Poor Impusle Control

I’ve never been the sort of person who really liked having house guests. Especially ones that turn up unannounced, without so much as a phone call or text beforehand. It reads as kind of rude to me. In this story, a young woman’s day is spoiled, when she finds herself as the de facto host to an old friend of her father’s…a friend who is none other than the King of Pop.

“Poor Impulse Control”

A Michael Jackson Erotica By:

MJsLoveSlave

Golden Valley, Delaware

Spring, 2003

Through the grand, imported marble-trimmed corridors, a maid was quietly, walking, a domed silver platter held in her clean, but work-roughened hands.

Though it was half past noon, the tray the maid was toting contained a fairly light breakfast: a large cup of coffee, half a cantaloupe, cubed and a croissant, sparkling with a honey glaze.

Advancing up the right side of a dramatic and curling staircase everything bathed in white and hardwood, a circular fresco depicting the heavens itself from which a very large, cut crystal chandelier hung, the maid was destined for one of the many bedrooms of the manse.

Up on the second floor and at the very end of the expansive hall, was the bedroom occupied by the lady of the house.

Resting the tray on a small side table, the maid opened one of the two, finely carved double doors, and allowed herself into the room.

It was a room as grand as the rest of the house, if not more so, for the fact that everything had been draped in shades of the lightest pink, accented by hard wood, and twenty-four karat gilt.

Across the room, the French doors leading out onto the balcony, had been left open, permitting a warm pleasant breeze to ruffle the velvet and lace curtains, and revealed the small wicker table and chairs where this mix of not-quite-breakfast-but-not-quite-lunch (and in no way brunch) was routinely taken, by the lady of the house.

As the mistress of the maison did favor sleeping in.

Tray in her hands again, the maid passed by the opulent bed, draped in the finest silk and canopied with a frothy, floral lace, paused to assure herself that was a sign of life in the bed.

Sure enough, holding the covers over her head were the small, slim fingers of the lady, topped by gleaming, lilac painted nails.

Assured she was bringing the meal to the occupied room, the maid went onto the balcony where she placed the meal to be taken and turned back to wake her boss.

The maid stopped in her tracks, hands coming to her mouth to muffle a startled gasp.

The thick, plush covers of the bed had been thrown back partially.

While the lady still held fast to the covers over her head, sleeping blissfully and uninterrupted, a man was sitting up and gazing at the maid.

It was quite obvious that the man was in the nude, as he hastened to tuck the bedding around his hips, to conceal his more scandalous parts.

What was visible, was a bare, milky upper half, a few black hairs standing out against the pale skin of his chest.

The hair on his head, just as black and shiny, was a rumpled tousled mess, that fell into his eyes and just touched his shoulders.

Staring at the maid through his locks, dark eyes somber and serious, he made no sound, but raised a long finger to his lips, indicating he wanted silence.

The maid and the man stared at one another and slowly the man lowered his hand.

Continuing to stare, the man mouthed the words,

“Go away, please.”

Taking heed, the maid beat a speedy exit, the man watching her go…

Truly, he would have run himself, if he weren’t indecent.

For he had spent the night with his friend’s daughter!

The Previous Morning

Geneva Magda Lubitsch had always been pampered.

The only daughter born to a defunct German count who had made his fortune as a litigator and a former ballerina from Trinidad, Geneva, along with her four older brothers, had known nothing but the idle life and only troubled her mind with the most pressing of matters.

And that morning, as she sat on her balcony that overlooked the far-reaching back lawn bordered by the lapping Atlantic Ocean, the matter at hand, was what to do with hers.

Seated at her wicker table, Geneva was looking over a dozen or so bottles of nail polish, trying to determine which she wanted to have grace the tips of her digits.

“Have you decided, Miss Lubitsch?” The Korean manicurist, whose name Geneva could never remember, wondered, as she had sat patiently for the last half hour as Geneva mulled over her choices.

“I want something different…” Geneva, spoke in a heavy, smoky, Greta Garbo-esque voice. “Something that will kind of pop but not clash with my clothing. I’m going through a black and white phase; everything I wear is black and white. But popping a red or burgundy off it seems too gauche. Too typical…”

Geneva was a woman who had never been typical. She had been bred not to be.

Geneva was tall and model slim, with a face that belonged in magazines. Large, slanted eyes that were a queer, vibrant shade of turquoise that glowed against her deep bronze complexion, and popped against her long, jet black hair. (A natural auburn, Geneva had been keeping her locks on the dark side since the age of ten.)

Geneva, who had spent the first half of her life running around Beverly Hills, before the family relocated in order for her to attend an elite all-girls academy, looking her best was priority ONE.

