Leather--Exclusive Taj Jackson Erotica

In the almost twenty years I have been a fan of 3T, I've come to notice that the styles of all three are rather laid back and what I call "hanging out at the mall" cool. They don't "really" dress up unless they have to. In looking over photographs of Taj Jackson in particular as I penned this story, I noticed he seemed to have a tremendous liking for leather jackets and I saw him in no less than a dozen. So my old mind got to working, wondering : Just what if Taj went in for some custom-made jackets...and wound up with the designer hanging off of him instead of a coat?  

"Leather"

A Taj Jackson Erotic Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave
(Non-Sexual Cameo by Michael Jackson)

In the very late morning, while most people were en route, hunger pangs drawing them from their work, and various other pursuits, in search of that midday meal known as lunch, tucked away, high above the hustle, bustle and fervor of that all encompassing metropolitan hub known as Los Angeles, a meal more akin to the wee hours of the day was being prepared.

In a toaster, several halved bagels were browning up and crisping to perfection, while a few feet away, a half dozen eggs were being expertly cracked into a bowl, finely chopped herbs and a few spices being whisked in to give them a kick and thusly jolt the sleepy tastebuds of the person who would soon consume them.

While butter to scramble the eggs melted in a blazing hot skillet, a second sizzled away furiously, its entire surface lined with thick-cut strips of hickory smoked, black pepper-rimmed bacon.

As the pungent, salty, porky scent filled the kitchen, it began to waft , like a lonely ghost wanders an abandoned property, floating down the open corridor of the high-rise apartment, the greater part of it dim, with curtains drawn against the bright, cloudless day.

On and on the scent floated, until it passed through the open doors at the end of corridor, washing over the smallish lump bundled into the center of the king-sized bed, quite literally hogging the covers, head hidden by the plush, down comforter.

Slowly and stealthily the scent penetrated the fabric and feathers, until it found its home in the delicate, upturned nose of the young woman slumbering.

The nose crinkled as the much loved aroma roused her, the eyes above the nose fluttering open and a yawn escaping the mouth below.

After a long interval, in which the woman decided that, yes, she would rise, the covers were tossed back and there was a bit of sputtering as she blew a few wild strands of hair from her face.

Eventually she unfolded from the bed and following a bit of fumbling in the darkness, secured an abstract print, electric blue, black and white robe around her otherwise bare form and curiously,

she started venturing through her home.

The door to her office laid shut, but that to her studio laid wide open.

Always a cluttered, messy space, the room was even more so, several articles of clothes strewn about the floor and a bottle of perfume laying on its side. It was lucky that it hadn't broken.

A hand to her head, the previous night's events came flooding back to the young woman with a clarity so crystal, so vivid, she had to cling to the door frame lest she sink to the polished hardwood beneath her bare feet.

Composing herself and squaring her shoulders, the woman tossed her mussed head defiantly.

She had no call for shock.

Not after what had happened.

What she had allowed to happen.

What she had so wantonly, openly, and recklessly encouraged.

Chewing her bottom lip with hesitation just the same, she slowly and tentatively started for the swinging door at the opposite end of the hall.

Passing through the door, she halted shortly, and the door banged into her backside, but she scarcely noticed it.

At the island, in the center of the room, two places had been set and at each one a plate overflowed with mounds of scrambled eggs, strips of still steaming bacon and a bagel smeared with just the right amount of whipped cream cheese.

A few feet away, loading a coffee pot with fresh grounds to be transformed into that blessed, eye-opening beverage, was a man, wearing only a pair of red and blue harlequin print boxers, the waist band dangling off of his plump, rounded hips.

His hair, a mass of long, thin dark braids, had been gathered back into a low ponytail, freeing him of the worry of it getting in his way, or worse, catching fire as he had cooked.

Silently, the young woman crossed the room, coming up behind him as he turned the coffeemaker on, a stream of brown beginning to fill the glass pot below.

Gently, the young woman raked her long nails against the tender, exposed flesh of his bare back, causing the man to jump.

Turning, his handsome face losing the look of shock and being replaced by a pleasant grin, he leaned, pecking her cheek, asking,

“Did you sleep alright?”

“Mmm-hmm” The woman, sucking in her lips and peering at him with feigned, innocent doe-eyes, nodded, adding teasingly as she reached up and twirled one of the few braids that had worked themselves loose and were framing his visage,

“I didn't know you were so...domestic.”

Dark eyes dances mischievously as the man replied,

“There's lots about me you don't know...”

And just as haughtily, his little tart replied with a flick of her head, eyes running the length of him.

“I'm willing to learn.”

The ne'er-do-well glint left the man's eyes, fondness taking up the void, and grazing her cheek with his knuckles, he announced, his brows flexing,

“I...I want you to come to Europe with me...”

Instantly, the young woman pulled her head back, her entire body from him.

“No...no...no...”

She intoned over and over, continuing to back away as he tried to advance.

“I want you to come to Europe with me.”

He repeated, this time more forcefully, as the head continued to swing in dismay.

Her movements were halted, when a large hand was laid upon her bicep.

“And why not?” The man whispered, though his expression was serious, his voice bore a wheedling tone of amusement.

“Why don't you? You'll like Europe. I'll show you the sights, help you eat all that rich, heavy food... come with me, please. I can't imagine going to a different continent. Not without you. Not after what we mean to each other now...”

His eyes were so warm, so endearing, showed his care so plainly.

“I...don't know...”

She was hesitant, her gaze dropping to the tiles underfoot.

“It's a family vacation—your family.”

“What...” His fingers clutched her chin, bringing her face back up to his.

“Hey, stop it. Look at me. Look at me! What has that to do with anything?”

Now his eyes searched but could locate no answer.

Her own dark eyes swelled with disbelief and with her voice becoming shrill and brittle, she declared with a gasp,

“A month ago, I used to work for your family!”

Six Weeks Earlier

Beverly Hills, California

August, 2008

The Grand Versailles was one of the oldest, most-esteemed and exclusive pieces of real estate in a city famous for its wealth and conspicuous consumption.

It was widely rumored that the building housed not only several former United States Presidents, among a slew of foreign dignitaries, and by some estimates, two or three lower-ranking members of the British Royal Family.

While it was foolish that a mere building, a structure of brick, mortar, glass and some veiny marble thrown in for good measure would frighten, intimidate, nay even unnerve a person, it was a feeling that was all too real and searingly inescapable to Electra Savory.

While most passing through the gilt-ringed doors came from money, old, blue-blooded money, that had likely been earned by the current generation's many-greats-grandparents soon after landing on Plymouth Rock, Electra Savoy was what, many could have considered, contemptuously, to be “nouveau riche”, as her family's wealth stretched no further than her grandparents.

And while most pranced around flaunting trust funds and the arrogance it afforded them, Electra could have been considered the “working wealthy.”

But Electra wouldn't have had it any other way...her work was her sole passion in life.

Electra came from a long line of seamstresses, going back to plantations dotting the South, where skill with a needle had kept her ancestors out of the cotton and tobacco fields.

And while the tradition had flourished for a good two centuries, it was only fifty years ago that her grandmother had possessed the foresight to turn her skill, once a hobby, into a source of profit.

And thus the Stitch in Time Personal Tailoring Service had been launched, catering to high-end clients by creating one-of-a-kind garments by hand.

Electra's mother, along with her four aunts all slung thread for the who's who of the social register,

and now Electra, along with so many female cousins she'd lost count, were the new wave of seamstresses.

And that was what had brought Electra to The Grand Versailles in the first place—a direct call from her very best client, Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson was the kind of client that came along once in a lifetime, if a person were so lucky, a man so wildly, happily, almost drunkenly crazed by fashion and crafting his own image with seemingly endless pockets to fund his passion.

No expense was ever spared when Mr. Jackson had a vision he wanted materialized and despite what could result in dozens of frantic phone calls about details as minute as what sort of stitch with which to hem a pair of trousers or his dropping by, unannounced to her studio at all hours of the night with new ideas, Electra delighted in working for him.

(Hell, his spring wardrobe had afforded her her current apartment, and the bonus he'd given her last Christmas had bought her a beautiful little convertible in aquamarine blue!)

Arriving at the front door of the building, following the long jaunt from the parking lot, Electra was readily allowed admittance by the astute, erect-backed doorman, so used to seeing Electra so frequently for Mr. Jackson, she practically lived there.

She entered the maroon lobby, touched all over, here, there and yonder with genuine gold leaf adoring the broad, half-ton crystal chandeliers overhead, the enormous pots containing low palms and the many lounges, couches and ottomans, all lined in plush brocades and velvets.

Just inside the doors was a huge panel mirror in a frame that ran from the high ceiling to the marble floor, and as always, Electra stopped to check her appearance.

Electra was a girl who lived for the dramatic when it came to her dressing and coiffing herself, and though only twenty-two years of age, her passion began and ended with all things having to do with her decade of birth—the nineteen-eighties.

Today was of no exception, as Electra stood, starting to preen, her tall, lanky, and quite slender figure clad in a sleeveless lime green blouse, crisscrossing with a v just low enough to expose her protruding collarbones. The blouse was tucked into a loud pair of yellow tapered trousers, two-toned stappy sandals on her feet.

