through every era, him. 18+ (holy shit guys, we made it! thanku so much for all the love on this series, i’ve loved it sm!! time for a lil break but enjoy the last one, and thank u for 3k! literally surreal <3)
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Michael Jackson had created a monster.
A dangerously beautiful, enchantingly breath-taking brat of monster. A muse he had hand-crafted himself from the get go — moulded into an insatiable, untameable divine being that had him wrapped so tightly around her finger he was unable to wriggle free.
You.
His lady of three years, now fiancée, was the main cause of his increased blood-pressure and tachycardia — your sassed attitude constantly fired at him a thousand times a day.
And the media loved to spin it.
Whenever you’d roll your eyes at him at a public gathering, or stop your little heeled foot outside a shopping mall, one he’d rented out for eight hours just so you could shop while he held your twelve bags, after he told you that maybe the $25,000 you just spent on clothes and shoes was enough for today — the media were talking about it. They jumped at any opportunity to call you a gold-digger — just using Michael for his money and having a hissy fit whenever he said no to you.
What they didn’t know was Michael was exactly where he wanted to be.
Underneath your materialistic nature, you were the perfect lady for him. Albeit a lot younger than he would’ve usually gone for, not that he cared nowadays, but you were the embodiment of marriage material. You spoilt him with unconditional love and affection, showered him in praise and compliments that left him blushing, tended to his needs and wants whenever he so needed, respected his busy, demanding career, spent every minute at his side, supporting and sticking up for him, and never stopped loving him no matter what.
You were proud to be his woman — no matter what anyone had to say about you.
A week didn’t go by without the tabloids reporting on how you were a horrible girlfriend, irritating you further as it was hard to miss the humongous twenty-four carat gold Cartier engagement ring on your finger that literally blinded everyone who walked past you, and that you were dragging him down by being a spoiled brat.
They also didn’t know that Michael made you this way.
Before him you were a normal girl — you grew up in a traditional household, seemingly classic childhood, and didn’t have things handed to you on a silver platter. You understood you had to work for what you wanted, and that extravagant, expensive things didn’t come without effort.
It was only when you started dating Michael did he remind you that money actually did grow on trees in his eyes — and those paper notes in his wallet were at your fingertip whenever you so desired.
It all started on your twenty-fifth birthday — you had been seeing Michael for a mere few months at this point, and had been slowly integrated into his bustling lifestyle. You saw the money, the clothes, the antiques, the jewels, the cars — everything. It was a sight to see, the wealth that oozed from like it was natural, like how a billion-dollar net-worth was normal.
You had spent the evening at an extremely fancy restaurant, one that required a minimum of two years waiting time to get a table, one that Michael had obtained with a five minute phone call two days beforehand. He was Michael Jackson after all.
He had arranged, in the sweetest way a boyfriend could do, for all your family and friends to join you in the restaurant that had been booked out — leaving you with your loved ones, and very famous boyfriend, to have some much needed privacy. You all indulged in ridiculously overpriced, minuscule portioned food that, much to your dismay, tasted incredible — practically moaning with each bite.
It was only when dessert had been polished off, did the gifts begin to roll in. Your parents had bought you a gorgeous necklace, a locket, with a portrait of their wedding photo and your baby picture on each side — a heart-warming, sentimental present that had tears welling up in your eyes.
Your friends got you personal, hilarious yet fitting gifts that had a smile spread so wide across your face you were certain it was stuck there.
But, when it came to Michael’s gift, it took the cake.
He placed an item in front of you on the table, unable to his smile, as the words ‘Hermés’ embroidered into the cotton covering hit your eyes.
“No way, Michael.” You breathed, eyes practically bulging out of your head at the gift before you.
“Open it, baby.” He pressed, voice soft and calm was he awaited the excitable panic to arise.
Your hands trembled frantically as you tore the covering off, gasping loudly, as well as many others on the table, as a chic, white Birkin bag rest in your hands. The very one you’d mentioned to Michael you’d wanted your whole life, an item you knew you’d never have, but desired more than anything.
The loud scream-like squeal that left your mouth had Michael chuckling softly as you rose to your feet, jumping up and down in undeniable joy, hands flailing as the realisation hit you that the one physical item you had wanted in the whole world had been blessed upon you by your boyfriend of only six months.
You flew into Michael’s embrace, throwing your arms around his neck as you giggled delightfully into his ear, pulling back to litter kisses all over his grinning face.
“Happy Birthday, doll.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, as you flew back into your seat, gazing lovingly at the bag, feeling wrong to even be able to touch it, let alone carry it around.
It was from that moment Michael knew he had created a monster — watching as the glint in your eye, as you gazed at the present, grew stronger than any reaction you’d given to the previous presents. He could tell, by the look in your blown pupils, that this, this bag, that cost a fortune, that was just a drop in the ocean for him — meant more to you than the any personal, sentimental gift your loved ones had got you.
A bag — a fucking bag, meant more to you than a personalised present that had real meaning.
And when you got home that night, in a loved-up daze of excitement as you rode him into the mattress, all other gifts discarded downstairs, back arched into his touch as his cock slammed into you, did Michael feel the obsession with money begin to start by the way your eye kept catching the bag that rest upon the nightstand in the moonlight — needy whines of pleasure only increasing in octave at the moment you realised you needed more.
More of his cock, more of him, more of his money — you didn’t care. You just knew that Michael was yours, forever and always.
And Michael felt the exact same way. He knew you deserved this, that he wanted to spoil you rotten with this expensive lifestyle, not because he wanted to win over your love and loyalty — but because you already gave it beforehand without needing to be spoiled. You had shown irrevocable love and attention to him, despite his life, career and age, and never once faltered. You had been there, a constant reminder from the day he met you a year ago, to the moment he gifted you that bag, that you were always going to be the one to love him.
That’s when he decided he had to turn you into his little princess. One that was shocked when something was only $3,000, claiming that it was cheap, or refused to buy (let him buy) something that didn’t come from Dior or Chanel, or didn’t understand why you had no more room in your walk-in closet at your shared home after your thousandth shopping trip on his card this week.
You were truly spoiled tooth decayingly rotten.
But, you never let it ruin how you felt towards him.
He could’ve gone broke and you would still love him. Sure, you’d be fucking devastated as you now you were hooked on clearing out every department store every chance you got — but you knew he was the one for you. The one you wanted to marry, have children with, love forever and grow old with.
But, you were too far gone now.
Michael had marked his expensive taste into you forever — branding you into a materialistic diva who always needed his card or his cars. And he loved it — literally dying at any chance to spoil you, shower you in gifts and surprises that cost thousands each time, something he wouldn’t even notice coming out of his bank account, but something that would leave you smiling and squealing, kissing him all over.
He had built the perfect lady to spoil.
And the more you were drenched in expensive clothing, and jewellery, and sunglasses, and nails and a new blow-out each week, did you become just that little bit more ditsy.
Ditsy and unaware of how unbearably stunning you were — and how much of a brat you had become.