Reclining lazily in her chair, her body barely covered by a marabou trimmed satin robe, long cooled hot rollers in her hair,

Geneva reached and selected a polish that was a very light shade of gold-tinged pearlized lilac.

“This one.” She said simply, handing it to the manicurist and placed her tips into the small bowl of warm water and olive oil used to soften the cuticle.

“Magda? Magda!” A thundering voice called out suddenly, and sucking on her perfect, white teeth, Geneva called out in perfect German,

“Ich bin in meinem schlafzimmer, Vater! Auf dem Balkon!”

(I’m in my bedroom, Father. On the balcony!)

Only her father called her by her Germanic middle name.

A moment later, the former Count Lubitsch, a squat, hulking, red faced and balding man appeared in the open doorway.

“Magda…” He repeated before continuing in heavily accented English, “I need you to do me a favor, Mein Liebling.”

“Yes, Father?” Geneva held her hand steady as the cuticle was being pushed back with an orange stick. She hated this part of the manicure, but stood it to have a pretty outcome.

“A friend of mine is coming in from California in about two hours…I’ve invited him to stay here, rather than some cramped, stuffy hostel in Dover. He will be with us for about a week…”

“And what does that have to do with me?” Geneva began, then snapped, “What the hell are you doing? Be gentle! I have nerve endings in those fingers!”

The manicurist mumbled some form of apology.

“Mein Liebling…your mother is out playing bridge all afternoon with the Women’s Leauge, and Rudy Jr., Otto, Adolph and Kristopher are on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, fishing. I would have welcomed my friend myself, but I’ve been called into court. One of the cases I’m handling--one of the parties wants to settle… Magda, I need you at home to welcome my friend…”

Sighing loudly, with no attempt to mask her distaste, Geneva cut her father a sharp look, the brat in her bubbling to the surface.

“Vater, ich wünsche euch mir diese gestern oder etwas erzählt hatte. Ich hatte heute pläne. Ich wollte den Nachmittag im Country Club mit Alisa und Klara zu verbringen!”

(Father, I wish you had told me this yesterday or something. I had plans today. I was going to spend the afternoon at the country club with Alisa and Klara. )

“I am aware this is short notice Magda!” Count Lubitsch fairly roared, scaring all within earshot, except his daughter.

“I just as you be here and play hostess to him, damn it! It would be poor form for him to arrive here with no one to receive him!

TU WAS ICH SAGE!”

(Do as I say!)

Watching as polish was being slicked on, Geneva snickered and teased,

“Vater nicht auf Deutsch zu schreien. Sie klingen wie Hitler!”

(Father, don’t shout in German. You sound just like Hitler!)

Growing rosier than ever, Count Lubitsch, pinched after his youngest child’s cheek.

“Be a sweetheart. He’ll be here by noon, I’ve already arranged a meal for him I should be back by dinner…thank you.”

“Seig Heil.” Geneva huffed, knowing her father hated hearing that, and added, before being consumed again by the adornment of her hands, “Alright Father. I’ll receive your friend--who is it?”

She looked up curiously and was dumbstruck by his answer,

“Michael Jackson.”

* * *

Two hours later, Geneva exited her boudoir, pausing in front of the gilt-laden mirror beside the door, it’s sole purpose for Geneva to give her self one last look before she went downstairs each day.

Knee deep in her black and white period, today was no different.

Geneva wore a very sheer, barely visible, white silk blouse, rolled carelessly up at the sleeves and tucked into a pair of wide-legged pinstriped trousers.

Beneath the top, though Geneva was known at times to go with nothing other than her small bosom showing through for all to see, she had added once piece of decency, in the form of a polka dotted bandeau.

Her mane had been straightened and volumized around her shoulders in a va-va-voom manner that Geneva favored; her make up was fairly neutral, save for heavy winged eyeliner, and very glossy frosted pink lips, she was something akin to a darker, modern day Bardot.

With the addition of simple, black and white diamond studs and a matching double tennis bracelet, Geneva was ready to face the afternoon, teetering in strappy, black stacked heel sandals.

Michael Jackson was on his way up; she had seen his dark, storm gray Lamborghini creeping along the driveway.

As she skipped down the right staircase, Geneva’s mind was all a jumble.

Michael Jackson…Michael Jackson!

The King of Pop, the Greatest Selling Entertainer in History…was staying at her house!

Michael Jackson was a man Geneva knew well and had known since birth.

Geneva first met Michael when she was about eight years old, in the late 1980s, as Michael had fired his former lawyer and needed representation, choosing Rudolph Lubitsch.

Michael had never been like any of her father’s other clients.

He was very open, and warm, constantly inviting Geneva and her brothers to his Neverland Valley Ranch, an escape from normal life, hidden in the San Fernando Valley.

