“The Queen’s Delight”
A Michael Jackson Short Erotic Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
A Michael Jackson Short Erotic Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
Los Angeles, California
Autumn, 1978
Being a queen most definitely has its perks.
Now don’t you go bowing down to me. I’m not that kind of queen! If I ran a country it would be pure mayhem with bouts of civil unrest thrown in for good measure.
As I was saying--hey you, in the back! Get up off your damn knees this instant! I’m not real royalty! You silly!
I wasn’t that kind of queen. I was a beauty queen.
Through the greater part of my youth, I could be found, most weekends, in auditoriums, hotel ball rooms and county fairs dotting all over the country.
Draped in silks and teetering in high-heels, my teeth permanently clenched in an effort to win the big crown. That’s what it had always been about from the start--winning that crown.
And over the years, I had done quite well. The living room of my condo, was packed end to end with nearly five hundred trophies and crowns.
Crowns and trophies I still possess to this day. But there was only one crown of which I am exceptionally proud. That I love more than my own children.
Compared to the others in my home, the crown is nothing really special. A small round tiara, set in sterling silver and boasting little loops constructed of rhinestones. It was very small, and kind of a knock-off of the crown given away to Miss America.
But the reason I’ll be proud of that crown until my dying day is that it enabled me to chase down one of my grandest dreams--meeting Michael Jackson.
My story begins in late August of 1978.
I had just turned eighteen years old, and about two weeks before my birthday, as usual, I had won a local beauty contest--Miss Teenage Soul.
And even though I was a veteran of hundreds of little pageants here and there, this win was particularly delicious for me in that the prize being given away was much better than a typical contest.
Sure I got a crown and a trophy and sash, but there was one extra treat.
The winner of Miss Teenage Soul got to choose one of two options.
Miss Teenage Soul could else meet Lionel Richie, lead singer of R&B smash band, The Commodores, or Michael Jackson, front man of the hit making group, The Jacksons.
Even though I did like Lionel Richie and had a few of The Commodores albums at my home, I just could not say no to the idea of meeting Michael Jackson.
I mean it was Michael Jackson! I had literally grown up with his music--with him and his brothers coming out when I was only seven years old. Always in the background of pageants, of my childhood, really, I could always be found playing their records or listening to them on the radio. The Jacksons were just always omnipresent.
And always in the forefront of my mind was Michael.
My bedroom had little cut outs from magazines and big posters of him splattered all over the walls. In my school locker--more Michael.
I just thought he was the cutest thing, dressed in the latest fashions, always sliding slickly back and forth on a stage, microphone jammed in his hand.
Don’t even get my started on the variety show he and his siblings all hosted the previous year. The only way I’d have missed it was if the house was burning to cinders around me, and a fire man had to carry my ass out.
I was just wild about Michael.
I almost collapsed when my name was called as the winner of Miss Teenage Soul.
Local newspaper reporters were trying to ask me what I’d do as my first official act as the title-holder. I remember very clearly yelling brightly into the little tape recorders that had been shoved in my face:
“I’m gonna meet Michael Jackson!”
And then there was the wait. I had figured that the moment the crown was placed on my head, Michael Jackson would drop out the damn sky, extend his arm and ask me if I wanted to do The Hustle with him.
Not so. Apparently, there was so much red tape involved around arranging a meeting with the singer.
It began to take so long, that I disappointingly went back to competing in pageants, and quite literally had just arrived, by plane, in Florida for a pageant when word reached me that it had been done. After waiting so long, it finally…finally was done!
There was finally a set date for me to meet Michael Jackson. The pageant in Florida was just one I did not see because I abruptly turned right back around and boarded a plane back to California in the same ten minutes
Back at home I got the full run down from the people running the Teenage Soul pageant: I was to meet Michael that Saturday--six weeks had passed since I had been crowned and I had won three more pageants since--and it was going to be treated almost like a publicity gig. One of my “duties” as queen.
The idea of taking the pictures fell on deaf ears as I was jumping around my house whooping, hollering and screaming like I’d lost my mind.
I was going to meet Michael Jackson in three days! God damn it! I was going to go meet the future King of Pop. He was still a little Prince!
The following three days were a whirlwind. I had to look good for Michael. I had to be perfect.
I ate nothing but rice cakes, apples and ice, ran five miles each day--I lost another ten pounds off my already pleasant frame right quick--I got my hair done, nails painted red, which I had heard was Michael’s favorite color.
I turned every boutique between Beverly Hills and San Diego inside out, in search of the perfect formal dress in which to meet Michael.
I had to look my best. Be alluring, but not giving too much away. Sexy, but not sl*tty.
