“Waxed”
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
New York City, New York
Autumn 2008
Being an aesthetician--who specializes in hair removal-- is neither a glamorous nor an easy job as some might be so fooled to believe. Theirs is nothing at all wonderful or carefree about a job where you are required to not only look at stranger’s private areas, but also to clear the unwanted hair from it, often in copious amounts.
Being an aesthetician at one of the largest and most well sought after beauty firms in New York City was a job that was like a double edged sword. While I hated being around semi and fully nude people all day--hated with a passion that was so bitter I could taste it. And yet I couldn’t quit because at around twenty-seven dollars an hour, it was one of the best paying jobs I’d ever held.. I couldn’t turn that kind of money away.
Anyway, I’m getting away from the story that I wanted to tell and it centers around a certain public figure. One so reclusive, I had only heard talk of him, but had never seen him in person myself.
His name was Michael Jackson.
Growing up, I had seen Michael Jackson plenty on television and in print ads as he was one of the most successful male models of his generation.
In the late 1980s he’d even had his own brand of designer jeans that I had worn as a child.
Though I had never met Michael, I knew his story--pretty much as everyone else in New York did.
How, on one hot summer night in 1977, a then nineteen year old Michael had been discovered dancing the night away in Studio 54 by famed fashion designer and photographer, Alberto Goldsmead. One minute, Michael had been doing the Hustle, minding his own business and sipping on Bloody Mary, the next he was on top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, modeling leather bellbottom trousers.
From there Michael’s career was launched and nearly ever designer on the globe was clamoring for the man, who was so tall and lanky, so slim and waif-like , many a model, male and female were pushing their untouched plates away in an effort to mimic his slim look.
There was times when he’d make over ten thousand dollars--in ONE day!
He was just that popular and that highly sought after.
And through the 1980s, Michael had continued to work so many designers, so many companies, no one could possibly keep track of them. Hell, about ten designers began manufacturing men’s clothing just for the opportunity to work with Michael. He had the look--this thin, pale, highly androgynous appearance everyone wanted.
Michael Jackson was The Look.
That’s why in 1989, at the age of thirty-one, it was a shock to the systems of not only those in the fashion world, but all of the fans that admired his beauty and work Michael announced that he was retiring from the business and would only work from there on in with Goldsmead in print, and Goldsmead alone.
Now, nearly twenty years later, indeed Michael Jackson had kept his promise. Twice a year, in Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter, Michael was the centerpiece and hallmark of ever Goldsmead Clothing campaign.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering, what on Earth a male supermodel has to do with a lowly aesthetician like me.
Michael, by profession was a model. And the modeling world is extremely hypercritical of its minions and how they look at all times.
Every good model needs a great aesthetician.
I’ll never forget that call I got in October of 2008. It had been a cold day, with snow starting to fall and I had been going through my morning routine--you know, bathing, eating breakfast on the run--in an effort to make it to the beauty firm on time.
That’s when the call came in. My boss telling me that I wasn’t to come in to work today. That I was going out to the apartment--penthouse of course--of Michael Jackson, the model.
It was explained to me that the following afternoon, he was due to be photographed for Goldsmead’s 2009 Spring/Summer clothing ad campaign and that he was asking to have “The Works” done to himself.
Now just so you know, “The Works” required me to remove every, single, solitary stray hair from his ass that was not attached to his scalp or brows.
Everything else had to go--chest, legs, pubic area--it all had to go.
Anyone getting that treatment would end up as smooth as they had been the day the were born.
I remember I just stood there, holding the receiver as my boss was giving me his address, absolutely stunned.
Not only was I going right up to Michael Jackson’s home, his private home that he never seemed to leave from except to be photographed for Goldsmead, but I was going to be looking at this man…naked.
Waxing him. His body. His private area.
It was remarkable.
I was going to work with a legend.
Grabbing my coat and rounding up my supplies that morning, I had no idea that before the sun set on the day, I’d be doing a lot more than working with Michael Jackson.
Michael lived in a super-wealthy complex called Skylight Towers, right in the heart of Upper Manhattan. It was a large beautiful building-- a Trump property if I’m correct--that, even though it was contemporary, had been built to imitate the grandeur of a building erected perhaps a hundred years ago. The influence in the building was definitely indicative of the Art Nouveau and Belle Époque movements. Skylight Towers soared nearly seventy stories into the air, and from what I knew, the top three floors all belonged to Michael Jackson.
The building, made of masonry and granite posted two large, pure marble. Black lion statutes out front--which Michael had donated one the twentieth anniversary of his having moved into the Towers.
