Getting Back to Michael....

Hey Y'all!

Just yesterday I posted a new Marlon Jackson erotica, entitled Chance Encounter. And in general the response to the story has been positive and has close to 20 reads already, which makes me feel nice so many people are looking at my work.
But I got to thinking. It really is time I get back to my roots and write out another Michael Jackson erotica, the reason I began this blog in the first place. It's time for me to put on my thinking cap and get to work on our One Gloved Wonder.
I am not exactly sure what the new story will be about, or even what ERA of Michael it will feature yet. I'm just going to leave my head open to inspiration and if the idea hits me, I will run with it.

(Chance Encounter is what I call a "cold write" because it had NO outline and was frankly written off the top of my head over the course of about 6 hours. The new MJ story may also be a "cold write", I don't know, but I am looking forward to a story featuring him again.)

More is definitely on the way guys!

Chance Encounter--A Marlon Jackson Erotica

 

I’ve always liked how accessible Marlon Jackson seems to be. Unlike most celebrities, it appears you can meet him in the most mundane and normal of places--walking in a park or eating at a local McDonald’s. He does his own grocery shopping, pumps his own gas; the sort of thing you wouldn’t expect of a noted personality. With that idea in mind, I have penned a story in which a girl meets Marlon under the most ordinary of circumstances. A meeting that leads to a rather extraordinary experience.

 

 

 

“Chance Encounter”

 

 

A Marlon Jackson Erotica By:

MJsLoveSlave

 

Providence, New York

Spring, 1977

There were just some things that could turn a good day into a great day.

It had already been a relatively good day for Jacqueline Bow.

That particular Saturday in late May had dawned and become a wonderfully mild and pleasant day. Though the sun shone brightly and the sky was a clear, sapphire-like blue, the weather was not yet blistering, as it could get as summer continued to come closer and closer.

The temperature was barely cresting at eighty degrees, and every so often, a cool, skin prickling breeze would blow.

It was the sort of day that begged to be spent in the out of doors, and that was exactly what Jacqueline planned to do.

A short jaunt from the cottage she called her own--Providence was a small, coastal, country town, nothing like the round-the-clock, bustling metropolis of New York City, some thirty miles south--led the young woman to one of her favorite spots in town: Alexander Hamilton Park.

Hamilton Park was the heart of Providence, the general gathering spot for all. On any given day there were elderly couples tossing stale bread bits to the pigeons, young men playing touch football in the open, expanse fields, young ladies stretched in the grass sunning themselves to skin cancer, and small children skateboarding and using chalk to draw hopscotch grids.

Yes, it was a good day to be able to sit on one of the many wooden benches dotting the park, crack open a trashy romance novel and enjoy a day of doing nothing.

The good day became great, when a vendor went by with a pushcart and enabled Jacqueline to buy her favorite snack: a large, soft pretzel, brushed with spicy brown mustard and an ice-cold bottle of Diet Coke.

Spreading her vittles and herself casually on the bench--she had no intention of sharing it--and picked up her book, a small, thick tome.

Holding it up, she stared at the cover.

It read as The Conquistador by Tiffeny M. Bailey in brilliant gold lettering against a plan, emerald green background.

Tiffeny M. Bailey was Jacqueline’s favorite authoress and since discovering her books a few months ago, had read just about all seventeen of her novels. Everything from Florence’s Fantastic Folly to White Marble. It made Jacqueline’s heart sing to pick up books that concerned fantasies of African-Americans. That women who looked like her graced those gilt-edged pages and could have breathless, torrid affairs with an enchanting variety of men. Some black as midnight, and bald heads that shone like a fresh oil slick. Some were golden-skinned with haunting green eyes. Others were a soft mocha brown, with backsides so well rounded, it was as if they had been sculpted by the very hands of God.

The Conquistador was no different.

According to the summary on the back, the story was that of a Black Spanish nobleman who, on a trip to Paris, in the late nineteenth century, falls for a Cancan girl he meets at The Moulin Rouge.

Jacqueline

Flipping the first page, Jacqueline, with her free hand was breaking a piece of pretzel and gnawing on it, was instantly absorbed in the tale.

 

CHAPTER ONE

“Born into one of the premiere families of Spain, Sir Rodrigo Montalba physically appeared as noble as he had been bred to be. The son of a full-blooded Spanish father whom could trace his lineage back for nine generations, and an Ethiopian mother, his unorthodox appearance placed him head and shoulders above his contemporaries. Rodrigo was of average height, but a swarthy sort of man, with skin the color of a smooth, light bronze. His face, though rather flat, boasted a wide, broad nose, and below it, protruding, thick lips that were the result of his mother’s pure African blood coursing through his veins.

 

His eyes were that of his European father’s. Large and bright, his eyes were a queer shade of pale gold touched by the merest hint of hazel when caught in the right lights. His hair, tinged a deep reddish brown and unlike other men, was worn out extravagantly, with its natural, kinked curl, circling his head as something of a follicular halo.

Rodrigo’s figure was refined, slim, sleek and toned and was draped in only the finest silks that passed through from China. He was one of the best-dressed individuals in all of Spain.

A soft-spoken, vividly intelligent gentleman, he was, whom excelled in all the manly pursuits: horseback riding, hunting, holding copious amounts of liquor with a cool head and courting all the young ladies of the upper echelon of society…”

Pulling another piece of pretzel loose, Jacqueline nibbled on it thoughtfully, closing her eyes, and doing her best to try to imagine this Sir Rodrigo Montalba.

She did this when trying to envision every last one of the male heartthrobs in Tiffeny Bailey’s novels.

Jacqueline had never heard of a person with golden eyes. Brown, hazel, green, blue and even violet, like actress Elizabeth Taylor, but never gold.

Lifting that cold, no-calorie soda to her little lips, she wondered if gold eyes even truly occurred in nature or was merely a characteristic dreamt up by Miss Bailey just to make her leading man all the more intriguing.

Either way, Sir Montalba was something that she could dream about. He was just the kind of guy she could go for…if a guy like him even existed.

Popping the last bite of pretzel into her mouth and savoring it, it was so soft and buttery, with the kick of that hot mustard, she considered hunting down the pretzel man and throwing another seventy-five cents at him.

And that’s when she felt it.

Something warm and furry, and rather heavy pressing down on her left foot.

Eyes popping open, Jacqueline was startled to see that a large dog was at her feet, its head resting on her foot and staring up, as though he belonged to her.

It was beautiful beast. Its appearance, wolf-like in that he was a strong looking animal, with a thick coat of dense grey and white covering him. His eyes, a crisp shade of blue remained calmly up at the woman, as he panted lightly.

Leaning over, Jacqueline went to pet its head; he didn’t appear to want to take a chunk out of her.

“Champ! Bad dog! Bad dog! Get off that lady’s shoe! Get off, Champ!”

A voice nearing her demanded sternly. The dog remained planted.

A set of feet, wearing dark leather loafers and attached to deep brown flared denim trousers appeared beside Champ.

Still looking down at the animal, she watched as a set of long, manicured, caramel colored hands began fastening a collar, made of black leather, with a silver name tag dangling from it around the dog’s thick throat and attached a chain-link leash to it.

“Bad dog!” The voice repeated and a finger wagged. “I left you to get my camera and you run off and bother this lady! Bad Champ!”

The dog seemed unaffected at the scolding, but rose when his lease was tugged.

Then, much softer, the voice questioned,

“Did he ruin you shoe? If he did, I’ll pay for a new pair.”

Jacqueline had been wearing an expensive pair of navy leather, platform espadrilles, but Champ had only laid his head on her foot.

At least he hadn’t raised his leg and peed on her!

She lifted her head to tell Champ’s owner there was no harm done and was struck dumb.

Standing at her side was a man.

He was of average height, and slim, with a figure that was shown off by the dark trousers and a plaid top. A plaid of dark and light brown, interwoven against a background of white.

Colors that only helped to enhance the man’s light bronze complexion.

Her breath caught in her throat the longer she gazed at him.

He had a wide, broad nose, and thick, pouted lips that stuck out prominently. The sun dancing through the trees, showed his hair, arranged in a large afro, as being tinged with red.

And as he returned her gaze…his eyes! Jesus Christ!

His eyes were gold!

For a second, Jacqueline’s eyes fell to her book.

This man was the living, breathing embodiment of Sir Rodrigo Montalba!

Staring at him all over, she noticed his lips were flapping.

 

“…what?”

“I said, I’m sorry he came over to you…” The man repeated, his speaking voice as mild as the day. “He’s trained better than that. I spent six weeks having him trained in English and German. Cost a pretty penny, too.”

Jacqueline didn’t care if the dog could recite Mein Kampf by itself, she’d damn near forgotten it was there.

This man…she’d never seen a man like him. She had to know him.

She couldn’t just let him walk off and out her life.

“What…what kind of dog is he?” Was all she could muster and the man’s face brightened at her interest.

“Champ is a Siberian Husky. He’s about a year old. I got him when a neighbor of mine’s dog had puppies and he was giving them away. Raised him from a pup. You can pet him if you like, he‘s really docile.”

Reaching down, he was scratching Champ behind the ear.

Enjoying the scratch, Champ’s mouth was open m with him panting and grunting happily.

Petting at the top of the canine’s furry head, Jacqueline glanced at the man. He was so proud of his dog, he was puffing up in the chest.

“I know your dog’s name is Champ…” She spoke in carefully measured tones. “…do you have a name, too?”

“Oh!” The man gasped and a hand was jutted out. “Excuse my manners! Champ got me loony. I’m Marlon! Marlon Jackson!”

Marlon Jackson. It wasn’t as colorful as Rodrigo Montalba, but when he was that gorgeous, who truly cared?

Taking hold of his soft hand, Jacqueline snickered.