Michael deserved perfection. And if it killed me, he was gonna get it!
Finally, Saturday arrived, and I got up so early. So very early. I was supposed to go to Michael’s house, which was in Encino, for about one in the afternoon.
I was up at four in the morning, scrubbing myself clean. I think I scrubbed so hard my skin changed colors. Couldn’t be funky. Shaved off every extra hair from my body that wasn’t attached to my head or eyebrows.
Then sitting my hair in hot rollers, I spent three hours doing my make up--taking it off and reapplying it five times until I figured I looked just right.
I had bought special undergarments. I hadn’t fully decided if I was going to let Michael see them then, but I wasn’t going to let the chance pass me by.
A tiny, pair of blue lace undies went on before I slipped on my gown.
It was a gorgeous creation of powder blue silk, with an open back and a split in the front that ran up to my thigh.
As I stood, buckling my matching platform shoes, a sudden thought occurred to me. A sudden, sneaky thought.
Going into my closet, I produced a bag, into which I promptly put a powder blue tank top and blue and pink striped bellbottom jeans--one of my best looking outfits.
Oh, I had a plan up my sleeve. A plan which I had been toying with since I had won Miss Teenage Soul and now, with the aspect of meeting Michael Jackson so close at hand, I was starting to put it into action.
And, I hoped, it would go off without a hitch.
An hour and a half later, I found myself in Encino, parked across the street from Michael Jackson’s home. I only had three hours to wait before I was supposed to have actually arrived.
I know it was flat out crazy to be there so early, but a part of me wanted to see Michael Jackson, for myself. Alone. As himself, Without a photog hanging of our asses.
When I had arrived at the Encino estate, I couldn’t really see the house too well, as it set up on a hill and was surrounded with tall iron fences.
But every so often I’d see the gate open, and a car would leave.
As I sat waiting, I saw about six luxury vehicles leave. Each one had been driven by one of Michael’s brothers, and the last one, I saw contained Joseph and Katherine Jackson--Michael’s parents. And in the back seat I could make out two girls,, Michael’s sisters Janet and Latoya.
In my car, I leaned my head against the steering wheel.
If I suspected right, then Michael Jackson was alone in that house.
I was going to be alone with Michael!
Oh my fevered mind couldn’t handle it.
This was perfect! Too perfect! Oh my God--
Tap! Tap! Tap!
At the sudden knocking on the window of my car, I brought my head up quickly, and groaned in pain as my crown, which had been carefully bobby pinned into my hair banged against my head.
Peering through the window, I saw that peering back at me was a tall, skinny White guy, dressed casually in a Jaws t-shirt and cargo pants.
Long, curly, dark brown hair tumbled down his shoulders.
Rolling my window down, I demanded,
“What?”
Who the hell was this guy to come spoiling my day dreams. I was only halfway through mentally undressing Michael Jackson!
The man smiled broadly at me--there was something green jammed in his teeth.
“Hey! Are you Yvonne St. Claire--Miss Teenage Soul?” The guy chuckled softly.
“Nah, I’m the Queen of England with a really good suntan.” I grumbled as he threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“I’m Timmy Stevens…I’m here from ‘Badder Beat’ magazine. I’m shooting the pictures of you meeting Michael Jackson.”
I felt my eyes light up. The photographer was there! Was it one o’clock already?
Glancing down at my small, gold watch, I saw that it was.
“Nice to meet you Timmy…” I quickly shifted gears and was getting out of the car.
I saw Timmy’s sleepy blue eyes widen happily as I unfolded from the car and stood, pausing to grab my bag with my extra clothes in it.
“Damn, you’re a looker.” He gushed and was motioning for me to follow him.
I barely heard the compliment.
“So…have you met Michael already?” I questioned, a feeling of frayed nerves starting to nag at me. I was praying that Michael liked me. And if he was attracted to me---Good Lord!
“Yeah, I took some test shots of him to make sure I had the lighting right. I sure am glad you wore that blue dress, Yvonne--I wanted to shoot you guys next to the pool. That plays on the color perfectly.” Timmy informed me as we started up the curling and winding driveway where a large, imposing two story brick mansion stood.
“What’s he like? Is he nice?” I asked and was nervously twirling a lock of my long black hair.
“He was to me. Shook my hand. Offered me a soda. Actually I wanted a beer, but his mother doesn’t allow drinking in the house.” Timmy shrugged and I stared up at him curiously.
Had I heard correctly?
“Michael--he…he lives with his mother?” I was squinting trying to make sense of it all. “But, he’s like twenty. He still lives with his mother?”