Everyone around you, including Michael, knew — they could sense it each time you’d have a conversation with him or talk about things that were such first-world problems, but meant so much to you. They would exchange glances, as Michael would just smile, glistening eyes hidden behind his infamous aviators, as you rambled on, pouting about how Armani didn’t have the $14,000 dress you wanted in stock, even after you told them you were marrying Michael Jackson.
They would see you, pouting and complaining about something totally unnecessary and borderline ridiculous, and then Michael, enabling the behaviour by apologising to you, kissing you with a smile, before getting Giorgio himself on the phone to demand the dress to his home within the next twenty-four hours or else he’d pull his credit card from file and threaten to never spend another cent there again if they upset his lady like that again.
They’d watch, utterly gobsmacked, as you’d purr praises into his ear as you kissed along his jawline, complete oblivious to the fact that other people were in the room and watching you press yourself up against him, whispering ‘Thank you, Mikey, I just need it so bad, ‘Love you so much.’
But, with being a spoiled brat came with its downsides.
The downside being your temper tantrums at your least favourite word.
No.
A downside that he thought was utterly hilarious and adorable each time your eyebrows would furrow in irritation with a pout on your face whenever he’d, once in a blue moon, say the word ‘No’ to you. A reaction he’d only brought upon himself with his incessant spoiling — but he didn’t care, he would just tease you back, tugging on your jutted out bottom lip, pressing a peck there before demanding you to behave or else he’d never spend another dollar on you again.
You both knew he was lying whenever he uttered those words — because you’d soon get your way.
But, these tantrums would make you into a real brat. Often acting up just to further your point or to piss him off deliberately, just so he could feel exactly how you felt right now.
Your latest had been after being told you couldn’t have a $150k Chandelier for a room you never even went into in your twelve bedroom mansion.
So, in retaliation, you’d either not speak to him for a few hours, caving in yourself in the end after you realised your silent treatment didn’t prevail, or refuse to drink the $50 cocktail you ordered when he’d take you out for dinner just to rub it in his face, or blast music throughout the house, a song with deliberate intent to wind him up.
Just like today — you had walked down stairs, rubbing your eyes from the tiredness that plagued you, yawning as you sauntered into the living area, where Michael resided with a few familiar producers, musical engineers, his manager and his close personal friend, Chris Tucker.
“Ah, there she is!” Chris spoke excitedly, “Speak of the devil, huh?”
Michael chuckled, peering behind him to meet your sleepy frame, lip coming between his teeth at the sight of you.
You were dressed, barely, in a Dolce & Gabbana lacy nightgown, one that left little to the imagination due to its short length and thin straps that were loose over your shoulders — a beautiful duck-egg grey that complimented your skin tone, a colour Michael loved on you. His eyes raked over you, a familiar seductive glint present in his pupils at your erect nipples poking through the satin filled his vision.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” You sassed, eyebrows furrowing as you stared him down.
Chris laughed, “Damn, someone’s not a morning person, huh?” Michael returned the chuckle at the truth in his question, “We were talkin’ about that Chandelier.”
Michael groaned, rolling his eyes with a playful smile, “Don’t get her started.”
You instantly burst into a smile, “Oh my God, isn’t just such a good idea!” You exclaimed, “It’s so pretty, like the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I need it.”
“Baby, we don’t even go in the room you want it in.” Michael reminded, peering over at you as the room erupted into laughs.
“That’s beside the point.” You huffed, hands settling on your hips, “It’s pretty and I want it.”
You missed the way the room exchanged looks that said ‘Oh, wow’ in shock at your sassed firing back, as Michael just smiled at you.
“Do I not even get a good-morning kiss before you start demanding stuff this early, baby?”
Your face changed dramatically again, a soft grin tugging onto your face as you giggled, walking towards where he sat on the couch.
You bent down, completely unaware to how your nightdress rode up your backside, flashing the curve of your ass and your lacy panties to the men sat behind you, as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The only noise, in the uncomfortable silence only falling upon those not engaging in the lip-locking, was your happy hums into his mouth and the sound of lips connecting.
You rose once again, the room huffing out stabilising breaths as your behind was covered once more, again barely, smiling down at Michael, “So, can I have it now?”
“Still no, baby.”
And it started.
You frowned deeply, an even deeper pout forming on your face as your hands crossed over your chest, not noticing the way Michael licked his lips hungrily as your tits pressed up more into his view, as the tantrum began.
“Why?”
“Because it’s $150,000, angel, for something that will collect dust and never even be seen.” Michael spoke, voice still soft despite your attitude.
“It won’t collect dust, I’ll clean it.” You attempted to convince him, knowing that it was all lies.
Michael snorted, “Baby, I don’t think I’ve seen you clean a single inch of this house, let alone a Chandelier in the guest bedroom.”
You huffed, finding the other men’s laughter behind you taunting, “Fine, I’ll get Martha to clean it.”
Michael chuckled harder as you dragged the maid into your convincing, “I don’t particularly want her breaking her neck trying to get up there, honey.”
“Come on, Mikey, it’ll look so nice in there.” You whined, forcing your pout out further to push him to agree to your ridiculous request, “All the guests who stay in there will agree with me.”
“Baby, no one stays ‘round here. It’ll just go to waste.”
“Chris can stay, I’m sure you’d love waking up to a Chandlier, right, Chris?” You turned around, facing the laughing man who shot his hands into the air in surrender.
“Don’t drag me into this, girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m with Mike on this one.”
You groaned, stomping your foot, clad in fluffy slippers, on the floor, “Michael.” You drawled out, voice a whiny beg.
“I said no, honey. Sorry, that’s final.”
You huffed loudly, grumbling under your breath, as Michael just smiled up at you. He was loving this — he absolutely adored riling you up, seeing you pout and get so irritated at him as you sassed him, just making him fall in love with you more.
“Fine, I’ll just go hang out in the kitchen where I’m actually wanted.” You shot back, words completely unreasonable and false as you acted out.
Michael breathed out a laugh, reaching for your hand, “Baby, you are wanted here. I just told you no and you don’t like it. Come on, gimme’ a smile, pretty girl.”
“No.” You fired back, moving backwards to avoid his touch, believing only you were allowed to say the word, “Have fun without me, boys.”
Michael just shook his head, grinning deeply as you moved to storm away, hands still firmly pressed over your chest, “Hey, angel, will you grab me an OJ while you’re in there?”
“No Chandelier, no orange juice, Michael!” You shouted as you moved out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen and out of his view as the room burst into laughter once again.
You were truly a brat — and he adored it.
“Jesus, Mike, that lady of yours sure is something.” One of his engineers chuckled, still in disbelief at your ordeal.
Michael smiled, “She’s perfect.”
And he meant it — even when you were throwing your toys out of your pram like you were so hard done by, he loved you. He was utterly, crazily in love with you. He always treated you with the utmost adoration and respect — caring for and tending to you like you were a real queen, giving up everything to make you happy.
But, when you pushed him too far — you knew about it.
So, when a familiar 90’s tune began blasting from the kitchen, did Michael start to feel his patience wear thin.
His jaw clenched as the lyrics hit his ears, as well as your loud singing, that caused the men sat before him in the room to side-eye one another with cackles at your dig towards him.
