playing in his assh*le.
“Oooh….Oooh….” He was crooning as he slipped his c*ck from my mouth, with it damped with my spit, rubbing it in front of me,
“Lick it…lick it…” He demanded and was throwing his head back, running his hands through his own hair, I leaned forward, licking his shaft, base to tip as he liked. Up and down. Feeling the little veins that that were popping out on the surface with my tongue.
He screamed when I paused to kiss his ball sack.
“Oh my God! Oh Lina--son of a b*tch!” He wailed shrilly, and his hand was at my throat, crushing it so hard I was almost choking.
“I’m about to come…here it comes… oh sh*t…Oh! Oh! Oh! Ah! Oh!”
Michael was gasping and turning bright red, as he was holding my throat, tilting my head completely backward.
“F*CK!”
Michael mumbled and groaned incoherently for a few moments, before I felt it.
A warm, wet spray starting to land on my bosom.
“I’m coming! God, I’m nutting….Damn!” Michael Jackson was ejaculating right on my breasts, breathing heavily.
After a moment, hand still to my throat, Michael pulled me forward and was mashing his lips to mine, kissing me fiercely, pushing his tongue down my throat.
Finally he released my throat, but remained standing over me.
Looking down, I saw his semen running down my chest and abdomen.
I also noticed that Michael’s shaft, oozing still, remained at attention.
He was still hard!
I knew what that meant…God, I knew that what meant….
Putting my head down, avoiding his eyes, I questioned shyly,
“You’re going to f*ck me, aren’t you?”
Lush locks of jet black hair bounced as Michael began nodding wildly.
“Yes…yes. I’m going to f*ck you…” He informed me, and before I could make any moves, Michael Jackson had shoved me back on the bed and was climbing on top of me.
Once more, my legs were forced open.
Looming over me, a zealous sneer came to Michael’s face.
“I’m gonna tear you up, Lina. You know I am…” He vowed and was fumbling with himself. “F*ck you up…”
“Ugh--oh, no! No…” I was pleading as, all at once, Michael was shoving his large tube of meat into my moist folds, making them expand and stretch to accommodate him. “Ah! You’re too big!”
“You always say that--You still so tight--” Michael cackled as he was intertwining his fingers with mine, holding my arms out and pressing them down into the mattress.
Immobilizing me, and leaving me in a position where I couldn’t escape him until he wanted me to escape.
He paused, sitting with our bodies connected and snickered, his arched brows going up and down.
“Can’t wait to get you soaking wet, Honey.”
With that, Michael fell forward on me, and his hips began whipping.
Plunging that meat into me. Deeper and deeper. As deep as he could manage.
He was openly being rough with me, intent on getting an orgasm out of me.
“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Michael! Michael , please…you’re going too hard…it’s too hard…”
“Harder? You want me to go harder?” Michael taunted and purposefully was grinding into me with much more force.
“Aaaaah! You b*tch! You b*tch!” I shrieked and was struggling against him as he was sliding back and forth, making me raw all over. “It’s too hard! You’re too--you’re gonna make me come doing that!” Chin on my shoulder, Michael was pressing against me, huffing rhythmically in my ear.
I was screaming into his wet, shoulder, trying to control myself.
Sweat began springing up on our bodies mixing with the semen already between us and causing us to stick to one another.
“Your tits are bouncing, Lina. Take it…take it….take this big d*ck!” Michael began growling through gritted teeth and was squeezing my hands so hard, his nails were cutting into my skin. “You know what the hell you wanted! Standing there in those little nothing panties…waiting on me--oh sh*t!”
Michael was ramming so hard, I was afraid he’d draw blood, he was going after me with such abandon.
“Come you little b*tch….come, god damn!” Somehow I was controlling myself better than Michael--a feat I still don’t understand as usually just a look from him could draw a squirting fit from me--and a second time, he drew himself from me, pausing to milk his sexual fluids on the bed sheets, just shy of my hole.
“Motherf*cker! I did it again! Oh, I‘m so wet! F*cking hell!”
The c*ck a little flaccid was loaded right back into me.
That was Michael’s way. He wasn’t satisfied--sex wasn’t over until both of us were soaked.
“Ugh…it’s too much! It’s too--Michael!” I wailed and was contorting so wildly, I slammed upwards into him and nearly broke his nose.
Leaning over me as he was shaking his hips into me, Michael was clutching my throat again.
His nose crinkled as he scowled down on me.
“I can do this all night, Lina…” I was barked at. “You know I can f*ck the living sh* t out of you all night. Now I want that c*nt of yours to POUR!”
Michael had f*cked me all night before, many times.
(Once Michael stayed on me for nearly five hours and he had eight ejaculations. He’d had to close his store for three days to recover from exhaustion. )
Michael’s hair was starting to stick to him as he continued sweating, now with full droplets rolling down his body and falling on me.
“Oh God…Oh! Oh…no….” I began to get vocal as deep inside of me, the feeling was starting to rise. And Michael recognized it.
“You gonna come? You getting ready to come, Baby?” Michael was snorting, his eyes flashing as he stared at me.
Still clutching my throat, I was clutching to his arm, screaming hoarsely.
“Hee-hee! Come! Get wet! Get wet! Come on! Shamone!” Michael was encouraging.
“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh….oh no! No!” I threw my head back as an orgasm began ripping through me.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! Oh no! Oh--Michael! MICHAEL! Michael!” I squeezed my eyes closed as I felt a dampness starting to flow from me, flow around Michael as he continued sticking me.
“Yes! That’s it, Lina! Yes Baby! Yes! Yes! Yes! AAOW!” Michael suddenly jerked his head back, wet hair flying and I could feel starting to lose himself again
Hand leaving my throat--I was coughing he’d held me so tightly--he was now grasping my slippery shoulders.
Michael thrust into me one last time, and puckering his lips at the air, he opened his mouth and hollered,
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Yeah! Yeah! Hell yeah! Oh sh*t! Oh! Hee! Hee! Hee! I‘m shooting! I‘m shooting! Oh its a lot! Oh my d*ck! My d*ck. You‘re making my d*ck shoot--oh you b*tch….you got my d*ck wet!”
Michael them collapsed onto me, and we held onto to each other for a while, until our breathing returned to normal.
Lifting off of me, Michael slowly extracted his now limp and dripping male member from me.
Holding my thighs apart, he stared down at the red, swollen and sticky mess that was my p*ssy, in the aftermath of such activity.
“Damn, that little thing is so good.” Michael shook his head happily and was grinning. “I don’t know how something that looks like a melted candle with a fuzzy lightning bolt can be so good, but damn it to hell, it IS!”
Giggling, I reached up and pinched Michael’s cheek, as he curled up beside me in the bed, hugging me to him and kissing at my throat.
“Was it good to you? Did you like it?” He wondered and was rubbing at my ass cheeks.
“Yes.” I nodded, blushing at what had just happened. “Are you pleased?”
“Ecstatic--” Michael started and winked at me.
“Wanna do this again after I get off work tomorrow?”
Kissing the cleft in his chin, I nodded.
Yes, I wanted to do this again after he got off work.
Every day.


The End

Double Trouble--Featuring Michael and Marlon Jackson!

Disclaimer: This story was intended to be an experiment in which I had not only Michael Jackson engaging in sexual activities with a young woman, but also his brother Marlon Jackson. This story is not meant to offend anyone, but merely offer up another avenue of the types of stories in which I can write. I did a similar form of writing with the members of 3T for a fan club I had a few years ago and the stories were well received. If this story goes over well, I will write more like it in the future. Again, I don’t mean to offend anyone. I just wanted to try something new because I’m always into challenging myself as a writer. If the story does offend, I will promptly remove it. Thank you. Tiffeny B. AKA MJsLoveSlave.
Pornography. It seems that ever since the invention of the camera and flash photography in the 1840s, there have been people willing to take their clothes off in front of them. Under the right circumstances, if you’re in the right place at the right time, just about anyone will get naked in front of a camera. And for the girl in this story, an innocent ad in the newspaper gives her an afternoon she’ll never forget. (Double Trouble! This story not only features Michael Jackson, but also his brother, Marlon Jackson!) Featuring one of the longest love scenes I’ve ever penned!
“Double Trouble”
(Based Very Loosely on an Episode of Miami Vice)
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave



Miami, Florida
Autumn, 1984

I wanted to be a model.
That was the entire reason I found myself in Miami to start with.
It wasn’t for a lazy vacation, where I would spend my days decorating various beaches, getting sand lodged in my ass crack and soaking up enough rays to give ten people skin cancer.
No, I wasn’t in Miami for pleasure. I was there for business.
And to try to find my fortune.
It had taken me all the summer after graduating high school, working triple shifts at a local diner to be able to afford the airfare to Miami and a decent apartment where I could live alone and not have someone crawl in through the air vents to rape me.
I was going to be a model. It was my mantra that I woke up with every morning. After the preliminary yawn, I’d whisper to myself,
“ Monique, you’re gonna be a model. ”
I told myself that every single day, as I got up and went out to all of the local agencies looking for work.
For an entire month, I went to all sorts of agencies.
And I heard every single, goddamned excuse for why no one wanted me.
I was too tall--I was five-foot-nine in my stocking feet.
I was too short--I was STILL five-foot-nine!
I was too fat.
I was too slim.
A whole bunch of bullsh*t.
And then there were the ones who didn’t really like my hair color. I was a strawberry blonde, my hair was too red to be a full on blonde, and too blonde to be a full on redhead. I had been told to cut my mid-back lenghth hair into everything from a bob, to a spiked pixie cut.
And to dye it every shade under the rainbow.
(Both of which I flat-refused to do!)
So, there I was, hanging on to my last ten-dollar bill, to the point that President Hamilton was suffocating, and trying to get by on a Ramen Noodle a day.
I had to do something. If I didn’t come up with some money, and some money fast, everything was going to unravel for me.
I needed to eat, and pay for my apartment.
And even if I did get a job at a drive-in or a store somewhere, it still wouldn’t have been enough to cover both.
I’d have to get some serious money--hopefully from a modeling job--or I’d have to call my parents in defeat and go home with my tail hanging between my legs.
I needed a miracle.
That’s when I saw it.
I had been pacing the hallway of my apartment complex, just outside of my home away from home, trying to make a bowl of Noodles last longer than they ever had before.
And that’s when I saw it.
A half-mangled newspaper, haphazardly shoved into a trash bin.
The little ad in the paper all but jumped out at me:


