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— 𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ; 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 (michael)

through every era, him. 18+ (holy shit guys, we made it! thanku so much for all the love on this series, i’ve loved it sm!! time for a lil break but enjoy the last one, and thank u for 3k! literally surreal <3)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Michael Jackson had created a monster.

A dangerously beautiful, enchantingly breath-taking brat of monster. A muse he had hand-crafted himself from the get go — moulded into an insatiable, untameable divine being that had him wrapped so tightly around her finger he was unable to wriggle free.

You.

His lady of three years, now fiancée, was the main cause of his increased blood-pressure and tachycardia — your sassed attitude constantly fired at him a thousand times a day.

And the media loved to spin it.

Whenever you’d roll your eyes at him at a public gathering, or stop your little heeled foot outside a shopping mall, one he’d rented out for eight hours just so you could shop while he held your twelve bags, after he told you that maybe the $25,000 you just spent on clothes and shoes was enough for today — the media were talking about it. They jumped at any opportunity to call you a gold-digger — just using Michael for his money and having a hissy fit whenever he said no to you.

What they didn’t know was Michael was exactly where he wanted to be.

Underneath your materialistic nature, you were the perfect lady for him. Albeit a lot younger than he would’ve usually gone for, not that he cared nowadays, but you were the embodiment of marriage material. You spoilt him with unconditional love and affection, showered him in praise and compliments that left him blushing, tended to his needs and wants whenever he so needed, respected his busy, demanding career, spent every minute at his side, supporting and sticking up for him, and never stopped loving him no matter what.

You were proud to be his woman — no matter what anyone had to say about you.

A week didn’t go by without the tabloids reporting on how you were a horrible girlfriend, irritating you further as it was hard to miss the humongous twenty-four carat gold Cartier engagement ring on your finger that literally blinded everyone who walked past you, and that you were dragging him down by being a spoiled brat.

They also didn’t know that Michael made you this way.

Before him you were a normal girl — you grew up in a traditional household, seemingly classic childhood, and didn’t have things handed to you on a silver platter. You understood you had to work for what you wanted, and that extravagant, expensive things didn’t come without effort.

It was only when you started dating Michael did he remind you that money actually did grow on trees in his eyes — and those paper notes in his wallet were at your fingertip whenever you so desired.

It all started on your twenty-fifth birthday — you had been seeing Michael for a mere few months at this point, and had been slowly integrated into his bustling lifestyle. You saw the money, the clothes, the antiques, the jewels, the cars — everything. It was a sight to see, the wealth that oozed from like it was natural, like how a billion-dollar net-worth was normal.

You had spent the evening at an extremely fancy restaurant, one that required a minimum of two years waiting time to get a table, one that Michael had obtained with a five minute phone call two days beforehand. He was Michael Jackson after all.

He had arranged, in the sweetest way a boyfriend could do, for all your family and friends to join you in the restaurant that had been booked out — leaving you with your loved ones, and very famous boyfriend, to have some much needed privacy. You all indulged in ridiculously overpriced, minuscule portioned food that, much to your dismay, tasted incredible — practically moaning with each bite.

It was only when dessert had been polished off, did the gifts begin to roll in. Your parents had bought you a gorgeous necklace, a locket, with a portrait of their wedding photo and your baby picture on each side — a heart-warming, sentimental present that had tears welling up in your eyes.

Your friends got you personal, hilarious yet fitting gifts that had a smile spread so wide across your face you were certain it was stuck there.

But, when it came to Michael’s gift, it took the cake.

He placed an item in front of you on the table, unable to his smile, as the words ‘Hermés’ embroidered into the cotton covering hit your eyes.

“No way, Michael.” You breathed, eyes practically bulging out of your head at the gift before you.

“Open it, baby.” He pressed, voice soft and calm was he awaited the excitable panic to arise.

Your hands trembled frantically as you tore the covering off, gasping loudly, as well as many others on the table, as a chic, white Birkin bag rest in your hands. The very one you’d mentioned to Michael you’d wanted your whole life, an item you knew you’d never have, but desired more than anything.