I didn’t walk through the front, blue and gilded lobby, so much as I floated through the place in awe. The realization and magnitude of the situation finally dawning on me.
I was working with a damn living legend. It was incredible.
Lugging my extremely large and heavy rolling work case along with me, I boarded an elevator, that had an actual operator--complete in a blue suit and military style jacket, standing patiently to take me up.
“What floor Miss?” He asked. His voice heavy with a Cockney accent and was standing at attention. It was quite ridiculous. All that brouhaha for a man just to punch a damn button.
“Uh…Penthouse Suite, please.” I groaned as I set the case against the mirrored walls of that little rectangle.
The operator stared at me nervously.
“Could I have your name, Miss? I’m not even supposed to take people up there if they’re not authorized-- Mr. Jackson’s order’s.”
He informed me.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. I half expected this: Michael Jackson was a recluse and you hardly ever saw him going out or having anyone in.
“My name is Delphine Depardieu. I’m from the Belle Beaucoup Firm on Fifth Avenue. I’d show you my card, but I’m out of breath tugging this wannabe steamer trunk around. You don’t believe me, go call the Firm and ask for Anita Hutching, she’s my boss. Anita will vouch for me.” I mumbled as I was leaning across the case trying to catch my breath. That case had to weight a hundred pounds if it were an ounce, and filled to the brim with all kinds of potions and equipment I needed to do my work.
“Delphine?” The man repeated and anguished, I snapped.
“Yeah! I’m Delphine or I got someone else’s panties on! You gonna take me up to the Penthouse or I gotta figure it out my damn self?”
Somewhere above me, there was a hairy man needing my expertise and I couldn’t do anything still sitting in the f*cking lobby playing “Twenty-One Questions”!
It was then I noticed the man had produced a scrap of paper from his jacket and was squinting at the small writing scribbled on it in red ink.
“Okay Miss. That’s who I was told to bring up--sorry for the third degree Miss…”
With that, the elevator finally began its ascent.
“So you’re working for Michael Jackson?” He questioned about halfway up.
“Yes.” I replied still hanging against my case, dreading having to carry it again once I reached the Penthouse.
“I’ve only seen that guy once. Strange bloke, you know? Didn’t say anything the whole ride to the lobby except for “thank you.” And he whispered it at that. Can you imagine? I just can’t believe that’s the same fellow with the big billboards in Times Square. Even me son, Paddy, runs around wanting to dress like him and look like him. Eh, the idea…” The operator shook his head and grumbled. With that remark, the rest of the ride was silent, finally with us reaching the sixty-seventh floor, the ground floor of Michael Jackson’s home.
“Here we are Miss, Penthouse Suite.” The man announced as the mirrored doors swung open.
I was quite surprised to see myself looking upon a short hallway, where a set of thick mahogany doors stood closed. Michael Jackson really did have the entire floor and the other two above it!
I went to ask the operator for help with my bag as I got out of the elevator, but as soon as I was on the floor, the door closed and was headed back down to the lobby.
And there I was alone.
It was quite a tugging match between my case and myself as I headed for those doors.
Getting up to the them, I raised my hand to knock and noticed the name plate affixed to the door in what had to be real gold:
“Michael J. Jackson, Muse.”
I paused. This man was publicly running around like that…being known as a muse? He was an odd “bloke”. Who the hell had a plate like that? Not model, not fashion icon, but Muse. What kind of character was I dealing with?
Next to the door I noticed an intercom--a tiny golden box with a speaker--and pressed a button, producing a loud buzzing noise.
“Yes, how may I help you?” Came a deep, authoritative voice.
A part of me wanted to order a Big Mac and a Coke, but I kept my jokes to myself and introduced myself.
“Just a moment, ma’am.
A moment later one of the large doors to the suite opened and in the doorway stood a somewhat short and pudgy man, dressed sharply in a black suit replete with tails.
“Are you the one? The aesthetician?” He wondered and to my surprise was lifting my case with no trouble at all.
“Yeah…” I stared at him. My case had to have weighed more than him.
“Please wait in front foyer, Miss. I’ll place your things in the room upstairs and alert Mr. Jackson of your arrival.”
With that, I was ushered into the front foyer of Michael Jackson’s Penthouse.
And boy, was it one hell of a foyer.
Opening up all around me, was nothing but plush, blue, tone on tone fleur-de-lis wallpaper and gilded photographs of Michael Jackson from various shoots adorned every surface. Some dating back to his very first shoot.