“I’m Jacqueline Walcott, My friends call me Jackie--”

“I can’t call you Jackie!” Marlon swiftly refused, shaking his head, hair swaying. “My big brother is named Jackie!”

At the mention of his brother, Jacqueline gasped,

“Jackie Jackson is your big brother? The same Jackie Jackson that owns Kay and Jay’s restaurant?”

Why, everyone in Providence knew of Kay and Jay’s. It was the most popular eatery in town, that, against the backdrop of an opulent setting, served down home, Southern comfort foods, like fried chicken and green bean casserole.

She celebrated her four birthdays in the restaurant!

Jacqueline was talking to one of the wealthiest men in town!

Marlon nodded, “Yes, it was named after our parents, Katherine and Joseph….well me and my siblings all have partial ownership.”

He paused, then questioned meekly,

“May I call you Linnie, instead of Jackie?”

Eagerly she nodded. He wanted to call her names!

That meant he wanted to talk to her some more!

A sweet smile came to that face and those pale eyes sparkled.

Jacqueline wanted to pass out. She wasn’t used to having handsomeness of this magnitude so close to her.

“I was going to film Champ doing some tricks, would you like to come watch?”

He was asking her along! By golly, he wanted her company!

Rising to her feet, Jacqueline discovered she was taller than Marlon, with the help of a five inch platform, that matched the navy, short, shorts romper on her body.

It wasn’t lost on her that those golden eyes took in her adequately sized bust--with just a touch of cleavage showing out of the zip-front of the romper--and her long legs. He was checking her out.

And by the touch of a smirk on that plump mouth of his, he seemed to like what he was looking at.

“Sure, I’d love to!” She grinned, hoping he noticed her pretty, smooth brown face, the dark eyes adorned in blue eyeliner with gobs of mascara and the small, thinnish mouth painted a glossy red. Noticed how her shoulder grazing jet black bob had been feathered and flicked from her face attractively.

Snatching up her book, she fell in step with Marlon, Champ obediently trotting out front, as they started off down the side walk.

As they passed other people on the pavement, Jacqueline wondered if people thought she and Marlon were a couple. Did they look good together? Look like they belonged together?

Noticing the book in her hand, Marlon commented with a chuckle.

“You read those stories by Tiffeny Bailey, too? My little sister loves those!”

“Yeah” Jacqueline commented as he hooted,

“I don’t know how Janet--that’s my sister--gets her hands on those books. She’s only eleven, and I picked up one of them when I was visiting my folks. I started peeking at it---Lord, my hair went bone-straight!”

Crowing, Marlon wagged his head.

“Some of that stuff is off the walls. Not the kind of stuff Janet should read, but if I told on her, she’d get noisy. I ain’t never met that Tiffeny chick, but she got the kind of ideas that can scare a dude…”

Looking down at Marlon’s bobbing afro, Jacqueline was already developing some ideas of her own.

Some that maybe, Tiffeny Bailey could write about, provided the book didn’t burst into flames!

 

Sometime Later

“…play dead! Come on boy! Play dead for Daddy!”

Marlon commanded, standing a few feet from his dog, a small, gun-like video camera up to his face.

Sitting in the shade of a grand oak, Jacqueline was a happy spectator, looking on as Marlon a few yards away was trying to film his pet.

Champ stood at attention, panting, pink tongue out, staring up at his master.

“Play dead for me! Damn it! I spent two grand on you to learn tricks!” Marlon, exasperated, cried, and stamped a foot.

The view from behind Marlon Jackson was glorious. His strong lean legs and plump backside were hugged perfectly by his tight jeans.

Had they been painted on?

“Fine, don’t play dead!” Marlon whined and began pointing at the ground. “Sit down! Sit down!”

Much to his displeasure, instead of sitting, Champ rose up and placed his paws on Marlon’s shoulders.

“Oh shit! No! No! What the hell? Down Champ! Down!”

A dance broke out as the dog refused to let go of Marlon and his tongue lapped his nose.

“Aaaah! Dog breath!” He shrieked, flailing helplessly.

Jacqueline would have lent a hand, had she not been curled in the grass laughing so at the spectacle.

“NEIN!”

Marlon screamed and instantly, Champ released him.

Staggering around, he grumbled,

“You mean to tell me, I gotta talk to you in German? I ain’t German! I’m a Brother and I’m gonna kick Michael crooked for ever telling me to have you trained in two languages! A Husky is Russian anyway!”

Jacqueline sat up, awed, when Marlon started doling out commands in the language of lederhosen and cold lager.

And with studied training, the Husky obeyed his master.

 

“Sich aufritchen!”

Champ sat.

 

“Umdrehen!”

He finally rolled over on his back, legs in the air.

A third, he was sitting again.

A fourth and he barked brightly.

Marlon spoke a sentence Jacqueline didn’t understand and Champ trotted over, picked up a well-chewed tennis ball on the ground near the woman and trotted back out to Marlon, where he took the ball and flung it.

Champ was a memory, off to retrieve it.

With the dog running after a piece of rubber, Marlon sauntered over to Jacqueline, joining her in the grass.

“Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with that mutt.” He lamented, sitting Indian-style beside her. “He usually responds to English commands…but no, today he wants to be German. Ugh.”

Impressed that Marlon was bilingual, and wanting to hear that soft voice of his some more--he sounded like he was singing when he spoke, Jacqueline inquired,

“How do you know German, Marlon? Did you learn it when training your dog?”

“No…” Marlon tried to lean back against the tree and bumped his head. “Ow--I studied abroad when I was high school. Foreign exchange program. My parents insisted all of us kids study abroad, to make us more well-rounded. Spent a year in West Berlin. Ate so much bratwurst, sauerkraut and strudel, I gained thirty pounds! I won’t touch the stuff now. I don’t even like beer.”

Smiling, Jacqueline looked over Marlon. He was so gorgeous. If he had gained thirty pounds, it had been worked off and produced a svelte body. Damn it, he was hot!

“My brother, Tito, spent his year in Paris, and he STILL hasn’t lost the weight he gained eating all that rich French food and pastries…”

Marlon paused abruptly, and stared at Jacqueline.

“Am I talking too much? I run off at the mouth sometimes…” He commented, a soft redness coming to his cheeks.

“I don’t mind…you can talk all you like.” Jacqueline encouraged him, staring at his beautiful mouth.

She wondered what it would like to kiss such lips, so big and cushiony looking.

Marlon, setting up, reclined against the tree trunk next to her, the scent of a salty, oceanic smelling cologne mingling in her nose. He smelled so good.

“Well, you know I own a restaurant--we’ll open more soon--but what do you do, Linnie? You know, aside from sitting and looking cute in the middle of public parks?”

Jacqueline’s ears perked up at the compliment. He thought she was cute!

Unable to help giggling, her cheeks flaming, she stammered,

“I’m a teacher’s aide. It’s helping to pay for me to take classes at NYU to become an elementary school teacher.”

A hand came up, stroking his chin and Marlon mumbled,

 

“Wow, smart and cute! That’s nice.”

Hot all over, Jacqueline had to look away.

Champ returned with the ball and as soon as it was released to Marlon, it was flung across the field again.

The dog was gone once more, chasing after it.

Jacqueline’s hot body broke out in a mist of cool sweat, when something warm and damp brushed her rouged cheek.

Turning, she stared and found Marlon gazing at her through the lush lashes on his oddly-colored eyes.

A smirk was curling that mouth of his.

Had…had he just kissed her?

His hand, smoother than any man’s she had ever touched, gripped hers warmly.

Those eyes, those golden eyes burned into hers passionately for a moment, before closing, as his head drew nearer.

Seconds later Jacqueline found out just what it felt like to kiss Marlon Jackson.

Something close to Heaven…his mouth tasted of peppermints strongly, and just the right amount on moisture; his mouth was as pleasant as the day itself. His lips were as soft and supple as the clouds themselves.

She became so dizzy, overtaken and overwhelmed, she didn’t know which way up.

This man!

She sagged, weakened with lust as he pulled his lips slowly from hers.

Those same lips brushed her ear lobe as he whispered, his breath steamy against her lobe,

“Why…why don’t we get out of here, Linnie? My home isn’t far from here…”

Home! He wanted to take her home! Jacqueline wasn’t the type to just run off with a man she had known only a few hours, but there was something different about Marlon. Something sweet and genuine about him that made it alright. Made it alright for her to go with him.

And even if it wasn’t, he was so fine, she would have followed him any way!

Her gaze dropping to her lap, Jacqueline managed to question hoarsely,

“And what do you want to do at your home, Marlon?”

Fingertips brushed her arm playfully as he replied,

 

“Something we’d get arrested for if we did it here in the park…”

“Oh, God…” Jacqueline stammered as Champ returned with the ball, panting loudly from his run.

Taking the ball, Marlon stood and held a hand out to her.

She stared at it a moment.

She was really going to do this. Going to go with this man, simply because he looked like a storybook character.

It was crazy. This was so crazy. Too crazy.

Reaching up, she grasped his hand and was helped to her feet.

She then draped his arm around her hips and the two, led in front by Champ, started away.

She was going to be crazy…

* * *

 

“…this is a Manzanilla…it’s a type of sherry…”

Marlon was explaining, as he entered his living room, a tall, dark bottle in one hand, and a long, crystal flute in the other.

“I have other wines, but they’re down in the cellar. This was already chilled in the fridge. I prefer my wine cold.”

Taking a seat beside Jacqueline, he began pouring the pale yellow liquid.

Marlon Jackson lived alone, in a cottage, much like Jacqueline’s, that was only a short walk from Hamilton Park. The only difference was Jacqueline’s house was to the north of the park, and Marlon’s, to the south.

Though most of the houses on the block looked like the ones in Jacqueline’s--modest, one story cottages painted a variety of colors--it was clear Marlon’s neighborhood was filled with affluence.