That was a ridiculous notion to me. I had lived on my own since I was fourteen--on my father’s dime, but still, I lived alone.
“Yup, a whole pack of them. Michael, his parents, two sisters and I think a little brother. Pile of animals in cages too…kind of a mad house.” Timmy was nodding as we came up to the house and were passing around it, to get to the pool in the backyard.
I went to say more, but stopped as I found I had suddenly lost the art of speech.
Down a cobblestone walk way, and past a stoned patio, the pool of the Jackson estate loomed.
It was large, beautiful, and liver shaped with a set of white marble lion’s heads spitting streams of crystal blue water into the pool.
It wasn’t the beauty of the pool that caught my attention.
It was the man standing in front of it.
Michael Jackson, a vision of loveliness, stood checking his appearance in a small green enameled compact.
He was dressed up spankingly well in a crisp black tuxedo with bellbottomed trousers, a ruffled from white shirt and wide black bowtie that glittered with little crystals on it.
Shifting back and forth, I noticed he was wearing what had to be at least five inch platform shoes, making his already thin, lanky frame soak skywards even more.
He was remarkably cute, with skin the color of fresh cocoa, and classic Nubian features--he had a long head, but his face was a bit full--that boasted, a slightly wide and flat nose, beautiful, lightly shining, and delicate lips. His eyes, almond shaped and dark, were staring intently into the little compact, and were framed by thick brows that had the barest arch.
As Timmy and I got closer to him, I watched as he raised a long hand and was patting at his hair, arranged in a gigantic afro that appeared like a black halo circling his head.
The man was beautiful.
Simply beautiful.
My heart was doing the cha-cha in my chest as I stood gazing upon this glorious creature.
Where in the hell did men like him come from? Never in my life had I ever seen a man as handsome as him. Where was he from. Had a hatch been left open in Heaven and he’d simply fallen out? What an angel!
I was hot all of a sudden. It hadn’t been that hot that day. Why was I so hot? Was the sun crashing into the surface of the earth? Had I spontaneously combusted? I willed my body not to sweat.
I couldn’t meet Michael Jackson looking like a greased pig!
“…this nose…” I heard Michael grunt under his breath as he took a little puff from the compact and was dabbing at his nose which I noticed was shining.
Stamping at his nose, I noticed that for some reason, he kept missing a spot on the left side of his nose and it kept gleaming.
I don’t know where the flash of brashness came from, but I found myself walking up to him and taking the puff and compact from him.
“Allow me.” I smiled up at him, giving him my best pageant grin. He should have been blinded for a few seconds I showed him so many white teeth at once.
“Oh!…Gosh! Thank you!” His voice, extremely soft and barely more than a whisper popped from his lips as I dipped the puff in the little cake of pressed powder in the compact and was gently dabbing at his nose.
Eventually, the entire thing was matte and not a bit of shine was visible.
Replacing the puff, I snapped the compact closed.
Handing it to him, I continued grinning-- I could easily hold a smile for twenty straight minutes before it cracked--I introduced myself in my most polite tone.
“You must work for Mobil--I’m Miss Teenage Soul, Yvonne St. Claire.”
My smile fell when I noticed an expression of confusion come to Michael’s sweet face.
“Mobil? I worked for Motown. I’m a singer--” He started and Timmy explained, with a chuckle.
“It’s a joke man. Mobil makes oil. Your nose was oily--”
Two and two finally added up for Michael I watched as a soft smile touched his lips.
“Mobil--I gotta remember that…” He snorted and was clutching my hand in his. “I’m Michael Jackson. I’m glad to meet you, Yvonne.”
I wanted to expire right there. His hand was so soft, so warm. It was like shaking hands with a cloud after a summer rain.
“Congratulations on your win.” Michael was still chattering at me, but I barely heard him. Why couldn’t he hear that gospel choir singing “Hallelujah”? See the little chubby cherubs flying around his head and placing tiny flowers in his hair?
“Thanks…” I felt Timmy pulling my bag from me and watched as he tossed it out of view in a wicker deck chair.
“Keep shaking hands! That’s good, Look to me. Smile. You’re happy! Happy!” Timmy was instructing out of nowhere, and the pageant queen in me was coming out.
I was giving my best angles smiling, first shaking Michael’s hand, then us side by side, eventually, with Timmy’s prodding, Michael had his arm around my shoulders.
Why I didn’t die of heart failure will forever elude me.
After snapping about fifty shots, Timmy informed us that he had all he needed and very cordially shook Michael’s and my hands, before making his exit.
And I found myself alone.
With Michael Jackson.
Glancing over at Michael, I saw that he had his head lowered and was looking down at his thumbs which he was twiddling in circles.