An estate with a private zoo, amusement park and theatre was where Geneva spent most of her days of summer, running wild with her siblings and always finding a piece of candy in Michael’s hand to take for herself.

Michael Jackson may have been a much-revered singer to the rest of the planet, but he was simply “Michael” to her; an old friend not only of her father’s, but of her own.

And it had been too, too long since they had last seen each other.

An entire five years.

Geneva reached the oak front doors of her house, just as the doorbell rang.

Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong!

Automatically, from an unseen area of the house, one of the maids, appeared making a bee-line for the door.

“Nein! No, Elsa! No!” Geneva hissed, waving that thin, pinched creature away.

“Yes, Miss Lubitsch.”

She wanted Michael to be greeted by a familiar face, not frightened away by that old Swamp Thing.

If she was being forced to play host, she was at least going to do it correctly.

Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong!

The bell rang a second time…

Straightening and tossing her head, her hair falling a bombshell manner around her shoulders, Geneva took hold of the ornate, gold, twisted knobs of the double doors and pulled them open.

Time seemed to suspend for a moment, as her eyes found the lone gentleman standing just past the doors.

Michael Jackson.

He was still so very tall, as she remembered, but his slight frame had filled in a bit more. He was by no means fat but his figure appeared more solid.

Was he toned; had he been working out?

The solid frame was clad in a somewhat dressy-casual outfit of a black, tone-on-tone crested blazer over a crisp white shirt, the top buttons had been loosened, showing his long, graceful throat.

Long, thinly muscular legs, which had been sculpted through decades of dance were accentuated by tight, black denim trousers.

Turquoise eyes going down, Geneva observed that on his feet, he wore a pair of crystal encrusted boots.

Yes…Michael had always possessed a flair for dressing.

It was one of the traits she had always admired about Michael. He could out-dress any other man she had ever known.

The eyes came back up and noticed Michael’s head, topped by thick, waved tresses, was lowered as he fumbled with the bright gold cell phone in his large hands.

Hands Geneva remembered would grasp hers as they ran around Neverland and would always rub her back until she dozed off in the wee hours of the night.

Head still lowered one of the hands came up and pressed at the bell again.

Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong!

With the doors open, the bells resounded louder, startling Michael and as a reaction he threw his phone.

“Oh my!”

Thankfully, Geneva was quick and caught it.

Holding what was likely a very expensive and custom piece, she teased,

“Hmm, I’ve seen this house receive scores of guests…never before has one pitched a mobile device at me.”

“Please forgive me--”

The head came up and deep, dark eyes, in a stark, alabaster-white face squinted.

Black, eagle’s wing brows went up on the smooth forehead.

“--Geneva? Geneva Lubitsch, is that you?” He snorted and nodding, the girl, just barely out her teens, quipped,

“That’s what they keep telling me!”

Instantly Michael’s arms were around her slim middle, his musical laughter in her ears as he embraced her tightly.

He smelled so wonderfully to Geneva, heavily of bergamot and orange blossom, with hints of vanilla.

Even after so long, he smelled just the same.

Just as he had the last she’d seen him, they day her family moved off to Delaware.

“My goodness! How you’ve grown-- I almost didn’t know you! You’re a lady now. Gosh…”

Releasing her, Michael took her hand and allowed himself to be led in the front foyer.

Curious, several maids and the cook huddled in a hallway, to see the pop star in person.

“H-hi, Michael!” Someone called and spontaneous applause broke out.

“Hi!” Michael called, his voice but a squeak, waving back, as Geneva opened a side door, showing him a formal seating room.

“Please have a seat, while I tie up some loose ends--would you like some refreshments?” Geneva offered sweetly, but the acid in her was rising over the staff.

“Yes, that would be--” Michael was alone, as his hostess stormed back over to the small crowd.

“Have you all gone stark raving mad?” She demanded in a low voice, her gaze scathing. “Michael Jackson is a guest here, not a spectacle in a damn zoo! Clapping at him and things--you’ll embarrass him!”

“We’re sorry, Ma’am!”

“Honest, we just wanted to see him!”

“He’s the King of Pop!”

“I don’t care if he were the President of these here United States!” Geneva snapped and clapped her hands.

“Make yourselves useful--Elsa, you Nancy and Mia go retrieve Mr. Jackson’s bags and place them in his room in the east wing.

“Clark you go bring us the appetizer and something to drink and don’t you dare disturb him or I shall roast you!”

“Yes Ma’am!” The round, frightened man was scurrying but under his breath, she heard him growl,

“Frauline Lubitsch!”

“Say that to my face so I can knock your teeth back to Germany, Herr Pig!”