Even though I had never heard of the Starlight Agency before, I went on ahead and threw caution to the wind and sent in my resume and photo. Lord knows I had done it a hundred times before. The worse I could hear from this agency was what I had heard from all the others--NO.
Really, I never expected to hear Word One from the Starlight Agency.
You can imagine my surprise when a mere three days later, my phone rang.
On the other end was a soft-spoken man who introduced himself as Mr. Jackson.
He said he’d perused my resume, liked my look, and wanted to meet me as soon as possible--the very next afternoon if I could manage it.
I don’t know how I managed to remain so calm, but I think I had told Mr. Jackson yes, because he was then giving me the address to meet him.
I still remember it to this day: 18562 Marina Court.
I was ecstatic. This could have very well been the start of my career. My modeling career. I could have possibly been the next Brooke Shields, or Gia Carangi.
It was all so exciting.
Truly, I was so excited, I barely got any rest the night before. I remember, I was up until the pre-dawn hours working out, trying to knock whatever fat I believed to be clinging to my bones off, so I appeared as svelte as possible.
Then there was the hour I spent washing my hair, and another two conditioning it. (Sure the container said to leave the conditioner on only fifteen minutes, but what harm could have come from that?)
Then about a million tiny curlers went into my hair, everywhere except for my thick bangs, which I preferred to leave straight.
I tried to go to bed, but every five minutes, I was on my feet again, digging through my closet doing my best to come up with a nice and stylish outfit. I had to impress Mr. Jackson.
I needed to be signed with the Starlight Agency and make me some money.
At four in the morning, I finally decided on a simple ensemble of an off the shoulder, white sweatshirt dress, the waist cinched with a bright blue woven leather belt, that I paired with matching pumps and clutch purse.
Even though my appointment with Mr. Jackson wasn’t supposed to be until two the following afternoon, I was up and in front of my vanity, starting to apply make up and style my hair at seven in the morning.
I had to look perfect. I had to be perfect.
I couldn’t go into this half-assed and looking like who did it and why.
Everything had to go just right.
As I set out that day, in my little Hyundai, destined for Marina Court, I had no idea just what laid in wait for me.

Marina Court was not exactly what I had thought it would be.
I had expected the Starlight Agency to be in an office building, like all the other places I had tried to get signed to.
Instead, I found myself way out in Biscayne Bay at what appeared to be an upscale harbor where about a twenty yachts of varying extravagance were bobbing in the water.
I mean, seriously, who ever heard of a modeling agency that was in a yacht?
I should have known something was amiss, but I was so determined to make a success of this venture, I went on a head, down the mosaic tiled harbor, looking at the little mailboxes aside the ostentatious boats, until I located it.
18562 Marina Court.
Looking up, I had to admit, I was starting to lighten up about the idea of agency being in the yacht.
Hands down, that yacht was easily the largest one in the whole harbor.
It was absolutely massive and was a floating mansion that went on for three stories. Completely white with four large sails swaying in the cool breeze, I saw the name of the boat painted on the hull in dark red letters.
The S.S. Starlight.
Yes. I had the right place.
Unsure of just where to board the boat or try to knock, I gazed up, trying to find any signs of life on that ship.
I saw a sign of movement on the top deck.
I could just make out a Black man, with what appeared to be a glass of some sort in his hand, leaning against the railing with his back to me.
“Excuse me! Sir? Sir!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted to be heard.
At my yelling the man turned around and called back.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Monique Seaver! I have an appointment to see Mr. Jackson!”
At the mention of who I was, and whom I was seeking, the man instantly left the railing.
A moment later the same fellow appeared on the first deck and was coming over towards me, waving.
He was a handsome man, with smooth skin the color of cocoa. He had wonderful, almost delicate features, with his lips being the most noticeable to me. Large and plump his lips were, glossed just to a dull sheen, and accentuated with a pencil thin mustache.
His hair, thick, black and styled in a Jherri-Curl bounced as he came to the stern of the ship and was flipping down a small set of steps, built into ship.
Coming down them, I got a closer look at him.
I found that the man was several inches shorter than me and as he got nearer, the white wine in his glass sloshing, I noticed his eyes.
In the sunlight, they weren’t exactly brown but more of a dark honey color.
He was dressed sharply in a stylishly loose grey silk suit over a red and grey striped tee-shirt. In true Miami Vice style, he wore his grey alligator loafers with no socks.
“Mr. Jackson?” I questioned, timidly, as the man was extending a hand to me, a golden wristwatch glittering at me as I took his hand.
“I’m one of them.” The man laughed and was grinning at me broadly, white teeth flashing. “I’m Marlon Jackson. You must have spoken to my brother, Michael. He mentioned something about meeting with a prospective model. Please…” Marlon was indicating I follow him back onto the yacht.
I hung back a moment, a bit apprehensive about the whole affair.
“Is your agency really run from a boat?”
“ Lord no! ” Throwing his head back the man cackled. “It’s a Sunday afternoon; our offices are closed. We don’t typically see potential models on the weekends, but Michael must have really liked you to bring you out here. You are very pretty, Red.”
Marlon paused and was smiling at me again, with a warmth that was starting to put me at ease. Normally I didn’t like to be addressed as “Red” because of my hair, but for some reason, when Marlon said it, it was alright.
“Follow me, unless you plan to be reviewed right here in the harbor.” I was winked at before, Marlon turned and was going back up the steps.
He was a flirty little son of a gun.
Shrugging to myself, I started after him.
“I’ll place you in my brother’s office and go get him. I think he’s having a late lunch.” Marlon was explaining as he led me up onto the middle deck and to a set of French doors accented with doorknobs made to look like a ships’ steering wheel.
“Thank you…” I replied, loosening up, but still guarded.
I was quiet as Marlon opened the door, revealing Michael Jackson’s nautical themed office.
The room was dressed in shades of navy blue with golden accents and cherry wood all over the place.
The centerpiece of the office was the large oak desk in which I was seated in a tufted arm chair in front of.
On top of the desk was a large bottle, in which a tiny replica of the RMS Titanic had been erected in.
“Michael will be in shortly, Red.” Marlon informed me, and was gone before I could reply.
Sitting there twiddling my thumbs, it was then I noticed I was being watched.
I don’t know how I managed to miss it, but on the wall behind Michael’s big, blue leather chair, was an oversized portrait of the man himself.
Michael Jackson, matching the theme of the room, was dressed like a captain, in a navy, crested blazer, over a red sweater and white shirt.
Like Marlon, Michael was just as handsome, but there was a difference to Michael.
While Marlon had delicate features, Michael’s were even more fine. Almost at the hint of femininity, he was so pretty. I don’t think Michael and Marlon were twins, perhaps, just close in age.
A slightly lighter shade than Marlon, everything about Michael seemed a bit more fine tuned than Marlon. His nose was slimmer, cheeks more hollow, lips a mite slimmer. Even his hair, in a curl like Marlon’s was looser, a bit longer and more perfectly arranged.
Hell, it even looked as though Michael were wearing make up, as his cheeks seemed redder than normal for a man, and I was sure he was wearing eyeliner.
He was just stunning and I wondered if he’d dabbled in being a model himself.
Anyone with eyes could see he and Marlon were extremely attractive men.
“ Monique? ”
At the sweet, high-pitched mention of my name, I turned my attention from the portrait and saw that the real thing had arrived.
Advancing towards me, with a jolly smile on his face, was Michael Jackson.
Dressed down considerably more than his brother, Michael wore a simple black mohair sweater over a white oxford shirt, with black slacks, white socks and shiny patent leather loafers.
Attached to his chest, a gilded brooch fixed with onyx stones was gleaming.
“Yes? Mr. Jackson?” I rose from my seat as he got to me and was eagerly shaking my hand.
“Please…call me Michael--I’m only twenty-six years old. Mr. Jackson makes me sound old!” He chuckled good naturedly and was leaning against the front of his desk as I took a seat again.
Michael was only twenty-six? And he really owned a legitimate agency?
God, I hoped I hadn’t just stepped into something I couldn’t get out of.
“I’m so glad you found the place okay. I know it’s a little unorthodox, trying for a modeling agency on a yacht, but our main offices are closed.” Michael apologized and I nodded.
“Yes, your brother told me you were closed.” I replied, before adding.
“Marlon mentioned you didn’t usually see people on Sundays.”
Michael was nodding emphatically, the hair all over his head swaying. I noticed a few strands fell across his forehead in the most becoming way.
“That’s true--but I really did like your look--” Michael trailed off as Marlon suddenly entered, carrying a tray boasting three glasses of white wine.
“Care for a drink, Monique? This is some of that private stock--1976,” Marlon bragged and was holding the tray for me to take a glass.
Not intending to drink, but wanting to be polite I took a glass and set it on the top of the desk.
The Jackson brothers each took one of the remaining glasses, with Marlon taking a seat in the other guest chair, and Michael was taking his place behind his desk.
“Now, Monique, when I got your resume and photo, it really did catch my attention…” Michael started and was digging in a drawer on his desk.
I watched as he placed several toys--a G.I. Joe figure, a pair of chattering teeth and yo-yo on the desk top before coming up with the manila folder I had sent my papers to him in.
I watched quietly, as he opened the envelope and came out with my typed resume and color headshot.
“Let’s see, I just want to confirm some things…” Michael was squinting at the paper.
I noticed Marlon appeared bored, slumping casually in the chair beside mine and was sipping his wine, silently.
“It says here you were born in ‘65...you’re nineteen years old?” Michael questioned.
“Yes, I turned nineteen in May.” I replied and tossed my hair nervously.
“Five-foot-nine in stocking feet…110 pounds…” Michael was murmuring over the paper. “Redhead. I like your red hair. There’s not enough Gingers in fashion or entertainment for my taste.”
He informed me as he brought his head up, face serious. “All I’ve seen is that little, pout-mouthed, angst-ridden b*tch-- Molly Ringwald? That’s the only redhead I’ve seen in years. And your hair’s a unique color. Not really, really red. What exactly do you call that color?”
Michael inquired and was squinting between me and my photo.
“Strawberry blonde…” I heard myself squeak, still full of nerves. I was at least relieved he found my hair color a strong point.
“Is it naturally curly, or set it with rollers?” Michael was rubbing his chin in thought.
“Rollers--”
“What color are your eyes? They look green here.” Michael was observing my photo closely.
“They’re hazel.” I was saying as Michael suddenly rose up and was looming over me, staring into my eyes.
“They’re hazel-flecked. Not fully hazel.” I was corrected, as Michael once again sat against the front of his desk.
“What kind of modeling are you interested in, Monique? Runway, print?” Michael was absently picking at the pin on his chest.
“I’m…I’m not sure…” I admitted timidly. “Where do you think I’d go best at?”
“Um…” Michael grew quiet and began nibbling on his bottom lip. “Marlon and I represent about seventy-five women at the moment, and about six men, all of whom do various forms of modeling. I can show you some of the work.”
Once again Michael was behind his desk digging in another drawer. This time several toy cars were placed on the desk top, before Michael came up with a large leather bound book.
Waving me over, I stood at Michael’s side as he opening the book, showing a woman in designer jeans ad. In Japanese.
“You see, we have ties to a lot of foreign commercial markets. We do all sorts of things. Jeans, sneakers, cosmetics, hair care products…” Michael was flipping through the book and showing more, tastefully done, wonderfully orchestrated photographs. “Runway…overseas, the wholesome look, like you’ve got sells big time. Americana, apple pie. Typically a blonde, but I wanted a redhead specifically.”
The more I was seeing, the more I was liking. The more I was getting to the idea that yes, I wanted to sign with the Starlight Agency.
And then the page was flipped and I put my hands to my face in shock.
Draped across the hood of a white corvette, was a topless woman, wearing nothing more than a pair of polka dotted panties, looking more hooker than high-fashion.
“Er…um…” Michael quickly did damage control, explaining. “I take care of the higher end of modeling. Marlon handles this sort of thing.”
He was turning the book and showing his brother the photo.
“Yeah, I handle things like glamour modeling and the chicks you see working bikini shoots and car shows. I work with those sort of girls. Michael and I dabble in all forms of modeling.” Marlon spoke up and was polishing off his wine. “We’ve supplied quite a few girls to the adult market to grand success.”
Adult market? Did he mean porn stars? My head was swimming. Was I going to be turned into a porn star? I didn’t want that!!!!
“I’m not into posing topless or anything…I just want to do high-fashion. Like in Vogue.” I spoke up immediately, quite certain I didn’t want to appear in anything that would shame my parents.
“Eh…” Marlon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I wouldn’t recommend you for glamour modeling or porn anyway. You’re too small-busted.” He commented and stung, I went to say something spiteful.
“ Marlon! Damn it! ” Michael grunted, exasperated and snatched the glass form his brother. “Don’t insult Monique. She could be an asset to us and you’ll run her off! Shut the hell up! ”
A thick, arched brow went up, and stony-faced, Marlon rose from his seat.
Glancing at me, he coolly asked of me,
“Why won’t you pose topless? You scared? Afraid of shaming someone? Got a crazy boyfriend tucked away somewhere? You’ve got a decent body, even if your titties are a little on the small side--”
I stared down into Marlon’s face as he was peering up at me boldly, not exactly sure if I should have replied, as much as given him a back handed slap.
“ I’m warning yo’ ass! I’ll throw you outta here! ” Michael was threatening through gritted teeth. “ Why the f*ck I let you in the wine in the first place? ”
Honey eyes drifted from me and to Michael who stood over bother Marlon and me.
“Can I have a word with you-- privately ?” Marlon wondered and was moving to a far corner of the room.
Setting his book down, Michael gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before stalking over to join his brother.
I was quite certain that the two of them had planned to keep whatever words that were exchanged between the two of them, but I heard every single thing that was said.
And it quickly became apparent at least what part of their game was.
“ Marlon, are you outside your f*cking mind? I’m five minutes away from signing this girl and you want to go off pulling this stunt--again? I won’t let you! ” Michael was saying stubbornly, arms crossing, finely arched brows flexing in defiance.
Hand on hip, Marlon patted Michael in his chest rather hard.
“ Don’t go copping out on me with that innocent ass sh*t. You’re only fourteen months younger than me. We both got the same blood in us. And I know the minute you looked at old Red over there, your d*ck got so hard you near about had a stroke! ” Marlon pointed out and I saw Michael become visibly shaken.
I was shaken myself. Were these men really saying what I thought they were?
I watched, starting to feel drained as Michael was wildly waving his hands over his head.
“ No…no! We can’t do this! Not to this girl…Marlon she’s nineteen! She’s probably never even had a man…We can’t just go jumping on her!”
The mention of my age seemed to agitate Marlon more and he leapt on the defensive.
“ Why the hell you keep harping on that nineteen sh*t? Yo’ ass acting like we’re some old ass N(bad words)! We’re twenty-six and twenty-seven. And that girl is a legal adult. You need to calm the f*ck down. She ain’t a baby. That’s a woman over there. And as fine as she is, maybe she wants to be jumped on.” Marlon was reasoning., putting his arm around Michael and both were openly staring at me.
Were Marlon and Michael really discussing, having sex with me? It was strange and I knew I should have been scared because I was alone on a big boat that could easily set sail anywhere on the planet with what could wind up being a couple of perverts!
But even stranger, I was finding myself flattered, believe it or not, at the idea that these two men, who were so good looking it was ridiculous for attractiveness like that to be contained all in one family, seemed to be into me.
“ I don’t want that girl to think she has to sleep with us to get a modeling contract, cause it’s not true. You know good and damn well I don’t work like that. I’m legit. I am legit-- ” Michael swiftly shoved Marlon and he slammed into a wall, a painting of a duck falling to the floor.
“ And your little horny ass should be too! ”
Michael was punched in the shoulder and spun, landing on a couch on the opposite end of the room.
No longer trying to mask his voice, Marlon shrieked,
“I am legit, b*tch! As legit as you! Even more so because I’m up front with my sh*t. Watch.” Marlon wagged a finger, before turning to me.
“Hey Monique, don’t know if you realize it or not, but you make both me and my brother get hard--”
“ You want to do me?” I spoke over him and was shyly twirling a lock of my hair.
“Well, hell yeah--”
“Am I guaranteed a contract? Like Michael said--regardless if I sleep with you or not?”
“ Yes--you don’t have to do this! I want you as a model. Not a plaything! ” Michael was staggering to his feet, seeming to be in a daze over what was going on in that office. Right then. Right there.
A strange sexual notion with a Twilight Zone twist to it.
I should have been the one in a daze. At least I had to have been to say what I said next.
“If you guys sign me, to a legitimate high fashion contract, with good steady jobs and good steady pay…then…” My hands were nearly bleeding I was wringing them so hard. I couldn’t believe what I was saying myself. But I had to survive.
“ Then…you can have me .” I barely heard myself mumble the last line.
But it was all Marlon needed to hear.
“Hot diggity damn!” He fairly yelled before rushing over and wrapping his arms around me, kissing wildly at my throat.
Hanging off the couch, I could see a soft, yet pleased smile easing onto Michael’s pinkish mouth.
Had I really just agreed to have sex with not only two men--but two brothers at that?
What had I gotten myself into?