On the opposite wall, curling staircase opened up to the second and third floors and on the ceiling, was a stained glass skylight--the namesake of the Towers-- that depicted the Birth of Venus.
Yes, on a little wooden sideboard, in a small golden frame, was that picture of Michael, topless and in a pair of bright red leather bellbottoms, swinging on a velvet rope. Anyone who knew Michael’s career knew that his appearance had changed over the duration of it. At nineteen, Michael Jackson had been a somewhat dark skinned black man with a large, puffy afro. Beside the photo of Michael in the bellbottoms, was a picture from a campaign I had see the previous year. Michael Jackson, was now fifty years old, and though his appearance was starkly different, he was still very handsome with a high fashion, unconventional look.
In the photograph, Michael reclined on a black chaise lounge, a silver fox fur coat wrapped around himself. He was once again topless, the fur hanging off of one shoulder, his bottom half covered in stretchy black trousers.
Michael’s skin, in the photo was a very, pale, milky appearance to it--I had heard rumors that Michael had some sort of skin disease that took the pigmentation from it. Perhaps that was why he quit modeling.
His features always had edged on the feminine, the large dark eyes always outlined in kohl, the slightly rouged cheeks, the cheekbones so high you’d get a nose bleed looking at them, the thin, pink lips, glossed to a subtle sheen.
And the little dimple in his chin, which had mysteriously appeared sometime in the mid-80s. He was a striking, and unique man to behold.
All over the little table were framed portraits of him in extravagant costumes--what Goldsmead primarily produced and passed off as high fashion.
Michael was swathed in furs, luxurious fabrics, heavily beaded military style jackets. Just all sorts of things you never saw on the average person.
Michael Jackson was not the average person.
As I stood observing photographs, one stuck out to me and before I could stop myself, I had picked it up.
It was quite a provocative picture--if a man could have been provocative.
Michael was this time lying in a bed, sheets of black and white satin draped around him.
It was quite clear that Michael was naked, the sheets strategically placed over his lap, the end held in his hand and gripped to his chest. Head down turned, hair in waves around his shoulders.
On the bottom corner a message had been written in elegant silver script
“You’ll always be my only Muse…AG.”
Maybe the whispers I had heard were true--Michael had been carrying on with Alberto Goldsmead. That their relationship had been more than just professional. Staring at the photo, I wondered, was Michael indeed Goldsmead’s lover? Had he quit the biz to live with the designer? Was it really true? Was Goldsmead there somewhere at that very moment?
I searched all around, and for the life of me, couldn’t not locate a single photo of Alberto Goldsmead. Couples always took photos together, and the absence of a picture of the two men together made me wonder if I had made a mistake in my snap judgment.
They were all of Michael. Every last one.
“Delphine Depardieu?”
I almost leapt out of my skin at the voice that suddenly announced my name.
Whirling around, I saw a figure making its way down the stairs.
A tall, slim figure--slimmer than I had imagined--wrapped in a bright red striped silk robe, was ambling towards me.
Michael Jackson.
Feet in slippers monogrammed with his initials shuffled along as Michael got to me, and was looming several inches over me.
Long, straightened black locks swished as he extended a long peachy-white hand to me.
Taking it--his hand was so soft and smooth--I nodded,
“Yes, Sir. I’m from the Belle Beaucoup Firm. At your service.”
It took all the willpower I could muster to even speak, I was so in awe of Michael Jackson.
The man was…a walking myth, and here I was right there, shaking his hand.
A bright white smile creased Michaels’ features and it was astounding he was fifty years old. He didn’t appear to be a day over thirty-five. His skin, up close, was very smooth, and looked supple. Well-hydrated.
He wore no make up, and aside from his eyes being less defined, he looked relatively the same. So very pleasant.
Handsome.
“I thank you for coming to my home today…I hope it’s no trouble. I just don’t like to go out in public so much…” True to the elevator man’s claim, he was speaking in a nothing more than a whisper.
“No, Sir. I understand you want your privacy. That’s why the Firm sent me out here--” I began and stopped as Michael was reaching past me tugging the photograph of himself on the striped sheets from my hand.
My heart sank immediately. I had forgotten to put the photo back where I had gotten it from. Lord I hoped he wouldn’t think I was plundering and throw me out on my face for disturbing his things.
Staring down at the photograph, Michael sucked on his teeth loudly and shook his head.
“Now I’ve told Buford a hundred times to put this photo away for me. I don’t like it at all, damn it…” He remarked and tossed his hair angrily.
