Hidden

Everybody had secrets. Secrets so deep and dark that even torture wouldn’t be able to draw it out. While Michael Jackson may have been a very public figure, always in the world’s eye and its scrutiny, there are still some things even those closest to him do not know. And it was that idea that inspired this story. How a person whose life is frankly an open book, can hide a secret so shocking, so stunning, so absolutely breathtaking that once revealed, it would nearly knock a man off his very feet. Be warned. This story is extremely bizarre, and not for those with weaker constitutions.

Neverland Valley Ranch 
Santa Ynez, California 
Late Summer, 2003 

Rumors.

That’s all that had been going around: rumors.

For years and years, that was all that had been uttered about pop music megastar, Michael Jackson.

Rumors.

How he owned the bones that had once been Joseph Merrick, The Elephant Man.

That he slept nightly in a hyperbaric chamber in an attempt to extend his lifespan to over one hundred and fifty years.

That he’d bleached his once dark brown skin to a hauntingly, iridescent white complexion.

It took years, but all of these lies were debunked. There were no bones, no chamber, except to treat Michael Jackson’s scalp after an unfortunate accident that had resulted in serious burns, and his new, paler skin was the result of a pigmentation disorder called Vitiligo.

Oh, there were many other unfounded lies and dreamed up tales that could recalled, but this story in particular is about only one.

For the last several years, since the turn of the new millennium, there had been whispers and hushed-hushed talk that the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, was not the only inhabitant of his isolated oasis in the desert, Neverland.

No…that for years and years, perhaps decades even, Michael Jackson had lived in the company of a woman.

No one knew who she was or from whence she had came.

Or even what she looked like.

Because as far as Michael Jackson was concerned, this alleged woman did not exist.

All inquiries by the media were met with a quiet, yet firm, “No comment.” from the reclusive singer.

Even when his own family was asked, his parents and siblings said the same thing, that they knew nothing of Michael’s living with a woman.

Indeed, Michael Jackson was never seen in the company of a woman at all.

By all appearances, he was a forty-something bachelor on his own, him and his menagerie of exotic pets, but the rumor persisted.

As all rumors have a way of persisting and hanging on and clinging to its life’s breath in the minds of misinformed millions.

And, on that one warm morning, in late August, an investigation of sorts was readying itself to be conducted.

Very early that morning, before the sun had even dared to rise up over the horizon, a somber, pearl grey, stretch limousine had disbanded.

A luxury vehicle, carrying a one Michael Jackson, off to do only God knew what for the greater part of the day.

Shortly after the limo’s departure, a lone figure appeared--his car having been parked several miles away--ambling towards the gated wonderland that Michael Jackson called home, and was quickly given access, being waved past the two security checkpoints.

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, his face partially concealed by the low pulled brim of the ball cap on his head, matching his inconspicuous white polo shirt, the man walked the winding, sweeping lane, leading to the Main House, a huge and rambling structure in red brick and hardwood, bearing touches of the Tudor style.

A manse that was backed by an expansive, rolling green lawn, filled with both a private zoo of over two hundred, rare and endangered species, and a personal amusement parks with enough rides to make Walt Disney turn green with envy.

Marlon Jackson had long been immune to the lies circulating about his younger brother, Michael, turning a deaf ear to most.

But it was this strange rumor that his brother had a woman in his house, that admittedly no one had ever seen, that kept poking at him.

Kept him from simply ignoring it.

Kept his interest piqued, and made him wonder constantly.

And he just had to find out, sort fact from fiction and see if there was even a particle of truth to any of this.

It took quite a bit of string pulling, even for him, Michael’s own flesh and blood, to have access to the estate while his brother was away.

Michael Jackson was paranoid to a degree, (who could blame him, whenever he stepped from his of home, there was always a zealous fan, with arms outstretched trying to touch him.) and was highly obsessive about his property, and being off to himself within the gated confines of his home.

Many calls, a few greased palms and even a few threats were exchanged, before Marlon Jackson got the okay to enter the grounds while Michael was away.

Michael Jackson was so secretive in his private life, his family had to make appointments to see him!

It had all been worth it, and now Marlon was there.

Hands in his pockets, he sauntered directly up to the front door, unsure of who or what he would find inside the walls of that house.

A short while later, Marlon stood in the foyer, conversing with most of the in-house staff, consisting of a half dozen maids, a personal chef, and a butler.

All of whom adamantly denied that any woman was living with Michael Jackson.

They hadn’t seen or heard any one other than Michael Jackson coming in and going out the house, with the occasional music producer to talk albums, concerts and television performances.

All men, without a single female to be found.

Yet, Marlon was undeterred.

His brother was a very wealthy man, and could have easily paid all those on his payroll for their silence and loyalty.

If they wanted to keep their jobs, they wouldn’t have squealed.