Large, luxury sedans sat in many of the driveways and all over, gardening trucks were tending to the well-kept, lush green lawns.

Marlon’s cottage, in the center of the block on the left side, was a nice, white-washed, bungalow style residence, with a small, black Ferrari parked in the driveway.

Champ was out back, resting in a dog house that matched his master’s home--in smaller form. A custom creation Marlon mentioned he’d had made in Canada.

And the two-legged folks were in the living room.

It was a neat, wide room, with lots of windows allowing warm sunshine in.

The room was paneled in rich, dark woods, and appeared to have a classic look to it.

All of the furniture was upholstered in a deep red leather, and faced a large console television.

Scattered about, were portraits of Marlon and his family.

Above the television, a large, silver framed photo showed the entire family, Marlon, his parents and his eight brothers and sisters.

Jacqueline watched as Marlon tilted the flute to his mouth, lips covering the rim, and took a deep sip.

“Hmm…that’s good stuff…” He said more to himself than to her and lifting the bottle was replacing the sip he’s taken with liquid.

“Here, try some….” The glass was held out to her. “…I had to taste it first, I’d never want to share anything that didn’t taste right.”

Though Jacqueline wasn’t much of a drinker, she did accept the glass and take a sip.

Not a connoisseur of wine, as Marlon appeared to be, she didn’t quite like the dry, unsweetened, and mildly salty flavor of the sherry.

At least, not to the extent of Marlon’s enthusiasm.

But she did manage to swallow what she had put in her mouth.

Taking the glass from her, Marlon finished what was left, and set the empty flute on the top of the highly polished coffee table.

“Linnie…” Marlon paused and chuckled, almost in an embarrassed fashion. Leaning forward over his parted legs, he linked his hands together. “Before we go any further, I want to tell you something.”

Jacqueline’s heart instantly tied up.

What was he going to say? Did he have a girlfriend? A wife? Did he have children?

(A venereal disease?)

“What is it, Marlon?” She whispered, frightened of what he might say. Maybe her perfect man wasn’t so perfect after all.

Looking forward at the dim television, Marlon chuckled again.

“You know how Champ came up, and laid his head on your foot?”

“Yes…” Jacqueline eyed him curiously.

“Well, that was no accident, Linnie. It took me three solid weeks to teach him to do that. You wear shoes similar to my older sister, Latoya, and I trained Champ using her…you see…”

Marlon’s head turned and he glanced back at her.

“You go to the park a lot. And I noticed you one day. Just like you were today, sitting alone, reading a book, eating a pretzel. I’ve been looking at you for about a month, trying to figure how to come up to you. Talk to you. At first, I was scared--”

“Scared? Of me?” Jacqueline snickered, feeling special that Marlon had been attracted to her for quite a while, and had to work up his nerve. Girls liked hearing things like that from men who seemed so in control.

“Kind of. As pretty as you are, I kept expecting somebody who looked like Apollo Creed to come up and throw his arm around you. But he never did. All I saw was you, with a book in your hand, reading, and sitting there. And so I trained my dog. You saw how loony Champ was today, I didn’t even think he’d go up to you, since he wasn’t used to you. But he did…”

A pleased, almost sleepy look crossed Marlon’s face.

“You’re here with me…right now…and I don’t want you to go…”

Reaching up and patting his smooth cheek, Jacqueline, touched and overwhelmed he’d gone through so much just to be near her, assured him,

“I’m not going anywhere, until you say so…”

Marlon’s face flushed again, and teasingly pinching his cheek, Jacqueline heard herself talking before she was fully aware of it.

It was her suddenly rampant emotions, all falling and tumbling over one another--love, lust, want--that made her say,

“You brought me here, saying that whatever it was you planned to do would get us arrested in the park. When are we going to start breaking laws around here?”

It wasn’t naturally in Jacqueline to be that forward and spunky, but something about Marlon was drawing it out of her.

Standing up, Marlon took her hand.

“We become outlaws--right now.”

And Jacqueline was snatched clean off her feet.

* * *

“Oh! Oh! OH! Stop! Marlon! Stop--please!”

Jacqueline screamed weakly, gripping a large, down-stuffed pillow to her bare bosom.

That damp, slightly rough sensation that threatened to drive her to erotic madness never stopped its flicking for one instant and a muffle chuckle was heard.

Jacqueline lay nude, nestled in the center of the stark white bedroom of Marlon Jackson, her body draped on the silk sheets.

The only bits of color to the room where Jacqueline and Marlon themselves.

The embattled young woman could scarcely remember what had happened.

All she knew was that Marlon had grabbed her hand, quite literally flown down the hallway of the bungalow, to the master suite in the rear of the house.

His suite was a white wonderland, with everything the color of a cloud inside. The walls, the shag carpet, the king-sized bed draped in silk.

Even the television, set off in a corner, was white.

It was something of a blur from there.

There was kissing, copious, obscene amounts of kissing. Lips smacking carelessly. Tongues flopping in and out of mouths that didn’t belong to them.

Bodies pressing against one another, rubbing and caressing wildly.

Then clothing came off.

Jacqueline’s romper, and panties off and tossed on the floor, out of the way.

Marlon had knelt before her, kissing at her ankles as he unbuckled her sandals and removed them.

Then his clothing had come off.

The plaid shirt, the white undershirt, the brown trousers and socks and shoes.

All that remained, as far as Jacqueline knew, was a pair of skimpy, bikini-cut underwear, that were bright red.

One long hand, with one decisive push, had sent Jacqueline off onto her back so rapidly her head had swam.

By the time she figured what was up from what was down, Marlon Jackson was making his next move.

Gently, how Marlon went from rough to soft with such ease amazed her, he parted her legs and had stared at the little slit of flesh that was her pussy. Adored with a single stripe of hair.

(Author’s Note, this is the 70s, but I’m not sending Marlon into an overgrown bush!)

A slit that now was obscured, as ‘Linnie’ looked down over her body, by a large, red-tinged afro.

“Ah!” She gasped sharply and twisted as Marlon’s tongue, continued to plug away at her, flicking off her “love button” rapidly.

It was a sensation she had felt before, but not with the expertise with which Marlon was showing.

In and out, in and out, one long lick, then the flicking, then in and out of her again…

Was the man a porn star in his spare time?

“Marlon, stop! No! No!” She begged hoarsely, and went to grab at his hair to pull him away.

He was making her feel too good, too fast.

With a loud pop, Marlon withdrew his mouth from her and gazed sneakily up through his lashes.

“Why do you want me to stop, Linne, Honey? Gonna come?”

He taunted, rubbing at her with one hand and starting to suck on his fingertips.

 

 

“Yes--”

 

“I can’t just do that…” Marlon’s tongue, pink and wet, lapped at his pinky finger. “You’re too delicious!”

With that, he placed warm hands on her cool thighs and pushed her legs open as far as he could get them.

Again, half his face disappeared.

“Ah! Marlon! Marlon! Baby! Stop! Please!” She pleaded, her voice escalating in decibels as he used his fingers to sweep in and out of her, tongue flicking faster and faster.

Forcing herself forward, she grabbed a hold of his hair, and started to tug at his kinked strands in an effort for mercy.

She didn’t want to come…not this quickly.

She wanted the moment to last as long as possible.

“Ow! OW! Okay! Okay, let go, Linnie! Ha! Let go!” Marlon conceded and withdrew his mouth, stopping long enough to kiss the inside of her inflamed right thigh.

Gazing up at her secretively again he laughed,

“And what would you like now, Sweetie…would you like for me to um…”

He trailed off and stood. His body was a glorious wonder of thinness and well-defined muscles all over, from his six-pack abdomen, to his pectorals, waving tiny brown nips, to the beautifully outlined thighs and legs he possessed.

Jacqueline didn’t know exactly what Marlon did, but he kept his form in excellent shape.

She did know if he didn’t touch her, she’d burst into flames.

That’s when the red satin that had been containing Marlon’s bits and pieces fell away.

And that’s when Jacqueline sat bolt upright, her eyes widening in awe.

Sprouting from a modest fluff of gleaming black pubic curls, was Marlon’s penis.

Long and thick, with about an inch of pink in the tip protruding from the uncircumcised halo of foreskin, his dick had to be knocking on at least ten inches if not more so.

Jacqueline had never seen a man with such an endowment.

Would…would he even fit?

Toying with that mammoth mass, and patting at his hairy little scrotum, Marlon inched his way onto the bed.

Once he was settled beside her, he tucked her hair back behind her ears, and silently began to stare at her.

He stared so long, Jacqueline became uneasy.

“Is…is something wrong?” She asked, worried he didn’t like her body.

“No…“ Marlon huffed. “I just wanted to memorize how you look at this moment, before we share each other, that’s all.”

Leaning over, Jacqueline pecked at his lips.

Moments later, Marlon was lowering himself onto her, his mouth covering hers as he was easing that girth of flesh into her.

His sweet kisses muffling her cries of pleasure and pain.

Slowly tentatively, he began grinding those powerful little hips of his, bumping into Jacqueline over and over and over again.

Jacqueline’s crimson nails found their way into Marlon’s back and were greedily gripping at him and after his round, globe-like ass as he continued to pick away at her.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes….Oh, aw!” Marlon whimpered taking his mouth from Jacqueline’s and hugging closely to her, pressing her bosom against his own.

The two people were becoming one and it couldn’t be figured where one ended and the other began.

“Oh…oh Marlon…Marlon….Marlon!” Jacqueline lost for speech at the way Marlon was…was loving her…could only call his name.

Marlon wasn’t fucking her…he was making love to her.

“Oh…oh my God…damn…oh my God, Linnie…Ugh, ugh, ugh….”

Hugging Marlon closer to her, Jacqueline sucked along his neck, which was starting to perspire, salty little beads of sweat leaking into her mouth.

Marlon’s face, which had been watching her intently during the sex, was now starting to squinch, as throes of ecstasy were starting to wear on him.

