Most people who encounter and meet me nowadays, would most likely describe me as ‘friendly’ and outgoing. (At least, I hope they would!) And I think it would surprise many to know that in my younger and formative years, I was quite the loner. Whilst other children ran around in packs, I was off to myself, in the corner watching and yearning to be included. It was that thought of lonesomeness, the thought of being the outsider, looking in that inspired this story. What if an outsider, really did gain an entrance into the world in which he had been gazing from afar? What would he find? The excitement he so yearned, or even more?
“Lonely”
Michael Jackson Erotica By:
MJsLoveSlave
Los DeMarco California
Summer, 2003
Hyacinth Avenue, in the heart of the wealthy enclave of Los Demarco, was the center of the small city’s claim to nightlife.
Lining the street were a variety of clubs, restaurants and other entertainment hotspots.
The most popular and bearing the longest line of eager partiers and soon to be drunkards, was Club Chromium.
Soaring up above the busy and packed street below, it was barely eleven o’clock at night and already there was a line a hundred deep.
Women in clingy, skimpy dresses, men with hairy chests, and more leather than should have been legal.
(A few people getting the festivities started early by way of a “funny” cigarette or two.)
In general, it’s a happy, electric sort of atmosphere.
But everyone in the line, trying to make their way into Club Chromium, were so concerned with themselves, how they looked and what overpriced, watered down glass of liquor to get, not a single one paid any attention to the couple on side of the building.
A young woman, and a man, somewhat older, stood against the warm brick wall, arguing with one another.
“Call him! Call him, please!”
The man, tall and lanky, with a complexion to pale he fairly glowed in the darkness, was urging impatiently, holding out a small, silver flip-phone to the woman.
Hands tipped with a reverse French manicure--black nails with stark white moons--were shoving the phone away, refusing it.
“I can’t! I can’t do! I don’t think I can! This is too much! Too fast!” The woman pleaded, grabbing at her thick, volumized black tresses, a single, platinum blonde streak lock, falling into her widened and distressed eyes.
“You have to!” The man insists, wrapping the woman’s delicate hands around the mobile device. “I can’t do it for you! You have to do it! You’ve already told me ‘YES‘!”
In the dimness, the woman stares at the phone the screen glowing and providing the only light, other than the tacky neon that wraps the club.
Yes…she had said yes to this man’s request…
And getting around to that particular request had given the young woman one of the strangest, most exhilarating and rewarding nights of her life.
A Few Hours Earlier
Monotony.
That was all Emily Brewster’s life consisted of.
Every day, unchanging, ceaseless monotony.
The twenty-five-year-old’s day consisted of sleeping in, until about five in the afternoon each day, as she wouldn’t get home until some time after dawn the next morning.
But that was to be expected of a waitress in Club Chromium, the trendiest and most popular nightclub in that affluent subdivision of Los Angeles.
As she had been for the last four years.
The routine was always the same…
Her alarm would ring, jarring her to consciousness with one of the Top 40 hits blaring into her ear--that particular afternoon, she had Jessica Simpson bursting her eardrum.
After the clock was slapped to floor, where it would remain until it was needed to be set again, Emily rolled from her bed, usually in some form of cartoon pajama pants with a camisole--today, it was Spongebob--with her hair gathered in a loose bun atop her head.
In the waning sunlight, Emily picked her way, barefoot, through her spacious, loft apartment, making a beeline to the kitchen where a pot of freshly brewed coffee awaited her.
In rapid succession, three mugs’ worth, heavy with cream and sugar, were chugged in an effort to stir and wake her.
The waking effect was further achieved by a nice, brisk, cold shower.
Emily then emerged, wrapped in a bright pink terrycloth robe and proceed with the laborious task of dressing for work.
Her hair, halfway down her back and a rich raven black, except for one, pencil-thin icy platinum blonde streak near her face, was wrapped around large hot curlers, more for volume than shape.
The eighties may have been gone, but she still lived for the big hair.
As her tresses were setting, Emily sat and began to do her make up.
