“It’s Not Her; It’s Him!”
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
Encino, California
September, 1978
I was fourteen years old when I met Latoya Jackson.
I’ll never forget it. As a lover of everything having to do with fashion, and connoisseur of haute couture, since I could stand on my own two legs, my mother had taken me into New York City every year to watch the fashion shows and allow me to pick out any and everything I wanted to wear.
(It was one of the perks of being the only child of a couple who owned seven jewelry stores in and around Beverly Hills!)
It was a warm, balmy night in April, and Mother and I had just taken our seats--front row, of course--in the ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel. My favorite evening wear designer, Victor O’Hara, was debuting his Spring/Summer line for 1974.
As I got settled, a girl, maybe a few years older than me, took the seat beside me. She was pretty, I guess, with her hair arranged in in a sort of Farrah Fawcett-like flip that was all the rage at the time, and her skinny, waif-like body was draped in this blue and pink wrap dress, with matching pink platform shoes.
Yeah, I checked out what she was wearing. It was second nature to me to check out what everyone was wearing. Especially when I was certain whomever I was seated next to would appear in photos beside me in the society pages of every major newspaper in the country.
Turning to me, she smiled, almost too sweetly, and extended her hand, topped by these tacky long nails, painted a shade of red that completely clashed with her clothing, and introduced herself.
“Hello, I’m Latoya Jackson, what’s your name?”
She had the most saccharine, nasal voice I had ever heard and automatically, I was annoyed with her.
( Author’s Note: Yes, I know the main character here is a condescending b*tch about Latoya. That’s exactly what I was going for! )
Trying to be polite, I took her small, cold hand, shook it tepidly, and replied,
[I] “Blair Huntington, charmed.” [/B]
Latoya then launched into some speech about how she had just discovered Victor O’Hara’s work, as she had bought a few of his dresses earlier that year, a notion I inwardly laughed at. If she had bought his dresses earlier that year, then she was definitely wearing last year’s clothes. How very gauche.
I was becoming quite bored with Latoya and started to ignore her, when I suddenly thought I had died and gone to Heaven.
I thought that, because what I saw materialize beside that jabbering creature had to have been an angel. That was the only way to describe him.
A young man, tall and lanky, with his black hair arranged in a thick and perfectly round halo, was taking a seat beside Latoya, and crossing slim legs.
He was so well dressed, in a silk, butterfly collared shirt, that had an abstract print over a green and white checked background and paired with matching green bellbottomed trousers.
The top three buttons had been loosened to expose a long, graceful throat, the base of which boasted the smallest indentation under his protruding Adam’s apple.
And his face. That beautiful, long face that had just the right amount of fullness to it, accenting his high cheekbones, a strong, prominent nose, and a pert, cupid’s bow of a mouth that was glossed ever so slightly.
Skin the exact shade of a Hershey’s Bar and I betted his kisses were even more decadent.
Instantly, I was a bit miffed. Wondering how someone as nauseating as Latoya could have attracted someone as alluring as that man to be her boyfriend. How he ever put up with her?
The sex must have been explosive for him to stick around. Or Latoya was double jointed. Or she had no gag reflex.
I was so busy envying Latoya’s good fortune, I nearly missed the next sentence that came out of her mouth.
“Blair, I’d like you to meet my brother, Michael.”
I was instantly grinning like I was Miss America.
Her brother! He was her brother! Not her boyfriend! Her brother!!!
Leaning around his sister, Michael extended a hand to me.
I grabbed onto his exquisitely soft hand, shaking it, and getting lost in those, large, dark brown pools that passed as his eyes.
And when he spoke, I could hear music playing. Harps and flutes.
“Hello, Blair.”
Was all he said, but in my mind, I was accepting a marriage proposal.
Just that swiftly, I was hung up on Michael Jackson.
Had to have him; couldn’t live without him.
In that very same instant, I realized that Latoya could be very valuable to me, in this abrupt pursuit of her brother. An ally of sorts.
I didn’t know a thing about Michael, his age, if he was involved with anyone, what type of woman he preferred…but I was soon going to know.