“It’s…it’s a lovely photo, Sir…” I spoke before I was conscious of it.
Still looking at himself, Michael answered,
“Thank you. It’s not the photo. It’s the message from Alberto on it--it gives people the wrong idea. I don’t like it…” As Michael continued speaking I stared up at him in wide-eyed wonder.
Was Michael Jackson saying that? Was he not…? He was?
Moving around me, Michael walked back to the bureau the photo had been sitting atop and opening a drawer, deposited the photo in it.
Closing the drawer, he commented slyly,
“You think I’m gay, don’t you? That Alberto and I have been lovers since I was a teenager, don’t you?”
“No Sir--I-I--” I stammered trying to link an appropriate sentence together at the so very blunt question.
Dark eyes widening, Michael shook his head.
“Well, I’m not. Alberto is, and though he may have tagged me as his Muse, I’m not in any sort of relationship with him. Other than professional. It’s been over thirty years of wishful thinking on his part, and that’s how it shall remain--”
He paused and was staring at me boldly, so boldly I had to avert my eyes and stare at the tops of my sneakers. I had chills--there was something in his eyes that didn‘t sit quite well with me. .
“People assume I am, cause of how I dress, and who I run with and how I sound when I speak. But I’m not--”
“Sir! I never said anything. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to do a job.” I spoke quickly and threw my hands up. It was apparent that Michael Jackson was becoming riled up and I didn’t want to be embroiled in anything that would result in my being fired from The Firm.
“I apologize…” Michael came forward and was patting at my back. “I’m just very touchy about that sort of thing. I hate for people to misconstrue things. Please. I had Buford set your things up in my Tranquility Room. Please follow me.”
Without awaiting my reply, Michael Jackson was already crossing the room to the staircase and making his way up it.
Not sure what to think, I put my mind on my work, off Michael Jackson’s sexuality and ran to catch up with him.
On the second floor, down the hallway, and to the right was Michael Jackson’s Tranquility Room.
And truly, I had never before seen anything like it.
I had worked for many an extravagant and eccentric client, all of whom had bathroom and sauna that had been showplaces. Those rooms paled in comparison to the Tranquility Room.
The room, from floor to ceiling was swathed in nothing but snowy white marble, Michael’s initials in the center of the floor in tiny blue mosaic tiles.
Above our heads five, grandiose crystal laden chandeliers swung and glittered like gigantic diamonds..
On the east end of the room, a raised Jacuzzi tub, covered in more of the blue mosaic tiles sat empty. On the west side of the room, stained glass windows, depicting several Ruben-esque nudes, the little pink, full figured women, were letting in colored brackets of light.
In one corner of the room, another life-sized nude, of a woman standing, arms above her head, was made of a light blue marble, marked with many veins of white swirling through it.
The entire room smelled heavily of the sweet, musky scent of vanilla; above my head, several vents were pumping in a cool mist with the aroma.
In the center of the room was there I believed Michael Jackson had all of his beauty treatments done: an extra large, extra padded table that looked more akin to a bed than anything else. All around it, all sorts of spot lights and magnifying glasses on rolling wheels stood waiting to be used.
On a far wall, a painting of Michael in a gold frame stretched from floor to ceiling, larger than life-sized and showed Michael, dressed like, of all things, Peter Pan, soaring through the could with what appeared to be Tinkerbell seated on his shoulder.
As I stood, heating the dark green wax and getting it to the consistency I had wanted, I was very aware of Michael.
He was standing in front of a large buttoned console over which a little screen was lit and was picking at the knobs.
“Tell me Delphine…” Came his meek inquiry, “Who do you prefer? Mozart or Chopin?”
“Whichever puts you in a nice mood, Sir.” I informed him as I continued twirling the large wooden tongue depressor, mixing the wax and melting it.
“I like Chopin while I’m grooming. I find piano music so soothing…I used to know the woman playing the piano here. Name of Mahogany Dunne--very accomplished pianist.” Michael declared and as, soft, classical piano music began playing over hidden speakers.
“Mr. Jackson, are you certain you want “The Works”? You know I have to take all the hair off your body with it. Everything…” I trailed off as I had looked up from my wax.
Across the room, Michael Jackson was hanging his robe up on a golden peg.
My throat tightened.
Michael Jackson…just like his marble statue…was nude.
Completely without a stitch of anything on!
He stood a moment, with his back to me.
He was so slim. The way his waist nipped in, just perfectly, how his trim hips flared down into well toned, and well sculpted legs.