He was so sweet-looking. What a doll!
Swallowing deeply, I, without a moment’s hesitation, starting throwing my plan into motion.
“Michael--” I almost melted right there when those dark orbs of seduction focused on me. “Um…I brought some other clothes to slip into…this dress really isn’t meant to be worn for longer than an hour.”
“Sure. You must have read my mind!” Michael giggled and inwardly I knew his hair would have ever kink blown out of it if he could have read mine right then. “This bowtie is choking me. My mother tied it--its too damn tight--Pardon my language.”
My heart was in my throat as Michael was loosening the tie and the top two buttons on his shirt, revealing and long, swanlike neck. And had Michael Jackson really just cursed? Wow…
“Please…” I watched as Michael went and retrieved my bag, handing it to me. “I’ll show you a restroom, where you can change.” He offered.
Gosh, he was just the sweetest thing I’d ever seen, and I was going slowly insane as he led me back to his house.
I was going into Michael Jackson’s house--and were f*cking alone!
The inside of the Jackson mansion was pretty, done in shades of brown and green and everywhere I looked, portraits of Michael and his famous siblings covered every surface.
I was led up to a nondescript brown door and it was opened revealing a neat little green and yellow bathroom.
“Use whatever you need, make yourself at home. I’ll be down as soon as I’ve changed…” Michael said, his voice still barely perceptible. “Maybe we could watch a movie or have a late lunch together…”
I felt my jaw sagging. A movie? Lunch? He…he wanted me to stay.
Michael Jackson wanted me to stay.
I wasn’t getting the bum’s rush, but actually being invited to hang out with a star!
Reaching out, somehow I managed to pat his shoulder.
“I’d like that…whatever you think is best.” I replied, my voice dropping to a purr.
I saw Michael’s brows flex at the sound, before I disappeared inside, closing the door.
And proceeded to fan at myself to try to cool myself down.
Why I wasn’t visibly in flames…I was just so hot for Michael…so hungry.
A raw, fierce, dangerous hunger.
Very quickly, I was out my dress and pulled that stupid piece of tin and glass off my head, and was in my tube top and bellbottoms.
I stood, staring at myself for a moment. I looked good. I had been blessed with a nice, full set of breasts, and top just barely clung to them, My long legs, slender and toned were set off wonderfully in those blue heels. And my ass…forget it. Michael Jackson had to be a damned fool to not give in to my advances.
Picking at my hair it dawned on me.
Michael was upstairs…changing clothes.
And if I played my cards right, I could have caught him in the act!
Michael Jackson undressing!
The thought of precious, brown flesh in my eyes had me acting before I could think.
I was out the bathroom, flying down the hall and climbing the carpeted steps to the second floor of the home.
Upstairs, the main hallway was darkened and eerily quiet.
There were at least a dozen doors to the upstairs and any one of them could have been Michael’s bedroom.
I started to the first door closest to me, when I heard it.
Mouth turning, I whispered to myself is disbeleif,
“Is…is that Donny Osmond I hear singing?”
Following the sounds of the boy who sounded curiously like Michael, I found myself at a door in the center of the hallway.
Michael Jackson’s bedroom! Lord help me!
Taking my hands, I reached down and pinched after my nipples hoping they would stand up through my top and hopefully help portions of Michael stand up.
It was now or never. I couldn’t f*ck up now.
I placed a trembling hand on the knob. And stifled a gasp as it opened easily.
Michael hadn’t locked the door!
Cracking the door, I peeked inside.
Michael had a large room, slightly cluttered, with several pin ups of singer Diana Ross on the walls.
On the far end of the room, I spotted him.
Standing in front of a full-length mirror, Michael stood, and was wearing nothing but a pair of wide-legged jeans and red sneakers.
He was holding a white t-shirt with the Mickey Mouse emblazoned on the front, up to his body, as though he was trying to decide if he liked it.
He was so breathtaking.
Slimmer than I had ever thought, but I could clearly see every muscle in his back defined wonderfully.
And in those jeans, his little booty bounced gently as he shifted back and forth figuring the shirt. Sh*t had they been painted on? I swear I could make out the crack of that ass…
I wasn’t even aware that I had entered the bedroom and was slowly walking up to Michael.
About halfway across the room, I was hit with a scent. A spicy, almost sweet scent. Michael’s cologne, an aroma I had smelled posing with him, was now much stronger. He had to have put more on! Drowned in it.
Entranced by the scent, I found myself standing right behind Michael.
“This shirt is kinda childish…” Michael was talking to himself. “I bet Yvonne doesn’t go for guys in a shirt like this…”
I paused. Michael was putting thought into what he wore in front of me. And he was trying to figure what I’d go for. He liked me! He liked me!