“Linnie!” There was urgency in his voice. “I can’t hold it much longer! I cant--I can’t--I can’t--I can’t!”

His eyes closed, mouth puckered and he collapsed forward, his hips starting to flail and flop harder and harder.

“Ah, MARLON! Ah, MARLON! Ah, MARLON!”

The sudden increasing of the momentum was starting to pull Jacqueline on home in the very same instant.

Curled together, in a ball of chocolate and caramel colored flesh, bodies damp from their exertions, Marlon’s hands, which had been firmly planted on Jacqueline’s slim thighs, holding her open for himself, moved.

And found their way to cupping her face.

Less than an inch above them, Marlon was staring again, and breathing loudly, sweat streaming from his brow,

With one final, piercing thrust, both man and woman locked eyes and shrieked, as in unison, one gave up to the other.

Hotly, wetly, and messily.

‘Marlon…” Jacqueline whined as he laid on her, his chin falling onto her shoulder.

“I…I…I love you Linnie…” He whispered sweetly and kissed at her damp forehead as he gingerly withdrew himself from her and wrapped his arms around her.

His head went down and he sucked lightly at one of her nipples.

“I love you too, Marlon.” She replied, breathless, a feeling of love like she had never known permeating her down to her bones.

It seemed much too strange. Much too odd.

To feel so strongly about she had met in the park and had only known so briefly.

But life is strange like that.

Sometimes it takes only a chance encounter…just as it did for Jacqueline.

 

 

In a Marlon Kind of Mood...

Hey Y'all!

I just wanted to pop in and post a little update. I am currently trying to work on a new all Marlon Jackson erotica again. Don't fret, I haven't forgotten about Michael. It's just at the moment, I have over a DOZEN MJ stories in my head and in an effort to clear my mind and to think more clearly, I'm tossing my focus off on the OTHER sexy Jackson. Marlon.

I don't want to give away the entire story, but I can say this, it does involve a younger Marlon. After A Grey Suit, which featured Marlon in his fifties, I wanted to go back to an earlier time. A time when Marlon was an adult, but still had his afro.

Okay, that's all I can say. I'm working on it and hope to have it up relatively soon!


Thank you so much, all my wonderful readers!


Something like this, but not quite so...PINK.

A Grey Suit--MARLON JACKSON EROTICA DEBUT!

If there’s one thing in this world I love, it’s a man in a suit. To me, there’s something so wildly classic, debonair and perhaps even a bit mysterious about a man wearing a well-tailored suit. It’s something of a rarity in a world where slouchy, baggy, falling-off-the-ass blue jeans are king. And in this story, a man in a suit will be one of the sexiest things a young woman has ever come across. Enjoy.


(Marlon Jackson Erotica Debut!)
 

“A Grey Suit”

 

A Marlon Jackson Erotica By:

MJsLoveSlave

Beverly Hills California

Winter, 2007
It was late morning on an unseasonably brisk and cold October day.

The sun was high in the sky, casting bright yellow rays onto everything in sight. Some of those rays, that could trick a person into believing the day was much warmer than it actually was, were streaming their way into a bedroom.

A bedroom that lay still and dormant though the world around it was moving and rushing, going about its business, as it always did, in a never-ending cycle of life.

But in that bedroom, nothing stirred.

The thick, velvet curtains remained shut on their brass valances. The last few, smoldering embers of what had once been a roaring flame, were dying out in the marble-framed fireplace.

Across the room, two bodies laid, beneath a tufted down comforter, both dozing in a well-earned fit of slumber.

One is that of a young woman, in her mid-twenties. The quilt is tucked around her hips, leaving the upper half of her body uncovered. She is a beautiful woman, with light, olive skin, waves of flowing black hair , and a small, pouted mouth, curling in a smile as she sleeps.

It’s quite obvious that the woman is nude; her bare, full and round breasts are bouncing lightly as she breathes in and out.

The other body, less than a foot away from her, is that of a man.

Resting on his belly, much older than the woman, but with a youthful quality to his face, he is also unclothed. A corner of the quilt just barely conceals the man’s backside, a plump mass of muscle rippling beneath his skin, and dotted with a dimple in the left cheek, that rises and falls as he snores too faintly to even be heard. His skin, smooth and a clear shade of pale caramel is unmarked by the years he has seen. The only giveaway of the man’s true age is the mere smattering of grey hairs shining from the majority of black ones forming the thick mustache that adorns his broad and glossy mouth.

To a mere passerby, the scene within this bedroom, though perhaps a bit scandalous, is nothing uncommon.

An older gentleman who has been entertained by the wiles of a younger lady, especially in the scandal capital of Beverly Hills is nothing new. Why, May-December romances are as common on Rodeo Drive as the high-end merchandise peddled there.

But this particular couple was different.

This wasn’t some guy who’d made his millions with a successful dot-com and had the woman as his glamorous trophy wife.

No, this couple wasn’t even married, nor had they ever gone out on a date.

For you see, this was no ordinary couple.

The naked man, laying there, with his lips vibrating as he snored, was none other than Marlon Jackson, member of the illustrious Jackson Music Dynasty, who had sold so many records in his heyday, current artists should have met him with a bended knee and kissing of his hand.

And the woman beside him was not his wife--not by a long shot.

Of all people, the woman was his clothier! A stylist, a dresser…a woman of note, but nothing as high-brow as her lover.

While the circumstances that brought this twosome together may have been ordinary, the circumstances that kept them together were anything but.


One Day Earlier

Los Angeles, California
“A Mr. Jackson called and requested to meet with you. He claimed it was an ‘emergency’! He will be here at 10:30 am, sharp!”
 That was the note that greeted Allie Corby the moment she walked into her office, cup of caramel macchiato, still steaming in her hand. A little bit of chicken-scratch jotted onto a yellow Post-It and stuck to the screen of her computer’s monitor.

A rather simple, benign message.

A message now held in Allie’s sleekly manicured hands, being read over and over.

At first glance, no one would have guessed that Allie Corby had worked a single hour in her life.

Anyone with a modicum of vision could see that Allie was a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

Her look was that of the exotic, a naturally tawny complexion that she liked to accentuate with bronzer, to help bring out the deepest, golden glow possible.

Her eyes, so dark a shade of brown, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the iris from the pupil, were almond-shaped and slightly slanted, beneath her pencil thin brows. She possessed a small, impish, upturned nose that set perfectly above her small, cupid’s bow mouth.

Allie was quite tall, knocking on six feet, with a soft, voluptuous figure so curvaceous it would have put the likes of Marylin Monroe and Jayne Mansfield to shame.

Very often, when people met Allie, one of the first questions posed to her was,


“Are you a model?”
Allie would always laugh this inquiry off, answering that the asker was “warm”.

Indeed, Allie worked in the fashion industry--just not as a print or runway model.

At the young age of twenty-two years, Allie Corby was the President and CEO of the company her great-grandfather had started over one hundred years ago: Corby and Company.

Corby and Company had dressed generations of the most elite and prominent men, in hand-stitched, custom designed suits. And Allie was no different than the 650 employees that labored under her guidance; when the time called for it, she would roll up her sleeves and turn a bolt of fabric into a work of stylish art on some gentleman’s body.

And it seemed today was going to be one of those days.

The round, crystal crusted clock showed the time as ten twenty-five; This Mr. Jackson--who was a mystery to Allie as she didn’t recall having any clients with the name Jackson, first or last--was due any minute.

Rising from behind her black lacquered, teak desk, Allie began crossing her office, decorated chicly in black and chrome, to retrieve her book of swatches she kept on display on the wall, on it’s own shelf. She couldn’t create a suit without first knowing what the client was looking for.

Did he want a dark suit, colored, something with a pattern? What type of fabric? Wool? Satin? Silk? A blend?

Single-breasted? Double-breasted? High or low stance? How many buttons and what type?

Did he want a vest, tie, shirt, and pocket square also?

Allie’s lithe body was the epitome of sophistication: a dark plum sleeveless shell that had been paired with a bold, paisley printed skirt and plum pumps that caused her to soar head and shoulders over everyone else.

Delicate extras in the form of emerald-cut diamond studs in her lobes and a tennis bracelet circling her left wrist twinkled as she continued to walk.

Allie’s mind raced as she reached her thick, leather-bound tome and started to open it. What sort of a man was this Mr. Jackson? What kind of personality would she have to match the suit to? Serious? Impetuous? Laid-back?

“Miss Corby?”

Taking her gaze from the book, Allie was surprised to see the frosted glass door to her office wide open, her secretary rushing towards her.

There was a look in the woman’s face that Allie had never seen before. Her face was pale as a ghost, all the color drained from it, her green eyes were wide and glassed, almost as if in a daze.

“Lucie, what is it?” Allie wondered a pang of fright beginning to needle her. What was going on? Was someone robbing the place?

“Miss Corby! Oh Miss Corby!” Lucie gasped, placing a hand to her own bosom as it heaved. “Your ten-thirty just arrived--”

“Mr. Jackson?” Allie, relieved it wasn’t a robbery under way, started back for her desk, book of fabric squares in tow.

“Yes! Miss Corby, do you know who he is?” Lucie gave another intake of breath.

“No, not particularly, Lucie. But since it appears you’re so eager to tell me--who is he?” Allie sighed, a bit annoyed at how shaky and unnerved her secretary was behaving. How highly unprofessional, becoming all loosey-goosey over a client.

Running to the desk, in six inch heels no less, Lucie clutched the front of it and when she spoke it was barely above a whisper, but caused every single, immaculately coiffed hair on Allie head to rise just the same.

“Marlon Jackson, is in the lobby! Marlon Jackson!”

Allie Corby went momentarily deaf and dumb.

Lucie continued to chatter on, Allie heard nothing that was coming from those frosted-coral painted lips.