Curiously, Marlon Jackson spent the next hour or so, wandering the first floor of the mansion, hunting for any sort of clue that a woman lived there.

A photograph, a tucked away loved note, anything.

He even listened to the answering machine in Michael’s office, for a hint of a woman’s voice.

Alas, the only female’s voice was their own mother’s, asking Michael to return her call soon.

Pacing around, with the eyes of several servants worriedly on him, Marlon mounted the steps to the second level, his mind made up.

If he wanted to find evidence of this ghost woman, he’d have to look in the one place Michael Jackson would most likely keep a lover--his bedroom.

At the end of a long corridor, the two solid oak doors to the master bedroom, flanked by a pair of child-sized mannequins holding hands above the doorway, stood closed.

For a brief interval, Marlon feared the doors would be locked, keeping the woman inside. The doors were generally locked even when Michael was home, with a separate alarm system that could be tripped and alert him of danger in close proximity.

But, as his large hands gripped the knobs, they spun and the doors opened quite easily for him.

Michael had left his room unlocked.

Inside the immediate room, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

Michael Jackson’s bedroom was a huge, cavernous space, that in any other home could have housed at least five people, instead of one lone man.

Or was it a lone man….and woman?

A large, four poster bed, made up with a silver sequin comforter and pillows, scattered drawings of various cartoon characters and framed photographs of a litany of children.

Several arcade games lined the walls, all with blackened screens as none were plugged in for playing at the moment.

The large screen TV, though muted, was tuned to a cartoon station, leaving the room eerily silent.

Picking around the room carefully, so as not to disturb anything and give away the fact that someone had penetrated the inner sanctum, Marlon was discouraged to see that everything in the room exclusively screamed his brother’s name.

No woman’s picture, no love notes, not even a diary entry about her--but pages and pages of lyrics to unrecorded love songs for prospective albums.

Looking into the enormous wood and glass bathroom, there were only more hints of Michael and only Michael.

Bottles of cologne, medicated soap for his skin condition, antiseptic mouthwash, toothpaste, one tooth brush.

The towels were monogrammed in gold thread with his initials, “MJ” with a crown stitched over the letters. No woman’s initials.

Even all the makeup and cosmetics on the counter were for him, to help hide the blotches his Vitiligo created.

Not even a tube of lipstick or nail polish to claim as a woman’s.

Everything was expressly for Michael Jackson.

Cursing to himself, fearing he’d not only gone on a blank trip, but realizing he was infringing upon his sibling’s privacy, Marlon started to explore the final frontier: Michael’s closet.

Inside of a room, larger than most homes, hundreds of glittery jackets hung among other, more casual items like button up shirts and slacks, and pairs of well-worn loafers.

Up on shelves were a variety of colored fedoras, and several plush stuffed animals and dolls.

Again, no hint of women’s clothing, no space reserved for a woman or anything to suggest one was living with Michael.

By appearances, Michael Jackson lived alone and was a bachelor, and it seemed he was to stay that way for some time to come.

Feeling rather foolish for all the upset, trouble and hubbub he’d caused, the capped head lowered and plump lips beneath a mustache snarled with regret.

Turning, Marlon Jackson began a walk of shame and started to exit the closet.

He’d be kicking himself all that way back to his own home in Calabasas.

“…See that girl…she knows I’m watching…she likes the way I stare…”

At the entrance to the closet, Marlon froze, his ears perking up and his chest tightening with anxiety.

From somewhere, in a nearby proximity, he could plainly hear his brother’s voice, singing his hit song Human Nature.

But…but that was impossible.

Michael wasn’t home. His brother was gone. Marlon had been assured of that before he’d arrived that morning. He’d even seen his brother’s limousine go by after he’d dove behind a low bush to keep from being found out.

Marlon staggered a moment, and peered cautiously off into the bedroom, half-expecting to see his brother wafting in, singing his old tune from the 1980s.

The room was empty.

Other than himself, there was no other occupant.

“…Why…why…Tell’em that it’s Human Nature… Why … why…does he do me that way…”

The song continued to play and stunned, Marlon began to understand where the sound was coming from--somewhere, inside the closet!

Turning on his heel, as fast as his thick legs could carry him, Marlon was rushing back in, his ears tuned to that music and only that music.

The closet, it was coming from the closet, and as the song ended, it became clear that where the music was coming from, the Thriller album, Michael’s smashing, record breaking album was being played, as the next track, P.Y.T., Pretty Young Thing, was heard starting.

“…Where did you come from Baby…and ooh, Won’t you take me there, right away…”

Marlon was spreading himself all over the clothing like a spider on a web, trying to determine exactly from where the music was coming.

A radio was discovered inside the closet, up on a shelf behind some toys, but it was unplugged, the cord wrapped around the device itself.