No Scrubs by TLC.
A song directly dissing a broke, lazy boy who had the confidence of a King, but couldn’t afford anything for his woman and made himself look a fool.
You say particularly hard when the song sounded, ‘Always talkin’ bout what he wants, and just sits on his broke ass!’, directly aiming it towards your fiancé who twitched in irritation at your insinuation that he was anything but a provider for you.
“Oh shit.” Chris laughed, puffing out his cheeks as Michael kissed his teeth, choosing to let you have your fun.
He didn’t let it affect him too much, knowing that the lyrics were more fitting to you as you were the one who talked about all the things you wanted from him — but it wasn’t the last time you pushed him that day.
He had parted from the house, composing his frustration as you moved your face when he leant down to kiss you before he left for an important meeting, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth instead of where he intended.
He brushed it off, only giving you a pass as you reciprocated his words when he told you he loved you, as most times you’d give him the silent treatment, and went about his day.
But, alas, you didn’t let up.
He had been deep in important business — having a serious conversation about contracts, and expenses, and documents that needed to be signed, when you came storming past the large window that covered the conference room.
The room went silent as the sound of your voice, arguing with the office building receptionist, who trailed behind you, commanding you to stop walking and leave at once, rang through the room, muffled through the glass.
“Ma’am, that is a confidential meeting, you are not permitted to be in there.” The older lady demanded, pointing her finger at you harshly.
You scoffed, “Lady, I’m the wife.” Michael had chuckled at your false words as you wiggled your ring-clad finger, ignoring the way the businessmen in the room looked at him in confusion, “If I wanna talk to my man when he’s in a meeting, I can. Talk to the hand, girl.”
Michael laughed again at your childish response as you shoved a manicured hand in her face, ignoring the way she gasped as you pushed the door open.
“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed, smiling brightly as you shuffled into the room.
You were an oxymoron to the boring professionalism of the meeting where middle-aged men with greying beards in dark-coloured suits watched you in shock as you stood in the doorway — dressed head to toe in a pink D&G mini-dress, kitten heels on your pedicured feet, five large shopping bags in your right hand, and a baby-blue, bedazzled leash in your left, connected to your two-year-old Pomeranian puppy-dog who barked loudly, one he’d got for you on your one-year anniversary.
“Say hi to Daddy, LV!” You let the leash go from your grasp as the tiny dog ran towards Michael at the end of the table, jumping up at his leg as it continued to bark.
Michael, choosing to ignore the way everyone in the room looked utterly bewildered at what was occurring in front of them, picked up the small dog and cuddled it in his lap, letting the pup lick all over his face.
“Ugh, what a day I’ve had already, Mikey.” You started with a huff, setting your bags down in the large table that adorned majority of the room, unaware you’d just placed them on important documents right in front of a random man, before you continued with your rant, “The lady at Louis tried to kick me out ‘cuz I brought LV in there.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Even after I told her I named my baby boy after the store.”
It was true — you had legitimately named your dog after Louis Vuitton. Something that Michael thought was hilarious and adorable all in one each time you’d beckon the pet into the back garden to use the bathroom before bedtime.
“Sounds awful, honey.” Michael spoke softly, hands still pawing at the fluff-ball in his hands, “How much today?”
You peered down at the many bags splayed across the table as he nodded towards them, wondering how much of his net-worth had been drained today.
“Oh, not even that much, like $8k?” You smiled, “Found some self-restraint.”
Someone in the room scoffed, cutting through your conversation, all heads whipping towards the noise as the man scrunched his face up into disgust as he stared at you.
“You do realise we are in the middle of an extremely important meeting, right?” The man spoke, hands waving towards the men crowded round the table.
“Yeah, so?”
Michael couldn’t help but smile at your ignorant response — revelling in how ridiculously rude, yet hilarious, your interrupting prescene was. He thought it was blissful — you visiting him while he was working despite your morning.
But, he knew you had an ulterior motive.
You were deliberately embarrassing him — making an unnecessary scene just to make a fool of him. To piss him off just because he said no to you. That you travelled from the other end of town where the shopping mall was just to bombard his meeting.
He knew it was annoying you that he hadn’t snapped yet — that your hard work to rile him up wasn’t working. Yet. You still had a few tricks up your sleeve — one’s that would have him seething.
“Ma’am, I—“ “Anyways, baby, which one should I wear later?”
Michael’s jaw clenched tightly as you reached into one of your shopping bags and pulled out two sets of extremely promiscuous, laced lingerie sets — leaving nothing to the imagination as you held them up for the whole room to see.
One was red, with a garter belt you could wear around your thigh, with silk and lace decorating the rim of the panties and bra. The other was white, with pretty bows on the front of both items, and the panties were crotchless.
Michael sucked his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as you smirked evilly at him — you both had a silent understanding that you knew exactly what you were doing.
“I’m thinking the white,” You started, peering at it as you held it higher, “Easy access, y’know?”
You didn’t miss the way Michael’s eyes darkened as you giggled, feigning innocence, as the room plastered shocked expression on their faces at your audacity.
“Still a no, baby.”
You raised your eyebrows at his words, tongue rolling over your front teeth as you titled your head to the side, looking at him as if it were just the two of you in the room.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Michael.” You fired back, a hand on your hip as you moved your head sassily.
“You do. And it’s still a no.”
Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of success as you huffed in irritation, stomping that heeled foot once again, shoving the sets back into one of the bags and snatching the rest off the table quickly, letting papers fly to the floor, ignoring the way people groaned out loudly in frustration.
“Come to Mommy, LV,” You ordered, tapping your bare thigh as the little dog jumped from Michael’s lap to sit by your feet as you took the leash in your hand once again, “Daddy clearly doesn’t love Mommy as much as he says.”
Michael laughed, “Baby, c’mon now.”
“Whatever, Michael.” You spat, waving him away as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heels clicking as the door slammed behind you, head held high as you flicked the sunglasses that rest upon your head back over your eyes, disappearing around the corner.
The room fell into awkward silence as the men exchanged disbelieving looks with one another until Michael let out a chuckle, still finding your out-break humorous.
“Let’s continue, shall we?”
Michael had assumed, in his ignorance, that maybe you would let this go soon enough — that you’d find something else, hopefully a little less expensive, to obsess over. Maybe he’d surprise you with new heels you could wear out with your bratty stomping, or a new bag you could smack him with whenever you fell into one of your adorable little moods that he loved.
But, no.
You weren’t giving up that easy — it was no fun getting glamorous things without a little challenge sometimes.
And Michael soon realised you weren’t letting this go when he slipped into the back of the black Mercedes that always transported him around, now late in the evening, sighing as he got comfortable in the seat, eyes hiding behind his aviators as people swarmed the car, raising a hand to wave with a smile to his delighted fans.
It was only when he looked down at the Nokia you had bought him for his birthday, one that he still had no idea how to use, and saw a notification that had him cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in anger.
-$150,000 — New transaction from ‘R.H CHANDELIERS’ on American Express ending in 3398
Oh, you had really done it now.