Stacks of green Lucite bangles clacked on her arms, matching the hoops in her ears.

Her hair, falling mid-shoulder, jet with a few naturally auburn strands, had been curled, teased and fluffed to its highest, around a square-jawed face, so beautiful, it needed no makeup, but had been blissfully slathered with shades of green on the eyes, and an impertinent shade of frosted plum on the lips, colors which should have clashed horribly with Electra's mocha-complexion and dark orbs.

And yet, with her winsome, inherently bubbly personality, the entire ensemble was in exactly the right key...

Pleased with her looks—she was so seldom distressed by them—she spun on her heel to make her way to the elevators to ride up to Mr. Jackson's apartment...

...and came to a halt when she saw her charge, charging towards her.

Electra had always liked Michael Jackson, ever since she had met him three years earlier when he had rang up, wanting her mother to craft a jacket for him to wear to his brother's destination wedding in Dubai.

Her mother had already been overloaded creating dresses for another client's gala and had suggested Electra.

In the end Electra had turned out a jacket so beautiful, so intricate, Michael's brother had been upstaged at his own nuptials!

And Michael had been her greatest fan, and most devoted patron ever since.

In addition to crafting for Michael, she had dressed several of his siblings—the very large Jackson Family was renowned in both the worlds of banking and real estate—his brothers Marlon, Jackie, and Jermaine (the disgruntled groom) and one of his sisters, Latoya.

Sailing off the elevators and making a direct beeline to her was Michael Jackson.

Michael was the kind of man one couldn't ignore, no matter how they tried.

He was a man that called for attention.

He was tall, as tall as Electra and even slimmer, his weight in the lower triple digits at all times.

While he was Black, and most of his family ran in shades of brown, taupe and tawny, Michael, by way of a skin condition he refused to elaborate on, had left his complexion quite fair and milky.

It was a startling contrast to his flowing, ebony mane, gliding over his broad shoulders.

His eyes, a deep rich brown, were hidden by a pair of dark aviators, perched on the tip of a slight, thin nose.

The contrast was furthered heightened as Michael rushed along, in a sleek black blazer, over a white tee and black jeans. On the lapel, a brooch, featuring a large black opal, surrounded by small, twinkling princess-cut diamonds sparkled with his every movement.

Long feet in low boots clicked loudly as he approached her, his pinky mouth parting as he geared up to speak.

Over one arm, a red satin garment bag, his initials embroidered in black thread, dangled.

“Electra, God Bless You!”

He declared, his voice as soft and delicate as his appearance, free arm out to embrace her.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson--” She stuttered, as he always did hug her so tightly each time they met.

It didn't matter if weeks had passed or only fifteen minutes, Michael always hugged her as though they were on a sinking ship without a life preserver between them!

“I hate to be short, but I have to run down to my office, something about escrow on a building gone wrong out in San Juan Capistrano, but this is the jacket you made me for my birthday, you know its at the end of next month...?”

Electra nodded, eyes dancing as she had been so exceedingly proud of the jacket, fashioned after that of a military general's, replete with epaulets and gold braiding...

And over forty pounds of hand-sewn Swarovski cabochon beads.

“Yes, Sir--”

The bag was thrust into her hands.

“I've been stressed so with the planning of the party, I lost five more pounds, will you take the waist in another inch, please?”

In the last month Michael had dropped a good fifteen pounds organizing his party, which had been the talk of the town and the last Electra had heard somewhere near a thousand people were to be in attendance, between his lengthy family and friends. If he kept it up, he'd turn sideways and disappear completely!

“Of course--”

“Bless you!” His lips, warm and soft pecked her forehead and he started to run, only getting a few steps away, before he spun like a top, a sudden thought coming to him.

“Oh, Electra!” He half-laughed, a hand to his smooth forehead, “Let me ask you before I forget. I swear I don't know if I'm coming or going right now—do you feel like taking on another client?”

“Do I?”

She echoed and nearly dropped the precious garment in her excitement.

“Why yes, Sir!”

The glasses were tipped and she was winked at, Michael beaming.

“Good! It's my nephew, his name is Taj...”

He was backing towards the door; outside a sleek limousine emblazoned with his initials was pulling to the curb, the driver making haste to open the door.

“...he wants some leather jackets made...it'll be cool in Monte Carlo at the end of August...he'll come by your studio tomorrow, around one...is that okay?”

Now the doorman was opening the lobby door for him.

“Yes, Sir!” Electra was waving, grin wrapping her face. “That's fine and dandy! Thank you!”

“No--” Two long fingers flashed the peace sign. “THANK YOU!”

And with that, Michael Jackson was whisked away, ducking into his limo with it speeding away.

Jubilantly, Electra, no longer able to conceal her excitement, hugged the bag to her bosom and squeaked, so loudly it echoed the entire lobby.

The Following Afternoon

Electra Savoy was nervous, but while others withered and waffled under the emotion, she thrived and flourished. Electra felt that nervousness, the evolution of that fluttering in her gut that could turn from a gentle tide to a thrashing tsunami in the blink of an eye, kept her alert, and on her mettle.

As a designer, a designer creating one-of-a-kind pieces especially, there was no excuse for her mind allowing itself to become lax and lazy, allowing herself to fall into a rut of crafting.

No, that would not do at all!

Not when she catered to a niche of people who chiefly wanted see, be seen, turn heads and hopefully gloat it up about the garment clinging to their frames.

(A conversation that hopefully expanded Electra's list of patrons and boosted her bank account.)

And with another branch of the Jackson Family Tree destined to break off and land on her doorstep in moments, Electra knew all too well the work that was cut out for her.

The Jacksons, though incredibly friendly and sweet-tempered, did have a frank rivalry amongst themselves when it came to fashion and took pleasure in trying to outdo one another with the most lavish, unexpected and ostentatious clothing choices they could dream up.

Young Electra was a favorite to her clients as her youth nearly guaranteed that any thing she transformed from concept to ensemble would be newer than new.

She only wished, pleaded and prayed that she could work with this solitary Jackson without any of his relatives also calling upon her expertise in the same time frame. It wasn't that Electra didn't like the work—the work helped pay for her lovely little apartment in the clouds a few blocks from Rodeo Drive.

It may not have been anywhere near as extravagant as the Grand Versailles, but it did boast a doorman, and decent security, everything a single young woman on her own needed.

But when she had to juggle two or more Jacksons, their curiosity over what the other was doing nearly drove Electra to the brink of a nervous breakdown.

For a party last New Years' Eve she got roped into creating outfits for Marlon and Jermaine Jackson. Marlon had demanded a pristine, winter-white satin suit, trimmed around the lapels in royal blue. Not to be outdone, Jermaine ordered a banana-yellow satin suit, covered in sequins, mind you, and that had his initials light up on the back.

In the month it took to create the suits, Electra got maybe an hour of sleep, for constant phone calls, and drops-ins from each brother trying to sneak a peek at what the other was having done.

So long as this Taj Jackson character realized Electra was warm flesh and blood and not cold, unfeeling steel, perhaps she'd maintain her sanity.

By ten past one though, it wasn't Electra's sanity that was being worn thin; it was her patience.

The Jacksons were generally a punctual bunch, and she was unused to having to wait on them.

As the minute hand inched closer to the quarter-hour mark, the wide, heavy wooden door of apartment 9185 swung soundlessly on its hinges, revealing the sedate and rather bland hallway, elegantly boring in shades of cream, beige and fawn, more of those potted palms scattered about in low stoneware urns.

And as always, Electra clashed merrily with her surroundings,an electric purple and white dotted tee-shirt dress covering her, a thick white leather obi belt cinching her tiny waist, the dots being repeated by the sheer white socks she wore with a pair of sky-high white pumps.

Large white button earrings clung to her lobes, as revealed by the swash of white gauze wrapped around her head and fashioned into a tremendous bow accenting her hair, pulled back into a French roll, a few curls dangling to one side ala “Desperately Seeking Susan”.

Thin arms crossed, white beaded bracelets clacking as she scanned the vacant hallway.

A hand, tipped in holographic glitter nails, stroked after the pointed chin of her heavily painted face, Electra contemplated whether not she should call Michael about his tardy ass neph--

DING!

The bow-waving head swung around as the bell on one of the three elevators at the end of the hall chimed.

“Finally!”

Electra grunted through grit pearly whites, and stretched her face into what she hoped was a warm and inviting smile.

The smile disappeared as the doors slid open on the center lift and a lone man came shuffling off, squinting down at a scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

With one quick and scathing look, from the top of his head, featuring a mess of little plaits falling into a shining, round face hiding the eyes, the dark blue jogging suit with “Puerto Rico” embroidered on the front of the zip-up hoodie, over a rendition of the country's tri-colored flag, down past a pair of well-worn sneakers to the plain black backpack draping one of his drooping shoulders, Electra dismissed him as one of the many messenger boys who were sent to and from the building daily.