Had she heard correctly? Did that sputtering creature before her actually say that Marlon Jackson was in the lobby?

A celebrity? A real, honest-to-goodness, bona-fide celebrity?

One-fifth of The Jackson Five? One-sixth of The Jacksons? Michael Jackson, the King of Pop’s brother?

A multi-platinum selling recording artist was there?

To seek her expertise in clothing?

Allie stared at Lucie, who, in her franticness had started to cry. She was clearly starstruck.

“…he said hello to me! Marlon Jackson said hello to me, and shook my hand. He shook my hand! Oh my goodness…Oh God!” As Lucie continued in her native language of Portuguese, Allie set her book on her desk and reaching across it, gave the woman, only a year younger than herself an authoritative shove.

“Lucie! Don’t just stand there giving me a Rosetta Stone lesson!” She admonished curtly, flipping her silky black tresses over her shoulders. “Go show Mr. Jackson in, damn it! Don’t leave him waiting! And for mercy’s sake, clean yourself up first. You’ve got mascara tears on your cheeks!”

“Y-y-yes ma’am, Miss Corby!” Lucie snotted, before pulling a lace hanky from her bosom and pressing it to her face, turning to leave.

Once alone, Allie tried to collect herself.

She’d been hit in the head by a comet, but couldn’t let herself go to pieces as Lucie had done. She had to remain calm and levelheaded.

It didn’t matter that she was a tremendous fan of the Jackson family and had nearly every recording they had ever done on display in a special room of her condo.

Marlon Jackson wanted a suit, and by golly, she was going to provide him with one!

She had to ensure that Marlon would become a pleased repeat client of Corby and Company.

If she could include Marlon to her roster, why, it could usher in a whole new wave of business for her. Anyone who was anybody would want to shop where a Jackson did! And Marlon had FIVE other brothers, including the elusive Michael, who had worked with the same clothier for over twenty-years. If she could get her hands on him, weasel him away from his current designer, her business would double from him alone as Michael Jackson only wore custom-made clothes on his wiry little body.

She had to please Marlon. She simply had to.

Quickly, she produced a compact mirror from a drawer and was rapidly fluffing her hair, and slicking on an extra coat of her berry colored lip stain.

She had to look her best!

“Right this way, Sir!”

Allie tensed and leapt up from her desk at the sound of Lucie speaking.

A moment later, the door to her office opened, Lucie holding it, and a man entered.

Watching as the man paused to take Lucie’s hand and peck the top of it, causing her to squeal something in Portuguese again, Allie could only gape at him.

He was older than Allie, and she figured he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, as his bronzy complexion barely had any wrinkling. It was natural smoothness too--no Botox had touched that face.

(Allie could tell a Botox addict as easily as a person could tell chocolate milk from white.)

As Lucie fled the room, boo-hooing a second time, Marlon Jackson was ambling towards Allie, hand jutted out to shake hers.

Marlon was a very handsome man, with eyes that were the shade of liquid clover honey, a flat, somewhat wide nose that complimented his features, the best of which was a, bright, friendly smile formed by lips so large and plump, that trout-pouted vixen Angelina Jolie should have gotten jealous.

“Allie Corby?” He questioned, in a voice that was powerfully light, yet still masculine.

“Yes, Mr. Jackson. It’s so wonderful to meet you, Sir.”

Allie heard herself state as he took her hand in his soft, cool one and as he had done with Lucie, brought it to his mouth, those lips tenderly pecking the top of it in greeting.

Many of Allie’s clients had met her this way, but never had it caused her temperature to spike so, and with rosy cheeks, she simply pointed to one of the two leather guest chairs indicating he have a seat.

Her eyes inspecting every inch of Marlon Jackson as he dropped down into the one to her left.

His manner of dress spoke volumes to Allie’s designer eye.

He was dressed, rather simply in a white, button down oxford that had been left untucked--to conceal a small belly--and black slightly tapered slacks. A pair of patent leather loafers rounded out the ensemble.

Minor touches, a thin white-gold chain at his throat, and a platinum and black diamond watch, made the otherwise plain outfit sing.

He was dressed classically--just the kind of man Allie usually worked and collaborated best with.

Grasping desperately for what was left of her composure, Allie tried to put her mind back on her business. Seating herself, she inquired,

“Mr. Jackson, my secretary told me that you had an ‘emergency’ that required my immediate attention. What can I do for you, Sir?”

While she remained placid on the outside, she was doing cartwheels on the inside. She had a real, full-blooded Jackson sitting six feet away from her! She could scarcely believe her good luck!

“That’s correct.” Marlon absently began stroking after the wide mustache decorating his upper lip. Usually, Allie found such a mustache more akin to a washed-up porno actor, but on Marlon, it seemed just right. Not vulgar any way.

(He was a Jackson and they weren‘t known for vulgarity!)

“Well, Miss Corby, I am in dire need of your expertise. I have several friends who referred me to you, saying you have a good eye for style and fashion as far as suiting goes. That you can help a guy like me look his best. You see, I have an event I’ll be attending, and need a suit for it. I mean, I need everything, suit, shirt, tie, socks … everything…”

It was taking quite a bit of effort, but Allie was able to keep her mind on the task at hand and off of how incredibly attractive this man was before her. How the four or five grey hairs in his mustache perfectly offset the rest of the black ones. It was terribly hard to not stare at his mouth as those cushion-like lips flapped.

“Exactly what type of event is it, Mr. Jackson? Is something of a black-tie, or something less formal?”

Allie intertwined her fingers together on her desktop. How could a man have teeth so white? Didn’t he eat?


(Food, that is!)
To distract herself, she opened her book of swatches and tried to stare at them, instead of this gorgeous being.

“It’s the annual BMI banquet--semi-formal.” She heard Marlon reply and out the corner of her eye, saw he was crossing his legs, a loud yellow sock peeking out at her.

It was an odd touch, but when your sibling pranced about in diamond studded socks, a yellow sock was fairly sedate.

“BMI?” She had never heard that acronym before.

Allie glanced up at Marlon and had to drop her gaze in the same second, as it met with those beautiful light eyes of his. She had seen pictures of the entire Jackson family and Marlon Jackson was the only one with eyes that light color, the rest having dull brown eyes.

God, she couldn’t even look at him!

“Black Men’s Initiative. It’s an organization that’s similar to the Big Brother one, but it focuses exclusively on Black men mentoring Black boys.” Marlon explained. “My brothers and I all participate and contribute to the cause.”

“Of course.” Allie glossed over her ignorance and pulled the conversation back to what she knew.

“Is there a certain sort of look you’re going for? Any particular colors?”

“Yes! I’m attending the banquet with my brothers, Tito, Randy and Jackie and they’ll all be wearing black suits. I’d like to be a little different. You know, stand out. I want a grey suit.” Marlon’s eyes, which Allie was starting to like looking at, were dancing in his head.

“Of course, Mr. Jackson. Every gentleman who passes through the doors of Corby and Company wants to stand apart from the crowd. It’s one of the principles my great-grandfather built this business on. That‘s why every suit is made from scratch, each stitch sewn by hand. ” Allie grinned broadly and was pushing the book of swatches towards Marlon to see what he liked.

And then he asked a question Allie wasn’t expecting.

“Don’t you have any ready-made suits on hand, Miss Corby?”

“Um…” Allie laughed hesitantly. Her company was known for custom made fare, not prêt-a-porter fare. “We may have some in our warehouse…”

Allie picked up her Blackberry and began to text.

“I’ll have Lucie go to the warehouse and pull some items for you, Mr. Jackson. I can have them delivered to your house for a glancing over in the morning.”

She assured him and dropped her phone, when Marlon replied, softly,


“Ask Lucy to work quicker: The banquet is tomorrow night.”
As the phone bounced on the polished desktop, all she could do was gulp, her eyes swelling from sheer horror.

Tomorrow? This man needed his suit tomorrow?

As in less-than-twenty-four-hours-away tomorrow?

Allie squinted at the good-looking man who was peering back, plain-faced.

He didn’t look very much insane, but he was talking like he’d left his brain outside, locked in his car.

Tomorrow?

“You need a suit…with all the bells and whistles…. tomorrow?” Allie stammered, still trying to make sense of it, and fighting the urge to turn her desk over on a Jackson.

The more she said it, the crazier it sounded.

“Well, I said it was an emergency!” Marlon sputtered, glistening eyes widening. “That’s why I’m asking for something ready-made, off-the-rack!”

Setting her jaw with determination, unwilling to let what could potentially be the best and notable client Corby and Company ever had, slip through her French-tipped fingers, she questioned as she grabbed her phone and went back to texting Lucie,

“Mr. Jackson, is money an object?”

This was going to be one hell of a rush and he’d need to be able to finance such an affair properly. Even if he was a Jackson, she still had to ask.

Light eyes sparkling, Marlon plucked at the face of his watch, before cackling,

“No, it ain’t!”

His engaging, contagious laugh was music to Allie’s ear, and was all the encouragement she needed.

Climbing to her feet, Allie informed the star,

“Do you live very far from here? Because within an hour, I can guarantee you, I can be en route with a selection of suits and accouterments for you to peruse!”

“Beverly Hills, in Fanciful Acres.” Marlon replied, standing also.

He did live kind of far away, but that didn’t bother Allie in the least.

She’d broken speed limits before to please clients and with Marlon Jackson as her Goose with the Golden Egg falling out its brown ass, she’d have flown a Blackhawk jet to get him if she necessary.

Shaking Marlon’s hand (how did a man have such a soft and delicate feeling hand?) and showing him to the door, telling him she’d be in touch soon, Allie didn’t know she was soon going to make more than just a suit fit onto his body.


An Hour and a Half Later

Beverly Hills, California

The offices of Corby and Company looked as though a cyclone had hit it, but Allie Corby had managed to achieve the impossible: she had clothes!