As the show started and progressed, I barely watched it. Don’t ask me what was really shown, I didn’t pay attention.
I was too busy trying to spark a conversation with Latoya. I didn’t care if she could bore the damn paint off the walls, I wanted to at least establish some sort of semblance of a friendship with her.
Whenever Latoya leaned into her brother and mentioned she liked a certain garment, even when I knew it was completely wrong for her--you have to have some kind of tits to talk about wearing a gown cut down to the navel--I would kindly say something to the effect of,
“You should get that, it would look great on you. It looks like it was made for you!”
Flattery was getting me somewhere.
By the time the show ended an hour later, and the spectators were starting to clear out of the room, Latoya tapped my arm.
Asking me if I’d like to meet her at some Mexican restaurant for lunch the next day.
As we stood talking, Michael passed by and patted me on the back, saying it was nice to have met me.
Star struck, I swiftly accepted the invite.
You can imagine how disappointed I was the next day to walk into La Cantina and find only Latoya at the table, sipping a diet Coke.
Michael nowhere in sight.
I had to mask my feelings and try to be as sociable as possible, which was tiring, as Latoya spent the brunt of the meal talking about things I could have cared less about, like how she liked some of the clubs in New York but found them too wild for her. (She was in New York, what the hell did she want to do? Sit in a convent reciting Hail Marys?)
Every so often I’d drop a question about Michael and ease answers from her.
How old was Michael? Sixteen, and I discovered Latoya was older than her brother and myself at eighteen. It didn’t bother me, I was so tall, she had taken me for older than my real age, something we both laughed about.
Why was Michael in New York with her? Their mother didn’t like the idea of her attending fashion shows alone and none of her other brothers--there were six in all, including Michael--available to escort her.
Did Michael do anything for a living? He didn’t have to. Their father was a litigator and they were kids of leisure. All Michael did was some print modeling from time to time whenever the mood hit him.
(As gorgeous as he was, why didn’t I figure he was a model?)
Why didn’t Michael bring his girlfriend along to the shows?
He didn’t have one. (PAY DIRT!)
The best thing to come out of Latoya’s mouth was that she and Michael lived with their parents in Encino. Which was music to my ears as I lived in nearby Beverly Hills. I had been planning to relocate to New York for Michael if that was where he lived I was so enthralled with him.
And it just snowballed from there.
Somehow, over the next four years, I had found a place as one of Latoya Jackson’s closest friends, being the one she always called first whenever she wanted to do something, like travel to Hawaii, or just hang out at home. I really preferred to hang out at home with Latoya, because it increased my chances of at least being able to ogle Michael, who was always on my mind.
Constantly.
Whenever there was a barbecue, fish fry, birthday, anniversary, or christening (as her married brothers were turning out children like walking flesh factories) I was there.
But I soon found myself doubly frustrated with both Latoya and Michael Jackson.
Latoya, because she never spoke about or did anything interesting it seemed to me. She hardly even dated, and even when she did, the men she seemed to like were just as big of yawns as she was.
Michael, because, as I soon found out, he was just as icy and reserved as his sister. It seemed no matter how incredibly hard I threw myself at him, he didn’t notice. No matter how much make up I painted on, how much cleavage I put out or how tiny my hot pants were, I was just getting nowhere with Michael.
I knew I was turning heads, because once, at a barbecue, I saw Michael and Latoya’s brother Jermaine get coleslaw slapped out his mouth when his wife heard him making a remark about me.
But I didn’t care for Jermaine. I wanted to give Michael whiplash.
And so far, I wasn’t getting sh*t. No matter how hard I tried.
For a few months, I seriously wondered if Michael was gay. I never saw him with a girlfriend, at any of the functions. All he did was tend to a menagerie of exotic pets that lived behind his house in specially made habitats.. And more than once, I had overheard him calling them his “babies”.
Finally on a shopping trip, I very delicately asked Latoya.
(I had to tiptoe because if I severed ties with her, I severed them with Michael too.)
Latoya had fallen to her knees laughing in the boutique, and said no, Michael wasn’t gay, just incredibly shy around women.
