i never understood dumbass bitches that use ai pictures of michael, and yes, iâm saying dumbass bitches cause the amount of PHOTOS this man has, all eras. itâs a fuck ton out there and instead of using the REAL pictures you decided to use one thatâs probably generated by chatgpt or google gemini, make that shit make sense. then the pictures barely look like him or make him look soulless, BECAUSE IT IS. i question if people who do this are even michael fans for real cause ainât no fucking way. ainât no way.
also, block me if you use ai, you already pissing me off.
Just in case you needed your daily reminder that the Jacksonâs were black as hell. Marlon joning on everybody and Mike pickin lil buddyâs hair, love to see it đ„č
donât get me wrong, i like jaafar and jermajesty. they are both very talented and handsome boys but they clearly have a certain type and thatâs okay! i see too many beautiful blk women on social media wishing they would give blk women a chance but (donât hate me) they are not all that and they are bi-racial boys. so ig all iâm trying to say is that us as blk women we should pay attention to men who desire us and shows it. not saying at all jaafar or jermajesty donât like blk girls bc idk that but iâm just seeing a pattern and it hurts bc we are so beautiful and sexy and we should pay attention to guys who clearly like us and we are they type!
đŒđŸđ¶đ¶đȘđ»đ: after stumbling across a tiktok trend, your boyfriend couldnât help himself to try it on you.
đœđ: jaafar x reader, jermajesty x reader, randy jr x reader, short smau, cussing, the boys lowkey are in the doghouse, suggestive for Jaafar and Jermajesty?
đđŸđœđ±đžđ»âđŒ đđžđœđź: when I watched the tiktok and seen the comments, I was tickled asfđ. I wanted more but I wasnât doing 3 separate posts. excuse any mistakes! no dividers because I hit my photo limit. and btw, I know nothing about lashes, so if it sounds stupid⊠oh well.
This content does NOT contain AI and may not be used to train AI.
pairing ââ àŒŻ mature! michael x fem! camgirl reader
author's note ââ àŒŻ i wasn't planning on it, but now this is going to be multichapter. i hope u enjoy my little art references and such in here. i did a fair bit of research on the dialogue that occurs.
tags ââ àŒŻ deep conversations, masks, hidden identity, or so michael thinks lmao, intimatacy, eventual smut, oral (f! receiving), soft dom! michael, praise, age gap, cam girl, slight sugar baby vibes but not really tbh, michael is just rich and wants some company, fantasy-esque, michael is dramatic af, idk what to tell u guys,
chapters; one | two
w.c; 10k
The silence after you typed âYesâ was disgustingly menacing. The chat log sat open, mocking you, its dark bolded lettering a digital burn on your screen: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.
You stared at it until the letters blurred, the monitor glow drying your eyes, the laptop fan a thin whine beneath the pound of blood in your ears.
The adrenaline that had carried you through the confrontation with your own fear bled away, leaving a cold, hollow dread in its wake, a nausea so unsettling that you thought you might upchuck at any moment.
Youâd agreed. You, a broke college student with very limited prospects, or protection, for that matter; had just agreed to be driven to a remote estate to meet a 'masked' man who paid you thousands of dollars to talk dirty.
You were an idiot. A spectacularly, dangerously stupid idiot.
You were driven to this... you were sure of it. There was only so much you could take of the male petulance; after a shift where a guy spent forty dollars to have you read him a Wikipedia article about car parts in a baby voice, you merely⊠cracked.
The memory of that callerâs dead-eyed request still itched under your skin, the degrading banality of it making this new insanity feel almost like liberation.
But you were also a pragmatist.
And $2,200 was a siren song that drowned out the screams of your better judgment, a neon pulse behind your eyes that said rent, food, sleep.
Before the panic could fully set in, his username blinked back to life in your private chat.
king777tut: I did not expect for you to want to meet me.
SweetViolet: Yeah, well me neither. surprised myself on this one. But i feel compelled to see where this goes.
A pause. The cursor blinked. You could feel the shift, the digital air cooling from the intimacy of before into something more procedural, the warmth of his earlier whispers scraped away to leave bare transaction.
king777tut: We should discuss practicalities. Compensation for your time and travel. I want this to be clear cut. For your comfort, of course.
The phrasing was stiff, awkward. It felt like he was reading from a script, or trying to sound like someone who conducted business, the words too careful, too measured for a man whoâd just come apart over text.
SweetViolet: What did you have in mind?
king777tut: I am not sure what is standard. I do not wish to offend you,,, Please. Tell me what you needâŠ.
There it was. The out.
You could name some absurd number, scare him off, retreat back into the safe, grimy anonymity of your cam room.
But the $2,200 already in your account from very little work was siphoning you.
The power was in your hands, heâd handed it to you.
You had to look like you knew what you were doing, had to wear the armor of a woman who did this daily.
âOkay,â you whispered to the empty, hot room.
âYouâre a professional. Act like one.â
You didn't make yourself sound convincing. You couldn't.
You closed the chat window and opened a blank notes document. The cursor mocked you, sitting in the empty document like a tiny, blinking eye.
For the next three hours, you fell down a rabbit hole of your own making. You combed through shady forums, archived subreddits and the cryptic jargon of âsugar babyâ blogs, the blue light of the screen painting your knees in ghostly pallor.
You learned terms like âPPMâ (Pay Per Meet), âallowance,â âovernight fee,â âtravel companionship.â
You saw numbers that made your head spin; four figures for a dinner date, five figures for a weekend. You read advice columns about safety, about screening and about never compromising your rate.
You felt like a fraud, a kid playing dress-up in a world of hardened courtesans, your dollar-store panties a world away from their elite lingerie drawers.
Every line you typed felt like a lie etched deeper into your soul. You weren't really a professional. You were a scared girl who got slightly more turned on than usual listening to a sad man whisper dirty sweet nothings through a mask on a blurry cam.
But you had gotten yourself into this position and now you had to sell the fantasy. Of confidence. Of experience. For the money. Just for the money.
Make him believe you. Extort this celebrity man for his fortune so you can simply afford the nicer butter in the grocery store.
So, you made a list. A cold, calculated breakdown of your own worth by the hour.
Social Companion (Dinner/Event): $2,000 for up to 4 hours. Includes platonic public or private companionship, conversation. No physical intimacy implied.
Private Companion (In-Call/Out-Call): $5,000 for up to 6 hours. Includes intimate, private time. Overnight stays begin after 6 hours.
Overnight Fee: $8,000 for a 12-hour period (e.g., 8 PM to 8 AM). Requires private, secure accommodations.
Extended Stay (24 Hours): $12,000.
Weekend (48 Hours): $20,000.
You read it over. It was a masterpiece of bullshit. It sounded legit.
If you were completely honest with yourself, you were pretending to be someone you werenât, so the fake price list was just another lie to add to the list.
It was so far removed from what you wanted to do but again... the money.
The guilt was a leaden weight in your gut. You were constructing a persona out of greed and desperation, spinning a web of lies to entrap a person who, for all his fame and wealth, had shown you a semblance of vulnerability youâd never encountered in a man before.
But you needed the money. You needed it. It didn't matter who he was or what he was. You'd take the opportunity.
With a final, shaky breath, you copied the text and pasted it into the chat.
SweetViolet: My terms are below. Please review them and let me know
You hit send.Â
The wall of text, so clinical and mercenary, landed in the space where just hours before youâd typed out how he made you feel. The whiplash was nauseating.
The ellipsis appeared. It pulsed. And pulsed. For five full minutes. You imagined him on the other side, in his silk sheets, reading this cold contract, his masked face unreadable.
Was he disappointed? Was he impressed? Was he even the one reading it, or was it maybe one of his staff? Perhaps the sharp-eyed manager?
Finally, a response.
king777tut: I understand. This is comprehensive,,, The amounts are of no consequence, to me. I would like to begin with the Companion 6 hr option. For this Friday.
You were bewildered at how he had just accepted the terms with no questions asked, like your price list was pocket change.
The fantasy was officially over; the contract had begun.
You had to act like a business woman now for the most part. This was technically business and maybe heâd treat it that way too. Paying for a productâexperiencing what it says on the tin.
Be a companion to him.
The hairs on your arms raised at the thought.
SweetViolet: Agreed. I will need the payment 24 hours prior to the engagement.
king777tut: I will need a few days to rearrange my schedule and ensure security protocols are in place,,, I will have my associate, Mr. Lees, send the car details and the payment. You will hear from him.
SweetViolet: Okay.
king777tut: Thank you. I will⊠see you soon,,, I hope.
He logged off. You minimised the chat and stared at your price list document. You had just sold your first call out; a lump sum of $5,000.
You had lied about literally being a prostitute. And now, through sheer, terrified will, you had become one. The web was spun. You were caught in it too.
You slammed the laptop lid shut in an emotional daze. Was this the right thing to do?
The question hung, unanswered, in the stale, hot apartment air.
.Ëâ ⹠°
The silence stretched for two days, thick and unnerving. No new messages and no log ons. You could see his last active status and it was days ago, a frozen timestamp mocking your waiting.
You went through the motions of your classes, of your shifts, but your mind was fixated on the only thing keeping you afloat.
Friday. The money. Meeting with him in person.
You checked your Wire account a dozen times a day, the balance a taunting, static number, showing no new deposits, the refresh button worn smooth under your thumb.
The dread had changed into a frightening suspicion. Had it all been a bizarre fantasy? A cruel joke played by a man with too much money and too little to do?
Part of you hoped it was, so you could get out of this situation, unscathed and with your dignity intact. It would mean you werenât a liar.
