michael jackson x fem!reader
after returning from a stressful concert, MICHAEL JACKSON confides in his lover about the exhaustion and frustrations of touring, desperate for release and a shoulder to lean on.
content includes: mature content (18+) ⋆ sub!michael ⋆ dom!reader ⋆ praise kink ⋆ begging ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ hand job (m! receiving) ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ comforting ⋆ finger sucking ⋆ victory tour drama ⋆ thriller era ⋆ angry michael ⋆ smut ⋆ hotel sex
word count: 5.5k
authors note: feel free to send requests <3 uploading the rest of my imagines on here shortly!
PRODUCT OF MJLUVAAA - wattpad & AN7BODY - tumblr. Every detail is purely my own. Do not copy or upload elsewhere.
NESTLED DEEP WITHIN the cloud-like embrace of a king-sized bed, its quilted ivory bedding a soft landscape around you, you watched The Outsiders for what felt like the hundredth time. Each flickering frame, each iconic line, was a desperate anchor in your battle against the relentless tide of sleep. You had promised him, a solemn, pinky-sworn vow, that you'd be awake, a warm, welcoming beacon awaiting his return from the roaring crescendo of his concert. That sacred, childish pact now felt like a lead weight on your eyelids; breaking it was simply not an option.
You'd resorted to desperate measures: sharp slaps to your cheeks, stinging pinches to your thigh, but the siren call of slumber only grew louder, more insistent. Even the familiar comfort of the movie had begun to fray, its narrative a disjointed hum. Your eyelids, heavy as velvet curtains, fluttered open, then sagged closed in a dizzying, ceaseless rhythm. You forced your head to shake, a frantic, futile attempt to dislodge the clinging tendrils of sleep.
A traitorous whisper snaked into your thoughts: But Michael is so understanding, isn't he? He'd surely forgive this lapse, wouldn't he? It was well past midnight, the city outside a quiet hum. How could he possibly expect you to still be wide-eyed and alert after such a long, draining day?
And with that comforting, albeit guilt-tinged, thought, you felt the last vestiges of your resolve crumble. You slowly, deliciously, allowed yourself to surrender to the deep, velvet darkness that had been beckoning your name with increasing urgency since early evening.
You burrowed deeper into the plush mountain of your pillow, a sigh-like yawn escaping your lips, finally granting your heavy eyelids permission to close.
The sudden, sharp click of the suite door, followed by a jarring, resounding thud that echoed like a gunshot in the hushed room, ripped you from the precipice of sleep. Your heart leaped into your throat, and you shot upright in bed, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Framed in the doorway, a vision both infuriating and impossibly alluring, stood Michael. He was a tempest of raw emotion – angry, yes, and drenched in the aftermath of his performance, yet deliciously handsome. His jet-black hair, usually meticulously styled, hung loose and damp, glistening with sweat that tracked paths down his temples and neck.
He still wore the remnants of his stage persona: the iconic sparkly black jacket, one hand encased in its shimmering glove, black slacks hugging his lean frame, and a white shirt ablaze with intricate red, blue, and black sequin accents that caught the room's soft light. A gleaming silver belt cinched his hips, and a damp, white towel was slung casually over one shoulder.
A familiar, almost endearing scowl puckered his brow, bunching the bridge of his nose and drawing his dark eyebrows together in a tight, frustrated V. You'd always found this particular brand of vexation incredibly sexy, a fact he vehemently denied and probably hated knowing you observed.
A ragged "Shoot," rasped from his lips, thick with exhaustion and a surprising note of genuine regret, his voice a low rumble, deeper than usual. He kicked off his loafers with a weary sigh. "Baby, I'm so sorry," he added, his eyes finally meeting yours, a flicker of concern replacing the anger. "I didn't realize you were asleep."
You offered a soft, reassuring wave, a sympathetic smile gently curving your lips. "Hey," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm against the lingering tension in the room. "Why are we banging doors? What happened?" You patted the space beside you, an invitation, beckoning him closer. "Come here, let's talk about it."