That rekindled my lust for him on the spot, and I was madly determined to try some way to get his attention.
I was tireless.
I started specifically targeting Michael and including him in things that Latoya was tied into.
My eighteenth birthday party in May of 1978. Michael attended, but as it became swiftly apparent, as we ran in different social circles, he didn’t know anyone there other than Latoya, and clung to his sister the entire party. He let go of her long enough to give me my present, a bottle of perfume made with roses. (That I couldn’t wear unfortunately because I was allergic to roses.)
The following month, I graduated high school and threw a huge party at a club my parents rented out. I wore a killer red, backless dress with the intent of catching Michael’s eye. Michael didn’t show up. Latoya told me that after my birthday, he was just too shy and felt out of place at my parties. He sent more of the rose perfume.
I spent half the party locked in the bathroom crying.
In August, Michael turned twenty, and I was at his birthday as Latoya’s guest as the party held at his house. I couldn’t get near him.
Their brother Tito had a new baby son named TJ, and Michael spent the whole party cooing over and playing with the infant that looked like a tiny tanned Winston Churchill.
I didn’t even like babies, but had asked Michael to hold little TJ for the purpose of just being able to speak to him.
Michael wouldn’t give me the baby, and held onto TJ like the boy was his own. The only person able to get the child out his arms was Tito himself.
I wanted to kick the Similac out of Michael’s narrow ass, I was so frustrated.
I was starting to think that Michael didn’t like me. And I wondered if he was doing what I was doing. Being cordial to me just because I was his sister’s “friend”.
I had to do something. I had to quit bull****ting and half-assing. It was getting me nowhere. I had to stop being so damn subtle.
I had to lay it on the line, before I flat-lined.
The first week of September, I got my chance.
Latoya very kindly invited me to her house to spend the weekend, just relaxing, and maybe going shopping as we so often did.
It was nearly unbearable.
Latoya and I were the only ones at home. Her parents had gone to a golf tournament in Malibu and Michael had taken off into the city to see his agent about booking a modeling gig--the mood had hit him and he wanted to model again!
The weather was pleasant, between too cool and too hot, causing Latoya and I to stretch out in deck chairs, under huge umbrellas, in swimsuits, poolside outback out of her house.
The conversation was tolerable. One of our friends, Bunny Griffith was allegedly having another affair with the Cuban gardener who tended to everyone’s lawn in the neighborhood.
I wasn’t paying too much attention, Bunny always fooled around with the gardener, or the chef, or the butler or whomever she wanted to throw her p*ssy at that particular week.
Every so often, I’d glance at my watch, wondering when Michael Jackson planned to come home.
As Latoya droned on, my mind was coming up with all kinds of scenarios for what was keeping Michael away.
My more outlandish ones, included him driving his black Corvette into the Grand Canyon, being abducted by little green aliens who performed anal probes on him, and jetting away to Spain to run with the bulls.
At exactly three p.m., when I was contemplating throwing Latoya in the pool and holding her head underwater until she quit moving just to shut her the hell up, I heard it.
A car door closing.
Rolling onto my stomach on the chair, I felt a sly smile curling my lips.
Walking around the back of the house, making his way towards to the open French doors of the kitchen, was Michael Jackson.
The man was a vision walking along in a red silk shirt, opened and showing off that throat I had so often wanted to leave hickeys on, and black bellbottoms, all topped off with a shiny silver bomber jacket.
I watched as he sauntered on into the house, hair swaying with his every step.
“…I don’t know how George puts up with Bunny having affairs like that…you’d think he’d have some sort of dignity….” Latoya was saying as I pushed myself up and off of the chair.
“Goodness, I’m thirsty, ‘Toy. I’m going in for a soda, you want anything?” I interrupted her, fluffing my hair and hoping it looked just right.
“Sure, something diet. Thanks, Blair!” Latoya was all smiles as I slipped on the yellow flip-flips that matched my itty bitty, teeny-weenie yellow polka dot bikini. (Yes, I went there.) A few scraps of fabric were keeping me from complete nudity and I knew I had done something right, because earlier that day when I came out of the house with Latoya, a security guard on patrol had walked right into a tree he stared at me so hard.