The other, more desperate part of you felt the impact and weight of that five thousand dollars, already spent on tuition, rent and credit card debt in your head, a phantom ledger you couldn't undo.
.Ëâ ⹠°
On the morning of the third day of silence, things changed.
A courier service youâd never heard of was stopped outside of your house; a big unmarked grey van.
After nearly tumbling down the stairs in a fit of excitement, you reached the door, where a uniformed driver greeted you gruffly, and presented a large, rectangular hamper at your apartment door.
It was a woven willow basket, the size of a small suitcase, with a deep, arched handle. It looked like something out of a Victorian fairytale, or for a very expensive picnic. The wicker scratched against your palm as you took its weight.
You hauled it inside, the weight of it fairly substantial for its size, your arms trembling by the time you reached your room.
You got it up into your bedroom and let it rest on your scuffed laminate floor, an alien artifact among your scattered textbooks.
Tied to the handle with a thick, black silk ribbon was a small, cream-colored envelope. Your username was written on it in a looping, elegant script that used too much ink. It was handwritten, the strokes pressing into the paper deeply.
With trembling fingers, you untied the ribbon and lifted the basketâs lid.
A scent bloomed into the air first; a really strong cologne. A spicy, powdery, distinctive aroma of sandalwood, clove, and something floral and expensive, ylang-ylang, maybe.
It was so potent, so present in your teeny room that it felt like an invasion, like heâd actually walked into this place and graced you with his presence.
Heâd sprayed it, liberally, somewhere in this package, the mist clinging to every fold of tissue neatly packed.
Beneath a layer of delicate, black tissue paper, the contents glimmered.
It was lingerie, but not from any store you knew. There was a slip dress the color of moonlit smoke, so fine it was nearly translucent, with straps as thin as spider silk and a hem that would brush mid-thigh.
Next to it, a chemise in a neutral, creamy chiffon, dotted with tiny, hand-embroidered black stars along the plunging neckline. A pair of sheer stockings, black as a ravenâs wing, with seams so straight they looked drawn on. And at the very bottom, folded with care, a robe.
It was black velvet on one side, a pattern of silver-grey damask on the other, heavy and luxurious, with wide, dramatic sleeves.
It was fantasy wear. It was floaty, ethereal, and undeniably sensual. And it was all brand new, the tags on the pieces, tiny slivers of satin from some sort of Parisian atelier youâd only read about in novels.
Where the hell did he get this? Had he flown it in just for you? Or was this something he did often enough that he kept this boutique on hand?
Whichever it was in this moment, you felt you didnât quite care. It completely eliminated you having to stand in front of your small and sad wardrobe and pick out overused lingerie youâd been wearing for well over 8 months on the cam site. Youâd never really had the money to invest in anything better than what you had.
You reached for the envelope next, the paper thick and expensive under your thumb.Â
The cologne was strongest here. You slid out a single sheet of matching cream stationery.
The handwriting was the same as on the envelope, but here it was smaller, more rushed, the letters leaning into each other.Â
The handwriting was in cursive at points, but blended into capital letters; showing a slightly chaotic approach to the writing, like theyâd learned partially how to write cursive but never quite could commit to it.
For Sweet Violet,
A small gift. I hope the colours please you. I imagined you in shades of night and mist.
Youâve never seen me before; for I have remained anonymous. Masked. We truly all wear them. Some are flesh. Some are silk. Some are smiles. Mine is one I have to wear to protect myself.
Wear one for me. Not to hide, but to reveal the truth that only anonymity can grant. True indulgence and enjoyment.
I have taken the liberty of including one I thought would suit the fantasy. I will be masked as well.
The mask does not conceal the soul's intended hue,
It simply lets the hidden self speak true.
So let us meet as shadows, let us meet as art,
every touch, a brushstroke in the dark.
I have also included a dress. Purple. Silk. Wear this when you arrive. Over the other things.
Yours,
KT.
Beneath the signature, in a different, more utilitarian pen stroke, was a postscript:
P.S. The agreed compensation for your engagement with my client has been initiated. Please check your Wire account upon receipt of this hamper. It should be settled by close of business today. â Mr. R. Lees
You dropped the note as if it had burned you. The paper fluttered to the floor, the smell of his cologne rising up through the horrendous California heat like a fire.
Your eyes flew to the hamper. Youâd missed it, nestled in a fold of the velvet robe and just beside the purple dress; a mask.
You lifted it out. It was a half-face creation of black lace and stiffened silk, covering from the hairline down to just above the lips. It was Phantom of the Opera esque, but more elegant, less grotesque.
Delicate silver filigree traced the brow line and curled along the high cheekbones, and a single, tear-shaped black crystal hung where it would rest against your temple and then, some thin, black silk ribbons for tying.
It was beautiful. It was theatrical.
It was exhilarating; playing a part, playing into his hand.
He was building a set, designing a costume, scripting a scene for you to come and slip into.
The note was a love letter to the concept of being someoneâs little secret.
You hadnât really thought of that before; maybe you were his. Maybe he was married?
You knew from stalking the internet that he had kids, so it wasnât far from the realm of reality that he may be cheating on his partner.
The poem was awkward, heartfelt, and very cheesy.
The reminder about the payment, tacked on by the efficient Mr. Lees, was the cold splash of reality in the middle of this perfumed fantasy.
You sat on the floor, the scent of him enveloping you, the gorgeous, impossible fabrics spilling around you like a silken tide.
You had things to sort out now; pruning to do.
Fix your eyebrows, shave, wax, moisturise⊠everything shower to the point you are seeing stars from heat exhaustion.
You picked up the mask from the floor as you stood, holding it up to your face.
In the dim reflection of the plastic make up mirror that sat awkwardly on your desk, you saw a stranger; a mysterious, elegant woman, from a different century. Your own eyes, wide and scared, peered out from the ornate holes.
He wanted to play a game where both players were disguised. The dirtiness youâd sensed was a bit crude and cringe but you had to give it to him, it was well thought out and curated.
It would be a performance within a performance. The intimacy would be mediated through silk and lace, through roles heâd written.
The thought should have revolted you. It should have sent you running to send a cancellation.
But a treacherous, dark part of you, the same part that had gotten turned on listening to his whispered fantasies, stirred.
The sheer audacity of it. How ridiculous he really was, the fact heâd given you hundreds of dollars worth of lingerie, and was paying for you to be a pawn in his little game.
The decadent, obsessive attention to detail, the way heâd sprayed his cologne on the note so youâd have to smell him while you read his words... It was possessive. It was insane.
It was also the most romantic and the most violating thing anyone had ever done for you.
And the money. You grabbed your laptop from where it sat on the desk and pulled it close, your fingers clumsy. You opened internet explorer and found your banking app.Â
You refreshed.
The balance updated. A deposit of $5,000. From an entity listed as MJJ777 Holdings LLC.
Shit. It was all laid out for you now, and suddenly you realised, due to dropping the funds, you wonât be able to get out of it now.
You carefully folded the lingerie back into the hamper, placed the mask on top, and closed the lid. The scent of him lingered in your apartment, in your hair, on your hands.
.Ëâ ⹠°
An unmarked car pulled up at 1pm on the Friday, after an agonising wait. The promised car thankfully wasnât a limo, which was your first relief.
It was a dark, unremarkable SUV with very dark tinted windows. The driver, a large, silent man with a kind face, simply nodded when you gave your name.
The drive north on the 101 was a slow unraveling of the cityâs grip; the surreal blur of the early evening streetlights fading.Â
Youâd asked the driver to have the windows down for most of the drive; it made you feel better. When they were closed, it was suffocating, to not be able to see around you.
The baked concrete and smog gave way to rolling golden hills, then to the lush, manicured green of the Santa Ynez Valley, weirdly untouched by the drought. Vineyards stretched in orderly rows, their leaves a vibrant, almost artificial emerald against the water-starved landscape.
After a few doses, you startled awake, the car pulling into a non-descript road. The driver started to roll up the windows again.Â
âFor security purposes, we donât allow people to see the outside of the property, maâam.â His gruff voice came from the front seat.Â
You gulped and nodded.
Goosebumps rose on your armsâ you were imagining it to be just like the pictures and the TV specials. It was crazy that you were here. On his estate. In his world.
You felt totally disorientated as the movement came to a halt.
the driver finally got out and then opened the door for you.Â
When you emerged, you noticed you were in a clearing dominated by a picturesque, storybook cottage and tall dense trees.
It was made of river stone and dark timber, with a steeply pitched roof and leaded glass windows. It looked like something from a fairy tale.
To the left, a path disappeared into more trees.
To the right, you could just catch a glimpse of something vast and white through the foliage, it had to be the main residence, you presumed.
The cottage door opened before the driver could even get out to let you out of the vehicle. Your heart was in your throat at the thought of him stepping out so casuallyâbut it wasnât him.
A short man stepped out instead; he looked to be in his late fifties, impeccably dressed in a navy blazer and crisp khakis, his silver hair cut with military precision. He had calm, assessing eyes that were roaming over your very formal purple slip dress that was chosen for you. or maybe it was the wrinkles he was looking at, from you sitting in it. Either or, it was a bit intense.
You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact that he was even eye fucking you in the first place.
âMiss,â he said, his voice neutral, professional. âWelcome. Iâm Mr Lees. You can call me Rich. I handle uh⊠my clientâs domestic affairs.â
Mr. Jackson. You had wanted him to say the name so badly so you could no longer pretend that you didnât know who this was that you were meeting.
