Hi, can you do virgin reader and virgin Michael (otw era)?🫣
A/N: I love all these requests. I kinda did something like this for his Jackson’s era!!
Warning: Both loosing virgin, very inexperienced, smut
A random Thursday afternoon
The motel room was quiet, a low hum from the air conditioner the only sound. Michael stood by the window, looking out at the parking lot, his hands clasped tightly behind him. You sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking softly under you. The tension wasn’t fear; it was a shared, trembling anticipation, a secret you’d both held for so long that it had become a physical thing between you, a heat in the air.
“They talk about it like it’s nothing,” Michael said softly, his voice barely above the hum. He turned to look at you. His eyes, so often alight with a playful energy, were serious, deep pools of want and hesitation. “Jackie… Jermaine… Marlon… even Randy. They’ve all… done it. They have wives, children. They talk about… the act… like it’s just… a thing you do.” He swallowed. “But it’s not just a thing. It’s… everything.”
You nodded, understanding perfectly. For years, since you’d first started dating him in the whirlwind of his rising stardom, you’d shared this unspoken pact. Love first. Commitment first. A sacred bond before the physical communion. The world saw Michael Jackson, the electrifying performer. You saw the Michael who held your hand in the dark, who whispered dreams of a simple life away from the spotlight, who believed in old-fashioned virtues with a stubborn, beautiful purity.
He walked over, his steps hesitant. He sat beside you on the bed, not touching, but the space between your bodies felt charged. “I want to be married,” he whispered. “I want to say vows, to promise myself to you before… before we share our bodies.”
“I want that too,” you said, your voice just as quiet.
He looked down at his hands. “But… the pressure… from them… from inside me… It’s like a fire. I want you. I want all of you. The vows and the… the sharing.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his. He flinched, then grasped your hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “Maybe…,” you started, the idea forming as you spoke it, “maybe the vows can be ours. Just ours. And the sharing… can be ours too. Just tonight. Just us. No one else ever needs to know the order.”
His eyes widened. The idea, so simple, seemed to unlock something in him. A path between his conflicting desires. A way to honor his need for commitment and his desperate, mounting physical need. “Our own ceremony?” he asked.
“Yes. Our words. Our promises. Then… we can learn. Together.”
A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It was the smile you loved most, the one that broke through the performer’s mask and revealed the vulnerable, hopeful boy underneath. “Tonight,” he agreed, the word a solemn pledge.
He stood up, suddenly purposeful. He went to his small suitcase and rummaged inside. He pulled out a small, clear bottle with a blue label. He held it up, a look of bewildered pride on his face. “Marlon gave me this. He said… it helps.” He frowned at the bottle. “Lube. I don’t… I don’t really know how it helps, but he said it’s important.”
You felt a flush of warmth, both at his adorable confusion and at the practical reality now staring you in the face. The theory was about to become practice. “It… makes things smoother,” you explained gently. “Less… friction.”
“Friction,” he repeated, as if learning a new scientific term. He nodded seriously. “Okay. Good.” He placed the bottle carefully on the nightstand, as if it were a sacred object.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. The planning was over. The moment was now. He turned back to you, and the shyness was still there, but underneath it was a growing, unmistakable hunger. He knelt on the floor in front of you, taking both your hands in his. This was his idea of the ceremony.
His voice was low, earnest, trembling with emotion. “I, Michael Joseph Jackson, promise my heart, my soul, and my life to you. I vow to cherish you above all others, to protect you, to honor you, and to love you with everything I am, for all the days of my life.” His eyes glistened. “This is my true vow.”
Your throat tightened. You mirrored his position, kneeling so you faced him. “And I vow to you, Michael, to be your partner, your confidante, your sanctuary. I promise to stand with you, to dream with you, and to love you with a faithfulness that never falters.” You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t a passionate kiss; it was a seal. A confirmation. His lips were soft, and they trembled against yours.
When you parted, the ceremonial gravity dissolved, replaced by the raw, urgent reality of what was next. You were both still kneeling on the floor. He looked at you, his breathing shallower now. “We’re practically married now,” he said, as if assuring himself.
“We are,” you giggled softly.
He stood, helping you up. Your hands didn’t separate. He led you back to the bed. This time, he didn’t sit beside you. He stood facing you, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then lower. His own nervousness was a mirror to yours. You both were explorers in an unknown land, with only instinct as your guide.
He leaned in, his kiss changing. This one was not a seal, but a question. A soft press, then a parting of lips. His tongue touched yours tentatively, a shy exploration. You responded, opening to him, and a low moan escaped his throat. The sound, so full of surprised pleasure, ignited something in your core.
His hands came up to your shoulders, sliding down your arms, then to your waist. He was learning your shape through touch. He pulled you closer, his body aligning with yours. You could feel the heat of him, the lean muscular frame usually hidden under stage costumes. And you could feel, pressing against your stomach through his clothes, the firm evidence of his desire.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Clothes,” he mumbled, as if remembering a step in a manual. “They have to… go.”