Michael had to be blind or a plain idiot not to notice me.
I found Michael seated at the breakfast table in the kitchen, pouring his grape soda into a glass.
“Hey, Michael.” I tried to be casual, as I made a point of passing close by him and proceeding to the fridge, pulling out two the first two diet anythings I saw.
“Hi, Blair.”
That’s all he said.
Not “you look good” or “you’re wearing the hell out that swimsuit”. Just hi. Like I was the help!
Undaunted, I set the sodas on the table and leaned at his side, causing my breasts to nearly collide with the side of his face.
And they were nice, natural big boobies too!
Nothing. I doubt I couldn’t have gotten a move out of Michael if I had put electrodes to his damn ears and lit him up like a Christmas tree.
Michael sat, quietly sipping his soda and gazing out the window.
The only time he came close to touching me, was reaching into a bowl of fruit and coming up with a pear, nibbling on it.
He never knew how close he came to having that pear shoved up his nose!
Agitated, I was about to snatch up the sodas when I noticed it.
Next to the fridge, a little tablet of sticky-notes that Michael’s mother used to leave reminders of different tasks for Latoya and him.
I reckoned I just had to spell it out for Michael.
Going over to the little tablet, I picked up a marker and scribbled hastily,
Hey, Model Boy,
I want you, damn it.
Blair.
Tearing the note off I boldly walked over to Michael, who was still eating his fruit and pressed the note directly onto his forehead.
As soon as I put it on, Michael reached up and pulled it off, reading it.
I saw flashes of red when he casually set it on the table and went back to eating. I had to get out of that kitchen. There were too many knives in there for me to stick around without sticking them all in his body! I wanted to fillet him like a fish for humiliating me in such a way!
So angered I couldn’t even speak, I started for the door, carrying the sodas, wanting to throw them at him.
As I hit the door, I heard Michael’s voice calmly behind me.
“Tonight… you know where my room is.”
Stunned at the statement, I spun on my heel.
Michael was still staring out the window, finishing his pear.
I jumped when he, still looking outside, answered the unasked question,
“You heard me, Blair.”
I stared at him, gape-mouthed. Had…had Michael just invited me up to his room? After all these years?
“My sister’s calling you …” He informed me, and faintly, I could hear Latoya shouting my name. “… you should go to her.”
Hot all over and breaking out in goose pimples, I staggered from the house, awed.
Michael…Michael Jackson wanted me.
The Lord only knew how terribly I wanted him.
A Few Hours Later
I stood in front of the mirror of the bathroom that was attached to my guest bedroom. I had been in there for over an hour, primping for Michael Jackson.
Luckily for me, Latoya rarely ever stayed awake past eleven p.m. and by half past the hour, she was laid out in her bed, hugging a teddy bear, sound asleep.
Everything about me had to be perfect. I scrubbed my skin to the point of nearly bleeding, and had enveloped myself in a cloud of that rose perfume Michael had given me as a gift.
(I ate so many anti-histamines to ward off an outbreak of hives, for a few minutes I thought I was Mr. Peanut!)
I had packed a set of white Chinese silk pajamas to wear around the house, with the intention of lighting a fire under Michael’s ass. Now that I knew the fire was already burning, I took it a step further, forgoing the pants and only wearing the slightly oversized top. The white made my caramel-colored skin pop.
I took a great deal of care applying my make-up, wanting to only add to the aura I was creating. Glittery shadow, lightly roughed cheeks, glossy lips.
My hair, long and black, fell around my shoulders in wave, a section tucked behind my ears, showing off the little diamond studs I wore.
Bending down, I fastened a matching diamond anklet on.
Spritzing on another cloud of perfume, I smiled at myself.
Yes…I was going to Michael Jackson’s bedroom and if I was lucky, I wouldn’t come out.
Easing out of the room, I crossed the hall and cracked the door to Latoya’s room.