However, it seemed your masked cam boy wanted to stay private for a little while longer.
It was perplexing that he would not even think of you going to google his address and finding what you did, but it was besides the point. Youâd go along with the rouse.
âHi,â you managed, your voice thin.
âIâve been instructed to tell you where you are and what is happening this evening.â His phrasing made you cringe a bit.
âThe home owner, and your point of contactâ he cleared his throat again awkwardly, clearly not sure how to deliver his next thoughts. You were beginning to doubt if his client had done this before.
At this point you didnât know what you were either; was this truly prostitution? You got chills at the thought. Getting men off on a cam was very different to this.
â-- Is a multi-millionaire, a philanthropist, a performer, and a humanitarian. He is well known and therefore we have arranged for your meeting with him to be on his property, where no media outlets or outside entities can be aware of your meeting.â
âUhhh. okay thank you for the introduction, i guessâ you mumbled, your voice small. This already felt insaneâyou thought about climbing back into the big fancy car with the kind man and have him drop you back off at your shithole apartment.
âYour bag, Miss?â He took your duffel from your hands without waiting for a response.
âMy client is indisposed at the moment. He asked that you get settled in. This,â he gestured to the sightly cottage behind him, âwill be your accommodation during your visits.â
The use of âvisitsâ threw youâthereâd be more? The mysterious socialite hadnât even met you in person yet. Hadnât given you a chance; how could he know it would go further?
The language Rich was using was so carefully sterile, it sanitised the sheer insanity of the situation.
He then led you inside. The cottage was cool, dim, and smelled of lemon floor polish and old wood.
It was decorated with a kind of expensive, impersonal coziness; overstuffed floral sofas, landscapes in heavy gilt frames, a grand piano in the corner. It was like a stage set. A very beautiful, very lonely stage set.
âThe kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself to anything. Thereâs a media room downstairs in the basement. The terrace has a view of the gardens.â Rich placed your bag by the foot of a sweeping staircase.
âHe will arrive here, when heâs ready. Is there anything you require immediately?â
Yes. An explanation. A way out. My sanity.
âNo. Thank you.â
He gave a curt nod. âThe house rules are simple. You are not to leave the cottage grounds unaccompanied. You are not to approach the main house unless specifically invited. You are not to take photographs. Your cell will have no service here, but there is a landline in the library for local calls. All other communications are monitored for security.â He said it all with bored efficiency, like heâd spieled this to someone before.
Your stomach was churning at an alarming rate.
âDinner will be served later in the evening.â he moved around you awkwardly and then nodded. âEnjoy your stay, miss Y/LNâ
You froze up out of undeniable shock and fear; your full name?
Heâd clearly had someone look into you. See who you truly were and what you were all about.
It seemed like an unfair power balance; one that you didnât really fully appreciate.
There went your privacy and any kind of anonymity if this all blew up in your face.
And then Rich was gone, the heavy oak door closing with a soft, definitive click.
This was all morphing into some impending doom; you had to take some majorly deep breaths to keep calm and to not cry.
You were alone. In a cottage. On his sprawling grounds with no signal whatsoever.
You walked to the large window overlooking the terrace, embracing the quiet and the sound of the birds. The âgardensâ were less a garden and more a wild, semi-tamed jungle of exotic plants, towering bamboo, and winding gravel paths.
In the distance, you could see the stark white peaks of a roller coaster, motionless against the blue sky.
You were here now; you had to just work through the anxiety and make it to the inevitable. The act that youâd been hired for.
.Ëâ ⹠°
Full dark had settled when the soft tapping came at the French windows.
Knock. Knock-knock.
You walked to the glass, the purple dress you changed into billowing behind you.
Outside, on the flagstone terrace, stood a figure in black velvet. The mask was simple, severe, anonymizing. It was contoured around his face perfectly; all black materials, lace, velour and some leather. It carved out the bottom of his face, leaving lips and a jawline on show, and tied around the back of his head with some lace black ribbon.
Youâd always known what heâd looked like; the most photographed man in the world, but the way this mask sat on his face, and the way his dark hair framed it all, it really was hard to tell who he was.
You knew who this was, though. It was making concentrating on the money, harder.
He lifted a gloved hand and waved, the gesture awkward, then pointed toward the garden path.
You turned the latch and stepped out.
The night air was cool. He looked at you, his masked head tilting.
A soft, breathy sound escaped him. Huuuh-oh. It was a vocalization, pure and surprised.
âYouâŠâ he started, his voice that familiar, breathy tenor, but softer, more present. He seemed to be choosing each word with extreme care.
âYou wore the dress. I⊠I was thinking you might not.â He took a small step closer. âYou look⊠my goodness. You look like a painting. A Laura Wheeler Waring painting, come to life.â The art reference was a shock, and utterly disarming.
âThank you,â you managed, your voice thin and nervous in the vast quiet.
âCome,â he said, his voice light and just⊠lovely. He extended his gloved hand, palm up, a silent, formal invitation.
You hesitated for only a second before placing your hand in his. Goosebumps rose on contact with him. The leather was soft, warm from his skin.
His fingers closed around yours with a gentle, surprising firmness. He simply turned, leading you down the terrace steps and onto the gravel path.
He walked beside you, your hands linked. The formality of it, the old-world gallantry, made your heart stutter.
He was quiet for a moment, then his voice, closer now, floated to you. The words came in a rush, as if heâd been holding them back.
His earlier precision began to soften, the sentences running together.
âI have thought of this. For days. Since you said yes.â
âI would be in a meeting,â he said, the words spilling out, âand my mind would drift. I would wonder⊠will she like the gifts? Was it too much? The mask⊠was it too theatrical?â He glanced at you, the faint light catching the lower curve of his mask that sat just above his lips.
He gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, the sound loosening something in his posture.
âI have a flare for the dramatics. I canât help it. Itâs just⊠who I am.â
âIt wasnât too much,â you said, the truth of it surprising you. âIt was beautiful. All of it.â
He squeezed your hand lightly. The gesture was less formal now, more genuine.
âIâm glad. Really. I wanted it to be⊠special. For you.â He paused as you both rounded a bend.
âYou said you study. At UCLA.â
âArt history. With a minor in sociology.â
âSociology!â he exclaimed, the word bursting from him with genuine delight.
The exclamation was less measured, more spontaneous. âThe study of people. That is⊠that is a very smart degree to pursue. And art history⊠tell me, who moves you? Not just who you study. Who speaks to here?â He brought his free hand to his chest, over his heart.
The question was so earnest, so direct, it bypassed your nerves.
âRecently? The Symbolists. Moreau. Redon. The way they use myth⊠itâs not about literal truth, itâs about psychological truth. The monsters arenât out there, theyâre in here.â You tapped your own temple.
âTrust me, I know all about the monsters in the mind,â he said, his voice dropping into a more confidential tone. The âgâ in âgoingâ vanished, a sign of his growing ease.
âIâve been battlinâ someâŠdemons my whole life.â He squeezed your hand lightly again, as if to say I wonât get into that, but I know.
He continued, his speech beginning to flow, losing its stilted over performed edge.
âI read a lot of philosophy. Been blessed to travel, see places with rich history. To learn more about religion and the human condition."
âSo, in other words you⊠you know your stuff,â you finally said.
The mask dipped in a gesture of modesty.
âI have been⊠fortunate. To see many things. To live with art. It has been my teacher.â his voice had gotten higher as he got more excited recalling his experiences. He cleared his throat, and his next words came out much deeper. âAnd, my⊠escape.â
He fell quiet for a few steps.
âBooks, art, my animals⊠sometimes theyâre better company than people. People⊠they want a piece. Iâll only let them see the surface. Nothinâ deeper. Fame is the mask I canât take off.â He said it as a simple fact.
Then he seemed to catch himself, to remember the mask he was literally wearing and stopped abruptly. He let out that soft, breathy laugh again. The laugh was easier now. âI guess Iâm takinâ that quite literally, now, huh?â
He fell back into step beside you, hand still linked and changed the subject.
"This whole place," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand at the sprawling dark beyond the trees, "it's bigger'n you'd think. Hundreds of acres. Never really remember how many. You ever seen anythin' like it? Feels like another country right?"
You shook your head, the gravel crunching under your heeled shoes. "Never. I've never even been on a date this elaborate. Hell, I've never left the country."
He slowed, his head tilting toward you. "Never left the country? Not once?"
"Nope. Barely left California, if I'm honest."
Something flickered in himâa soft, saddened crease at the corners of his visible eyes.Â
"That's⊠that's a real shame. A girl like you, should see the world. The things I've seen, the temples, the coast lines, the cultureâŠ" He cleared his throat again, clearly a nervous tick. It was awkward, the sound small in the quiet. "You got a passport, at least?"
You laughed, a little embarrassed. "No. Never needed one."
"Right. Well. Youâll have to fix that, someday." The words landed casual, but his grip on your hand tightened just slightly.
He stopped walking then, turning to face you fully in the dappled light.
The clearing with the table was just ahead.
âI hpe I am not coming across as too much,â he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate.
âForgive me. Itâs just⊠Iâm excited. I canât believe you came. And Iâve been really lookinâ at you⊠youâre so young. And so bright.â He lifted his other hand, as if to touch your face, but stopped short, his gloved fingers hovering near your jawline.
âThe days since I found you⊠theyâve settled me. And excited me, in ways⊠you canât imagine. Been missinâ that. Missinâ a real spark.â He said, a lovely smile touching his full lips, the only part of his masked face you could see.
"mhm maybe this ol' man is just being a bit too mushy--"
âYouâre not old,â you said automatically, totally interrupting him.