Tossing her head and starting to organize her words to politely air her complaints to Michael Jackson, a voice, sounding very much like her best client, save for being a few octaves deeper, reached her ears.

“Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but do you know where I could find...Electra Savoy's apartment please?...”

Struck down so speechless. Electra's tongue could have very well packed a suitcase and fled her mouth, she could only stare in awe as the man continued to approach her.

“...my...my uncle wrote down the address for me, but his handwriting is a step up from chicken scratch and I can't figure out the numbers. I know its ninety-one...something...”

Again, Electra examined him, this time in greater detail.

Had she any air left in her lungs, she'd have gasped as a realization slammed her like a Union Pacific freighter.

By God, he was a Jackson!

His braids hid the greater portion of his face, but as he shook his head to clear his view of the note—scribbled on Michael Jackson's personal stationary, the obvious pale blue paper with his name in a darker half-moon on top—Electra noted the resemblance was uncanny.

Not to Michael Jackson himself, but one of his elder brothers, Tito.

Though she had never worked for him—he preferred the tailoring of her older cousin Annabeth to hers—she had seen him plenty, and was seeing him all over again in this man, still stammering at her.

“...I'm usually always on time, but there was a traffic jam on the expressway from The Valley...”

It was truly uncanny, the rotund face, the sleepy dark eyes under tamed, yet still unruly brows, the smallish, refined nose, not to mention the little mole to the left of the nose. It was black on Tito, but still flesh-toned on the man.

His mouth, a perfect little heart shape above a dimpled chin, kept flapping,

“I...I know I'm late, almost half an hour behind...”

Except for his complexion, a light, coppery-gold, where Tito's was a darker brown, he was the spitting image.

He had to be Tito Jackson's son, and Michael Jackson's nephew!

There was no mistaking it!

She glanced at the Puerto Rican flag hugging his bosom.

Perhaps that was why his complexion was fairer...was he the result of the blending of Latin and African blood?

“...probably pissed her off...”

He was kind of cute in a lost puppy dog sort of way and Electra always had a soft spot in her heart for puppies.

“...why the hell can't Uncle Michael write legibly...this is ridiculous...”

He continued to lament under his breath and hands resting on her hips, Electra questioned, with knowing,

“Are you Taj?”

There was a sudden, abrupt pause, and the braid-laden head, which had been lowered to the wrinkled scrap of paper came up, eyes shining in wonder.

“Are...are you Electra?”

The head with the bow attached bobbed once in affirmation, with her adding, a tinny giggle escaping her frosted lips,

“I've been expecting you...won't you come in, please?”

Turning, the door was pushed open wider, allowing the tardy man entrance.

“Really, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you wait so long. That's not my style at all...” ”

Taj repeated, shuffling past her, into the front foyer of the apartment.

“It's no problem. You have no control over your uncle's penmanship. You made it here; that's the important thing.” Electra assured him, leaning back against the door.

In spite of herself, Electra found her eyes dropping down and focusing on the plump, high-set swelling protruding from his back.

Electra liked puppies...she liked puppies with ample booties even better!

Yes, he had a perfectly round booty, and hefty, thick thighs.

Hips that begged to have a bite taken out f them...

“This looks like something right out of 'Miami Vice'...”

Shaking her head against the illicit thoughts, Electra swiftly and tactfully reminded herself that this man was a potential client and not only was he so far out of her league they were playing different sports, but mixing business with pleasure was a tremendous no-no!

In front of her, Taj was slowly spinning, a somewhat goofy grin on his face as he took in the turquoise drenched wall, offset by the black and white tiled flooring.

Several pieces of “artwork”, abstract, colorful shapes Electra had painted out onto canvas herself, adorned the walls adding to the loudly, cheerful, Decade of Excess so near and dear to Electra's little over-the-top heart.

“Thank you, 'Miami Vice' is my favorite TV show.” Electra nodded and moving past him—why did he have to smell so ferociously of cinnamon like a gigantic Red Hot— led the way out into her living room.

Red Hots were Electra's favorite candy and despite her very best efforts to squash the sensation, she was warming up to Taj Jackson in rapid succession.

Not as eye-blistering as the front entry, the living room was adorned in milder shades of peach and grey, marked by overstuffed plaid couched and armchairs around a glass-topped chrome coffee table, piled high with several, wide, cloth-bound tomes.

Above the marble mantle, a glamour shot—professionally done, not one of those horrendous strip mall slap-ups—showed a very elegant, albeit still overdone Electra in a grey silk evening gown, dripping in diamonds, looking more regal than any twenty-something had a right to.

“Please...” Courteously, a chair was offered, with Taj dropping into it, pulling his backpack into his lap, as Electra perched herself on the couch catty-corner to him, crossing one leg over the other.

A cheek pressed against her fist, she began,

“Um...your uncle told me that you were looking to have some leather jackets made for your trip to Europe coming up--”

“That's right.” Taj nodded eagerly, those braids bouncing back into his eyes, chipmunk-esque cheeks jiggling.

“Do you have any sort of idea of the look you're going for?”

Leaning forward, Electra opened one of the books, revealing small, neat squares of brightly hued leathers.

“This is all Italian leather, the very best money can buy, if you feel them you'll see how supple they are. Of course, if you prefer French, English or Persian leathers, I have swatches of those if you'd care to peruse those also. Each bolt is dyed by hand, and any shade you want can be created. Red, green, blue, orange--”

Taj had been feeling at a square of olive green tannery, when she caught him peeking up at her through his braids and the flash of heat the single open, simple look gave her should have burned an imprint of her body into the couch.

Did he even know that tilting his head down in such a manner gave him the appearance of having a double chin?

Electra was slowly slipping away into blissful oblivion.

“I don't want anything as gaudy as all that.”

A few pages flipped revealing twenty-four samples of various black leather.

“I really just wanted something in black. It's easier to wear, and keep clean....”

A boyish grin creased his youthful features.

He had to stop being so damn cute! He was killing Electra a thousand times over!

“I'm not flamboyant like my uncles. I prefer to be more low-key. Not draw attention, if I can avoid it.”

“Oh...”

Well that certainly did put a damper on Electra.

She was quite used to the “more is more” mindset of the Jackson clan and it was strange to her to hear one of them asking to...blend in.

His family seemed tailor-made to catch eyes, cause tongues to wag and cause whiplash at every turn...and Taj...didn't want to?

How very odd.

The few strains of flimsy attraction she harbored towards Taj waned and the serious designer in her squinted, inquiring,

“If you wanted a plain black leather jacket, why are you here? You drove right through the shopping district. Why didn't you stop at Gucci or Valentino or Dior, if that's what you wanted?”

Taj hesitated a long moment for dramatic effect, staring through his strands at her, punctuating his point with a wave of his hand,

“Details.”

“Details?” Electra echoed curiously as Taj unzipped his backpack, reaching in and producing several photographs.

“Details!” He reiterated, holding the pictures out to her. “Here, look!”

Looking at the top of the stack, Electra observed a candid shot of Michael Jackson in a heavy, metallic silver blazer with an otherwise all black outfit, having a conversation with a finely dressed older woman.

“This was taken at my grandmother's birthday party last May.” Taj informed her, dropping the pack to the throw rug beneath his feet.

“You made that jacket for my Uncle Michael?”

“Yes...” Electra vaguely remembered it; ninety percent of the clothing Michael Jackson donned was made by her hand.

“Well, I liked what you did with it.” Taj pointed out, taking the stack and flipping through it, he pulled another shot and holding it up for her.

In it Michael was removing the jacket, and laughing with several of his family members.

Inside, it was clear to see the brilliant oxblood red satin lining with Michael's initials stitched in black, a detail only seen when the blazer was removed.

“I like little secret things hidden away like that. Treasures that only get seen if I want them seen. Can...can you do something like that for me, please?”

“Of course... but Taj...” Electra tried to conceal a titter with the back of her, hand,

“But what will I hide these little 'gems' in? You've only told me you want some black leather jackets. Not how you want them made, or how many--”

“I'd like four jackets, all with a boxy sort of silhouette, I think that looks best on me. I do want one with a quilted texture. I'll leave the other three to your discretion. Just nothing crazy.”

Electra sank back against the cushions of the couch, her head shaking as she fought to process the request laid before her.

“You...you're leaving the design of the other three jackets to me? Completely?”

She had never been given total and free reign before!

Electra could barely get her mind around it.

He wasn't going to badger her to death over every single stitch like his relatives?

Nitpick, bitch, whine and moan to the point she wanted to bludgeon him with a Singer sewing machine?

“Sure.”

Taj shrugged nonchalantly, wholly unaware that he'd left her shaken to her core.

“I told you what I want. Simple pieces—oh, I want the lining to be royal purple, with my name stitched in black silk thread—all black leather. A flat, matte black leather. The Italian leathers feels right, use some of that. I'm not worried about the cost; these will be staple pieces in my wardrobe. The amount of times I wear it will be well worth the price for me to get what I'm asking for in the way I want.”

Electra couldn't argue with logic like that. Taj was talking cold hard sense.

He seemed so different from the others of his relatives Electra had worked with. The garments she made for them rarely saw a second wearing and Taj was content with expressing his wanting to wear the jackets multiple times.