She was still knocked out, hugging that stupid bear. I was going to hug her brother. Kiss him…
Oh sh*t! Another wave of hit me with such force, I almost cried out loud.
I had to get to Michael. I’d die if I didn’t!
Jogging down the hall, to Michael’s door, which was right at the top of the stairs, I paused a moment, trying to collect myself and raised a hand to knock.
A little sticky-note had been attached to it.
Come right in, it’s open.
M.J.
Heart quivering in my chest, I managed to grip the doorknob and twist it, opening the door.
Venturing in the room, I immediately spotted Michael.
Sitting on the foot of his bed, in a room of browns and beiges, Michael Jackson stood out in royal blue, shimmering satin pajamas that caused the man to fairly glow.
Hands clasped in front of himself, Michael told me softly,
“Please close the door, and lock it. Then come to me…”
I turned the lock so hard, I almost broke it, and made my way over to him.
I noticed he lowered his head as I got closer to him.
“Here…here I am, Michael …” I said after a few moments of silence, fearing he didn’t like the appearance I had so carefully crafted for him.
“ I know …” Michael whispered, and his hands started wringing.
Slowly, very slowly, his head came up, and I was delighted to watch his eyes swell with what I hoped was adoration.
His head drooped once more.
“ Gosh…you look…stunning Blair …” He said timidly, and patted the space on the bed, indicating I sit beside him.
In a flash I was at his side, and inhaling his piney cologne.
“You look good too--” I went to touch Michael’s arm, and was a bit confused when he jerked away., turning his head from me and staring off into the distance.
“Don’t you like me, Michael?” I could barely conceal my hurt at his sudden rejection.
Hearing the pain in my voice, Michael spoke up, offering an explanation.
“Yes, Blair. I like you. I like you a whole lot. I have, ever since I’ve met you …”
My jaw was flapping in the wind. He had liked me ever since he had met me--the whole four years?
Michael glanced up at me, sorrow in his doe eyes.
“You have to forgive me, I’m so shy, Blair. And you were so young then. You were only fourteen. I was too shy to say anything and by the time I was ready to say something, I was eighteen and you were sixteen--I would break a law going after a minor…I had to wait some more until you were eighteen, to say anything…”
His gaze fell again and growing warm, I grabbed onto his hand, and told him,
“You should have said something anyway…I was starting to think you didn’t like me…or that you were--”
“I know, you thought I was gay.--Latoya told me you asked.” Michael chuckled dejectedly.
I was about to make a sharp remark about having told his sister that in confidence, when Michael suddenly looked to me.
“You drove me crazy the first time I saw you. Sitting at the fashion show with your mother…in that purple dress. I…I wanted to just pick you up and take you away with me. I wanted to buy every dress in the show for you and take you places where you could wear them. You’re so pretty…and so sweet, Blair…”
Large hands were on my shoulders and Michael was turning, staring into my face
“I just couldn’t speak. . I know you probably thought I was rude, because I stayed quiet all the time. I just lost my nerve when you came around. And Latoya’s your friend, you were always with her…I just got all weird when I’d see you…I’m sorry about your birthday and graduation, and that day when I wouldn’t let you hold my nephew. Oh Blair, I’m--”
Pressing a finger to his soft lips, I silenced him.
Searching his face, I felt my own body starting to take with arousal,
“Now that we’re alone, face to face, what do you want to say to me?” I inquired, my voice weakening…
Michael stared at me for a few moments, wordless.
Slowly, almost timidly, our heads were drawn together, and we were kissing.
I was kissing Michael Jackson.
His tender, sweet, damp mouth. Tasting faintly of mints. So good and delicious to me.
Arms wrapped around me, and I pulled against Michael, throwing my arms around his neck, as he kissed me deeper, his tongue making an appearance. It was the most perfect kiss I had ever had in my life.
“ Jesus …” Michael gasped, drawing his mouth from mine and hugging me tightly, his cheek pressing against mine.
“ Oh my God, Blair… ”
His body was so warm and wonderful, the touch of his embrace, intoxicating.
“ Michael …” I spoke off into his ear as I sucked on the lobe of it.