She wore a variant of the same outfit each night: some form of skimpy black dress, high heels and flashy silver and/or white gold jewelry.
That was the devil of the dress code at Club Chromium. As the interior was black, white and silver, all workers had to match. It had been ages since she had gotten to wear color out.
Her dress that night was a cute little piece of nothing black silk, made to appear crinkled, with a high hemline--to show off her well-shaped, lengthy legs--and a low neckline to accentuate her full bosom. Long-sleeves gave the illusion of modesty.
She had learned long ago that dressing to look her sexy best garnered the high-dollar tips that provided for her above-average mode of living.
Quickly, thick black liner, thicker false lashes and a few swipes of mascara accented her gold flecked, hazel eyes. Pinkish bronzer, in place of blush popped off of high cheekbones, and Emily’s café au lait complexion.
Dark red lipstick was the exclamation point on her plump, naturally pouted lips. (Angelina Jolie had nothing on her!)
By the time her face was painted in, the hot rollers had cooled enough to be handled.
Hair finally set, was unwound, flipped back and forth several times, lending an organized wildness to Emily’s look and was sprayed in place.
Sexy women did always look a bit untamed…
The black dress was slipped on with a tiny touch of silver body glitter, sprinkled to her cleavage to draw attention to her “fun pillows”.
The final touches to the ensemble were a wide, onyx and crystal bracelet, set in sterling silver, fashioned to look like a pair of panther heads. Matching earrings were attached to her lobes and shimmering, patent leather stilettos were slipped onto small feet.
An innumerable amount of Vanilla Musk perfume graced her pulse points and like a flash, Emily was out the door.
Twenty minutes later, around half-past six, a dark purple Corvette pulled into the all but abandoned parking lot on side of the soaring three story building that was Club Chromium, and was shut off.
Though the establishment wouldn’t open its doors to the public until nine that night, Emily always liked to arrive early and set the place up herself.
It was expected…her father owned the club and it was up to her to ensure that it met with his exacting standards every single night.
Exiting her car, keys to the front doors in hand, Emily started to round the building.
Reaching the locked, glass and chrome-trimmed revolving door, Emily paused and gazed across the street, her hazel eyes seeking out a familiar sight.
Directly across from the club, was a small bistro, called Pan.
It was as popular as Club Chromium and always filled to the brim with patrons at any given hour.
But only one patron in particular demanded Emily Brewster’s attention.
Quite a few months ago, she had taken notice of a man.
Truly it wasn’t hard to miss him, as his appearance was much like nothing Emily had ever seen before.
She couldn’t judge his age, as the man had a very smooth, youthful face, unlined by any kind of years, and guessed him around thirty or so.
He was exceedingly pale--in a city where Tan was King--and to see someone so porcelain-skinned, was a rarity.
His lightness was made more apparent by his long, jet black mane, straightened and sweeping his shoulders, and large, deep, dark eyes.
Eyes that were gazing across at Emily from the same small table by the wide, pane glass window for a split second, before dropping down to the plate he was eating from.
That was something that Emily found to be unnerving.
This man watched her every day.
No matter the time, rain or shine, he was always looking at her.
She would see him, on her way in to work and just as dawn was breaking, as she left, he’d still be there, hours later.
Always eating or drinking something inside of Pan.
Always staring, but never more than that.
He never left, never approached her, had never breathed a word to her.
She didn’t even know his name.
Emily hesitated a moment and glanced down at the keys in her hand.
She was curious.
Who was this man? What was his interest? Why did he watch her so?
The club would keep an extra ten or so minutes.
Before she was really aware of it, her legs were carrying across the street, to the open door of the restaurant.
“Welcome to Pan, Ma’am…” A maitre ’d cheerfully greeted her from a small podium. “How many people are in your party?”
“Just me, I’m meeting someone…” Emily responded curtly, brushing past him and advancing into the crowded dining room.
“I see he’s already here.”
Swiftly, her eyes had sought out and found that head of straight hair near the window.
Weaving in and out of tables, she was rapidly descending on him.
His back was turned and he never did see her coming…
Coming up right behind him, a scent suddenly hit the young woman and nearly dropped her to her knees onto the green marble floor.