He let out a multi-layered sound – a sigh, a grunt, a frustrated huff – before stomping towards the bed with a peculiar, almost petulant walk, like an exasperated toddler. This entire tour had been a relentless grind, and his irritability, while taxing, was painfully understandable. You were his stipulated condition for even embarking on this grueling schedule, his anchor, the steady hand that kept him from drifting too far into the storm.
He roughly wiped the sheen of sweat from his face and neck with the towel, then shucked off his sparkly jacket, letting it fall in a glittering heap onto the plush carpet. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his back to you, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the night. A long, shuddering breath escaped him, heavy with exhaustion and simmering frustration. "God, I'm so sick of these niggas," he mumbled, the words barely audible, a venomous whisper meant more for himself than for you.
You hadn't quite caught the muttered phrase, only the raw edge of his voice. "Say that again??" you asked softly, shifting to sit intimately beside him on the bed. He was hunched over, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting heavily in his palms. You leaned in, craning your neck slightly to catch his gaze, wanting to see the turbulent waters behind his eyes.
He pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, rubbing the spot between his brows as if trying to erase the very thoughts that plagued him. 'I'm just so.. exhausted. With this tour," he confessed, his voice laced with a weariness that went way beyond physical fatigue. "And with everyone involved. I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't have to be here. Why am I here?" The last question was a desperate, rhetorical plea, aimed at the universe rather than you.
He cut you off mid-sentence, the dam of his frustration finally breaking. "My brothers," he seethed, his voice rising in exasperation, "actually believe the audience and I don't hear that there's absolutely no harmonization happening within the harmony!"
You immediately pressed your lips together, bracing yourself for the familiar, nightly torrent. "I don't even know which brother is messing up anymore," he continued, throwing his hands up in a gesture of utter defeat. "It's all bad. It's horrible." He scrunched his face into an expression of theatrical disgust, each word dripping with dramatic emphasis, a performance in itself.
A tiny, rebellious bubble of laughter threatened to escape your throat. The irony of him complaining about his brothers' pitch, given the chaotic mess this tour had woven since its inception, was almost too much. You swallowed it down, then asked, a gentle teasing note in your voice, "Was it actually bad, or 'Michael bad?'"
He scoffed, a sound of indignation, shaking his head vigorously. "I swear, I'm not being pretentious," he insisted, turning to you with wide, earnest eyes. "Darlin', if you were in that audience tonight, you would've been looking around like, 'Who the hell was that?'"
A genuine, unrestrained chuckle finally bubbled from your chest. The sound seemed to break the spell of his agitation. He turned to you fully, his gaze softening, and the corners of his mouth, which had been set in a hard line, twitched. A low, rumbling laugh escaped him, infectious and rich, chasing away the last shadows of his anger.
He laughed until his shoulders shook, then abruptly stilled, his eyes, now shining with utter adoration, fixed on your face. A small, tender, toothless smile played on his lips as he simply admired you, tilting his head slightly, a silent, profound appreciation in his gaze.
You returned his gaze, a bright, genuine smile blossoming on your face, a silent, playful question dancing in your eyes. "What?" you whispered, the word barely audible, utterly charmed.
"You really bring me up, mama. It's not even worth it – being mad anymore," he confessed, his voice a low rumble against your ear, the earnestness in his words a soft balm to your soul.
You pouted, a small, theatrical gesture, feeling cherished and seen. You snuggled closer, wrapping your arms around his warm torso, burying your face against him. "Aw, baby. That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"
He chuckled softly, a deep vibration against your cheek, then tightened his arms around you, squeezing your frame until you felt perfectly encased in his embrace. "I didn't bring you here to be my therapist, you know?" he murmured, though his grip suggested he didn't mind the comfort.
"You already went through something so traumatic," you reminded him, your fingers tracing the firm line of his back. "If I can do anything to take the weight off, let it be my mission. Okay?"
His face softened, the lingering tension in his jaw dissolving. He smiled, a slow, tender curve of his lips, biting down gently on his bottom lip before nodding. "Okay," he breathed, the word a soft surrender.
Leaning in, he pulled your lips into a gentle kiss, a feather-light touch that quickly blossomed into a series of soft, sweet pecks. You both made soft sounds, breathless sighs and contented hums, smiling into each other's eyes in the brief spaces between each tender press of lips.