Even as a wealthy man he had a thrifty mind; she respected that.

“Are you absolutely certain you don't want to point me in direction with the other jackets? You want no input at all?”

Her apprehension over constructing a trio of garments with no safety net haunted her.

She had to impress this man, to ensure his repeat patronage and he was making it difficult for her.

“No...you seem very capable with a needle. I've seen everything you've done for my uncles, and Auntie Toy for years. I trust you.”

He was no longer looking at her, not in person anyway.

Taj had turned from Electra, his gaze focused upwards on her portrait, a hand unconsciously gripping at the flag on his bosom.

“When do you need the jackets by, Taj?” She wondered, rising to her feet, extending the photos of Michael to him.

She was met with silence, the tinkling of the pull-tab on the zipper of Taj's hoodie, his hand flicking it as he kept rubbing his chest, inspecting the picture.

“Taj?” Electra repeated, tapping the top of his other hand with the photos of his uncle.

“Oh!”

His head whipped back around to her, and he snatched the stack, pushing it back into his bag.

“No later than August twenty-second. We all leave on the morning of the twenty-third for Monte Carlo...” He explained, grunting gently as he stood.

He had to be taller than Electra, but boosted by the four-inch heels of her boots they were eye to eye.

Why did he have such lovely brown eyes?

“Are...are we done?”

He questioned, hands slipping into the kangaroo pouch pocket on the jacket.

“Not quite.” Electra denoted, picking at one of her earrings, head lowering to break the gaze before she did something she would be damned to regret . “I still have to take your measurements. Let me go to my studio and grab my tape measure right quick—remove your sweatshirt for me please...”

“Alright...”

Electra started for the hallway on the opposite end of the room and stopped, calling over her shoulder,

“Your...weight doesn't fluctuate, does it? I've already had to take in the jacket I made for your uncle because he's stressing over his party and dropping weight like a bad habit.”

“No!” Taj replied with a snort. “I usually gain five or ten here and there—I have a weakness for Double Griller Burgers from Barbecue World, out on LaCienega: full pound of meat, pepper-jack cheese jalapenos and onion rings—but I've been really careful with the trip coming up. I'll stay the same size, I promise!”

Did his laugh have to sound like wind chimes reverberating in the breeze?

So joyous, so musical?

A quick jaunt across the hall to the on-the-premises studio, where Taj's jackets were soon to come to life, Electra was doubling back, hot pink tape, small notepad and pencil dangling from her hand.

In the archway, she halted, and all the emotions she had been trying oppress, depress, and repress came surging back to the surface tenfold, overwhelming her to the point she staggered, gripping the archway for support.

Taj stood in the center of the living room, picking at his phone, it's case, a satin-finished silver, inscribed with a large “T”.

The hoodie removed, a grey tee, with the Transformers character Optimus Prime the front, hugged his upper body, a bit on the chunkier side, as evidenced by a little pooch of a belly.

He was so squishably adorable.

Taj's shoulders were also delightfully broad, arms a touch on the muscular side, but not overtly so.

Nearing him, Electra noticed the one item on Taj that, whereas his unassuming clothing led to the belief he was a “normal” guy, something glinting on his left wrist hinted otherwise, and reminded her that he was, indeed, a Jackson, with the blood of extravagance flowing through his veins.

A watch, completely inlaid with what had to be dozens of baguette-cut diamonds, radiated from the center of the dial and fanned the bezel, accented by thin strips of rose-gold, as were the hands denoting the time as five to two.

Light danced off the band, also loaded with more cut diamonds.

It seemed so out of place, such a costly, conspicuous, princely chunk of jewelry, on a man in nothing more than a sweatsuit, cartoon shirt and cross-trainers.

And it was the timepiece that slapped Electra across the face, silently screaming at her just whom this man was, whom his people were, and how any feelings she may have started to feel for him needed to be be forgotten, ASAP.

“This will only take a few seconds, and then I'll cut you loose.” She declared cheerfully, Taj's head coming up, the phone set aside on the coffee table.

She sounded so artificial to her own ears but if Taj noticed, he didn't let on.

“Oh, it's okay. Take all the time you need. I'm not doing anything special today. This is really all I had to do: come consult you about the jackets. I have to stop by the bank later, but it's nothing important. ”

Automatically—he was clearly no stranger to working with a seamstress—Taj stood erect, his arms out stretched, allowing Electra to begin measuring his upper body.

Wrapping her arms around him, to get the circumference of his waist, a comment, so quiet and imperceptible, was made and Electra at first though she had imagined it.

“You smell like cotton candy.”

She stole a peek at him and found Taj had his eyes shut, brow crinkled, those lovely little lips puckered.

“Thirty-one and a half.” Electra remarked, stopping and noting his waist, dropping the tape slightly to get his hips.

“Thirty-seven and a half--”

“You smell like cotton candy.”

The announcement was repeated, this time louder and more clearly.

Again, Electra looked to Taj. His expression remained placid, though his brows had raised, but she informed him anyway,

“It's Cirque Belle...my perfume...”

As the tape overlapped the fabric of his trousers, for a moment, Electra's hand was on his bosom, felt his heartbeat, the pumping quickening under her fingertips.

Was her touch exciting him?

He was so warm, so lithe, so solidly built.

“Forty-two--”

“I like it, cotton candy is my favorite.”

Eyes still shut, Taj was beaming, white teeth glowing against his tanned complexion.

Forgetting herself, Electra poked him in the belly, teasing,

“I can tell!”

“Don't do that!” The eyes, sparkling and filled with laughter, popped open with Taj jerking back.

The tape still near his thighs, tugged and Electra smacked forward into him, caught off guard by the abrupt jerk.

“Oh—I'm...I'm sorry, Taj...” Electra was swift to apologize, starting to pull away.

Any closer and the two of them would have been sharing his sneakers!

“I didn't mean...”

Flustered, surely with the crimson of embarrassment filling in her dermis all over, Electra continued her attempt to separate herself from Taj Jackson.

“It's alright, I don't mind.”

Taj spoke calmly, though his tone seemed more powerful.

His hands were on her back, warm, pressing through her top, causing a few vertebrae to pop.

He...he was trying to pull her closer to him!

Electra heard a gasp, and never did know which of them produced the sound.

She peered up at him, trying to see his eyes through the sheet of braids masking them.

What was going on his mind? What were his intentions?

What...what did he want, besides a jacket?

Why did his breath smell of barbecue sauce?

“...Hakuna Matata...Means No Worries...”

On the table, Taj's phone began ringing, its screen lighting with a picture a man looking a bit like a more androgynous version of Taj, with lighter eyes and his hair in a mess of dark curls.

“Damn!” Taj cried under his breath, his head coming forward, forehead resting on her shoulder a moment, his cologne ticking her nasal passages.

“I have to take this, it's my brother...damn it...!”

“...Hakuna Mata...”

Electra was released and as Taj took to the device, she slipped behind him to collect herself, wrapping her arms around her body, and trying to clear the haze from her field of vision.

“Yeah, Taryll?”

He demanded before the phone was even on his ear properly.

His free arm was extended with Electra measuring it and around his bicep.

His face was away from her and he never did see the look of desperation and the brimming of tears—were they ones of sadness, shame or both?—pooling in Electra's dark eyes as she struggled to keep her hands, tremoring, under control, the tape rattling.

“What in the hell do you mean, do I want to share a suite? No, I don't want to share a suite! You know I like having my own space on trips like this! You and Tess had another falling out? So the hell what? Tell me something new, Taryll! Its not a week without you two fighting! You're like a pair cats with your damn tails tied together in a burlap sack!You have over three weeks to get straight, Mashed Potato Head! The two of you will fight, kiss and make up and fight some more! All you do is fight...half the family said drop the bitch--”

He paused and hissed to Electra, recording a measurement,

“Pardon my language, I forgot myself...”

“It's...it's okay...” Her head was lowered as she sniffled, reaching for the tape once more.

“--excuse me? What? Tess said WHAT? Oh no, Bro...”

Taj trailed off, pulling himself up straight, as Electra went after his shoulders and back.

“I don't care what she said! She's going to be on the plane! This is Uncle Michael's fiftieth birthday! So...no listen to me: Tess needs to get her ass in gear and just get ready to go. No, I can't come to your house! I'm at the tailor right now, and I have to meet my accountant to set aside the money for all this. It doesn't come cheap and I STILL have to find a gift—”

Jotting down the last of the measurements, Electra patted his shoulder, signifying she was done.

“--don't do it! Don't do it—Taryll! Taryll Adren! Bro...aw, don't cry, Jesus Christ! She is not worth the tears—stop snotting! She'll come back!”

With a dejected howl, Taj threw his head back, cheeks puffing as he inhaled to control his rising anger.

“Damn it! Alright. Just...just meet me at the law firm in thirty minutes. I'm right off Rodeo...Stop all that damn snotting, please!”

With that the call was ended, Taj's face turning a rude shade of red.

“I...I have to go...” His voice broke, and Electra couldn't decipher what emotion caused the break.