A bright, fresh aroma, laced with bergamot and cinnamon, was wafting from the man. Drowning out any and every scent of food in the place. His cologne was a sweet, spicy scent and Emily, caught in the down draft swayed a moment, vision going hazy.
She couldn’t recall a scent like than on any man before, and she smelled them by the dozens each night during her shifts.
Emily lingered behind him, gazing down at the back of him.
Admiring him without realizing it.
The man was dressed simply, yet opulently, in a black leather jacket and denim trousers, his slim form, hugged by high-priced duds.
On the floor, long feet were encased in black boots with silver cap toes and heels.
Ignorant to the fact he was now the one being watched, the man was calmly eating a small meal, consisting of a platter of roasted red and yellow beets with some kind of blue cheese, a glass of half-consumed white wine, and a croissant on a separate plate, glittering with melted butter.
A long, spindly hand came up, tearing a piece of the bread away and the man went to his mouth with it.
As he did, a second hand, tipped with reverse French tip nails, plucked the bread from his fingertips.
Startled, the man whirled in his chair, gripping the back of it.
Recognizing her, as she stood chewing the croissant, his eyes widened--in what looked to be unbridled horror.
He had the most beautiful eyebrows, stark black and shaped into fine, crisp arches, looking like eagle’s wings on his forehead. Eyebrows that were now meeting his hairline, and registering his surprise.
So close to him, Emily saw the man was wearing a light application of makeup--black rimmed his eyes, clear gloss sparkled on thin pink lips and his cheeks showed the lightest hint of color.
Cheeks now flushing darker as Emily licked extra butter from her thumb and the black nail rimmed with white.
Removing her thumb from her mouth, she asked so quietly, she nearly went unheard over the general din,
“May I join you?”
Lush locks swished as the man nodded, mouth slightly agape and a hand pointed out the vacant seat.
Her ass hadn’t hit the little cushion properly before her crimson mouth opened,
“Tell me something, String Bean: Why is it every time I look up, I see you, leering at me from this here window…Do you have a reason for watching me? You’ve been doing it for a long time, and it really is beginning to strike me as strange.”
Napkin in hand, which Emily noticed was trembling, the man dabbed at his mouth before he lodged an answer.
Deep eyes washing over her, he spoke in a high-pitched, rather light voice for a man.
“My name is Michael Jackson--”
His hand was offered and shaken. It was so soft and smooth, smoother than a man’s hand should have been.
“--Emily Brewster.”
“It’s nice to finally know you, Emily.” A shy, touch of a smile came to his face, curling his lips.
“I own Pan…this is my restaurant.”
Emily, guard faltering for the moment, and still holding onto his hand, glanced around at the ostentatious settings.
The marble, the half-dozen crystal chandeliers overhead, the string quartet in the far corner playing a classical piece.
This…this was his place of business? He owned Pan?
His other hand was suddenly on hers, tapping it apologetically.
“I’m sorry for staring at you, I realize its rude…” He murmured bashfully, eyes leaving her face, and seeming to focus on her bracelet.
“I…I took notice of you one evening while I was having my dinner--I eat here everyday to make sure the kitchen is producing dishes worthy of having my name attached to…”
He grinned as a waiter went gliding by, a huge tray steaming on his upturned palm.
“…and I noticed you coming out, early the following morning, while I was taking my breakfast.”
Michael inhaled deeply and picked at the panther heads circling her wrist.
“You were always alone, Emily. I took note of that each and every day. You were alone. Coming and going so late. I had no intent to be creepy…just a young woman in the dark, alone, is dangerous. I simply watched to ensure you made it back and forth, to your car, safely.”
Emily softened, and her head tilted, her eyes roving over that sharp face.
He was only looking to make sure she was safe?
He was making sure she was okay?
It was almost too much to comprehend…to wrap her head around.
“But, you didn’t know me…why should you care about my safety?” Emily wondered, trying to figure if this was the kindest thing anyone had done for her.