You nodded, your own hands moving to the hem of his shirt. Together, in a clumsy, mutual dance, you helped each other undress. His shirt came off, revealing his smooth, taut chest. Your top was unbuttoned and discarded. His pants were unzipped, slid down his legs. Your skirt was unfastened and pulled away.
When you stood there, finally naked before each other, the air seemed to vanish from the room. You saw his body, not as the idol’s, but as your husband’s. Beautiful, slender, poised with a tension that was entirely for you. And he saw you, his eyes widening, drinking in the sight of you with a reverence that made your skin flush.
He reached out, his fingertips brushing your collarbone, then tracing down the center of your chest, over the swell of your breast. His touch was feather-light, awestruck. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words sounding like a prayer.
You touched him too, your hand skimming over his ribs, down to his hip. Your fingers grazed the hardness that stood erect between his legs. He gasped at the contact, his whole body jerking slightly. “It’s… it’s so sensitive,” he confessed, his voice shaky.
You both moved onto the bed, no longer standing. The sheets were cool against your back. He lay beside you, then turned to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand continued its exploration, now more confident. He cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It pebbled instantly under his touch, and a sharp jolt of pleasure shot through you. You arched, a soft “oh” escaping your lips.
He watched your reaction intently, his own desire visibly growing. He leaned down and kissed your nipple, his lips closing around it softly, then with more pressure. His tongue swirled. The sensation was exquisite, a direct line of pleasure to your core. Your hands found his hair, threading through the soft curls, holding him to you.
His mouth traveled across your chest, to your other breast, giving it the same attentive worship. Between kisses and licks, he was murmuring, “So good… you feel so good…”
His explorations moved lower. His hand slid over your stomach, his fingers tracing the dip of your navel. He was moving with a natural, growing curiosity, driven by his want to know you, to pleasure you. His hand reached the junction of your thighs. He paused there, his fingers resting on the soft skin of your inner thigh.
He looked at you, his eyes asking a silent question. You nodded, spreading your legs slightly in invitation. His fingers, trembling, ventured into the warmth between your legs. His first touch was a gentle stroke over your outer folds. He felt the moisture there, the heat. His breath hitched.
“It’s so wet,” he whispered, amazed.
He pressed a little deeper, his fingertips finding your entrance. He rubbed gently, a circular, exploratory motion. It was clumsy, but the intention behind it—the sheer focused desire to touch you there—made it intensely arousing. You moaned, your hips lifting slightly, encouraging him.
His movements became more purposeful. One finger slipped inside you. It was a strange, wonderful sensation—the intrusion of his body into yours. He watched your face as he did it, his own expression one of profound concentration and awe. “Inside,” he said, as if confirming a miracle. He moved the finger slowly, in and out, learning the feel of you.
The pleasure built, a steady climb. But you knew, and he was clearly realizing, that this was just a precursor. His body was trembling beside you, his own need becoming urgent. He withdrew his finger, looking at it, then at you. “I want…,” he started, but didn’t finish. The want was obvious.
He shifted his position, moving to kneel between your legs. You opened yourself to him, your heart pounding in your ears. He looked down at his own erection, then at you. He picked up the bottle of lube from the nightstand, holding it like a unfamiliar tool.
He unscrewed the cap, sniffed the contents suspiciously, then poured a generous amount onto his palm. He looked at the slick, clear gel pooled in his hand. “It’s cold,” he noted.
He didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He looked at you, then at his own hardness. With a decisive, but utterly incorrect move, he slapped the palmful of lube directly onto the head of his penis, smearing it there. It glistened. He then, with the same hand still slick, reached down and smeared a dollop of the remaining lube hastily over your entrance. The cold gel was a shock against your heated skin, and you flinched.
“Okay,” he said, satisfied with his preparations. He was breathing hard now, his focus entirely on the act of joining. He positioned himself, his hands on your hips, guiding you. He leaned forward, his tip pressing against you.
But his aim was off. The angle was wrong. Instead of finding your waiting, lubricated opening, he pressed forward and met the resistant, tight muscle of your anus.
There was a moment of confusion. He pushed, expecting entry, but met a firm barrier. You felt the pressure, a blunt, wrong sensation. “Michael, wait,” you said, urgency in your voice.
He stopped, frozen. “What? Is it… is it not working?” he asked, panicked.
“It’s… the wrong place,” you explained gently, guiding his hand with yours to help him feel the difference, to direct him to the correct, softer entrance.
His face flooded with embarrassment. “Oh! Oh, I… I didn’… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his confidence faltering.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him, your hand over his, guiding him. “We’re learning. Just… here.”
He adjusted, his tip now finding the slick, welcoming opening you’d prepared. This time, when he pressed forward, there was a different sensation. A yielding. A slow, incredible breach.
