“Testimony”
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
(Non-Sexual Cameo By The Artist Formerly Known As Prince)
La Bianca County Courthouse
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Winter, 1995
He was beautiful.
The most beautiful man I had ever set eyes on.
His slim, lithe form stretched upwards of nearly six feet.
His skin was smoothest, coolest, creamiest shade of pale peach, that appeared even whiter in contrast to his long, inky, silken strands of hair that fell so gracefully into his face.
Ah, his face. That wonderful, angular visage that was the perfect blending of feminine and masculine features, with a hint of innocence lurking just below the surface.
His eyes, a rich, smoky brown were circled expertly with a thick wave of liquid liner, which he always wore. His hollow, almost concave cheeks bore the barest hint of rouge, and those thin, succulent lips…glossed to a light shine.
He was beautiful.
The most beautiful man I had ever seen.
The man I was divorcing my husband for.
I leaned against the wall of that small restroom, looking on silently as he was checking his appearance.
He was dressed so well. He always dressed so well. Unlike any man I had ever know.
That slim body was clad in a cherry red, military inspired jacket, that was piped with the finest gold leather and trimmed with matching buttons.
He always wore the best. Never settled for anything less.
Paired with the jacket was a simple pair of black trousers, and gold, cap toed black leather boots.
In some aspects, he did appear as a sort of eccentric general off to a battle..
And really, he was going into battle. The biggest battle of our lives.
He was battling for me.
For two years, I had been with this man, lived with him…loved him. All the while I still bore the name of another.
He didn’t want me to carry that man’s name any longer.
He wanted me to carry his.
Watching silently as the man pulled a small enamel compact from the breast pocket on his jacket and began patting after his slender nose, I couldn’t help myself, I had to speak up.
“Michael, are you sure you want to do this?”
Never looking up from that shiny spot on his nose, Michael replied, his voice soft and powerful all at the same time.
“Yes…it has to be done.”
Just as quietly, he replaced his compact and extended a hand to me.
Taking it, I allowed him to lead me from the restroom and out towards the courtroom.
As we walked down that long, empty and so terribly quiet corridor, the events of the previous day rang in my head, all still too fresh and raw.
I hadn’t seen my husband for two years.
Not since I had run off with Michael.
The day before had been the first time since I had looked on him since I had left.
The day we had been dragged into court with Michael being held on a series of nefarious charges, everything from him seducing me and enticing me away from my husband, to even charges of kidnapping and false imprisonment.
It wasn’t true--none of it was true.
I only hoped that the judge believed Michael.
And not my husband.
The inside of the courtroom was bare and austere.
A few rows of hard wooden benches for spectators, and the empty jury box--as the judge would be the one to hand down the verdict personally.
Only two other people were in the courtroom.
A lone bailiff and Mr. Pickett, the defense attorney Michael had hired for himself.
Mr. Pickett, an short, rotund gentleman in his mid-sixties immediately, approached Michael, and the two men began conversing in whispers, planning their actions for the day.
We truly were going into battle.
Today was the day that Michael would take the stand in his defense and tell the judge why, all those years ago, he came and ran off with me in the middle of the night.
As the men spoke, I took my place in middle of the three chairs behind the table that served as the defendant’s seating area.
A few yards away, the plaintiff’s table, where my husband had sat, was vacant. Neither he, nor his counsel were present.
No sooner had I given my soon to be ex a thought, than Michael’s hand came down and gripped my shoulder rather tightly.
Startled, I looked up to him.
A cloud of darkness had come to his lovely face. He wasn’t looking down to me, but behind me.
Eyes widened, nostrils flaring, his chest heaved as his breaths quickened with a silent anger.
I didn’t have to look to see what had inspired this expression.
My husband was in the room.
Turning, I caught sight of him.
My husband….The Artist .
(His given name was Prince Rogers Nelson, but in the wake of my fleeing from him, in favor of Michael, he had changed his name. as he had mentioned in his testimony the previous afternoon, that he “…no longer felt like Prince, with my wife gone…” )
As odd as his name was, so was my husband.