When Michael pushed open the door to your home, ignoring the way it slammed against the wall from the sheer strength of his hands against it, you were no-where to be seen. Just a few handy-men who walked down the stairs, carrying empty boxes and bubble wrap, sighing in fatigue as they wiped sweat from their foreheads.
“Who are you?” Michael snapped, not even bothering to be jovial and pleasant as the two worn out men froze.
“I, uh, sorry, Mr Jackson, we just had a call to fit this new Chandelier, your fiancée said it was urgent.” One spoke up, voice cracking nervously at the look of rage in Michael’s face.
“Get out.”
They didn’t wait around — instantly rushing out the door and shutting it gently behind them, with trembling hands. Michael also didn’t skip a beat, striding up the stairs with long, rushed steps as he rushed across the house, straight to the guest bedroom.
However, when he pushed the door open, chest heaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
There was no Chandelier.
“Wrong room, jackass.”
Michael’s head snapped to his left, clenching his jaw at the sight of you stood in the doorway of the master bedroom where you and Michael resided the most, clad in the white lingerie set you had once attempted to embarrass him with, the heels you were wearing previously still on your feet as you stared at him, daringly.
“What did you just say to me?” Michael snapped, walking slowly towards you, clear anger spread across his face, only furthering his heightened emotions as you just smiled.
As he reached you, you slipped away from him inside the room, making sure to sway your hips the way you knew he loved, as you disappeared out of view. Michael followed you, cursing the betrayal of his lewd mind as his eyes fell to the curve of your bare ass, before walking straight into the room you had hidden in.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight.
You were now splayed across the bed on all fours, back arched, legs spread to display your glistening pussy through your crotchless panties, a seductive grin still tugged onto your lips. And above you — a breath-taking, bejewelled Chandelier, cladding 3,500 diamonds that twinkled in the sunrise through the large window behind you.
“Which is prettier?” You spoke lowly, never leaving his eyes as he undressed you with his eyes, the burning flame of fury never leaving his gaze.
Michael was scarily quiet as he sauntered slowly towards the edge of the bed — eyes dark and unreadable as he approached you silently. His jaw was still pressed into a tight clench when he reached you, forcing you to swallow thickly in anticipation.
“I told you no.”
The words hit deep in your chest as the insinuation of the concequence of your actions crept up your spine — the smile now dropping from your lips as you shuddered.
“‘M sorry, baby, but,” There it was, your argumentative tone as usual, “You said no to the guest room — not in here.” You sassed, sporting your usual pout
You gasped loudly, half-heartedly mixing with a moan, as Michael’s large palm connected with the bare of your left ass-cheek, sending shockwaves of anticipatory pleasure through your body.
“You never listen.” He started, rubbing soothing circles over the skin he had assaulted, “You’re so ungrateful.”
You whimpered at his harsh words, before squealing as another crack of his hand against your stinging cheek sounded into the room. Even despite the blinding pain with each brutal spank, your body betrayed you as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be touched as the sexual tension ignited in the room.
“‘M really sorry, baby.” You mewled, tears springing to your ears as another smack landed on your swollen skin, “Just wanted it so badly.”
“And I wanted you to behave but you decided to be a fucking brat instead.”
You couldn’t suppress the moan that fell past your lips at the word, meant to be an insult, but sent shockwaves of arousal coursing through your veins, landing straight between your legs where you dripped.
Michael’s eyebrow twitched up his face at your reaction, a dangerous smile creeping up onto his face, “Oh? You like being called a brat, huh?” He started, fingers trailing down the skin of your inner thighs, “You like it when I call you out for being my fucking spoiled little princess?”
“Yes.” You cried out, hips jerking backwards as his fingers finally dragged along your clothed pussy lips, avoiding the opening where your cunt revealed itself to him, now drenched from your essence, “Please punish me, Daddy.”
Michael groaned — the sensuality of the nickname hitting him beneath his boxers where he too twitched, now the hardest he ever had been as you lurched back into his touch, whining with your lip tucked under your teeth.
It was only when he slid a finger through your spread folds, collecting your arousal on a singular digit, drowning in the way you whined his name like a prayer, hips now jolting involuntarily as you begged for his touch as his finger swirled around your clenching hole, did he finally smile. He teased you relentlessly, letting you cry out, tears now falling freely from your eyes as he refused to fill you with his fingers, watching as you writhed pathetically from one touch.
“Beg for it.” He commanded, dipping just the tip of his middle finger into your spasming cunt, smirk deepening as you whined loudly.
“Please, God, please, baby, I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good f’you—fuck!” You panted, streaming eyes locked on his eyes as you pleaded, “I’ll never disobey you again, Mikey, I promise. ‘Be such a good girl, forever, ‘swear.”
He hummed, satisfied with your response, pushing a singular finger inside you, vision locked on the way your back arched deeper as he curled his finger just the way you liked — a needy, theatrical moan leaving your test-stricken lips as you ground back onto his hand.
His free hand spread across your side, pulling you back down onto his fingers as he slid a second inside, rubbing tight circles into the curve of your hip-dips, as you fucked yourself back onto him. His name fell from your lips in a chant — eyes rolled to the back of your head in pleasure as the pads of his fingers repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars.
“Need your cock!” You exclaimed, eyes now squeezed shut as the arousal thumped deep in your bones, wanting nothing more than to be filled by his manhood.
“Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.” Michael reminded, grip tightening on your hip.
“‘M sorry—mmgh—just need to f-feel you!”
He hated the way he felt his resolve wearing thin at your pitiful begging — cock throbbing violently in his briefs as your cunt clenched around him, your wetness dripping down his knuckles.
“Oh, God, don’t stop!” You cried out, head thrown back as your hair splayed across your back, “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”
And as soon as your release threatened to spill over — it was snatched away from you as Michael retracted his fingers swiftly. You whined loudly, much like you had done in recent times, more tears splashing down your flushed cheeks as your head hung low as the blissful sensation of an orgasm fizzed away.
“You don’t get to cum.” Michael spoke darkly, the sound of his belt clinking against the floor mixing with his voice as he knelt against the bed, “Not until I say so.”
You nodded meekly, whimpering, “Yes, Michael.”
“Good girl. See? Not that hard, is it?” Michael praised, a hand coming to rub smooth, gentle circles on your ass cheek.
You gasped once more as the head of cock slid between your folds, catching on your aching clit, your muscles tensing as the familiar pleasureful sensation that was ripped away from you climbed back into your body. Your hips pushed back into him at the feeling — whining for more as he just stared down at you menacingly.
“Convince me why I should let you have it, baby.” Michael started, gliding his stiff cock between your folds, collecting your essence over the tip, revelling in the way you whined each time it would nudge your clit, “Why should I let my baby have what she wants all the time?”
“Fuck, please, Michael, please.”
Michael scoffed, “Gotta do better than that, sweetie.”
You cried out, hips jerking back to feel more of him, a desperate noise leaving you, “‘Cuz I love you so much, Mikey—fuck—‘cuz I’m so pretty and sweet and spend all your money on cute clothes that you l-love me wearing. ‘Cuz I wanna marry you and have your babies—oh, fuck me please!”
