He Came Back--Michael Jackson Erotica

 

I have always considered Michael Jackson to be a sweet, tender and kind sort of man. A good, upstanding man. The type of man who’s word is his bond. A man who would never break his promise. At the thought of Michael’s truly beautiful moral character, I was inspired for a story where Michael breaks a promise. But the reasoning behind his breaking of his bond, is beyond anything anyone could have ever guessed. Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

“He Came Back”

A Michael Jackson Erotica By:

MJsLoveSlave

 

 

Barton Hills, California

Summer, 1988

 

That particular day, early in June, had been like so many others that had preceded it.

Clear, bright and balmy, with just a hint of breeze.

A breeze that was exacerbated when one sat in a cotton- candy pink, perfectly restored 1956 Cadillac convertible with the top down.

Which is exactly the way Holly Howell preferred to drive her muscle car treasure as many days of the year as the weather allowed.

Yes, there was nothing quite like riding through the hills of Northern California, with the wind whistling through her long, permed hair, whipping her darkest brown curls back and forth.

Turning onto a residential lane and slowing to a creep to avoid hitting some children who were playing hopscotch in the street rather than the sidewalk where they belonged, the pink Caddy was destined for the low, red-bricked bungalow in the center of the street.

Holly’s childhood home.

The life-sized Barbie-like vehicle coasted to a halt beside the more sedate and sensible, light brown Pontiac Grand Am, belonging to Holly’s mother.

Disbanding from the car, Holly bumped the door closed with her hip, and paused to run her hands through her large and unruly mane, her excuse for “taming it“. For Holly, the more wild and windblown it appeared, the better…she loved her “big” hair.

She never saw it, but behind her, two young boys, barely in their teens had come to screeching halt on rollerblades to ogle her.

Indeed, Holly was someone to stop and look at.

Standing at a taller-than-average height of five-foot-eight, with a perfectly proportioned and rounded body, that afternoon was draped in a sleeveless bright yellow, cropped top, acid washed jeans, with crisscrossing cut-outs down the legs and matching flats. A rainbow patterned cloth belt cinched her waist.

Hands shoved carelessly into pockets, Holly tossed her hair once more, and started up to the front door, and a moment later was letting herself into the roomy, comfortable house.

Stopping at the mirror in the front hall, Holly produced a tube of hot pink lip lacquer and went to her small, cupid’s bow lips with it.

Holly was beautiful with a naturally tan complexion, thanks to having a Black mother and Mexican and Irish father, and slanting, amber colored eyes offset by her deep hair.

Speaking around the gloss, Holly called out,

“Mama? Are you home? Where are you?”

And very softly, from the back of the house, came the soothing reply,

 

“In the kitchen, Hol’.”

Holly found her way into the wide, cream colored kitchen and found her mother, a spot of brightness in a light blue dress, standing at the kitchen table.

Before her mother was a large white wicker basket overflowing with what looked to be wedges of various hard and soft cheeses, glass bottles of jellies and jams and tins of crackers and wafers.

“Hi Mama…” Holly greeted her mother with a kiss to the cheek, before questioning, still staring at the basket.

“What exactly are you doing?”

Mrs. Howell, taking a length of red gingham grosgrain ribbon and tying a large bow onto the handle of the basket replied simply, and a bit distracted,

 

“Making a ’welcome’ basket, Dear. Michael Jackson moved back into his old house.”

Knees suddenly failing her, Holly dropped down into the closest chair at the table, and stared at her mother, at a loss for words.

Michael Jackson?

Michael Jackson…was back?

 

He’d come back?

Why it had been…it had been ten years since Holly had seen Michael Jackson!

Sitting there as her mother kept speaking and fussing with the bow, Holly’s mind began to wander.

Going back ten years to the last time she had set eyes on Michael.

As a child, both Holly’s parents had worked and for four wonderful years, Michael Jackson had been her babysitter.

Michael, eight years Holly’s senior, a man of sixteen to the eyes of an eight-year-old, had always been incredibly sweet to her, helping her with homework, and giving her snacks and even playing Barbies with her like he was a child himself.

In her formative years, Holly had spent more time with Michael at his own childhood home, a few blocks away in a more affluent part of town, backed by the rolling hills, than in her own home.

Many an afternoon had been spent enjoying herself with Michael.

Holly had been the envy of all her little girlfriends, hanging around with the older and boyishly attractive Michael. Sometimes he’d even turn up at Saint Elizabeth’s Elementary just to walk her back to his house safely.

He had been so tall and slim and slightly manly, with a huge puff of an afro that had been the all the rage back then.

Holly always liked holding his big hand, feeling special.

Holly had figured that Michael would have remain a fixture in her life.

But that had changed in the summer of 1978, when she was twelve, and Michael, twenty.

Michael, who had a keen interest in charitable work--many times Holly witnessed him giving money away to organizations, and more than once had helped him out at a soup kitchen feeding the transients in the area--made a startling announcement.

Through some foundation, he was going to travel to Africa to do missionary work, and provide supplies to the poverty-stricken children there.

He would be gone for about a year.

Holly remembered she had run to him, and hugged him, tears streaming down her little cheeks. Close to hysterical.

Begged Michael to stay, to not leave. Who would look after her?

Holding her tightly, Michael had told her she was a big girl now and could look after herself.

He had promised to write her frequently.

And the year would fly by.

Holly, was sorely heartbroken, as she was too young to have realized she was in love with Michael Jackson.

She lived around her mailbox, cherishing his handwritten letters, detailing life in Nairobi. How much he loved working with and teaching children to read, how he enjoyed cooking--he’d only started one fire--and feeding people.

Little trinkets, African masks and jewelry were routinely passed along to her.

He even sent a picture of himself, surrounded by about fifty happily grinning native children.

Michael stylishly wore the traditional Kenyan garb, draped in brightly colored fabrics and accoutrements. He looked every bit an African king.

Then suddenly, in the autumn of 1979, Michael’s letters stopped arriving.

Holly wrote frequently, trying desperately to get a reply.

Nothing.

He never did return as he had promised.

And she couldn’t ask Michael’s parents about their son, because soon after he left for Africa, his parents moved away to Florida to live out their retirement years on the beach.

It was years before Holly fully got over Michael’s abrupt break in communication.

He didn’t come back…why hadn’t he come back like he said?

She was as brokenhearted as though she had lost an actual lover, rather some child-like fantasy in her mind.

And now he was back in Barton Hills?

He’d come back?

What on Earth brought him back after a decade abroad?

Had he married? Did he have a wife, children? A dog?

Why had he stopped writing?

“--Holly? Holly? Holly Evangeline!”

Holly came back to the present at the persistent calling of her name.

“Yes, Mama?“ She turned her eyes up to her mother, still fiddling with the grosgrain bow.

“Listen to me when I’m talking to you, Girl! I said I want you to run this gift basket to Michael. I’d do it myself, but I have Bingo tonight with the Ladies’ Christian League.”

Take the basket to Michael?

Holly stared at the basket a long moment; as though she had never seen one before in life. (In actuality, it was how her mother made her income, running a small basket business out of the house…)

Her, her mother wanted her to go to Michael Jackson and take him that basket?

See Michael Jackson? Look at him? Speak to him? Touch him?

It was kind of fuzzy after that.

The basket was heavy in Holly’s hands as she toted it back to her car, but rather than backing out and driving the four or five blocks east to the old Jackson homestead, Holly went west into town.

She couldn’t just go up to Michael Jackson looking like anything.

This was important; she had to look good!

Holly who had only worn black eyeliner and pink lip gloss that day, surely broke land speed records getting to the nearest drugstore and purchasing make up to supplement her appearance.

Holly was sure she drew odd stares at the make up counter, using baby wipes to clean her entire face and start over from scratch.

It took forty-five minutes, give or take a few seconds of cursing when she poked herself in the eye with a mascara wand, but she was made up suitably.

Her eyes now were adorned with yellow shadow--a look not many women could carry--thick black liner and crusted lashes. Her cheeks glowed with pink stripes of blush and her lips were glossier than ever.

She had flipped her head several times to encourage height in her hair and sprayed it into place with a bottle of Aquanet she did not pay for.

No time for a real manicure, she settled for sticking on long, hot pink, Lee Press-On nails.