He was a small man, barely a hundred pounds stripped and hardly past five feet tall in his stocking feet.
Much like Michael, he had a flair for the dramatic when it came to dressing.
That morning, he wore a black leather jacket, that zipped diagonally, over a crisp white blouse, opened to show the bits of hair on his chest.
Black silk trousers and his trademark, custom-made, boots with a four inch stiletto heel, clicked as he sauntered in.
Though fair, his skin contained a yellow cast that Michael’s lacked, and his appearance was quite androgynous.
Whimsical even.
His large, glistening, gold-flecked hazel eyes were lined in black pencil, with heavily crusted lashes fluttering. Carefully sculpted facial hair accented his jaw line and circled his little highly polished mouth.
His hair, cropped short and straightened, fell into his eyes and sparkled with silver glitter.
Lining his thin arms, were several rows of gold and silver, diamond studded bracelets, the accent being his diamond wedding ring.
We’d had matching rings--mine had borne a fifteen carat diamond, while his had a more modest, ten carat stone.
I no longer owned my ring; I had sold it ages ago at Michael’s insistence.
Prince said nothing, merely looked to us coldly, before taking his seat, propping one foot up on his table.
A moment later, his attorney, Ms. Miriam Constance, one of the best attorneys in the state of Minnesota, came to his side, her plaid briefcase stuck beneath her arm.
That damn, skinny, blue-eyed snake, with a forked tongue to match.
Had I known what was in the briefcase, I’d have gotten up and fled the courtroom right then.
But no….
Michael had to deliver his testimony.
* * *
“…do you solemnly swear to tell the Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth, so help you God?”
The bailiff questioned as Michael held one hand up, the other on a small Bible, taking his oath.
Just as solemnly, Michael nodded.
“Yes, I do.”
Off to the side, a stenographer was typing away, keeping track of his every word.
I was wringing my hands as he took his seat on that witness stand.
I didn’t want him to have to do this. It was the last thing I had ever wanted. But I knew it needed to be done. It had to.
If I wanted any chance to be free.
Taking her own sweet time, Ms. Constance approached Michael.
“Would you please state your name and age for the courts?”
Leaning forward, hands folded in hi lap, Michael replied into the little microphone fixed by his mouth,
“Michael Joseph Jackson…I’m thirty-seven years old.”
“Mr. Jackson, are you familiar with a woman named Rowan Alastair Nelson?”
“Yes…” Michael’s eyes shifted to me, before focusing back on Ms. Constance.
“Would you share with us how you came to be acquainted with Mrs. Nelson?”
Thoughtfully rubbing at the little dimple in the base of his chin, Michael sighed before answering. His eyes glazed over and contained a faraway look, as he was indeed gazing back through time.
“My older brother, Jermaine, and I are very fond of art work and have collected works for the greater parts of our lives. While I prefer classic works--Rembrandt, Picasso, Rueben--my brother preferred more contemporary works and was a particular fan of the paintings and sculptures by Prince Nelson.”
“Had your brother purchased many works by my client, Mr. Jackson?” Ms. Constance wondered and I could literally hear the gears grinding in her head. I knew she was plotting something, waiting for Michael’s foot to slip in some way.
“Yes he’s been collecting his works since he first started, back in 1979--”
“How did you come to notice Mrs. Nelson?”
Michael frowned as he was interrupted quite rudely, and maintaining his composure, continued,
“My brother brought this sculpture he’d bought to my house. A small thing, barely two feet high, made of blue Italian marble. It was a nude, and one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. There was something so lovely about that little body, the face, the features…” His eyes found me again.
“I…I had to know the woman that inspired the piece.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
I heard Prince grumble vaguely, but could make out no words.
Judge Wilhelm, the large, thick bodied soul presiding over the case cast Prince a cautionary glance, but said no more.
“Just how did you come to know her?” Ms. Constance questioned, running a hand through her bleached blonde bob, that fell so severely into her pockmarked, ruddy face.