I mean, you weren’t wrong. If anything, it made Michael chuckle behind you — what you said was so correct yet so you at the same time he couldn’t help but let you have it. You cried out, hand clawing at the bedsheets beneath you as you fell into them, as Michael’s cock dragged to your entrance and slid inside — stuffing you to the hilt as he bottomed out immediately, your cunt twitching aggressively as it struggled to accommodate the fullness.
“So tight f’me, baby, fuck.” Michael groaned, eyes fluttering at the sensation of your convulsing sex wrapped beautifully around his hard cock.
His thrusts were relentless from the get go — the first drag back and push in was harsh and brutal, slamming against your cervix each time. Your eyes were permanently rolled to the back of your head as you drooled, mouth hanging ajar as you jittered around him, the prettiest noises sounding from your lips with each jerk of his hips.
He was unsympathetic — fucking you like he hated you as he set a devilish pace, grunting behind you as pleasure consumed him, too. Your hands frantically flailed behind you, pushing against his flexed abdomen to shove him away, his impressive stamina getting the better of you as he stretched you open — but it did nothing, only spurring him on to fuck you senseless for your teasing and childishness.
“‘Can’t—Can’t take it, ‘S too big!”
Michael landed another harsh slap to your ass cheek, “You can and you will. You owe it to me, baby, for being such a fucking brat.”
His words elicited a pounding throb to your clit — your whines only increasing in octave and decibel as his pace remained unceasing. Michael noticed the way you clenched, begging for more as you sucked him in, and leant over to grab a fistful of your hair — dragging you firmly, albeit still gently, up against his chest.
You panted as your head threw back against his shoulder, eyes still slammed shut, as his thrusts never let up — pleasure surpassing what you had ever felt as his hand slithered down your strained body, and began rolling tight, precise circles onto your clit, slick coating his fingers once more.
“Look at that stupid thing, baby.” Michael ordered, your eyes pouncing open, the ethereal bedroom decoration filling your vision, “Think those diamonds can see how much of a pathetic little princess you are?”
“‘M not—Not pathetic.” You managed to blurt out, whimpers falling past your lips the second sentence left you.
“Quit your bitchin’.”
Michael soon shut you up, shoving his free hand of fingers down your throat — the taste of your essence landing on your tongue as you hummed and swirled the warm muscle around him, now plugged at both ends as his other hand still worked magic against your clit, the familiar sensation of your release creeping up your spine.
“‘M there!” You mumbled against his fingers, spit coating his digits as you slobbered over him.
“Yeah? ‘M there too, pretty, give it to me. Give Daddy what he wants for once.” Michael panted, breath hot against your ear, “Gonna fill this pussy so good you’ll want nothin’ else from me ever again.”
You cried out — loud enough so that everyone in the house could hear exactly how blissfully pleasured you were as your orgasm hit you full force. You writhed in his grasp, the hand stuffed into your mouth now grabbing a handful of your breast, toying with your erect nipple through the lace of your bra as he continued to not only plough deep into your convulsing cunt, but also play with your swollen clit. You chanted his name like a prayer as he soon found his release, groaning as he sunk his teeth gently into the bare of your shoulder to ground himself as his hips finally stuttered, burying himself as deep as he could reach — his warm, spurting cum flooding your spent pussy.
Michael, despite your whines of overstimulation, rolled lazily, deep thrusts inside you — ignoring his own overwhelm as he fucked seed further inside you, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to where his teeth marks con-caved into your skin.
When he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, you fell forward onto the bed, panting as you attempted to retrieve your breath — cheeks now red hot, and body aching from the relentless sex. Michael crashed next to you, sighing loudly, as he pulled you against his chest, until the only sound that filled the room was his thumping heartbeat in your ear, and soft, yet ragged breaths.
“You.”
“What?”
“You’re prettier.” He admitted, eyes meeting your dazed ones, both of your lips tugging into a smile.
You leant up — connecting your lips in a gentle kiss, displaying your deep, irrevocable adoration for your man, mouths moving slowly together. You pulled away, brushing a stand of his silky hair away from his face, cupping his cheek, before pecking the tip of his nose.
“Does that mean it can stay?”
Michael laughed — even after everything, you were still set on that damn Chandelier.
“Fine,” He breathed out a chuckle, kissing to your cheek as you both peered up at the glistening decoration that had caused your playful disagreement,
❝ your big mouth gets you into trouble once more, when one poorly timed comment turns you into tabloid fodder and catches the attention of the king of pop. ❞
⁀➴ ꒰ contents page ꒱
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x singer! reader
summary 𖹭 you can openly flirt with michael jackson in front of millions of people. actually talking to him? privately? is a completely different matter.
content 𖹭 bad! michael jackson, singer! reader, fem! reader, swearing, fluff, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, oh no miscommunication, eventual smut... (maybe, no promises) (IF I GROW BALLS BY THE END OF THE LAST CHAPTER SURE) 3.6k words
author's note 𖹭 im actually really excited about starting this longer more serialized fic! the plot popped into my head during one of my exams and uhhhh needless to say i probably failed that one ngl. oh well worth it, i'm happy with the outline of the structure of this one, hopefully you guys enjoy! man i really need to get some of these on ao3
summer of 1987 — several thousand miles, and one very impulsive gesture, apart.
⤹ i. the streets of new york — new york city, usa
the afternoon was flawless, serendipitously so. the heat was ideal — arid enough to avoid the uncomfortable sweatiness that came with humidity, yet gentle enough that it didn't leave your skin dry and flaking. the city hummed at exactly the right frequency to shut off your brain. your friends were being obnoxiously loud on either side of you — repeatedly bumping into your shoulders as they got progressively more impassioned with whatever they were arguing over — while the heels of your boots click clacked! across the broken new york pavements.
for the first time in weeks, you felt like a real person rather than just a name on a marquee.
the last few hours had been spent doing nothing of any real consequence: coffee, window shopping, treating your girls to whatever happened to catch their eye. somewhere in the middle of it all, a spirited debate had broken out over whether the diner around the corner had actually gotten worse, or if you'd all simply developed more discerning tastes as you'd gotten older. it was the kind of afternoon you would think back on when life got too loud again.
a constant smile plagued your lips as you revelled in the sun's kisses.
you were laughing at something — you’d forgotten what — when the first flashbulb sparked to life across the street like a bomb going off.
and just like that, you felt your mood sour.
right. the paparazzi.
you'd been naive to think you could make it back to the car without them. you always were. some stubborn optimistic part of you still believed, every single time, that today would be different — that you could just be a girl with a coffee cup and not a cover story waiting to happen.
they crossed toward you fast, cameras raised, questions flying before they'd even reached the curb.
"are the album rumors true?"
"are you touring next year?"
"who are you wearing?"
your friends — bless them — closed ranks instinctively around you, forming a tight barricade between your body and the ever-growing crowd. you lowered your sunglasses just enough for them to catch your eyes and the utter annoyance written across them. a small sigh slipped from your lips, followed by a muttered apology to your girls, which they waved off with a, "don't worry! i've been enjoying pissing these guys off."
you could've kissed them.
it was then that one voice managed to cut through the noise. maybe it was because they were louder than the others, or maybe it was simply the nature of the question itself, but somehow you heard it perfectly.
