“Mr. Jackson’s Portrait”
A Michael Jackson Short Erotic Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
A Michael Jackson Short Erotic Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
Classy Clicks Photography Studio
Aquamarine, California
April, 1980
Over the years, in my work as a professional photographer I thought I had run across every type of client imaginable.
The little child who keeps screaming, crying and carrying on no matter how many lollipops and stuffed animals you throw at them; the old people who want their portrait done, yesterday; the snotty b*tches who insist on telling me how to do my job; and the juicehead jocks who think I’m attracted to them just because I’m taking their damn picture.
Yes, I thought I had seen and could handle it all.
Then I was contacted by Michael Jackson.
One day, early in the month of April, Michael telephoned me, wanting to set up a photography session as soon as possible. He explained he wanted to get a portrait taken to give his mother as a gift for her birthday the following month.
He told me he’d seen a portrait I had taken of his older brother, Jackie, his wife and their children, and really liked the way it had come out. I had never met Michael before, but I was familiar with the family name. Michael came from a wealthy family that were a pillar of society in our small coastal town.
Even though Michael was very nice on the phone, he had a rather high-pitched, and soft voice, he had strange requests in regard to his photo session.
He asked me to clear my schedule. He wanted to be the only customer I had for the day. That he would pay me handsomely for my trouble to clear the day for him.
(He would wind up paying me nearly seven thousand dollars for a session that shouldn’t have cost more a fraction of that amount!)
Well, I was no fool. For seven grand, I could finally take that trip to Disneyworld I had always dreamt of. Of course, I agreed, and cleared my entire Friday for him.
I also found that he had concerns about windows. He specifically asked me to put shutters over any and all windows in my studio. Michael told me he didn’t want anyone to be able to see him while he was being photographed.
I found that a bit strange, but complied just the same. I really needed that cash.
We both agreed that Michael would arrive at about four-thirty in the morning and we would set to work.
Friday came, and I remember, it was a cool, misty morning. Still dark outside.
I had been up since two, setting up equipment and testing lights, preparing everyday for the man. Covering all my windows from any prying eyes.
At exactly four-thirty on the dot, I heard this little weak knocking on the door. Just barely heard it.
Going over I opened the door to let a lone man in.
The man was quite tall, soaring over me, and markedly slim. He dressed extremely casually in a Nike t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. He wore a yellow ball cap over his short and slightly tangled curly locks. The brim of the cap had been pulled down partially hiding his face.
What the hell kind of picture was he planning to give his mother in a get up like that. He looked more fit to be working under the hood of car than posing before a camera dressed like that!
“Are…are you Claudette Zbornak?” Came the timorous question and the man was starting to shuffle from foot to foot nervously.
“Yes…” I smiled and was staring up at him curiously.
“Are you Michael Jackson?”
The man nodded.
Grabbing onto his hand, I shook it. His hand was very soft and smooth. This slim, almost cowering man probably had never done a solid day’s work in his life.
“And uh…” I looked him over with a chuckle, “Do you plan to sit for your portrait in this…ensemble?”
“Gosh no…” The man giggled. “It’s okay if I go and make myself up? You know do my hair and put on nicer clothes.”
“Yes…the changing area is in the back--” Michael had already turned and gone back out into the blackness.
I stood back as Michael made three trips out into the dark.
On his first trip, he came back carrying a tremendous black make up case.
The man was serious about being made up--I hadn’t seen one of those cases outside of a Vogue magazine on location shoot!
The second go round, he was carrying a basket loaded down with hair care products--curl activator, holding spray, gels, an assortment of combs and picks and about a thousand bobby pins.
On the final trip, Michael came back toting three metallic gold garment bags and I couldn’t help noticing his name was stitched on the bags.
Who was he? Liberace?
I wanted to ask him if he was planning to get his picture taken or move in permanently.
Silently, Michael disappeared into the back changing area.
I occupied myself standing at my door and smoking cigarettes.
I couldn’t believe that guy was going through all that trouble just for a picture for his mother. I’d understand a lover, but his mother? Really?
That guy was strange. And looking at him, all skinny and gangly, what kind of portrait would he turn up anyway.