He scurried faster, as the group disbanded, off to perform their duties or feel the wrath of the stylish, fiery young woman.

Straightening once again, and patting at her hair, Geneva tried to calm herself as she started back to the formal sitting room.

Getting to the door, she hovered a moment, watching Michael Jackson.

He wasn’t doing much of anything special, only wandering around the spacious room of green marble, staring up at the gilt-framed painting depicting various landscapes, with an animal here or there.

He was so beautiful and seemed both so strong and delicate to Geneva at the same time. His hair, so black it gleamed, and those broad, wide shoulders, giving way to a whittled waistline.

His backside, round and plump, stuck out and flexed as he moved back and forth, observing the artwork.

His legs were so lean…and the boots gave and tossed light in the most wondrous manner.

Walking slowly, so as not to be heard, Geneva crossed the room and arranged herself in an attractive manner on the brocade sofa, crossing one leg over the other.

She watched the King of Pop--her friend--for a long moment, before speaking up,

“Do you see anything you like, Michael?”

Whirling around, his face brightened with a wide, gleaming smile.

“You always did have a knack for sneaking up on people!”

He chuckled as the chef returned with a tray of raw veggies, Caesar dip and a pitcher full of white peach tea--vegetarian Michael’s favorite snack.

Much to Geneva’s chagrin, the chef, remained, popeyed as Michael sat on the opposite end of the couch and began nibbling after the snack.

“Is this organic?” Michael mumbled through a mouth of half-massacred carrot.

“Yes…” Geneva’s glare was blistering as she looked up at the chef.

“That will be all Friedrich--”

“But Ma’am!” The portly man protested, eyes huge. “You haven’t told me what you’d like to serve for dinner!”

Geneva sighed, light eyes rolling and instructed,

“We’ll have baked tuna steaks, with that arugula salad you make--you know with the mandarin orange slices on top. Something light. Mr. Jackson has just spent the last six hours on a plane flying in…that will be all.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With that, the chef finally made his exit.

Glancing over at Michael, who had been merrily crunching away throughout the exchange, she sighed,

“Please pardon the help…you’d think they had never been in the presence of anyone remarkable…I apologize.”

“No need to, I‘m quite used to it.” Michael popped an entire red radish in his mouth, smacking on it. “Now, Geneva, tell me…”

Those smoldering eyes were on her and she felt herself break out in prickles all over.

“It’s been five years, Honey, what have you been doing with yourself?”

Nervously--Geneva was rarely nervous--but now sitting alone with this icon, and friend, her heart was palpitating and her palms sweaty.

“Well, I attended and graduated the Upton School for Girls, then I attended the University of Delaware, Dover, before I dropped out last semester.”

“Oh…” There was an inquisitive look to Michael’s face. “You dropped out? Why, course load too heavy?”

“No…” Geneva trailed off and contemplated a moment, before admitting, “I had to leave…there was this professor…and well, frankly, I didn’t know I couldn’t fraternize with him!”

“Oh…” A broccoli floret was bitten. When the realization hit Michael fully, his eyes bugged. “OH! Oh Geneva--”

“Please, I heard it in English and German from my parents…” Geneva picked up a cucumber slice and dipped it, before bringing it to her lips.

“Still, you shouldn’t have done that. I’m sure there were plenty of men your age in the college.” Michael poured a glass of tea for himself and started to his mouth with it.

“I like older men.”

Without any particle of thought, that statement had escaped Geneva’s carefully painted lips.

“Uh-ahem!” A bit startled by her own confession, she coughed and patted at her bosom, her heart starting to pound.

There were questions marks in Michael’s eyes a moment, before he spoke, trying to change the topic,

“Well, I appreciate you and your father putting me up here, on such short notice. Its so much trouble going to hotels. I get mobbed, I can’t sleep properly…” He waved a large hand. “No one knows I’m here. I can blend, and get in touch with the producer I want for my next album.”

Michael prattled on the next few minutes talking about some new young producer he wanted to work with, and the entire time, Geneva could only stare at him, taking in his attractiveness, his sexiness, his maleness.

And wanting it all for herself.

“…I might do a duet with my brother Jermaine, he’s been asking--”

“I love you.”

Michael stopped mid-sentence and stared at the large blue eyes reflecting back at him.

“Hee-hee…” He chuckled casually, and picked up another radish. “I love you too, Geneva.”

Watching him eat, Geneva’s mouth dipped at the corners, as she understood Michael meant his love in a platonic, friendly way.

He had always been platonic and friendly.

She was tired of platonic and friendly.

“I love you…I…I…I’m in love you with you.”

She repeated and the carrot in Michael’s hand bounced on the floor.