"I'm so sweaty andgross," he whispered against your mouth, a playful grimace on his face. "We can continue this when I get out of the shower, capeesh?"
You giggled, the sound light and airy, shaking your head against his shoulder. "Caposh."
"Alright!" And with that, he untangled himself from your embrace, the bed dipping as he rose. He paused for a split second, catching your eye, before making a beeline for the hotel's luxurious bathroom. The door clicked shut, and an immediate chill settled where his warmth had been.
You already missed him, the solid weight of his body, the scent of him, the comforting hum of his presence. But you laid back in your position on silky sheets, a contented sigh escaping your lips, already awaiting his return. Sleep had vanished, replaced by an invigorating energy, and you hadn't realized until this moment just how deeply you had missed your man, how much you craved this simple, intimate connection.
Michael emerged from the bathroom about forty-five minutes later, a wisp of steam trailing him like a phantom limb. His body was still slick with water, hair plastered damply to his forehead, and a plush white hotel towel rode low on his hips. He looked undeniably good, all lean muscle and freshly-scrubbed skin, but you'd learned not to let your gaze linger too long. This particular brand of casual vulnerability, the kind that came with shared hotel rooms spanning months, was a fragile thing. Michael, for all his outward confidence, was easily flustered, so you kept your very needy eyes glued to the flickering images on the television screen, pretending the film held your complete attention.
He moved through his nightly ritual with practiced ease, the quiet rustle of fabric as he pulled on his boxers the only sound breaking the movie's drone. You risked a quick glance. A few feet from the bed, he stretched, a long, sinuous arch of his back, a loud, uninhibited yawn escaping his lips. His arms reached for the ceiling, muscles cording under his skin, before he dropped them, shaking out his hands.
A slow smile crept across your face, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You were already plotting, a delicious little scheme taking root – one you knew he both loathed and secretly adored. "Aw. Is my big baby tired?" you cooed, your voice dripping with exaggerated baby talk.
He froze mid-stretch, his body still taut from the effort. His eyes, narrowed to slits, found yours, a battle between annoyance and an undeniable, nascent smile playing on his lips. "Girllllll..." he drawled, the word stretched thin between clenched teeth, a warning laced with affection.
"You're just so adorable when you're sleepy. My hardworking Mikey. I could just... squeeze you," you gushed, making an over-the-top squeezing motion with your hands. He visibly cringed, his gaze darting around the room, anywhere but at you. You let out a soft, knowing laugh at his reaction, unbothered by his feigned discomfort. You knew, deep down, he secretly reveled in being babied, especially by you.
You pulled back the soft duvet, patting the space in front of you, between your outstretched legs. "Come here, baby boy. Let me hold you." Your voice remained syrupy sweet, your arms opening wide in an exaggerated invitation, a pout forming on your lips.
He let out a long, theatrical sigh, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape route. He bit his lip, a tiny tremor of indecision. Then, his gaze met yours, and you could almost feel the invisible walls he'd erected begin to crumble. He hesitated for another beat, then exhaled with a dramatic eye-roll, a faint smile fighting its way through his mock-annoyance. Slowly, reluctantly, he shuffled towards the bed, dragging his feet with the exaggerated reluctance of a scolded child. You chuckled, a warm wave of affection washing over you.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed in, settling himself right between your legs. He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around both of you. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he melted into your embrace, his head resting against your chest. These quiet, late-night moments were treasures you wouldn't trade for anything. You were both so irrevocably in love, and the spark was always there whenever he was near. The scent of him, a complex blend of masculine musk with an unexpected, subtle hint of something softer, almost sweet, feminine, drove you absolutely wild.
You pressed your cheek against the side of his head, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "Good boy."
He 'kissed' his teeth, a playful click of his tongue, and then a low laugh rumbled in his chest. He twisted his head, his eyes, alight with amusement, locking onto yours. "Keep this up and I'll go spend the night with Marlon." The threat held no weight, his voice devoid of any real conviction.
You feigned a wounded pout, pulling back slightly. "Really? You're serious?"
"Mm-mm," he hummed, shaking his head slowly. "Never." He sealed the denial with a soft kiss to your lips. "I'm lying like crazy." His laughter was soft, intimate.