And his buttocks. That little, taunt mound of perfect alabaster flesh, was just lovely. I had never seen such a beautiful backside in all my life.
From somewhere I heard Michael speaking.
“Call me Michael, and yes…I’d like the whole thing--all the hair off. I need it for my shoot tomorrow.” He informed me and turned around. “It’s an emergency--as you can see…I’m quite bushy.”
I staggered and bumped against the table at the sight of Michael’s milky, bare form.
His chest was smooth, except for a few scant curls in black, being a contrast to his fair complexion. My eyes drifted down his slick, flat abdomen when almost unwillingly, my eyes zeroed in on Michael’s triangle…
His pubic area.
A part of me wondered, as I stared at him, why the hell he’d called for me in the first place.
There was a patch of somewhat thick black curls on Michael’s pubis, but really, it didn’t look all that bad. It circled his crotch and fanned off sparsely onto his thighs. But it didn’t look like anything that seemed to be an emergency.
Did he really consider that bushy?
Then I felt my chest kind of cave in as I continued looking at Michael.
For the first time I noticed Michael Jackson’s pen*s.
I put a hand to my mouth in shock. Michael’s pen*s, limp and flaccid was hanging down somewhere near his knees! I had never, in my life, seen a man that large. And in between the girth of his shaft and the hair covering him, I couldn’t see Michael’s balls at all. A zealous flash of heat lit me and I struggled to control myself as Michael came over to me, that hunk of meat swaying as he moved. He was uncircumcised, the tip of his shaft hidden beneath a fold of peach colored flesh.
How in the f*cking hell did he not trip over that thing?
“I don’t usually call in for help with grooming myself, you know…” Michael informed me and I was trying to keep my eyes on his face, anywhere but that massive d*ck swinging to closely to me. How on Earth Michael was so calm in the nude with me being a stranger, I’ll never know. Most of my clients were timid being seen in their birthday suits.
“I typically shave myself, but earlier thi sweek the razor slipped and I nicked my scrotum, you see…”
Not really wanting to, I glanced down and saw that Michael was cradling his nut sack, spreading the hair away, and revealing a small white scar, maybe a half inch long. to me.
“You’re a lady, but if you cut yourself like I did, you’d want a professional from here on in…” He was giggling good naturedly as he climbed up onto the table and laid down.
He didn’t find it strange that he’d just showed me his balls?
“Yes, Sir…” I whimpered and was bringing up some wax to start working on his chest. “Tell me if this is too warm…”
“Oooh!” Michael gasped, as I began applying the wax to his chest. “It’s warm, but I can handle it. I just need to be waxed…clean.”
Nodding, I went ahead and began working on Michael’s chest. In a matter of minutes, his chest was cleared of all stray hairs and glowing pink from the heat of the wax.
I moved on to his underarms--that were barely darkened with hair--and his arms, removing the fuzz of hair on them. On to his legs, and the little bit of bristles on them. All in all, it was probably safe to say Michael Jackson was one of the least hairy men I had ever worked with.
All that was left now…
I stared at Michael Jackson’s crotch. The hairy beast.
Michael was paying me no mind. Instead his had his arms up and was directing an imaginary orchestra to the sounds of the piano music.
Going back over to my kit, I picked up a small aerosol can and proceeded back to the table.
As much as I wanted to reach out and grab onto that c*ck that was lying there--oh it looked so lonesome lying over Michael’s thigh so attractively--I couldn’t molest my client. .
No matter how slim and arrestingly handsome he was.
How sweet he sounded humming along to the music.
How fresh and crisp he smelled--what the hell was that cologne?
No matter how that fresh, pink meat was winking at me.
I had to remain professional at all costs. I couldn’t f*ck up and find myself fired.
Removing the cap from the can I began spraying at Michael’s crotch.
“Aaow! Hey! Holy sh*t! What inthe goddamned hell are you doing to me?”
Michael sat bolt upright, hands to his groin, was shouting at me shrilly.
Startled at his reaction, I dropped the can. It clanged on the marble and rolled away.
“I’m sorry. It’s…it’s a numbing spray. To take the edge off as I waxed your genitals. Forgive me. I should have warned you.” I was telling him, as Michael continued holding himself and was staring at me with contempt.
“That stuff was really cold…will it really make my nuts go numb?” He wondered timidly after a moment and I saw his perfectly arched brows rising to his hairline at the thought.
“Yes, Sir…” I replied as I dropped down on my hands and knees to retrieve the can and was allowed to mist his privates.