“Oh, Geneva…” His eyes showed an aching. “You don’t mean that. We haven’t seen each other in years, you don’t know what you’re saying--”

Fury blazed in her, and Geneva was up and on her feet.

“I don’t know what I’m saying? I don’t know what I’m saying? Yes I do know what I’m saying Michael I’m saying I love you!”

She half laughed, half screamed, clapping her hands together.

“Dinner is--”

“BEAT IT, FRIEDRICH!”

Turning from Michael, Geneva stormed over to one of paintings, hanging about the mantelpiece and leaned against it.

“I don’t mean it! I don’t mean it! If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it!”

“Geneva…”

“Do you know why I’m in Delaware, Michael? Do you know why Father moved Mother, Rudy, Otto, Adolph and Kristopher here?”

“Wasn’t it to go to the Upton School, it’s a very good school…” Michael started and was interrupted by bitter laughter.

“Bullshit--there’s tons of girls’ school right in California I could have gone to. I’ll tell you why.”

Geneva spun and eyes widening with a strange crazed glaze, she huffed,

“I was moved to Delaware, to get away from you!”

“Me?” Now it was Michael Jackson’s turn to rise. “What do you mean?”

He started towards her.

“Aha!” Another bitter snort.

Unable to gaze upon him any longer, Geneva turned and spoke off into the wall.

“You never knew…you were never supposed to know, really…”

She suddenly sensed Michael was behind her. His cologne preceded him. That citrus-y, sweet scent.

“I’ve always had a crush on you, Michael. I’ve always liked you, even when I was really young. Some girls have that ‘boys-have-cooties’ stage, well, I never did. I always liked you. That’s why I spent so much time at Neverland: to be near you.”

Geneva sighed deeply and trembled, pressing her forehead against the cold, glass-like surface of the marble.

“From the time I met you, I always liked you. And as I got older, and learned about certain things…” She peeked over her shoulder and found Michael staring, his brow furrowed with concern.

“…I started keeping a diary when I was about thirteen or so. About you…about things I’d…” She gulped and started to wring her hands. “…things I’d like to do to you.”

“Sexual things…” Michael echoed in a falsetto.

“Yes.” Geneva gripped the wall. “One day, when I was fourteen, I had a sleep over with some girlfriends. And I read some of what I wrote to them. Well, Mother heard me, and spoke to father about it. I…I have very poor impulse control Michael…”

Rolling along the wall, Geneva faced him.

“Anything I want, I do, and think of later. I’ve made extravagant purchases, I’ve gotten in fist-fights, all sorts of things. You’ve seen how I would be at Neverland. Eating the candy when I wanted, ordering your staff around. My parents…my parents thought if I were away from you, I wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize the business relationship you have with my father. You wouldn’t want to work with a man whose fourteen-year-old was flinging herself at you. I was a liability.”

A shakily breath was drawn in. “After Father was thrown out of Germany, I still don’t know why--it was before I was born--but if I did something like this, he’d be ruined in America.”

“But you’re not fourteen anymore, Geneva.” Michael spoke coolly, drawing closer.

“I know, I’ll be twenty-one in four months…” She whimpered and trailed off, staring up at Michael as he was now so close, their bodies touched.

She stared off into that strong, wise, chiseled face.

He stared back into her slim, oval face.

Kissing.

They were kissing.

A mangled mass of wrapped arms, pressing lips and flapping, moist tongues.

Hugged against one another and fairly fighting in this burst of new, untamed erotic energy, Geneva was rammed against the wall several times, once, so hard one of the paintings was knocked crooked.

And any control the young woman had possessed was gone out of the room and out of her body as she gripped Michael’s head in her hands and pecked all over his face, leaving pink lip prints.

“Please Michael…” She begged lustily. “I…I want you….”

Brown, warm eyes were wide as saucers.

“I…Geneva…I can’t. Your father is my attorney. Geneva…I’m forty-four, Baby. I’m so much older--” He stammered, the magnitude of the situation hitting him.

Eyes becoming turquoise slits in her head, Geneva purred in repetition,

“I like older men.”

“I know…but…I…I can’t have sex with you…Geneva, I can‘t!” His better judgment taking hold, Michael whirled around and started for the door and Geneva began to feel crushed.

But he didn’t leave.

Michael Jackson didn’t leave.

Instead, he stood near the closed door, fists clenched at his sides.

“You like me, too…don’t you?” Geneva ventured, stepping across the room, a bit timidly, towards him.

The waved hair on Michael’s head bounced and sparkled, as he nodded.

“Yes…Geneva…when I saw you…I…I…” He didn’t finish his statement as Geneva hugged him from behind.

His little ass was so plump and firm against her abdomen.

“I felt the same way…” She spoke off hotly into his ear and sucked at his lobe.