You kissed him back, a lingering press of your mouth against his. "I know you are," you said matter-of-factly, a confident smile playing on your lips. "You're okay though, sweetheart? You're not angry anymore?" Your voice softened, returning to that sweet, baby-talk tone.
"Of course not," he punctuated his words, his tone implying it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just keep holding me like you are, and I'll be perfectly okay."
You kissed his cheek a few times, soft, butterfly-light touches. "What if I kiss you like this?"
He sighed contentedly, leaning into your kisses, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face, showing all thirty-two of his perfect teeth. "Ah! My joy is doubling with each kiss!" he declared enthusiastically, his voice muffled against your skin.
You chuckled, continuing your soft assault of kisses all over his face before you finally paused, content to simply breathe him in, basking in the warmth of his presence. You both stayed up, the movie playing on the television screen a forgotten backdrop.
Your fingers traced the soft skin of his arms, his back, your hands gently threading through his soft hair, massaging the nape of his neck, punctuated by an occasional kiss to his temple. He, in turn, caressed your legs with his hands, his touch light and reassuring, completely relaxed in your shared cocoon.
A yawn escaped you, the gentle pull of sleep beginning to assert itself. But then, without warning, he reached for the remote and clicked the TV off, plunging the room into a sudden, hushed quiet. You were confused, a soft question forming on your lips, but before you could voice it, he spoke, and your confusion only deepened. "Y/N... I have a question?" His voice was suddenly laced with an unexpected bashfulness, a nervous energy filling the quiet space.
"Yes...?" you answered, a slight edge of uncertainty creeping into your tone. Unannounced, random questions often made you anxious, especially when they came with such a shift in his demeanor.
"Can you..." He started to laugh, a short, self-conscious burst. "I'm sorry."
You sighed, a playful exasperation in your voice. "Michael..."
"Wait." He took a breath, visibly pulling himself together. "Okay. Baby, could you... could you do that thing I like?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with embarrassment and a sheepish tremor.
"What thing?" You genuinely had no idea what he was talking about.
He let out another sigh, a sound of profound internal struggle. "You know, that thing."
You racked your brain, sifting through countless shared moments, intimate gestures, and inside jokes. But it was a dead end, your mind a complete blank. "I don't know, baby. What thing??"
"That thing! You know, when you...." He trailed off, the words hovering tantalizingly on the edge of his tongue, refusing to be spoken aloud.
"When I...?" you prompted, your brow furrowing in genuine bewilderment.
"Baby, you know what I'm talking about! I don't want to say it out loud!" He covered his face with his hand, utterly mortified.
"I've got not one clue, child..." You started to laugh, a mix of genuine confusion and burgeoning amusement. "And I'm not teasin'! C'mon, say ittt!" You gave his shoulder a gentle shake.
"You sure? I feel like I'm being kinda obvious." His voice was muffled behind his hand.
Obvious? Obvious my ass, you thought, a grin spreading across your face. "Just c'mon out wit' it. You can't possibly be that scared to tell me what you want."
He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling under your arm. "It's very possible."
A soft, knowing laugh escaped your lips, followed by a languid sigh that seemed to hang heavy in the air between you, thick with unspoken anticipation. He remained as he was, back still facing you, a silent statue lost in thought, or so it seemed.
You allowed him this quiet moment, the gentle hum of the refrigerator the only sound breaking the stillness, imagining he was carefully crafting the words to finally articulate the swirling thoughts you sensed within him. But instead, a slow, deliberate warmth spread as his hand, with a hesitant grace, sought and found yours, intertwining fingers with a tender possessiveness. You said nothing, your breath catching, allowing the intimate gesture to unfold.
Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, he guided your hand beneath the soft, yielding warmth of the blanket. Your palm settled on the unmistakable, burgeoning firmness straining against the silk of his boxers – his semi-hard manhood, a silent, throbbing declaration. A sharp, audible gasp tore from your throat, the realization hitting you with the force of a sudden wave.
"Oh." The single word was a whispered exhalation of shock, a dawning comprehension that this was what he desired, what he had been subtly, deliciously, hinting at all this time.
"I want... I need you to —" His voice was a low, ragged rumble, thick with nascent desire.