She was running that damned question into the ground !
“Well, Jermaine heard about an art show, here in Minnesota that Prince was attending--”
“It was a one-man show, thank you very much!”
Prince, his voice several octaves deeper than Michael’s snapped, in a way I had been accustomed to, but nearly forgotten.
Just the low rumbling sound of his voice sent chills through me.
Even from where I sat, I could see Michael growing rosy, and matching his jacket, he was so angered.
“As I was saying…” Michael was just as sharp and tossed his head arrogantly,
“My brother and I flew in from California for the show. It was held at a gallery in St. Paul. I didn’t care about the art. I wanted to meet the woman…the model that inspired the piece.”
Michael’s hands began twisting in his lap.
“I was excited as we entered the showing, because the rumor was, Prince never had shows without his muse. This woman…” He stared at me and a smile touched his lips.
“Rowan…I saw her the minute I hit the doors. Standing there, next to Prince. She was just a vision, in this purple velvet backless gown. Even across the room, I could see her eyes. That queer, wonderful lavender color that the dress brought out. She was even more gorgeous in person. Tall, fair, with all her black hair up in a French twist. Just looking so beautiful, my tongue tied up.”
“You would say you were attracted to Mrs. Nelson, right away, wouldn’t you, Mr. Jackson?” Hands on nothing hips, Ms. Constance’s voice had a wheedling note to it that I didn’t trust.
Nodding Michael simply hummed,
“Mmm-hmm!”
“Who introduced you?”
“Jermaine--he went straight over to Prince and shook his hand and was complimenting him on his work…and Rowan turned to me. She was so lovely…tall and thin and looking like a marble statue herself. She was… perfect.”
Blushing I lowered my head. Michael never could hide his emotions.
“When did you find out that this “perfect” woman was married?”
The same cloud of anger I had seen on Michael’s face earlier returned with a vengeance.
“That same night. Prince and Jermaine became tied up talking art and Rowan was left to herself. I spoke to her…she was so charming. So young--only twenty-two. I asked her about Prince…how she wound up with Prince…”
Michael further recanted the story I had lived.
How I had met Prince in the summer of 1986 when I signed up for an art class he had been teaching at the local high school. How he had been taken with my appearance and said I shouldn’t have been making art.
That I was art.
How he had invited me to his studio and had me pose for a painting.
A painting that as far as I knew still hung in his office in a twenty-four karat gold plated frame.
Once the painting was complete, he told me I was the only woman he wanted to paint…I was the muse he’d been searching his life for.
I had been sixteen and he was twenty-eight.
For two years, I posed day and night for Prince, the subject of nearly sixty paintings, and sculptures in marble, clay and bronze.
Our relationship was strictly professional, until the day after my eighteenth birthday.
Prince convinced me to pose nude for a painting.
It took a lot of high talking and conniving, but I had finally agreed to it.
Stretched me on a chaise lounge and began sketching me.
The painting never was finished as halfway through, he dropped his charcoals and fell on me.
Three days later, we married in a quiet ceremony in St. Paul.
I was eighteen, and he was now thirty.
“Mr. Jackson, what made you decide to pursue this woman who you knew was already married?”
Now Ms. Constance had her arms crossed over her flat chest.
A look of hurt glossed Michael’s eyes over and they dropped.
Lashes fluttering, he said,
“Rowan …and I went to the refreshment table for more punch, and a woman stopped to speak to her. She…she turned her back to me…”
Choking up, Michael put his hands over his face, as he was fighting to hold back tears.
Something told me to look at Prince.
In the middle of Michael struggling, I had to look at Prince.
He sat relatively still, his face expressionless.
But his eyes.
They were widened and shooting daggers of hatred at Michael.
He knew what Michael was referring to as did I.
Seconds later it was out in the open for all to hear.
“She turned her back to me…and that’s when I saw it…” Michael sputtered and sniffled.
“Very carefully…painstakingly covered with thick, pancake make up…were bruises on her back. Bruises…and bruises…that were concealed.”