The loud scream-like squeal that left your mouth had Michael chuckling softly as you rose to your feet, jumping up and down in undeniable joy, hands flailing as the realisation hit you that the one physical item you had wanted in the whole world had been blessed upon you by your boyfriend of only six months.

You flew into Michael’s embrace, throwing your arms around his neck as you giggled delightfully into his ear, pulling back to litter kisses all over his grinning face.

“Happy Birthday, doll.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, as you flew back into your seat, gazing lovingly at the bag, feeling wrong to even be able to touch it, let alone carry it around.

It was from that moment Michael knew he had created a monster — watching as the glint in your eye, as you gazed at the present, grew stronger than any reaction you’d given to the previous presents. He could tell, by the look in your blown pupils, that this, this bag, that cost a fortune, that was just a drop in the ocean for him — meant more to you than the any personal, sentimental gift your loved ones had got you.

A bag — a fucking bag, meant more to you than a personalised present that had real meaning.

And when you got home that night, in a loved-up daze of excitement as you rode him into the mattress, all other gifts discarded downstairs, back arched into his touch as his cock slammed into you, did Michael feel the obsession with money begin to start by the way your eye kept catching the bag that rest upon the nightstand in the moonlight — needy whines of pleasure only increasing in octave at the moment you realised you needed more.

More of his cock, more of him, more of his money — you didn’t care. You just knew that Michael was yours, forever and always.

And Michael felt the exact same way. He knew you deserved this, that he wanted to spoil you rotten with this expensive lifestyle, not because he wanted to win over your love and loyalty — but because you already gave it beforehand without needing to be spoiled. You had shown irrevocable love and attention to him, despite his life, career and age, and never once faltered. You had been there, a constant reminder from the day he met you a year ago, to the moment he gifted you that bag, that you were always going to be the one to love him.

That’s when he decided he had to turn you into his little princess. One that was shocked when something was only $3,000, claiming that it was cheap, or refused to buy (let him buy) something that didn’t come from Dior or Chanel, or didn’t understand why you had no more room in your walk-in closet at your shared home after your thousandth shopping trip on his card this week.

You were truly spoiled tooth decayingly rotten.

But, you never let it ruin how you felt towards him.

He could’ve gone broke and you would still love him. Sure, you’d be fucking devastated as you now you were hooked on clearing out every department store every chance you got — but you knew he was the one for you. The one you wanted to marry, have children with, love forever and grow old with.

But, you were too far gone now.

Michael had marked his expensive taste into you forever — branding you into a materialistic diva who always needed his card or his cars. And he loved it — literally dying at any chance to spoil you, shower you in gifts and surprises that cost thousands each time, something he wouldn’t even notice coming out of his bank account, but something that would leave you smiling and squealing, kissing him all over.

He had built the perfect lady to spoil.

And the more you were drenched in expensive clothing, and jewellery, and sunglasses, and nails and a new blow-out each week, did you become just that little bit more ditsy.

Ditsy and unaware of how unbearably stunning you were — and how much of a brat you had become.

Everyone around you, including Michael, knew — they could sense it each time you’d have a conversation with him or talk about things that were such first-world problems, but meant so much to you. They would exchange glances, as Michael would just smile, glistening eyes hidden behind his infamous aviators, as you rambled on, pouting about how Armani didn’t have the $14,000 dress you wanted in stock, even after you told them you were marrying Michael Jackson.

They would see you, pouting and complaining about something totally unnecessary and borderline ridiculous, and then Michael, enabling the behaviour by apologising to you, kissing you with a smile, before getting Giorgio himself on the phone to demand the dress to his home within the next twenty-four hours or else he’d pull his credit card from file and threaten to never spend another cent there again if they upset his lady like that again.

They’d watch, utterly gobsmacked, as you’d purr praises into his ear as you kissed along his jawline, complete oblivious to the fact that other people were in the room and watching you press yourself up against him, whispering ‘Thank you, Mikey, I just need it so bad, ‘Love you so much.’

But, with being a spoiled brat came with its downsides.

The downside being your temper tantrums at your least favourite word.

No.