I just hoped he didn’t stroll out painted up like David Bowie. I couldn’t stand that punk look and loathed shooting it.
Michael Jackson took so long in the bathroom, I managed to go through an entire package of Pall Malls and the sun had come up.
Was he taking one hell of a colossal dump in there?
Wondering of Michael had flushed himself down the toilet, I went to the bathroom and banged on the door.
“Michael! You alright in there?” I called. I wasn’t used to hanging around like this. Not for one person. Even if the money was that spectacular. He was trying my nerves. Just cause he was rich didn’t mean he could tie up all my time.
“Yes--I’m almost ready. Give me a moment…” I barely heard him through the door.
“I’ve given you about a billion…” I was grumbling when the door started to open, a puff of smoke billowing out. At first I thought Michael had been in there smoking “funny cigarettes” until I smelled it. Strong, citrusy cologne. That was the smoke--puffs of his cologne.
Had he bathed in that sh*t.
The portraits weren’t scratch and sniff! Why was he filling the room with that mess? Well, I didn’t care if he wanted to smell like a Key Lime Pie. I wanted to get this show on the road collect my money and get the f*ck up out of there!
Then Michael Jackson came ambling out of the bathrooms.
At least, I think it was Michael Jackson.
I felt my eyes bugging as he was coming up to me.
Now I had seen the fellow that went in the bathroom. He was a gremlin looking little creature, with a face that was so shiny, it could be used to guide boats into the harbor.
This man looked nothing like that.
Michael Jackson was…astounding once he was made up.
He wasn’t over done--I could barely tell he had cosmetics on. He looked natural and the face that was revealed was sumptuous.
He possessed wonderful features, cheekbones set high in his face, a gently pointed chin, a strong, prominent nose. His lips a dark pinky brown were ever so slightly glossed.
His hair that matted mess that had been under a cap, was now combed perfectly into place. I could tell he was new to the Jherri curl, as his hair seemed like a hybrid between the curl and the afro. A nice thickly curled puff of hair.
Michael looked ready to take center stage on “American Bandstand” in his black sweater that was covered with thousands of clear rhinestones that twinkled and glittered. The sweater had been paired with a pair of simple black satin trousers that seemed painted on they were so tight. On his feet Michael wore black loafers.
He was just remarkable and I was doing a slow burn.
“Are…are you ready to take my picture?” He was hesitant as he came up to me.
“I--I have change the background.” I heard myself say, as I was so caught off guard by his looks. “It’s black and you’re all in black, you’ll disappear…”
“May I have a red background?” Michael wondered and I nodded.
“Sure…want a Pall Mall?” I offered, pointing out my carton of cigarettes in the rear of the room.
Michael shook his head. “I don’t smoke…”
I had the background changed to in a flash and had set up a stool for Michael to sit on--as he had told me he wanted to be shot from the waist up.
I had no trouble with Michael once he was on that stool.
As easily as he took my direction, which was good because I was so damned tongue tied, I was surprised I could utter a sound.
All in all, I shot about four hundred frames of Michael, through three outfits. The black sparkle sweater, a grey suit with a white shirt and red tie (on the black background) and a blue and yellow sweater vest with a blue shirt and yellow tie. (on a white background)
It was a wonderful session. Just me, Michael, my camera and the sounds of Smokey Robinson playing on the radio behind us.
I was just amazed by Michael’s appearance. How good he looked. He was such a handsome man. Sexy, even. And I couldn’t deny I was attracted to him.
“Mind if I light up?” I asked as Michael was slipping off the stool after the last shot.
“No…I don’t mind. You own the place.” Michael was grinning. God he had the sweetest brightest smile I’d ever seen.
I needed that cigarette and obliterated it in one drag. God, I needed it.
A part of me wished I had the sex that usually preceded the cigarette.
But looking at Michael, I just knew he didn’t seem the type.
The guy had been speaking in a whisper since he’d walked in.
He was just too shy.
“Claudette…” Michael was tugging at the sleeve on my blouse.
“When can I see the proofs, so I can select a photo for my mother?”
Blowing a ring of smoke in the air, I replied,
“Give me an hour. Go have some lunch or something on the boardwalk. I’ll have it when you come back.”