His braids obscured his eyes, but she felt them on her a long few seconds.

“Thank you...for making the jackets for me. I'll be back in a few days to see the progress, is that alright?”

He wondered, stooping to retrieve his jacket and bag.

“Yes...that's fine...” Electra whispered as he stopped over her, pinkish bottom lip shaking.

Slowly, weakly, his hand came to his mouth, lingering, before his fingertips were placed to her lips.

And then he was gone, the door to the apartment shutting in the distance. Electra alone.

Her hands pressed to her bosom.

The only way to contain her rapidly beating, and quite lovesick heart.

* * *

“...who can it be knocking at my door...make no sound...tiptoe across the floor...”

Taj Jackson may have promised to return in a few days, but over the following three weeks, Electra Savoy only saw him once, about two weeks after their initial meeting.

And much to her distraction, he not only arrived unannounced, but with his Uncle Michael in tow.

The visit was alarmingly brief, mostly consisting of a spat between uncle and nephew, Michael insisting the jackets, while well constructed, were far too plain for a Jackson and tried his very best to convince the conservative Taj to “bling it up” and “sling some crystals” on it.

Taj on the other hand was adamant he wanted nothing on the jackets and went so far as to assert even the zippers and fasteners be comprised of black, oxidized silver.

Again Taj had remarked he didn't care for attention, and didn't want to draw it like moths to a light.

At this Michael claimed his nephew was wasting his money with Taj nearly screaming he was an adult and could spend as he pleased, which lit a fire under his uncle's slim buttocks.

The pair bickered so hard for a while, Electra feared they would come to fisticuffs, but Michael eventually gave agreeing Taj was an adult and if that was how he wanted to “throw away stunning material and Electra's talent”, it was his folly.

And as quickly as the pair had arrived, uncle in a black satin suit and eggshell silk shirt, nephew in a sweatsuit boasting the banner of the Dominican Republic on his back, departed, leaving Electra crestfallen and confused.

She was attracted to Taj Jackson.

There was no denying it.

In the time they had been apart, she'd reasoned, argued and even lied to herself that she wasn't.

That the moment they'd shared before a frantic Taryll's phone call disrupted the entire affair had to have meant something.

Who knew what would have happened if the call hadn't been placed?

Or ignored completely?

Electra couldn't count the sleepless nights she'd incurred on that worry alone.

But...in the less than half an hour he's stood sneakers to patent leather loafers with his uncle, arguing, the feeling had been renewed.

She adored the quiet, sheepish way he carried himself, the way he peeked shyly through his braids, but also the way he could snap to life and get his way. He chose his battles well; he was shrewd and level-headed.

He was boyishly handsome, those round cheeks constantly shining.

Incredibly polite.

Everything about him was simply thrilling to her.

And that was dangerous. Electra had long been taught not to fraternize with clients, but never had her clients been Taj Jackson!

“...who can it be now...who can it be now...who can it be now...”

Her iPod, docked in a neon lime green station, playing what she deemed the best of the best songs from the eighties, knelt on a tufted pillow, black, with isosceles triangles in blue and pink printed over it, Electra was carefully stitching at the right sleeve of Taj's quilted leather jacket.

It's construction had taken quite a bit longer than the other three—completed and hanging from pegs on black satin padded hangers as run over by messenger boy the day before, all inscribed with his true first name: Tariano—but Electra was quite proud of it.

It was simple, of course, Taj had craved simplicity the way a soul banished to Hell craved ice water, with tiny pin-tucks of leather running horizontally. He also favored the boxier outline for his jackets and the“stripes” would give Taj such a square look he could have lived in a pineapple under the sea.

Finishing the last stitch, Electra bit the thread and rested back on her heels, admiring her handy work.

Yes, it did look mighty nice, and would look even nicer on Taj.

“...you know that we are living in a material world...and I am a material girl...”

Grabbing hold of the draft board behind her, Electra pulled herself to her feet, and stretching, as she had been on that pillow for over an hour, made her way over to the full-length mirror.

Turning from one side to the other, she examined herself, and was unable to stop smiling, both the feeling of a job well done and from sheer vanity.

She didn't look half bad for having been up till all hours completing the jackets.

Though she had been holed up working the greater part of the month, her eccentric style came through just the same.

Her reed-thin form was covered by a white, long sleeved bodysuit, cut incredibly low on the back, which had been paired with a knee-length, puffy crinoline skirt of alternating black and white tulle.

Duo-chromatic accessories in a variety of stripes, polka-dots and hounds-tooth plaid completed the look.

Her curls, tamed into a ponytail on the side of her head bobbed with with every movement she made.

With a reticent toss of her head, causing her hair to sway harder, Electra decided to celebrate her work's being done with the bottle of rose she'd had reserved in the bottom of her fridge for just the occasion.

Crossing the room, she skipped out into the hall, humming the opening bars of Levert's Casanova, as it spilled from her iPod.

“...oh Casanova...”

My, but wouldn't Taj Jackson be surprised when he dropped in that afternoon, and find all of his jackets ready, a full two days ahead of schedule.

Electra came to a dead halt, as something hailed her attention unceremoniously.

Think of the Devil!

A few yards away, in her living room, poised before the marble-fronted the mantle, gazing up at her portrait, was Taj Jackson.

He was motionless, in head to toe black, a modest hoodie, jeans and tennis shoes, topped by a humble leather bomber.

No bells, whistles or any other accouterments were to be found, except for the omnipresent diamond studded watch, peeking from the end of his left sleeve.

The straps of his backpack was clenched as he held it in front of him, the bottom of it meeting the tops of his shoes.

Standing beneath the archway, she stared at him curiously.

She wasn't expecting him, as she had come out two days ahead of the deadline for the jackets' completion, not to mention he'd only been by that one time and and Michael tangled viciously...and...and...

“How...how did you get in my apartment?”

She questioned weakly, hand to her chest, trying to push her heart back into place.

Electra hovered somewhere in the grey area between excitement and fright at his presence.

Never looking away, Taj replied easily as though he hadn't essentially broken into her home,

“Your door was unlocked; I let myself in. Don't worry...it's locked now.”

Electra glanced out at the far hall, then back to him a touch of trepidation needling her.

“And you've been here, for...?” She wondered, blowing her bangs from her eyes.

Broad shoulders rose and fell carelessly.

“I saw you get your mail earlier, I tried to get your attention, but I suppose you didn't notice me. You left the door ajar, so I came in...” He sighed, still looking upwards at her rendition in celluloid.

He didn't look much like Jack the Ripper, so she didn't feel she was in any danger, though his method of entry wasn't the wisest.

How could a chipmunk cheeked man like him be dangerous? It was preposterous!

“There's this great new invention...” Electra eased up next to him, hand on her hip, trying to appear flippant, but was still quite shaken to her core by his bawdiness.

“...perhaps you've heard of it—it's called a doorbell. Maybe you can try it sometime.”

Glossy mouth puckered, Taj was soundless, seemingly oblivious to her;

He remained complacently silent so long Electra prodded, her own bravado failing her.

“Why, why didn't you tell me you were here?”

He inhaled deeply.

“I saw you were busy sewing, so I left you alone.” He declared, head finally turning to her.

“Didn't want to disturb a master at work.”

Through his braids, she noticed he wasn't blinking.

How...how could he stare so long without having to blink?

His nostrils flared and his eyes were slightly narrowed, but Taj didn't blink, his gaze cutting through her like a searing hot sword.

Sharp, icy prickles of nervousness and aversion jumped up and down Electra's spine, electrifying her.

Her own eyes unable to endure and lowering under such a direct glare, Electra mumbled, absently coiling a lock of hair around her finger,

“I...I just finished your jackets...they're ready...”

“Are they?”

It was then, Taj smiled, rounded cheeks shining brightly under the florescents.

Electra recoiled, just a bit, so slightly, it hardly called for notice.

But there was something weirdly off-putting about his smile.

The way his lips curled fiendishly, how his eyes crinkled just so at the corners.

He was as handsome, as attractive, nay sexy as Electra remembered...but that smile...

It was... it was....it was...

“Creepy.”

“Pardon?”

Electra's eyes widened in horror— Lord, had she said that out loud?

Quickly her mind slapped together a viable falsehood.

“'I said 'follow me.'” She stammered, turning a blisteringly red face from him speedily.

“F-f-follow me, please, your jackets are all in my studio.”

Upon entering the marginally cluttered hamlet, assorted bolts of fabric, threads, a pin board of sketches in the works and other clothes making accessories strewn about, Electra indicated the dressmaker's dummy,wearing the quilted jacket, made of the buttery, dull black Italian leather, the other three hanging close by.

Instead of rushing to the garments, to admire, fawn and coo over his latest acquisitions, as Electra had expected, much to her surprise, Taj seemed unphased by them completely, dropping to his knees on the hardwood, opening and rifling through his backpack.

“Don't you want to try on...”

Electra fell silent, as Taj came up with an object from the bag, the only sounds between them being a Rick Astley song.

“...Never gonna give you up....never gonna let you down...never gonna run around....”