“…Won’t you come, it’s emergency…come set me free…”

Fearing he was going insane, Marlon Jackson found himself at the very back wall of the closet, facing a rack, two deep, hung with multicolored Oxford shirts all with the letters CTE embroidered on small epaulets on the shoulders.

“…Pretty Young Things…Repeat after me…say Nah, Nah, Nah…”

Shoving the shirts aside like a mad man fleeing an asylum, Marlon’s heart and gut both simultaneously dropped.

“I’ll be damned!” He exclaimed in a hushed whisper of awe, eyes swelling.

There, concealed by the racks of shirts, was a door.

A secret door!

A door so well blended into the wall, that it would have remained hidden, had it not been for the small, gleaming brass latch off to the side.

As the song repeated, Marlon Jackson no longer heard it, his heart beginning to pound in his hears quite suddenly.

He’d found it!

Jesus Christ!

Had the rumors been true? Had his brother been keeping a woman at his home? Was she behind that very door?

Was it her, listening to the music?

Trembling fingers were on the latch and somewhat loudly, it clicked as he pressed it and started to slide the door open.

Eyes widened and breaths slowed, as the another room entirely, was revealed to Marlon Jackson.

Fashioned into what appeared to be a hidden, separate bedroom, it sprawled before him and was nearly as large as Michael Jackson’s own suite.

But unlike his brother’s bedroom, dressed in deep, muted, masculine shades, this room was overwhelmingly feminine.

Everything was a soft, rosy pink.

The carpeting, the dressings on the King-sized canopied bed, the wallpaper, bearing a darker pink floral pattern.

Even the appliances in the room were pink: A large screen television, a stereo system, a DVD player and gaming system.

On a shelf, two dozen porcelain dolls stared out, seeing nothing at all, their dresses all in varying shades and patterns of pink, coordinating with the room.

On a bedside table, a headshot of Michael Jackson sat in a crystal edged frame.

On the walls, more photographs of him were displayed, more like a proud fan, than a lover.

Was…was a child being kept there?

Did Michael not only have a secret woman, but a secret child?

The room did seem more for a child than a grown woman.

And strangely enough, not a single window was to be found in the room.

She couldn’t look out, nor could anyone look in on her.

“…I want to love you, PYT…Pretty Young Thing…”

As the song continued, Marlon’s eyes scanned around the room and his heart rate suddenly increased in his chest, heart slapping at his breastbone.

A grand bookshelf, loaded with tomes and several more framed portraits of Michael was in a corner.

And in front of it, a woman danced.

Her eyes shut, and body swaying to the tune, she was completely ignorant that she had company and was no longer by herself.

Marlon stared at her, shaking his head, his mind incapable of processing the sight.

The woman appeared quite young, no older than her twenties, and was very attractive indeed.

By all accounts she did look like the kind of woman his brother went for and favored.

She was Black, with a café au lait complexion, her oval face framed by long, slightly waved raven-black tresses and bangs falling across a graceful forehead, over thin brows.

Her lips, plump and pouted, were moving soundlessly, recalling each lyric to the song.

She was of average height, with a slim, yet curvy body. As it was still very early in the morning, she wore a long, shimmering sating nightgown in a hot pink shade. Her hands flicked, showing manicured nails in a paler pink.

Even she matched her own room!

Not sure what he felt, he was so confused and muddled, Marlon lingered a few moments, ogling the woman.

Who was she? What was she to Michael? How long had she been there?

Was she being held captive?

No…no…

This woman seemed very content--happy--as she grooved to the song, hair swishing. She didn’t appear mistreated or malnourished.

She seemed healthy and happy.

Again PYT repeated.

Without thought, Marlon pulled the door closed behind him, that distinctive click of the latch resounding.

And in front of him the woman grew still.

“Oh Michael, Darling, you did rush, just as you promised…” Came her first words and it was instantly apparent she wasn’t a native of California. She was speaking with a rather heavy, Southern accent.

A smile was creasing her face and eyes, a deep hazel color opened.

“…I missed you so…”

She smile disappeared and the loving sweetness in the eyes, shot away, going wide, and glassy with what appeared to be….terror?

Her large bosom heaved and the woman backed into the bookshelf with such force a doll fell to the floor.

“You aren’t Michael!” She exclaimed, sliding along the shelf and onto the wall against which it stood.

“Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me, please! Please!” She begged hoarsely, tears starting to stream down her cheeks, as she slid down the wall, hunching into a ball on the floor, her knees to her chest.

Alarmed, Marlon quickly crossed over to her, and crouched in front of her.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t cry. I’m not going to hurt you!” He tried to assure her, to appease her.

The last thing he’d expected in finding a woman was for her to go into hysterics.

“Of course, you’ll hurt me!” The woman sobbed. “You’re a man, aren’t you?”