“Goddamn…” Prince, not watching himself exclaimed and immediately Judge Wilhelm reprimanded him.
“Mr. Nelson, may I remind you, you’re in a court of law. Such outbursts will NOT be tolerated.”
Frowning deeply, Prince cast his eyes downwards. He didn’t like this.
I knew he hated this. Michael Jackson was exposing his secrets.
His dirty little secrets.
“…when the woman left her, I grabbed Rowan by the arm and asked her…asked her how she got those. She didn’t want to answer me then, just looked down and said she couldn’t talk about it--not with her husband in the room…”
Michael sniffled again and produced a hanky from his pocket and mashed it to his nose. “I told her I was staying at the Hilton. If she could get away, come see me. She agreed…”
Michael gulped loudly and I could see him starting to tremble as he tried to control himself.
“She came the next day as I had asked. Dressed so pretty…but away from her “husband”…I could see how truly fragile and damaged she was. She looked so perfect on the outside, when everything was really a mess. Shaken, scared, troubled…that was Rowan. Like a Monet painting. Beautiful far away, but a mess of chaos up close.”
Prince was shifting nervously, his eyes sparking, as his mouth twisted with his anguish.
He was being exposed for what he had been…a predator.
Michael’s eyes, began to well with tears and as they slipped down his cheek, he pointed a long finger to Prince and stammered.
“YOU….you treated her like an animal…you…you bastard!”
“Your language, Mr. Jackson!’ Judge Wilhelm’s cry went unnoticed as Michael stood and began hollering.
“You constantly made Rowan try to fit into this bubble of unattainable perfection! You wanted her be made up and with her hair and make up and nails done at all hours of the night, no matter what! You starved her to keep her thin! No woman who’s almost six feet tall should weigh a hundred and one pounds damn it! She hadn’t eaten meat for years!” Michael turned to the judge and exclaimed,
“You know the entire five years she was with that little monster, all she ate was green lettuce and clear broth? That’s all he fed her. She lost twenty-nine pounds off an already slim body! He was killing her! She had to pose just perfect for him! Hold still. If she moved, he struck her! He hit her! Once she moved and he shoved her, naked off a pedestal. She nearly broke her arm!
He would lock her in his studio in subzero weather to punish her. He always punished her. Always found a damn reason. He forced himself on her--”
Prince leapt to his feet, his own finger pointed.
“You lying sack of sh*t! I didn’t force sh*t on her! She’s my wife, that’s what she’s supposed to do! She’s my wife!”
Jumping off the witness stand, as Judge Wilhelm began wildly banging his gavel in an ill-fated attempt to restore order, Michael shouted.
“Your wife? Your wife? You have the audacity to fix your f*cking mouth to call Rowan your wife? I never heard the woman say anything about love or kindness or gentleness towards her from you. Just hitting, slapping, punching, pushing! Every woman has the right to say “No“ and trust me, she said “No“ plenty!”
“Mr. Pickett, control your client!” The judge bellowed and instantly, he was up and tugging at Michael’s thin arm.
But Michael wasn’t stopping for anything in the world.
“You haven’t done anything for Rowan but scar her almost beyond recognition. You knew what the hell you were doing. Seducing a young child who only admired you--”
“You got some wicked nerve b*tch! You’re the one that came and ran off with my wife!”
Prince, heels clacking so loudly I thought they’d break came toe to toe with Michael glaring up at him.
“You came into my house in the middle of the night and took my wife and ran with her out to California--”
Eyes glowing with sheer evil, Michael hissed almost demonically,
“I didn’t run off with Rowan… Rowan ran off with me. She came to me. She asked me to take her to California with me. I showed her love. I showed her everything you didn’t…the first time I made love to her, you know she cried? Not because I had done anything wrong, but, as she said it, it was the first time she’d had sex, where she wasn’t being choked! She‘s been with me for two damn years. If she had wanted you, she‘d have come back! SHE DIDN’T!” ”
Turning fairly green, Prince raised a fist to strike Michael.