“I just do. You were the only one I saw going in alone--and not part of a pack. Just like I noticed, a predator also could. I’d never forgive myself if anything bad were to happen…”
His hand stopped patting hers and his fingers ran along the unused steak knife on the table.
“I can throw one of these like I belong in the circus.”
He informed her seriously and Emily warmed at the thought he’d actually stab someone to save her.
He had been protecting her, all this time and she had never known it.
Why he was so gallant, so…so gentlemanly to do such a thing.
And it was doing wonderful things to Emily Brewster.
“Michael…” Emily wondered, her voice a bare purr, changed her grip and brought his inhumanly huge hand to her lips.
Softly she pecked the freckled white flesh, and left behind a scarlet impression.
“Hee-hee…gosh!” Michael was shaking his head shyly and trying to avoid eye contact, snickering loudly as it was becoming clear, he was flustered.
Emily was getting to like this guy…
“Why didn’t you ever come to the club? Why sit and watch me from afar?”
His eyes drifted across the road as twilight was darkening to night and the street lights started to glow.
“I always see crowds of people going in there…but I’d be in there just as I am now--alone.”
His eyes fell to his plate, and seemed moist, as though he was readying to cry.
“I never did fit in as the clubbing type. I‘ve always been the lonely type…but I liked watching everyone else all dressed up going in--especially you, Emily.”
A partial smile came to his face and he was starting to lean in towards her.
“I’ll bet its very pretty inside.”
Letting go of his hand, Emily rose, and tugged at her skirt, starting to ride up her thighs.
“Would you like to come in? The club doesn’t open for a long while yet. Its empty, and you can look around with out it becoming a spectator sport.” She offered, placing a hand on his thin shoulder.
Michael glanced at her manicured hand.
“I’d appreciate that, thank you…” His whispered and it wasn’t lost how his eyes shone with gratitude.
He was up a moment later, towering over her, putting his slender arm through hers.
What a nice man! Emily thought, her head swirling at the gesture. He was escorting her away, personally.
Head turning, she marveled at him, his taut profile, the upturned nose and dimpled chin, hair swishing and bouncing with each of his assured, confident strides.
He was a slight man, very slim and Emily probably weighed a good ten pounds more than him, but up and walking, Michael Jackson was a man of authority.
He was a man that commanded the room and did stroll like the owner of the place.
It was unmistakable. He hadn’t uttered a sound, but volumes had been screamed.
She could see some of the patrons nodding at hi, with smiles of welcome as he went by and on the same note, several waiters seemed intimidated by his sheer presence.
Instantly, Emily was impressed and a bit goofy.
After a lifetime of drunken jerks at Chromium, she was in the company of one of the true players, a real gentleman.
And it felt nice, having a man simply hold her arm, instead of pinching at her backside or grabbing her in various other places.
Silently, the pair started for the door.
“Have a pleasant night, Mr. Jackson!” The maitre ’d called gaily as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
A strange chill let Emily and left a frost on her, as Michael replied solemnly, voice deepening by several octaves.
“I intend to.”
After waiting patiently a few moments, to avoid being splattered on the pavement by speeding cars in the road, this newly minted duo crossed back over to Club Chromium.
Michael stood off to the side, as Emily opened the door and started to push through it.
“Have you ever been to a club before, Michael?” She questioned idly, as they stood in the black marble encased entry way and more from memory than paying attention, she was slapping on lights and turning on the air conditioning.
“A very long time ago…” Michael ran his fingers against the cool wall. “I celebrated my twenty-first birthday at Studio 54, in New York…”
“Oh, and when was that?” Emily took hold of that massive hand and was bringing Michael along to the main floor, which featured dozens of silver and mirrored round tables, and a lighted dance floor, separated and sunken into the ground. Up above them, several VIP balconies and lounges could be seen.
The silver velvet curtains were drawn on the stage a few yards away, where a live band played each night.
In the very back of the room, a fully stocked bar, made of clear glass blocks waited to be used.
Emily staggered when Michael replied calmly,
“I turned twenty-one in 1979.”