“… the hell you want man? Heads or tails?”
Marlon Jackson was demanding as he was digging into the pocket of his trousers trying to come up with a coin.
I had been led below the decks of the yacht, to what I assumed were where the bedrooms were located. I found myself in a long, wood-paneled hallway, three closed doors on each side.
Finally, Marlon came up with a silver half-dollar piece.
“Tails…I want tails.” Michael was deciding as I leaned against the wall, watching.
I knew I should have been offended at the idea that they were flipping a coin to see who got me first. But I was wasn’t. I was actually kind of excited. I had been with men before, but never this quickly. And yet it felt right.
The only thing that had offended me was that, before they resorted to coin tossing, they had played Rock, Paper, Scissors upstairs.
Both Jacksons each wore a light bruise on their cheeks as they squabbled about who had won the game. And me.
“One toss b*tch. None of that two out of three sh*t. I ain’t got time for that. ‘Bout to explode here!” Marlon was rubbing at the coin in his hands.
Tossing his head, Michael growled, “Man, toss the f*cking coin and quit fondling it!”
“I’m doing it! Don‘t make me toss you!”
“I wish like hell you would and see won’t I break your ass!”
The coin was a slice of silver in the air as Marlon flicked it.
We all held our breath as the coin twirled before coming down and rolling to a halt, bumping against my shoe.
“What’s it say? What is it?” Michael and Marlon were both clamoring over to me, both trying to get a glimpse at the coin.
Marlon was hooting with glee when he saw the coin had come out as “Heads”, meaning he’d won.
“Oh yeah! Hot ass!” Marlon, obviously aroused, was clapping his hands before making his way to the door in the middle of the hall, on the right side and letting himself in, leaving me out with Michael.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Michael wondered as he gently patted my cheek with a soft hand. “Because I can stall him long enough for you to leave.”
Looking up into Michael’s dark eyes, I noticed there was a sweetness there that his brother seemed to lack. I think I like him better than Marlon.
“ Yes, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I want to.”I whispered, feeling warm near him.
“Take this…” Michael was pulling his sweater off over his head and handing it to me. “He’s gonna get you naked…and it gets kinda cool this time of the year--”
Michael stopped abruptly, as I leaned over and mashed my lips to his, kissing him and silencing him.
Our lips lingered a moment dancing across each other. Michael’s mouth was so soft and sweet, tasting of the wine he’d been drinking.
Pulling my mouth away, I confessed,
“I’ve wanted to do that since I met you.”
Eyes wider than ever, Michael was breathless.
“Me too.”
“ Red! ” I heard Marlon call impatiently.
“I’m going to him, but I’ll come to you…soon enough I vowed to Michael, as I turned and went into Marlon’s bedroom.
The last thing I saw as I closed the door behind me, was Michael leaning against the wall, watching me with the same smile I had seen him wearing in his office.
So sweet and kind.
Marlon on the other hand was an unchained beast.
In a room of reds and golds Marlon Jackson was practically already nude when I entered.
Standing atop a bed, with it’s satin sheets thrown back Marlon had stripped down to his underwear, if you could call it that.
Marlon, though on the short side, boasted a wonderfully muscular and toned body. Smooth, tightened pectorals and well-defined abs greeted me.
As my eyes washed down the surface of that lovely body, a fire quickly igniting within me--(and perhaps about to burn my panties to cinders)--I took notice of Marlon’s groin.
The man was just barely contained in a tiny pair of red and black zebra print bikini underwear.
Seeing the large bulge protruding from him startled me a bit. I hadn’t expected him to be that big…
“Come on Red, Baby…” Marlon was urging, licking those plump, sumptuous lips, as he leapt down off the bed and was sauntering towards me.
Marlon went to kiss me, and I ducked out the way, amused that he was sticking his tongue out at nothing but air.
“Do you even remember my name? Or do you keep calling me Red, cause you can’t recall it?” I teased as Marlon was wrapping his arms around me, hugging me to his body, which smelled of a bright, and crisp citrus cologne.
“Your name is Monique Seaver. I remember. I just like Red better.”
Rough hand gripping my chin, Marlon was pressing those, incredibly tender, big lips of his against mine, with such force, it took all the strength right out of my knees, causing me to sag in his arms.
I was pushed against the closed door as Marlon placed a hand on the back of my neck, forcing my face harder against his, and was plunging his tongue, warm and damp into the depths of my throat. Wrapping my arms around his own neck, the wetness of all the product in his hair rubbing off on my arms, I clung to him, accepting his mouth, the taste of him, and how he felt to me.
How wonderful.
I’m still not quite sure, but I found myself undressed, completely bare in front of Marlon Jackson.
To this day, I can’t recall how my clothes came off and were draped over the back of the chair at the small writing desk in the corner of the room, with Michael’s black swear tossed on the top of the heap.
Marlon’s hands were instantly on my breasts and I banged against the door as he began kneading them like little mounds of pink dough.
“ Sh*t. I hate I made that remark about you having little titties …” Marlon chuckled, his voice dropping a few octaves as he leaned and was smooching at my left breast. “ These are just fine. ”
“I’ve heard all kinds of sh*t about them, trying to get into modeling.” I shrugged as Marlon was brushing my hair off my shoulders and out the way.
“You don’t have to worry about that…” Marlon pinched my nipple and I jumped as a little shock ran the length of my spine. “You’re gonna be signed. Michael’s probably pulling the papers up now….” Marlon traced my lips with his fingertip. “You’ve got such a sweet mouth--yes.”
Leaning in close to me our eyes locked, and one low command flowed from his mouth.
“ I…I want you to suck me, Red. You have to…I liked to be sucked before I f*ck something as sweet as you.”
His hand gripped mine and he was leading to the bed, indicating I get in.
Crawling into the bed--which turned out to be a sloshing waterbed--I started to sit on my knees for Marlon.
“No, lie on your back, with your head towards the foot of the bed.” Marlon was telling me and as I laid down, he stood off to the side, sliding his underwear down his thick, thigh, allowing me to catch a glimpse of his private area for the first time.
(Author’s Note: I had a giggling fit trying to figure out how Marlon should look and this is what I came up with.)
A patch of trimmed triangular patch of hair adorned his groin, right above his d*ck. A d*ck that was no gripped in Marlon’s hand and was being stroked at, though it was already stiffened and full of life. That long, brown lump of meat dangling between his legs, was uncircumcised and as he toyed with himself, the tip, a few shades darker than the rest of him in his arousal was peeking out at me the little foreskin flicking back and forth over it.
It was one of the largest c*cks I had ever seen in my life. I just hoped I didn’t choke on it.
I went to grab after him, feeling almost hypnotized by that stretch of flesh, but my hand was slapped away and instead, Marlon was shoving his girth past my lips and trying to force it down my throat.
As he rocked his hips, gently as first, against me, easing himself in and out of my mouth, having intercourse with my mouth in a way, I clutched after his hips and eventually his hard, toned buttocks. Those lovely round globes of pure muscle.
“Yes…Yes. That’s it Red. Oh sh*t. That’s it right there. Yes…suck me.” Marlon was urging in a hushed tone, and looking up at him, I saw he had his head thrown back, those perfect lips of his puckered nearly a foot away from his face.
He was tweaking his own, little brown nipples in ecstasy as I was leaning on my side, going after him, sucking hard, pleasing him as best I could.
He was so sexy.
“Oh…Red…god damn…you suck so good. Suck this d*ck. Suck it Baby…”
Marlon said, and I felt his hand on my abdomen.
“[I] Marlon !” I quite literally spit him out, when I felt his fingertips touch my cl*t.
“ Wait--stop! ” I begged as he was leaned over me, playing between my legs, one hand rubbing after me and was forcing fingers on the other deep into me.
“I don’t know the word stop.” Marlon said simply and I found myself with him forcing that c*ck back into my mouth. “Such a nice little p*ssy. Damn if Michael can’t pick’em! Oooh, sh*t!”
I half-moaned, half-sucked as Marlon continued fingering me, my toes curling in an effort to control myself.
“I want you to get nasty…I need some nastiness today.” Marlon confided, pulling his hands from me and gripping the sides of my face, now flipping his hips back and forth, pushing himself in and out my warm, waiting mouth.
“Harder! Suck it harder! Harder, b*tch!” He was demanding, now bumping himself against me so hard, his balls, round and fuzzy, were bumping my chin.
Marlon was staring down at me, his lips, now wet, were curled back into a snarl as he was watching me going down on him.
“ Eat me….eat me, Red. Eat me…oh! Oh! Oh! ” Marlon had been exclaiming, when suddenly, he started trembling. What I was doing was getting good to him. Too good, too quickly.
“ Oh! Oh my God! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Marlon ripped his meat from my mouth, glimmering with my saliva and was stroking at himself with one hand.
“ God damn! I’m gonna come! I’m gonna come! Holy f*cking sh*t!”
Head bobbing back and forth, hair going wild, Marlon was trying to control himself. Reaching out, I began tickling at Marlon’s balls, causing him to shriek at the top of his lungs.
“ Don’t touch my nuts! AH! AH! OH! OH MY GAWD! OOOOOOOH!”
With that one last howl escaping those blubbering lips, Marlon began to ejaculate.
“ Oh! Don’t--stop!” I gasped as the droplets of white warmness were hitting me directly in the face. I tried to turn my head, but Marlon made a point of holding my face directly under the leaking tip of his. I was scratching at his wrists, drawing blood. I didn’t wanted to drown like that under him!
“Oh god damn…help me…damn…” Marlon was whispering as he was milking himself, before patting his moist mushroom-head tip against my lips.
The minute he let go of me, I was up and delivered a stinging slap to his face.
“Don’t ever do that again! I almost inhaled that sh*t!” I cried, and was trying to wipe him from my face..
I whirled and landed on the bed, as without warning, Marlon slapped me back and I sprawled on my stomach on the bed, hand clasping my cheek, which was stinging violently.
“If you don’t like the way I take “head”, then you should have never let me put my d*ck in your mouth.” I was told and I felt Marlon put his hand on my back. “But you were good, Red. So, so very good.”
I laid there stunned and was aware of the sound of Marlon walking away from me. Behind me I heard the sound of running water.
Marlon returned, and pulled me into a seated position. He had a small, damp, green towel in his hand and began wiping my face off. Cleaning my face.