Before I could even scream in warning, Prince was spinning, having taken a solid punch to the chin from Michael who had thrown it so quickly, had I blinked, I’d have missed it.
“Mr. Jackson!” I wasn’t sure who shouted it, but I did see a bailiff rush in and pick Michael up off his feet as he was trying to get to Prince, who laid slumped against his table, out cold.
“I want him! He wants to beat on a defenseless girl! He want to use her and exploit her. I want to exploit my foot up his ass till it snaps off! Let me at him, sh*t! Let me go!” He shrieked as I buried my head sobbing. “That ain’t marriage! That ain’t love. That stupid, mosquito looking sonofabitch wouldn’t know how to treat a woman if the manual fell on his goddamned head! Motherf*cker put me down!”
Somewhere in the midst of it all, Mr. Pickett was begging him to calm himself.
It eventually took six bailiffs to come in and restrain Michael enough to carry him out while the judge beat his gavel so hard, it broke, screaming for a recess.
An hour later court was back in session. Michael appearing woolgathered, eyes red, bloodshot and tearstained, sat, gripping my hand, slowly sipping at a small paper cup of cool water. He also had half a blood pressure pill--courtesy of Mr. Pickett--to try to settle his nerves.
Across the room, Prince sat, holding a Ziploc bag of ice to his chin which had since swelled from the lick landed on it.
Even though he was talking to Ms. Constance, his eyes were on Michael and if looks could have killed….well it wouldn’t have been pretty.
Leaning in to Michael, I spoke as lowly as I could manage.
“Thank you…I wish you would have broken his damn nose.” and pecked his cheek.
In between sips, Michael grumbled,
“I want to break his f*cking neck. Break him apart and scatter the pieces all over the Twin Cities”
Hearing him, Mr. Picket started to chastise him,
“Don’t you dare--”
“Shut the hell up!” Squishing his cup, Michael tossed it to the floor.
“May the counsel approach the bench?” Ms. Constance spoke up and was waved on by the judge.
That should have been red flags to me right then.
No one had ever asked to approach the judge, and as they motioned for Mr. Pickett, my throat tightened. Something was wrong. Direly wrong.
It didn’t help matters that Mr. Pickett went stark white at whatever was being said, and moved faster than I had ever seen him, running back over to us.
“Michael!” He gasped slumping into the seat, eyes bugging in horror. “Prince claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you seduced Rowan away from him--”
Stoically, Michael, staring straight ahead, made comment that sent chills down my spine,
“It’s a videotape of me making love to Rowan, isn’t it?”
“A what?” I cried mortified at the same time, Mr. Pickett demanded,
“How did you know?”
A tape? Prince had a sex tape of Michael and me? How? Where had he gotten it? Oh my God!
I didn’t have to go far for my answer.
“You remember I taped us that time…” Michael turned to me and was gripping my hands. “I…I sent the tape to Prince in an attempt to make him see you no longer wanted anything to do with you, and grant a divorce. Divorce you…I see its backfired.” His head drooped.
I very vaguely remembered that night. Michael had two full bottles of dessert wine in his system and was accordingly crazy. I’d had the same amount and was just as goofy.
Whipping around to Mr. Pickett, I let the ghastly worry in my mind come to light,
“He wants to show it here…doesn’t he?”
When Mr. Pickett bobbed his head in affirmation, I fell into Michael’s chest begging him not to show it. That was too personal. That was too embarrassing.
Prince’s little sniveling, bruised chin self was going too damn far!
He had always been just on the inside of diabolical, but this was just too much!
Michael’s response shocked me.
“It has to be shown Rowan…it has to be. It’s the only way that people can see we love each other. See you haven’t given a thought to that little limey bastard since 1993!”
I started to shake my head and throwing an arm around me, Michael mashed my face against his suddenly heaving chest.