With the help of over six hundred employees under her, she had shaken out every closet, warehouse and holding cell, getting a hold every grey suit, shirt and tie within a twenty-mile radius, that fit closely to the measurements Marlon Jackson gave to Lucie before departing.

Allie was still in kind of a daze--she couldn’t believe she was working with THE Marlon Jackson--but she was doing her best to keep professional and not turn into a bouncing, off the walls, teenybopper.

Lucie had been bad enough.

But it was hard. Damn it, it was hard.

If it wouldn’t have taken precious time, Allie would have pulled to the side of the street and danced with glee on the sidewalk at her good fortune.

Soon Allie came up to Fanciful Acres, the gated community that counted Marlon Jackson among its inhabitants.

Eight houses in, Allie found herself cruising through the open gates of the Jackson estate.

Marlon’s gates had been comparatively low-key--just black wrought iron with a golden “J” affixed to them--but beyond them, was a world of luxury.

At the end of a long, sprawling road that fed into a semicircular drive way, featuring a white marble fountain with in the shape of Venus de Milo, spouting blue water, was Marlon Jackson’s beautiful home.

Built in the beaux-arts style, Marlon Jackson’s home was a behemoth in white masonry; clean Victorian mansion framed by stunning relief work. Soaring columns supported the second story balcony, a green and white striped awning the only touch of color to the façade.

Large potted plants framed the steps leading to wide, heavy oak and lead crystal front doors.

(Author’s Note: I based Marlon’s house on an actual mansion in my hometown.)

It was a true reflection of the man. Classic, in every sense of the word.

As she parked her black Mercedes and began assembling a rolling rack to hang the clothing on, Allie spied her mark.

Off to the right, in a sunroom, she saw that Marlon stood, hands behind his back, watching her.

A sweet grin creasing his face, he waved to her.

Waving back, Allie saw him turn and appear to be shouting at someone.

A second later, the double doors opened and two rather large Hispanic men, both wearing green polos and khaki trousers, came jogging out and over to Allie.

“Mr. Jackson asked us to help you ma’am.”

One of the men, with a bald, sparkling scalp informed her briskly, as he and his partner lifted the rack as easily as lifting a cotton ball and were jogging off with it.

‘Thank you!” Allie called after them, and was closing the trunk of her car.

“Do you like the grounds?” A voice suddenly wondered and Allie almost crushed her hands.

“Christ Alive--you startled me!” Allie gaped, putting a hand to her heaving bosom.

“I‘m a Ninja on the weekends.” Marlon joked and winked as he patted her back. His touch was electric.

“Please, come in, I’m very interested in seeing what you were able to get me. I saw a lot of garment bags.”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson, I called in a lot of favors--I wanted to make sure you had plenty to choose from.” Allie told him as they climbed the stairs and entered the warm front foyer of the home.

Just inside the door was an oversized portrait of her host.

In it he was very young, no older than twelve. It was obviously a Jackson Five promo photo from the 1970s. Marlon wore a wild, hot pink, rhinestone studded tuxedo, with a white ruffled shirt. And sprouting from his head like a halo was his hair, in its natural hair color, that had a reddish-brown tinge to it.

His hair now was worn in a cropped down into a soft flattop, it’s color a gleaming jet black.

(But what man over twenty-five in California didn’t dye his hair?)

If Allie hadn’t been blinded by that bright suit, she’d have seen that Marlon had had his nose “done”. It was slightly larger in the picture.

“I can promise you, I don’t want a suit that extravagant.” Marlon snickered from behind her. “Hell will freeze over, with Satan making a snowman before you catch me looking like a Tan Liberace ever again!”

For the very first time, since meeting him, Allie laughed.

“Liberace, that’s a good one, Mr. Jackson.” And she wasn’t ass-kissing either. She was genuinely starting to enjoy this man’s company.

That just may have been dangerous, but she was trying to ignore that nagging pain in her chest. And her loins.

“Please…” Marlon put up his hands as if wounded.

“Quit calling me “Mr. Jackson”. Makes me feel old as baseball. I’m Marlon. You’re about to dress me. Call me by my first name.”

“Sure, Sir.” Allie couldn’t seem to look from those beautiful, queerly colored eyes of his. “And you can call me Allie.”

“That’s just fine, please follow me, I had Alejandro and Paso put the clothing in my Master Suite.” With that, Marlon was on the move.

Marlon’s house was lavishly decorated, in rich shades of burgundy and green, with dark wood accents. All over were framed portraits of his notable family. It was a very masculine home and aside from that pink suit he had on in the front foyer, no other feminine details were to be seen.

Upstairs, the second-floor hallway was a display of dozens of gold and platinum records Marlon had been awarded over the years.

That seemed to be an act of modesty, as no one would have known about the awards if they didn’t venture up the stairs to see them.

Allie was mildly taken aback upon entering Marlon’s Master Suite.

She had seen quite a many bedrooms, as that was where her clients felt most comfortable dressing, but Marlon Jackson’s definitely was one of the most opulent she had ever seen.

For one thing, the walls were covered in a deep green leather.

(Who the hell had leather as wallpaper?)

Polished cherrywood gleamed under her feet. Two windows on either side of a velvet-dressed canopied, platform bed, had their velvet curtains drawn back letting the sunlight in. a few feet from her, a seating area with more leather armchairs were waiting to be sat in, a small round table held a large Holy Bible. Beside it was a crystal cross, the light sending prisms across the walls as it passed through the cross.

An entertainment cabinet, covered in more green leather--how many cows gave their lives and hides for that room?--housed what had to be a seventy-inch, flat-screened television, DVD player and stereo system with hundreds of DVDs, CDs and vinyls stored around it.

On the opposite side of the room, catty-corner from the king-sized bed, a green marble fireplace was lit and flickering. Spread in front of the fireplace, was a large, Prussian rug, in muted greens, incorporating with the room.

Above the mantle, an oil painting of Marlon called the eye .

It was painted some time earlier, as in it, Marlon wore his hair in a Jherri-Kurl. He looked quite stunning. He was nude, his body strategically covered with a sheer white sheet and stretched out attractively on a white Bengal tiger-skin rug.

(Author’s Note: Let that image simmer for a minute. Marlon naked on a tiger skin…You‘re welcome!)

In the photo, Marlon was quite fit, his body cut and boasting well-sculpted muscles, especially his abdomen that was remarkably ripped.

Turning, Allie observed Marlon, a few feet away, peeking at the twenty-some-odd grey suits she had brought along, now removed from their bags, hanging with several brightly colored button downs and ties.

Sure he was a little older, rounder, and a bit thinner on top…but maybe…maybe some of that hotness was still clinging to him.

And for a moment she forgot her professionalism.

She couldn’t help it.

Crossing the room, five-inch platform heels clicking, she quite literally purred,

“Do you see anything you like, Marlon?”

Still searching and peeking, Marlon answered her in an awed whisper,

“I see too much. Wool, silk, seersucker, linen…light grey, charcoal, heather…solids, stripes, pinstripes, plaids!”

“I aim to please.” Allie smiled, and shrugged out of her fur cape, placing it on a free hanger. “Why don’t you pull some items and try them on?”

“Uh…okay. I feel like a kid in a damn candy store!” Marlon laughed deeply, reaching and pulling a light grey suit down, draping it over his arm. To offset it, he paired it with a merlot satin shirt and tie.

It was an excellent choice in Allie’s mind, playing off the neutral of grey with a brighter, more saturated color.

(Author’s Note: I watch “What Not To Wear” religiously and know all the tricks to popping an outfit.)

“Be back in a minute, kiddo.” Marlon snickered, before disappearing through the door of his bathroom.

If Allie had been paying him any true attention, she would have been offended at being called “kiddo.”

“Take your time…” Allie was distracted, and wandering over to a small display on the far wall of Marlon’s bedroom. It contained several more music awards he’d received: Grammys and American Music Awards.

They had been awarded to the Jackson Five in the mid-70s and each had his name engraved on it with his famous brothers.

Glancing over them, afraid to touch them, Allie noticed something strange.

Almost out of place was a crystal bottle, made in a fan shape, and half-filled with an amber-colored liquid.

Who gave out an award filled with liquid? Had Marlon won some type of booze-guzzling competition?

Lifting it, Allie removed the cap, revealing a small nozzle--a bottle of cologne.

Holding it under her nose, Allie sniffed it. It was the same scent she had very faintly smelled on Marlon, a bright, aromatic scent of lavender and sandalwood with notes and hints of musk laced through it.

“I’m not a huge fan of this.”

Whirling around Allie saw that Marlon had come out of his bathroom.

And unfortunately, the suit was wearing him, rather than the other way around.

Marlon was a bit on the short side, about six inches shorter than Allie and the suit was on the long side, and frankly looked as though it had been handed down to Marlon from a more vertically-gifted sibling.

“I can alter it for you--” Allie began as Marlon sauntered over and raised a brow.

‘I don’t think Lascivious speaks to your personality at all.”

“Huh?” The young woman was befuddled.

Laughing Marlon tugged the bottle from her.

“My cologne--it‘s called Lascivious. ”

And without thinking, he started spraying his throat, revealed by the open top three buttons with more of the lewdly named elixir.

By the time he caught himself it was too late.

“Son of a bitch!” He grunted more to himself than Allie. “I guess I just bought this shirt.”

“No Marlon--” Allie was alarmed and tried to tell him the shirt could be laundered to free it of the perfume.

“I insist. I won’t make that mistake again, though.” He replaced the bottle.

Unbuttoning the jacket, he suggested,

“Why don’t you pull something? You‘re the expert. Because, right now, I look like I need to be making balloon animal‘s at a child‘s birthday party!”

There had been a suit Allie had in mind, and she rushed to the rack to locate it.

“Did you really sew all these suits yourself? By hand?” Marlon, just inside Allie’s peripheral view was shrugging out of the jacket.