The mask tilted. âOh, I know, not really,â he said, his voice warm with the hint of a smile.
âSometimes I feel like Iâve lived ten lives. But in hereâŠâ He brought his hovering hand to his own temple.
âSometimes Iâm still that boy, lookinâ at the stars in my hometown, dreaminâ of magic. Dreaminâ of makinâ a difference.â He sighed, a sound of real weariness.
âI tried⊠I really tried to make a difference, you know? But it⊠it pushes people away. All of it. Gets real lonely. Exhaustinâ. So⊠thatâs where you come in, I guess.â
The confession was so vulnerable, so starkly at odds with the grandeur around you, it stole your breath.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
âDonât be,â he said, his voice brightening, though it still sounded a little forced.
âTonight⊠I donât feel lonely at all. Câmon. Let me do this right for you.â
He led you to the table and, with a courtly flourish, pulled out your chair.
You sat. He pushed it in gently before taking his own seat. The staff appeared, performed the silent ballet of pouring water and wine, and vanished.
Once alone, he lifted his glass, a shy smile in his voice. âTo art,â he said.
âAnd⊠makinâ some new memories.â
You clinked glasses. The wine was crisp, cold, perfect.
Over the first course, he asked more. He wanted to know about the sociology minor. He leaned in, his elbows on the table now, the last of the stiff posture gone.
âIs it⊠is it âcause you wanna understand why folks do the things they do?â he asked. âWhy they hurt each other? Why they need what they need?â
âSomething like that,â you said.
He was quiet for a long moment, toying with a cherry tomato. He looked up.
âAnd your other work. The cam site. Is that⊠another way of tryinâ to understand? The human condition?â
The question was so piercingly insightful it felt like an X-ray. You fumbled.
âUh. Unfortunately that is not as profound as you think. I just needed the money.â
He nodded slowly. âI get it,â he said softly. âI really do. Sex is⊠itâs a powerful thing.â He took a small sip of wine.
âYou shouldnât be havinâ to give pieces of yourself away like that. You should be free to chase your art, your dreams⊠not worryinâ âbout where the moneyâs cominâ from. You should have⊠real intimacy in your life.â
You shifted in your seat. "It wasn't all bad. Some of them were⊠nice. Like you."
His eyes sparkled through the mask at that. "I donât want to imagine the others, quite frankly," he said sounding amused.Â
"But iâll take the compliment, Sweet Violet.â
After the thoughts crossed his mind about you on there, he continued;
âI mean itâyou are on that site, half dressed, sellin' a fantasy to strangers. That's puttinâ yourself into a box. Trappinâ yourself in something that is pretty hard to step away from. I wanna see you flourish outside of that."
The main course came and went, the conversation flowing easier now. Heâd even started crackinâ little jokes, laughinâ that free, breathy laugh of his. The performance was over. He was, you realised, wildly intelligent, deeply emotional, and starved for a real, unfiltered connection.
As the dessert plates were cleared, he fell silent, looking at you. The fairy lights twinkled in his dark eyes behind his mask.
âGettinâ cooler out.â
He stood, and again offered his hand. âWould you⊠come inside with me? Itâs real warm in the cottage.â
You placed your hand in his and stood. He didnât drop it after helping you up; he held it tightly, his grip sure and warm, and led you back along the path. His pace was slower, more deliberate.
When you reached the edge of the clearing, you blurted, "This is kinda insane. All of it. Iâve had such a good time, it feels like a real date or somethin'."
He glanced at you, mask tilted, that breathy laugh huffing out.Â
"Who said it wasnât a real date, Sweet Violet?" The tease was light, you knew it couldnât be fully true considering his payment. Maybe he wanted to pretend?
When you reached the terrace steps, he stopped. âThe steps are uneven in the dark,â he murmured, his hand shifting to support your elbow. âHere. Allow me.â
He guided you up, his touch firm and sure. At the top, he reached past you to open the French door, ushering you into the warm, lamplit glow of the cottage. He followed you in and closed the door.
Inside, the space felt smaller, more intimate. He turned to you, still holding your hand. He was close now.
You could smell the subtle mix of his cologne, the wine on his breath, the clean scent of his velvet suit.
âThank you,â he said, his voice a husky whisper, all the earlier nerves gone. âFor the most normal⊠and the most extraordinary eveninâ Iâve had in⊠in a real long time.â
He lifted your hand, still enclosed in his gloved one, and pressed his lips softly against your knuckles. The leather was warm, his kiss feather-light and devastatingly formal.
Then he straightened, but didnât release your hand.
His other hand came up, and his gloved fingertips traced the edge of your lace mask, from your temple down to your cheekbone.
âNow,â he breathed, the word full of promise and a tremor of his old shyness.
âCan I get to know you a bit more intimately?â
âIsnât that what you brought me here for?â you tried to sound sultry, but it came out just above a whisper, and more unsure than that.
He let out a sweet, nervous chuckle. âI guess so. I just⊠I wanted to ask you first. Before I⊠before we touch like that.â
The way his eyes were trained on you through the mask was agonisingâit had been a while since you had felt the real warmth and touch of a man.
Your exâs affections felt so far removed from the reality you were living in here and now.Â
He was stood opposite you in his ornate velvet outfit, a vision, really.
His wolf cut was perfectly cut, and framed the mask expertly. As if it had been made just for him, and maybe, you supposed it had been.
Heâd had another on the call. Maybe he hides frequently? Wears masks even into public?
Heâd been entirely gentlemanly all night but now his stance seemed, hungry.
âP-please. Go ahead,â your voice was strained; desperate almost.
Internally you were kicking yourself, you had to make sure in future that you werenât wearing every thought and feeling on your face. You can't give him too much power over you.
âOh, thank goodness,â he whispered, the words rushinâ out on a shaky breath of pure relief. âI wouldâve been tormented if youâd said no.â
After standing so still in an almost stand off, he then, with a tenderness that contradicted the feverish energy you could feel radiating from him, closed the gap between you both, and lifted his gloved hands.
His fingers went to the silk ribbons of your mask. You could smell him even more clearly now as his hands circled you, the sleeves of his elegant blazer right by your face.
The scent he was wearing, whatever it may be, was genuinely intoxicating. He untied the knot with meticulous, painstaking slowness, as if disarming something precious and volatile.
You could hear his breath, soft and rhythmic through his nostrils in the quiet. The mask was loose and he cradled the side of your face with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheekbone just beside the lace, and then, with infinite care, he lifted it from your skin.
He held it for a second, looking from the ornate lace to your bare face. His eyes behind his own mask were wide, dark, and utterly focused.Â
He was seeing you finally, for the first time in person and not whatever persona you played on your cam profile.
It was so hard to lock up your energy here, you were an open book type of person and this was not a situation you found yourself in often.
He turned and placed your mask on the piano lid, aligning it neatly as if for display. Then he turned back, and his attention dropped to his own gloves.
He pinched the tip of a finger on his right glove and began to pull. The soft black leather peeled away with a whisper, revealing his hand inch by inch. His hands were big.
You'd never noticed on screen, but they wereâlong, slender fingers, yes, but with broad palms and pronounced knuckles.
The skin was pale, almost luminous in the warm light, peppered with darker pigment. He flexed it, tendons standing out, before repeating the process with the left. The gloves joined your mask on the piano.
âThe dress,â he said, his voice lower now, a warm, private rasp. âIt served its purpose. Beautifully.â
He stepped behind you. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch. His hands came to rest on the very crests of your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles of your neck. âBut Iâd really like to see you out of it now.â
He kneaded gently, and you couldnât suppress a small sigh. He hummed in response, a soft, approving âMmm.â
His fingers found the zipper at your nape. He drew it down slowly, a deliberate, steady pressure. The sound was a long, sighing that seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the quiet click of the tab reaching the end.
He pushed the purple silk from your shoulders, his hands sliding down your arms as the dress fell away. He let it drop, a puddle of vivid color on the dark rug.
He let you stand there in the lingerie heâd chosen, letting him look. You felt his gaze warm, traveling over the sheer chiffon of the chemise, the delicate black stars, the dark seams of the stockings tracing up your thighs.
It was different in person; being admired like this. Usually men were slobbering over you online but their eyes were boring into a webcam, unlike his nowâtransfixed and hungry, looking at your real flesh. No pixels.
He came around to face you. His eyes raked over you, but his expression behind the mask was one of deep, almost painful concentration.
"mhm, you deserve to be worshipped, not drooled over by fools on the internet,"
you shivered at the thought of the word worshipping; what it meant. How total and intense his attentions already were, you couldn't imagine much more.
"they worship me in their own ways, I guess," you breathed out, your voice still uneven from nerves.
"s'not good enough," he brushed your hair off your shoulder and traced your collarbone lightly. "m'gonna give you what you are missingâ
He was sweating, just a little, a sheen at his hairline above the porcelain edge of his own mask. You deduced it was nerves, but not the kind that made a man fumble. It was the nerves of an actor before the curtain rose.
âHere,â he murmured, his hands finding your hips. They spanned your waist easily, his fingers curling around to the small of your back.
He guided you to the couch, his steps small and measured, until the back of your knees met the plush arm of the large sofa. âSit.â
You sank into the deep cushions.
He didn't join you. He stood before you for a long moment, just looking down, his gaze piercing.
You felt out of your depth; him towering, having orchestrated this whole night, practically begged for it, and now he made no move to undress, no move to unveil, no move to close the distance with anything but his hands.