“I like--Ah!” Seeing he was no longer alone in the room, Michael whirled around and was clutching the shirt to his chest, trying to hide himself.
“Yvonne…damn! I thought you were still downstairs! I’m not dressed! Pardon my language!” He spoke and it was clear he was riled up the way his voice was squeaking and cracking. His eyes were bulging and dancing in his head.
Smiling at the way he seemed so shy, so bashful, I merely shook my head. God that man was gorgeous. I was just pleasantly surprised, I had never seen a man so modest, and I called him on it.
“I really can’t believe you’re being so timid around me, Michael. You know once, I saw a show you did and you opened your shirt in the last number. You didn’t seem so troubled showing your chest to thirty thousand fans. Why should it be any different with me.”
That was a bold faced lie, the closest I’d come to seeing Michael perform was on the stage every week on his television show last summer. But I shot in the dark anyway.
Feeling warm and tingly all over, I moved closer to Michael. He was inching back until he collided with his mirror, a necklace draped over the side of it falling to the floor.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of me…I’m Yvonne. I’m your friend.” I cooed and grabbed the shirt to tug it from Michael. “Just pretend there’s thirty thousand of me right here in this room.”
“Yvonne! No! Cut it out!” Michael exclaimed and literally tore the shirt from my hands, still holding it up to his chest. What was left of it anyway as I was now holding onto the shredded hem of it.
I raised a brow at him. Was he…?
No he couldn’t have possibly been. He had seemed into me.
At least that’s what I thought.
There was more than one way to get a Jackson nude.
Seeing I might have been coming on too strong, and that it might have been turning Michael off--some men liked to pursue, not be pursued--I softened myself up.
Leaning away from Michael, tossing the remnants of the shirt down, and allowing him to step off the glass, I began lightly tracing the top of my cleavage with my fingertip.
Ducking my head and looking at him through my lashes, I spoke coyly,
“I’m sorry…I just can’t seem to help myself when I’m around such a good-looking man. I’m impulsive. Forgive me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Dropping my hand I ran my finger around my left nipple.
Much to my delight, I watched Michael drop his eyes from mine and they were taking in my cleavage. I could feel them on me.
“Friends can talk plainly to one another…and sometimes see each other under odd circumstances…like right now….” I continued and was fluttering my lashes, the eighteen coats of mascara aggravating my eyes, but I didn’t care.
Was I really trying to seduce this man? Was I a tramp with nice make up? I wasn’t sure, but it felt right. I felt right. And I knew I wanted Michael. All over me. And I wanted to be all over him. This was madness.
Putting my arm against the mirror and leaning into Michael, I asked huskily,
“Like what you see, Mr. Jackson?”
Michael’s eyes were darting all over the place, not really staying in one place.
“You’re…you’re a very pretty girl.” He finally said, eyes still rolling all over.
My temperature sky rocketed. He liked me! Michael liked me!
I had to keep cool.
‘I know, I got an ass-load of crowns at home stating the fact.”
I patted at his soft hair. His hair was so damn soft.
“You’re sexy, Michael. I just LOVE thin wiry boys who look like Q-tips.”
“Hee-hee!” Obviously flattered, Michael chuckled and turning his head from me continued to laugh.
Not able to stand the feelings taking over me any longer, I began rapidly pecking at his soft, tender cheek and was aiming for his throat when Michael abruptly pushed me back.
“Yvonne--please! Go downstairs!” He instructed and I noticed with a shiver, he was no longer holding his shirt over his chest. Beautiful little nipples, looking like tiny brown dots were waving at me.
Looking down from his chest, I paid attention to where Michael was holding his shirt.
He was now trying to hide his crotch! Michael was trying to conceal an erection! God damn, he was aroused! Was I exploding in sparks? I was so hot!
Tossing my hair boldly, I called him out on it.
“Your d!ck is hard isn’t it?”
Solidly, all at once, Michael turned purple with shame.
“Please…please go Yvonne. You shouldn’t see me like this!”
He pleaded weakly and was hiding his face with his hands, looking from me.
Looking anywhere but at me. Was he really ashamed? Honestly?
Was I in the Twilight Zone?
“I don’t mind. It’s natural. You’re a good looking man with a good looking woman. And I know a nice natural way to get rid of that…hard-on.”
Poor Michael, he winced at the words “hard-on”. That shy darling.
Turning, I took my own sweet time to take a seat on Michael’s bed.
Running a hand through my hair I admitted.
“That was kind of my intent, rolling in here dressed like a hooker.” I snickered and winked at him.