Cleaning the sexual residue from my face.
“My brother likes to kiss…I know he doesn’t want to taste me anywhere on you.” Marlon was chortling as he lifted my bangs and was wiping my forehead. “I like you, Honey.”
Tossing the towel down, Marlon came up with a shot glass that contained a blue liquid. Tilting the glass to my mouth, he instructed of me.
“Swish this, then swallow it. It’s Listerine. All the little Marlon germs will die off.”
That tickled me so much, I almost spit the mouthwash back into his face, I was laughing so hard.
“{I] Marlon germs! ” I repeated and was doubling over as Marlon was retrieving Michael’s black sweater for me.
As I slipped it on, he lamented,
“There’s only three of us on the whole damn ship and you can’t run around naked. Michael‘s room is across the hall.”
I was hugged against Marlon again, and he smacked my lips.
“We should do this again, don’t you think?” He questioned, his gorgeous eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. and being flirty, I said nothing, only giving him a wink as started out the room, jumping as he clapped my behind. Hard.
Crossing the hallway, I leaned against the closed door to Michael’s room, feeling guilty for a brief moment about what I was doing. Just what I was doing. It was so taboo. So dirty.
Yet, I was really getting pleasure out of what I was doing, probably because it was so bad.
I was weird like that.
It was about to get weirder.
Raising my hand, I knocked on the wooden door.
“ Entrez-vous! ” I heard Michael call to me in French, and opening the door, I found myself looking on into Michael’s Jackson’s room.
Like his office, it was done in shades of navy, with white accents. The centerpiece of his room was the large, canopied bed, covered from bow to stern in white silk.
In the center of the bed, with the sheets covering his lower half, Michael Jackson sat, propped against about a dozen plump pillows.
Oh he was so beautiful, much slimmer than Marlon, but just as toned. More toned than muscular really.
He really did appear like something out of a dream, lying there, one hand to his soft, smooth chest, long finger stroking over his left nipple.
“You’re finally here. I’ve waited for you, Monique.” He stated in his quiet way and was flipping the covers back, revealing his perfect and delicate nude body to me.
Unlike his brother, Michael had no body hair on his crotch at all, just a smooth, unadorned pubis. Like Marlon, Michael did possess an inhumanly large p*nis, that was also uncircumcised, and limp, it swayed between his hard thighs as he strode over to me.
Hands on trimmed supple hips, Michael asked as he loomed close to me,
“My brother didn’t hurt you, did he? Sometimes he gets kind of rough with the girls.”
“No…” I began and my eyes drifted from Michael to an apparatus positioned next to the bed.
I squinted a moment, not sure what I was seeing was real.
“Is…is that a camera on a tripod?” I wondered, still not sure.
“Yes--” I interrupted Michael.
“No, you’re not filming me. I’m not a porn star! I’m here to model. Not do porn man--” I started to flee, but Michael was gripping my arm with such pressure, I could feel blood vessels starting to burst and leave bruises.
“ No one will see this. This is for my benefit. I wanted to try something different…and I wanted to see how it looked on film. No one will see this…please Monique. The only porn stars here will be us.” The man whispered, nearly pleading.
“What…what did you want to try?” I wondered, not fully convinced.
Putting his hands down at the hem of the sweater, Michael was yanking it off over my head.
His mouth, hot and moist bumped my earlobe as Michael continued to whispered.
“You’ll see…”
“Mike!” I screamed as he took my arm with both hands and literally threw me across the room.
I landed in the bed with a thud, bouncing as it was a water bed, too, the mattress waving wildly.
Running his hands through his hair, Michael was taking his own sweet time coming back to the bedside, watching me carefully with those large, dark eyes of his.
Climbing into the bed, he rolled onto his side and was grabbing me, kissing me. His kisses were gentle compared to Marlon’s but he was a fan of Frenching just the same and was stroking his tongue over mine earnestly.
His hands were gliding all over my body, and I swear one of his fingers entered my ass more than once.
I embraced him, enjoying the taste of his mouth--he had to have chewed some bubble gum or something as it tasted so damned sweet.
“God, you’re so pretty…” Michael gasped coming up for air before putting his head down and trying to suck my areolas right off my breasts.
“Such cute titties…oh my god…” He was mashing after my chest with one hand, and with the other he was starting to pinch on the flesh that were his engorged testicles.
In response to the sensation, Michael’s p*nis was going hard and growing by a couple of more inches--that man was truly mammoth. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with me, but I was pretty much game for anything.
“I love little pink, p*ssies like yours…” Michael commented and with the open palm of his hand was rubbing at my c*nt.
“ Oh…Mike …” I whimpered, still high off of Marlon, the feeling multiplying as I laid beside him allowing him to rub me in that way.
Unwillingly, I was shifting my hips as he continued touching after me.
“Did Marlon f*ck you?” He inquired, still fondling me.
“ No…oh! Oh Michael!” I buried my head into his musky-scented shoulder as he continued playing with me.
His curls brushed my cheek as he told me, his voice heavier,
“ I want to eat you, Monique…and I want you to give me a blow job at the same time.”
My head came up in an instant and I stared at him curiously.
Did…did Michael Jackson just tell me he wanted us to “69” each other?
Michael’s eyes were so heavy-lidded with hotness, they were nearly closed.
I could only look on as he was sliding down in the bed, off the pillows, so that he laid flat.
“Come on, now. Right now. Now, Baby.” He was motioning me with one hand, while rubbing on that throbbing hunk of manhood that passed as his c*ck.
It was a bit awkward with the two of us trying to get situated into position, with Michael on the bottom, large hands grasping my ass, leaving my p*ssy open over his face.
“Great view…beautiful view…” Michael was cooing and looking at the space between us, I could see him staring up into me, pink tongue wetting his lips in earnest.
(Author’s Note: I can’t stop laughing and I don’t know why!)
On my end, I was face to face with Michael’s thick, quivering d*ck, and his slim legs were flexing back and forth in anticipation.
Somehow, I brought myself to allow Michael’s big c*ck into my mouth and was starting to suck on him.
At the same time I nearly his the ceiling as Michael, hands pressing down on my ass cheeks, was forcing me down onto his mouth.
Straightaway, I felt Michael plunging his tongue past my inner folds and deeply inside of me.
Under me, Michael was thrusting his hips, making his p*nis flip back and forth in my mouth, and so far down my throat, I gagged several times.
I couldn’t get away from Michael to save my life, or what he was doing to me.
He had his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me in position.
Michael was so deep into me it was a wonder he could even breathe.
And was he was doing. I couldn’t really tell. The way that man’s tongue could move, it was killing me.
One moment it was flashing in and out of me, like a small pink d*ck of its own, and then it was stabbing right in the dead center of my cl*t, causing me to scream around Michael, all before going back inside of me.
Finally I couldn’t take it, and let go of Michael’s meat, my hands to my face, groaning into his crotch.
“ Oh…Michael….Michael, stop. Please stop! Stop it!” I begged as I was swiftly becoming overwhelmed.
Taking his mouth from me, I caught sight of Michael sucking on his three middle fingers before they were used to penetrate me.
“ Yes! Yes! Yes! Look at that! Look at that! Come, Monique! Bring it home! Come! ” He was urging over and over, almost like a chant. He was almost craving an orgasm.
And at the rate he was going, he wasn’t going to have wait long for one either.
All at once, I was racked.
“MICHAEL! AH! AH! AH! AH! OH! OH! SH*T! OH!”
I screamed and was hugging his thigh as I began hitting my peak and my lustful liquids were squirting from me.
“ God damn! ” I heard Michael sputtering as he was becoming drenched. “ What the f*cking hell?”
I was shoved away from Michael and I saw the extent of the damage I had done to him as he sat up, completely covered, his hair, face and chest dripping.
Was he angry with me? I couldn’t control how my body reacted when I was that turned on.
Michael spit a stream of the fluid across the room before using the sheets to wipe at his face.
“Holy sh*t that was awesome. I’ve never had a girl do that. Power P*ssy!”
He laughed and clapped his hands, pointing at his still hard c*ck.
“Finish me.”
The mood lightened as Michael was pulling me down onto his manhood, holding my hair up and out the way as I went back to going to town on him.
“ Get it girl. Get it Monique! That’s what I like, that’s how I like it. Hee! ”
I felt Michael rubbing his hand against me again as I sat on my hands and knees, suckling him.
“ That’s it. That’s it! Go! God! Go!” Michael’s rubbing became intensified and unable to control myself, I was spraying his bed sheets a second time, turning my head to scream in sexual agony.
“ Michael! Damn you!”
“You’re my own little sprinkler system. I love it!” Michael gasped and took hold of his d*ck.
“Suck on the tip. Just the tip. I’m gonna show you something.”
Doing as I was told, I kept my lips on just the tip of Michael’s thang, like he was some fleshy lollipop.
Hands on his thick shaft, Michael began stroking himself rapidly.
I became aware of his other hand on the back of my head.
“I’m about to come…I’m gonna come. And you’re gonna swallow it. I know you didn’t swallow Marlon--he likes for girls to wear it. I like to watch them swallow it. Oh ****! ” Michael grunted and his c*ck was squeaking he was stroking it so hard.
Body beginning to lurch, Michael began swearing a blue streak so loudly, I was sure the entire harbor heard him.
“ YEAH! YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I;M TALKING ABOUT! AAOW! AAOW! AAOW! HEE! HEE! HEE! SH*T! SH*T! GOD DAMN! AAAAAAH!”
Rapidly my mouth began filling with Michael’s hot seed, as it was squirting from him.
So much so that I began strangling on it and fighting against Michael, I pulled free of him, as more semen continued pouring from him.
Automatically Michael’s hand was over my mouth, to keep me from spitting.
“ Swallow it…swallow it, Monique, damn you.” He said so calmly it frightened me. “I wanna hear you swallow it. You spit it out and I’ll make you do this again.”
Somehow, someway, I managed to take in that salt-tinged fluid, and satisfied, Michael Jackson released my head, hugging me against his damp body.
“You have to learn what pleases me. What I like.” He was stroking my hair as he spoke. “You have to know, because this isn’t the first or last time this will happen. You understand?” He questioned seriously, and without waiting my answer, was kissing me with a fiery passion.