Motioning to his lawyer to go ahead, he whispered to me seriously,
“Rowan, I know you don’t like it. It has to be done. It has to. Think of all the times your “husband” made you pose naked. Even when you didn’t want to. I don’t like it either, but damn if it ain’t the only way.”
“Oh Michael…” I whimpered.
I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it at all.
At the specific request of Mr. Pickett, only a handful of people were allowed to view the video: Michael, me, the lawyers, Prince and Judge Wilhelm.
On a large screen television, in the dimmed courtroom, am image came to life.
I instantly recognized the interior of the bedroom I shared with Michael at his home in California.
The gold and cobalt blue bedding and the extra-large, plush bed, with a headboard made to look like an oversized peac0ck.
The camera shifted and bobbed several times before coming to a rest, focusing on the empty bed.
“Go…go sit on the end of the bed…” I heard Michael instruct, and a moment later, I saw myself, draped in a white silk robe, monogrammed with an “R” in lilac take a seat on the end of the bed as I had been told.
I glanced up at Michael.
He was sitting boldly, head held high, shoulders squared. I knew he was dying of shame at the tape being displayed, but he refused to let it show.
I stole a peek at Prince.
When I saw the pleased, smug expression on his damn face, I copied Michael’s stance. If he was going to be strong, I had to be strong too.
And show that mouse-looking ass-munch that he wasn’t bothering us. It took all the willpower I had, but I managed it.
I couldn’t let Prince win. I couldn’t let him. Too much was riding on this.
And Michael had already melted down once. I couldn’t do the same.
Prince had already taken so much from me.
Just off camera, Michael could be heard chuckling sweetly, right as he made his onscreen debut.
Wearing a robe that matched mine--with an “M” instead of an “R” stitched on the front--he was barefoot and slowly ambling up to me, back to the camera.
“You look very beautiful tonight, Rowan…” He cooed, blocking me from view as he stood in front of me. “What’s happening under that robe, Baby?”
I gave a muffled reply, and Michael’s hair swished as he laughed heartily.
“Nothing? That’s what I wanted!”
Bending, anyone looking could tell Michael was fiddling with my robe.
Seconds later, he stepped to the side, and my breath caught in my throat as Michael stroked at my hair to try to calm me.
I couldn’t be calm. I couldn’t.
I was staring at myself sitting there, on the edge of the bed, with the top of my robe undone, my breasts sitting there for all looking on to see.
“Don’t be upset, Rowan….Don’t give him the satisfaction!” Michael was whispering at me, as he tried to keep me from completely melting down in the courtroom. “Its okay…I’m here.”
I only wished we were a million miles away!
“God….” The video Michael gasped as his big hands came down, cupping my flesh globes and kneading at them playfully.
“Best tits I ever saw…”
As Michael held each of my breasts on the underside, bouncing them lightly, I noticed the expression on my face. An expression I had rarely used when Prince touched me that way:
I was smiling.
Smiling up at Michael, as he bent again, kissing at my skin,
Sucking my nipples to a reddened hardness.
I was happy. I was happy with Michael in the early stages of making love to me.
I was also visibly growing aroused, a whine here and there escaping me as Michael grunted, trying to shove more of my breast into his mouth, sucking loudly while toying with the other one.
I stroked his hair as he continued fondling me, pausing to smack at my mouth.
I looked to my husband again.
Prince, still icing his chin, was just as cold, eyes fixed to the television, broadcasting what should have been a moment between two lovers. Not evidence in a court of law. I wanted to kill him.
Scowling at him, I felt Michael stiffen against me.
Distracted, I glanced up at him. While his face was just as stony as Prince’s, his eyes had widened. Almost in horror.
I swiftly followed his gaze to the TV, and saw what the problem was.
His robe was falling to the floor, revealing his small, rounded and slightly pink backside to the camera.
On the bed, I threw my head back and cackled as Michael, right arm beginning to flap, was obviously encouraging an erection.
Tugging on himself to bring about the solidity he desired.
Pulling wildly, Michael was silent as he turned and sat next to me on the foot of the bed.