“Hee! Oooh!” Michael hiccupped softly and fell back against the cushions of the table. “I can feel the sensation going away…Oh my God…”
In less than ten minutes, I had Michael Jackson’s bush trimmed away and what was revealed was a beautiful, smooth and sweetly scented crotch.
And there was that damn d*ck still lying there, winking at me. Teasing me.
I glanced up at Mr. Jackson; he was once again directing his orchestra.
Paying me absolutely no mind whatsoever.
No longer able to control myself in the presence of such a man, I reached down and cautiously, I poked at Michael’s tender scrotum. I immediately stared up at Michael.
No reaction at all. He was humming loudly. He couldn’t feel a thing.
Being brash, I reached out and was cradling his balls in my hand, feeling their warmth. They were so soft and a little bit springy.
I looked to Michael again. Still directing in the air.
I had to touch that c*ck or I’d have lost my natural mind.
It was such a dirty, odd want. To touch the pen*s of a man I had known less than three hours. But I wanted to and damn it all to pus spewing hell, I was going to.
I only hoped Michael didn’t kick me in the face.
Gingerly, I found myself grasping on to that length of human rope extending from Michael and was marveling at it--God he was so thick. So hot to the touch.
That d*ck was so beautiful. Smooth and pale, and as I pulled the foreskin back, a rounded, tip, a more intense shade of pink was revealed. It glimmered with the barest hint of moisture.
It was so pretty…a part of me wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste Michael Jackson. Put him in my mouth. See how he felt.
Could I really dare to do such a thing? Blow a man without him knowing it?
I knew he’d remain numb for a few more minutes…not long enough to engage an orgasm, but long enough to satisfy my curiosity.
He was lying there ass naked. It was practically an open invite.
I dared another peek up.
Michael’s shaft tumbled from my hand in shock and bounced on his thigh.
Oh no…oh Lord no…!
Michael was no long playing maestro.
He was staring directly at me. Had seen me playing with and fondling him.
“Sir--I--I--” I was at a true loss of words. I knew I was going to get tossed out. Cussed out. And worst of it all, fired from The Firm.
I was still jabbering wordlessly as Michael sat up on the table.
“You…you were about to suck on my d*ck…weren’t you?” His voice was still meek as he continued looking at me.
Ashamed I dropped my head.
“I’ll leave at once Sir--” I stammered, wanting to run and keep running until I collapsed somewhere.
It was then I heard a light, squishing noise. In spite of myself, I found I was looking at Michael again.
Much to my surprise, Michael was sitting there, Indian style, one hand to his chest, the curled around his pen*s.
Stroking himself.
The hand on his chest was extended and he was wiggling a finger at me.
“Come…come here, Delphine. Come to me…” His voice still low, had dropped about two octaves, deepening, and the sound electrified me.
Automatically, I was over at his side, watching as he continued playing with himself right before me.
“You…you want this? You want this?” He questioned and was putting his free hand into my hair, taking the butterfly clip out, causing my long hair to fall down my back.
“Yeah…” I started and jumped as Michael gripped my chin suddenly, forcing me to look into his face.
‘Little Girl…you answer me as Sir…You’ve been calling me Sir all the morning. I like it.” Dark eyes widened fiercely. “Do you understand?”
“Yes…yes Sir…” I whimpered and watched as a smug grin came to his face.
“You’re so very pretty. Look like Sophia Loren…I’ve been meaning to tell you that. You’ve got a French name, but look Italian. How very odd, I like that…” Michael told me and was pulling me closer to him, before slipping off the table looming over me and staring down at me.
His prick was now at full attention, pointing upwards, the tip glowing red and on full display.
His eyes were so serious, bright and piercing, they frightened me.
Cupping my face in his hands, he continued observing me.
“You can’t be very old. Not much more than twenty I assume?” He questioned, those brows going up again.
“I’m twenty-one, Sir.” I was now whispering I was so tense and tied up over this man. The power he was seeming to exude over me.
“Twenty-one. Holy sh*t.” Michael threw his head back and cackled. “Do you know I’m fifty years old? I turned fifty August twenty-ninth…”
His head came back up and looked to me once more.
“Have you ever had meat this old? Some premium aged beef. Sucked on a fifty year old c*ck? Have you, you little Doll Baby?”
“No--” I tried to reply, but Michael suddenly mashed his lips to mine and was kissing me so sweetly, I nearly swooned.
I fell against Michael as he was wrapping his arms around me, holding me against that naked body. That shaft bumping my thigh.
Very vaguely, I was aware of him untucking the white polo that was a part of my uniform and was pulling it over my head.