Though she wasn’t that fantastic at math, Emily was able to swiftly crunch numbers and was stunned to figure up that Michael Jackson was not thirty as she had first anticipated.
If he were telling the truth, he was closer to forty-five and a full twenty years older than her!
She stared at him again, questioningly, trying to make sense of it.
But how? His face was so smooth. Like cream!
Seeing he was being looked at Michael nodded.
“I am…that old, Emily.”
“You don’t look it.” She sighed, her chest starting to ache a bit, and she broke her gaze.
“Thank you…”
Michael was lead to a table near the dance floor and the chairs were pulled down with her offering him a seat.
Michael complied, sitting down, his hands folding on the tabletop.
“Would you care for a drink? On the house.” Emily wondered and a hand stroked after the dimple in that chin a moment.
“A… a Dirty Martini please. If that’s not too much trouble.” Michael finally decided and Emily giggled.
“Ask me something difficult!”
Turning from him she started across to the bar.
“This place is pretty cool…” Michael commented from behind her. “I bet it really jumps when it’s full.”
“It’s alright…” Emily shrugged nonchalantly, reaching the bar and starting to assemble the combination of gin and vermouth in a shaker with ice.
“I don’t care much for the music. It’s techno, all night, every night. Gives me a headache sometimes.”
Shaking the mixture with one hand, with the other she pulled down a martini glass and began to pour the cocktail in.
Taking a green olive, she speared it on a small, silver plastic sword and dropped it into the drink.
And to make it “dirty” she added a dash of the olive brine to the drink.
As she returned to the table, she noticed that Michael Jackson had made himself comfortable.
He’d come out of his leather jacket, draping it on the back of his chair, and he wore a plain white tee. The front seemed slightly ripped, and showed off a generous portion of his chest, with more of those fleshy colored freckles, like on his hand.
Up close a smattering of black hairs could be seen.
His arms, trim, showed a touch of toned muscles.
He was wiry, but took much care of his form.
“Here you are, Sir, one Dirty Martini.” Emily placed the glass before him.
“Thanks…” She watched as he glass was tilted to his pink mouth and sipped.
“This is perfect…” Michael commented, eyes huge and satisfied, Emily left him a moment.
She came back with a bottle of glass cleaner and a small rag and started to spray the top of the neighboring table to bring its top to a gleam.
Emily was well aware that Michael’s eyes were on her.
“Are…are you going to do that to all the tables here?” He asked, between sips, his voice full of concern.
“Yes.” Emily sprayed more. “All of them are mirror tops. So they get covered in fingerprints and I have to clean them off.”
“Are you the only worker here or something?” Michael looked around at all the tables, still needing attention.
“There’s almost fifty tables here from what I can see--”
“There’s sixty-two.” Emily corrected him, moving to another table.
“I prefer to do it. My boss is rather picky, so I have to make the place mostly for him.”
“That’s not fair to you. Cleaning all this up, and then having to wait tables.” Michael pointed out as Emily was wiping a third table.
“Well, I have to. My father won’t have it any other way.” Emily shrugged and Michael fell silent for a long while.
“Your father? That’s who your boss is?” He inquired, scratching at his head, clearly bewildered.
“Yup.” A fourth table was cleaned.
“It’s still not fair…” Michael Jackson nodded with conviction, placing his empty glass on the tabletop.
“A…a…a…” He stammered plucking the olive from its sword and popping it into his mouth.
Emily paused, head coming up and peering across at him.
“What?”
Swallowing, Michael tossed his head and completed his statement,
“A pretty young woman, such as yourself shouldn’t be slinging glasses around and standing on your feet all night. You should be tucked away in a soft bed, sleeping and resting.”
Chuckling she shook her head.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind the work, not really. It pays well, and I need that to afford my apartment--”
As she spoke, her elbow bumped the bottle of glass cleaner, and it fell to the floor.
“Damn.” She grumbled, stepping over it, turning her back to Michael and stooped to pick it up.
She straightened, poised to move to the next table.
The bottle crashed to the floor again when warm hands grasped her shoulders and began to knead them.