A downside that he thought was utterly hilarious and adorable each time your eyebrows would furrow in irritation with a pout on your face whenever he’d, once in a blue moon, say the word ‘No’ to you. A reaction he’d only brought upon himself with his incessant spoiling — but he didn’t care, he would just tease you back, tugging on your jutted out bottom lip, pressing a peck there before demanding you to behave or else he’d never spend another dollar on you again.

You both knew he was lying whenever he uttered those words — because you’d soon get your way.

But, these tantrums would make you into a real brat. Often acting up just to further your point or to piss him off deliberately, just so he could feel exactly how you felt right now.

Your latest had been after being told you couldn’t have a $150k Chandelier for a room you never even went into in your twelve bedroom mansion.

So, in retaliation, you’d either not speak to him for a few hours, caving in yourself in the end after you realised your silent treatment didn’t prevail, or refuse to drink the $50 cocktail you ordered when he’d take you out for dinner just to rub it in his face, or blast music throughout the house, a song with deliberate intent to wind him up.

Just like today — you had walked down stairs, rubbing your eyes from the tiredness that plagued you, yawning as you sauntered into the living area, where Michael resided with a few familiar producers, musical engineers, his manager and his close personal friend, Chris Tucker.

“Ah, there she is!” Chris spoke excitedly, “Speak of the devil, huh?”

Michael chuckled, peering behind him to meet your sleepy frame, lip coming between his teeth at the sight of you.

You were dressed, barely, in a Dolce & Gabbana lacy nightgown, one that left little to the imagination due to its short length and thin straps that were loose over your shoulders — a beautiful duck-egg grey that complimented your skin tone, a colour Michael loved on you. His eyes raked over you, a familiar seductive glint present in his pupils at your erect nipples poking through the satin filled his vision.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” You sassed, eyebrows furrowing as you stared him down.

Chris laughed, “Damn, someone’s not a morning person, huh?” Michael returned the chuckle at the truth in his question, “We were talkin’ about that Chandelier.”

Michael groaned, rolling his eyes with a playful smile, “Don’t get her started.”

You instantly burst into a smile, “Oh my God, isn’t just such a good idea!” You exclaimed, “It’s so pretty, like the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I need it.”

“Baby, we don’t even go in the room you want it in.” Michael reminded, peering over at you as the room erupted into laughs.

“That’s beside the point.” You huffed, hands settling on your hips, “It’s pretty and I want it.”

You missed the way the room exchanged looks that said ‘Oh, wow’ in shock at your sassed firing back, as Michael just smiled at you.

“Do I not even get a good-morning kiss before you start demanding stuff this early, baby?”

Your face changed dramatically again, a soft grin tugging onto your face as you giggled, walking towards where he sat on the couch.

You bent down, completely unaware to how your nightdress rode up your backside, flashing the curve of your ass and your lacy panties to the men sat behind you, as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The only noise, in the uncomfortable silence only falling upon those not engaging in the lip-locking, was your happy hums into his mouth and the sound of lips connecting.

You rose once again, the room huffing out stabilising breaths as your behind was covered once more, again barely, smiling down at Michael, “So, can I have it now?”

“Still no, baby.”

And it started.

You frowned deeply, an even deeper pout forming on your face as your hands crossed over your chest, not noticing the way Michael licked his lips hungrily as your tits pressed up more into his view, as the tantrum began.

“Why?”

“Because it’s $150,000, angel, for something that will collect dust and never even be seen.” Michael spoke, voice still soft despite your attitude.

“It won’t collect dust, I’ll clean it.” You attempted to convince him, knowing that it was all lies.

Michael snorted, “Baby, I don’t think I’ve seen you clean a single inch of this house, let alone a Chandelier in the guest bedroom.”

You huffed, finding the other men’s laughter behind you taunting, “Fine, I’ll get Martha to clean it.”

Michael chuckled harder as you dragged the maid into your convincing, “I don’t particularly want her breaking her neck trying to get up there, honey.”

“Come on, Mikey, it’ll look so nice in there.” You whined, forcing your pout out further to push him to agree to your ridiculous request, “All the guests who stay in there will agree with me.”

“Baby, no one stays ‘round here. It’ll just go to waste.”