“Mercy…” Michael whined as Geneva’s hands rubbed at his thighs, and were speedily heading for his groin.

“NO!” He was suddenly gripping her wrists, quite hard, to the point he was hurting her.

“Not here, Geneva. Not in…the living room.” He announced definitively.

“My bedroom is upstairs--”

“Take me to it. Please…”

Stars in her eyes, Geneva wrapped herself around his arm and reached out, opened the door, where a worried Friedrich stood.

“Miss Lubitsch--your dinner!” He cried as the pair came sort of floating from the room.

“You eat it, Freddy. Mr. Jackson and I aren’t hungry…” Geneva whispered as she and Michael started towards the grand staircase.

“Yes Miss.”

* * *

“…your room is really beautiful…looks like something out of Versailles…” Michael Jackson’s voice, soft and shade on the timid side, drifted through the cracked door of the bathroom to Geneva’s ears.

Standing before her large and lighted vanity, Geneva was carefully and expertly spritzing her body all over with a heavy, vanilla musk perfume.

Spritzing her nude body.

For a moment, she paused, admiring her slender, lanky body. Sure it was small of bust, but well proportioned everywhere else. She had never heard anyone complain about it before. Especially not Professor Samuels, who’d lost his job behind her--and still wrote letters!

Carefully, Geneva sprayed after her little, proud globes, down along her smooth abdomen, and very lightly, at the bare slit at the bottom of her torso.

“…I went to Versailles once…I was about thirteen then…I think…” Michael was still chattering and had been ever since they had darkened the doors of the boudoir, with the intent of peeling the paint off the walls.

Geneva had told the world’s biggest star to “get comfortable”, while she “freshened up”.

Dabbing her mouth with more pink lipstick, Geneva winked at herself.

In only a few moments, she was going to make one of her teenage fantasies come true--she was sleep with Michael Jackson.

For real.

Fluffing her hair again, and trying to fight off the feeling of butterflies rising in her belly, she started over to the door and peeked her head out.

“…French food is alright…a lot of sauces and cheeses. Very rich, you know…I try to balance it with a lot of greens so I don’t gain. But the cheese is good. You ever eat a two hundred month old Camembert?”

Geneva had been gearing up to tease Michael, and ask if he had ever eaten a twenty year old, but as she looked out towards him, her breath caught in her throat.

She first saw his clothing, the blazer, shirt, and trousers folded neatly and spread across the small loveseat near her bed, his sparkle boots and socks on the floor before it.

Eyes going across the room, she spotted Michael.

He was sitting in the direct center of her bed, the silk and velvet covers pulled up near his chin, but even from where she stood, she could see his bare, milky shoulders exposed.

The King of Pop was in her bed!!!

And he looked exactly like an angel!

“I’m talking French stuff…you’re half German, my mistake. I liked going to Germany. Munich is a lovely city. The people are nice. Rich food there too. Sausages and sauerkraut and potatoes…”

Michael’s statement came to an abrupt end as Geneva stepped from the bathroom, her entire form revealed to him.

“Sweet Fancy Moses!” He gasped, mouth falling open and eyes growing in his head.

“Do you like what you see?” She chuckled, stopping by the bedside and starting to peel the covers back.

She stopped and stared.

As he sat in the bed, Michael Jackson wasn’t nude--almost, but not completely.

Sure he had a smooth beautiful, lightly defined abdomen and arms and strong thighs that could choke out a camel, but…

His groin….was still covered by a pair of white briefs.

“Michael--what?” She stammered, and instantly felt embarrassed.

“I told you…I can’t have sex with you Geneva…” Michael started slowly, and Geneva was trying to decide which of the five languages she spoke fluently would be best to curse him out.

“…you’re my attorney’s daughter. He’d kill me if I fucked you.”

Her ears perked up at him swearing. He’d never cursed in front

of her that she could remember.

Hands on hips, Geneva huffed with scorn.

“Well, what other ideas have you got, Mein Leibling?”

Slipping from the bed, Michael loomed over Geneva.

His eyes danced with a wild fire of eroticism.

“I…I…I want you….” He extended his index finger and thumb and began pointing downwards.

The pencil-thin brows on Geneva’s face went up in question and slyly she ordered,

“Say it, I don’t understand sign language.”

Michael’s pale cheeks surged with redness.

“You’re multi-lingual. You cursed my brother Jermaine out in Italian once!”

“Spoken language. I only know one gesture in sign language.”

She started to flash her middle finger at Michael.

“No!” Michael clapped his hands on hers.

“Say it!”

“Geneva Magda!”

“Say it, String Bean!”

“SUCK MY DICK, GODDAMN IT!”

Michael cried so sharply, Geneva’s head was thrown back.