Everyone catching an eyeful of his more than impressive body.
I don’t really believe anyone saw his carefully toned arms, or defined pectorals with teeny faint nipples, swelling in the cool air of the room. Also ignored was his outie bellybutton amidst the muscles of his sculpted abdomen.
No, everyone’s eyes in the room, male and female, unwilling were drawn to Michael Jackson’s crotch.
The thin thatch of black curls that adorned his loins and where his hand was still flying up and down the growing shaft of flesh.
A shaft which had now swelled to its peak at over a full ten inches, thick and glowing a few shades darker than the rest of his body, the rounded tip of which flopped as he continued playing with it. His swollen and engorged testicles jiggled as he continued manipulating himself.
“Yes, Baby…Rowan…get this…now…”He grunted again, teeth gritting in an effort to control himself his head falling back.
I removed my robe completely, and for several seconds, as I climbed up onto my hands and knees on the bed, my p*ssy, bare and shimmering with Michael’s initials in stuck on rhinestones was visible.
“Oh hell…” I heard Prince comment as I very gamely grabbed onto the growth coming from Michael and was forcing it into my mouth.
“Sh*t….yeah…Ooooh! Yeah! Yeah!” Michael was sighing onscreen, holding my hair out the way, giving the camera a clear shot of me as I began suckling on him, bracing myself on his slender thighs, which were flexing every so often. “Suck it….suck it! I love how you suck! DAMN!”
Holding onto my head, Michael began propelling my head up and down that shaft, the skin starting to shine from my saliva.
Under the defendant table, I felt Michael’s hand on my thigh, his other still holding me against him.
“If we get outta here alive…” He whispered to me, lips bumping my ear and causing me to tremble. “…I want some of that again…”
Blushing deeply and thankful for the dimness in the room, I only nodded. I should have been ashamed. I knew I should have.
But I wasn’t. all I wanted was my lover, just as I had him in that video.
Michael, licked at his finger tips and as I continued going to town on that huge d*ck of his, was rubbing between my legs.
“I gotta warm this p*ssy up! I need a hot p*ssy to plunge into…
motherfucker! Keep on, Rowan. Gobble me, Girl! Holy sh*t!”
It was quite apparent I was fairly weak at Michael’s touch and the moment his hand cupped me, I abruptly yanked my head from him.
“Michael! Don’t do that! Stop! Stop it!” I begged bouncing against him as he wrapped an arm around me to hold on to me and kept rubbing me.
“I know how you are…you get wet so easily….” Michael licked his hand again and rubbed some more. “Taste good…”
“Mike! Mike! Mike!” I screamed as he licked his hand again, and this time, much more quickly, was prodding at me, his fingers clearly disappearing within me.
“Come on girl--” Michael started and was drowned out as I shrieked, a torrent of fluid coming from me, and running down my thighs, dampening the bed.
“Yes!” Michael was triumphant, leaping to his feet, meat swaying as he jogged around the bed, behind me, dropping to his knees and burying his face between my thighs, his sleek upturned nose resting right atop the crevice of my buttocks.
“Michael…” I moaned, my head turning from the camera as I grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and gripped it as Michael started wagging his head from side to side. “…you’re eating me…Eat me! Eat--”
There was a loud smack as Michael popped my backside, pulling me down further on his face. Fingers pressing down into the flesh of my ass. Forcing me to stay in place as his tongue was flicking wildly inside of me.
Legs beginning to kick as I tried to control myself, I was pleading,
“Michael stop! Stop please! I’ll come again! You’re gonna make me come!”
In one fluid movement, Michael pried his mouth from me, and had me on my back. Long fingers swishing in and out of me wildly.
“You’re gonna make me come!” I shrieked gripping my breasts as he continued fingering me, wriggling from the sensation bestowed upon me.
“That’s what the f*ck I intend to do!” Michael, stared intently between my legs and what he was doing to me with one hand, the other jerking at himself.
Michael was simultaneously masturbating the both of us.