“Chris can stay, I’m sure you’d love waking up to a Chandlier, right, Chris?” You turned around, facing the laughing man who shot his hands into the air in surrender.

“Don’t drag me into this, girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m with Mike on this one.”

You groaned, stomping your foot, clad in fluffy slippers, on the floor, “Michael.” You drawled out, voice a whiny beg.

“I said no, honey. Sorry, that’s final.”

You huffed loudly, grumbling under your breath, as Michael just smiled up at you. He was loving this — he absolutely adored riling you up, seeing you pout and get so irritated at him as you sassed him, just making him fall in love with you more.

“Fine, I’ll just go hang out in the kitchen where I’m actually wanted.” You shot back, words completely unreasonable and false as you acted out.

Michael breathed out a laugh, reaching for your hand, “Baby, you are wanted here. I just told you no and you don’t like it. Come on, gimme’ a smile, pretty girl.”

“No.” You fired back, moving backwards to avoid his touch, believing only you were allowed to say the word, “Have fun without me, boys.”

Michael just shook his head, grinning deeply as you moved to storm away, hands still firmly pressed over your chest, “Hey, angel, will you grab me an OJ while you’re in there?”

“No Chandelier, no orange juice, Michael!” You shouted as you moved out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen and out of his view as the room burst into laughter once again.

You were truly a brat — and he adored it.

“Jesus, Mike, that lady of yours sure is something.” One of his engineers chuckled, still in disbelief at your ordeal.

Michael smiled, “She’s perfect.”

And he meant it — even when you were throwing your toys out of your pram like you were so hard done by, he loved you. He was utterly, crazily in love with you. He always treated you with the utmost adoration and respect — caring for and tending to you like you were a real queen, giving up everything to make you happy.

But, when you pushed him too far — you knew about it.

So, when a familiar 90’s tune began blasting from the kitchen, did Michael start to feel his patience wear thin.

His jaw clenched as the lyrics hit his ears, as well as your loud singing, that caused the men sat before him in the room to side-eye one another with cackles at your dig towards him.

No Scrubs by TLC.

A song directly dissing a broke, lazy boy who had the confidence of a King, but couldn’t afford anything for his woman and made himself look a fool.

You say particularly hard when the song sounded, ‘Always talkin’ bout what he wants, and just sits on his broke ass!’, directly aiming it towards your fiancé who twitched in irritation at your insinuation that he was anything but a provider for you.

“Oh shit.” Chris laughed, puffing out his cheeks as Michael kissed his teeth, choosing to let you have your fun.

He didn’t let it affect him too much, knowing that the lyrics were more fitting to you as you were the one who talked about all the things you wanted from him — but it wasn’t the last time you pushed him that day.

He had parted from the house, composing his frustration as you moved your face when he leant down to kiss you before he left for an important meeting, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth instead of where he intended.

He brushed it off, only giving you a pass as you reciprocated his words when he told you he loved you, as most times you’d give him the silent treatment, and went about his day.

But, alas, you didn’t let up.

He had been deep in important business — having a serious conversation about contracts, and expenses, and documents that needed to be signed, when you came storming past the large window that covered the conference room.

The room went silent as the sound of your voice, arguing with the office building receptionist, who trailed behind you, commanding you to stop walking and leave at once, rang through the room, muffled through the glass.

“Ma’am, that is a confidential meeting, you are not permitted to be in there.” The older lady demanded, pointing her finger at you harshly.

You scoffed, “Lady, I’m the wife.” Michael had chuckled at your false words as you wiggled your ring-clad finger, ignoring the way the businessmen in the room looked at him in confusion, “If I wanna talk to my man when he’s in a meeting, I can. Talk to the hand, girl.”

Michael laughed again at your childish response as you shoved a manicured hand in her face, ignoring the way she gasped as you pushed the door open.

“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed, smiling brightly as you shuffled into the room.

You were an oxymoron to the boring professionalism of the meeting where middle-aged men with greying beards in dark-coloured suits watched you in shock as you stood in the doorway — dressed head to toe in a pink D&G mini-dress, kitten heels on your pedicured feet, five large shopping bags in your right hand, and a baby-blue, bedazzled leash in your left, connected to your two-year-old Pomeranian puppy-dog who barked loudly, one he’d got for you on your one-year anniversary.