Then, slowly, he lowered himself to his knees on the carpet. The position was shockingly humble, but there was nothing subservient about it.
It was ownership. He knelt like a man who had paid for the right to look.
His hands settled on your knees. His thumbs began to stroke the insides of your thighs, through the sheer stockings. The touch was gentle, exploratory, his head tilted, watching his own hands move.
âSo soft,â he mumbled, almost to himself.Â
His hands moved upward, pushing the hem of the chemise up your thighs. The air was cool on your newly exposed skin. He stared at the junction of your thighs, covered only by the flimsy silk of the panties he'd provided.
You could see the flush of arousal on his neck, creeping up above his collar, but his trousersâblack velvet, strained at the flyâhe made no move to touch himself.
He hooked his thumbs into the sides of the silk and, with a slowness that was agonising, drew them down your legs.
You lifted yourself slightly to let him. He folded them once, absently, and set them on the carpet beside his knee.
Now you were bare to him.
His breath hitched. âHuh-oh.â Soft, involuntary hunger.
His hands returned to your thighs, pushing them gently further apart. He leaned in. He was close enough that his breath, warm and quick, ghosted over your cunt.
Instead of touching, he brought his right hand up.
His fingers, long, elegant; hovered, then he plunged one into his mouth, wetting it.
With that one finger, just the pad, he dragged slowly, so slowly, through your folds.
He came away slick. He held it up to the lamplight, turning his hand, examining the wetness with a deep, fascinated focus.
âSo lovely to not have to imagine what you feel like, watching you on a pixelated screen,â he breathed, voice thick.
âIt's all for me.â
He looked up, eyes dark behind the mask.
âI've thought about this. The taste. The smell.â He brought that wet finger to his lips and sucked it clean.
His eyes fluttered shut. A low guttural groan vibrated in his chestââUngh.â
When they opened, the gentle curiosity was gone, burned into raw, obsessive need.
âGod. Where have you been all this time?â
You couldn't answer. Didn't even try. You felt like you should be paying for this, and not the other way around.
That single taste broke his restraintâbut not toward his own pleasure.
He leaned in, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the cushion, grip firm.
His mouth was on you with gentle kisses that transcended into hungry, open-mouthed desperation.
The first hot, wet lick from the bottom to the top of your heat made you whine, nails dragging the couch.
âShh, shh, I got you,â he mumbled against you, muffled, then dove back in.
He was messy. Starving. Utterly focused on you. His tongue flat and broad, lapping, circling your clit with a pressure that made you see colours behind your eyelids.
He used his lips to suck, gently at first on your clit, tongue moving it back and forth, then he'd suck harder, pulling the sensitive flesh into the heat of his mouth.
His nose pressed against you, his breath hot and rapid. His hands held you in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.
You could hear himâthe wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you, the desperate, ragged pulls of his breathing through his nose, the soft, animal grunts of effort and pleasure he made in his throat.
The feeling of the mask on your skin was slightly foreign, but the scrape of it actually felt good - exciting.. And dark.
He was completely lost in the act of eating you out, but his own body stayed still, kneeling, the strained arc in his trousers ignored, untouched.
He was getting off on thisâon your wetness, your gasps, the power of paying to make you come apart while he stayed clothed, in control.
One of his hands left your thigh.
You felt his fingersâtwo, slick with your wetness and his salivaâpress against your entrance.
"you have the prettiest pussy I have ever seen in my life,"
He pushed inside, deep, in one smooth, unhesitating stroke.
The stretch was perfect, filling. He curled them, finding a spot inside that made your vision blur, and began a slow, relentless rhythm, in time with the devastating work of his tongue.
You were babbling, a stream of âoh god, oh Jesusâ You tangled a hand in his hair.
âLanguageâ He chuckled into your wetness. You tried to kill the laugh in your throat but couldnât.
When he heard it, he didnât stop, but glanced up at you behind the mask with dark eyes. The perfect wolf cut was getting messed up, under the tight knot of the lace holding his mask on. His hair was so soft too, damp with sweat at the root, his baby hairs peeking out.Â
He moaned, a deep, resonant sound of approval at your light touch on his head, and doubled his efforts.
His tongue flicked faster, his fingers pumped deeper, his other hand squeezing your thigh almost to the point of pain. Like he didnât want to let you go.
You looked down, through a haze of pleasure.
The sight was obscene, beautiful. Michael Jackson, on his knees, his half masked face buried between your legs, his shoulders working.
And below, the straining bulge in his black velvet trousers. You wanted to move to touch him; to give him some pleasure in return, as this felt like too much attention. Too much for just you.
Most men in a position like this would have been bucking into thin air, thinking of their next moveâhow to get their dick wet. But he was completely still, almost ignorant of it. He was so precise and focussed on you that he was neglecting himself.
He was paying for this, paying you, and that was the turn-on. Your pleasure was the product he'd bought, and he was consuming the act of giving it.
He could feel you tightening, trembling on the edge. You tried to pull away from him, to prolong the pleasure, so you could start on him as well. However this made him stern.
"Don't you move now. I'm not finished with you."
The way he said it and pushed his fingers in deeper, had you moaning so loud it embarrassed you; but you could not physically hold it in. the pleasure was taking up every single thought in your brain.
He went back to sucking and lightly tugging your clit. The wetness and heat feeling so good to you that it was unfathomable that this was not a dream.
He pulled his mouth away, breathing hard, his lips and chin glistening. âI can feel you gettinâ close,â he rasped, his voice wrecked. âYou are to look me dead in the eye when it happens, okay? I wanna see your eyes on mine when I put you over the edge.â
His thumb replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing tight, furious circles. His fingers inside you hooked harder, stroking that deep, secret spot with unerring accuracy.
He held your gaze, his eyes wild and dark behind the mask, pupils blown wide.
âYou deserve to be made to feel so good, sweet thing⊠you shouldnât ever have to do this for yourself again. Iâm gonna spoil you rotten with this. Give you everythinâ youâve been wantinâ.âÂ
You were panting and babbling nonsense back to him now; your eyes strangely locked with his.
You couldnât look away. The pleasure you were feeling made you want to cry, the effect it was having on your emotions was profound.
"Aren't you gonna say thank you?" he asked, a playful, breathy tease in his tone.Â
"Thank you for takinâ such good care of you⊠and not askinâ for a thing in return?" He chuckled softly, his hand never stuttering.Â
"Thank you," you squeaked out, writhing.Â
"Ah-ah. Câmon, now. Let me hear it. louder."
"thank you!" you let it expel from your throat louder this time, but it came out like a cry.
âSo lovely watching you squirm from my touch,â he gritted out, lower this time, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back.
âThatâs a girl, come fâmeâ
That statement shattered you, his gruff directions from before, a departure from what youâd seen of him at the dinner table tonight. He changed so much moment to moment, you never really knew what you were getting.
The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that stole your breath, then your scream followed.
It was a full-body convulsion, your back bowing off the couch, your heels digging into his back where they lay over his shoulders, your vision whiting out into a kaleidoscope of pure sensation.
He rode you through it, his thumb never stopping, his fingers holding you firmly inside the maelstrom, his eyes watching every twitch, every shudder, drinking it in.
âThatâs it, thatâs itâŠall over me. Yeah⊠just like that.â
"good girl." he finally murmured, the praise warm and rough.
When the last pulses faded into aftershocks, he slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand.
He was panting, his shoulders heaving but he was almost trying to hide it.
He looked down at his fingers, soaked and glistening, then back at you, collapsed and boneless on the sofa.
A strange, quiet awe settled over his features, replacing the insatiable hunger.
He didn't kiss you. He didn't touch himself.
He just knelt there, catching his breath, the front of his trousers still visibly, painfully strained.
He seemed dazed, as if he wasn't even truly here with you in the room - like this was still in the cam room. He wasn't accessible.
Then, with a sudden, jarring movement, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, steadying himself on the arm of the sofa.
He wouldn't look at you now.
He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth, then his fingers, with quick, efficient strokes.
The shift was glacial and absolute. The man who had just worshipped you with desperate obsession was gone. He seemed sad almost, dejected, even. Like he had realised something.
âItâs gettinâ late,â he said, his voice flat, all the earlier warmth and openness, gone. He sound tired, like all his weary troubles had come flooding back. âIâve taken up enough of your eveninâ, I think.â
He walked to the French doors, his steps measured. He paused, his hand on the latch, his back to you. The velvet over his shoulders was taut with tension and his hair a mess from where your hands had been in it.
âMy driverâs waitinâ in the driveway. Heâll get you home safe ân sound. Itâs all taken care of.â He spoke to the glass on the door, out to the nighttime instead of you. Why couldnât he look back at you?
He opened it, letting in a rush of cool night air.Â
âTil next time, Sweet Violet.â
The door clicked shut.Â
You were alone, sprawled on the couch, the smell of sex and his cologne heavy in the air, your body aching with spent pleasure, and the clinical chill of his departure settling into your weary bones.
From the way your insides clenched with desire, and the pleasure you felt in these moments, you knew you were not satiated.
You wanted to come back and see this through. would he want you back though?
You were hooked on this fantasy now.Â
please let me know if you enjoyed this and want part 3! bc if this flops i am not writing more lol
đৠCRYBABY đ àŁȘË â Jermajesty Jackson x pregnant!reader
âË â ۶ৠYou and Jermajesty were currently sitting outside Haroldâs chicken, waiting for the meals you two ordered.
You ordered fresh chicken, so you of course knew the wait was going to be quite long. But being pregnant was genuinely kicking your ass. With the raging hormones and horrible mood swings, the smallest thing had your patience going through the roof.