“how do you feel about michael jackson?”
in that instant — you stopped walking. your friends barrelled straight into your back, nearly falling over each other into one giant meat pile. they stared at you in confusion, before bracing into a familiar realisation of dread.
the thing was, you did have thoughts about michael jackson. you had a lot of thoughts about michael jackson, actually — thoughts you'd managed to keep more or less to yourself through roughly three years of being a public figure, which had been a not-insignificant personal achievement.
you’d suddenly become aware that all three of them had turned to look at you; their expressions reflective of people who had known you long enough to understand that whatever came out of your mouth in the next five seconds was about to become their problem too.
"ah, shit," one of them said beside your ear.
"for fuck's sake," another breathed — hissing your name through their teeth — amused but nonetheless exasperated, “don't do it. you'll regret it."
the corner of your mouth twitched upward.
you bit the edge of your manicured finger — not for show, just because it was what you did when you were trying not to smile too wide — and gazed at the nearest camera over the frame of your sunglasses.
"oh," you said, already stepping backwards towards the car with all the confidence of someone who definitely hadn't thought this through:
"i think you know how i feel about michael jackson."
and just like that the once-quiet street corner erupted. camera flashes blazed everywhere. simple questions turned into shouts that were hurled through the crisp summer air. behind you, your friends made a variety of noises ranging from hysterical laughter to a soft, resigned despair. you laughed too, helplessly, ducking your head as you reached the car door — and then, drunk on the spontaneity of the moment, you turned back one last time.
you found the nearest lens. pointed directly at it. then, dumb and deliberate, you lifted your hand to your cheek — pinky and thumb extended in a tiny telephone gesture — and mouthed, with perfect clarity, the two words you would soon continue to regret for the next seventy-two hours:
“call me.”
⤹ ii. the imperial hotel — tokyo, japan
michael jackson was not paying attention to his manager.
this was not, in itself, unusual. frank had been managing michael long enough to know that his attention operated according to its own internal logic, orbiting whatever had caught it most recently with a concentration most people reserved for things like surgery or defusing explosives. generally, you just had to wait it out. stay in his eyeline. keep talking. eventually, whatever had him occupied would let go, and he'd surface again — slightly apologetic, entirely present — and you could pick up where you'd left off.
though tonight, frank was beginning to suspect they were entering whole new territory.
it had started innocuously. they'd been going over the next leg of the tour — tokyo, osaka, yokohama — working through the precise logistical minutiae that kept operations of this size from collapsing into complete chaos: interview schedules, press appearances. the yokohama venue had changed its staging dimensions, which meant choreography adjustments, which meant a conversation with the team that neither of them particularly wanted to have. security wanted to reroute the airport transfer after the crowd incident in rotterdam. there were wardrobe decisions for osaka that couldn't be put off much longer.
standard. manageable. things michael was normally at least nominally engaged with.
except that somewhere in the middle of frank's briefing, michael had reached sideways and picked up that morning's newspaper from the coffee table — the hotel staff had left it by the door a few hours earlier — and had gone somewhere else.
frank had noticed but he'd assumed it was, as always, a momentary distraction. a photograph had caught his eye. he'd put it down in a minute.
but soon a minute passed; he did not put it down.
despite this, frank kept talking: tokyo. six o'clock rehearsal. two press junkets before noon. the security note about the airport.
“mhm,” michael said.
frank paused, put the planning folder down, and leaned over michael's shoulder at the newspaper — mostly to understand what he was currently losing to.
a singer.
he had heard of her. honestly, at this point, most of the industry had.
young, critically respected, she'd somehow managed to become attached to words like prodigy and generational within months of entering the public eye. she had arrived seemingly out of nowhere, released a number one single, collected enough glowing reviews to make veteran critics sound like infatuated fangirls, and then done something that was — from a publicity standpoint — completely unheard of: become even more elusive after the success.
rare tours. rare interviews. a mystique that you couldn't quite manufacture, that came from someone who genuinely seemed to have no interest in being known.
she was a pretty girl. michael was hardly immune to the draw of a pretty girl. he just usually remembered when there was a conversation happening around them.
frank reached over and tilted the magazine to read the headline properly.
"CALL ME" — POP'S NEWEST SENSATION SENDS MESSAGE TO MICHAEL JACKSON
that made frank straighten up.
michael, having noticed the shift in the room's energy, looked up from the newspaper for the first time in several minutes. he wore the joyous astonishment of a child who had just discovered a secret.
"look — " he started.
"i can see it," frank said.
michael went back to reading.
the article had photographs, as most of them do. frank could only imagine the sheer frenzy on that street when they were taken. the sequence was stretched across a full spread: her laughing with her hand raised; that finger-to-mouth expression the caption described as coy, which — frank decided — was underselling it; the backwards walk toward the car; and then the final shot.
her, pointed directly at the lens. that unmistakable little telephone gesture. wearing the grin of someone who had just pleased herself tremendously.
he watched michael linger on that last photograph for a long moment. he'd known, in a vague way, that michael had been following her career. it was hard to miss: the magazine clippings that appeared backstage, the way he'd pause in hallways when her songs came on the radio, the absurdly too casual mention of her name once or twice in conversation. frank had filed it away under professional admiration. michael admired a great many artists, and it rarely amounted to anything.
in hindsight, the signs had been embarrassingly obvious.
"the catering people still need your menu choices." frank tried again.
"uhuh."
"there’s a signing event for thursday."
"mhm."
"i promised the press you'd wrestle a bear."
"yep, sounds good."
frank closed his eyes, a dim frustration slowly creeping into his soul. he moved to cover his face with both hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead — physically trying to stop the headache before it arrived.
michael turned a page. then he started reading the thing aloud. frank couldn't help but laugh at that. "'sources close to the singer claim she has quietly admired jackson since his jackson 5 days. '"
he turned towards him immediately, smile bright. "she likes me."
"yes, michael," frank said, the last of his resistance gradually ebbing away. "it would appear so."
michael went back to reading. "'the songwriter has reportedly attended multiple jackson fan events over the years under aliases — '"
he jolted up in his seat.
"she went to fan club meetings..."
"michael — "
"she went to fan club meetings." he repeated, sounding genuinely and helplessly delighted by the discovery. as if it was the best thing anyone had told him in some time.
frank pursed his lips together, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of his dwindling sanity. then, because this was his job and he was a professional, he picked up his previously abandoned folder in a final act of war.
"you have choreography revisions tomorrow. the staging for — "
"'friends describe the singer as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of jackson's back catalogue, extending well beyond his commercial singles — '"
michael pointed at the page.