I stayed on the S.S. Starlight that night. In Michael Jackson’s room.
The next morning, as promised, I was signed to the Starlight Agency.
Not as a glamour model, or pornographic model. But as a real, high-fashion/runway model. As I signed my contract, Michael told me just knew we’d be a success together, both as professionally and romantically.
I stayed on with the agency for the next fifteen years. A fifteen years that included a strict and solid relationship with Michael Jackson.
I never had another encounter with Marlon Jackson after that first night on the ship.
And that was probably for the best, as I am no longer Monique Seaver.
I go by Mrs. Michael Jackson these days.
And I never had to eat another Ramen Noodle as long as I lived!

The End

Waxed

Hey Y’all! One thing I always liked about Michael Jackson, was his body. Slim and trim, and always a wonderful shade of peachy-white, the man was a true sight to behold. I found it pleasing, that in the few instances Michael ran around topless, his body was fairly scare of hair. And that’s what got me to thinking--somehow, someway the extra hair on Michael Jackson had to be removed to achieve that look. With that thought in mind, I present this tale of erotica. Enjoy! 
“Waxed”
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave



New York City, New York
Autumn 2008

Being an aesthetician--who specializes in hair removal-- is neither a glamorous nor an easy job as some might be so fooled to believe. Theirs is nothing at all wonderful or carefree about a job where you are required to not only look at stranger’s private areas, but also to clear the unwanted hair from it, often in copious amounts.
Being an aesthetician at one of the largest and most well sought after beauty firms in New York City was a job that was like a double edged sword. While I hated being around semi and fully nude people all day--hated with a passion that was so bitter I could taste it. And yet I couldn’t quit because at around twenty-seven dollars an hour, it was one of the best paying jobs I’d ever held.. I couldn’t turn that kind of money away.
Anyway, I’m getting away from the story that I wanted to tell and it centers around a certain public figure. One so reclusive, I had only heard talk of him, but had never seen him in person myself.
His name was Michael Jackson.
Growing up, I had seen Michael Jackson plenty on television and in print ads as he was one of the most successful male models of his generation.
In the late 1980s he’d even had his own brand of designer jeans that I had worn as a child.
Though I had never met Michael, I knew his story--pretty much as everyone else in New York did.
How, on one hot summer night in 1977, a then nineteen year old Michael had been discovered dancing the night away in Studio 54 by famed fashion designer and photographer, Alberto Goldsmead. One minute, Michael had been doing the Hustle, minding his own business and sipping on Bloody Mary, the next he was on top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, modeling leather bellbottom trousers.
From there Michael’s career was launched and nearly ever designer on the globe was clamoring for the man, who was so tall and lanky, so slim and waif-like , many a model, male and female were pushing their untouched plates away in an effort to mimic his slim look.
There was times when he’d make over ten thousand dollars--in ONE day!
He was just that popular and that highly sought after.
And through the 1980s, Michael had continued to work so many designers, so many companies, no one could possibly keep track of them. Hell, about ten designers began manufacturing men’s clothing just for the opportunity to work with Michael. He had the look--this thin, pale, highly androgynous appearance everyone wanted.
Michael Jackson was The Look.
That’s why in 1989, at the age of thirty-one, it was a shock to the systems of not only those in the fashion world, but all of the fans that admired his beauty and work Michael announced that he was retiring from the business and would only work from there on in with Goldsmead in print, and Goldsmead alone.
Now, nearly twenty years later, indeed Michael Jackson had kept his promise. Twice a year, in Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter, Michael was the centerpiece and hallmark of ever Goldsmead Clothing campaign.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering, what on Earth a male supermodel has to do with a lowly aesthetician like me.
Michael, by profession was a model. And the modeling world is extremely hypercritical of its minions and how they look at all times.
Every good model needs a great aesthetician.
I’ll never forget that call I got in October of 2008. It had been a cold day, with snow starting to fall and I had been going through my morning routine--you know, bathing, eating breakfast on the run--in an effort to make it to the beauty firm on time.
That’s when the call came in. My boss telling me that I wasn’t to come in to work today. That I was going out to the apartment--penthouse of course--of Michael Jackson, the model.
It was explained to me that the following afternoon, he was due to be photographed for Goldsmead’s 2009 Spring/Summer clothing ad campaign and that he was asking to have “The Works” done to himself.
Now just so you know, “The Works” required me to remove every, single, solitary stray hair from his ass that was not attached to his scalp or brows.
Everything else had to go--chest, legs, pubic area--it all had to go.
Anyone getting that treatment would end up as smooth as they had been the day the were born.
I remember I just stood there, holding the receiver as my boss was giving me his address, absolutely stunned.
Not only was I going right up to Michael Jackson’s home, his private home that he never seemed to leave from except to be photographed for Goldsmead, but I was going to be looking at this man…naked.
Waxing him. His body. His private area.
It was remarkable.
I was going to work with a legend.
Grabbing my coat and rounding up my supplies that morning, I had no idea that before the sun set on the day, I’d be doing a lot more than working with Michael Jackson.