And Jermajesty was not helping your case with his fat ass.
He was delaying the food by almost an hour by asking for them to fry his chicken hard. And when you asked him to just get regular chicken so you can go back home, he said no with his boujee ass.
So now here you were, overly agitated and not in the mood when Maj decides itâs time to test your patience.
âBaby..â he sings, poking at your arm. âBaby..â he whispers way too close to your ear. You groan, pushing him away. âWhat Jer?â
âOur baby finna have a big ass head.â He sighs like itâs some devastation, running his fingers over your curls. âBut itâs okay, theyâll still be cute cause you got a big ass head too, and look how you turned out.â He smiles.
This bitch.
âJermajesty.â You warn, a deadpan glare on your face. âPlease shut up talking to me.â You turn your attention back to your phone, playing some random block game you downloaded off an ad from another game.
At this point, you were ready to go home, fuck the food.
You were in so much pain in so many different places. Your feet were swollen, your breasts were aching and swollen as well, your back was killing you, and all Jermajesty wanted to do was play.
And you know what the worst part about this whole situation is? Youâre the one who begged him for Haroldâs specifically.
You had been craving Haroldâs all morning and would not stop whining about how much you âneededâ a six piece wing with extra mild sauce or youâd faint. Jermajesty being the good boyfriend he is, tried to make you a healthy breakfast: some toast with avocado, some eggs, and fruits. But after seeing you genuinely about to cry over some chicken, he folded.
But now you were wishing you had just eaten the shit he cooked for you.
âWhat you mad for, stink?â He mocks, a nickname that you normally use on him. âYou know you got a big ass head.â He shrugs.
âAnd you fat as shit.â You clap back. âBig ass.â
âAt least I donât look like a penguin though..â he murmurs, pretending to be occupied on his phone. You gasp, throwing your foot over the console to kick him in his side.
âStop fucking with me, jer! Iâm literally in so much pain right now..â you whine, voice small and pitiful.
âOw!â He winces with a laugh, big hand wrapping around your ankle to stop you from kicking him again. âMâsorry, mâsorry!â He brings your foot to his lips, kissing the sole of it as he opens his phone.
You roll your eyes, unable to hide the way they soften as your foot relaxes from his touch. âYou so irritating..â you mumble, leaning your elbow against the door, fist against your face.
You two sit in silence for a while after that, very calm and doing completely opposite things on your phones.
You hold your phone against the swell of your stomach, charger cord brushing against your belly as your nails tap against the glass screen.
âDamnit..â you huff, running out of time once again trying to get the blocks out of the box.
Jermajesty notices your small grunt, glancing up from his phone and over at you.
âWhatâs wrong with you now?â he asks softly, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he quirks a brow.
You shake your head quickly, focusing in on the game as the timer restarts. âNothing. Mind your business,â you mumble, not taking your eyes off the screen for a second.
He watches as your nails frantically tap against the phone screen, concentration etched all over your face. But Maj just has to be Maj.
Without warning, he slightly leans over the console, extending his arm out to stick his long index finger into your ear.
âJerrrr,â you whine, rolling your shoulder to get him off of you, not once taking your eyes off the screen, nor lifting a finger.
âWhat? Iâm not doing nothing mami,â he questions with false innocence in his voice. You just shake your head, letting out a heavy sigh.
He snickers, eyes glued to your form. He really does adore you, youâre his baby, but he loves messing with you even more.
You manage to clear a row, thumb moving two times faster as the timer comes down to thirty seconds. Jermajesty leans over again, this time sticking his pinky straight into your ear canal and wiggling his finger.
You wince, but not in pain, more so in worry. âMaj!â You shout, âwatch outt!â You whine, blindly grabbing his wrist and yanking it back with aggravation.
âIâm literally almost done, please!â You beg, keeping your eyes on the phone.
âChill! Iâm just tryna see what level you on..â he trails off with a chuckle, moving his hand, making you believe he was truly done.
But nope, he was far from it.
Without warning, a sharp, piercing blast of warm air shoots straight through your ear canal, startling you. You gasp, flinching hard enough that you lowkey jump in your seat, thumb slipping off your phone.
And with only five seconds left, a massive âTIMES UP!â banner flashes upon your screen.
You groan loudly, dragging it out. âJermajestyyyy!â You snap with a shriek, tears starting to brim your eyes.
Your hand is quick to fly back, smacking the fuck out of his neck with aggression. âWhy theââ you smack his neck again. âFuck would you do that?!â You shout, voice all pouty as you frown, tears starting to stream down your face.
âDamn bae!â He winces.
âI was right there!â You sob, voice cracking as you yank your phone off the charger, tossing the cord into his lap.
You aggressively drag both your hands down your face with an even louder groan, trying to stop yourself from crying any further. But itâs no use, your emotions are through the roof, and you genuinely wanted to choke his ass out at the moment.
He rubs his neck as he listens to you talk, the sharp hit leaving behind a sting.
âLike oh my gosh, I canât even have a moment to myself while waiting for some fucking food that still ainât come out yet cause you wanna play games!â You sob out, trailing off into a pitiful whine as more tears spill over. âIâm in so much fucking pain, Iâm starving, and you just keep thinking shit is hilarious!â
Jermajestyâs smirk instantly falters from his face, hands quickly coming up to cup your face in comfort once he realizes he really made you upset. âOkayâokay,â he coos, placing kisses all over your face.
âMâsorry mama, mâso sorry,â he mumbled against your skin.
âFucking hate you!â âI know mami, I know, Iâm the worst,â he soothes, pressing continuous soft kisses to your lips.
You scowl, frowning against his touch.
Just then there a knock against the driver side window, the worker taking the number off the window with a smile. âSorry for the long wait, hereâs your food.â
Jermajesty reluctantly pulls away, turning to roll down his window. You wipe your eyes behind him, sniffling as you face forward in the seat again.
âThatâs alright, thank you so much.â He gleams, returning the smile as he reaches for the plastic bag.
Youâre quick to snatch the bag from him, causing the worker to peak at you in the car before just deciding to mind her business.
âYou two have a nice day, enjoy your food!â She waves before making her way back inside the restaurant.
Jermajesty rolls his window back up before glancing at you as he starts the car. âLook at you, greedy ass,â he murmurs with a grin. âJermajesty.â âOkay, my bad.â
He shakes his head with a smile, watching as you tear through the plastic and brown bag. âYou such a crybaby..â
You dig through the bag, not caring whose container you opened, just eating whatever fries you could get to first.
And Jermajesty doesnât complain. He knows not to when heâs already pissed you off enough.
You chew on the fries happily, turning your phone back on to give the game another chance as he drives home. âOh, and when we get home,â you swallow. âYou massaging my titties and my feet since you wanna stress the mother of your child out.â
He chuckles, accepting his sweet fate with a nod. âYes maâam.â
He reaches over, cupping your jaw gently and placing a kiss against your cheek while keeping his eyes on the road. You smile, leaning over to return the kiss dramatically. âMmwah!â
What a cute little family in the making.
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kissmyglxck â donât copy my work, ask to translate, & if you recreate anything pls tag me <3
mature!michael x singer!black reader. lovely request .á
synopsis: being one of the biggest singers of the 2000s mean you are constantly in front of cameras. So when reporters try to bait you into speaking against michael, they expect another headline. Instead they get a viral moment which michael loved.
warning: cursing, emotional support, red carpet events, reader having a slick mouth for a moment, sweet!reader, interviews, light humor, phone calls, soft!michael, shy!michael, slow burn, mutual pining, celebrity x celebrity, reader is in her mid 30s
The flashing lights always felt like a flashbang going off every three seconds, but after fifteen years in the music industry, your eyes had adapted to the glare.
It was 2005, and the red carpet outside the Shrine Auditorium was an absolute zoo. The carpet was a sea of velour tracksuits, tinted frameless sunglasses, and heavily glossed lips, but you opted for a tailored, floor-length emerald silk gown that clung to every curve of your frame. Your hair was styled in sleek, cascading soft curls, and your skin was glowing under the press line lights.
"Over here, (name)! Give us a smile!"
"Who are you wearing tonight?"
You offered polished, practiced smiles, gliding down the line with the effortless grace expected of a woman with three multi-platinum albums under your belt. You were having a good time until you hit a notorious entertainment news crew holding a microphone like it was a weapon.
"Looking drop-dead gorgeous as always," the interviewer started smoothly before his eyes turned sharp and predatory. "So, listen... we have to ask. You've been in the industry a long time, you know the players. Everyone is talking about the new documentary and the fresh allegations floating around Michael Jackson right now. What are your thoughts on everything going on around him? Is this the end of the King of Pop?"
The air in your lungs turned cold. Your smile vanished entirely.
Around us, the background noise seemed to blur. Michael. The Michael Jackson. The man whose tapes Iâd practically worn out as a kid in Detroit, the artist whose legendary vocal stacking and rhythm had paved the way for every single one of us standing on this red carpet. Seeing the media swarm him like vultures over the last few months had made your blood boil, but hearing this man ask about it so casually for cheap ratings was the last straw.
You stepped closer to the microphone, your eyes locking dead onto the camera lens.
"You really want to know what I think?" You asked, your voice dangerously calm, laced with pure velvet and steel.
The interviewer blinked, eager. "The world wants to know."
"Then let me talk to the world," you said. You raised a long, French-manicured finger and pointed it directly at the camera, your slick mouth completely abandoning my publicistâs carefully curated media training.