You didn't let him finish. Leaning in, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, your fingers simultaneously beginning to stroke and knead the burgeoning length beneath your palm, increasing the pace, feeling the rapid hardening beneath your touch. "Shhhh," you breathed, the sound a silken caress against his ear. "I understand you now, sweetheart."
"Mmmm," he hummed, a deep, resonant sound of pure contentment that vibrated through you. A sweet, almost childlike smile broke across his face, his head falling back slightly as if released from a heavy burden.
Your hands, now emboldened, slipped beneath the waist of his boxers, fingers finding the thick, pulsing heat of him directly. A soft gasp escaped his lips as his hips instinctively bucked forward, a primal response to your touch. "You want this?" you murmured, your voice a low, seductive thrum as you stroked him, feeling the delicious weight of him in your hand. A soft moan, barely a whisper, answered you.
He nodded, a frantic, eager motion, before whispering, "Yes."
"I told you, didn't I? To let soothing you be my mission. Use your words, and I'll give you whatever."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to compose himself, to articulate his need. "Will you soothe me in this way? Please?" His voice was a soft, vulnerable plea.
You nodded against him, a silent affirmation, then with a decisive sweep, pulled the soft, heavy duvet off both of you and tossed it to the side. "Take these off completely," you commanded softly, your fingers slipping out of his boxers, leaving him exposed to the cool air, and to your gaze.
"Yes, Ma'am." The words were a fervent whisper of obedience.
He lifted his torso, his muscles flexing, and slid his boxers down past his hips, leaving them at his calves. Then, bending his legs, he peeled the fabric completely off his feet. With a soft sigh, he rested back, settling between your legs, his bare back a warm, yielding canvas against your front. Your eyes devoured the sight of him: his length, impressive and thick, a beautiful gradient of brown, his glistening, wet tip peeking playfully through the soft folds of his foreskin.
You created spider legs with your fingers, beginning a feather-light journey from his chest, a tantalizing dance that slowly descended towards his lower stomach, each touch sending a delicate shiver rippling through his frame. You could feel every shallow inhale, every ragged exhale, as he watched your hand, mesmerized, anticipating the moment your touch would finally connect with the part of him that had been yearning, throbbing, all night.
Your fingers traced the delicate path of his happy trail, down through the soft thicket of his pubic hairs, finally cupping his heavy, pendulous balls. A sharp gasp tore from his throat as you enclosed the base of him and his balls simultaneously, gently wiggling his magnificent length in the air. "Look at it," you commanded, your voice a soft, seductive whisper that curled around his ear.
He nodded, a soft whimper escaping him. His head peered down, eyes wide and unfocused, fixed on the hypnotic sway of his length and the mesmerizing motion of your hand as you slowly, exquisitely, massaged the underside of his balls. He was fighting back moans like a warrior, his teeth biting down hard on his swollen lip, chest heaving, barely able to watch, yet utterly unable to look away.
"You have such a pretty dick," you whispered, the words a raw, honest compliment.
He tore his gaze from his body, turning his head to look at you, and you met his eyes. His lips were swollen and wet, his eyes heavy-lidded, brimming with a desperate, primal need that mirrored your own. You leaned in, capturing his mouth, swallowing his moans as you kissed him, moaning back into his open mouth, your other hand now caressing the warm skin of his lower stomach.
The kiss was slow, deep, and passionate, every movement detailing the aching want that thrummed through his entire body. The urgent pressure of his lips, the seeking thrust of his tongue, screamed that he desperately craved your pleasure, yearning to devour you whole, pushing you gently to the side under the sheer force of his desire.
With a gentle but firm motion, you released your hand from him and placed your palm against his face, drawing back from the fervent kiss. "Spit on it." And he did so, without a moment's hesitation, a thick, glistening stream landed on it. "Good boy," you praised, the words a warm caress, and you watched with a smirk as his length gave a delicious, involuntary jerk.
You brought your now wet palm to his tip, spreading his own saliva over the entire length of his dick, making it gleam. Wet, slick sounds filled the air as you pulled his foreskin back, your hand moving around him with deliberate, maddening slowness. "You so nasty," He threw his head back, a loud, ragged gasp tearing through the air, "Oh. My. Gosh."