“Say hi to Daddy, LV!” You let the leash go from your grasp as the tiny dog ran towards Michael at the end of the table, jumping up at his leg as it continued to bark.

Michael, choosing to ignore the way everyone in the room looked utterly bewildered at what was occurring in front of them, picked up the small dog and cuddled it in his lap, letting the pup lick all over his face.

“Ugh, what a day I’ve had already, Mikey.” You started with a huff, setting your bags down in the large table that adorned majority of the room, unaware you’d just placed them on important documents right in front of a random man, before you continued with your rant, “The lady at Louis tried to kick me out ‘cuz I brought LV in there.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Even after I told her I named my baby boy after the store.”

It was true — you had legitimately named your dog after Louis Vuitton. Something that Michael thought was hilarious and adorable all in one each time you’d beckon the pet into the back garden to use the bathroom before bedtime.

“Sounds awful, honey.” Michael spoke softly, hands still pawing at the fluff-ball in his hands, “How much today?”

You peered down at the many bags splayed across the table as he nodded towards them, wondering how much of his net-worth had been drained today.

“Oh, not even that much, like $8k?” You smiled, “Found some self-restraint.”

Someone in the room scoffed, cutting through your conversation, all heads whipping towards the noise as the man scrunched his face up into disgust as he stared at you.

“You do realise we are in the middle of an extremely important meeting, right?” The man spoke, hands waving towards the men crowded round the table.

“Yeah, so?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at your ignorant response — revelling in how ridiculously rude, yet hilarious, your interrupting prescene was. He thought it was blissful — you visiting him while he was working despite your morning.

But, he knew you had an ulterior motive.

You were deliberately embarrassing him — making an unnecessary scene just to make a fool of him. To piss him off just because he said no to you. That you travelled from the other end of town where the shopping mall was just to bombard his meeting.

He knew it was annoying you that he hadn’t snapped yet — that your hard work to rile him up wasn’t working. Yet. You still had a few tricks up your sleeve — one’s that would have him seething.

“Ma’am, I—“ “Anyways, baby, which one should I wear later?”

Michael’s jaw clenched tightly as you reached into one of your shopping bags and pulled out two sets of extremely promiscuous, laced lingerie sets — leaving nothing to the imagination as you held them up for the whole room to see.

One was red, with a garter belt you could wear around your thigh, with silk and lace decorating the rim of the panties and bra. The other was white, with pretty bows on the front of both items, and the panties were crotchless.

Michael sucked his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as you smirked evilly at him — you both had a silent understanding that you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’m thinking the white,” You started, peering at it as you held it higher, “Easy access, y’know?”

You didn’t miss the way Michael’s eyes darkened as you giggled, feigning innocence, as the room plastered shocked expression on their faces at your audacity.

“Still a no, baby.”

You raised your eyebrows at his words, tongue rolling over your front teeth as you titled your head to the side, looking at him as if it were just the two of you in the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Michael.” You fired back, a hand on your hip as you moved your head sassily.

“You do. And it’s still a no.”

Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of success as you huffed in irritation, stomping that heeled foot once again, shoving the sets back into one of the bags and snatching the rest off the table quickly, letting papers fly to the floor, ignoring the way people groaned out loudly in frustration.

“Come to Mommy, LV,” You ordered, tapping your bare thigh as the little dog jumped from Michael’s lap to sit by your feet as you took the leash in your hand once again, “Daddy clearly doesn’t love Mommy as much as he says.”

Michael laughed, “Baby, c’mon now.”

“Whatever, Michael.” You spat, waving him away as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heels clicking as the door slammed behind you, head held high as you flicked the sunglasses that rest upon your head back over your eyes, disappearing around the corner.

The room fell into awkward silence as the men exchanged disbelieving looks with one another until Michael let out a chuckle, still finding your out-break humorous.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

Michael had assumed, in his ignorance, that maybe you would let this go soon enough — that you’d find something else, hopefully a little less expensive, to obsess over. Maybe he’d surprise you with new heels you could wear out with your bratty stomping, or a new bag you could smack him with whenever you fell into one of your adorable little moods that he loved.