“Nice, young tits…Lord…” Michael muttered as he was pulling my bra from me, exposing my bosom. I was gripped tightly to his body, my breasts mashing into his chest.
I was trembling with anticipation as Michael rested that clefted chin on the top of my head.
“God damn it…I need to be sucked. I need to be sucked so badly. I love being sucked. It’s been so long…” Michael trailed off as he was hoisting himself back onto the table.
Grabbing a handful of my hair, Michael tugged on it.
“Get up here. Get up here and eat on me…come here…” I was ordered and found myself on the table, Michael waving that meat before me.
I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking. I was just doing. And right then I was going to perform the act of oral sex. I wanted to…it was such a compulsion, that before Michael could instruct me further, I had already grabbed him and was guiding his girth past my lips.
Starting to suck, I tasted his flesh…how sweet it was and tasted of cocoa butter.
“Oh! Oh yes…oh yes little girl…that’s it…that’s it…Oh…” Michael moaned instantly, and his hands were in my hair, holding it out the way as he watched me.
For a brief moment I looked up to gauge Michael’s reaction--he was going scarlet with arousal--and he insisted tightly,
“Don’t look up at me. Don’t you dare look up me. Your eyes go down. Look at you what you’re f*cking doing. Hee! Oooh!” I heard his head drop back and hit the pillows as he began thrusting those slim hips against me. Forcing that pen*s further and further down my throat.
“That’s not all of it. I want you to suck all of me…” I heard Michael say and before I could stop him, he began pressing down on my head with both hands, driving my face down all the way to the base of his ***** effectively choking me.
Gagging loudly, I tied desperately to push on Michael’s thighs to get away.
“You’re choking!” Michael laughed at the obvious. “Move!”
Finally, finally I was released and I curled upon my side coughing.
“You wanted to suck my d*ck.. You wanted to suck my d*ck.” Michael taunted as he sat up. “You can’t even get the damn thing all the way in your mouth. I’m gonna make it fit somewhere.”
Somehow, my trousers and underwear came off, and I was nude in front of Michael, lying on that table.
Eyes taking in my body.
“Get on your hands and knees. Now…!” He demanded and I complied, part of me scared of him, the other part thrilled at this rough and tumble exchange.
“Ouch! Sir!” I gasped as Michael, five times in rapid succession slapped at my buttocks.
“I am gonna tear you up…” I was told as Michael slipped up on the table behind me, hands tickling at my breasts and mashing at my nipples.
Mouth to my ear, he added,
“Don’t piss me off. Cause if you piss me off, I will f*ck you straight in your ass and I know you won’t like that--no woman I’ve ever known does. Do you understand, Delphine?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Kissing my shoulder, Michael added, “You’re so damn sweet…”
An arm wrapped around my waist and other was covering my mouth. The crook of Michael’s elbow was in my mouth.
I screamed into the pale flesh of his arm as Michael was beginning to slowly slide himself into me. All I could feel was myself stretching all over trying to accommodate him. All of him. I didn’t feel as though I could possibly do it.
He was going to tear me apart. He going so deeply. So deeply than I had ever felt.
“Yes… that’s it…Take all ten inches of me…it’s that big. Take this big old d*ck. Damn, girl…” Michael whispered as after what seemed like an eternity, his groin bumped my backside.
He was there…all there. Just barely.
We linger amoment, both breathign heavily...anticipating.
Then there was movement. Wild, crazed, frantic movement.
Michael was thrusting in and out of me. Forcing me to expand and contract at the same time. Too quickly too much.
It was so much, more than I could remember experiencing.
And I could stop him, I couldn’t stop him.
Michael had me restrained in such a fashion that all I could do was lie there and try my best to accept him.
I couldn’t even make any noise, my cries were muffled by Michael’s arm.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ah! Yes! You take me! Take it! Take it!” Michael was huffing in my ear, tightening his grip on me. Plunging. Plunging. In and out. Farther. Farther. Farther into me.
Tears of mixed pain and pleasure were welling in my eyes and streaming down as Michael continued ramming me roughly from behind, nearly turning my p*ssy inside out with each thrust, making me raw and sore with every movement.
“You wanted it. You were gonna suck it…you were gonna suck it!”
Michael kissed my wet cheek loudly , tasting my tears.
“This is some of the best p*ssy I’ve had in a while…!”
Crying out, and spit running from my mouth over his arm, I was trying to get loose from him. I was getting to close to the end. Far to close. To quickly.
It was too much…more than I could handle…Michael had to stop.