A square box, about five inches in width and length, wrapped in matte black and gold striped paper, topped by a large, gauzy gold bow was presented to her.

“For me?” She whispered, wearing awe like her gaudy ensemble, taking the heavy package from him.

“Yes...”

Slowly Taj was rising.

“...I know I still have to pay you for my jackets, but I wanted to give you something extra. You know, to show my gratitude for all the work you've done for me. You didn't have to make the jackets...”

“I kind of did.” Electra snickered, tugging at the bow. “I have these little expenses called bills that appear every month needing my attention.”

She was so overwhelmed with flattery, her hands shook.

He'd gone out of his way to buy her a gift!

“Still...I...I wanted to thank you.” Taj stammered,the ribbon being tossed on the drafting board, and the lid removed.

“Let me.” The box was pried from her hands and reaching into the tissue paper, he removed a sizable bottle, made of red and silver enamel, modeled after the canvas big tops that were the main feature of traveling circuses.

“You...said you wore Cirque Belle, correct?” He questioned and stunned speechless, Electra could only nod dumbly.

He remembered the name of the obscure fragrance she wore?

After three weeks?

“This was the largest bottle the store carried...I want you to have it, please.”

The box was withdrawn and replaced by the perfume.

“Thank you...you didn't have to do this.” She was conscious of her speaking, but didn't really hear her own words.

He'd bought her perfume? Her favorite perfume? Gifted it to her?

“I know I didn't have to...” Taj inched closer to her, his hand raising.

“I wanted to.”

His palm, soft, warm and smelling faintly of his cologne, patted her cheek.

Instinctively, Electra touched the top of his hand, eyes closed in ecstasy, the rush of warmth she'd felt that first time she'd been with Taj, when he had held her in his arms so possessively.

His hand, so smooth, so strong, so tender against her flesh.

Reluctantly it slid from her cheek, and again, Taj was hovering, braids hiding his eyes entirely, although Electra could still feel them.

“Please show me the jacket on the figure.”

His voice was heavier, deeper and cool droplets of perspiration sprang up along Electra's forehead, thankfully hidden by the fringe of hair dancing across it.

“...Just got paid...it's Friday night.... party hopping...feeling right...”

Still clutching the perfume, Electra watched as Taj first shrugged out of the bomber, and then the hoodie, casting them aside on a low plaid divan reserved for clients that brought entourages to critique the garments they'd bespoke, revealing a heathered grey shirt, another Transformers character, this time, Starscream emblazoned on the front, as reflected in the mirror.

Finally snapping from her fantasies of herself and Taj romping through a flower dotted field in some idyllic foreign locale, the designer in Electra burst forth and setting the bottle on her work space, she advanced to him and the form.

The zipper was hastily dispatched and Electra first held the jacket at the shoulders, displaying the front and back to him, taking pleasure in the way his lips were curling joyously.

It was a pure smile, not the odd grimace he'd given her underneath the portrait out front.

“That's nice. Very nice. I like the way you got the horizontal lines strategically placed. I'll look slimmer.” Taj commented, hand to his chin, rubbing after the tiny dimple in the center of it.

“Thank you. Your Uncle Michael likes to make sure most of his jackets give the illusion of an inverted triangle, to make his shoulders appear broader.” Electra giggled, divulging the tailoring secret and a scoffing snort left Taj.

“I'll have to try that sometime...”

Electra wanted to say his body was perfectly fine and he didn't need any sort of textile tricks to supplement it but struggling to remain professional, she held her tongue, opening the jacket, showing off the shimmery, deep plum satin lining, his name stitched in swirling, looping elegant script inside.

“That's great...that's really great.” Taj was nodding eagerly, cheeks jiggling, eyes sparkling beyond the braids. “Exactly what I was imagining! Confidentially, I was more excited about the lining than anything else!”

“...Sweet dreams are made of this....who am I to disagree....I travel the world...”

Pride radiating from her, Electra, beaming like a lighthouse in the night, chuckled,

“Well, I aim to please...here...

Falling back, she stood behind him, helping to slip the jacket onto him, over his arms and onto his shoulders.

Those strong broad, mildly hunched shoulders.

Being so close to him, his peppery, cinnamon-laced aroma assaulting her nose, Electra was growing lightheaded, her heartbeats slowing and quickening without warning, and in a desperate attempt to hang on to any shred of professionalism she had left, she lowered her head.

That was a dire mistake in and of itself.

With her head down Electra had a bird's eye view of Taj's plump backside, rounded and protruding.

It bounced and flexed as Taj shifted from one leg to the other starting to preen, vain as a peacock.

“Could I try another, please?”

His voice reached her ears and she realized he was gazing at her in the mirror, eyes wide with inquiry.

“Of...of course.”

Swiftly the jacket was removed and from the hangers, another plain black piece, its only detail a fold over collar, was brought forward, and again, Taj allowed her to slip it onto him, the collar sticking up stiffly.

Electra started to adjust the collar, the bulk of his braids caught by it.

“I could wear this every day...”Taj was commenting, as Electra, without conscious thought, slipped her hands under his hair, knuckles brushing the back of his neck, in order to free the braids.

“Please!”

Twisting, Taj jerked from her grasp, hand clapping to the back of his neck as he moved several paces away.

Startled, Electra hurried to apologize.

“I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt...”

As she rambled she was outspoken by Taj, still holding his neck,

“I don't like to be touched that way—it turns me on!”

Electra loss all form of speech, as Taj, seeming to exacerbate the condition, rather than calming it, kept his head down a few moments, rubbing at his neck.

Eventually the head raised, eyes closed, and wagged from side to side, continuing to massage the flesh.

When his eyes opened, Electra was stricken.

His eyes...they had the same dangerous, frightening, arousing glaze to them, when he'd grinned at her earlier!

His bottom lip was sucked in, and when it popped back into place, he questioned darkly,

“Did you do that to me on purpose?”

“No...no...I'd never...” Electra burbled, chest starting to heave, as Taj crossed back to her, looming, staring down at her.

It was then, Electra realized he wasn't peering at her face.

His gaze was set lower, focused on her unrestrained bosom quivering against the silk of her top.

He was ogling her breasts!

“Do I...do I...” He struggled, the hand on his neck slipping off and clutching the front of his shirt.

“Do I frighten you, Electra?”

“No...” She lied and was met with that grimace.

“Then why are you backing away from me?”

As he moved closer, Electra had been matching him, step for step, easing away.

“Don't you like me?” He asked, dipping his head, giving himself a false double chin, braids falling forward, eyes leaving her bosom, returning to her face.

Ramming into the divan, Electra fell onto the cushions, staring, mouth agape, as Taj stepped to her.

Inhaling deeply, he asked,

“Why do you think I've made myself so scarce? I almost lost control of myself the first time I was here. That's why I brought my uncle with me last time. I didn't trust myself... I...I don't want to keep torturing myself Electra...”

Hand on the armrest of the couch he leaned further over her.

“Tell me...” He pleaded, eyes growing hopefully, revealing flecks of gold and amber in a sea of sienna, “...do I have a chance? Do you want me? Is there any way I can make you love me?”

Love him? Taj wanted her to love him?

He was in love with her!!!!???!!!!

Mind boggled, as she couldn't process such a thought as a man like Taj liking her, let alone loving her, Electra blurted her true feelings, feelings she'd hidden and avoided for so long.

“I already love you.”

“...I guess you could say she was a sex fiend...I met her in a hotel lobby...masturbating with a magazine...”

At the sound of the tawdry lyric coming from the still playing iPod, Taj glanced over his shoulder back at it, a cross between a cackle and a snort making his nostrils flare.

Electra was barely breathing as Taj leaned so far down over her, the tip of his nose collided with hers, his breaths hot and sweet.

His other hand rested on the back of the couch, and effectively she was boxed in by his arms.

“You love me, Electra, really?”

There was incredulity battling against amazement in his voice, with his cracking as he made the statement.

“Yes...” Electra braced against the seat, the springs creaking beneath her.

“I love you...”

Her bangs were blown askew as Taj huffed into her face.

“I bet you can show me better than you can tell me!”

He leaned closer and for a split second his eyes met hers unwaveringly.

He was kissing her, lips pressing and mashing flush on hers, soft, damp, tasting very sugary sweet, as if he'd eaten some sort of candy beforehand.

Electra's hands found his shoulders, gripping them through the leather, then slipping further as Taj plunged his tongue forward, her frosted red lipstick smearing off onto his mouth, smacking and sucking avariciously, weakening her to the point of no return.

She saw stars, fireworks, perhaps even the face of God in that one kiss!

It was everything she had daydreamed, hoped and wished for...tenfold.

Their heads moved from side to side, lips dancing across one another, savoring the flavor of one another.

“Mmmm....hmmm....mmm....mmmm!”

It was as if every emotion she had ever connected to Taj Jackson overwhelmed her in that instance and she clutched, clung to him for dear life.

She never wanted the kiss to end.

Eventually, Taj pulled back, pecking her lips a second time, letting go of her.

Eyes on her, the jacket was pulled off, carelessly thrown to the other end of the couch as if it were nothing more than a used tissue.