But, no.

You weren’t giving up that easy — it was no fun getting glamorous things without a little challenge sometimes.

And Michael soon realised you weren’t letting this go when he slipped into the back of the black Mercedes that always transported him around, now late in the evening, sighing as he got comfortable in the seat, eyes hiding behind his aviators as people swarmed the car, raising a hand to wave with a smile to his delighted fans.

It was only when he looked down at the Nokia you had bought him for his birthday, one that he still had no idea how to use, and saw a notification that had him cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in anger.

-$150,000 — New transaction from ‘R.H CHANDELIERS’ on American Express ending in 3398

Oh, you had really done it now.

When Michael pushed open the door to your home, ignoring the way it slammed against the wall from the sheer strength of his hands against it, you were no-where to be seen. Just a few handy-men who walked down the stairs, carrying empty boxes and bubble wrap, sighing in fatigue as they wiped sweat from their foreheads.

“Who are you?” Michael snapped, not even bothering to be jovial and pleasant as the two worn out men froze.

“I, uh, sorry, Mr Jackson, we just had a call to fit this new Chandelier, your fiancée said it was urgent.” One spoke up, voice cracking nervously at the look of rage in Michael’s face.

“Get out.”

They didn’t wait around — instantly rushing out the door and shutting it gently behind them, with trembling hands. Michael also didn’t skip a beat, striding up the stairs with long, rushed steps as he rushed across the house, straight to the guest bedroom.

However, when he pushed the door open, chest heaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

There was no Chandelier.

“Wrong room, jackass.”

Michael’s head snapped to his left, clenching his jaw at the sight of you stood in the doorway of the master bedroom where you and Michael resided the most, clad in the white lingerie set you had once attempted to embarrass him with, the heels you were wearing previously still on your feet as you stared at him, daringly.

“What did you just say to me?” Michael snapped, walking slowly towards you, clear anger spread across his face, only furthering his heightened emotions as you just smiled.

As he reached you, you slipped away from him inside the room, making sure to sway your hips the way you knew he loved, as you disappeared out of view. Michael followed you, cursing the betrayal of his lewd mind as his eyes fell to the curve of your bare ass, before walking straight into the room you had hidden in.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

You were now splayed across the bed on all fours, back arched, legs spread to display your glistening pussy through your crotchless panties, a seductive grin still tugged onto your lips. And above you — a breath-taking, bejewelled Chandelier, cladding 3,500 diamonds that twinkled in the sunrise through the large window behind you.

“Which is prettier?” You spoke lowly, never leaving his eyes as he undressed you with his eyes, the burning flame of fury never leaving his gaze.

Michael was scarily quiet as he sauntered slowly towards the edge of the bed — eyes dark and unreadable as he approached you silently. His jaw was still pressed into a tight clench when he reached you, forcing you to swallow thickly in anticipation.

“I told you no.”

The words hit deep in your chest as the insinuation of the concequence of your actions crept up your spine — the smile now dropping from your lips as you shuddered.

“‘M sorry, baby, but,” There it was, your argumentative tone as usual, “You said no to the guest room — not in here.” You sassed, sporting your usual pout

You gasped loudly, half-heartedly mixing with a moan, as Michael’s large palm connected with the bare of your left ass-cheek, sending shockwaves of anticipatory pleasure through your body.

“You never listen.” He started, rubbing soothing circles over the skin he had assaulted, “You’re so ungrateful.”

You whimpered at his harsh words, before squealing as another crack of his hand against your stinging cheek sounded into the room. Even despite the blinding pain with each brutal spank, your body betrayed you as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be touched as the sexual tension ignited in the room.

“‘M really sorry, baby.” You mewled, tears springing to your ears as another smack landed on your swollen skin, “Just wanted it so badly.”

“And I wanted you to behave but you decided to be a fucking brat instead.”

You couldn’t suppress the moan that fell past your lips at the word, meant to be an insult, but sent shockwaves of arousal coursing through your veins, landing straight between your legs where you dripped.