“ [I] If you want me…take me…I’m yours… [/I[”
There was the sound of ripping fabric and it took a while before it registered that Michael had torn my top open, exposing my bosom and underwear.
Hand to his mouth, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done, Michael Jackson stood, leaving me exposed there.
“ Oh…oh Blair…I shouldn’t have done that…Oh, Gosh… ”
He stammered clutching his forehead.
“You’re not doing anything wrong--” I started and stopped when I paid attention to just exactly what Michael was doing.
He wasn’t looking at my face.
His eyes were down, on my breasts. He was staring at my breasts!
“You like them, don’t you?” I questioned as he kept staring and his head bobbed in agreement.
“ They’re wonderful …” Michael’s voice was barely audible, as arching my back, I thrust them forward. “ I want to touch them …”
With a flick of my wrist, I motioned to them, and I got a clear idea of just how held back Michael was.
Shaking his head and biting down on one of his fingers, Michael was refusing.
“ You just said you liked them… ” I said innocently, extremely turned on and feeding off this “shy boy” act he was putting on.
“Don’t you think I have great titties, Michael?”
“ Gosh …” Michael turned his head and whimpered as I stood and walked right up to him.
“ Touch them, I want you to. ” I leaned into his ear and kissed at the lobe again.
Michael’s hands finally came up and he was tapping my breasts on the underside, causing them to bounce.
“They’re so soft…” He commented and was squeezing them.
I almost went up in flames at the sensation of his fingertips on my flesh.
Curious at his behavior towards my body, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Are you a virgin, Michael?”
I winced as he mashed down rather hard on my left breast.
“No…I’m not.” Came the stagnant reply, as he continued playing with my chest. “Are you, Blair?”
“No…” I answered simply, and in a moment of defiance, I slid my hands over his groin, and was rubbing at him through his clothing.
“… but I can act like one if that’s what turns you on. ”
I was shoved down into a seated position again.
In front of me, Michael was tearing at his pajama top, opening it and shrugging it off.
Exposing his slim upper body, toned so beautifully, with the prettiest, tiniest nipples I had ever seen.
“You’re so sexy!” I confessed and was embracing him again, planting smacks all down the center of his chest and at his belly button.
For the first time since I had known him, Michael Jackson swore.
“ God damn, that feels good…oh, sh*t… ”
The cursing was burning me up.
Pulling from me, Michael’s pajama bottoms and light blue briefs appeared at his ankles.
Stepping from them, he was naked.
Michael Jackson was naked, and more beautiful than any man I had ever seen in my life.
His crotch, adorned with a small bush of black curls, amazed me.
A d*ck that was larger than anything I could have imagined was hanging there, swaying between his thighs.
Thick and brown, Michael was uncircumcised, the flap of flesh hanging like a little turtleneck around the hidden tip of that mammoth thing.
At the sight of Michael’s pen*s, so many emotions hit me at once, I nearly exploded.
Entranced by his groin, I did what came naturally to me.
Leaning forward, I clutched onto that massive mound of flesh and was pressing it into my mouth, marveling at how warm he felt.
Michael seemed mortified at what I was doing.
“No!--Oh Jesus! Blair! What are you--” He gasped, jaw sagging.
I was just enjoying the feeling of him growing in my mouth. The hardness that was starting to take him.
“ Blair…don’t do that…don’t suck it…please… ” He pleaded and was pulling at his hair, staring down as I was stroking him with one hand, suckling away, the other hand cradling his small, round furry scrotum.
Pushing the foreskin back and admiring that faint brown tip.
“ You’re sucking me…you’re…you’re sucking my d*ck…ugh! ” He groaned and I could hear his breathing become erratic.
Reaching down, he was squeezing both my wrists so tightly, I had to drop him.
The meat, now hard, was pointing skywards, fully engorged.
“Don’t do that…” He repeated through gritted teeth. “Don’t suck my d*ck…if I exploded in your mouth, you’d choke to death!”
“It was just hanging there!--” I started and a hand clamped over my mouth. I doubted he’d have done that much shooting. He was too damn thin to have much of anything in him!