“I understand English, I’m not deaf!” She chuckled and smacked at his mouth. “Pillow--”

A ripe, plump pillow appeared on the floor and willingly, she knelt on it.

Lightly raking her nails along the tender flesh on his thighs, she informed him.

“Never thought I’d do this--figured Hell would bust open first.”

“I’m gonna bust the hell open if you don’t…please…suck it….”

“Calm yourself.” Geneva winked, trying to be cool herself, and began easing the elastic down. She was throbbing all over, and was sure to be wet before she even touched him.

Had she ever seen this horny in her life?

Her head was spinning--she was finally going to have Michael!

Her Michael!

The briefs fell at Michael’s ankles and was kicked away.

Geneva was eye to eye with the beast: Michael Jackson’s penis.

She was looking at the most famous crotch in show-business!

And really, it was much more than she had ever expected.

His groin was free of hair, save a thin landing strip in the center, just above…

Michael had sprung from his underwear, fully erect, pointing skywards and drifting off to the right slightly. (Michael was right-handed, it was only natural his dick would slant that way from pulling.)

Geneva had never known it before that moment, but Michael was uncircumcised, a pinkish flap of skin revealing his rudely red and engorged tip, setting at the end of a thick, lightly veined shaft, that was every bit of twelve inches long, if not more.

“Please….please. Getting head makes me so happy…Shamone!”

A large hand came down and began rubbing at the pink mass, causing it to bounce and the tip collided with Geneva’s little nose several times, before she took hold of it.

It was so warm and hard in her hand.

“Yes, Baby….yes, Sweetheart…Shamone! Yes!” Michael’s head fell back as Geneva started to very slowly ease his length into the warm, moist depths of her mouth and down into her throat.

“Deep throat my shit….deep throat it…God….damn…”

Michael, a violent shade of crimson all over, was speaking through gritted teeth, so quickly was he stimulated.

“Yeah! Yeah! Like that! Just like that! Just like…that!”

Leaning back, and allowing the dampened flesh to fall from her mouth, Geneva lifted it and kissed at his small, swollen, and dangling testicles.

Her tongue traced the tiny ridge between them.

“Holy!” Michael gasped as Geneva suddenly rose.

“I want you in my bed, Michael. I always dreamed of doing this in my bed--not next to it--”

“Yes Ma’am!” Michael was spread out on top of the covers before the statement was finished.

Gingerly, the hot young co-ed picked her way around to the foot of the bed, as Michael lay, private parts standing straight up.

And she crawled onto the bed.

Starting near his feet, Geneva took her time, kissing up to his groin.

His legs parted and were held beneath the knees, leaving Geneva with full, uninterrupted access to Michael’s naughtier bits.

“AH!” Michael cried sharply and pulled a pillow over his face as she fell on him, taking that cock deep in her mouth and bracing against his thighs began bobbing up and down along his pole.

Keeping his legs open for herself.

“Yes! Yes! Damn! Yes! Geneva! Suck it! Suck me! Suck!”

Hands came down and intertwined with her hair, and shoved Geneva down, holding her where she couldn’t get up.

“Deep throat it….deep…come on.” It was Michael doing the taunting. “You wanted me in your bed, be a big girl and give me Head the way I want.”

In truth he was choking the poor girl, but Geneva was so happy and high on adrenaline to be having some sort of intimacy with Michael, it barely occurred to her she couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, he let her go, and as she gasped for air, one of the large hands was nudging her side ways, so that she rested at a 90 degree angle with his body.

Again, she fell on him, producing a squeal.

“Fucking hell! Oh girl! Your mouth! What you’re doing!”

And Michael was toying with her.

His hands rubbing at her smooth backside, slapping at it and a finger rummaging inside, down to her little pussy, fingers playing and disappearing.

“Mmmm! Ugh! Ugh!” Geneva cried around his rod as it plunged back and forth, as he tickled after her privates.

“Yes…oh my God! Oh my God!” Michael hooted, his body starting to tremble. “I can’t take much more! I’m gonna….I’m gonna…”

Seeing Michael was near his end, Geneva lifted of him and wrapping those lilac tipped hands around that shaft, began tweaking and stroking on him.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my dick….oh….oh….I’m gonna come! Gen….I’m gonna fucking come!

Her tongue flicked and the tip of it pressed just beyond the little dimple in the center of the tip of Michael’s prick.

“Don’t do that!”

Michael arched rapidly, and if Geneva hadn’t moved she’d have been poked in the eye.

“FUCK!” Michael squealed, falling back onto the bed and took hold of a pillow.

Placing it over his face, he screamed…

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And with one, solid, powerful blast, shot Geneva directly in the face.

“Shit!” There was no way to avoid the direct hit.