The warm scent of Michael was overpowering as he had somehow with the secrecy of a ninja come up behind her and was now holding her against his chest.
His breath, warm and smelling faintly of gin, blew into her ear as he whispered,
“Emily…right now, you could walk away from this job, if you wanted to. All around the state of California, I own a dozen restaurants, just like Pan, across the street. I can very easily take care of you, and give you anything you could ever desire…Baby.”
Emily was barely breathing, her chest heaving as Michael’s arms wrapped her waist and she was hugged against him tightly.
Lips, moist and tender smooched her cheek.
“I’ve liked you since the first moment I ever laid eyes on you.” He confessed, kisses being planted along her throat.
“I’ve wanted to be with you ever since--goddamn, you smell so good, Em!”
His hand clutched her beneath her chin and tilted her head back.
Before she could stop him, Michael’s lips were crushing hers so willfully, with such loving, passionate force, she only quivered in his arms.
His mouth was drawn back a bit just to where he could speak.
Eyes closed, his lashes fluttering, Michael whispered into her mouth,
“Do you think you could grow to like me--love me?”
Weakened…Emily nodded.
“Mmm-hmm!”
She was squeezed again.
Michael’s eyes snapped open suddenly, tripling in size in his long face.
“Go lock that revolving door, please.”
* * *
“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
“Yes…that’s it! Yes…you like that, don’t you! Grrr!”
Michael Jackson was growling, his teeth snarled and bared like the wild animal he was as he hunched over Emily.
His long hands mashed into the searing flesh of Emily’s silken thighs, holding her in place on top of the small table.
He stood, his shirt off and on the floor, his denim trousers and red silk briefs dropped to his ankles.
On either side of his thin body, her brown legs were spread and shaking with each powerful thrust being thrown into her.
From one ankle, her tiny pair of black panties dangled, as the rush for hot sex had taken them so fast, neither had fully undressed.
And now, there Emily was, being held on one of the mirrored tables, her little, delicate hole, being assaulted so wonderfully by that strapping, humungous rod of steel Michael Jackson referred to as his penis.
“Hoo--shit! Yeah! Yeah! Yesssss!” Michael groaned, thrusting into her deeper. “You’re so good, Baby…so damn good!”
“Ugh! More, Michael--More!” Emily begged, scathingly hot and reached up, grabbing onto his shoulders and was pulling him down on her.
As he continued to pump at a speed Emily didn’t think existed, their mouths bumped and tongues danced back and forth nastily.
Breaths were speeding and increased, and goose pimples covered the two of them.
“I’m tearing you up, aren’t I?” Michael teased, eyes flashing playfully.
“Shut up, and fuck me!” Emily ordered, grabbing a hand full of his hair and tugging it.
“Ow!” She cried as the favor was returned, with Michael burying his face in her throat sucking.
“Michael…oh Mike…” She hugged him closer to her and could feel his thrusts slowing to a stop.
Curiously as to why he was stopping when it was getting so good, she plopped back and stared up at him.
“Why--”
Teeth showed at her as Michael was easing that swollen, red-tipped mass from her pink folds.
Rubbing at that monstrously large prick, he instructed, by way of what sounded like a rough exhaling of air.
His other hand touched as his bouncing chest.
“Turn over…goddamn.”
Slipping from the table, Emily stood on jellied legs, and their eyes met briefly, before she obeyed, turning her back to him.
Michael’s hands were on her skirt, shoving it back up to expose her nude lower half and she jumped as one of his hands smacked her backside.
“Bad girl…bad girl bringing this ass to me.” Michael mumbled, and slapped her again. “All this sexy ass!”
“Oh!” She was shoved forward and nearly smacked her face on the table as Michael positioned himself behind her.
In the mirror she saw the ecstasy on his face for a split second before her own eyes squinched in a pleased pain as he introduced himself to her again.
“AAOW!” Michael cried and his hips flexed, starting to thrust at her again, his hands clutching her shoulders to steady himself.
“So tight! So good! Oh my God! I can’t wait until I…until I come!” He grunted and he was grabbing her hair again.
He pulled her head back with such force it should have snapped her neck.