"she. knows. the. b-sides." every word was punctuated with an almost comical emphasis.
conversation left the room soon after, frank finally relinquished the ever-losing battle for michael's attention and let him continue reading the newspaper. it left for barely a minute, though it felt much longer, the only sounds filling the expansive suite were the steady ticking of the overly grandiose grandfather clock in the corner and frank rapping his fingers against the leather sofa. waiting for the moment michael returned to the world around him for air.
then, very softly: "she thinks i'm attractive."
the folder was set aside, never to be picked up again that evening. frank looked at michael — who was still looking at the photograph of the girl — and found something in his face that he hadn't seen there in a long while, boyishly hopeful.
he sighed. it came from somewhere deep, that sigh. tired and fond and already resigned to the amount of work this was about to create for him.
michael finally set the paper down. and turned to face him properly.
and then he did that thing. frank privately thought of it as the please routine — somehow both the most earnest and the most unfair weapon in michael jackson's repertoire.
"no," he said, out of principle.
michael blinked. "you didn’t even know what i was going to ask."
"you want her number."
his eyes drifted back to the photograph for just a second before returning to frank, carrying such transparent, optimistic guilt that frank genuinely wondered — not for the first time — how a man this famous had managed to stay this uncynical.
"…maybe."
frank couldn't even remember making the decision. one moment he was sitting there, determined to be sensible, and the next he was crossing the suite toward the desk, reaching for the telephone, and trying to track down the manager of a young singer who had made one very impulsive gesture on a new york street corner and was very certainly not expecting anyone to actually take her up on it.
⤹ iii. columbia records — new york city, usa
here was the thing about that paparazzi moment, in your defense: it had felt very different in the moment.
in the car, immediately afterwards, it had felt funny. a bit reckless, maybe, the way some things sometimes are when the afternoon was warm and your friends were there and the question caught you off guard and your mouth had simply — moved. faster than your brain. not the first time that’s happened, though usually the consequences were considerably more manageable than this.
you could still remember your friends playfully shoving your shoulders, telling you what a complete idiot you are. and, like the complete idiot you are, you'd simply giggled before taking another idle sip of your scalding hot caramel latte.
by that evening, when the first photograph had started circulating, it had felt approximately thirty percent less funny.
by the morning, when you'd seen the headline, it had dropped to around seventy percent less funny, helped along by the barrage of phone calls consisting mostly of "i told you so"s.
but then three days had passed, and the news cycle had moved on to something else, and you'd started breathing normally again. it had been a moment. a funny moment. it would become a story you told at dinner parties. remember that time i told michael jackson to call me in the papers? and that would be that.
you had, in this way, convinced yourself.
the columbia records conference room was the type of place that made you feel both pretentiously important and sleepy. floor-to-ceiling windows. expensive abstract paintings that you could guarantee nobody had ever actually looked at. a long table covered in the comfortable detritus of a working meeting: your demo tapes, legal pads, someone's abandoned coffee from an hour ago that nobody had bothered to remove, a fruit plate that had been picked over to the point of mostly just grapes.
the label's a&r team was in the middle of a fairly fervent conversation about the rollout strategy for your next album, which you were half-following while also doodling something shapeless in the margins of your notebook. it was either a landscape or a large dog. you hadn't decided.
sandra was on the other side of the table, flipping through papers with her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. she'd stepped into the call a minute ago without breaking stride, continuing to sort contracts and scribble notes as though multitasking at this level was simply her natural state.
you were starting to tune her out, too…
until a moment later, when sandra said, "...i'm sorry??" in a timbre that made you look up.
the room kept talking around you. you watched her face do something strange — the paperwork abruptly forgotten, her pen set down, her focus now fully redirected to the phone.
you mouthed noiselessly at her: what?
a shushing gesture was instantly sent your way. another pause.
she glanced across the table at you, and you knew, from twenty-two years of being alive and three years of working very closely with sandra, that whatever she was about to say had absolutely nothing to do with the album.
she pressed the receiver against her blazer, muffling the conversation. "the consequences of your own actions," she said discreetly, "are currently on the phone."
your eyebrows drew together. "what does that even mean?"
around the table, the conversation had begun to trail off. people were listening now without looking like they were listening, a skill everyone in this industry had finely honed.
"this is the manager," sandra said. she stopped. you shrugged at her, still puzzled.
"...of michael jackson."
you felt the world freeze at that. the pigeons outside the window hung in the air. somebody halfway through reaching for a grape seemed to stay there indefinitely. even the old man currently suspended washing the windows seemed to pause halfway down the glass.
"he would like," sandra continued, watching the realisation crash through you in real time, "your phone number."
silence.
a total, comprehensive silence.
not from the room — the room still very much existed. people were still breathing. somebody's chair made a small noise as they shifted their weight. somewhere, a page turned. but from you, specifically.
a silence that spread from the centre of your chest outward until it reached the tips of your fingers and your mouth, which had fallen open just enough to let flies in.
"what," you said. not actually a question. more like a stall for time.
several executives at the table were no longer pretending. one of them — david, from marketing, a man you'd always liked for his complete lack of subtlety — had set his pen down, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline (which was receding), watching you with an undisguised interest.
sandra released the phone from the confines of her blazer. on the other end of the line — and you were now acutely, horribly aware of the other end of the line — you could just about make out the voice of a man who sounded, even from where you were, profoundly unenthusiastic about the task he'd been assigned.
you almost felt sorry for him. almost.
you were slightly busy having your own internal, private crisis.
what you hadn't accounted for — what the warmth of the afternoon and your friends' laughter and the sheer improbable silliness of the moment had completely obscured — was that you were not actually like this.
the person on that street corner who bit her finger and said smooth things at cameras and made ditzy little telephone gestures at international superstars was a version of you that only really existed outdoors, in sunlight, when the adrenaline was high and the stakes seemed abstract.
the version of you sitting in this conference room right now was the one who got shy at parties. who rehearsed phone calls before making them. who had, on more than one occasion, refused to introduce herself to someone she admired because the embarrassment of a bad interaction seemed considerably more permanent than regret.
and that version of you had just been volunteered, by the other version of you, for a phone call with michael jackson.
"oh my god," you whinged in total incredulity.
"what do i tell them?" sandra hissed, shielding the receiver.
"why would he actually — " you started.
"you told him to."
"that was — " you stopped, both palms flying up, facing outward beside your head in immediate self-defence. "that was a joke."
"clearly,” she raised a brow at you, “he did not interpret it as one."
you dropped your head into your hands. the conference table was very solid and real under your elbows.
"what do i say?" sandra said again, urgent now, because the man on the other side was still waiting and his patience had clearly been thin to begin with.
a long moment.
you uncovered your face, only to find yourself clutching your cheeks, which were smoldering beneath your skin.
for a brief, deeply humiliating moment, you thought about being fifteen years old and spending all your allowance on bootleg concert tapes. about making your friends sit through lengthy arguments over why off the wall was the better album, regardless of thriller's overall commercial success. about hearing one of his songs on the radio and driving an extra three blocks just to hear the ending.
you thought about that girl on the street corner — the one who had somehow managed to outrun your common sense.
you took a slow breath, smoothed your expression into something resembling composure, fixed your posture, and said, with as much dignity as you could salvage from the wreckage,
"...yeah. give him the number."
sandra stared at you for exactly one second, still somewhat unimpressed with your behaviour. then she turned back to the phone.
the room gradually resumed its normal rhythm, the a&r team once again descending into their argument, though a few suspiciously ill-timed coughs were now sprinkled throughout the discussion. in the corner of the office, the old man outside the window had resumed wiping the glass, blissfully unaware of the happenings going on inside.
you gathered your useless paper doodles into a neat pile, making a vague attempt at resembling someone who was doing something important and had her life under control.
it was, by any measure, an unconvincing performance. you pressed your fingers to your mouth.