“You don’t look like a hooker…you look very nice. You’re nice…” Michael corrected me weakly.
“Now come here…” I motioned him with my finger.
Looking desperate and starting to perspire wildly, Michael made a declaration that caught me off guard.
“I--I can’t! I’ve never done this! Please, I’ve never done this…oh God!” Throwing down the remnant of the shirt and crossing the room Michael went to the large window and was staring out it over his estate, shoulders bouncing as he was breathing heavily.
I felt like I had been punched in the head. Was Michael telling me?
He couldn’t possibly be….No way in hell.
“You’re a virgin?” I sputtered, the words feeling funny and odd in my mouth.
No way…he was a star. If I shook him hard enough, a few groupies would probably fall from his afro!
Biting his bottom lip, Michael nodded, still looking out the window.
“Yeah…”
I glanced down at my hands a moment. Thinking. Pondering. My mind doing a hot burn.
I had never met a guy over the age of fifteen who hadn’t done IT at least once.
And here was a twenty year old. That had never…really?
He had to be bullsh*tting me.
I glanced at him, Michael was leanign his head against the window, and grunmbling to himself under his breath.
No…he was telling the truth! And I was intrigued.
Oh, this brought out the artist in me. I was going to take a man’s virginity…I was going to take Michael Jackson’s virginity.!
I had to have it! I needed it more than food, than water. More than air to breathe!
Still looking at my hands, I instructed coolly.
“Throw that Osmonds record out the window…it’ll make you go softer than a melting Snickers bar….
* * *
“You’re really beautiful…you know that?”
I questioned softly from where I stood beside the same window Michael had been at just a short time before, pushing his green curtains aside and opening it, letting a warm breeze in.
Across the room, Michael Jackson was slowly stretching out in his bed.
He mumbled something shyly in response to me and was hiding his face with a pillow in one hand.
The other hand, was clutching the cream colored sheets up to his chest in an effort to conceal his body. Yes, under that thin sheet, Michael was completely nude at my insistence.
We were going to ride each other…and no wasn’t a word I was going to listen to.
I paused to glance around the room. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Lights out, sunbeams through the window, giving everything a nice gilded glow. And the silence. The absolute silence of the room.
Along the floor, the dozen or so cages containing various pets of Michael were all quiet. Even the animals knew what was happening.
Their master was lying in bed, a boy…about to become a man.
Seeing one of the handful of bodyguards that were patrolling the property , I moved out of view of the window, crossing my arms over my chest.
Like Michael I was also unclothed.
Slowly, I made my way over to the bedside where Michael was still trying to clutch at some cover. Trying to hide.
It was clear he was still aroused though, I could see him making a tent in the sheet a few inches above his crotch.
Standing over him and looking down I questioned, now a little uncertainty beginning to fill me. Maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe he was too scared.
I would understand. I wasn’t a steady girlfriend.
Hell, yesterday, he didn’t know my name. And now he was letting me be his first time. I hoped.
“Do…” I started and tapped the hand holding the pillow.
“Do you still want me?”
“Yes…!” I heard Michael’s muffled reply. “Very much, Yvonne. Very much!”
“Please look at me…I want you to.” I urged, keeping my voice low, doing my best to put him at ease.
After a moment, Michael was lowering the pillow.
His eyes, dark and shiny, widened as he took in my appearance, my bare body for the first time.
“Oh my God…” He gasped and his mouth parted. The pillow fell to the floor. “You’re so wonderful…more than I imagined…”
‘Thank you.” Suddenly bashful I started to drop my head.
A long hand came out and Michael was touching at my triangle…patting my smooth flesh.
“Bad boy!” I giggled and was slapping at his hand as he continued touching at me. That’s what I wanted him to do--explore me.
“Ow! Oh! Oh! Sh*t!” Michael exclaimed suddenly, eyes shutting and he was lying in bed twitching.
To my surprise, I watched as the tent he was making was expanding, growing taller. My breath hung in my throat. Was…was Michael still going hard? He wasn’t done?
Just how big was this man? What the hell kind of body parts did he possess?
Parts of me were aflame at the thought. The throbbing between my thighs was almost unbearable. I had to have him. I had to see just exactly what Michael Jackson was working with.
“Oh my…damn!” Michael groaned as unable to stop myself, I reached and threw the covers back from his body.
Revealing him.
“God damn…” The words popped from my mouth in awe.
With the way Michael was lying, everything was perfectly displayed on his trim, toned thighs, almost like an offering of lust to me.