“My name--what’s my name! Say my name! I want to hear my name!” He demanded and his pace quickened.
“Ah! Ah! Ahhhh! Michael! MICHAEL! MIKE!” A wave of warmness washed over Emily as the two fell to the tabletop, Michael weighing her down and his hands grabbing at her hips to steady himself.
That’s all he was doing. Grabbing at her all over.
Driving her to madness with his movements.
Those sleek, educated, learned movements of a man who used his sex on a expert’s level.
RIP!
Her breasts were out.
“Damn you, you tore my dress!” Emily declared, not really angered as Michael pulled on the front of her dress some more, her breasts, rounded, full and swaying in the reflection with each plug he scored on her.
And then they were eclipsed by those hands.
“I love your titties…nice big titties….” He hissed, as he bore down on her, his teeth nibbling at her shoulder.
“Get off me!” Emily ordered, not meaning a word of it, and her hands curled around the corner of the table.
The hairs on her head stood when Michael replied hotly,
“NEVER.”
Hair falling into her face, a flash of heat hit Emily and clawing for the table she screamed.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
And from her, a droplets of heated wetness began to trickle, dampening Michael’s pole and flowing down her tensed thighs.
“Aw…oh shit! You came! Baby, you came and got wet all over me! That’s what I like to see! Oh shit!”
Michael’s thrusts were quicker than ever.
“I’m almost there. I’m almost there, Em, Honey! It’s about…I’m about…damn…I’m gonna…”
His statement was never completed.
One hand pressed into Emily’s rocking back, as she had been meeting his every throw faithfully, and with the other he was removing himself from her reddened and still dripping puss.
“Yeah…oh my…”
The moist meat was being rubbed right along the crack of her ass.
“Oh…oh….oh….” Emily, starved of oxygen was trying vainly to breathe. Would she ever breathe again. She didn’t really care as long as she had this amazing man with her.
Doing these unspeakable things to her.
“Oh Dear God…” Michael gasped and Emily could feel something raining down on her flesh.
“I’m….I’m ejaculating.”
As the last bits of the lewd juice came free of the dimpled tip of his cock, and started to go limp after such a workout, dropped it and let the foot-long shaft dangle between his thighs as he took hold of Emily and spun her to face him.
Semi-nude bodies pressed one another.
His mouth was all over hers again and as she became goo in his arms, Michael stated, sternly.
“Home. I’m going to take you home now, Emily.”
“Mine or yours…”
His kisses were a weapon and if he wasn’t careful he was going to kill that poor, exhausted girl.
“Ours, formerly mine.” Michael corrected her, and holding her face in his hands, his lips pressed her forehead.
“You will live with me, won’t you?”
“Yes…”
Ours…
Emily pressed her face against Michael’s chest, starting to perspire and show sparklets of sweat. His heart beat so loudly against her ear.
Ours…
Pinching after a light pink nipple, Emily whispered,
“You won’t be lonely anymore…”
And so there they were, on the side of the building, with Michael making Emily call her father.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The phone was so small and cold against her face, each time the line rang, it sounded like a firing squad giving a twenty-one gun salute in her ear.
Nervously, Emily’s hand shook and seeing she ws going to drop it. Michael grabbed the phone, holding to her ear.
Finally, there was a click.
“Hello, Brad Brewster speaking.” Came her fathers thick, deep voice.
“Daddy?” Emily started and her father’s voice spiked in decibels,
“Emily? What’s wrong? Did something happen to the club? What? What happened to the club? Is it on fire? Tell me!“
Her father was frantic over his nest egg and straightening her shoulders she stared boldly at Michael.
“Yes, something happened to the club. You just lost your head waitress. I quit!”
As Brad roared a reply, Emily smiled and Michael snapped the phone shut, ending the call.
Draping his leather jacket around her shoulders to hide the fact her bosom was handing out of her dress, Michael again offered his arm.
“Shall we go?” He leaned in and his forehead touched hers, with a grin on his face.
Meeting the grin, Emily nodded.
“We shall.”
And the two walked off into the night.