“I want you to get my bed soaking wet!” Michael demanded sternly, rising to his feet, holding onto my thigh and pulling me closer to the edge of the bed.
“You’re…tearing me up….” I told him in a low voice as his hand released my head and was draping my shoulders.
“I know…damn, I’m an animal…” Michael gave me a shy giggle, touching at his nose as he watched himself start to bend my legs back on screen and was slowly penetrating me.
“So tight! I love how tight you are, Rowan!” Onscreen Michael exclaimed, bending and smooching at me.
“Ugh…I love you…Mike…Michael, please…Mike…” I cooed as Michael, holding onto my legs, began thrusting himself deeply into me.
It was always a wonder to me how Michael Jackson managed to fit. He was so unequivocally large and I was so small….
It was just, kind of astounding to see that girth disappear within myself, removed from the situation.
It was fairly surreal.
“I know you like it. I know you like it…” He teased and began rocking his hips in a circular motion. “I want you to scream, Girl…scream for me Rowan. You don’t want Prince…you want…”
Michael slammed into me with such force onscreen, I could have sworn I was being smacked in real time.
“..ME!”
For the next few minutes, the screen showed what, to the untrained eye, appeared to be a wrestling match between me and Michael Jackson.
Of course, in reality, it was some pretty mind blowing, earth-shattering sex that most professional porn stars probably only dreamt of.
“HOOO! HOOO! HOOO! YES! HOT DAMN! THAT’S IT! SH*T!”
A tangle of arms and legs were rolling around the bed , untucking the sheets, sending pillows flying and out of it all, over my cries of pleasure, Michael was screaming at the top of his lungs shrilly.
“SO GOOD! SO….HOOO! HOOO! YEAH--OW!”
I’m still not quite sure how, but Michael managed to fling himself up and off of me, catapulting from the bed and out of the sight of the camera.
I heard the sound of his body colliding with something and if I recalled correctly, he’d flown into the small breakfast table we ate at in the mornings.
“I was bruised for months after that…damn table almost broke my ass.” Michael confided softly, clutching my hands as he staggered back into the frame, the sound of me laughing resonating all over the dim courtroom.
Michael made no comment, simply stood where he had when we had began, and was motioning me over to him with one long finger.
Taking me hand, he helped me off the bed so that we both stood just ot the side of it. Just as carefully, he cupped them and wrapped them around his little swollen jewels that dangled so precariously just behind the meat extending from him.
“Hold on Rowan, Baby. You know what that does to me…” Michael instructed, running his hands through his locks, now dampened with his perspiration, smoothing it back and out the way of his eyes, before taking hold of himself.
His entire body shimmered, in such a wonderful way.
“Yes, yes, yes! Ooooooh! HOOO! Here it comes….here it comes….” Michael began panting on the screen and in the courtroom, was clutching my hand tightly.
The filmed version of Michael moaned loudly as he trembled, moments before he exploded in his hands.
The white blobs of semen sprayed me briefly as Michael dropped his still shooting d*ick and clutched my face in his long hands, kissing me deeply.
The rest of the hot whiteness pooled on our bare feet as Michael was fiercely tonguing my mouth, as I wrapped my arms around his slim hips, pulling him closer to me.
“It’s over….it’s finally over.” I commented, holding onto Michael’s hand just as hard.
That’s when onscreen, I heard myself speak, and say something I never recalled saying that night.
Clinging to Michael, breathless and rosy-cheeked from my exertion as Michael huffed over my head, pecking at my forehead, I gasped,
“I want a divorce….I want a divorce. I don’t want to be with Prince anymore--I want YOU. I want to be with you Michael. I love you, Michael.”
Michael went to whisper at me, when we were both interrupted by a loud crash.
I looked from my lover just in time to see my husband, leap from his table, leaving his counsel calling after him as he hit the door.
The very next afternoon, the phony charges against Michael Jackson were dropped and I was granted my divorce.
A week later, Michael and I were married at his estate in California
And I haven’t seen The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, since.
