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