Michael, seeming satisfied started for the door and before I realized it, I had asked,
“Are you sure this picture is for your mother?”
At the door Michael turned, and gave me a quick nod.
“Yes…”
I blew another ring.
“It’s not for some girlfriend you’ve got stashed somewhere?”
“I haven’t got a girlfriend…” Michael started to leave.
“Boyfriend, maybe?” I pushed…contemplating which way he hung his hat.
“Hell no…I’ll be back in an hour.” Michael replied, a bit heated at what I was insinuating, and was gone.
I felt stupid for that last remark and planned to apologize.
I hadn’t intended to offend him.
And oh, how Michael was about to be offended.
An hour later, as requested, Michael returned, just as I was coming out of my darkroom, several pages of proofs in my hand.
“Are those them?” Michael wondered as I handed him the pages, and a small magnifying glass.
I felt extremely happy and proud of the work we’d done. I had perused each frame myself and was certain that just about any photo Michael picked was going to be a winner. He looked so dashing in every one, that if he just blindly pointed to a picture, I was sure his mother would have been pleased and thought her son looked amazing.
“Oh…oh my goodness. Oh my God…” I heard Michael gasping, and happily I leaned next to him.
“They’re so good they’re taking your breath away?” I snickered. I quickly stopped when I saw the sour expression coming to Michael’s face.
I didn’t know what was wrong, and that scared me.
I jumped when Michael dropped the sheets to the floor and covered his face.
His entire body rocked as he began weeping.
I put my hands to my chest, jaw dropping.
God, he was so touched by my work, he’d been moved to tears.
“You like them?” I repeated and went to touch his shoulder.
I nearly fell when Michael dropped his hands and shrieked,
“HELL NO I DON’T!”
My cigarette tumbled from my mouth and hit the ground. He didn’t like it? He didn’t like all the hard work we’d done? Was he joking? Was he kidding me?
What the hell?
“What? You don’t--What the f*ck is wrong with them? I think they look great!”
Was this man crazy? Blind? Both?
“What the f*ck is wrong?” Michael repeated and was glaring at me through reddened eyes. “I’ll show you what the f*ck is wrong!”
I was about to hang my foot all in his narrow ass for taking that tone with me, then I actually heard what his complaints were.
“I look horrible! Oh my God! My nose! My nose is so big! So flat! I hate it. And my lips are too thin. And do you see how skinny I am?” Michael cried and was running his hands through his hair. “It’s not your fault, Claudette. It’s me! Oh God! Why can’t I have muscles like my brother? Why can’t I look like Jackie? He always looks so good. I wish I were more like him…”
I stood, watching this man as he pulled a hanky from his pocket and was blowing his nose on it, still mumbling
I felt so badly for him. I had never seen anyone blatantly just trashing themselves the way Michael was.
It pained me that he couldn’t see the beauty I saw.
“Oh Jesus…” Michael was still crying as I went over to him and hugged him.
“Calm down…please. Calm down…Shhh!” I told him and was rubbing at those soft curls of his. “You…you need to listen to me. Shhh! I can help you. I want to help you.”
“How…?” Michael choked and was blowing his nose again. “How can you help me?”
Gosh, he smelled so good. The Key Lime scent was enticing.
I had an idea, that if Michael went along with it, would raise his self-esteem and my body temperature.
Grasping his wet face in my hands, I told him to his face,
“I think you’re an extremely handsome and attractive man. I don’t see a damn thing wrong with your face or your body. I wouldn’t lie to you. And I wouldn’t bullsh*t, you Michael.”
“You--you think I‘m handsome?” Michael seemed so shocked, I wonder if anyone had ever complimented his looks before.
“Yeah!” I retorted and holding Michael’s face was kissing at his mouth.
Those, soft, sweet, tender and juicy lips. Oh that hot mouth.
Michael flailed a moment, before wrapping his arms around me.
Finally pulling his lips from mine, Michael wondered in what had to have been his natural voice--a full five octaves deeper,
“Now what?”
Raising a brow at him, I shoved him towards the bathrooms.
“Go on! I’m going to make you appreciate that body of yours!”