The hand resting on his stomach moved with the swiftness of a feline, yet landed with the gentle grace of a butterfly, spreading across his mouth. "Shhh. You have to be quiet, my love." The command was soft, a silken thread of authority.
He nodded against your palm, his breath a searing furnace against your skin, hot and heavy. A desperate whimper vibrated through your fingers. He leaned further into your embrace, a pliant weight, as you picked up the pace, your hand a rhythmic caress along his entire length. The slickness of his precum mingled with your saliva, a potent, visceral lubricant. You knew Michael was a quick study in the art of the handjob, but tonight, you craved to savor this exquisite torture, drawing out every gasp, every tremor, with love.
Muffled sounds, a symphony of pleasure, escaped against your hand – soft moans, sharp whimpers, desperate pleas only you were privy to. They were music, confirming his surrender. You continued your relentless ministrations, pressing a trail of feather-light kisses along his taut jawline, descending to the tender curve of his neck. There, your lips lingered, pressing, tasting, before you began to suck with fervent devotion, leaving behind bruised, crimson evidence of your claim.
He squirmed against you, a delicious, involuntary writhing, his fingers digging into your thighs with surprising strength, his chest heaving like a trapped animal. Your lips trailed upwards, tracing the delicate curve of his ear, and you bit down, ever so softly, on his lobe. "You like that, baby?" You licked the sensitive skin around his ear, your breath hot against it. "You like how I'm touching you right now?" His tip, already glistening, leaked a fresh, thick droplet of precum, and you deliberately swirled it around, collecting the precious nectar on your thumb.
His eyes, glazed and unfocused, rolled languidly to the back of his head. He responded with a series of frantic, erratic head nods. "I make you feel so good, huh?" You punctuated the question with a playful nip on his shoulder, a sharp, delightful pain. "You wanted this so badly, and now you can't even watch? Open those pretty eyes, Michael."
With a visible effort, he forced his eyelids open, his gaze slowly, reluctantly, dropping downwards. His body visibly jerked, a shockwave of sensation, and the moans against your hand escalated, becoming louder, more desperate.
His head shook from side to side, as if battling an invisible force, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the "nasty thing" you were doing to him, the raw, carnal spectacle of his own pleasure.
"Don't look away," you commanded, your voice a low, seductive rasp. "Every. Inch. Of. You. Is. Gorgeous. I love you." You punctuated each word with a deliberate, teasing stroke, and he nodded, a silent, helpless agreement. His entire being throbbed, a pulsing, aching demand. You would stroke him slowly, exquisitely, and then, just as his pleasure threatened to overwhelm him, you would retract your hand, a cruel, delicious withdrawal.
His grip on your thighs tightened to a white-knuckled vise, his legs beginning to twitch and move uncontrollably, a clear signal of the storm building within him. You knew this was it; you were going to give him the orgasm of his life. "I love watching how your skin stretches and wraps over your wet tip, baby. Don't you?"
He nodded, a desperate, jerky movement, and you turned your head to meet his gaze, his eyes wide and pleading. You slowly, deliberately, removed your hand from his mouth. "Say that again? I didn't quite hear you."
He whispered, his voice hoarse and broken, "God, I do. I do." His eyes, swimming with a pathetic, raw pleading, locked onto yours. "E-e-even more when your pretty h-hand's the cause of it." He stuttered, the words punctuated by ragged moans, his gaze a desperate prayer for you to continue, to push him over the edge. He needed it. He needed you.
You lowered your head, meeting his lips again, a hungry, possessive kiss. Your mouths moved in harmony, moaning into each other, his sounds a loud, yet soft, unhinged symphony. You were driving him mad, his frantic moans vibrating deep within your own chest.
Your middle and ring fingers, seeking new frontiers of sensation, trailed softly from the base of his shaft, ascending with excruciating slowness to his frenulum, beneath his tip. There, you began to rub, feather-light, teasing, barely-there touches. A ragged whimper tore from Michael's throat, loud and uninhibited, his mouth falling open in a silent scream of immense pleasure, the kiss forgotten in the face of such exquisite torment.