Eyes huge and wild in his head, Michael informed me seriously,
“ I don’t like to come this way…when…when I have an …orgasm, I want to be on top of you…hugged to you. I’ll scream this way. I want only you to hear me… ”
With that, Michael reached down, and with more strength than I ever took him for having, he grabbed me under my arms, lifting me, and was pushing me back into his bed, laying me on his pillows.
“You’re so beautiful Blair…and I’ve waited for too damn long…I want to make love to you.”
“I--I want you to Michael…” I was trying so hard to control myself. He hadn’t even really touched me yet, and I feared I was going to make a mess all over his bed if he didn’t soon.
Long hands were slipping my underwear off and dropping them to the floor.
“ I need this…I need you, Blair. God, I need you… ”
Michael on his knees, was crawling towards me, yanking lightly on himself.
I was holding my breath.
He was there, and he was going to take me.
And I wanted him to have me.
Laying on top of me, Michael was pressing his lips to mine, putting his arms around me again.
Unconsciously of myself, I was opening my legs, offering myself to him.
Plucking his mouth from mine, Michael rested his chin on my shoulder, his cheek pressing mine again.
At once I felt him.
Felt that swollen ripeness starting to slip its way inside of me.
“ Michael! Michael--oh--Mike-- ” I started to cry out, at the sheer size of him trying to pack into me.
Michael’s cheek was on my mouth, and I heard him, almost inaudibly, tell me,
“It’s too late now, Blair. Too late. We’re gonna have each other.”
Again, Michael’s mouth was on mine, our tongues touching, as he began to grind his hips against me.
“ Michael--Michael, please! Please! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Oh! ” I whined as he was continuing to pound away at me.
“ Shhh! ” A finger came up and was pressing my lips to hush me. “Latoya would kill me if she knew what I was doing to her best friend…” Michael giggled leaning closer to me and I was wrapping my legs around his slim waist, I didn’t want to let go of him. Ever.
And to hell with Latoya.
I didn’t give a damn about her; never did.
Never would…and Michael didn’t seem to mind at all.
I was knocking his perfect ‘fro out of whack as I was holding onto him, forcing him to kiss me. Holding onto that soft, apple-scented hair, as we started to sweat.
Michael started to perspire in the most lovely way, glistening all over like his body had been sprinkled with glitter.
“ Blair! Blair! Blair! ” Michael was groaning into my ear lightly, “ You’re so good to me…so good, oh sh*t! ”
Kissing his shoulder, I was grimacing as I felt a wave of heat start to take me.
“[I] I’m gonna come…it’s coming! It’s coming! [/B]” I warned, and leaning back, sitting on his heels, Michael pulled himself from me, and started flapping the tip of his d*ck against my cl*t, staring between my legs sternly, encouraging the orgasm.
Grabbing onto one of the pillows bouncing around me, I covered my mouth, screaming a streak of swear words into it, as I felt myself giving up to Michael Jackson. The torrent of lust gushing.
“ There it is…there it goes. I see it… ” Michael announced his voice a strained whisper. “ It’s wet…oh, it’s so wet….f*ck, it’s running onto my bed! ”
“My p*ssy…” Was all I could say, as Michael rubbed at it, licking his fingers greedily, as though it were fried chicken grease!
One hand on my abdomen, Michael was forcing himself back into me.
“Oh…damn it, Michael!” I whined, and tugged on his hair weakly.
He was almost too much for me. This…this man.
“ You come however much you want…I want you to… ” He whispered, hands grabbing on my breasts, jiggling them as he was pumping again.
I didn’t know where Michael Jackson was grown from, but he was tearing me up like no other man I had ever experienced.
It seemed every ten minutes, I was having to stop him, as more of my pent up lust, and horniness came flowing forth.
I had four long years I was making up for.
Five orgasms later and I wanted to pass out.
So much was leaving me, I eventually heard a squishing noise as Michael was nailing me, I had dampened his bed so thoroughly.
He didn’t seem to care. He was just happy to be on top of me.