She was splattered right in the nose with everything radiating outwards, effectively covering her.

“Yes…” Michael was shaking and ran a hand down her face, pushing the white, sticky, salty goo into her mouth. “Taste me…swallow me…swallow….you have a beautiful mouth, Baby. ”

“Yes…Michael, yes…” Geneva was greedily licking at his hand, savoring him and allowing him to wipe off her pretty little face.

Michael, glistening lightly with a sheen of sweat told her in no candy-coated terms,

“My turn…all fours…now.”

Geneva, electrified and halfway there already, could barely move she was so excited, and aroused.

Michael….Michael Jackson was gonna…he was gonna eat her!

Obediently, she propped in the appropriate position, carefully Michael laid under her, grasping her soft ass cheeks and directing her down onto his face.

“Oh! Oh! Oooooh!” She whimpered, covering her face, as his mouth made contact with her.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Loudly, Michael was licking her, his tongue flicking back and forth, paying special attention to the little bulb that was her clit.

“Michael….Michael! Oooooh Michael! Michael please!” She begged now, as his lips curled around the clit, sucking on it.

“Mike please! I’ll come! Aw, hell!”

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Deeper his tongue plunged into her slit and as she tried to crawl away, his hold locked on her.

How he was managing to breathe with all that pussy in his face, was a mystery.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” She cried, growing burgundy as Michael released her a bit and forced a finger inside, twisting wildly.

“Such, a nice, pretty little cunt, yes….so juicy….”

He teased and giggled.

As he twisted, his tongue hit at the clit again, sending wave after wave through her.

There was a loud, strange sound, as Michael kissed her down there almost as well as he had kissed her mouth.

Slowly, and tentatively, that tongue came out to play again.

“MI-CHAEL!” Geneva cried, taking hold of a pillow and clutching it underneath her chest, shrieking above it.

At the same time, both of Michael’s hands lifted and slapped her ass.

“POP!”

More and more waves were coursing through that lithe, young body, and more and more Geneva was losing control over it.

“Michael, stop…stop….please! Please! MICHAEL!”

She screeched as a finger slid into her backside, and his tongue went deep again.

“I…I can’t take much more of this!” She announced, her dainty nails ripping at the bedding.

The admission only intensified the ardent licking of her loins and the more Geneva struggled to get away from him, to escape that feeling that was encompassing her entire body, the very harder he held onto her.

Finally…finally…

The dam burst.

“AH! AH! AH! DAMN YOU! AH! AH! AHHHHH!”

Geneva began jerking and flailing upon the bed as from her depths, a warm, torrent of liquid began to flow.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Michael, his entire face and hair becoming soaked, sputtered and laughed. “Hee-hee! That’s what I like to see!”

Soft finger tips came up and rubbed back and forth against that swollen little bulb encouraging more of the liquid erotic to gush.

As the squirt became a trickle, Geneva stretched out on the bed.

“Oh…oh my…Michael…” She gasped as he crawled alongside, head turning and damp face eyeing hers.

“What did we just do?”

This was all too much for her to even begin wrapping her head around.

She, Geneva, had just….been intimate with the King of Pop.

Why, it would be the greatest story ever told!

A naughty smile lit Michael’s face.

“Ate each other--instead of dinner.” He winked and tickled, both chuckled, fingers intertwining and holding hands.

* * *

“Magda! Magda! Magda, where are you?”

Came the familiar boom of Count Lubitsch’s voice, ringing through the halls.

A small smile crossed Geneva’s lips as she buttered a small piece of croissant.

“Ich bin in meinem schlafzimmer, Vater! Auf dem Balkon!”

(I’m in my bedroom, Father. On the balcony!)

Holding the bread out, Geneva tittered as Michael leaned forward and ate from her fingertips.

Her father came barreling through the doors.

“Magda--oh, hello Michael!” His eyes widened briefly at the sight of both his daughter and his old friend, still wearing robes in the early afternoon.

“Hello Rudolph! It’s so good to see you!” Michael was up and hugging the ex-dignitary.

“I was just about to ask Magda where you were. I looked in all the guest rooms and here you are!” Count Lubitsch grinned.

Peeking over his shoulder, Michael winked at Geneva.

“Geneva has been keeping me company. So sweet and attentive. She’s an excellent hostess.”

If only he knew how excellent she had been!

The old man seemed quite relieved and sighed loudly.

“Oh! I know you had left word wanting to see me, what’s up?”

Dark eyes in that pale face danced as they met the turqouise ones of his little impromptu lover.

“I want to see a realtor--I want to see about getting a place here, in Delaware. Blame it on poor impulse control, but I just have to have it!”

Geneva only threw her head back and laughed