After coming out of a haze of Vanilla Musk perfume, Holly could breathe and see straight once more.

Now, she was ready to see Michael Jackson.

The drive back towards his house was a silent one.

Earlier, Holly had been bopping to the sounds of Bruce Springsteen. She didn’t bother with the radio this time.

Her mind was focused on Michael and only Michael.

What would happen when she rang his doorbell?

Would his wife answer? A daughter or son? A whole flock of them?

Would he remember her? Be happy to see her?

Oh, it was all too much.

She could practically see herself as a child of about ten, in her plaid, Catholic school uniform, skipping along the road to Michael’s house.

And suddenly, there it was.

Just as it had been ten years ago.

The large, rambling, white-washed, farm-style house.

It looked exactly the same, from it’s emerald green lawns, the hills several hundred yards in the distance behind it.

The same wicker chairs and wooden porch swing.

So many summer afternoons, Holly had cuddled beside Michael listening to him read classics like A Tale of Two Cities, and Oliver Twist and The Wizard of Oz to her.

Coming up the chalky gravel driveway, there was one difference Holly noted as she pulled her car to a halt and shut off the engine.

In 1978, Michael Jackson had driven a little bright blue Corvette he’d dubbed “The Blue Bullet”.

That car was nowhere to be found.

In its place, was a gleaming, black Mercedes. Whatever Michael was up to now, he was doing quite well to afford that piece of metal.

Already impressed, Holly lugged the basket up to the porch and set it down, taking the time to look around.

She didn’t hear the gleeful shrieks of children playing, or the rollicking laughter of a happily married woman…

In fact, she couldn’t hear anything other than an occasional bird tweeting, it was so quiet.

But someone had to be home, several lights were on.

Reaching up, Holly took a deep breath…she at the same time was dying to see Michael, and frightened to…and pressed the bell.

just the same as ten years ago, it rang melodiously.

It was almost as if time had stood still.

Damn it, Michael’s mother’s lace curtains were still obscuring the glass pane in the front door.

Holly’s breath quickened as a silhouette, became visible behind it.

A second later the door opened.

And there he was.

Michael Jackson.

He was ten years older and the changes in him…were phenomenal.

He was still tall, but seemed thinner, his complexion a bit lighter, a more caramel shade, than chocolate--but he wasn’t baking in the African sun any longer. His nose seemed smaller, more streamlined, and there was a cleft present in the base of his chin. His hair, once a large, free-standing afro, was tamed, circling his head in thick, glossy ringlets, perhaps a Jherri Kurl permitted to grow out some.

He’d done something to himself, had a makeover, and the results were spectacular.

Standing that closely to him, it was clear he wore some form of cosmetics: a bit of foundation, a hint of blush, a dab of clear gloss. His eyes were rimmed in black liner. Those smoldering, dark eyes.

Eyes that were peeking at her curiously.

His slim frame was dressed a bit better than it had been so long ago.

Michael was always in cartoon tees and cut off shorts in the warmer weather, but now, he was dressed like a man.

A crisp white oxford, tight fitting dark blue jeans rolled up at the ankle to reveal white socks and black loafers.

A thin, sparkly red lamé tie was at his throat.

Those eyes…continued to gaze in wonder.

That’s when it dawned on Holly; he didn’t recognize her.

Why, how could he? It’d been ten years. She was a woman now. Didn’t need a Missy’s First training bra anymore.

Hanging onto the open door, he finally spoke,

“You rang the doorbell? How can I help you?” He questioned, almost timidly, in his sweet, musically light voice.

His eyes drifted down to the basket then back up at her.

“Is that for me? I didn‘t order anything…”

Holly didn’t know what came over her, but her mouth loosened and she said the same thing she always had when she was a child and Michael opened the door for her,

“ Hi Michael, can I have some chocolate chip cookies for my snack instead of graham crackers?”

Michael staggered a moment eyes widening.

“Holly? Oh my God! Holly!” He exclaimed, and was instantly hugging her against him.

He smelled wonderfully, and strongly of Aqua Velva .

“I would have never guessed it was you! I’m still seeing the twelve-year-old with pigtails in my head! Gosh!”

He snickered, holding her close, one hand on the back of her head, mashing her cheek to his.

Stooping, he picked up the basket in one hand and in the other, was pulling her along into the house.

It was neat and tidy, looking just as it had a decade before.

The same plaid furniture decorated the living room.

Setting the basket on the low coffee table, Michael grinned at it.

“This is nice. Crackers, cheeses, jams and stuff. Your mother made this, didn’t she?” He wondered, hands on thin hips.

Sinking into the plush couch, Holly nodded. “You know it.”

The grin grew wider.

“I don’t have cookies, but I have some nice cold lemonade. How about I pour us some and then we can nibble at this basket?” He suggested and before Holly could answer, Michael was gone.

He returned with two frosted tumbles of lemonade and ice, small plates and a knife.

Picking out a tin of butter crackers and opening it, portioning some out, Michael commented,

“It’s been a long time, Hol’. What have you been up to? Did you go to college?”

“Yes…” Holly paused to sip her beverage as Michael was examining the cheese wedges, trying to decide on which to slice into. “I graduated this past May. I’m going to teach elementary school.”

Michael’s eyes glowed with pride. “That’s wonderful! Teaching the youth! Gosh, that’s great. I’m so happy! So many children will gain their intelligence eagerly from you.”

Glancing at a wheel of soft cheese, he read the name quietly,

“Camembert de Normandie.”

It was so soft, he didn’t so much cut it, but scoop it out the rind and spread it on crackers.

Michael started to chew away pleasurably, enjoying the stinky cheese, but Holly’s crackers remained untouched.

Setting her glass on a coaster, she asked the question that had been burning her for so long.

“Michael…why did you stop writing to me while you were in Africa? Why are you just now coming back. You were supposed to come back in 1979--”

Michael wasn’t looking at her.

Turning his attention back to the basket, and shuffling the contents around in it, his response almost took the curl from her hair.

“It wasn’t by choice Holly…You see, shortly after I began work in Africa, I…I…” He paused and swallowed audibly.

“I contracted Malaria.”

“Oh, Michael--no!” Aghast at the idea that Michael was sick, had been sick, Holly gripped his large left hand in hers.

Still looking away, Michael’s voice dropped.

“All this time…so long…I’ve been in an out of hospitals. I was airlifted way back then from Africa back here to a facility specializing in Malaria in Connecticut. I was extremely ill, soaring fevers, delirium. The few lucid moments I had, I couldn’t write. I was simply too weak. But I did wonder about you.”

Those deep, plaintive, painful eyes turned back to Holly and her heart softened immensely.

“I always did. I used to take care of you. I always wondered about the little girl I left behind. I‘d never hurt you.”

“Michael…I’m sorry. I didn’t know, if I had known--” Was all Holly could muster, her entire being aching and hurting for him.

“It’s alright.” He assured her, patting at her hand. “I’m home now. I’ve wanted to be home so long. Mother and Dad left me this house when they moved to Florida. They wanted to move to Connecticut for me, but I wouldn’t’ stand for it. They saved all their lives to move to Coral Gables and that’s where they are now. I’ve spent the last ten years wanting to come back. I’m here…”

Michael lifted a wedge of Sharp Cheddar in his free hand.

“I’m home now.”

As he spoke, the wedge of cheddar slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a plop.

A clear, bright red glow came to his cheeks, as Michael stared down at it and confided,

“That happens a lot. I have some nerve damage from the fevers…” He explained, a bit ashamed, as Holly rose and retrieved it.

Holly could only wonder how Michael, living alone, could manage? Would he really be able to cook for himself or clean the place or go buy groceries? What if he got sick once more?

“I know you’re probably still getting settled…” She commented slyly, putting the cheese back in the basket, “…but if you’d like, I could bring you some lunch tomorrow afternoon.”

A look of utter and complete thanks came to Michael’s face.

“Yes, please--could I have fried chicken?” He questioned and Holly laughed inwardly. Fried chicken had always been his favorite meal.

“You can have whatever you want.” Holly smiled, feeling more at ease and happy with him.

With the smile being returned gleefully, Holly was already formulating ideas.

Michael Jackson needed someone to care for him, and if she played her hand just so, she could be the one to do the caring.

* * *

The following afternoon, Holly was a wee bit tired, but exceptionally pleased with herself.