"I think you all are disgusting," you said, your voice resonating clear and unwavering. "You spend decades building a Black man up to be a god, and the second you get bored, you drag him through the mud for a quick paycheck and a headline. Y'all don't care about truth. Y'all care about blood in the water, yall must be broke."
The reporterâs jaw practically hit the carpet. "WellâI mean, the publicâ"
"The public is being fed hot trash by people like you," you cut him off, leaning in. "Michael Jackson has given his entire life, his soul, his childhood, and his health to the music industry. And instead of giving him an ounce of dignity or grace, you parade him around like a target. Itâs sick. Itâs pathetic. And I'm sick of watching it."
You looked straight down the barrel of the camera lens, softening your gaze for just a fraction of a second. "Michael, if you're watching this somewhere... turn the damn TV off. Don't listen to these parasites. You're a living legend, you're innocent, and real ones know exactly who you are. You ain't touch them damn kids."
You turned back to the stunned interviewer and hit him with a devastatingly sweet smile. "Enjoy the show, sweetie," you murmured, turning on your heel and strutting away, leaving a dead silence in your wake.
After a few hours, by 1:00 a.m., the silk dress was pooled on the hotel floor, replaced by a cozy pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized cotton tee. Your makeup was half-washed off, your feet were propped up on the plush coffee table, and you were holding a cold slice of hotel room service pizza when your personal cell phone started buzzing.
You frowned, glancing at the screen. Unknown Number.
Thinking it was your frantically panicking manager calling from a burner to yell at you about your red carpet rant going viral, you answered with a sigh.
"Look, Frank, if you're calling to scold me, i really don't wanna hear it, okay?. I said what I said, and Iâd say it again to his face," you grumbled, taking a bite of pizza.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. A tiny, soft clear of a throat.
"Um... hi. Is this... is this (name)?"
The voice was unmistakably soft. Gentle, high-pitched, hesitant, and warm as velvet.
You froze, pizza halfway to your mouth. "Who's asking?"
A quiet, breathless little laugh came through the speakerâa sound so distinct you felt it in my chest.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late," the voice said, sounding adorably shy. "This is... this is Michael. Michael Jackson. My team managed to get your personal line from your management... I hope thatâs okay."
Your heart did an actual Olympic flip inside your ribs. You scrambled upright on the couch, nearly dropping your food. "Michael?"
"Yes," he said, his tone nervous, like he was the fan talking to me. "I... I hope I didn't wake you. I just... I had to call."
"No, no, you didn't wake me at all," you said, quickly clearing your throat and trying to pull yourself together. "I'm just... wow. Hi, Michael."
"Hi," he softly giggled, the sound rich with genuine warmth. "I was sitting in my bedroom, and my brother called me and told me to turn on the news. Usually, I avoid it like the plague, you know? But he said, 'No, Applehead, you have to see this singer talking about you on the red carpet.'"
He paused, and for a moment, the line was quiet except for the sound of his soft breathing.
"I watched the footage," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with emotion. "I watched you point right at that camera and defend me. I... I don't even know what to say. People in this business... they don't do that for me anymore. They run away. But you stood up there and looked so fierce... and beautiful... and you just destroyed them."
A warm flush spread across your neck and cheeks. You leaned back against the headboard, feeling a swell of protectiveness all over again.
"They deserved every word, Michael," you said softly, your voice dropping into its natural, soothing tone. "I meant what I said. You've given too much to this world for people to treat you like a circus act. It pisses me off."
"You have a temper on you," he whispered, breaking into a gentle, melodious laugh that made your heart melt. "I loved it. I was sitting on the edge of my bed cheering for you. I said, 'Go on, girl! Tell 'em!'"
You burst out laughing, shaking your head. "Oh, don't encourage me, Michael. My manager is probably having a heart attack as we speak."
"Let him," Michael said softly, a tiny flash of playful cheekiness slipping into his tone. "You were amazing. Truthfully... I've been a fan of yours for a while now. Your last album? The track with the heavy bassline and the jazz chords? I listen to it all the time when I'm composing. I've been wanting to meet you for ages, but I was always too shy to ask."
Your breath caught in your throat. "Michael Jackson was shy about meeting me?" You thought.
"You're kidding, right?," you said, a soft smile tugging at my lips. "The King of Pop listens to my record?"
"I do!" he insisted, sounding like an excited kid. "You have such an incredible, soulful voice. It has so much texture and heart. And seeing you tonight... seeing how strong and kind you are... it just meant more to me than you'll ever know. Things have been... really heavy lately. You gave me a reason to smile today."
The raw vulnerability in his tone pulled at your heartstrings. You could hear the exhaustion behind his sweet demeanor, the weight of a man carrying the world on his shoulders.
"I'm glad I could give you that, Michael," you murmured softly. "You deserve peace. And anytime you need someone to cuss out the media for you, you just give me a call. Iâve got plenty more shit to say to them people."
He let out a deep, resonant laugh, the shy barrier between you two dissolving into comfortable ease.
"I might just take you up on that," he said softly, his voice lingering on the line. "Are you... are you going to be in Los Angeles for a few days? Maybe... maybe we could get some dinner? Quietly. Away from everyone."
You leaned your head back, feeling a fluttering sensation in your stomach that had nothing to do with red carpets or fame, and everything to do with the gentle, soft-spoken man on the other end of the line.
"I would love that, Michael," you replied softly. "I'd really love that."
"Good," he whispered, a clear, bright smile audible in his voice. "Me too."
The next two days, your hotel room looked like a high-end department store had exploded inside it. Silk blouses, leather pants, and tailored skirts were draped across the plush velvet armchair, thrown over the foot of the king-sized bed, and scattered across the vanity.
âYou stood in front of the full-length mirror, hands resting on your hips, staring at your reflection with a mix of frustration and mounting anxiety. You were a mid-thirties Black woman who had conquered red carpets, won awards, and commanded arenas, so why on earth were your hands trembling over dinner plans?
âBecause itâs thee Michael Jackson, your brain helpfully reminded you.
â"Focus," you muttered to yourself, running a hand through your dark, soft curls. You picked up a black pinstripe sleeveless mini-dress. It was chic, sleek, and had a daring, deep V-neckline that felt equal parts, confident and effortless. You slipped into it, admiring how the tailored cut accentuated your curves without looking like you were trying too hard. You clasped a simple silver pendant necklace around your neck, let your silver diamond studs sparkle under the vanity lights, and painted your lips with a rich, dark cherry-red lipstick.
âYou looked in the mirror, gave yourself a nod, and smoothed down the front of the dress. "Don't embarrass yourself. You got this."
âMeanwhile, across town, Michael was pacing back and forth in his private dressing suite, his hands fidgeting nervously with the cuffs of his jacket.
âHis security detail stood quietly near the door, used to his pre-show energy, but this wasn't show nerves. This was different. Michael was genuinely terrified of messing this up. For months, heâd admired your music from afar, listening to your tracks in the dark while composing, captivated by the soulful depth in your vocal delivery. After watching you fiercely shred the media on live television to defend his honor, his admiration had skyrocketed into something far more intense.
â"Does... does this look alright?" He asked softly, turning to his assistant while adjusting the lapels of his suit.
âHe was wearing an exquisite ensemble: a light brown, tailored three-piece suit complete with a dark brown velvet collar and an intricate waistcoat adorned with gold and red embroidery. It felt like his personal armor regal, distinct, and uniquely him, but now he wondered if it was too much for a quiet dinner.
Hell, this was probably the first time he thought that he might've always overdressed to go places.
â"You look incredible, Michael," his assistant assured him with a warm smile. "She's going to love it."
He looked at his reflection, a small, bashful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as a faint blush dusted his cheeks. "I just... I want to make a good impression. She was so brave for me yesterday."
Once you arrive a few minutes later, or more, like 40 minutes later. The Ivyâs back entrance was quiet, enveloped in the cool evening breeze. Your manager dropped you off at the secluded private dining room, leaving you alone with your racing heartbeat. The room was softly lit with warm amber tones, surrounded by lush indoor greenery, creating an intimate cocoon isolated from the chaotic world outside.
âYou poured yourself a glass of water, taking a tiny sip so as not to ruin your cherry-red lip, when the heavy oak door creaked open.
âYour heart practically hammered against your ribs.
âMichael stepped into the room. In person, his presence was breathtaking a delicate mix of grand, legendary air and an almost fragile gentleness. The rich brown suit hugged his slender frame, the gold and red baroque embroidery catching the soft light of the room, and his dark, glossy hair fell in soft waves around his face.
âFor a second, the two of you just stood there, taking each other in.
â"Hi," he said softly. His voice was a gentle, melodic feather of a whisper, his big, brown eyes wide with a mixture of awe and shy nervousness.
âThe quiet, boyish charm of his greeting instantly dissolved your anxiety, replacing it with a wave of warmth. You smiled, setting your glass down, and stepped forward to greet him.
â"Hi, Michael," you said softly, your voice smooth and comforting. "Look at you... you look absolutely stunning."
âHis eyes lit up, a soft blush spreading across his cheekbones as he held his hands out modestly. "Oh, thank you... you look... wow. You look breathtaking."
âBefore he could overthink it, you closed the small distance between you and wrapped your arms around his shoulders in a warm, lingering hug. He was slender, but he felt sturdy, smelling subtly of vanilla and expensive cologne. Michael froze for a fraction of a second in surprise before relaxing completely, his arms gently wrapping around your waist, holding you with careful, respectful grace.
âAs you pulled back slightly, you leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss directly to his warm cheek, leaving a faint, sweet imprint.