His brows furrowed, a silent plea etched on his face, as if he were on the verge of tears. "Don't stop, please. Just like that. Yes," he gasped, biting down harshly on his own lip, fighting the urge to shatter.
You kissed his mouth once more, a tender promise. "I won't." Then, with a firm, possessive gesture, you covered his mouth with your hand again, gently but resolutely forcing his head to look down at his own throbbing dick.
You quickly removed your hands, just long enough to moisten your fingers with your own spit, a raw, primal lubrication. Then, with renewed intensity, you returned to rubbing his favorite spot. The wet, rhythmic sounds reached a fever pitch, spit glistening in his pubic hair – a raw, utterly erotic sight, especially for Michael.
He began to sweat, his muscles straining, his legs bending and straightening in a relentless, almost spastic rhythm, his teeth sinking into your palm, a desperate anchor. His soft, high moans were now audibly muffled, a desperate, unbroken hum.
"Mmmm, mhm," you murmured consistently into his ear, his frantic biting of your palm a potent aphrodisiac that stirred your own desire. "You have the most perfect lips, you know?" You then pressed just two fingers against his mouth. "Open," you commanded softly, and he obeyed instantly, his warm, wet mouth welcoming your fingers. He sucked, he bit, he forced them deeper, his hips bucking instinctively, desperately seeking more friction, more sensation. This feeling, this absolute surrender, was intoxicating, addicting.
He looked at you, his eyes wide and pleading, tears shimmering on the verge of spilling, nodding frantically with your fingers still deep within his mouth.
That seemed to ignite a fresh fervor within him, and his hips began to move with a desperate, accelerating rhythm, a frantic, almost violent tempo against your palm. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, his grip becoming even painful for you, and you could feel the electricity thrumming through his body, a countdown to his imminent release.
"You're so perfect. I love how your body responds to me," your voice, a low, husky rasp, brushed against the sensitive skin of his ear, the heat of your breath a delicious torment. "Do you know how good you look fuckin' youself in my hand like this? Huh? I crave every needy part of you."
His head arched back, tendons straining in his neck, a silent cry escaping his throat as his control became a fragile thread, fraying with each thrust. "You're everything. You're so special, so pretty, so sexy. I love you, I love you. Please, please... cum for me, baby. Let it all go. You don't have to carry this all alone."
With a deliberate, slow pull, you freed your fingers from the slick cavern of his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva and heat. His entire frame seized then, a violent, full-body shudder, a cataclysmic release. His eyelids squeezed shut, a mask of pure ecstasy and agony, his mouth falling open in a silent scream as a glistening sheen of sweat coated his brow, his chest, catching the faint light.
Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated through his very bones, thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from him, a torrent of release. They painted his stomach, streaked down his thighs, and tangled in his dark pubic hair.
He collapsed, trembling, his breath tearing in ragged gasps, reduced to pitiful whimpers. He gnawed savagely on his bottom lip, so hard it bloomed a dark red, a desperate, futile attempt to muffle the raw, animal sounds of his climax, lest his family in the adjoining rooms catch even a whisper of his undoing. But for you, those strained, choked-back sounds were more than enough – they were a symphony of triumph.
You maintained your firm grip on his spent shaft with one hand, your fingers still encircling him possessively, and with a playful, yet possessive, smack, you tapped his glistening tip against your open palm. A few final, defiant spurts of his creamy essence painted your skin, eliciting a surprised, almost wounded yelp from him. "That's it, my sweet boy," you purred, the words a warm caress against his ear. "Such a good boy."
A slow, dazed smile stretched across his face, a fragile thing tinged with lingering disbelief and utter exhaustion, his chest still heaving, his voice hoarse with spent passion. "God... girl," he rasped, the words barely audible, "I... I love you so much. Jesus."
You leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his sweat-dampened cheek. "Any other requests?" you murmured, a playful challenge in your tone.
"Absolutely not," he retorted instantly, a faint shiver still running through his body, but his voice firm. "I'm completely... soothed out," he corrected, a soft laugh bubbling up from deep in his chest.
And from that night, and the many nights that followed, Michael, utterly sated and deeply cherished, found he had precious little left to complain about in his world.
THANK YOU FOR READING ୨ৎ!