It had taken the greater part of the morning, and about ninety cups of black coffee, but she had constructed a wonderful home-cooked meal of Michael Jackson’s favorite vittles.

Packed away in a brown picnic basket were pounds of golden fried chicken, seasoned and still steaming, red potato salad, crispy oniony coleslaw, and a coconut butter crème cake.

(Author’s Note: I made myself hungry…)

Holly had dressed in a way to gain Michael’s attention, but without throwing her body into his face.

Her well-tended body was covered in an ankle length, sleeveless electric purple tank dress, cinched at the waist by a contrasting turquoise belt and matching leather sandals. It was a dress that showed every ripple on her form.

A thick see-through bangle circled her wrist and hoops dangled from her ears in the vibrant blue color.

Several times as she drove along, Holly pinched after her nipples, her breasts free from a bra, standing up naturally and at attention. she wanted the nips to show through the silk on her body.

Michael’s attention.

Hair wild as ever, was held back behind one ear with a turquoise clip.

Her make up was as vibrant as her clothing. Purple lids, turquoise liner, pink smacker.

Reaching the Jackson home, Holly felt a shiver of delight that Michael was pacing on the porch.

He had been waiting for her!!!

And his appearance was even more glorious than the day before as he waved and came jogging over to her.

He was dressed in a very preppy manner in a red cardigan with a “J” in a golden crest on the front, over a blue Oxford and black jeans, revealing blue sock and his polished black penny loafers.

His hair had been pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few tendrils escaping and falling into his face.

“Hello Holly!” He greeted her warmly, opening her door for her and helping her out. “Gosh…you look pretty.”

Still the same Michael that Holly had always loved. And it seemed she loved him even more…with what he had been through and remaining so cheerful.

“Thank you--” She started as he reached into the back and retrieved her basket.

“Great minds must think alike.” He chuckled, taking care, Holly noticed, to hold the basket with his stronger left hand, and slipping his right arm through hers. “It’s such a pretty day, I wanted to have a picnic outside. And then you bring this basket! I made red Kool-Aid!”

Arm in arm, Holly was led around the house by Michael, towards the grove of sycamores that dotted the wide back yard.

Beneath one of them, she could make out a paisley print blanket among the grass and multi-colored wildflowers.

Getting closer, she saw plates and silverware, a large thermos and a thick, leather bound book.

Laughing, Holly left Michael and dropped to her knees on the blanket, picking up the book, instantly familiar to her.

Opening it, she was greeted with pictures of herself as a child, and Michael in his younger days.

“God, this seems like a lifetime ago.” Holly tittered, as Michael dropped down beside her, resting against the trunk of the tree and opened the basket.

“I thought you’d like that--woo! My favorite meal! Thank you Holly!” Michael exclaimed joyfully and was hugging her, as she set the photo album aside and helped him pulling out Tupperware containers.

Once their plates were loaded with their meal and a finger’s worth of icing has been stolen from the cake, Holly and Michael settled together, gong through the old photos.

They both cracked up over the same photo. Little Holly dressed up as Wonder Woman for Halloween.

“Jesus Christ!” Michael snorted, tipping the thermos of Kool-Aid to his mouth before passing it to Holly. “I remember that. The same night, Lynda Carter was making an appearance at a costume shop, and you made me take you down there. There were five hundred little Wonder Woman pretending to deflect bullets with their cuffs! Ha!” Michael threw his head back and cackled.

“Those were good times…” Holly trailed off when Michael, naturally right-handed tried to put a forkful of potato salad into his mouth and it fell to the blanket instead.

He grunted sadly, and was trying to discreetly clean up the mess with a napkin.

Seeing his weakness, Holly inquired gingerly,

“How are you going to live Michael? How are you going to make it, living alone, with the trouble you’re having?”

With a shrug, Michael Jackson grumbled no definitive answer.

Her own plate neglected, Holly took his and scooping up some of the salad, offered him the bite.

“I know you want to be independent…but you need someone, just in case.”

She wasn’t flirting; she was seriously concerned for his well-being.

Allowing himself to be fed until the potato salad was gone from his plate, he didn’t answer directly, only, stating,

“This reminds me of the winter, when you were ten, Hol’. And came down with the mumps. I fed you chicken noodle soup for four days.”

Laughing bashfully, Michael looked away and Holly place his empty plate on top of the closed basket.

“Sometimes…sometimes, I wish I hadn’t gone to Africa. I know they needed my help, but if I had known something as mundane as a mosquito bite was going to do this to me, I’d have stayed home. I’m twenty-nine-years-old, and I can’t even feed myself--”

Michael stopped abruptly and looked up, startled.

While he had been digging himself a hold of regret, Holly had taken his weakened right-hand and began kissing the top of it and his long fingers, still stained with chicken grease.

“Holly, what are you doing?” He gasped, as she flipped his hand over, leaving pink prints in his palm. “I used to baby-sit you!”

Looking up at him through her long lashes, Holly spoke off into his palm.

“In case you haven’t noticed…I’m NOT a baby anymore, Michael.”

Curling his hand, so that the index finger stuck out, Holly pressed it into her mouth, sucking on it gently.

“You have grown up…damn.” Michael commented, cursing the first time Holly could ever recall as she pushed his finger into her mouth down to the knuckle.

Letting go of his hand, Holly moved closer to Michael, pressing herself against him.

“You know,” She toyed with his hair. “I had the biggest crush on you when I was a child. You changed. I changed. But that NEVER changed.”

Eyes widened, Michael could only stare.

“You mean, you--” He hesitated and sucked in his bottom lip, biting on it zealously. “I never knew--”

Hair bouncing, Holly nodded in affirmation.

“Is it possible for you to see me, as something other than the little girl you sat and watched Captain Kangaroo with. The woman I am now, perhaps?”

Putting her hands up, Holly went to push aside the straps of her top to expose her bosom.

Michael’s large hands covered her shoulders and in a moment that had once only been composed in dreams, Michael Jackson was kissing Holly Howell.

A long, deep, passionate, maddening kiss. The kind only written about in books.

Michael’s mouth was warm, gentle, gnawing and tasting of Kool-Aid.

Arms wrapping Holly as she went slightly limp with desire, Michael held her strongly, forcefully, like a man was supposed to.

Finally releasing her mouth, both were gasping heavily from the exertion.

“Holly…” He began tentatively, hands caressing her back and coming up into her wild hair. His eyes widened with lust as he looked over her, taking in her scantily figure.

“Yes Michael?” She sighed, eager to do his very bidding, ever inch of skin to her breaking out in goose pimples.

Almost in audibly, through unmoving lips, he requested.

“May I make love to you?”

There was a blurring of time. Holly wasn’t sure what happened.

But the blanket was cleared of the basket and food and photo album.

Holly reclined on her back, Michael’s red cashmere sweater folded neatly under her head.

Resting on his knees, silence filled the space between them as Michael took the time to undo her sandals, slipping them off and pausing to peck the tops of her feet and her slender ankles.

The sensation of his warm lips on her skin was murderously lovely.

He was lovely, tender, warm…

She never wanted to stop his kisses; wanted time to stay in that moment forever.

Coming up and loosening the belt, Holly wondered,

“Has…has it been very long since you’ve done this?”

Indirectly, Michael gave a spine-tingling answer.

“It’s like riding a bike, you don’t forget what you’re supposed to do, or how to do it.”

Deftly, Michael’s hands traced the curves of Holly’s body, before with a gentle tug, was pulling the dress down and from her body, leaving her only in a pair of matching sheer purple panties.

Fabric ripped and buttons flew as Michael, more urgently, snatched his shirt off, and Holly was only given a glimpse of sweet, light brown chest and lightly defined muscles, dotted with brown nipples, before he was hugging her again, mashing her plump bosom into his flat one.

“Oh…oh, Holly…” He mumbled, mouth finding her neck and sucking on it.

Holly holding onto him, and sucking on his throat, his cologne bitter-tasting, she pulled the small rubber band containing his ponytail loose.

As his curls spilled forth, they simultaneously grabbed each other by the hair and were kissing, tongues lighting against each other, gasping, smacking greedily, tirelessly.

Holly was hot, hot all over, as Michael laid her back and planted a kiss to center of her bosom before sliding her panties off.

Leaving her naked in front of him.