Michael’s eyebrow twitched up his face at your reaction, a dangerous smile creeping up onto his face, “Oh? You like being called a brat, huh?” He started, fingers trailing down the skin of your inner thighs, “You like it when I call you out for being my fucking spoiled little princess?”

“Yes.” You cried out, hips jerking backwards as his fingers finally dragged along your clothed pussy lips, avoiding the opening where your cunt revealed itself to him, now drenched from your essence, “Please punish me, Daddy.”

Michael groaned — the sensuality of the nickname hitting him beneath his boxers where he too twitched, now the hardest he ever had been as you lurched back into his touch, whining with your lip tucked under your teeth.

It was only when he slid a finger through your spread folds, collecting your arousal on a singular digit, drowning in the way you whined his name like a prayer, hips now jolting involuntarily as you begged for his touch as his finger swirled around your clenching hole, did he finally smile. He teased you relentlessly, letting you cry out, tears now falling freely from your eyes as he refused to fill you with his fingers, watching as you writhed pathetically from one touch.

“Beg for it.” He commanded, dipping just the tip of his middle finger into your spasming cunt, smirk deepening as you whined loudly.

“Please, God, please, baby, I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good f’you—fuck!” You panted, streaming eyes locked on his eyes as you pleaded, “I’ll never disobey you again, Mikey, I promise. ‘Be such a good girl, forever, ‘swear.”

He hummed, satisfied with your response, pushing a singular finger inside you, vision locked on the way your back arched deeper as he curled his finger just the way you liked — a needy, theatrical moan leaving your test-stricken lips as you ground back onto his hand.

His free hand spread across your side, pulling you back down onto his fingers as he slid a second inside, rubbing tight circles into the curve of your hip-dips, as you fucked yourself back onto him. His name fell from your lips in a chant — eyes rolled to the back of your head in pleasure as the pads of his fingers repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“Need your cock!” You exclaimed, eyes now squeezed shut as the arousal thumped deep in your bones, wanting nothing more than to be filled by his manhood.

“Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.” Michael reminded, grip tightening on your hip.

“‘M sorry—mmgh—just need to f-feel you!”

He hated the way he felt his resolve wearing thin at your pitiful begging — cock throbbing violently in his briefs as your cunt clenched around him, your wetness dripping down his knuckles.

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” You cried out, head thrown back as your hair splayed across your back, “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

And as soon as your release threatened to spill over — it was snatched away from you as Michael retracted his fingers swiftly. You whined loudly, much like you had done in recent times, more tears splashing down your flushed cheeks as your head hung low as the blissful sensation of an orgasm fizzed away.

“You don’t get to cum.” Michael spoke darkly, the sound of his belt clinking against the floor mixing with his voice as he knelt against the bed, “Not until I say so.”

You nodded meekly, whimpering, “Yes, Michael.”

“Good girl. See? Not that hard, is it?” Michael praised, a hand coming to rub smooth, gentle circles on your ass cheek.

You gasped once more as the head of cock slid between your folds, catching on your aching clit, your muscles tensing as the familiar pleasureful sensation that was ripped away from you climbed back into your body. Your hips pushed back into him at the feeling — whining for more as he just stared down at you menacingly.

“Convince me why I should let you have it, baby.” Michael started, gliding his stiff cock between your folds, collecting your essence over the tip, revelling in the way you whined each time it would nudge your clit, “Why should I let my baby have what she wants all the time?”

“Fuck, please, Michael, please.”

Michael scoffed, “Gotta do better than that, sweetie.”

You cried out, hips jerking back to feel more of him, a desperate noise leaving you, “‘Cuz I love you so much, Mikey—fuck—‘cuz I’m so pretty and sweet and spend all your money on cute clothes that you l-love me wearing. ‘Cuz I wanna marry you and have your babies—oh, fuck me please!”

I mean, you weren’t wrong. If anything, it made Michael chuckle behind you — what you said was so correct yet so you at the same time he couldn’t help but let you have it. You cried out, hand clawing at the bedsheets beneath you as you fell into them, as Michael’s cock dragged to your entrance and slid inside — stuffing you to the hilt as he bottomed out immediately, your cunt twitching aggressively as it struggled to accommodate the fullness.