That confused Marlon Jackson all the more. And what the woman wept next nearly took the kinks out his natural hair.

“Don’t hurt me, please! Please! Please! My…my husband is extremely rich. He’s Michael Jackson! He’s…he’s the King of Pop! My husband will give you anything you want--money, houses, planes, anything! Just don’t hurt me! He‘ll kill you, if you harm me!”

Marlon’s jaw was now sagging the floor and air…what was air?

It had all whooshed out his lungs!

Husband?

Had this woman just called Michael Jackson her husband?

Was…was this pitiful, crying creature, his wife?

Marlon’s sister-in-law?

Michael Jackson was married?

Yes…as Marlon continued to look at her, he noticed a ring a on her left hand.

A very large, intensely blue, diamond ring glittered at him from an ostentatious wedding band.

Who was this woman? How old was she?

More importantly, how long had she been married to Michael Jackson?

The room appeared to tilt and spin before Marlon, but trying to maintain his composure in a world that suddenly made sense, he went to touch her arm.

“Don’t!”

There was a loud clap and Marlon’s cheek stung as if he’d been stung by hornets from the fierce slap he’d received.

“Do…don’t you know who I am?” Marlon questioned, shifting to his balance in that awkward position and rubbed at his face, puffing slightly.

“You’re not Michael!” The slanted eyes glared up at him wildly, and more tears fell.

“I’m Marlon--I’m Michael’s brother!” He stated and the head shook in disagreement.

“No--liar! You liar! Men lie! You’re only saying that so you can hurt me! Please, leave me alone!” The woman argued. “Don’t you want money? Everyone wants money!”

Reaching in his back pocket, Marlon fumbled with his wallet, before coming up with his driver’s license.

“Look. Look, here’s my license. Issued by the state of California last year! It says, Marlon David Jackson. I live at 25456 Ocean View Lane, in Calabasas, California. Age: Forty-six. Race: Black. Height: Five-feet-eight. Weight--well you don’t need to know my weight.”

He jiggled it at the woman a moment.

Sniffling loudly and reluctantly, she looked at it.

“You’re…really Michael’s brother?” She finally questioned and those eyes peered up at him.

Did she even know Michael had brothers?

“Yes…” Marlon nodded deeply. “What’s your name?”

“Francesca.”

“And you say you’re Michael’s wife?”

“Yes--”

Marlon wanted to ask more. Wanted to know more, all he could learn of this woman. Interrogate her if he had to. Extract all the information from her, as wringing water from a sponge.

But Marlon Jackson did not get that opportunity, though he would learn all he sought.

BAM!

In the distance a door slammed, and Francesca leapt to her feet.

“That’s Michael! He’s home! Oh God, you have to leave! You have to go away! He’ll be so angry if he finds you here! No one is supposed to be here! No one is EVER supposed to be here!”

“Calm down! Calm down!” Marlon was on his feet, his mind burning. with the way his brother‘s wife was reacting he had no clue what would happen to her or himself if he was found in that secret room with her.

“Is there anywhere I can hide--you got a closet?”

“Over there!” Francesca was pointing towards to a pair of shut, folding doors.

Quickly, Marlon ran to it and dove inside, leaving the doors slightly ajar.

And if he hadn’t, he would never have been able to witness the truly bizarre scene that was going to unfold.

Clearly nervous and shell-shocked, Francesca was wringing her hands and staring at the door, where Marlon was now sitting Indian-style, trying to stifle his own breaths to avoid detection.

CLICK.

At the sound of the hidden door opening, Francesca spun around.

Marlon held his breath in the dim closet.

Facing an imposing figure that was abruptly filling the doorway.

Michael Jackson.

His tall, slender frame was clad from head to toe in a rich burgundy suit, matching satin shirt and alligator boots.

The vibrant, bloody coloring provided a stark backdrop against his pale, creamy complexion, offset by his shoulder-grazing silken black hair and dark eyes, outlined in black liquid liner.

Eyes that blinked several times as they took in Francesca and a tender smile came to his pinkish, glossed lips.

“Frannie, my Sweetness…” He intoned in his light, mild voice, coming forward with open arms and hugging her.

“Look at you, I’m gone less than an hour and you’re bawling those beautiful little eyes of yours out!”

Freckled thumbs came up and were brushing at her moist cheeks.

“I told you I wouldn’t be long today. I only went into town…”

His lips pressed her forehead with a smack.

“…and I’ve brought you something that should put a smile back onto that pretty face.”

Reaching into his jacket, Michael produced a long, thin black box.

“This…is for me…?” Francesca whispered, taking it from him.

“Yes…” Michael grinned broadly and proudly. “Just a token of affection from the happiest man in the world to the most wonderful wife in the world!”

The box was opened, and the young woman gasped.

Inside, a wide, intricate diamond and platinum bracelet sparkled.