“Oh my God, Holly…you…your body…all of…” Words seemed to fail Michael and he laid on her, holding her face in those long hands, staring at her, lips pecking hers ever so gently.

Chest bouncing with wanton, Holly whispered, the throbbing betwixt her thighs too much to ignore.

“If you want it, take it.”

With a small nod, Michael rose up and back onto his feet.

A cool breeze picked up from the north and briskly blew Michael’s thick mane back and away from his face, exposing his sharp, beautiful, androgynous visage.

Lying back, too weak to even sit up she was horny and nervy over what was conspiring, Holly could only look on, as Michael’s eyes on her never wavered.

Burned into her body.

Slowly, Michael kicked off his loafers and brought each foot up, removing his socks and tossing them aside.

Smugly, he toyed with the zipper on his trousers, playfully raising and lowering it several times.

Teasing her and only offering a flash of the cherry-red briefs they masked.

The pants were eased off, showing this long, toned and graceful legs. Legs like a dancer.

Not legs of a man who’d been laid up for ten years with Recurrent Malaria.

Not at all.

Turning his back to Holly, Michael was showing his darker side, teasing her playfully with his underwear.

Hiking it up at the hips so that the fabric bunched and wedged into his backside, like a thong.

Revealing his creamy, delicate, and smooth buttocks, a dimple in the right one showed plainly.

He peeked at her over his shoulder and winked.

Holly returned the wink as he faced her, and she felt special, sharing this wonderful, bonding moment with him.

Alone in nature.

Almost like Adam and Eve in a way…

Then in a swift movement, the red fabric was gone, lying in a crumpled heap to the side of Michael Jackson’s long feet.

 

He was naked.

Michael Jackson was somehow naked and standing over Holly.

And he was more exquisite than Holly could have ever imagined in her overwrought mind.

He was slender, toned, his long legs hairless and shimmering.

His crotch, was adorned by a thin black peach fuzz.

And between his legs…

Holly sat up in awe.

Dangling there, in its flaccid and limp state, was Michael’s penis.

A long and thick, smooth shaft of meat, dangled, its bright pink tip, partially revealed from the flap of foreskin covering it.

Joining Holly back on the blanket, neither seemed to care that they were completely unclothed in the great outdoors, Michael asked as he tucked her hair behind her ears lovingly.

His touch….took her breath away.

“What’s that word…the one where people mess around before intercourse?”

He wondered still playing in her hair.

Holly squinted at him.

 

“Foreplay?”

“That’s it!” Michael’s hair bounced and Holly almost floated up and off the blanket as Michael’s fingertips began bumping around between her thighs.

“Come on, up…” Michael encouraged pulling Holly so that she rested on her knees, sitting on her heels, legs opened over the blanket.

And over Michael’s roving hand.

“Michael, wait, Mike--” Holly gasped as three of those long fingers were plunging into her.

“No, Baby, I don’t want to.” Michael replied simply and holding Holly steady with his left hand continued plunging his fingers inside of her.

Leaning over as he continued masturbating after her, Michael’s mouth found its way to one of Holly’s overripe nipples and pink tongue lashing, flicked against it.

Electricity fired through the young woman mercilessly.

“Michael, stop! Ah! What the hell?” She cried, stunned as white teeth showed and he was nibbling on her areola.

Holly tried to push him away, and in the same instant, his hand leaving her dampening pussy behind, Michael shook her lightly.

Wrestling the two of them fell onto the blanket.

“Michael, Michael! You’re silly!” Holly giggled as Michael pinned her down, his fingers intertwining with her, pressing them parallel with her shoulders.

The laughter subsided when she saw the heavy-lidded faraway gaze Michael was giving her.

Looming over her, his tongue came out and circled his lips.

Head dropping forward he stated quietly and sternly, hair mussed and framing his angular features.

 

“It’s so quiet here. I wouldn‘t want it any other way, Holly-Honey…to know we‘re truly alone. Right here…right now.”

His eyes shut and Holly gazed at him quizzically and eagerly, so many tangled emotions tumbling through her, she could barely tell one from the other, before she arched wildly, as Michael thrust his hips forward without warning, and was penetrating her forcefully.

Somehow, someway, he’d hardened to a full, solid erection and lengthened to mammoth proportions; proportions being introduced to Holly.

Proportions Holly had never experienced from another man…nearly a foot of Michael Jackson was connected to her.

“Ow, Michael! Michael--” She gasped as he slowly was bumping his hips against her, keeping the most of himself inside of her moist hotness.

“Yes, I know, Baby…yes, it is big, but you’re a big girl. You can…TAKE IT!”

Hands on Holly’s shoulders for balance, Michael slammed into her and below a loud pop was heard and above, Holly shrieked.

“MIKE!”

“Yeah! That’s what I want to hear! Just like that! Just like that!” Slowing again, Michael laid on Holly, his mouth to her neck where it met the shoulder, hips pumping.

His lips. Michael’s lips were everywhere.

On her face, her throat, her bosom, her shoulders. He bit her left shoulder.

“Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike….ah!” All Holly could do was repeat his name, any other language could not reach her lips.

She knew no other words but his name. And had she any grasping of speech, she wanted to say nothing other than his name.

For it was Michael and only Michael that mattered now.

“Oh yes, yes…that’s it. That’s it right there. Aaow! Yes! Ooooh! You’re so wonderful! Every inch of you…Ah, yes!”

Michael gasped, his skin becoming clammy as his exertion brought sweat from his pores.

Riddled with pure ecstasy, Holly sighed luridly in his ear, as Michael’s hands moved from her shoulders, and fell to her plump hips, Michael, himself, rearing back.

Hips thrusting in a strangely calm manner.

He wasn’t as wild as he had been before.

He was controlled.

By God, the thought dawned on Holly as she was bouncing beneath him, and her breasts slapped her in the face willy-nilly before she grabbed onto them in her daze.

Michael was prolonging it.

His eyes never left her.

It was creepy in a way almost. He kept watching her, kept feeding off her every reaction.

Her moves, her gasps, her words.

For a brief, surreal moment, Michael pulled his damp, swollen mass from Holly and pressing her legs up and further open for himself, flicked his tongue against her clit.

“Michael! NO! Michael-Oh! Oh, Michael!” Holly didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or both at what was happening to her body.

She had never had anything like this. Ever.

She was only twenty-two.

Going deeply, Michael hung over her, his hair starting to go stringy as his body was clearly wet and streaming perspiration.

Droplets from his brow fell into Holly’s eyes as he leaned over her and begged crisply,

“Do you love me, Holly? I’ve come to love you, just this quickly.”

Eyes locking with his, Holly whimpered,

“I’ve always love you--all, all this time!”

Hands up, she ran them against Michael’s heaving chest, and down the soft indentations of his abdomen, to his outie bellybutton.

A soft, urgent gasp escaped Michael’s lips and he threw his head back, sweat beads flying.

When his head came back down, his mouth was agape, his eyes shut, and his slim nostrils flared.

Longs hands sought out Holly’s mammaries and was squeezing them roughly.

Eventually Michael’s arms circled her once more, holding her close, the two of them, pumping and writhing against it each other.

It went unspoken.

There was no need.

Both Holly and Michael knew that they were close to the apex of this very lewd, yet very tender and endearing act.

“Oh…oh oh, Shamone…Oh oh, Christ…Shamone, Shamone…Sha…Sha…Shit…” Michael growled suddenly through gritted teeth, his entire self reddening, eyes squinching as he clutched Holly tighter to him.

“Michael, please…please Michael….” Holly pleased not truly sure what she was pleading with him to do.

She didn’t care.

Michael released a high pitched squeal, and Holly felt it.

A rushing, warm, wetness between her legs.

Michael…he…Michael….Her mind could not form the thought.

He was coming.

“Sha…mone…” Michael, completely wiped out at once, grunted in the deepest registers of his voice, and his thrusting slowed to a stop.

And then it was over.

Breathing became, softer, lighter and easier after an interval of time.

Slowly, and timidly, Michael eased himself from Holly’s inner folds and sat up.

Holly hand to her chest and speechless could only stare up at him, as he reached and plucked a bright white wild flower from the grass.

He passed it beneath his nose a moment, then placing the fragrant white bud at Holly’s forehead, brought it down, passing it over her face, between her breasts, over her tummy and ending by tapping it against the top of vagina.