Michael possessed a wonderfully long and thick pen*s, that was a shade of brown, since he was aroused, slightly darker than the rest of him. He was natural, the foreskin of that substantial, mesmerizing manhood still intact. Though, as excited as Michael seemed to be, the head of that c*ock was sticking right out, delicately rounded and light brown.
A soft muzzle of black hair--that seemed more like a five o’clock shadow than anything, fanned over his groin and off onto those round dumplings that were his swollen and engorged balls.
“Hoo…” Michael exhaled and extended his hand to me. “Please Yvonne…I want you next to me…I want this. I‘m horny, Baby.”
Taking that warm hand I slipped into the bed beside him, springs squeaking lightly.
Michael went to cover our bodies.
“No…I want us to see each other. I want you to remember this. Remember me.” I informed him and threw the sheet back.
“I’ll always remember you…You‘re the woman I‘m giving up my virginity to…” Michael announced and wrapping his arms around me was kissing me. Sweetly, tenderly, his mouth so soft and moist.
I trembled as I felt him pushing his tongue in my mouth and I returned the favor, feeling him shiver with delight.
Running my hands down his back, I was rubbing on that sweet, little plump booty of his.
Michael’s mouth was suddenly at my ear.
‘Yvonne…I…I want…to…” He stammered trying to express himself.
Closing my eyes, I encouraged. “Say it, I want to hear you say it…”
“Gosh…I can’t say that to you…it’s so bad…” Michael was so timid. It was adorable.
“Please…!” I pushed and was tapping my tips of my nails against his back.
“I want to f*ck you Yvonne. I wanna f*ck you badly.” Came the barely audible declaration.
I almost came right then.
I was on my back. I found myself on my back.
Michael lingering over me, eyes taking in my body.
Hands on my breasts, feeling them, holding them, tickling my nipples just right.
Looking down in the space between us, I saw the meat that was Michael’s d*ck hanging dangerously close to me….over my desperately awaiting p*ssy.
The throbbing was killing me.
Grasping his smooth shoulders, I told him.
“Please f*ck me…I need you to f*ck me…”
Michael grabbed onto my wrists, and was pressing them down. Holding me down.
“O-o-open your legs Yvonne…” He whispered, eyes locked with mine. “Open them for me. I’m ready…”
I started to part my legs for Michael, invite him to what we both wanted.
“Ah! Oh my--ah!--” I proclaimed as Michael didn’t ease himself into me as I had figured he would. All at once, eleven inches of pure man was introduced to me. Splitting me, filling me, penetrating me and causing me the most pleasurable pain I had ever experienced.
Above me, Michael Jackson began rocking his hips, continuing to hold me.
“You…you feel so good…so good to me Yvonne. God damn it….” He panted into my face, before pressing his mouth to mine, our tongues touching once again.
I groaned into his mouth as he continued tearing into me. I could feel him. Feel all of him as he swept back and forth, in and out. In and out, back and forth.
“Michael…oh Michael….” I whimpered under him as he put his mouth to my throat sucking greedily. “More…harder…harder please…”
His moves….the way he moved….
My legs quivered as Michael, complying with my request was banging at me harder, perspiration springing up on both of us.
Mixing and making us wet….
Our wet bodies making a clapping noise.
Lying there, I wondered if Michael had lied…if all this had been a ploy to screw me all along?
He didn’t move like a virgin! His moves…so liquid…so precise.
So controlled, like he knew what he was doing.
Michael was made to f*ck. And he was f*cking me!
“Take….take it…take me….take me Yvonne… Oh my God! Woo!’ Michael instructed and was squeezing my wrists so tightly my hands were going numb.
Getting off on the way Michael was attempting to be nasty, I threw my own dirty talk into the ring.
“I want you to make me come…I want you to make me come Michael. Dirty b*stard!” I groaned struggling against him as I was starting to give in to our nasty deed. This wanton, taboo act.
Starting to feel my own self giving in to him. To Michael Jackson and that tremendous c*ck he was wielding.
At my cursing him, Michael paused exactly one second to stare at me curiously.
What he said next surprised me, and made me all the hotter.
“I want you to come…” He stated simply, letting go of my wrists and dropping his hands to my hips, forcing himself further into me.
He…he wanted to get me off. He wanted to do it! I wanted him to do it.
Craved it.
“Ah! Damn! Mike! Michael!” I screamed as Michael suddenly changed the way he was screwing me. Instead of just in and out, he was now moving himself in a circle.
Over me, Michael was starting to change.
I saw his lips were curling, his teeth were bared and gritted together.
“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! F*ck! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” He growled as he was digging his fingers into my flesh, nails cutting me.
“More! Harder! Harder! Michael! Michael!” I demanded, hanging onto his shoulders as he continued wiggling against me. “Bone me!”