“Oh Michael…” She whined, as Michael reached in, plucking the bauble from its setting and taking hold of her left wrist, was fastening it on.

Backing away as Francesca cooed, admiring her new addition and running her fingers over it, Michael took a seat in a nearby, overstuffed chair.

“Francesca…” He was patting at his lap, indicating she sit on him.

Obliging, the woman was on his lap, her arms around his neck being hugged closely to him.

“…I noticed, when I came in, that your door wasn’t locked. You know anytime I leave this room, the door is to be locked. Now go and lock it.”

“Y-Yes Michael! I’m sorry--it won’t happen again!”

Slipping from him, Francesca was crossing the room and starting to engage the five locks on the inside of the door.

“See that it doesn’t.” Michael rose once more and undoing buttons, shrugged out of his jacket, draping it across the back of the chair.

“Those locks are for your protection, Francesca. Haven’t I told you time and again, what would happen if the door is unlocked?”

At the door, her head sagged.

“I would get hurt--”

“Yes!’ A fist slammed into a palm with conviction. “I’ve told you over and over how the men of the world are. How they prey on pretty young girls like yourself…”

“…Pretty Young Things….Repeat after me…Say Nah, nah, nah….”

Hearing his own music was interrupting him, Michael stormed across the room and ripped the cord from the wall.

Michael was out of his brother’s eyeline, but heard just the same.

“Men, are like dogs, Francesca! I’ve been ingraining this in you since you were twelve-years-old. Men, for the most part are savage beasts, only wanting one thing in this world from women--sex. No love, no devotion, nothing. Just leap on you, hump around a few times, and then they’re gone, never to be seen again. I’ve taught you never to trust any man, other than me…”

Michael came into view again, standing in the middle of the floor, staring at his wife’s turned back.

“I’ve told you about me…about my life before you came into it. I just made forty-five. You’re twenty-eight. I married you ten years ago, as soon as you turned eighteen. I’ve told you how my life was…”

Nearing her, Michael placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.

“How I spent my late teens and twenties, chasing a variety of girls. Being in what I thought was love. Thinking they loved me too. And being made a monkey out of over and over because the girls would run off and leave me for another man…and as soon as those unions fell apart, they’d come running back to me, thinking I’d take them back. Like hell…”

Michael’s head shook and he returned to the chair, one leg crossing over the other.

“It’s heart-wrenching enough having to bear that pain alone. But since I am a celebrity, I was made fun of and had the entire world laughing at me through the press. The press…HA!” Michael threw his head back and crowed bitterly.

“Damn yellow journalism is what it is. Has the truth gone out of fashion? Does no one use it anymore? Because it’s been decades since I’ve seen a truthful piece about myself in the papers.”

Head shaking, Michael raked a hand through his hair, his small, pointed nose crinkling on the bridge.

“All I see is how I must be gay, how I must not be able to satisfy a woman, how I must be asexual or something to have had my relationships fall apart. How I must be at fault. Oh no…it wasn’t the other parties fault. No…never mind that they were whores that I got tangled up with as a boy. Never mind I got my heartbroken, and spent weeks in bed crying and refusing food and worrying my mother half to death. No…never mind any of that!”

Michael head shook harder and timidly, Francesca crossed to his side.

“Never mind that Michael Jackson is a HUMAN with real, live, FEELINGS. No, I’m just a machine that spits out tunes and dance moves. I’m a jukebox with legs…”

Pain showed plainly on Michael’s face and in the closet, tears oozed from Marlon’s eyes over his brother’s sorrow.

Gingerly, Francesca was patting at his lowered head.

“My last public romance came to screeching halt, when, I was twenty-six. The girl I had been dating for eight months jumped up and married a tennis player. I was a fool again. A jester without a court. The planet laughing.”

Michael’s chest rose and fell rapidly and his eyes blazed with hatred.

“Was it so bad? So terrible for a man to want to love a woman, and be loved back? For a man to be faithful and trustworthy and expect the same from a partner? “ Michael was staring off into space, his brows going up to his hairline.

“No…no, Baby…” Francesca was agreeing, still patting at him.

“I began to doubt it existed…then about a year after my last breakup, I saw a movie. An old black and white movie called Svengali. One of the Barrymore brothers were in it--the good-looking one. In it, he created a female musician with his own hand, through the power of suggestion. The film had a profound affect on me. I began to wonder…was it possible for me to create the perfect girlfriend, with my own hand…through suggestion?”

A hand came up and Michael stoked after the dimple in his chin thoughtfully.

“But…but I knew I couldn’t use a contemporary. A woman already in her twenties was headstrong and had her own ideas formed. I needed to mold a woman from a much younger age…”

Those dark eyes focused upwards on Francesca.

“And then I met you. During my world tour to promote my Bad album…you were vacationing in Melbourne with your parents, and I met you after the second show I played there….you were only twelve-years-old…”

Francesca was pulled back into his lap.