Again Michael brought the blossom up to his face.

All was quiet.

And then the serenity was broken by an odd noise.

It took Holly a moment to realize the sound was coming from Michael.

Curled there, Michael held the flower in one hand, and with his right hand, had mashed it to his face, weeping.

Exhausted but disturbed he’d began crying, Holly was instantly upright and at his side hugging him.

“What is it? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

Michael’s response stunned her.

“All this time…all this time Holly…” He sniffled, hand still to his face, concealing it as tears oozed from around his fingers.

“All this time, I wondered if I could still be with a woman and please her. Satisfy her in the way a woman needs…”

Hand coming down, Michael sniffled loudly again and twirled the flower.

“I haven’t touched a woman since before what happened in Africa…I kept telling myself the right woman would come to me. The one who would show me I still had it in me. Wouldn’t care about the Malaria. I just…”

He turned and gazed and Holly lovingly. The warmest he’d ever looked at her.

“I just never thought, the woman would be the little girl I left behind ten years ago…”

Tears springing to her eyes at the sentiment, Holly rested her head on his shoulder and vowed,

“I’m here now, Michael. And we’ll never be apart. Never again.”

“Thank you. I love you Holly, I do…I do…” Michael’s arms were around her the two kissing deeply, not just with their lips, but with their souls.

Michael Jackson had come back after ten years.

He’d come back for Holly.

 



 

Testimony--A Michael Jackson Erotica

For as long as I’ve been a follower of Michael Jackson, I’ve noticed that from time to time, he was being dragged into court. Being sued for a variety of reasons; everything from unpaid debts to people claiming that they had written the lyrics to some of his most popular songs. So I got to thinking, what if Michael found his way into court on much more…interesting charge. A morals charge?



　

“Testimony”

A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

(Non-Sexual Cameo By The Artist Formerly Known As Prince)

　


La Bianca County Courthouse

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Winter, 1995

He was beautiful.

The most beautiful man I had ever set eyes on.

His slim, lithe form stretched upwards of nearly six feet.

His skin was smoothest, coolest, creamiest shade of pale peach, that appeared even whiter in contrast to his long, inky, silken strands of hair that fell so gracefully into his face.

Ah, his face. That wonderful, angular visage that was the perfect blending of feminine and masculine features, with a hint of innocence lurking just below the surface.

His eyes, a rich, smoky brown were circled expertly with a thick wave of liquid liner, which he always wore. His hollow, almost concave cheeks bore the barest hint of rouge, and those thin, succulent lips…glossed to a light shine.

He was beautiful.

The most beautiful man I had ever seen.

The man I was divorcing my husband for.

I leaned against the wall of that small restroom, looking on silently as he was checking his appearance.

He was dressed so well. He always dressed so well. Unlike any man I had ever know.

That slim body was clad in a cherry red, military inspired jacket, that was piped with the finest gold leather and trimmed with matching buttons.

He always wore the best. Never settled for anything less.

Paired with the jacket was a simple pair of black trousers, and gold, cap toed black leather boots.

In some aspects, he did appear as a sort of eccentric general off to a battle..

And really, he was going into battle. The biggest battle of our lives.

He was battling for me.

For two years, I had been with this man, lived with him…loved him. All the while I still bore the name of another.

He didn’t want me to carry that man’s name any longer.

He wanted me to carry his.

Watching silently as the man pulled a small enamel compact from the breast pocket on his jacket and began patting after his slender nose, I couldn’t help myself, I had to speak up.

“Michael, are you sure you want to do this?”

Never looking up from that shiny spot on his nose, Michael replied, his voice soft and powerful all at the same time.

“Yes…it has to be done.”

Just as quietly, he replaced his compact and extended a hand to me.

Taking it, I allowed him to lead me from the restroom and out towards the courtroom.

As we walked down that long, empty and so terribly quiet corridor, the events of the previous day rang in my head, all still too fresh and raw.

I hadn’t seen my husband for two years.

Not since I had run off with Michael.

The day before had been the first time since I had looked on him since I had left.

The day we had been dragged into court with Michael being held on a series of nefarious charges, everything from him seducing me and enticing me away from my husband, to even charges of kidnapping and false imprisonment.

It wasn’t true--none of it was true.

I only hoped that the judge believed Michael.

And not my husband.

The inside of the courtroom was bare and austere.

A few rows of hard wooden benches for spectators, and the empty jury box--as the judge would be the one to hand down the verdict personally.

Only two other people were in the courtroom.

A lone bailiff and Mr. Pickett, the defense attorney Michael had hired for himself.

Mr. Pickett, an short, rotund gentleman in his mid-sixties immediately, approached Michael, and the two men began conversing in whispers, planning their actions for the day.

We truly were going into battle.

Today was the day that Michael would take the stand in his defense and tell the judge why, all those years ago, he came and ran off with me in the middle of the night.

As the men spoke, I took my place in middle of the three chairs behind the table that served as the defendant’s seating area.

A few yards away, the plaintiff’s table, where my husband had sat, was vacant. Neither he, nor his counsel were present.

No sooner had I given my soon to be ex a thought, than Michael’s hand came down and gripped my shoulder rather tightly.

Startled, I looked up to him.

A cloud of darkness had come to his lovely face. He wasn’t looking down to me, but behind me.

Eyes widened, nostrils flaring, his chest heaved as his breaths quickened with a silent anger.

I didn’t have to look to see what had inspired this expression.

My husband was in the room.

Turning, I caught sight of him.

My husband….The Artist .

(His given name was Prince Rogers Nelson, but in the wake of my fleeing from him, in favor of Michael, he had changed his name. as he had mentioned in his testimony the previous afternoon, that he “…no longer felt like Prince, with my wife gone…” )

As odd as his name was, so was my husband.

He was a small man, barely a hundred pounds stripped and hardly past five feet tall in his stocking feet.

Much like Michael, he had a flair for the dramatic when it came to dressing.

That morning, he wore a black leather jacket, that zipped diagonally, over a crisp white blouse, opened to show the bits of hair on his chest.

Black silk trousers and his trademark, custom-made, boots with a four inch stiletto heel, clicked as he sauntered in.

Though fair, his skin contained a yellow cast that Michael’s lacked, and his appearance was quite androgynous.

Whimsical even.

His large, glistening, gold-flecked hazel eyes were lined in black pencil, with heavily crusted lashes fluttering. Carefully sculpted facial hair accented his jaw line and circled his little highly polished mouth.

His hair, cropped short and straightened, fell into his eyes and sparkled with silver glitter.

Lining his thin arms, were several rows of gold and silver, diamond studded bracelets, the accent being his diamond wedding ring.

We’d had matching rings--mine had borne a fifteen carat diamond, while his had a more modest, ten carat stone.

I no longer owned my ring; I had sold it ages ago at Michael’s insistence.

Prince said nothing, merely looked to us coldly, before taking his seat, propping one foot up on his table.

A moment later, his attorney, Ms. Miriam Constance, one of the best attorneys in the state of Minnesota, came to his side, her plaid briefcase stuck beneath her arm.

That damn, skinny, blue-eyed snake, with a forked tongue to match.

Had I known what was in the briefcase, I’d have gotten up and fled the courtroom right then.

But no….

Michael had to deliver his testimony.

* * *

“…do you solemnly swear to tell the Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth, so help you God?”

The bailiff questioned as Michael held one hand up, the other on a small Bible, taking his oath.

Just as solemnly, Michael nodded.

“Yes, I do.”

Off to the side, a stenographer was typing away, keeping track of his every word.

I was wringing my hands as he took his seat on that witness stand.

I didn’t want him to have to do this. It was the last thing I had ever wanted. But I knew it needed to be done. It had to.

If I wanted any chance to be free.

Taking her own sweet time, Ms. Constance approached Michael.

“Would you please state your name and age for the courts?”

Leaning forward, hands folded in hi lap, Michael replied into the little microphone fixed by his mouth,

“Michael Joseph Jackson…I’m thirty-seven years old.”

“Mr. Jackson, are you familiar with a woman named Rowan Alastair Nelson?”

“Yes…” Michael’s eyes shifted to me, before focusing back on Ms. Constance.

“Would you share with us how you came to be acquainted with Mrs. Nelson?”