“So tight f’me, baby, fuck.” Michael groaned, eyes fluttering at the sensation of your convulsing sex wrapped beautifully around his hard cock.

His thrusts were relentless from the get go — the first drag back and push in was harsh and brutal, slamming against your cervix each time. Your eyes were permanently rolled to the back of your head as you drooled, mouth hanging ajar as you jittered around him, the prettiest noises sounding from your lips with each jerk of his hips.

He was unsympathetic — fucking you like he hated you as he set a devilish pace, grunting behind you as pleasure consumed him, too. Your hands frantically flailed behind you, pushing against his flexed abdomen to shove him away, his impressive stamina getting the better of you as he stretched you open — but it did nothing, only spurring him on to fuck you senseless for your teasing and childishness.

“‘Can’t—Can’t take it, ‘S too big!”

Michael landed another harsh slap to your ass cheek, “You can and you will. You owe it to me, baby, for being such a fucking brat.”

His words elicited a pounding throb to your clit — your whines only increasing in octave and decibel as his pace remained unceasing. Michael noticed the way you clenched, begging for more as you sucked him in, and leant over to grab a fistful of your hair — dragging you firmly, albeit still gently, up against his chest.

You panted as your head threw back against his shoulder, eyes still slammed shut, as his thrusts never let up — pleasure surpassing what you had ever felt as his hand slithered down your strained body, and began rolling tight, precise circles onto your clit, slick coating his fingers once more.

“Look at that stupid thing, baby.” Michael ordered, your eyes pouncing open, the ethereal bedroom decoration filling your vision, “Think those diamonds can see how much of a pathetic little princess you are?”

“‘M not—Not pathetic.” You managed to blurt out, whimpers falling past your lips the second sentence left you.

“Quit your bitchin’.”

Michael soon shut you up, shoving his free hand of fingers down your throat — the taste of your essence landing on your tongue as you hummed and swirled the warm muscle around him, now plugged at both ends as his other hand still worked magic against your clit, the familiar sensation of your release creeping up your spine.

“‘M there!” You mumbled against his fingers, spit coating his digits as you slobbered over him.

“Yeah? ‘M there too, pretty, give it to me. Give Daddy what he wants for once.” Michael panted, breath hot against your ear, “Gonna fill this pussy so good you’ll want nothin’ else from me ever again.”

You cried out — loud enough so that everyone in the house could hear exactly how blissfully pleasured you were as your orgasm hit you full force. You writhed in his grasp, the hand stuffed into your mouth now grabbing a handful of your breast, toying with your erect nipple through the lace of your bra as he continued to not only plough deep into your convulsing cunt, but also play with your swollen clit. You chanted his name like a prayer as he soon found his release, groaning as he sunk his teeth gently into the bare of your shoulder to ground himself as his hips finally stuttered, burying himself as deep as he could reach — his warm, spurting cum flooding your spent pussy.

Michael, despite your whines of overstimulation, rolled lazily, deep thrusts inside you — ignoring his own overwhelm as he fucked seed further inside you, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to where his teeth marks con-caved into your skin.

When he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, you fell forward onto the bed, panting as you attempted to retrieve your breath — cheeks now red hot, and body aching from the relentless sex. Michael crashed next to you, sighing loudly, as he pulled you against his chest, until the only sound that filled the room was his thumping heartbeat in your ear, and soft, yet ragged breaths.

“You.”

“What?”

“You’re prettier.” He admitted, eyes meeting your dazed ones, both of your lips tugging into a smile.

You leant up — connecting your lips in a gentle kiss, displaying your deep, irrevocable adoration for your man, mouths moving slowly together. You pulled away, brushing a stand of his silky hair away from his face, cupping his cheek, before pecking the tip of his nose.

“Does that mean it can stay?”

Michael laughed — even after everything, you were still set on that damn Chandelier.

“Fine,” He breathed out a chuckle, kissing to your cheek as you both peered up at the glistening decoration that had caused your playful disagreement,

“It can stay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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