How hard her heart was beating! Was it a heart attack? Was she dying?

Could love kill?

His left hand, the one featuring that cumbersome, heavy watch, beckoned her, and on shaking, jellified, debilitated legs, Electra stood, breathing erratically.

“Don't....” Taj's eyes shut in anguish, hand to over his heart. “...don't be afraid of me...please....”

“I'm...I'm not....” Electra assured him, folding her hands in front of her in an effort to stop their trembling.

She never did know if it were from excitement or trepidation.

She only knew she needed him, desired him, yearned for him so horribly she was on the verge of insanity.

His shirt was in her hands.

His shirt was off and in her hands.

How did his shirt get into her hands?

She stared at it in wonder and realized the very front of it had been ripped.

A low gasp left her—she'd ripped the shirt clean off his back!

Gulping, her eyes went to Taj, less than a foot away.

Zeroed in on his bared chest, pale, bronzed, and smooth, quivering hand in the middle of it.

He was stocky, a touch on the chubby side.

Possessed exactly the type of body Electra preferred and held highly above all else.

As she was so thin, she naturally gravitated to men who were physically larger.

Two Skinny Minnies didn't go together!

Her movements slowed and deliberate, Electra dropped the shirt to the floor and moved towards Taj, gazing at him, his expression stoic, though his mouth twisted to the side.

Was he as nervous as she?

Was his heart pounding as hard and rapidly as hers? Is that why he held onto his chest?

She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him.

He was warm, so very warm!

Her lips fell first on his, then pecked his full cheeks, before starting to advance downward.

Over his chin's cleft, down his throat and on to his sweet, spicy chest.

So inviting was his scent.

“Oh my God....Oh...Oh yes...” Taj hissed as her mouth found his right nipple, covering it, tip of her tongue lashing at the tiny, milldy salty, brown bud.

“Electra....Girl...” His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling as more kisses found their way across his dimpled abdomen. “What are you doing to me?”

Speaking into the waistband of his jeans, Electra responded,timorously,

“Pleasuring you--”

Hands under her arms, Taj pulled her back upright, embracing her tightly, so tightly her ribcage should have cracked.

He was kissing her fiercely, his tongue in her mouth, going further than it had before, flipping and swabbing around the back of her throat, a gesture that usually induced Electra's gag reflex, but Taj performed it with such finesse, the sensation on;y heightened her already mounting stimulation.

His hands were around her waist, circling it entirely, loosening the short zipper on the back of her skirt, allowing it to fall from her, leaving her in the thin body suit.

Bearing down on her his hands groped at her ass cheeks, crushing them with such force that Electra, her face in his shoulder, leaving fainter lip impressions on it, winced.

Her mouth finding the lobe of his ear, she sucked on it, his braids brushing her face, his hands pulling the fabric up into a wedge exposing her little, toned buttocks.

Pop!

“Ow!” She gasped as he popped her cheek, with such force it resonated through her entire body.

“Taj--”

“I know...I know....” He cooed soothingly, his hand raising again.

Pop!

“Taj!”

Electra tried to pull back, but his arm tightened around her waist mashing her into his, his breaths heavy against the side of her face.

Pop!

Another stinging blow was delivered on her.

“Ouch—Taj! Taj! Ow--”

Pop!

She was wrestling against him as he kept on spanking her, her buttocks becoming more and more numb with each strike.

“I like your little ass. The way it quivers...” Taj spoke over her head, hand going up again.

“Taj, don't--!”

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! POP!

By the time Taj figured he'd had smacked her ass long enough, several bruises were starting to dot the sinewy flesh, mottling it, and he slipped his arm from her.

Electra collapsed to the floor, between him and the couch, exhausted, her backside rudely inflamed.

As she gasped for air, Taj squatted in front of her, causing her to reluctantly draw back.

“Everything about you speaks to me in a way I've never had a...a lady speak to me before...”

He announced, playfully running his fingers across her chin.

“The way you look at me, the way you touch me...the way you kiss me...”

His voice was muffled, tangling with hers once more.

Cheeks going crimson, he spoke into her mouth, eyes piercing hers hotly.

“The way you make love to me...”

At the last statement, Electra babbled, flustered as a wet hen,

“But I haven't--”

His thumb pressed her lips silencing her.

His curving, arched brows raised, lips parting, his eyes roaming over her, the beautiful, overdone little face, the lipstick staining off onto one cheek, the sweet, petite body, those small, pert, teardrops pressing the against the fabric of her bodysuit, the teeny points each nipple made.

“You will.”

“Taj...” She whispered, shocked, realizing what is was he wanted...

And intended to get.

And she would very willingly give it to him!

His hand curled her bicep, tightly, and blindly, Electra stumbled after him, allowing herself to be led to her drafting desk on the opposite side of the room.

Hands resting on her svelte hips, Taj dropped down into the leather chair before the desk.

His head tilted back and his tongue moistening his lips with a single pass, he ordered,

“Kiss me.”

Was he part French? It seemed the only way of kissing he understood.

“Mmmm! Hmmpf! Ummmm!”

After several moments, Electra began to pitch and wiggle, her lungs starved for oxygen.

He was strangling her with his godforsaken tongue!

His hands found their way onto her shoulders, and as she yanked back, desperate for air, he peeled the red silk away from her upper body, unveiling her bosom.

“Look at that....” Taj chuckled, placing a hand between her breasts, his touch causing a nervous sweat to trickle down her back, and reclining in the chair.

“You've got the cutest pair of titties I ever saw in my life....”

It wasn't lost on him the goosebumps that sprang up at his touch.

His other hand fell idly and began rubbing after the space between his left thigh and groin.

“T-thank you...” Electra whispered, his hands covering her globes, kneading after them.

Opening his legs further, Taj rolled closer to her, eyes on her, sitting forward, face aimed at the firm teardrops.

“You're welcome.”

“Wait a minute--”She started when she noticed the white of his teeth too close to her brown flesh.

“Ow!”

“Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm”

Taj cackled, bridge of his nose crinkled as he lightly chewed on her areola, hand caressing the other.

“That hurts...” Electra admitted after a while, running her hands through his braids, pushing them clear of his face.

“I'm sorry, Baby...” His tongue swabbed the side of her breast and he smooched the space between them. “I tend to get carried away. You're so delicious...”

Electra smiled in spite of herself.

Sitting back , he flipped his left wrist, undoing the clasp on his watch, sliding it off and hanging it on a peg above the pin board at his side.

“...don't turn around...uh-oh...Der Kommi—”

The music was shut off, leaving the room silent, aside from Electra's strained breaths.

On the other hand, Taj's breathing was calmed and even.

How was he so calm?

“Are...are you ready for me?” He questioned, tossing his head, allowing the tousled braids to fall back into place.

“I...I...I...”

Words failed and she could only look on as Taj, his index finger, extended, bumped against the V framed by her thighs, still cloaked in red silk, causing her to jump.

Smugly, he pointed out,

“...your pussy is wet...”

There was that evil smile again.

“Did I cause that to happen?”

Losing all grip on reality and herself at being outed over her arousal so bluntly, Electra stiffened and bellowed at him.

“Yes! YES! I want you! I need you, Taj! Yes! Stop this! I don't even like foreplay--”

Electra never did finish her complaint, Taj's hand shooting up and clamping over her mouth.

She was left gasping as he stood, staring at her cruelly, lips pursed, gaze starting at her face, traveling over her trembling breasts and to the moisture showing itself, darkening the red fabric to maroon.

“You want it?”

The button and zipper on the fly of his jeans were disengaged, with his free hand, the blue and red diamond-print fabric of his underwear peeking through.

Meekly, Electra nodded.

His hand slid from her mouth removing the last remnants of her lipstick on his palm.

“Tell me you want it...I want to hear you say it...”

He instructed, flipping his head, braids swaying.

Lifting her head courageously, peering down her nose at him, she managed past convulsing, tight lips.

“I....I want it Taj...”

His forehead was pressed to hers, eyes glinting nefariously, with him declaring, voice becoming throaty and husky it was nearly unrecognizable.

“Come get it!”

He dropped back into the armchair, kicking his shoes off, revealing a pair of acid yellow socks.

The footwear was so out of place, so strange, as Taj tended to wear dark neutrals constantly; to see something so loud tickled Electra and she started to laugh.

The laugh choked off with a goose-like honk with Taj taking hold of her wrist, tugging, forcing her down onto her knees in front of him.

He was watching her through those braids, mouth parted, his chest rising and falling more rapidly, as his breaths increased.

Trying to regain what little, if any, composure that remained, Electra placed her hands on the waistband of the jeans and with a few quick yanks, the jeans were off, revealing Taj's strong, muscled legs.

Gripping the waist of his shorts, Electra hesitated.

The little slit in the front gaped and through it, she could make out the paler, veined flesh of his shaft.

Seconds later the underwear was gone, Taj sitting in the chair wholly nude, save for the sunny socks on his long feet.

In apprehension, Electra's hand found its way into her mouth with her chewing on her nails. Above her hand, her eyes were widening and going glassy in the purest sense of awe she'd ever recalled experiencing.