Thoughtfully rubbing at the little dimple in the base of his chin, Michael sighed before answering. His eyes glazed over and contained a faraway look, as he was indeed gazing back through time.

“My older brother, Jermaine, and I are very fond of art work and have collected works for the greater parts of our lives. While I prefer classic works--Rembrandt, Picasso, Rueben--my brother preferred more contemporary works and was a particular fan of the paintings and sculptures by Prince Nelson.”

“Had your brother purchased many works by my client, Mr. Jackson?” Ms. Constance wondered and I could literally hear the gears grinding in her head. I knew she was plotting something, waiting for Michael’s foot to slip in some way.

“Yes he’s been collecting his works since he first started, back in 1979--”

“How did you come to notice Mrs. Nelson?”

Michael frowned as he was interrupted quite rudely, and maintaining his composure, continued,

“My brother brought this sculpture he’d bought to my house. A small thing, barely two feet high, made of blue Italian marble. It was a nude, and one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. There was something so lovely about that little body, the face, the features…” His eyes found me again.

“I…I had to know the woman that inspired the piece.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

I heard Prince grumble vaguely, but could make out no words.

Judge Wilhelm, the large, thick bodied soul presiding over the case cast Prince a cautionary glance, but said no more.

“Just how did you come to know her?” Ms. Constance questioned, running a hand through her bleached blonde bob, that fell so severely into her pockmarked, ruddy face.

She was running that damned question into the ground !

“Well, Jermaine heard about an art show, here in Minnesota that Prince was attending--”

“It was a one-man show, thank you very much!”

Prince, his voice several octaves deeper than Michael’s snapped, in a way I had been accustomed to, but nearly forgotten.

Just the low rumbling sound of his voice sent chills through me.

Even from where I sat, I could see Michael growing rosy, and matching his jacket, he was so angered.

“As I was saying…” Michael was just as sharp and tossed his head arrogantly,

“My brother and I flew in from California for the show. It was held at a gallery in St. Paul. I didn’t care about the art. I wanted to meet the woman…the model that inspired the piece.”

Michael’s hands began twisting in his lap.

“I was excited as we entered the showing, because the rumor was, Prince never had shows without his muse. This woman…” He stared at me and a smile touched his lips.

“Rowan…I saw her the minute I hit the doors. Standing there, next to Prince. She was just a vision, in this purple velvet backless gown. Even across the room, I could see her eyes. That queer, wonderful lavender color that the dress brought out. She was even more gorgeous in person. Tall, fair, with all her black hair up in a French twist. Just looking so beautiful, my tongue tied up.”

“You would say you were attracted to Mrs. Nelson, right away, wouldn’t you, Mr. Jackson?” Hands on nothing hips, Ms. Constance’s voice had a wheedling note to it that I didn’t trust.

Nodding Michael simply hummed,

“Mmm-hmm!”

“Who introduced you?”

“Jermaine--he went straight over to Prince and shook his hand and was complimenting him on his work…and Rowan turned to me. She was so lovely…tall and thin and looking like a marble statue herself. She was… perfect.”

Blushing I lowered my head. Michael never could hide his emotions.

“When did you find out that this “perfect” woman was married?”

The same cloud of anger I had seen on Michael’s face earlier returned with a vengeance.

“That same night. Prince and Jermaine became tied up talking art and Rowan was left to herself. I spoke to her…she was so charming. So young--only twenty-two. I asked her about Prince…how she wound up with Prince…”

Michael further recanted the story I had lived.

How I had met Prince in the summer of 1986 when I signed up for an art class he had been teaching at the local high school. How he had been taken with my appearance and said I shouldn’t have been making art.

That I was art.

How he had invited me to his studio and had me pose for a painting.

A painting that as far as I knew still hung in his office in a twenty-four karat gold plated frame.

Once the painting was complete, he told me I was the only woman he wanted to paint…I was the muse he’d been searching his life for.

I had been sixteen and he was twenty-eight.

For two years, I posed day and night for Prince, the subject of nearly sixty paintings, and sculptures in marble, clay and bronze.

Our relationship was strictly professional, until the day after my eighteenth birthday.

Prince convinced me to pose nude for a painting.

It took a lot of high talking and conniving, but I had finally agreed to it.

Stretched me on a chaise lounge and began sketching me.

The painting never was finished as halfway through, he dropped his charcoals and fell on me.

Three days later, we married in a quiet ceremony in St. Paul.

I was eighteen, and he was now thirty.

“Mr. Jackson, what made you decide to pursue this woman who you knew was already married?”

Now Ms. Constance had her arms crossed over her flat chest.

A look of hurt glossed Michael’s eyes over and they dropped.

Lashes fluttering, he said,

“Rowan …and I went to the refreshment table for more punch, and a woman stopped to speak to her. She…she turned her back to me…”

Choking up, Michael put his hands over his face, as he was fighting to hold back tears.

Something told me to look at Prince.

In the middle of Michael struggling, I had to look at Prince.

He sat relatively still, his face expressionless.

But his eyes.

They were widened and shooting daggers of hatred at Michael.

He knew what Michael was referring to as did I.

Seconds later it was out in the open for all to hear.

“She turned her back to me…and that’s when I saw it…” Michael sputtered and sniffled.

“Very carefully…painstakingly covered with thick, pancake make up…were bruises on her back. Bruises…and bruises…that were concealed.”

“Goddamn…” Prince, not watching himself exclaimed and immediately Judge Wilhelm reprimanded him.

“Mr. Nelson, may I remind you, you’re in a court of law. Such outbursts will NOT be tolerated.”

Frowning deeply, Prince cast his eyes downwards. He didn’t like this.

I knew he hated this. Michael Jackson was exposing his secrets.

His dirty little secrets.

“…when the woman left her, I grabbed Rowan by the arm and asked her…asked her how she got those. She didn’t want to answer me then, just looked down and said she couldn’t talk about it--not with her husband in the room…”

Michael sniffled again and produced a hanky from his pocket and mashed it to his nose. “I told her I was staying at the Hilton. If she could get away, come see me. She agreed…”

Michael gulped loudly and I could see him starting to tremble as he tried to control himself.

“She came the next day as I had asked. Dressed so pretty…but away from her “husband”…I could see how truly fragile and damaged she was. She looked so perfect on the outside, when everything was really a mess. Shaken, scared, troubled…that was Rowan. Like a Monet painting. Beautiful far away, but a mess of chaos up close.”

Prince was shifting nervously, his eyes sparking, as his mouth twisted with his anguish.

He was being exposed for what he had been…a predator.

Michael’s eyes, began to well with tears and as they slipped down his cheek, he pointed a long finger to Prince and stammered.

“YOU….you treated her like an animal…you…you bastard!”

“Your language, Mr. Jackson!’ Judge Wilhelm’s cry went unnoticed as Michael stood and began hollering.

“You constantly made Rowan try to fit into this bubble of unattainable perfection! You wanted her be made up and with her hair and make up and nails done at all hours of the night, no matter what! You starved her to keep her thin! No woman who’s almost six feet tall should weigh a hundred and one pounds damn it! She hadn’t eaten meat for years!” Michael turned to the judge and exclaimed,

“You know the entire five years she was with that little monster, all she ate was green lettuce and clear broth? That’s all he fed her. She lost twenty-nine pounds off an already slim body! He was killing her! She had to pose just perfect for him! Hold still. If she moved, he struck her! He hit her! Once she moved and he shoved her, naked off a pedestal. She nearly broke her arm!

He would lock her in his studio in subzero weather to punish her. He always punished her. Always found a damn reason. He forced himself on her--”

Prince leapt to his feet, his own finger pointed.


“You lying sack of sh*t! I didn’t force sh*t on her! She’s my wife, that’s what she’s supposed to do! She’s my wife!”
Jumping off the witness stand, as Judge Wilhelm began wildly banging his gavel in an ill-fated attempt to restore order, Michael shouted.

“Your wife? Your wife? You have the audacity to fix your f*cking mouth to call Rowan your wife? I never heard the woman say anything about love or kindness or gentleness towards her from you. Just hitting, slapping, punching, pushing! Every woman has the right to say “No“ and trust me, she said “No“ plenty!”

“Mr. Pickett, control your client!” The judge bellowed and instantly, he was up and tugging at Michael’s thin arm.