Whipping himself against me each time I came.
The longer we went on, one, lone thought began to form in my mind:
Was Michael Jackson ever going to have an orgasm?
Did he have them?
It didn’t seem like it. I kept trying to turn my head, to see the clock on his bedside table, and each time, Michael would push my head back, making me stare up in his face, which was now pouring sweat.
He wanted to watch me, and have me watch him. Not miss a second of how we were reacting and taking each other.
Michael who had been grunting nonsense through my last three comings, was speaking English again.
“ Oh! Oh! OH! It’s about to happen! It’s about to happen! Oh, God! Oh God, Blair, it’s about to happen! ”
My face was grabbed and held, and Michael was crushing my lips with his.
One arm was thrown around my neck, keeping my face against his, as his free hand dropped down and was pulling him free of me.
“ Oh my God.. Oh yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, God! ” Michael cooed as he was tugging on himself, so taken by what he was doing, he let go of me and I fell back.
I propped up on my elbows, watching him, eagerly.
Watching him playing with himself, trying to bring on the wave that was lurking just inside his loins, waiting to be released.
Sitting on his knees, Michael brought his fingertips up to his mouth, small tongue flicking and wetting them,
I could only look on as he was rapidly pulling on himself with one hand and with his moist fingertips was rubbing at his painfully swollen tip in a circular motion.
“ It’s about to happen! It’s about to-- ” Michael gasped and a stream of milky white semen erupted from the tip of that shining pen*s.
“ Ugh! Ugh! Gosh! God! Aw! Ugh! ” He whimpered, as he surrendered.
Since his c*ck was pointing upwards, the juice completely missed me and instead shot straight up and was hitting Michael in his own chin. Running down his neck and onto his heaving chest as he dropped himself. The softening flesh bouncing against the bed.
Desperate for a taste of the man who had done so much to me, I was grabbing onto him, licking wildly at his chin and neck, trying to taste as much of that salty whiteness as I could.
Michael was staring straight ahead, struggling to get his wind as I continued swabbing and kissing at his neck.
“ I needed that…I needed you so bad, Blair. God. Damn. ”
Was all Michael said, once more smothering me in a hug as I was now sucking on his chin.
As Michael’s bed was a complete and utter mess, he suggested we go to bed in my guest room. Wrapping a blanket around our nude bodies, we hobbled to my room and went to sleep in each other‘s arms.
* * *
“…was it everything you wanted…did you like it?”
Michael Jackson, shy once more was questioning timidly as I rested my head on his chest, the first strains of daylight breaking through the window.
“I loved it…you’re were, something else, Michael.” I grinned as he kissed my forehead. “I’d wait another four years for that if I have to.”
“You can have it whenever you want…” Michael paused and stared at me, brows flexing. “We ARE together now, you know.”
Together.
Just like that, Michael and I were an item. An inseparable item.
“That’s all I wanted!” I giggled and Michael went to say more, when a voice shrieked,
“MICHAEL JOSEPH JACKSON! WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?”
Sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to hide ourselves with the sheets, Michael and I were faced with a bewildered looking Latoya, still in her pajamas.
“Michael! You’re in bed with my best friend? Blair! Oh my God!”
Latoya exclaimed, pulling at the rollers in her hair.
“Do you want to tell her, or should I?” Michael asked, raising a brow at me.
“Tell me what?” Latoya interjected and smugly I nodded.
Holding the sheet up to his chest, Michael let the cat I had been holding onto the last four years fly out the bag.
“Blair wanted me to tell you; she doesn’t like you. Never did. Thought you were the most boring person on the planet. You bored her stiff. You are uninteresting, and have about as much to talk about as a house plant. The only reason she ever put up with you is because she was attracted to me. She’s got me--don’t need you anymore.”
I don’t think I had ever heard Latoya Jackson scream so loud in my life. To be honest, she couldn’t make a sound for weeks after, as she had ruptured her vocal chords and couldn’t even curse me and her brother out.
I didn’t care. I got what I had wanted for so long.
I had gotten Michael Jackson.
And that was all that mattered.
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