“…I don’t know about this…Gosh, I’m so nervous…”
Michael Jackson commented, slowly stepping in front of the brilliant blue velvet background I had set up for him.
His thin form was wrapped in a plush white robe and he was barefoot.
“Is…is this really necessary, Claudette? I mean really?” Poor guy he was so nervous, I could see his hands shaking in the pockets.
“Maybe this is a bad idea….”
“Michael Jackson!” I exclaimed from where I was standing a few feet away, poised to shoot. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. The Human Body is a work of art, crafted by God…HE doesn’t make mistakes. HE intended you to have your appearance for a reason. And I think you‘re lovely, Michael. I really do.”
A smile of gratitude came to Michael’s face and seemingly emboldened by my encouraging words, Michael removed his hands from the pockets of the robe.
“Okay, here goes--don’t laugh at me please!” Michael begged as he was loosening the belt.
“I won’t…” I vowed as an excited sweat began dampening my back and armpits. “Take it off…”
The room fell into silence, the only noise was the pitter-patter of rain falling on the room.
Just as quietly, the robe was opened, and drifted to the floor, revealing Michael’s bare, pristine and prime body.
He was naked.
And, Lord Almighty, even more resplendent than I imagined.
He was the human form of a Hershey’s chocolate bar, all that wonderful, beautiful, smooth brown skin. He was a so delicate, in how slim he was, with the little muscles of his abdomen, arms and legs wonderfully toned.
I had to just stare when I noticed Michael’s genital region.
I don’t generally use the word beautiful to describe a man’s junk, but I have to use it for Michael Jackson.
He had the most beautiful goddamned c*ck I’d ever had the pleasure to see.
He shaft was quite lengthy. That man was at least a foot long, if not more. The tip was a perfect little bulb of brownness.
That d*ck was so wide, I couldn’t see his balls underneath. I really couldn’t.
And decorating the whole package, as an afterthought, was a thin fuzz of hair.
In spite of myself, I was licking at my lips.
Imagining what on earth that would feel like in my mouth…tasting him.
Oh god that man was a work…he really was.
“Michael…please…start posing. Do what you want…this is all you.” I encouraged, trying to refrain from taking flight and raping that man on my floor.
For the first few frames, Michael tried to conceal that weapon he called a pen*s, and seeing it was futile, as his hands couldn’t hide all of him, he let it hang.
Eventually, Michael became more and more loose, more bold, and began posing fully, hands behind himself, letting that juicy hunk of d*ck swing for me.
A part of me hated he was flaccid. I wanted to see how he appeared rock hard.
“Hold on.” I told Michael after a while, getting a bit tired of that limp noodle.
Leaving Michael I went and retrieved a bottle and coming back was unscrewing the top of it.
“What is that?” Michael was asking as I got over to him and cap off, I dashed the clear liquid all over him.
“What the f*ck? Claudette! What is this?” He cried, like I had thrown acid on him.
“Baby oil! Rub it on yourself! I want you to get a feel for yourself. Rub it all over you. I want you to feel your body.” I told him.
“Okay…” Michael shrugged and was massaging the oil on himself, causing his body to appear more tan, slightly darker, and so, so shiny.
I dropped my camera, as Michael was turning in a circle, rubbing his thighs.
His, nice, little plump booty was sticking out for my to see and I couldn’t stop. Muscles flexing below his skin.
The impulse was too much. My mouth was watering
Damn him to hell, I was drooling!
I had to have him. I had to take him. Do something to him!
WHACK!
“Hey! What the--” Michael jumped as I smacked the hell out his ass, causing it to ripple attractively.
Putting my hands on his slick back, I shoved Michael forward, making him collide with the background--and the brick wall behind it.
“Ow! What are you doing? Claudette!” He cried as I came up behind him rubbing all on that hot ass. Pressing and mashing and pinching that flesh.
“Hey! That’s my ass! What are you--Ah! Ah! Ah! What! Ah!”
Michael was yelping into the wall as I was holding him against the wall and pressing a finger in and out of his ass.
“Claudette!” his voice was shrill, he sounded like a woman.
Oh that sweet little tight ass….