But Michael wasn’t stopping for anything in the world.

“You haven’t done anything for Rowan but scar her almost beyond recognition. You knew what the hell you were doing. Seducing a young child who only admired you--”

“You got some wicked nerve b*tch! You’re the one that came and ran off with my wife!”

Prince, heels clacking so loudly I thought they’d break came toe to toe with Michael glaring up at him.

“You came into my house in the middle of the night and took my wife and ran with her out to California--”

Eyes glowing with sheer evil, Michael hissed almost demonically,

“I didn’t run off with Rowan… Rowan ran off with me. She came to me. She asked me to take her to California with me. I showed her love. I showed her everything you didn’t…the first time I made love to her, you know she cried? Not because I had done anything wrong, but, as she said it, it was the first time she’d had sex, where she wasn’t being choked! She‘s been with me for two damn years. If she had wanted you, she‘d have come back! SHE DIDN’T!” ”

Turning fairly green, Prince raised a fist to strike Michael.

Before I could even scream in warning, Prince was spinning, having taken a solid punch to the chin from Michael who had thrown it so quickly, had I blinked, I’d have missed it.

“Mr. Jackson!” I wasn’t sure who shouted it, but I did see a bailiff rush in and pick Michael up off his feet as he was trying to get to Prince, who laid slumped against his table, out cold.

“I want him! He wants to beat on a defenseless girl! He want to use her and exploit her. I want to exploit my foot up his ass till it snaps off! Let me at him, sh*t! Let me go!” He shrieked as I buried my head sobbing. “That ain’t marriage! That ain’t love. That stupid, mosquito looking sonofabitch wouldn’t know how to treat a woman if the manual fell on his goddamned head! Motherf*cker put me down!”

Somewhere in the midst of it all, Mr. Pickett was begging him to calm himself.

It eventually took six bailiffs to come in and restrain Michael enough to carry him out while the judge beat his gavel so hard, it broke, screaming for a recess.

An hour later court was back in session. Michael appearing woolgathered, eyes red, bloodshot and tearstained, sat, gripping my hand, slowly sipping at a small paper cup of cool water. He also had half a blood pressure pill--courtesy of Mr. Pickett--to try to settle his nerves.

Across the room, Prince sat, holding a Ziploc bag of ice to his chin which had since swelled from the lick landed on it.

Even though he was talking to Ms. Constance, his eyes were on Michael and if looks could have killed….well it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Leaning in to Michael, I spoke as lowly as I could manage.

“Thank you…I wish you would have broken his damn nose.” and pecked his cheek.

In between sips, Michael grumbled,


“I want to break his f*cking neck. Break him apart and scatter the pieces all over the Twin Cities”
Hearing him, Mr. Picket started to chastise him,

“Don’t you dare--”

“Shut the hell up!” Squishing his cup, Michael tossed it to the floor.

“May the counsel approach the bench?” Ms. Constance spoke up and was waved on by the judge.

That should have been red flags to me right then.

No one had ever asked to approach the judge, and as they motioned for Mr. Pickett, my throat tightened. Something was wrong. Direly wrong.

It didn’t help matters that Mr. Pickett went stark white at whatever was being said, and moved faster than I had ever seen him, running back over to us.

“Michael!” He gasped slumping into the seat, eyes bugging in horror. “Prince claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you seduced Rowan away from him--”

Stoically, Michael, staring straight ahead, made comment that sent chills down my spine,

“It’s a videotape of me making love to Rowan, isn’t it?”

“A what?” I cried mortified at the same time, Mr. Pickett demanded,

“How did you know?”

A tape? Prince had a sex tape of Michael and me? How? Where had he gotten it? Oh my God!

I didn’t have to go far for my answer.

“You remember I taped us that time…” Michael turned to me and was gripping my hands. “I…I sent the tape to Prince in an attempt to make him see you no longer wanted anything to do with you, and grant a divorce. Divorce you…I see its backfired.” His head drooped.

I very vaguely remembered that night. Michael had two full bottles of dessert wine in his system and was accordingly crazy. I’d had the same amount and was just as goofy.

Whipping around to Mr. Pickett, I let the ghastly worry in my mind come to light,

“He wants to show it here…doesn’t he?”

When Mr. Pickett bobbed his head in affirmation, I fell into Michael’s chest begging him not to show it. That was too personal. That was too embarrassing.

Prince’s little sniveling, bruised chin self was going too damn far!

He had always been just on the inside of diabolical, but this was just too much!

Michael’s response shocked me.

“It has to be shown Rowan…it has to be. It’s the only way that people can see we love each other. See you haven’t given a thought to that little limey bastard since 1993!”

I started to shake my head and throwing an arm around me, Michael mashed my face against his suddenly heaving chest.

Motioning to his lawyer to go ahead, he whispered to me seriously,

“Rowan, I know you don’t like it. It has to be done. It has to. Think of all the times your “husband” made you pose naked. Even when you didn’t want to. I don’t like it either, but damn if it ain’t the only way.”

“Oh Michael…” I whimpered.

I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it at all.

At the specific request of Mr. Pickett, only a handful of people were allowed to view the video: Michael, me, the lawyers, Prince and Judge Wilhelm.

On a large screen television, in the dimmed courtroom, am image came to life.

I instantly recognized the interior of the bedroom I shared with Michael at his home in California.

The gold and cobalt blue bedding and the extra-large, plush bed, with a headboard made to look like an oversized peac0ck.

The camera shifted and bobbed several times before coming to a rest, focusing on the empty bed.

“Go…go sit on the end of the bed…” I heard Michael instruct, and a moment later, I saw myself, draped in a white silk robe, monogrammed with an “R” in lilac take a seat on the end of the bed as I had been told.

I glanced up at Michael.

He was sitting boldly, head held high, shoulders squared. I knew he was dying of shame at the tape being displayed, but he refused to let it show.

I stole a peek at Prince.

When I saw the pleased, smug expression on his damn face, I copied Michael’s stance. If he was going to be strong, I had to be strong too.

And show that mouse-looking ass-munch that he wasn’t bothering us. It took all the willpower I had, but I managed it.

I couldn’t let Prince win. I couldn’t let him. Too much was riding on this.

And Michael had already melted down once. I couldn’t do the same.

Prince had already taken so much from me.

Just off camera, Michael could be heard chuckling sweetly, right as he made his onscreen debut.

Wearing a robe that matched mine--with an “M” instead of an “R” stitched on the front--he was barefoot and slowly ambling up to me, back to the camera.

“You look very beautiful tonight, Rowan…” He cooed, blocking me from view as he stood in front of me. “What’s happening under that robe, Baby?”

I gave a muffled reply, and Michael’s hair swished as he laughed heartily.

“Nothing? That’s what I wanted!”

Bending, anyone looking could tell Michael was fiddling with my robe.

Seconds later, he stepped to the side, and my breath caught in my throat as Michael stroked at my hair to try to calm me.

I couldn’t be calm. I couldn’t.

I was staring at myself sitting there, on the edge of the bed, with the top of my robe undone, my breasts sitting there for all looking on to see.

“Don’t be upset, Rowan….Don’t give him the satisfaction!” Michael was whispering at me, as he tried to keep me from completely melting down in the courtroom. “Its okay…I’m here.”

I only wished we were a million miles away!

“God….” The video Michael gasped as his big hands came down, cupping my flesh globes and kneading at them playfully.

“Best tits I ever saw…”

As Michael held each of my breasts on the underside, bouncing them lightly, I noticed the expression on my face. An expression I had rarely used when Prince touched me that way:

I was smiling.

Smiling up at Michael, as he bent again, kissing at my skin,

Sucking my nipples to a reddened hardness.

I was happy. I was happy with Michael in the early stages of making love to me.

I was also visibly growing aroused, a whine here and there escaping me as Michael grunted, trying to shove more of my breast into his mouth, sucking loudly while toying with the other one.

I stroked his hair as he continued fondling me, pausing to smack at my mouth.

I looked to my husband again.

Prince, still icing his chin, was just as cold, eyes fixed to the television, broadcasting what should have been a moment between two lovers. Not evidence in a court of law. I wanted to kill him.

Scowling at him, I felt Michael stiffen against me.

Distracted, I glanced up at him. While his face was just as stony as Prince’s, his eyes had widened. Almost in horror.