“Stop! Stop! Please! Stop! Ah! Stop! Sir--Michael!” I begged into his arm as the movements of Michael Jackson’s d*ck became sharper, and even more forceful.
Michael dropped his arm from my mouth and a long hand gripped my throat.
“You’re gonna come….you’re gonna f*cking come, and I’m gonna make you. I’m gonna force a wet one out of you…”
Hangs gripping my shoulders tightly Michael was driving himself into me. He was in a f*cking frenzy.
Scarcely I wondered when the last time he’d actually had sex, he was so unhinged.
“Ah! Ah!!! Ahhh! Michael! Michael-no! Sir--please!” I was pleading as Michael’s grunts, once lower and softer, were now rising in decibel, and Michael’s request of me became stranger.
“Bark! BARK DAMN YOU! Bark like dog!” He demanded and was shaking me as he continued beating into me
Was he really wanting me to bark?
“I--I can’t!” I whimpered as Michael’s hands fell from my shoulders and gripped my hips. I felt Michael had gotten off my back and was now forcing me back and forth on his pole. Slipping me up and down it.
“Look at that ass jiggle. God damn… look at that sweet little ass…” Michael grunted and was drowned out as I began yowling.
“Aaaaah! Aaaah! Ahhh! Stop! Stop! Michael! Mike!”
“Come! Come! Damn you! Delphine--you come!” I was yelled at and felt another stinging slap to the ass.
“AAAAH! DON’T!” I wailed as Michael’s fingers came forth and were rubbing roughly and wildly at my cl*t, further sending me towards an orgasm.
I clawed at the fabric under me, and perhaps the last strains of my sanity that were quickly running away from me.
“AH! MIKE! AH! AH! I’M COMING! AH! AH! WHY! WHY! WHY!”
I shrieked at the top of my lungs as the wave of carnal pleasure came flowing forth. So much so Michael yanked himself from me as I was spurting all over the table before collapsing under him convulsing whimpering weakly.
Drained.
“Yes.. That’s what you do. That’s what you do when I f*ck you. When screw that ass--make a damn mess. Yes…Good Little Girl took that Big Old D*ck like a champ…” I felt Michael’s meat flapping against my buttocks as Michael was yanking himself on home.
“Oooh sh*t. Here it comes… here it comes Baby… oh God… we f*cked so good…god damn….” Michael was pressing his pen*s between my ass cheeks like a hot dog in a bun and was rocking back and forth, less than an inch above my anus.
Michel hand was planted firmly in my back to keep me from squirming away from him.
“Damn…hell…” Michael grumbled as I hollered into the cushions under me as Michael suddenly chose to stick his c*ck up into my anus.
“You’re a big girl… you’re a big girl. Take this. Show me how grown you are…Woo! Woo! Oooh! Ohh--Woo! OH!”
Inside me, I felt Michael starting to squirt hotly.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, Jesus! Yes! Hee! Aaow! Hee!” Michael’s thrusting slowed before coming to a halt.
“Motherf*cker….” Was all he whimpered before falling on my back and hugging after me against him.
“…so, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”
Michael, voice back to the shy whisper he’d greeted me with earlier that day, asked as I was packing my supplies back into the large black case.
“This, Sir…I have to go to work…” I replied, timidly, as I absently was putting things in their proper place. I was so sore and raw all over I could barely move. The things that been done to me. The things I had let happen.
I had gone crazy.
“I don’t want you to go to work tomorrow…”
At that statement, I paused and peered up at Michael. He stood a few feet away, robe draped around his body once more, hands shoved in the pockets observing me.
What was he saying.
“Sir, I--I--” I began and Michael swiftly came over and squatted before me, his wet, flaccid d*ck draggingthe floor. A slim finger pressed my lips silencing me.
“You’re not going back to The Firm in the morning. You’re not even leaving tonight. You’re staying here with me. Now. I can’t possibly let you go…” Dark eyes washed over me as he mumbled before stating.
“The things we did together. The way you made me feel. I can’t let you slip away from me. You’re staying. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir--” I started and was swiftly corrected,
“Sir is for bed. I’m Michael…” He gently hugged me against him and was resting that chin on the top of my head again.
“I’m your Michael.”
As he wished, I quit my job working for The Firm and moved in with Michael the very next day. And its been a life of wonderful lovemaking ever since.
To this day, now if you happen upon the Penthouse Suite you will see a slight change to the nameplate marking the door : Michael J. Jackson, Muse
Delphine A. Depardieu, Muse of a Muse.
The End!
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