He pushed, and the head of his erection entered you. His eyes flew wide. “Oh…,” he gasped, a sound of pure, shocked revelation. The feeling for him was obviously monumental. For you, it was a stretching, a filling, a deep ache of pleasure that was entirely new.
He didn’t stop. Driven by instinct and overwhelming sensation, he pushed further. Inch by inch, he slid into you, his body sinking deeper as yours accepted him. You both were breathing in ragged sync, your eyes locked. His were wide, unblinking, lost in the physical reality of being inside you.
When he was fully seated, he stopped, buried within you to his root. He shuddered, a full-body tremor. “You’re… so… tight… so warm…,” he breathed, the words fragmented by sensation.
He began to move. It was a tentative, shaky withdrawal, then a push back in. The rhythm was unpolished, but the feeling was undeniable. For him, each stroke was a discovery. The friction, now aided by the lubricant he’d applied, was a smooth, hot glide. The pressure, the tightness of your body around him, was sending shocks of pleasure through his system.
For you, the feeling evolved from the initial stretch to a rhythmic build of pleasure. His strokes, though clumsy, hit a spot deep inside you that sparked flashes of light behind your eyelids. You clutched his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin.
His movements became less tentative, more driven. He found a rhythm, a pace that felt natural. He was leaning over you, his face close to yours, his breath hot on your skin. He was watching you, learning what your moans, your arching back, your clenched fingers meant. He was a performer, and even here, in this most private act, he was attuned to his partner’s reactions.
He shifted slightly, and the angle changed. The new angle sent a sharper, more direct pleasure through you. You cried out, a louder moan that encouraged him. He grunted, a low, masculine sound you’d never heard from him before. It was raw, unfiltered pleasure.
His pace increased. He was thrusting now with a growing urgency, his hips driving into you with a force that rocked your body back into the mattress. The bed creaked in protest. His breathing was ragged, punctuated by soft groans on each inward thrust.
“I can’t… I feel… something… building…,” he managed to say, his voice strained.
You felt it too. A tightening in your own core, a gathering storm of sensation. His thrusts were hitting you perfectly now, each one fueling the fire. You were moaning continuously, a stream of sound that matched his rhythm.
He was losing himself. His eyes closed, his head dropped. His thrusts became faster, harder, less controlled. He was chasing something, driven by a primal need. You held onto him, your own climax coiling tight, ready to snap.
“It’s… it’s happening…,” he gasped, his thrusts becoming almost frantic.
And then, with a final, deep plunge, he shuddered violently. His body locked, his hips pressing into you as deeply as they could go. A guttural, choked cry tore from his throat. Inside you, you felt a sudden, warm flooding, a pulsing release that signified his climax.
But he didn’t collapse. He stayed there, pressed deep, trembling, his eyes open but unfocused. He was panting, gasping for air. After a few seconds, he whispered, confused, “Did I…? Did I come? I felt… a rush… but I don’t… know…”
The physical evidence was inside you, but the experience for him was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that the specific mechanics were lost in the sensation. You nodded, your own voice breathless. “Yes… you did.”
He seemed to accept this, but the confusion lingered on his face, mixed with the dazed, spent pleasure. He slowly, carefully, withdrew from you. The separation felt intimate, a slow, tender retreat. He collapsed beside you, his body slick with sweat, his breathing still heavy.
You turned to him, your own body humming with unmet release. He saw the need still in your eyes. Without words, understanding, he reached for you. His hand, now knowing, found your core again. His fingers, still slick from both your bodies and the lube, touched you, circled the sensitive peak of your pleasure. He watched your face as he did it, learning this too.
His touch was more confident now. He rubbed, pressed, stimulated you with a focused intent to bring you to the same peak he’d just experienced. The built-up tension from his thrusts, combined with his skilled fingers, sent you over the edge quickly. Your climax crashed over you, a wave of release that made you cry out, your body convulsing beside him. He held you through it, his arms wrapping around you, his face nuzzling into your neck.
When the storm passed, you lay together in a sticky, breathless heap. The room was silent again, save for your slowing breaths. He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were clear now, the confusion gone, replaced by a deep, satiated warmth.
“We did it,” he said softly. A statement of fact, and of wonder.
He pulled you closer, your bodies fitting together in the afterglow. “Our vows were first,” he murmured, contentment in his voice. “Then this. It was perfect.”
You nodded against his shoulder, smelling the scent of him, of sex, of the shared secret. “Just for us,” you whispered.
He kissed your forehead, a tender, closing kiss. “Just for us,” he agreed. “No one else needs to know. Ever.”
His eyes drifted closed, exhaustion and fulfillment pulling him toward sleep. You watched him, your husband in your private, secret ceremony, now your lover in experience. His breathing deepened, slowed. You stayed awake a little longer, feeling the new, profound connection between your bodies, a connection that was now physical, spiritual, and utterly yours.
2087
jacobvanloon
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