I swiftly followed his gaze to the TV, and saw what the problem was.

His robe was falling to the floor, revealing his small, rounded and slightly pink backside to the camera.

On the bed, I threw my head back and cackled as Michael, right arm beginning to flap, was obviously encouraging an erection.

Tugging on himself to bring about the solidity he desired.

Pulling wildly, Michael was silent as he turned and sat next to me on the foot of the bed.

Everyone catching an eyeful of his more than impressive body.

I don’t really believe anyone saw his carefully toned arms, or defined pectorals with teeny faint nipples, swelling in the cool air of the room. Also ignored was his outie bellybutton amidst the muscles of his sculpted abdomen.

No, everyone’s eyes in the room, male and female, unwilling were drawn to Michael Jackson’s crotch.

The thin thatch of black curls that adorned his loins and where his hand was still flying up and down the growing shaft of flesh.

A shaft which had now swelled to its peak at over a full ten inches, thick and glowing a few shades darker than the rest of his body, the rounded tip of which flopped as he continued playing with it. His swollen and engorged testicles jiggled as he continued manipulating himself.

“Yes, Baby…Rowan…get this…now…”He grunted again, teeth gritting in an effort to control himself his head falling back.

I removed my robe completely, and for several seconds, as I climbed up onto my hands and knees on the bed, my p*ssy, bare and shimmering with Michael’s initials in stuck on rhinestones was visible.

“Oh hell…” I heard Prince comment as I very gamely grabbed onto the growth coming from Michael and was forcing it into my mouth.

“Sh*t….yeah…Ooooh! Yeah! Yeah!” Michael was sighing onscreen, holding my hair out the way, giving the camera a clear shot of me as I began suckling on him, bracing myself on his slender thighs, which were flexing every so often. “Suck it….suck it! I love how you suck! DAMN!”

Holding onto my head, Michael began propelling my head up and down that shaft, the skin starting to shine from my saliva.

Under the defendant table, I felt Michael’s hand on my thigh, his other still holding me against him.

“If we get outta here alive…” He whispered to me, lips bumping my ear and causing me to tremble. “…I want some of that again…”

Blushing deeply and thankful for the dimness in the room, I only nodded. I should have been ashamed. I knew I should have.

But I wasn’t. all I wanted was my lover, just as I had him in that video.

Michael, licked at his finger tips and as I continued going to town on that huge d*ck of his, was rubbing between my legs.

“I gotta warm this p*ssy up! I need a hot p*ssy to plunge into…

motherfucker! Keep on, Rowan. Gobble me, Girl! Holy sh*t!”

It was quite apparent I was fairly weak at Michael’s touch and the moment his hand cupped me, I abruptly yanked my head from him.

“Michael! Don’t do that! Stop! Stop it!” I begged bouncing against him as he wrapped an arm around me to hold on to me and kept rubbing me.

“I know how you are…you get wet so easily….” Michael licked his hand again and rubbed some more. “Taste good…”

“Mike! Mike! Mike!” I screamed as he licked his hand again, and this time, much more quickly, was prodding at me, his fingers clearly disappearing within me.

“Come on girl--” Michael started and was drowned out as I shrieked, a torrent of fluid coming from me, and running down my thighs, dampening the bed.

“Yes!” Michael was triumphant, leaping to his feet, meat swaying as he jogged around the bed, behind me, dropping to his knees and burying his face between my thighs, his sleek upturned nose resting right atop the crevice of my buttocks.

“Michael…” I moaned, my head turning from the camera as I grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and gripped it as Michael started wagging his head from side to side. “…you’re eating me…Eat me! Eat--”

There was a loud smack as Michael popped my backside, pulling me down further on his face. Fingers pressing down into the flesh of my ass. Forcing me to stay in place as his tongue was flicking wildly inside of me.

Legs beginning to kick as I tried to control myself, I was pleading,

“Michael stop! Stop please! I’ll come again! You’re gonna make me come!”

In one fluid movement, Michael pried his mouth from me, and had me on my back. Long fingers swishing in and out of me wildly.

“You’re gonna make me come!” I shrieked gripping my breasts as he continued fingering me, wriggling from the sensation bestowed upon me.

“That’s what the f*ck I intend to do!” Michael, stared intently between my legs and what he was doing to me with one hand, the other jerking at himself.

Michael was simultaneously masturbating the both of us.

“I want you to get my bed soaking wet!” Michael demanded sternly, rising to his feet, holding onto my thigh and pulling me closer to the edge of the bed.

“You’re…tearing me up….” I told him in a low voice as his hand released my head and was draping my shoulders.

“I know…damn, I’m an animal…” Michael gave me a shy giggle, touching at his nose as he watched himself start to bend my legs back on screen and was slowly penetrating me.

“So tight! I love how tight you are, Rowan!” Onscreen Michael exclaimed, bending and smooching at me.

“Ugh…I love you…Mike…Michael, please…Mike…” I cooed as Michael, holding onto my legs, began thrusting himself deeply into me.

It was always a wonder to me how Michael Jackson managed to fit. He was so unequivocally large and I was so small….

It was just, kind of astounding to see that girth disappear within myself, removed from the situation.

It was fairly surreal.

“I know you like it. I know you like it…” He teased and began rocking his hips in a circular motion. “I want you to scream, Girl…scream for me Rowan. You don’t want Prince…you want…”

Michael slammed into me with such force onscreen, I could have sworn I was being smacked in real time.

“..ME!”

For the next few minutes, the screen showed what, to the untrained eye, appeared to be a wrestling match between me and Michael Jackson.

Of course, in reality, it was some pretty mind blowing, earth-shattering sex that most professional porn stars probably only dreamt of.



“HOOO! HOOO! HOOO! YES! HOT DAMN! THAT’S IT! SH*T!”
A tangle of arms and legs were rolling around the bed , untucking the sheets, sending pillows flying and out of it all, over my cries of pleasure, Michael was screaming at the top of his lungs shrilly.

“SO GOOD! SO….HOOO! HOOO! YEAH--OW!”

I’m still not quite sure how, but Michael managed to fling himself up and off of me, catapulting from the bed and out of the sight of the camera.

I heard the sound of his body colliding with something and if I recalled correctly, he’d flown into the small breakfast table we ate at in the mornings.

“I was bruised for months after that…damn table almost broke my ass.” Michael confided softly, clutching my hands as he staggered back into the frame, the sound of me laughing resonating all over the dim courtroom.

Michael made no comment, simply stood where he had when we had began, and was motioning me over to him with one long finger.

Taking me hand, he helped me off the bed so that we both stood just ot the side of it. Just as carefully, he cupped them and wrapped them around his little swollen jewels that dangled so precariously just behind the meat extending from him.

“Hold on Rowan, Baby. You know what that does to me…” Michael instructed, running his hands through his locks, now dampened with his perspiration, smoothing it back and out the way of his eyes, before taking hold of himself.

His entire body shimmered, in such a wonderful way.

“Yes, yes, yes! Ooooooh! HOOO! Here it comes….here it comes….” Michael began panting on the screen and in the courtroom, was clutching my hand tightly.

The filmed version of Michael moaned loudly as he trembled, moments before he exploded in his hands.

The white blobs of semen sprayed me briefly as Michael dropped his still shooting d*ick and clutched my face in his long hands, kissing me deeply.

The rest of the hot whiteness pooled on our bare feet as Michael was fiercely tonguing my mouth, as I wrapped my arms around his slim hips, pulling him closer to me.

“It’s over….it’s finally over.” I commented, holding onto Michael’s hand just as hard.

That’s when onscreen, I heard myself speak, and say something I never recalled saying that night.

Clinging to Michael, breathless and rosy-cheeked from my exertion as Michael huffed over my head, pecking at my forehead, I gasped,

“I want a divorce….I want a divorce. I don’t want to be with Prince anymore--I want YOU. I want to be with you Michael. I love you, Michael.”

Michael went to whisper at me, when we were both interrupted by a loud crash.

I looked from my lover just in time to see my husband, leap from his table, leaving his counsel calling after him as he hit the door.

The very next afternoon, the phony charges against Michael Jackson were dropped and I was granted my divorce.

A week later, Michael and I were married at his estate in California

And I haven’t seen The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, since.