“Oh you were in the beginning of puberty, big glasses hiding those eyes, a mess of mangled metal in the form of braces on your teeth, but I could see the potential. How one day…you would mature into a very beautiful young woman, just as you are now.”

Lips pressed hers lovingly.

“You became the Trillby to my Svengali. As much as your parents would allow, I’d fly to Texas to visit you, and you’d come to California to see me. And we’d talk…long, into the night, for hours on end. And I taught you didn’t I? Taught you about the true nature of men…”

Her hair flounced as Francesca nodded.

“How they’d exploit your beauty and body for their own unnatural gain. Their own greedy, dirty needs. How I was the only man you could trust, other than your daddy. How you needed to stay away from them, keep them out your life. I had to keep the beasts away from a girl like you…”

She was kissed a second time.

“Perhaps I was selfish, but I wanted a sweet, pure woman to marry. A delicate virgin. Not a whore like the ones who’d massacred me. Who’d made a laughingstock of me. Made an ass of me. I was the only man to you…”

“Yes…” Francesca was pulled down on Michael and his lips were on hers harder and more passionately.

“I never touched you…until you were of age. Until you were eighteen. I…couldn’t dare spoil you. Not that way. The day after you were eighteen…we flew to Las Vegas and were wed. May 9, 1994 will always be the turning point for me. Our wedding night…the first time we made love. Oh…” Michael laughed and rubbed his wife’s back, his hands coming down and gripping her buttocks so hard, even Marlon could see her cheeks being separated.

“You were so frightened, so scared under me. Not knowing what was happening. you allowed me to be the man, take the helm and show you. Show you what real, physical love felt like…”

Smack!

“Oh!”

Michael slapped her backside and Francesca gasped.

“You make me whole, Francesca. You are my wife, my own creation. I instilled the qualities i wanted in you, and simultaneously weeded out the ones I didn’t want. Perhaps I took the uncharted scenic route about it, but we’re here now. And you’re in this room for your protection. I want no other man to see you. To be tempted by you. You’re are so stunning, you would draw them in droves. I won’t have that. Ever. Perhaps one day, when I am comfortable with it, I’ll go public with our relationship. But for once, I want something only for the two of us. Without the world staring in--”

For the first time, Francesca interrupted him.

“We will have to tell people, sometime…” She declared and for a split second glanced towards the closet, where Marlon was still watching idly.

“Perhaps…” Michael reasoned, hands on her hips and pushing her off him.

“When you are carrying my child. But you aren’t pregnant…yet.”

His hands left her body and as he sat, gazing up at her, his right hand absently fell to his groin.

“Not to say…we don’t try frequently…”

Standing he hovered over her, his hand starting to rub lightly at his crotch.

His eyes took on a demonic cast and hands looping behind her, they were clearly trembling on Francesca.

“Take off the gown, Frannie.”

Contemplating, making his presence known, Marlon started to open the door, and immediately stopped.

The pink gown laid on the floor, and from behind, he was seeing Francesca, in the complete nude, standing before his brother.

“Oh…shit!” Michael said aloud, as his brother merely mouthed it in distress.

Arms wrapped her warm body and she was pressed to Michael’s.

His eyes invaded hers hungrily, ferociously and he inquired,

“Who is your only man, Francesca?”

“You--you are.”

His mouth was on hers, and hot, pulsing, sucking, and intoxicating.

His tongue plunging into the depths of her throat over and over again.

Head pulling away, Francesca’s eyes glittered as she stared up at her husband, heart grinding in her chest.

“You know not to refuse me!” Michael remarked, his mouth on hers again, their heads wagging from the force.

Her body always felt so good to Michael. So soft, so smooth so delicate. Those large breasts mashing against his own chest. How she always smelled of vanilla and jasmine.

Rudely from his groin, the outline of his penis begin to show up against the stretching fabric of his trousers…the result of an intense and rapid erection, from the excitement, that even after ten years of matrimony, his wife still inspired.

A long, thick shaft it was, the mushroom head tip protruding back his uncut foreskin.

All straining the zipper of his trousers and threatening to bust a hole clean through the red cloth.

Francesca was clutched tighter and stumbling the two backed over to the bed, where Michael pressed her into a seated position.

Head falling back, he stared up at the ceiling his stomach expanding and contracting as his rate of breathing increased tenfold.

“Frannie…” He choked and placing a hand on his belly, she answered him,

“Yes?”

“Undress me.”

Two buttons were unhooked on the shirt, before Michael shoved her hands away and with one fluid jerk had torn the garment off his body, revealing his heaving colorless, freckled upper torso and tiny flesh-colored nipples.

“That pants-- the pants!” He urged through grit teeth throwing his head to get his hair out of his face, tingeing scarlet in his arousal.