His d*ck. It was too much.
I was almost there. Almost there…almost.
“I’m f*cking as hard as I can, you! Ahhh! Ahhh! Oh sh*t!”
Michael yelled at me and I even more amped up at his foul language. My angel was letting his horns show!
He was such a pleasure to watch, moist with sweat, teeth gritted, body flexing wonderfully.
Pulling him down on me, I pulled his mouth on mine and was screaming a blue streak down his throat as I finally unleashed my beast, dampening the bed sheets and Michael’s crotch, and his still plunging pen*s.
“You…you made me…you got me wet….”
I grunted, slapping him lightly across the face.
I’ll never forget the pleased, nearly smug grin Michael gave me as he was steadily humping me, never letting uo.
Michael Jackson’s control was exceptional.
He managed to continue throwing his hips into me for full thirty minutes without coming.
How he could control himself, postpone his peak…I was in awe.
I was also getting raw. So raw. Each thrust was becoming truly painful, but I didn’t want that man off me for anything in the world. I could have died under him for all I cared.
I was getting the most spectacular f*ck of my life.
From a first-timer, none the less!
All at once, Michael Jackson quivered.
“Jesus Christ!” He screamed, and clutching me to him, rolled over, so that I sat atop him.
“I’m gonna come…I’m gonna come…Oh my God! Oh my little Queen!” He shrieked into my bosom as it was bouncing into his face.
“Ow!” I hollered as Michael smacked my ass. Michael Jackson was spanking me! “Ha! Ha! Spank me! Spank me Mikey-Baby!”
“It’s coming! It’s coming! God damn! It’s coming!” Michael shrieked again and I gasped as yanked his d*ck from me.
I could feel him jerking wildly, his c*ck whipping my backside.
“HEE! HEE! Oh Lord! HEE! HEE! HOO! SH*T! GOD! GOD! GOD! YVONNE! GOD! MY D*CK! I CAN’T STOP!”
Michael, screaming like he was being knifed, finally came.
For a moment I was frightened his entire security team would come running, thinking I was harming him!
All over my backside, I could feel his hot wetness spurting and squirting on me.
“Hoo…****…” Michael’s jerking came to halt and for a second, his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Oh Lord…” Michael gasped as I climbed off of him and rested on my knees at his side. Hands to his groin, Michael was stroking that damp, and sticky c*ck.
The last bits of his juice were slowly coming out that light brown tip, and running down over his hands.
“Yvonne--no!” Michael whined as I reached over and grabbing a hold of that shaft, was licking the liquid off.
“You’re…you’re….” He was at a loss for words.
“I’m licking your big nasty d*ck.” I stated matter-of-factly in between licks. “Yeah…!”
Once more timid, Michael was trying to push me away from his pen*s.
He seemed horrified at what I was doing. What, he was alright to f*ck the living sh*t ot of me for an hour, but I couldn’t taste him just a bit?
Really, he couldn’t be that damn modest now! Not after what we’d done!
“Don’t lick it…stop…Yvonne…stop…” He whimpered and was trying to tug his girth from me.
“I don’t want to stop!” I argued and was fighting with him to keep that meat near my face. He was so delicious. Sweet, even.
“Motherf*cker--stop!” Michael hollered at the top of his lungs and I screamed myself when suddenly, he climaxed a second time, his semen hitting me directly in the face. “Yvonne!”
“Aw! You…you…assh*le….you did that on purpose!” I accused and was trying to wipe the mess from my face. “I didn’t want a damn facial!”
“I…I tried to warn you.” Michael, using the sheet was dabbing my face.
“I always go twice…sometimes more when I…when I come…” He explained, and was staring down at his wet and soiled lap, turning red.
“How do you know--you’re a virgin. At least you were…” I pointed out as he was still dabbing my cheeks.
“I know…but I’ve…” Michael paused and lowered his voice.
“Jacked off plenty.”
Throwing my head back, I laughed at the idea of Michael being a chronic masturbator. “Was this better?”
Resting against the pillows, Michael’s eyes became glazed over and he was biting his bottom lip sheepishly. “Yes….thank you…for…making me a man…giving me your body…such a lovely body…”
I ducked my head at his sincerity. Michael was just sweet.
I saw him clearly mouth the words “I’m not a virgin anymore…” several times. The man was in shock.
And I believe I was in love.
I remember leaving Michael that afternoon. As we walked out of the house all the guards crowded around him, asking if was alright, that they’d heard him screaming and cursing up a storm.
Michael simply grinned and said he’d been “sharing a delight with The Queen…”
The End
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