Michael lived in a super-wealthy complex called Skylight Towers, right in the heart of Upper Manhattan. It was a large beautiful building-- a Trump property if I’m correct--that, even though it was contemporary, had been built to imitate the grandeur of a building erected perhaps a hundred years ago. The influence in the building was definitely indicative of the Art Nouveau and Belle Époque movements. Skylight Towers soared nearly seventy stories into the air, and from what I knew, the top three floors all belonged to Michael Jackson.
The building, made of masonry and granite posted two large, pure marble. Black lion statutes out front--which Michael had donated one the twentieth anniversary of his having moved into the Towers.
I didn’t walk through the front, blue and gilded lobby, so much as I floated through the place in awe. The realization and magnitude of the situation finally dawning on me.
I was working with a damn living legend. It was incredible.
Lugging my extremely large and heavy rolling work case along with me, I boarded an elevator, that had an actual operator--complete in a blue suit and military style jacket, standing patiently to take me up.
“What floor Miss?” He asked. His voice heavy with a Cockney accent and was standing at attention. It was quite ridiculous. All that brouhaha for a man just to punch a damn button.
“Uh…Penthouse Suite, please.” I groaned as I set the case against the mirrored walls of that little rectangle.
The operator stared at me nervously.
“Could I have your name, Miss? I’m not even supposed to take people up there if they’re not authorized-- Mr. Jackson’s order’s.”
He informed me.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. I half expected this: Michael Jackson was a recluse and you hardly ever saw him going out or having anyone in.
“My name is Delphine Depardieu. I’m from the Belle Beaucoup Firm on Fifth Avenue. I’d show you my card, but I’m out of breath tugging this wannabe steamer trunk around. You don’t believe me, go call the Firm and ask for Anita Hutching, she’s my boss. Anita will vouch for me.” I mumbled as I was leaning across the case trying to catch my breath. That case had to weight a hundred pounds if it were an ounce, and filled to the brim with all kinds of potions and equipment I needed to do my work.
“Delphine?” The man repeated and anguished, I snapped.
“Yeah! I’m Delphine or I got someone else’s panties on! You gonna take me up to the Penthouse or I gotta figure it out my damn self?”
Somewhere above me, there was a hairy man needing my expertise and I couldn’t do anything still sitting in the f*cking lobby playing “Twenty-One Questions”!
It was then I noticed the man had produced a scrap of paper from his jacket and was squinting at the small writing scribbled on it in red ink.
“Okay Miss. That’s who I was told to bring up--sorry for the third degree Miss…”
With that, the elevator finally began its ascent.
“So you’re working for Michael Jackson?” He questioned about halfway up.
“Yes.” I replied still hanging against my case, dreading having to carry it again once I reached the Penthouse.
“I’ve only seen that guy once. Strange bloke, you know? Didn’t say anything the whole ride to the lobby except for “thank you.” And he whispered it at that. Can you imagine? I just can’t believe that’s the same fellow with the big billboards in Times Square. Even me son, Paddy, runs around wanting to dress like him and look like him. Eh, the idea…” The operator shook his head and grumbled. With that remark, the rest of the ride was silent, finally with us reaching the sixty-seventh floor, the ground floor of Michael Jackson’s home.
“Here we are Miss, Penthouse Suite.” The man announced as the mirrored doors swung open.
I was quite surprised to see myself looking upon a short hallway, where a set of thick mahogany doors stood closed. Michael Jackson really did have the entire floor and the other two above it!
I went to ask the operator for help with my bag as I got out of the elevator, but as soon as I was on the floor, the door closed and was headed back down to the lobby.
And there I was alone.
It was quite a tugging match between my case and myself as I headed for those doors.
Getting up to the them, I raised my hand to knock and noticed the name plate affixed to the door in what had to be real gold:
“Michael J. Jackson, Muse.”
I paused. This man was publicly running around like that…being known as a muse? He was an odd “bloke”. Who the hell had a plate like that? Not model, not fashion icon, but Muse. What kind of character was I dealing with?
Next to the door I noticed an intercom--a tiny golden box with a speaker--and pressed a button, producing a loud buzzing noise.
“Yes, how may I help you?” Came a deep, authoritative voice.
A part of me wanted to order a Big Mac and a Coke, but I kept my jokes to myself and introduced myself.
“Just a moment, ma’am.
A moment later one of the large doors to the suite opened and in the doorway stood a somewhat short and pudgy man, dressed sharply in a black suit replete with tails.
“Are you the one? The aesthetician?” He wondered and to my surprise was lifting my case with no trouble at all.
“Yeah…” I stared at him. My case had to have weighed more than him.
“Please wait in front foyer, Miss. I’ll place your things in the room upstairs and alert Mr. Jackson of your arrival.”
With that, I was ushered into the front foyer of Michael Jackson’s Penthouse.
And boy, was it one hell of a foyer.
Opening up all around me, was nothing but plush, blue, tone on tone fleur-de-lis wallpaper and gilded photographs of Michael Jackson from various shoots adorned every surface. Some dating back to his very first shoot.
On the opposite wall, curling staircase opened up to the second and third floors and on the ceiling, was a stained glass skylight--the namesake of the Towers-- that depicted the Birth of Venus.
Yes, on a little wooden sideboard, in a small golden frame, was that picture of Michael, topless and in a pair of bright red leather bellbottoms, swinging on a velvet rope. Anyone who knew Michael’s career knew that his appearance had changed over the duration of it. At nineteen, Michael Jackson had been a somewhat dark skinned black man with a large, puffy afro. Beside the photo of Michael in the bellbottoms, was a picture from a campaign I had see the previous year. Michael Jackson, was now fifty years old, and though his appearance was starkly different, he was still very handsome with a high fashion, unconventional look.
In the photograph, Michael reclined on a black chaise lounge, a silver fox fur coat wrapped around himself. He was once again topless, the fur hanging off of one shoulder, his bottom half covered in stretchy black trousers.
Michael’s skin, in the photo was a very, pale, milky appearance to it--I had heard rumors that Michael had some sort of skin disease that took the pigmentation from it. Perhaps that was why he quit modeling.
His features always had edged on the feminine, the large dark eyes always outlined in kohl, the slightly rouged cheeks, the cheekbones so high you’d get a nose bleed looking at them, the thin, pink lips, glossed to a subtle sheen.
And the little dimple in his chin, which had mysteriously appeared sometime in the mid-80s. He was a striking, and unique man to behold.
All over the little table were framed portraits of him in extravagant costumes--what Goldsmead primarily produced and passed off as high fashion.
Michael was swathed in furs, luxurious fabrics, heavily beaded military style jackets. Just all sorts of things you never saw on the average person.
Michael Jackson was not the average person.
As I stood observing photographs, one stuck out to me and before I could stop myself, I had picked it up.
It was quite a provocative picture--if a man could have been provocative.
Michael was this time lying in a bed, sheets of black and white satin draped around him.
It was quite clear that Michael was naked, the sheets strategically placed over his lap, the end held in his hand and gripped to his chest. Head down turned, hair in waves around his shoulders.
On the bottom corner a message had been written in elegant silver script
“You’ll always be my only Muse…AG.”
Maybe the whispers I had heard were true--Michael had been carrying on with Alberto Goldsmead. That their relationship had been more than just professional. Staring at the photo, I wondered, was Michael indeed Goldsmead’s lover? Had he quit the biz to live with the designer? Was it really true? Was Goldsmead there somewhere at that very moment?
I searched all around, and for the life of me, couldn’t not locate a single photo of Alberto Goldsmead. Couples always took photos together, and the absence of a picture of the two men together made me wonder if I had made a mistake in my snap judgment.
They were all of Michael. Every last one.
“Delphine Depardieu?”
I almost leapt out of my skin at the voice that suddenly announced my name.
Whirling around, I saw a figure making its way down the stairs.
A tall, slim figure--slimmer than I had imagined--wrapped in a bright red striped silk robe, was ambling towards me.
Michael Jackson.
Feet in slippers monogrammed with his initials shuffled along as Michael got to me, and was looming several inches over me.
Long, straightened black locks swished as he extended a long peachy-white hand to me.
Taking it--his hand was so soft and smooth--I nodded,
“Yes, Sir. I’m from the Belle Beaucoup Firm. At your service.”
It took all the willpower I could muster to even speak, I was so in awe of Michael Jackson.
The man was…a walking myth, and here I was right there, shaking his hand.
A bright white smile creased Michaels’ features and it was astounding he was fifty years old. He didn’t appear to be a day over thirty-five. His skin, up close, was very smooth, and looked supple. Well-hydrated.
He wore no make up, and aside from his eyes being less defined, he looked relatively the same. So very pleasant.
Handsome.
“I thank you for coming to my home today…I hope it’s no trouble. I just don’t like to go out in public so much…” True to the elevator man’s claim, he was speaking in a nothing more than a whisper.
“No, Sir. I understand you want your privacy. That’s why the Firm sent me out here--” I began and stopped as Michael was reaching past me tugging the photograph of himself on the striped sheets from my hand.
My heart sank immediately. I had forgotten to put the photo back where I had gotten it from. Lord I hoped he wouldn’t think I was plundering and throw me out on my face for disturbing his things.
Staring down at the photograph, Michael sucked on his teeth loudly and shook his head.
“Now I’ve told Buford a hundred times to put this photo away for me. I don’t like it at all, damn it…” He remarked and tossed his hair angrily.
“It’s…it’s a lovely photo, Sir…” I spoke before I was conscious of it.
Still looking at himself, Michael answered,
“Thank you. It’s not the photo. It’s the message from Alberto on it--it gives people the wrong idea. I don’t like it…” As Michael continued speaking I stared up at him in wide-eyed wonder.
Was Michael Jackson saying that? Was he not…? He was?
Moving around me, Michael walked back to the bureau the photo had been sitting atop and opening a drawer, deposited the photo in it.
Closing the drawer, he commented slyly,
“You think I’m gay, don’t you? That Alberto and I have been lovers since I was a teenager, don’t you?”
“No Sir--I-I--” I stammered trying to link an appropriate sentence together at the so very blunt question.
Dark eyes widening, Michael shook his head.
“Well, I’m not. Alberto is, and though he may have tagged me as his Muse, I’m not in any sort of relationship with him. Other than professional. It’s been over thirty years of wishful thinking on his part, and that’s how it shall remain--”
He paused and was staring at me boldly, so boldly I had to avert my eyes and stare at the tops of my sneakers. I had chills--there was something in his eyes that didn‘t sit quite well with me. .
“People assume I am, cause of how I dress, and who I run with and how I sound when I speak. But I’m not--”
“Sir! I never said anything. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to do a job.” I spoke quickly and threw my hands up. It was apparent that Michael Jackson was becoming riled up and I didn’t want to be embroiled in anything that would result in my being fired from The Firm.
“I apologize…” Michael came forward and was patting at my back. “I’m just very touchy about that sort of thing. I hate for people to misconstrue things. Please. I had Buford set your things up in my Tranquility Room. Please follow me.”
Without awaiting my reply, Michael Jackson was already crossing the room to the staircase and making his way up it.
Not sure what to think, I put my mind on my work, off Michael Jackson’s sexuality and ran to catch up with him.
On the second floor, down the hallway, and to the right was Michael Jackson’s Tranquility Room.
And truly, I had never before seen anything like it.
I had worked for many an extravagant and eccentric client, all of whom had bathroom and sauna that had been showplaces. Those rooms paled in comparison to the Tranquility Room.
The room, from floor to ceiling was swathed in nothing but snowy white marble, Michael’s initials in the center of the floor in tiny blue mosaic tiles.
Above our heads five, grandiose crystal laden chandeliers swung and glittered like gigantic diamonds..
On the east end of the room, a raised Jacuzzi tub, covered in more of the blue mosaic tiles sat empty. On the west side of the room, stained glass windows, depicting several Ruben-esque nudes, the little pink, full figured women, were letting in colored brackets of light.
In one corner of the room, another life-sized nude, of a woman standing, arms above her head, was made of a light blue marble, marked with many veins of white swirling through it.
The entire room smelled heavily of the sweet, musky scent of vanilla; above my head, several vents were pumping in a cool mist with the aroma.
In the center of the room was there I believed Michael Jackson had all of his beauty treatments done: an extra large, extra padded table that looked more akin to a bed than anything else. All around it, all sorts of spot lights and magnifying glasses on rolling wheels stood waiting to be used.
On a far wall, a painting of Michael in a gold frame stretched from floor to ceiling, larger than life-sized and showed Michael, dressed like, of all things, Peter Pan, soaring through the could with what appeared to be Tinkerbell seated on his shoulder.
As I stood, heating the dark green wax and getting it to the consistency I had wanted, I was very aware of Michael.
He was standing in front of a large buttoned console over which a little screen was lit and was picking at the knobs.
“Tell me Delphine…” Came his meek inquiry, “Who do you prefer? Mozart or Chopin?”
“Whichever puts you in a nice mood, Sir.” I informed him as I continued twirling the large wooden tongue depressor, mixing the wax and melting it.
“I like Chopin while I’m grooming. I find piano music so soothing…I used to know the woman playing the piano here. Name of Mahogany Dunne--very accomplished pianist.” Michael declared and as, soft, classical piano music began playing over hidden speakers.
“Mr. Jackson, are you certain you want “The Works”? You know I have to take all the hair off your body with it. Everything…” I trailed off as I had looked up from my wax.
Across the room, Michael Jackson was hanging his robe up on a golden peg.
My throat tightened.
Michael Jackson…just like his marble statue…was nude.
Completely without a stitch of anything on!
He stood a moment, with his back to me.
He was so slim. The way his waist nipped in, just perfectly, how his trim hips flared down into well toned, and well sculpted legs.
And his buttocks. That little, taunt mound of perfect alabaster flesh, was just lovely. I had never seen such a beautiful backside in all my life.
From somewhere I heard Michael speaking.
“Call me Michael, and yes…I’d like the whole thing--all the hair off. I need it for my shoot tomorrow.” He informed me and turned around. “It’s an emergency--as you can see…I’m quite bushy.”
I staggered and bumped against the table at the sight of Michael’s milky, bare form.
His chest was smooth, except for a few scant curls in black, being a contrast to his fair complexion. My eyes drifted down his slick, flat abdomen when almost unwillingly, my eyes zeroed in on Michael’s triangle…
His pubic area.
A part of me wondered, as I stared at him, why the hell he’d called for me in the first place.
There was a patch of somewhat thick black curls on Michael’s pubis, but really, it didn’t look all that bad. It circled his crotch and fanned off sparsely onto his thighs. But it didn’t look like anything that seemed to be an emergency.