“Yes. Most of these were models for others--sample sizes--or were made for someone that never claimed them.” Allie thought she had the suit, but was dismayed to see it had a windowpane check to it in light blue. The suit she sought had grey on grey pinstripes.

“Mmm-hmm…Just exactly how old are, Allie?”

“I make twenty-six in January.” Now this suit had red pinstripes!

What Marlon said next did nothing short of amaze her.

“You‘re twenty-five? Goddamn! I’m twice your age!”

The red pinstripe suit hit the floor, as Allie spun, mouth agape.

“You--you-you’re fifty-years-old?” She couldn’t have been more shocked if Marlon announced that he was Japanese.

That was impossible! He couldn’t have been fifty! Why, he looked too young. His skin was so smooth and flawless. There was nothing grey on him but the ill-fitting suit trousers and a few mustache hairs. He had to be kidding.

“I made fifty on March twelfth.” Marlon was nodding.

Forgetting herself, Allie accused,

“You’re lying. You aren’t a day over thirty-five!”

“That’s it! Stop!” Marlon cried coming over and leaned against the rack. “For a compliment that damn nice, I’ll buy everything here, whether it fits or not! Thirty-five? I gotta remember to tell my brothers you said that! They‘ll hate my guts inside and out! ”

Allie took a special in pleasure seeing that Marlon’s cheeks were starting to show a glow of redness to them--he was flattered.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all year! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome--” Fingertips, soft and tender, pinched Allie’s rouged cheek.

At the touch, a spark charged, Allie, and she whipped away from Marlon so hard, her hair flew.

She was being too familiar. And she had to cut it out, before she tried to overstep her bounds with Marlon Jackson.

Or worse, he tried to overstep his!

Thankfully, she located the suit the wanted. Made of charcoal wool, it was offset by lighter, pale grey pinstripes.

Instantly, it was in Marlon’s arms, and within seconds, a crisp white shirt and mid-tone plaid tie were added, creating an outfit.

“Hey, I like the looks of this! I can’t wait to put this on! Should have let you pick stuff to start with, Allie.” If he smiled any harder his cheeks would have burst.

After he retreated into his bathroom, Allie sagged against the clothing rack, gasping for air and arguing at herself.

Just what in the hell was she doing? What was she up to?

Was she becoming attracted to this man? To this man who was only five years younger than her own father?

(Author’s Note: Marlon is actually thirty years older than me! And thirty years younger than my father!)

She couldn’t overstep those damn bounds. No matter how his eyes looked so clear gold in the right lights. Or how they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Or how his lips were so shiny and supple looking. Or how he smelled so wonderfully of that floral aroma.

Or how musical and engaging he sounded when laughing…

“Allie, I think this is it.”

Came the triumphant announcement.

Allie was floored by Marlon Jackson, who was grinning, every tooth in his head showing.

Vain as a peacock with full plumage, Marlon was strutting over, that grey suit looking almost like it had been made tailored specifically for Marlon, it fit him so well.

His shoulders appeared broad, his waist tiny. He even looked taller! The only discrepancies were that the sleeves were a bit too long. The plaid tie had been left undone and only draped around his shoulders.

“It looks great on you Marlon…perfect.” She mumbled, and automatically was looping the tie appropriately, to complete the ensemble.

“Is a Windsor Knot okay?”

(Author’s Note: Marlon IS wearing his tie in a Windsor Knot in the photo!)

“Yeah, that’s cool.” She heard Marlon reply. “I don’t care, as long as it’s tied.”

“Okay.” Back and forth, the strip of plaid cloth was whirling.

And then she made the mistake of looking up into Marlon’s face.

Her eyes connected with his, a chill hit her, and the next thing she knew, Marlon Jackson was choking.

“Oh shit!” She had pulled the tie too tight and was crushing his windpipe! “God, I’m sorry! Forgive me!”

‘It’s alright! I don’t think I’m decapitated yet!” It relieved her, to hear Marlon was amused, rather than angry.

“Do you like the length of the sleeves or would you prefer them shorter?” Allie was trying to keep her mind focused.

“Could you take a half-inch off? Or is that too much by tomorrow?” Marlon wondered, a thick, furry brow raising.

“Nonsense. Anything you need done, will be done.” Allie vowed and kicking off her shoes--she had been standing a good head taller than her client--knelt at Marlon’s side, fiddling with the sleeve, looking to see how they’d fall once they were taken up.

Folding the fabric dragging his left hand, she took notice of something she hadn‘t earlier: Marlon’s ring finger bore a very obvious tan line.

Keeping her eye line away from his, she questioned, less tactfully than she had wanted,


“You’re married?”
“Legally separated.” She was corrected swiftly. “And I have been for nearly two years. I’d be divorced by now, but my wife is being foolish and trying to challenge the pre-nup she signed. What‘s mine is mine and she ain‘t getting none of it!”

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” Allie apologized and went back to bending the cloth.

Yet, she felt a zealous thrill at the idea that Marlon Jackson was, for all intents and purposes, “on the market.”

He was single! Hot damn it all, he was single!

“I’m not sorry. I gave that woman twenty-years of my life. Got nothing but misery. I’ve done alright for myself, but it’s kind of obvious, I’m not Michael. Nobody is Michael, he’s different, special. And my wife never could get the understanding I wasn’t Michael--I’m Marlon. He’s richer, with a bigger estate. And I told her big-eyed. greedy ass if she wanted the lifestyle Michael had so damn much to go marry him. He’s single. He’s been divorced for years. Makes my ass throb. I’m happy with my life, what I have. I mean what the hell my old, antique ass look like trying to outsell him now? If this was 1984 all over again, I could try, but it’s not. I’m pleased with what I have, it’s more than some have got!”

Allie rested on her heels, staring at the line on Marlon’s finger.

“Sorry to drop all this shit on your head, Allie. You’re a clothier, not a shrink.” Marlon sighed sadly. “Just pisses me off that I did work so hard and she can’t seem to appreciate it.”

“I don’t think you’re old.” Allie whispered, a tumult of emotions suddenly running rampant through her.

“What?” Marlon, his mind a million miles away, questioned, staring down at her.

Allie didn’t meet his gaze, instead, kept her sight on that tiny bit of light brown flesh circling his finger.

“You called yourself old, Marlon. You’re not old. Maybe a bit mature, but by no means old. You’re still a vibrant, vital, and attractive man.”

Marlon Jackson was quiet for a long moment, and when he made noise, it was the last thing she expected to hear out him.

“Thank you, Allie. You’ve a very kind woman…are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

At the inquiry, Allie’s head came up and she had to stare at him.

She knew he wasn’t asking her, what she thought he was asking her!

Not waiting for a reply, Marlon lightly gripped Allie’s bare arm and pulled her up so that she stood.

“I…I don’t really want to spend the entire night staring at the ugly mugs of my brothers…” Those pale eyes washed over Allie’s face before meeting with hers, the gaze unwavering.

“…I’d like it very much, if I could look up and see you on my arm and in my company at the table.”

Marlon’s grip on Allie arm became tighter and weakened by that powerful, unnerving stare, she could only stand there, as Marlon’s face bobbed alarmingly close to hers.

Sliver of a pink tongue dampened those alluring lips.

Those lips were mashing hers.

Hotly, wildly, maddeningly.

Marlon’s lips completely eclipsed Allie’s as he forced them onto hers.

Those lips were going after hers so hard, with a fresh moistness, and seductive plowing action that seemed to take all the life force from Allie’s body, she sagged against Marlon.

Strong arms wrapped around her, supporting her and keeping her from hitting the floor.

There was a soft pop, as Marlon removed his mouth from hers, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, panting softly into her ear.

It was a long moment before Allie realized that she, too, was panting.


“Damn it, I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you, Allie.”
He confessed, running long fingers through her hair.

“Me too…” Allie sighed, rubbing her hands up and down his back, taking in that intoxicating cologne of his. She was going to be drunk if he kept that up.

His cheek was so warm against hers.

Allie was chilled to the core by his next statement.

“I’m going to go get out of this suit, because if I don’t, I’ll rip all your hard work clean off my body!”

Marlon paused to peck her mouth once more, then turned and was making a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

Watching him go, Allie felt a mischievous grin curling her lips.

She knew she was doing all kinds of wrong, messing around with a client who was in the midst of marital problems.

She was doing all kinds of wrong, and she liked it.

It was a feeling that only intensified when the door reopened, a short while later and Marlon stepped out.

If Allie didn’t think that man could look any more wonderful than he already had, then she was sorely mistaken.

Shutting the bathroom door, Marlon lingered there, framed by the doorway.

He had changed out the grey suit, it, the shirt and tie draped over his arm.

But he had not changed back into the white oxford and black trousers he had been wearing when Allie first met him.

No…

Instead, he was clad in a cream colored, quilted satin robe, cinched tightly at the waist with a braided belt.

He was barefoot, each footfall he made, clearly heard as started towards the rack and hung the clothing up.

Allie didn’t remember coming up behind Marlon Jackson.

She couldn’t tell if she had walked or floated, but the next thing she knew she had her arms around his pudgy waist, pressing herself against his bountiful backside.

Feeling how hard and sinewy it was.

Hugging against him, she began planting little, timid kisses along the back of his neck and the backs of his ears. Smelling that rich, cologne on him.

Getting high off of him.

“That feels so good…” Marlon murmured, loosening Allie’s arms and tugging her around so that she faced him.

Cupping her chin with one hand, he peered into her face.

“You’re so very beautiful, Allie…such a lovely young thing…”

His mouth was on hers again, and this time his tongue, warm and tasting overwhelmingly of mints--he must have gargled before coming out--was sweeping back and forth against Allie’s.

Allie was going searing hot all over; the more he kissed her, the more she wanted him. The more she could not overcome these feelings of arousal, lust and want.