“Jesus!”

Quickly, the button and zipper on the fly were opened.

Michael Jackson wore no underwear to speak of and as soon as the fabric fell away, his bare groin was displayed.

In the closet, Marlon fell over.

Michael’s groin, boasting that oversized penis, was free of any hair to be seen and was only seen for a moment in its entirety, the pants falling to his ankles.

The long, pinkish shaft, with the blazing red tip, the splotched and fletched scrotum swaying beneath.

And then they were obscured, by Francesca’s head.

“Oh--WHOA!”

Stumbling and thrown off balance by sudden entrance of his cock into the awaiting, tense and warm depths of his lover’s mouth, Michael grabbed onto one of the posts of the bed.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ah…You know how to treat your man! Yes!” He growled, as the head began to visibly bob up and down on him.

“Yes, Frannie! Yes! Goddamn! Yes!”

Getting his footing, Michael’s hands came down and clutching her by the hair with each hand, Michael began to both jerk his wife’s head up and down on his cock, and thrust his hips, effectively fucking her mouth.

Throwing his hips rapidly, he grunted and from his crotch, there was the muffled sound of Francesca struggling with him each time the time of his penis pressed past her esophagus.

“Deep throat it…you know I like for you to deep throat me…” Michael snarled and pumped his hips forward, holding her there.

Pressing her face into his groin.

Audibly, Francesca was choking on him.

“CHKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!”

Around the swollen shaft her spit was falling and running beneath his balls as they bounced against her chin.

Flailing, her hands were on his thighs trying to push away.

“You can’t take it…you can never take it… in ten years--UGH!”

With a hard tug, Michael pulled her from his loins, throwing her back onto the bed, struggling and panting for air.

“Ha-ha!” He laughed, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Just think, this is what all the other men in the world wish they could do to you. What they want. And they can’t have it. They can never have it! You’re mine--all mine, Francesca!”

Hand coming down, she was rolled onto her belly and pulled upwards on her knees, being hugged against Michael from behind.

Marlon’s eyes widened briefly at her bare body, the round, high-setting breasts, the smooth, gentle abdomen and the hairless triangle, before all went black and he passed out, smooth onto the floor of the closet.

He made a thud, but went unnoticed.

Michael Jackson was too swept up in the aura that was Francesca Jackson.

One large hand covered her mouth, tilting her head back onto his shoulder,

The other between her legs, four fingers rushing into her tight little hole.

“Mmm-mmm! No! Mmmm!”

Francesca was flailing more, as the fingers began to rock and dig inside of her.

“Yes…you know what I want…you know I want that pussy to drip all over me…come on…you know you want to. You always come for your husband. You always come for me--EVERY DAY!”

“Ugh…ugh…Mike….Michael….MICHAEL!” She screamed into his palm, her eyes squinting, and body heaving against his.

Trying to pull away, Michael’s grip left hermouth and wrapped her waist, allowing her to scream freely.

“Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaah!”

It was the shrieks of unbridled sexual ecstasy that brought Marlon Jackson back to life.

Wearily, he pushed back into a seated position, trying to get his eyes to focus.

Through the slit in the door, he received an eyeful.

“Michael! Michael! Michael! Michael!” Francesca was crying and trembling as a liquid spurted forth, running down Michael’s arm and causing a puddle on her bed.

“Yes! Fuck yes!”

With no regard for the puddle, Michael climbed into the bed, no regard for the puddle at all, or how his poor spouse was quivering, and demanded,

“Sit on my face.”

“Michael, please--” His wife begged, and his hands tapped as her breasts.

“My face--now.”

Trying to breathe but remaining obedient, Francesca complied, spreading her legs over Michael’s face.

“Oh! OH! OH NO!OH! OH!”

Francesca was facing Marlon’s direction, staring towards the closet, as Michael’s hands clasped her ass cheeks, pulling her cunt down onto his mouth, his tongue flicking at the little sensitive bulb.

She knew he was there, knew he was watching, and yet couldn’t give him away. If she did, who knew what would have become of them?

“Mike! Mike! Stop! Stop! STOP! STOOOOOOOOOP!” She screamed as unwillingly, another spurt of the prized liquid gushed out, drenching Michael’s face and hair.

“That’s what I like!” Michael spit a stream in the air, slipping from under her, and standing. “Wet and wild.”

More of the forbidden liquid ran down and dripped from his face onto his chest.

“Drives me nuts how you do that--son of a bitch!”

He fell on her.

Michael Jackson fell on her.

And the two of them, husband and wife, commenced causing an unholy racket.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

The two harmonized, crying out as Michael, laying on Francesca, was humping her from behind, his large, slick dick gliding rapidly back and fort him in and out of her tight little pussy, the only dick that pussy had ever known.

Would ever know.