Did he really consider that bushy?
Then I felt my chest kind of cave in as I continued looking at Michael.
For the first time I noticed Michael Jackson’s pen*s.
I put a hand to my mouth in shock. Michael’s pen*s, limp and flaccid was hanging down somewhere near his knees! I had never, in my life, seen a man that large. And in between the girth of his shaft and the hair covering him, I couldn’t see Michael’s balls at all. A zealous flash of heat lit me and I struggled to control myself as Michael came over to me, that hunk of meat swaying as he moved. He was uncircumcised, the tip of his shaft hidden beneath a fold of peach colored flesh.
How in the f*cking hell did he not trip over that thing?
“I don’t usually call in for help with grooming myself, you know…” Michael informed me and I was trying to keep my eyes on his face, anywhere but that massive d*ck swinging to closely to me. How on Earth Michael was so calm in the nude with me being a stranger, I’ll never know. Most of my clients were timid being seen in their birthday suits.
“I typically shave myself, but earlier thi sweek the razor slipped and I nicked my scrotum, you see…”
Not really wanting to, I glanced down and saw that Michael was cradling his nut sack, spreading the hair away, and revealing a small white scar, maybe a half inch long. to me.
“You’re a lady, but if you cut yourself like I did, you’d want a professional from here on in…” He was giggling good naturedly as he climbed up onto the table and laid down.
He didn’t find it strange that he’d just showed me his balls?
“Yes, Sir…” I whimpered and was bringing up some wax to start working on his chest. “Tell me if this is too warm…”
“Oooh!” Michael gasped, as I began applying the wax to his chest. “It’s warm, but I can handle it. I just need to be waxed…clean.”
Nodding, I went ahead and began working on Michael’s chest. In a matter of minutes, his chest was cleared of all stray hairs and glowing pink from the heat of the wax.
I moved on to his underarms--that were barely darkened with hair--and his arms, removing the fuzz of hair on them. On to his legs, and the little bit of bristles on them. All in all, it was probably safe to say Michael Jackson was one of the least hairy men I had ever worked with.
All that was left now…
I stared at Michael Jackson’s crotch. The hairy beast.
Michael was paying me no mind. Instead his had his arms up and was directing an imaginary orchestra to the sounds of the piano music.
Going back over to my kit, I picked up a small aerosol can and proceeded back to the table.
As much as I wanted to reach out and grab onto that c*ck that was lying there--oh it looked so lonesome lying over Michael’s thigh so attractively--I couldn’t molest my client. .
No matter how slim and arrestingly handsome he was.
How sweet he sounded humming along to the music.
How fresh and crisp he smelled--what the hell was that cologne?
No matter how that fresh, pink meat was winking at me.
I had to remain professional at all costs. I couldn’t f*ck up and find myself fired.
Removing the cap from the can I began spraying at Michael’s crotch.
“Aaow! Hey! Holy sh*t! What inthe goddamned hell are you doing to me?”
Michael sat bolt upright, hands to his groin, was shouting at me shrilly.
Startled at his reaction, I dropped the can. It clanged on the marble and rolled away.
“I’m sorry. It’s…it’s a numbing spray. To take the edge off as I waxed your genitals. Forgive me. I should have warned you.” I was telling him, as Michael continued holding himself and was staring at me with contempt.
“That stuff was really cold…will it really make my nuts go numb?” He wondered timidly after a moment and I saw his perfectly arched brows rising to his hairline at the thought.
“Yes, Sir…” I replied as I dropped down on my hands and knees to retrieve the can and was allowed to mist his privates.
“Hee! Oooh!” Michael hiccupped softly and fell back against the cushions of the table. “I can feel the sensation going away…Oh my God…”
In less than ten minutes, I had Michael Jackson’s bush trimmed away and what was revealed was a beautiful, smooth and sweetly scented crotch.
And there was that damn d*ck still lying there, winking at me. Teasing me.
I glanced up at Mr. Jackson; he was once again directing his orchestra.
Paying me absolutely no mind whatsoever.
No longer able to control myself in the presence of such a man, I reached down and cautiously, I poked at Michael’s tender scrotum. I immediately stared up at Michael.
No reaction at all. He was humming loudly. He couldn’t feel a thing.
Being brash, I reached out and was cradling his balls in my hand, feeling their warmth. They were so soft and a little bit springy.
I looked to Michael again. Still directing in the air.
I had to touch that c*ck or I’d have lost my natural mind.
It was such a dirty, odd want. To touch the pen*s of a man I had known less than three hours. But I wanted to and damn it all to pus spewing hell, I was going to.
I only hoped Michael didn’t kick me in the face.
Gingerly, I found myself grasping on to that length of human rope extending from Michael and was marveling at it--God he was so thick. So hot to the touch.
That d*ck was so beautiful. Smooth and pale, and as I pulled the foreskin back, a rounded, tip, a more intense shade of pink was revealed. It glimmered with the barest hint of moisture.
It was so pretty…a part of me wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste Michael Jackson. Put him in my mouth. See how he felt.
Could I really dare to do such a thing? Blow a man without him knowing it?
I knew he’d remain numb for a few more minutes…not long enough to engage an orgasm, but long enough to satisfy my curiosity.
He was lying there ass naked. It was practically an open invite.
I dared another peek up.
Michael’s shaft tumbled from my hand in shock and bounced on his thigh.
Oh no…oh Lord no…!
Michael was no long playing maestro.
He was staring directly at me. Had seen me playing with and fondling him.
“Sir--I--I--” I was at a true loss of words. I knew I was going to get tossed out. Cussed out. And worst of it all, fired from The Firm.
I was still jabbering wordlessly as Michael sat up on the table.
“You…you were about to suck on my d*ck…weren’t you?” His voice was still meek as he continued looking at me.
Ashamed I dropped my head.
“I’ll leave at once Sir--” I stammered, wanting to run and keep running until I collapsed somewhere.
It was then I heard a light, squishing noise. In spite of myself, I found I was looking at Michael again.
Much to my surprise, Michael was sitting there, Indian style, one hand to his chest, the curled around his pen*s.
Stroking himself.
The hand on his chest was extended and he was wiggling a finger at me.
“Come…come here, Delphine. Come to me…” His voice still low, had dropped about two octaves, deepening, and the sound electrified me.
Automatically, I was over at his side, watching as he continued playing with himself right before me.
“You…you want this? You want this?” He questioned and was putting his free hand into my hair, taking the butterfly clip out, causing my long hair to fall down my back.
“Yeah…” I started and jumped as Michael gripped my chin suddenly, forcing me to look into his face.
‘Little Girl…you answer me as Sir…You’ve been calling me Sir all the morning. I like it.” Dark eyes widened fiercely. “Do you understand?”
“Yes…yes Sir…” I whimpered and watched as a smug grin came to his face.
“You’re so very pretty. Look like Sophia Loren…I’ve been meaning to tell you that. You’ve got a French name, but look Italian. How very odd, I like that…” Michael told me and was pulling me closer to him, before slipping off the table looming over me and staring down at me.
His prick was now at full attention, pointing upwards, the tip glowing red and on full display.
His eyes were so serious, bright and piercing, they frightened me.
Cupping my face in his hands, he continued observing me.
“You can’t be very old. Not much more than twenty I assume?” He questioned, those brows going up again.
“I’m twenty-one, Sir.” I was now whispering I was so tense and tied up over this man. The power he was seeming to exude over me.
“Twenty-one. Holy sh*t.” Michael threw his head back and cackled. “Do you know I’m fifty years old? I turned fifty August twenty-ninth…”
His head came back up and looked to me once more.
“Have you ever had meat this old? Some premium aged beef. Sucked on a fifty year old c*ck? Have you, you little Doll Baby?”
“No--” I tried to reply, but Michael suddenly mashed his lips to mine and was kissing me so sweetly, I nearly swooned.
I fell against Michael as he was wrapping his arms around me, holding me against that naked body. That shaft bumping my thigh.
Very vaguely, I was aware of him untucking the white polo that was a part of my uniform and was pulling it over my head.
“Nice, young tits…Lord…” Michael muttered as he was pulling my bra from me, exposing my bosom. I was gripped tightly to his body, my breasts mashing into his chest.
I was trembling with anticipation as Michael rested that clefted chin on the top of my head.
“God damn it…I need to be sucked. I need to be sucked so badly. I love being sucked. It’s been so long…” Michael trailed off as he was hoisting himself back onto the table.
Grabbing a handful of my hair, Michael tugged on it.
“Get up here. Get up here and eat on me…come here…” I was ordered and found myself on the table, Michael waving that meat before me.
I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking. I was just doing. And right then I was going to perform the act of oral sex. I wanted to…it was such a compulsion, that before Michael could instruct me further, I had already grabbed him and was guiding his girth past my lips.
Starting to suck, I tasted his flesh…how sweet it was and tasted of cocoa butter.
“Oh! Oh yes…oh yes little girl…that’s it…that’s it…Oh…” Michael moaned instantly, and his hands were in my hair, holding it out the way as he watched me.
For a brief moment I looked up to gauge Michael’s reaction--he was going scarlet with arousal--and he insisted tightly,
“Don’t look up at me. Don’t you dare look up me. Your eyes go down. Look at you what you’re f*cking doing. Hee! Oooh!” I heard his head drop back and hit the pillows as he began thrusting those slim hips against me. Forcing that pen*s further and further down my throat.
“That’s not all of it. I want you to suck all of me…” I heard Michael say and before I could stop him, he began pressing down on my head with both hands, driving my face down all the way to the base of his ***** effectively choking me.
Gagging loudly, I tied desperately to push on Michael’s thighs to get away.
“You’re choking!” Michael laughed at the obvious. “Move!”
Finally, finally I was released and I curled upon my side coughing.
“You wanted to suck my d*ck.. You wanted to suck my d*ck.” Michael taunted as he sat up. “You can’t even get the damn thing all the way in your mouth. I’m gonna make it fit somewhere.”
Somehow, my trousers and underwear came off, and I was nude in front of Michael, lying on that table.
Eyes taking in my body.
“Get on your hands and knees. Now…!” He demanded and I complied, part of me scared of him, the other part thrilled at this rough and tumble exchange.
“Ouch! Sir!” I gasped as Michael, five times in rapid succession slapped at my buttocks.
“I am gonna tear you up…” I was told as Michael slipped up on the table behind me, hands tickling at my breasts and mashing at my nipples.
Mouth to my ear, he added,
“Don’t piss me off. Cause if you piss me off, I will f*ck you straight in your ass and I know you won’t like that--no woman I’ve ever known does. Do you understand, Delphine?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Kissing my shoulder, Michael added, “You’re so damn sweet…”
An arm wrapped around my waist and other was covering my mouth. The crook of Michael’s elbow was in my mouth.
I screamed into the pale flesh of his arm as Michael was beginning to slowly slide himself into me. All I could feel was myself stretching all over trying to accommodate him. All of him. I didn’t feel as though I could possibly do it.
He was going to tear me apart. He going so deeply. So deeply than I had ever felt.
“Yes… that’s it…Take all ten inches of me…it’s that big. Take this big old d*ck. Damn, girl…” Michael whispered as after what seemed like an eternity, his groin bumped my backside.
He was there…all there. Just barely.
We linger amoment, both breathign heavily...anticipating.
Then there was movement. Wild, crazed, frantic movement.
Michael was thrusting in and out of me. Forcing me to expand and contract at the same time. Too quickly too much.
It was so much, more than I could remember experiencing.
And I could stop him, I couldn’t stop him.
Michael had me restrained in such a fashion that all I could do was lie there and try my best to accept him.
I couldn’t even make any noise, my cries were muffled by Michael’s arm.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ah! Yes! You take me! Take it! Take it!” Michael was huffing in my ear, tightening his grip on me. Plunging. Plunging. In and out. Farther. Farther. Farther into me.
Tears of mixed pain and pleasure were welling in my eyes and streaming down as Michael continued ramming me roughly from behind, nearly turning my p*ssy inside out with each thrust, making me raw and sore with every movement.
“You wanted it. You were gonna suck it…you were gonna suck it!”
Michael kissed my wet cheek loudly , tasting my tears.
“This is some of the best p*ssy I’ve had in a while…!”
Crying out, and spit running from my mouth over his arm, I was trying to get loose from him. I was getting to close to the end. Far to close. To quickly.
It was too much…more than I could handle…Michael had to stop.
“Stop! Stop! Please! Stop! Ah! Stop! Sir--Michael!” I begged into his arm as the movements of Michael Jackson’s d*ck became sharper, and even more forceful.
Michael dropped his arm from my mouth and a long hand gripped my throat.
“You’re gonna come….you’re gonna f*cking come, and I’m gonna make you. I’m gonna force a wet one out of you…”
Hangs gripping my shoulders tightly Michael was driving himself into me. He was in a f*cking frenzy.
Scarcely I wondered when the last time he’d actually had sex, he was so unhinged.
“Ah! Ah!!! Ahhh! Michael! Michael-no! Sir--please!” I was pleading as Michael’s grunts, once lower and softer, were now rising in decibel, and Michael’s request of me became stranger.
“Bark! BARK DAMN YOU! Bark like dog!” He demanded and was shaking me as he continued beating into me
Was he really wanting me to bark?
“I--I can’t!” I whimpered as Michael’s hands fell from my shoulders and gripped my hips. I felt Michael had gotten off my back and was now forcing me back and forth on his pole. Slipping me up and down it.
“Look at that ass jiggle. God damn… look at that sweet little ass…” Michael grunted and was drowned out as I began yowling.
“Aaaaah! Aaaah! Ahhh! Stop! Stop! Michael! Mike!”
“Come! Come! Damn you! Delphine--you come!” I was yelled at and felt another stinging slap to the ass.
“AAAAH! DON’T!” I wailed as Michael’s fingers came forth and were rubbing roughly and wildly at my cl*t, further sending me towards an orgasm.
I clawed at the fabric under me, and perhaps the last strains of my sanity that were quickly running away from me.
“AH! MIKE! AH! AH! I’M COMING! AH! AH! WHY! WHY! WHY!”
I shrieked at the top of my lungs as the wave of carnal pleasure came flowing forth. So much so Michael yanked himself from me as I was spurting all over the table before collapsing under him convulsing whimpering weakly.
Drained.
“Yes.. That’s what you do. That’s what you do when I f*ck you. When screw that ass--make a damn mess. Yes…Good Little Girl took that Big Old D*ck like a champ…” I felt Michael’s meat flapping against my buttocks as Michael was yanking himself on home.
“Oooh sh*t. Here it comes… here it comes Baby… oh God… we f*cked so good…god damn….” Michael was pressing his pen*s between my ass cheeks like a hot dog in a bun and was rocking back and forth, less than an inch above my anus.
Michel hand was planted firmly in my back to keep me from squirming away from him.
“Damn…hell…” Michael grumbled as I hollered into the cushions under me as Michael suddenly chose to stick his c*ck up into my anus.
“You’re a big girl… you’re a big girl. Take this. Show me how grown you are…Woo! Woo! Oooh! Ohh--Woo! OH!”
Inside me, I felt Michael starting to squirt hotly.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, Jesus! Yes! Hee! Aaow! Hee!” Michael’s thrusting slowed before coming to a halt.
“Motherf*cker….” Was all he whimpered before falling on my back and hugging after me against him.