For the very first time, she was catching sight of Taj Jackson's immaculate body in it's entirety.

And it was more than anything her fevered mind could have fantasized or imagined.

He was quite hairier than she had figured, his groin particularly heavily covered with a nest of dark curls, that lightened somewhat as they fanned onto his inner thighs.

But it wasn't the mass of pubic hair that called for and demanded Electra's attention.

No.

It was the mass of flesh, extending from the hair, pointing upwards, close to a foot in the air.

A few shades lighter than the rest of Taj's naturally bronzed form, the cock was extremely wide, wider than a cock should have been, its surface showing a few veins pulsing below the dermis, its tip a deep, flush pink, about the same color as his lips.

For a split, fleeting second she glanced up at Taj, to find him reclined all the way back, his head against the rest, his right hand in a fist on his chest.

Had Electra had that moment to see her own face, she'd have discovered she was copying her lover's “devilish” grin herself.

“Oh! Oh my God....”

Taj inhaled sharply, feeling the delicate, warm moisture of Electra's mouth enveloping his pole, and he stiffened all over, before sinking back against the leather of the chair.

“Oh, yes Baby....yes Electra....holy fuck...”

He moaned, head pitching forward, mouth sagging, as he watched the curled head bobbing up and down on him.

“You knew what I needed....” He growled, teeth gritting as the dark eyes peered up at him, and had the nerve to wink.

“You knew what your man needed, didn't you, Sugar?”

Down, between his legs, Electra was twisting after his shaft, so large it was a miracle she could get her mouth around it, and sliding up and down, allowing the tip of his dick to the furthest recesses of her throat.

“God yes....blow me! Blow me! You've got a mouth that can work miracles!” He encouraged, tugging the elastic in her hair loose, setting her curls free, smoothing them back to get a better view of the lewd act they shared..

Suddenly she was off him, holding his penis back.

“Aw...fuck....you doing that to me?”

Taj's hand was shaking into his chest as with reckless abandon, Electra first kissed at then began suckling on the furred scrotum beneath, enjoying how the flesh stretched and snapped back into place.

“Girl!”

Hands on his supple thighs Electra went after the anaconda again, stopping at the tip, passionately kissing it.

“The fuck? Holy--” Taj squeaked, her mouth returning to his balls.

“You're sucking my nuts! Oh my Gaaaaaah!”

Her tongue traced the ridge between his nads, causing Taj's legs to straighten out around her.

“You gotta stop! Electra! You gotta stop, Honey. Stop, I say!”

Resting back on her heels, feeling the true temptress in her emerging, Electra cooed, holding on to her breasts.

“Why do you want me to stop? Do you want to fuck me? Is that what you...need?”

Her head cocked to the side as she repeated, lustily,

“You want to fuck me Taj?”

His answer sent shock waves through her.

“I want to massacre you!”

Arms wrapping her, Taj pulled Electra to her feet, and draping her arms around his neck lifted her easil up and onto the desk.

“I've got to have you now...right now, damn!” He exclaimed , shoving the slim legs open, so full of haste that rather than remove her bodysuit entirely, he pushed the fabric which had been covering her coveted triangle to the side.

He never really saw it, only rammed forward into it.

“AW!”

Both he and she cried as he forced his way deeply into her, into the already dampened, inviting, quivering folds that had long since wanted him.

“Hmmm....hmmm....hmmm!”

Taj whined, falling onto Electra, shifting here and there, in an effort to discover the sweet spot.

He was so large, so very large it was wonder he fit into her little slit.

It was almost too much..

“Oooooh!”

Electra whimpered, as he found his rhythm, hips flexing, thrusting in and out of her.

“I know... I know...” Taj intoned, lips on hers, hands gliding down and cupping her ass cheeks for further leverage.

“Taj! Taj! Taj! Ah! Oh! OH! Damn you! Damn it!” Electra cried as he lifted slightly, looking down on her, taking in her distressed face and bouncing tits.

“Ugh! Ugh! Ah! Shit! So good! So good! So good....to me!” Taj's hands left her buttocks and clamped onto her breasts.

“Motherfuc--” Electra wailed, as, without a word, his stroke changed.

Instead of staying confined to going in and out, in and out, Taj began swirling his hips, going in a clockwise circle.

Sticking her in every direction, and in places she had never felt before!

“Don't do that!” She begged, running her hands over his pecs and up into his hair, pushing his braids back, his face beginning to gleam with diamond-like beads of sweat.

“Why? You gonna come? Already?” Falling on her, Taj ran his tongue along her bottom lip, droplets of perspiration rolling off his cheeks and meeting under his chin.

“You gonna come all over my dick for me?”

Sucking in her bottom, Electra gave a nod and found Taj's hand on her chin, making her meet his gaze.

“Look... look at me. Look at me Electra....” He demanded, more sweat pouring from his brow.

“I want you to look at me. I want to see you. I want to see your face as you come....”

The circles dissolved into the the in and out motion again, Taj bending down, his full weight on her, eyes dark and beady as they focused on her face and nothing else.

“I...I...I can't!” She heaved, her eyes snapping shut, the plunging and thrusting of her lover becoming too much to bear. “I...I....Taj.... STOP TAJ!”

Arching against him, Electra began surrendering, feeling a hot rush springing from her battered little hole, spurting around Taj as he never stopped throwing his hips into her.

“TAJ! TAJ! TAJ....Oh Taj....”

She sniffled, trying to turn her head from him.

“Are you crying?” His fingertips were brushing her tears away.

“It's so good to you, you're crying? Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Taj...Taj please...” Electra sniffled harder, as he positioned himself, his face inches from her, tongue between his lips, “You're gonna make me come again--”

“Why do you think I'm here?”

He taunted, body becoming wetter as more sweat streamed from his skin, leaving him slick and shining all over.

Her arms had been around his neck, but has hi pace intensified, hinting at impending doom, took her hands and placed each on his large, moist, bouncing buttocks.

Her glittery nails dug into the cheeks with her shrieking his name into his dripping shoulder, her body giving up a second time.

“Yes! Yes! Get it all out! Yes! Oh Baby Girl!”

Weakly, Electra could only look up at him, noticing his face transforming into a violent shade of purple, his brow furrowing, mouth dangling open.

Leaning back, his hands gripping the edge the of the desk, Taj threw his head back, hands shaking on the surface, a tremoring that eventually took his entire body,

“Aw...aw...aw...aha....AW!”

He screamed overhead, penis slipping from her.

She never saw it, but Electra felt four warm gushes of liquid, splattering across her heaving abdomen and up onto the undersides of her breasts.

Taj remained looking skyward for several long moments, until his breathing, heavy and restless, softened back to normalcy.

Slowly his head came down, and he looked to the pretty young woman, her cheeks tear-stained, bosom rising and falling as she stared back at him.

Returning to her, Taj took Electra's arms and wrapped them around his neck, hugging her to him, and lifting her from the table, wrapping her legs around his thick waist.

His mouth found her cheek and very sweetly, he questioned,

“Do I go left or right, to get to your bedroom?”

Starting to doze already, so taxed was she, Electra murmured,

“...right...”

“Okay.”

Pecking after her with each step he took, Taj carried Electra back to her room, tucking himself, along with her beneath the black satin sheets.

And as sleep fully took her, Electra felt a kiss on her forehead and somewhere in the darkness his voice reached her,

“I really do love you...you're coming to Monte Carlo with me...I have to have the girl I love with me...”

And there they stood that morning, in her kitchen, staring at one another, breakfast cooling on the counter top.

“I don't care that you work for my family.” Taj shrugged, placing his hands on her shoulders. “There's no harm in working. I'm a junior partner under my uncles at the office. I do a nine to five most days. I don't care about that.”

“You really don't? It wouldn't come between us?” Electra whispered, allowing herself to be pulled into his arms.

“Hell no. I don't see why it should.” Taj spoke over her head, swaying gently, arms tightening around her.

“I like that you make clothing. It sounds nice to me—real estate developer and clothing designer. Perhaps when we come back from Europe, we can do something with your business. Get you a real studio, maybe even a storefront. Would you like that?”

Looping her arms around his middle, Electra was haunted as she asked,

“You'd do that for me? You'd help me like that?”

Lips touched hers and Taj snickered,

“Of course! You're my woman now—right?”

He gazed at her hopefully and broke into a grin as she nodded.

“Then it's settled. After breakfast, I'll call Uncle Michael and tell him to expect one more for the trip. Now come on, you have to eat scrambled eggs while they're nice and hot...!”

The two of the them rounded the counter, Taj pulling out a stool for her and then seating himself, both beginning to eat.

Laughing as the top on the pepper shaker came loose turning his yellow eggs black, Electra felt at ease.

All her life she had been so strange, so different.

Maybe, just maybe a “normal” man like Taj was what she needed to balance her out.

And to hell with him his family said yay or nay...

Picking up her plate, she scooped half her eggs onto his to share.

Thankful at her generosity, he kissed her cheek and she returned the favor, popping a piece of crispy bacon past his lips.

She was happy and that was all that counted.