Pulling back and away from Marlon, she moved to begin undoing the exposed zipper going up the back of her blouse.

A wry chuckle escaped that wondrous man and he approached her, hands out.

“Baby, let me…” Was all he said, arms going around her, disengaging the zipper and the blouse was slipped from Allie, revealing her black, strapless lace bra. The blouse fell to the floor.

“OH!” Allie cried as she was jerked against him, his lips mashing and kissing on her bare shoulders.

There was a small click, and in one fluid motion, the bra was gone, her large, tear-drop like breasts out for all to see.

“God, your titties…” Marlon stammered, and plunged his face into them.

“No, oh my God! Marlon!” Allie cried, waves of heat washing over her as he bounced them in his large hands, one of her brown nipples disappearing into his mouth as he started to suck on it.

Marlon’s hair was getting knocked out of place as Allie, unable to control herself, was rubbing her hands all over his head as he continued sucking and licking after her breasts.

Dropping to his knees, Marlon unzipped Allie’s skirt.

He rested a moment, staring at the small pair of black lace panties barely hiding her more notorious bits from him.

Staring at Allie’s flat, slightly dimpled abdomen, and her long, toned legs.

Hugging her hips, he peeled one side of her underwear away, kissing at her thigh.

Then they were off, in his hand a scant second, under his nose, as he smelled at them, his eyes closing in rapture, then tossed away.

Allie was naked in front of Marlon Jackson.

She was naked.

And she screamed when he smooched her bare little slit, causing it to instantly become wet at the touch of his lips.

Marlon rose, and placing one of Allie’s arms around his neck, lifted her.

Their mouths connected as he carried her over to that carpet in front of the fireplace.

She was set down ever so gently, Marlon pausing to run his hands all over her soft, perfumed, sweet body.

Then he was gone, turning out the overhead light, so that only the sunshine and flames in the fireplace lit the room.

Allie’s eyes never left him; she didn’t want to look away, as he came back.

It excited her to see he was untying the belt on his robe.

As it opened and slipped from his body…Allie felt she’d pass out, right there.

There was nothing beneath that robe, but a sweet, bronzed wonderland.

Quite simply, Marlon Jackson was beautiful.

By comparison to the painting behind him, save for a little extra padding around his middle, he was still incredibly well built, muscles defined and standing out all over.

The most wonderful and breathtaking muscle on that body, though, swung between Marlon’s toned legs.

It was an immense, dense mass of meat, that , even in it’s flaccid state, fell near his knees.

A thatch of shining black hair, coiled tightly, covered Marlon’s crotch, spreading out towards his thighs.

His testicles, full, fuzzy and swollen were seen as Marlon, grabbed a hold of that dick and was tugging on it, causing it to grow.

He swiftly gained an extra three inches, to what had been at least seven to start with.

Still pulling, Marlon dropped to the rug beside Allie, kissing some more.

She never could get tired of those tender clouds he called lips. She wanted to kiss him forever.

“Take me…take me please…” She begged feverishly. She had to have him inside of her; had to feel him, smell him, taste him.

Cherish him.

She’d die without him.

Lying back, Allie gazed over her body at the man she was going crazy about.

Releasing himself, cock pointing skyward, the reddened, engorged tip emerging from the flap of uncut foreskin, Marlon parted Allie’s legs.

Revealing her pussy in all of its pink, moist, and quivering glory.

“It’s so pretty…” Marlon was barely audible, as he leaned over it, staring.

Bringing a hand up to his mouth, he licked his index and middle finger, dampening them.

“Ugh!” Allie threw her head back and it bopped the floor, as he forced those fingers into her, rocking them back and forth, only to heighten her pleasure.

“You’re so small, Allie Baby…yet so hot!” Marlon commented, his voice deep, eyes going drowsy with arousal, and horniness.

As he twisted his fingers, Allie arched her back, biting on her bottom lip, trying to control herself. She couldn’t come all over the man in the first five seconds!

“You like that, don’t you? You like what I’m doing to you, huh?” He teased, voice heavy, smooching and sucking at her thigh, leaving kisses across her abdomen.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop!” Allie pleaded, wrapping her hands around his thick wrist, discovering he still wore his black diamond embedded watch.

“I love to hear you scream like that Honey…” Marlon flicked shoved his fingers further and was in to his knuckles. “Do you know how badly it makes me want to fuck you?”

The fingers were removed and he stopped long enough to suck on them, his eyes boring holes into Allie’s.

“You want me to fuck you? You want this aged, seasoned cock Baby? You want this thick-n-juicy meat?”

Sitting up, Allie pressed her forehead to Marlon’s eyeing him fiercely,

“Do whatever in the hell you want to me, Marlon Jackson!” She snarled, her pointed nose colliding with his flat one.

She was shoved down onto her back and the full weight of Marlon was on her, as he clutched her face, smacking after her mouth.

Allie clutched him, hands pressing into his back, holding him against her, never wanting to let him go.

Leaning up and off of her, Marlon’s warm hands held her legs open and Allie was helpless to watch as a blob of spit, clear and shiny, fell from his lips and made a direct landing on her open and reddening hole.

“UGH!” The simultaneous cry left both Marlon and Allie as in one solid stick, he penetrated her.

All around, Allie was spreading, stretching and expanding to accommodate Marlon.

Allie had been with men before, she worked in a male-centric business, it was inevitable, but none had been like this.

Never this big, never this thick.

Never this talented.

Falling forward, Marlon was weighing Allie down, both his hands holding hers and intertwining the fingers, as he began thrusting and pumping away at her.

Grinding in a pleasing circular motion.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Marlon! Marlon! Damn! Marlon!” Allie was fairly gasping as Marlon brought her arms up and over her head, holding her down,

“You say my name…that’s it…that’s it! Say my name!” His breath was in her ear, as Marlon grunted, manipulating his hips, as Allie wrapped her legs around his thick waist.

Finding his rhythm , Marlon was plowing into the young woman so hard, her breasts were slapping her in the face.

He was making so many moves at once, Allie didn’t know what to do.

In and out, up and down, around and around.

“Marlon, Marlon--please!” She shrieked into his shoulder as he gently bit hers.

A second time he was off of her, he was teasing her, running his hands over his chest as it started to gleam with perspiration.

And in a moment of sheer showmanship, he took his left hand and flicking his fingers, as if doing “jazz hands”, was circling his face, eyes shut, lips puckered.

At the same time, Allie had lost the power of speech and was arching, her hands in her hair, eyes widened and mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy.

“Hoo! Woo! Shit!” Marlon’s hands were in his hair his own back curving as he plunged deeper and deeper into that young pussy. A pussy so young, that half his life ago, it didn’t even exist!

“You’re so good, Allie! So fucking good! AH!”

Falling on Allie, Marlon embraced her tightly and rolled, so that she was top of him.

The true, unashamed, freak that was Marlon Jackson entered the room.

Holding onto Allie so tightly, she could barely draw a breath, Marlon was throwing his hips, directly going in an out of her so fast, Allie couldn’t say anything in warning, anything to slow or stop him.

She dug her nails into his broad, wet shoulders, and let go.

Let go all over Marlon’s still rapidly moving dick.



“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
 “Holy shit, you’re a squirter!” Marlon awed, laughed a clapping sound heard, he was hitting her so hard now. “I loves me a squirter! That‘s what I‘m

talking about! YES BABY YES!”

The two bodies rolled again, with Marlon on top of Allie, thrusting, sweat pouring form him and landing on her heaving, bouncing breasts.

Would have ever come? Would he ever reach his end? Allie wondered as Marlon, gripped her hips, plunging to places she didn’t know existed.

Or would Marlon just continue to screw her until one of them bled?

“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Oh God! Oh God!” Marlon suddenly exclaimed, entire form going a violent shade of maroon and yanked himself from Allie.

She gasped as her poor hole snapped closed after being so wide for so long.

Stroking wildly at his dampened meat, Marlon was making it clear he intended to go boom in her face.

“Ugh! Ugh! Oh shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Almost there! Almost there! Oh Baby! Oh Allie, it’s about to happen! It’s about to happen, girl! Motherfucker! Holy fucking shit! ”

Putting a hand up, Allie ticked after Marlon’s scrotum, causing him to screech.

“Now you done it! Don’t touch my nuts!”

Grabbing onto her face, Marlon pushed the mushroom-head tip of his dick against her lips.


“OH! OH GOD HELP ME! SHIT! I’M COMING! I’M COMING! OH! AAOW! I’M COMING! OW!”
With that triumphant shriek, Marlon Jackson exploded in a white, hot semen that spilled directly onto her mouth and rolled down her cheeks, leaking into her sweat-drenched hair.

“Oh…oh God…” He mumbled as Allie took a hold of him and tongue circling that tip, was savoring the last few bits of him.

“I…I can’t remember the last time I had it like that…goddamn, you’re amazing!” He spoke into Allie’s mouth as he kissed her deeply.

“I could say the same about you, Marlon.” She snickered, lustily, pinching at his cheek.

Curling up Marlon drew her against him, and he whispered,

“I gotta hold you, and never let go…”

Allie never intended to let him go.

* * *

The following night, Marlon Jackson walked the black carpet to the Annual Black Men’s Initiative Banquet, with his brothers, Randy, Tito and Jackie. As he wanted, Marlon stood apart in a well-appointed grey on grey wool suit, white shirt and Windsor knotted plaid tie, with dark grey wingtip shoes. A platinum watch sparkled on his left wrist.

But as he entered the Persian Ballroom where the festivities were being held, an extra accessory appeared on his left arm.

A beautiful, statuesque woman, in a slinky, light grey cocktail dress, long black tresses, flowing over her bare shoulders.

As promised, Allie Corby was present, never leaving Marlon’s side for a moment that night.


Nor the rest of his life.