“You’re…you’re fingering me!” Michael stated the obvious and was clawing the wall. “Holy f*cking sh*t!”
Withdrawing my finger from that hole, I grabbed onto Michael and turned him around, to face me.
Staring up at him, I reached down and gripped that swinging c*ck.
“My d*ck!” Was all Michael said before throwing his head back as I began stroking him, pulling him. Fondling him.
“I want to beat your meat Michael…let me…I want to terribly…” I told him, feeling hotter and wilder than I could remember.
“I can’t stand it. I gotta do it…”
“Oh…oh. Oh! Oh yeah…like that…pull it like that. Squeeze tighter!”
Michael cooed, head thrown back, fists pounding the wall as he was swelling.
That c*ck was swelling, stiffening in my hand. Getting so very hard. Expanding an extra two inches. How did that man walk around without tripping over that damn thing!
Something about the way Michael had appeared…so weak…caused me to treat him in a somewhat submissive fashion.
“Are you my b*tch? Will you be my b*tch, Michael?” I demanded jerking him upwards.
“Ah! Yes! I’m a b*tch! I’m your b*tch! Jerk me! Jerk me!” Michael ordered of me and was running his hands up and down his supple chest, tweaking the nipples.
“Oh sh*t! Oh God! Your hands! God! GOD!” He shouted the last word, and reaching down was greedily unzipping the top of my jeans.
Slipping his long hand in.
“Ahhhhh!” I cried, falling against him as I felt three of his fingers slipping inside me.
Michael’s mouth came down and he was sucking at my throat as we were simultaneously masturbating each other.
“Ugh! Claudette! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! AH! AH! DON’T STOP TILL YOU GET ENOUGH! DON’T STOP!” Michael was wailing lustily and was bouncing against the wall.
His fingers were going places he couldn’t even see. Running all over my cl*t and briefly in my p*ssy.
“Ah…you like that! You like it!” I taunted and Michael nodded wildly, curls bouncing.
“Yes! Baby milk me! MILK ME! GET THAT SH*T OUT OF ME!” Michael was coming unhinged, crazed, and was shouting into my neck between kisses.
Michael withdrew his hand from my c*nt and shoved the fingers in his mouth, sucking on them, before pressing his fingers in my mouth, tasting of his saliva.
“You like that? You like it? God DAMN!” Michael screamed and began pressing on my shoulders, indicating I kneel before him.
It didn’t take much prodding and I knelt before him…waiting for him. I wanted him. Wanted him gush all over me. Michael removed my hands from that meat and was taking it upon himself to continue jerking.
“I’m almost there! I’m almost there, Baby…almost there…” Michael was saying as I leaned forward, hands on those hard thighs, sucking lightly on his nut sack.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Michael was so taken by that one action, a crisp, clear, high soprano note exited his mouth.
“It’s almost there…Almost…” Michael paused and his entire body was quivering and quaking.
Stamping his foot Michael swore.
“DAMN! DAMN! F*CK! OH! HERE WE GO! I’M GONAA SQUIRT! OH! AW! HEE! HEEE! HEEEEEEEEEEE!”
There it was, coming in several spurts, was Michael’s cum. He was climaxing. Right into my open and awaiting mouth. His warm, wetness
He was so delicious. I aimed to swallow him, but that gorgeous man had different ideas..
“Oh…oh yes! Claudette…spit it. Spit on me!” Michael whimpered closing his eyes and rubbing a wet hand along my face as I did as asked, spitting his cum onto his abdomen, letting it run and mix with the oil and sweat on him.
Smiling I ran a hand over that mess and flopped his d*ck once, just for the fun of it. Leaning I kissed the tip of it.
Above me, Michael was sighing and staring at the ceiling, his hand down and clutching mine.
I don’t know where that shy introverted man I had met had gone, but the little dirty son of a gun that was now in his place was welcome to stay as long as he liked…
In the end, Michael Jackson chose a shot of himself in the sparkle sweater to give his mother.
And for me, other than a taste of his juice, I was given a photograph of the two of us in the nude, f*cking.
It’s a picture I cherish to this day.
And Michael had no more problems with any portrait I ever took of him after that.
The End
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