“…so, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”
Michael, voice back to the shy whisper he’d greeted me with earlier that day, asked as I was packing my supplies back into the large black case.
“This, Sir…I have to go to work…” I replied, timidly, as I absently was putting things in their proper place. I was so sore and raw all over I could barely move. The things that been done to me. The things I had let happen.
I had gone crazy.
“I don’t want you to go to work tomorrow…”
At that statement, I paused and peered up at Michael. He stood a few feet away, robe draped around his body once more, hands shoved in the pockets observing me.
What was he saying.
“Sir, I--I--” I began and Michael swiftly came over and squatted before me, his wet, flaccid d*ck draggingthe floor. A slim finger pressed my lips silencing me.
“You’re not going back to The Firm in the morning. You’re not even leaving tonight. You’re staying here with me. Now. I can’t possibly let you go…” Dark eyes washed over me as he mumbled before stating.
“The things we did together. The way you made me feel. I can’t let you slip away from me. You’re staying. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir--” I started and was swiftly corrected,
“Sir is for bed. I’m Michael…” He gently hugged me against him and was resting that chin on the top of my head again.
“I’m your Michael.”
As he wished, I quit my job working for The Firm and moved in with Michael the very next day. And its been a life of wonderful lovemaking ever since.
To this day, now if you happen upon the Penthouse Suite you will see a slight change to the nameplate marking the door : Michael J. Jackson, Muse
Delphine A. Depardieu, Muse of a Muse.

The End!