â"Just a friendly greeting," you teased softly, winking at him as you stepped back. "I couldn't just give the King of Pop a cold handshake, could I?"
âMichaelâs hand immediately flew up to touch his cheek where your lips had brushed his skin. His face flushed a deeper shade of rose, a quiet, giggly burst of laughter escaping his lips as he looked down at the floor, completely flustered by your smooth charm.
â"You... you really have a way with words," he murmured, his voice rich with affectionate embarrassment as he pulled out a chair for you like a true gentleman. "Please, sit down."
âYou sat, smoothing your pinstripe dress, looking up at him through your lashes as he settled into the seat across from you. The tension in the air melted away, leaving behind the sweet, quiet spark of something brand new.
The waiter slipped into the private room with quiet efficiency, pouring wine for you and fresh sparkling water with lemon for Michael. Once the door clicked shut again, the heavy atmosphere of the outside world completely faded away.
At first, Michael sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, his long fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of his suit jacket. But as you picked up your glass and raised it toward him, the tension in his shoulders began to thaw.
"To tune out the noise," you said smoothly, offering him a warm, grounding smile. "And to good food in great company."
Michael smiled, a genuinely bright expression that reached his eyes, and tapped his glass gently against yours. "To good company," he echoed softly.
What started as a cautious, polite meal quickly blossomed into an effortless flow of conversation. You were both seasoned veterans of an unforgiving industry, and that shared understanding created an instant, quiet comfort between you. You talked about the grueling reality of touring, the magic of writing a song in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep, and the pure joy of musical arrangement.
"I heard the rhythm section on your second single," Michael said, leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes sparkling with pure artistic excitement. "The way you layered those backing vocals, the harmonies were so rich. It reminded me of old Motown, but completely fresh. Did you stack those yourself?"
You laughed, taking a bite of your meal, delighted by his genuine passion. "Every single track, Michael. Iâm a perfectionist in the studio. I drive my engineers absolutely crazy until every harmony feels like butter."
"Oh, I know that feeling!" Michael exclaimed, letting out a bright, clapping laugh. "My producers threaten to lock me out of the soundboard because I'll stay up until five in the morning tweaking a snare drum. They tell me, 'Michael, it's done!' and I say, 'No, it's not perfect yet!'"
The shared laughter was easy and warm, bridging whatever gap had existed between you. But as the main course arrived, the talk shifted from the stage to something far closer to his heart.
When he mentioned a funny thing Prince had said earlier that week, his entire aura softened. The superstar vanished, replaced entirely by a devoted, doting father.
"He's at that age where he wants to do everything I do," Michael murmured, his tone dripping with affection as he described his children. "And Paris... oh, she's so spunky. She rules the house, really. Blanket is just the sweetest little soul. They're my whole world. Truly. Everything I do, I do for them."
You rested your chin in your hand, watching the tender expression on his face. "You know, Michael... seeing you talk about them, itâs obvious how much you love those kids. Theyâre so lucky to have a dad who protects them and gives them a real childhood."
He looked up, a soft, touched vulnerability settling in his eyes. "You really mean that?"
"With all my heart," you said softly, your voice dipping into that protective, sweet register. "I love kids, and Iâve always respected how fiercely you guard their peace. In a world this chaotic, being a safe haven for your children is the most important job you have. And you do it beautifully."
A quiet stillness fell over the table. He looked down at his napkin for a second, swallowing hard as he fought back the emotion swelling in his throat. So few people in his life saw him the man and the father rather than the spectacle. Hearing you validate him so gently touched a place in his soul that had felt bruised for a very long time.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with sincere emotion. He looked back up at you, his brown eyes searching yours with deep warmth. "That... that means more to me than I can say."
By the time dessert was cleared away, neither of you wanted the night to end. The initial nervousness had entirely evaporated, replaced by a deep, cozy familiarity. You had teased him about his sweet tooth when he ordered a slice of chocolate cake, and he had giggled softly as you picked off a tiny piece with your fork to taste it.
When his security detail finally gave a soft double-knock on the door to signal that the SUV was ready, a collective sigh seemed to pass between you both.
Michael stood up first, stepping around the table to pull out your chair. As you stood up in your fitted pinstripe dress, he adjusted his brown suit coat, looking down at you with a hesitant, hopeful expression.
"I don't want to leave," he confessed candidly, his voice low and sweet. "I haven't had a night like this in... I can't even remember how long."
"Neither have I, Michael," you said, stepping closer to him. You reached out, gently smoothing down the velvet collar of his jacket, a tender, familiar gesture that made his heart stutter. "But weâll do it again. I promise."
Michael beamed, a faint flush dusting his cheeks once more. "Promise?"
"Promise," you murmured.
You leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck once more. This time, Michael didn't hesitate. His long arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest. He held you a beat longer than necessary, breathing in the scent of your perfume, resting his chin softly against your shoulder.
When you pulled back, you cupped his jaw gently, pressing another warm kiss to his cheek just slow enough to leave him breathless.
"Call me when you get back to the house, okay?" you whispered, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone. "So I know you made it safe."
"I will," he whispered back, his voice practically melting as he looked at your dark cherry lips, then back up to your eyes. "Goodnight... sweetheart."
He turned and walked toward the door, turning back one last time to offer you a shy, radiant wave before stepping out into the night. You stood in the quiet room, leaning against the table with a soft smile playing on your lips, knowing without a doubt that this was only the beginning.
đ«Summary: Another tiktok challenge with Jaafar!
âYou better not drown me.â You pointed your finger at him as your other hand worked to set up the camera. The water was a complete cooling contrast against the hot sun.
You and Jaafar were on vacation together and wasted no time to hop in the pool that came with your room. âI should be telling you that.â He giggled, swimming over to you.
âOkay, Iâm going first.â You told him, swimming back till you both were in the frame. âIâm putting my trust in you.â He said.
He covered his nose with his fingers as you placed your hand on top of his curly hair, gently pressing him down till he was submerged.
âMy favorite color is blue and his favorite color isâŠâ you trailed off for a minute, âRed.â You eased off his head and he came up from the water, shaking his hair.
âHey, hey, hey, watch it.â You complained feeling the droplets land on your face. âSorry,â he giggled. He gently placed his large palm on your hair, and submerged you underwater.
âMy favorite color is red and hers is blue. My favorite food is French fries and hers is pasta.â He said quickly trying not to hold you under for too long.
You popped up wiping the water from your lashes. âDamn, that was fast.â You mentioned. âI didnât want you to drown.â
âAwww.â You pouted right before pushing underwater. You felt his hand snake around your thigh, holding it against him. âUmâŠwhat was the question?â A few moments passed before you remembered.
âOh! my favorite food is pasta, his is French fries. My favorite brand is probably Prada and his is Ralph Lauren. Right? Iâm pretty sure. Actually maybe itâs Saint LaurentâŠI like that brand too.â
You felt a tap on your thigh and gasped, âI forgot he was down there, my bad.â You pulled him, stifling a laugh. âGirl, the hell were you doing?â
âI was trying to decide.â You shrugged. He rolled his eyes pressing you underneath. âMy favorite brand is Ralph Lauren and hers is PradaâŠor Chanel. My dream holiday spot is Paris, coming up soon, and hers is Greece, also coming soon.â
He pulled you up out the water. âIâm running out of air.â You complained wrapping your arms around his waist. âWeâre almost done.â He laughed, placing a kiss on your forehead.
He went underwater, and his arms wrapped around your waist. âMy dream holiday spot is Greece and his isâŠParis or ChinaâŠmaybe Japan. Kids, I think I want like 2 or 3. The max is 3 and for himâŠdo yâall know this manâs father? I think he want like 6 and if he do then he played.â
You pulled him up from the water and he let out a cough. âSorry, baby.â You giggled. You went down underwater, wrapping your legs around his waist like a Koala. âI want likeâŠ5 or 6 kids but Iâm good with 2 or 3, and for herâ,â he stopped talking once he saw your foot make its way to his shoulder.
âWhat the hell is she doing?â He giggled. He just quietly watched as your foot trailed across the side of his face, anklet swinging against him.
He stifled a laugh knowing youâre waiting to come from underwater. He lightly tickled your sole and you shot up from underwater. âYou play too much.â You giggled, lightly pinching his cheek.
The recording ended and you edited it while Jaafar floated around.
âThe way you actually want 5 or 6 kids.â You giggled watching it back.
Michael cant help but be loud :( you bouncing on his dick feels too good!
michael was sprawled out on the mattress, tears spilling down his cheeks as he lets out pathetic moans and whimpers.
you bounce up and down on his dick, his large hands grasping your hips like a life line. âT-that feels so good! oh my god⊠im-..â
âmichael, shush.â you warn, grabbing his jaw. he let out a whiny sigh. âCant help it.. feels too good.â
you place a hand over his mouth so he wouldnât wake up the whole house, but even that proved to be a wasteâhis groans were just way too loud.
âyou need toââ
âyn? michael? you guys okay in there?â His motherâs voice is heard from behind the door, making your hips still. Oh fuck.
You glare down at the pathetic man beneath you, removing your hand and mouthing âsay yes.â
âYes.. weâre okay m-mother.â his voice stammers over the name, mouth forming an âOâ as you roll your hipsâyou quickly slap your hand over his mouth again.
âAlright, if you say so.â Katherine says, her footsteps slowly fading.
you shake your head before stilling. âMike did you just come?â
he nods slowly, his face flushed and sweaty. âyou were warm.. couldnât help it.
God, you couldnât be sneaky with him ever again.
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