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’ Michael’s teeth were grit to cracking and his eyes fire, he laid on his wife. “This is what other men want to do to you! This is what those savage, nasty beasts want! I’m the only savage…the only one!”

“NOOOOOOO!”

Head lowering, a scream, different than the others left Francesca’s mouth, and not wanting to watch his brother having sex, Marlon couldn’t help but look, and wonder what caused such a sound.

Michael’s head came up again, and from Francesca’s right shoulder, a bright redness had appeared and was rolling off onto the bedding.

She was bleeding!

Francesca was bleeding, and as Michael spit a blob of blood out, it was clear he’d bitten her shoulder.

Leaning back as he continued to plunge into her, Michael took her hair again, pulling her head up and was kissing at her cheek.

It went wordlessly, but from the shadows, Marlon could make out his sibling mouthing the words “I love you” to his wife.

It was a strange juxtaposition, as blood was still running down his chin.

His hands fell to her hip and his pace quickened.

“You’re…you’re gonna come now…” Francesca was gripping and squeezing the pink bedding.

“YES.”

His head fell back again and his mouth opened wide enough to see the back of his teeth, and his eyes popped from his head.

Wordlessly….soundlessly, Michael Jackson was climaxing.

“Oooooh. Oooooh…. Ooooooh.” Francesca moaned, eyes fluttering shut, as she felt the warm burst of him inside of her.

Huffing and hugging the pair collapsed.

Holding his her against him, Michael muttered softly,

“My wife…my creation…no one else….can have you…ever…”

* * *

Creak!

Softly, the door to the closet opened.

In the sudden, flooding light, Marlon Jackson squinted.

Standing over him, now draped in a pale blue gown, was Francesca.

“Fran--” A hand covered his mouth.

“You have to go, now.” She warned, her eyes solemn. “Michael is in the shower, and this is the only time you’ll have to get away. He’ll come back to me once he’s done. You never should have been here to start with.”

Marlon was pulled to his feet.

“Are you alright?” His eyes found the bruising and teeth indentations on her shoulder. “He bit you--”

“He always bites me. It’s the beast in him.” Francesca replied, calmly. So calmly it frightened Marlon and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“It will heal in a few weeks. It always does.”

Marlon was pushed to the closed secret door.

“You must go. You must forget you ever saw me. I have to forget you. Our paths never should have crossed. I’m supposed to be alone. Always alone. Always only for Michael--”

“Are you happy? Don’t you want friends?” Marlon questioned, as her hands flew, undoing the locks.

“I am happy, but I don’t need friends. I have Michael. That’s all I need. All I’ve ever needed. The more I’m with him, the more I understand that. You heard him. Heard why he wants the secrecy, the privacy. He needs it. Needs my love. Needs my trust. Needs to trust me. I can’t have that threatened with you here--”

“I’m a man, I didn’t hurt you, and you can trust me--” Marlon started and those hazel eyes went dark.

“You’re leaving here. I only just met you. I can’t trust you. You’re a man. Who’s to say you aren’t still lying. Who’s to say you won’t squawk about all you’ve seen? I know you saw everything, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. If I stopped Michael…the…the walls of Jericho would have fallen.”

Francesca’s arms wrapped herself and she stared ahead.

“I am aware…there are rumors about me circulating. That there are whispers of a rumor that Michael Jackson has a woman living with him…you think you’re the first person to discover me? You aren’t--”

“Who--?”

Marlon was shoved out of the door.

“Another man, claiming he was also Michael’s brother. A tall ugly, thing that liked to talk too much for me…”

The door began to close.

“I think his name was Jermaine. But Michael told me no one ever believed anything he said. He talked too much. Perhaps you, can keep your mouth shut. Perhaps… but I doubt it. I trust no man, but Michael.”

The door was closed, and the locks engaging.

Head aching, Marlon stared at the door, blending into the wall.

Thinking of how it housed possibly the largest secret his brother was hiding from the world.

The hidden part of his life, that so few knew about it could be counted on one hand.

Marlon remained, contemplative, until the sound of the water running in the shower stopped, and then he was gone.

Running away.

Dashing from the property.

But Marlon Jackson was more reliable than Jermaine.

He never spoke of the hidden room, the hidden wife, or the hidden deeds that had commenced in the room.

It was a secret that remained for almost a year, until one afternoon, Marlon’s phone rang.

It was Jermaine, telling Marlon to turn on the news.

And on the news, Marlon saw his brother holding a press conference from the front door of his mansion.

Announcing to the world that he and his wife of ten years were proud parents.

Just that afternoon, a set of twins had been born to them.

And while the world was throw into a turmoil, of whos, whats whens wheres and whys, Marlon knew it all.

And as promised, he kept it to himself.

He owed it to Francesca that much…to show her that at least one other man in the world could be trusted.