"…oh my god."
across the room, sandra was already reading the number out, her voice perfectly steady, giving nothing away. she was a consummate professional and you were extraordinarily lucky to have her.
the man on the other end said something clipped and final.
the call ended.
sandra set the phone down and met your eyes across the table. "the album rollout," she said, picking her pen back up, "is still our most pressing concern."
through every era, him. 18+ (barely proofread sorry >~<) (fyi totally rushed so enjoy a shorter shittier one LMFAO)
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
You wanted to fuck your boss — bad.
To put it mildly.
Like most people pushed into forced proximity with their colleagues, feelings blossomed — a small touch of a hand, a flirtatious giggle, sometimes even going as far as having one another’s personal numbers and meeting up for after-work drinks. That sentiment was common for the average working human.
But, not for you.
Your boss wasn’t like most others — he didn’t have a five o’clock shadow and a beer belly, and didn’t touch your ass at the Christmas party whilst his wife was in the bathroom, claiming you were his favourite co-worker, no. Your boss was quite the opposite — which only furthered your desire.
Michael Jackson, global super-star and one of the most famous men in the world, was your boss.
That’s right — Michael Joseph Jackson was your fucking boss.
And you weren’t the colleague that attended his meetings, or interviews, or helped on set of one of his many music videos — you were his children’s nanny.
You ate, slept and lived in his home — a live-in babysitter for his two young children. You orbited his world — learnt his habits, and daily routines, likes and dislikes, and became a prominent figure in his offspring’s lives.
They loved you, treated you like the mother that wasn’t as present in their lives, much to your dismay as you’d much rather be seen as a sisterly figure, which only made Michael adore you more.
And that’s what made you fall so deeply head over heels for him.
Michael, much like most celebrities parents, was a busy man, his sole reasoning to hiring a nanny in the first place — but never, ever let his children feel unloved. He was present, as much as he possibly could be despite his demanding career, in his child’s lives like a loving, caring father should be. Every night he’d trudge home in the early dawning of the morning, the sun threatening to rise, and he would still creep into his son and daughter’s individual rooms, and press a soft, tentative kiss to their sleeping foreheads, and whisper how much he loved them. He would, earning childish giggles from his two little ones, attempt to make pancakes on the mornings he was home, bags under his eyes from the interrupted sleep he had gotten the previous night, smiling to himself as the premature batter would crumble the sugary meal into a pile in the saucepan.
He was truly a good man, and an even better father.
Which is exactly how you fell so hard for the older man.
Michael was at least nine years older than you — you in your mid-to-late twenties and he, early forties, something you never felt bothered you. And even in his growing age, Michael had never lost his looks. He was gorgeous and a total flirt — always finding a way to touch you, or give you a compliment that would have you reeling for the next few hours, and leave your pussy soaking wet. He was aging like fine wine — face a carved display of beauty, with sleek, long black locks and an intense confidence that had you blushing each time he walked into a room.
A blush that adorned your cheeks just like in this moment.
You had been preparing dinner — spaghetti bolognaise, albeit with a few finely chopped greens mixed in as you knew the fussy toddlers would downright refuse otherwise, a dish you knew they enjoyed.
You turned your back towards the children in their high chairs, sucking a stray dollop of tomato sauce off your thumb as you straightened the apron that clad your torso.
“Good?” You questioned, running your hands over the material of the apron that had ‘What’s cookin’, good lookin’?’ embroidered into the front — a gift your best-friend had bought you for Christmas, one that Michael would often chuckle at whenever you’d sport it in the kitchen.
“So good!” Prince Jackson, Michael’s eldest child, beamed first, face already smothered with sauce, using his hands to eat his food despite the fork that was gripped in the other.
“Prince, use your fork, please, honey.” You reminded, beginning to gather the dirty saucepans and empty sauce jars towards the sink, where you flicked on the tap, letting the water warm.
You rolled your eyes playfully as Prince whined at your request, shaking your head with a laugh as he ignored you, continuing to messy himself.
“She said use your fork, Prince.” Paris Jackson, Michael’s youngest, fired towards her older brother, looking so sweet in her cherry-red Minnie Mouse bib, as she pointed accusatorially at the older boy.
You giggled, “No fork, no pancakes tomorrow.” You revealed, sounding your words out in a sing-song tone, smiling deeper as the young boy gasped, suddenly letting his hand fall to his side as he began using his fork to swiftly eat his dinner.
“Alright, alright, slow down, buddy.” You smiled as you plugged the sink, letting it rise with warm, soapy-clad water, “You’ll get your pancakes, don’t worry.”
“Do I get some too, lovey?”
You smiled at the nickname — an adorable term of endearment the two children had conjured up for you in the three years you had been working for Michael.
Three long years of loving your boss — and he still had no idea.
“Of course, babygirl,” You reassured, as her face lit up.
“That’s ‘cuz I’m using my fork, Prince.”
You chuckled quietly, as to not promote the behaviour, as the two children bickered childishly, firing playful shots back at one another as they continued to eat, while you washed the dishes slowly, awaiting their filthy ones once they’d finished.
They were the sweetest children, both showing you great affection and adoration from the very moment you met them, often sending you into fits of laughter at the unsuspecting awareness of their brilliant, child-like humour.
“Lovey?” Paris called out, now sporting a similar sauce-covered face to her brother.
“Yes, baby?”
“Are you Daddy’s girlfriend yet?”
You hated the way your heart jumped at the question, completely harmless and inquisitive to the little girl, but an intense sense of need for you — a title you so wished you had.
“Baby, no, I’m your nanny, remember? Lovey makes your dinner, washes your clothes, takes you to school, cleans the stinky toilets,” You reminded as they giggled at the mention of the childish description of the bathroom appliance, “Not Daddy’s girlfriend.”
Paris pouted, “When will you be Daddy’s girlfriend?”
You tried to suppress the small blush that was creeping onto your face at the all too familiar conversation that had your mind reeling. Paris broached this topic with you often — constantly asking you why you weren’t her Daddy’s girlfriend and when exactly where you going to be, a question that had you failing to repress a smile each time she’d ask you. The answer being no, every time, an answer you hated giving — you dreamt, daily, that you actually were his girl, but alas not, and you knew you never would be.
“Paris, don’t ask such questions. That’s rude.”
“Daddy!”
The sound of Michael’s soft, yet sternly guiding, voice hit your ears, alongside the children’s excitable exclaims at their fathers presence, as you paused your gliding movement against a dirty saucepan — the blush that had been growing on your face at the reoccurring topic of your romantic affiliation with the boss you deeply desire, was now at the full force, sending shockwaves of warmth throughout your body.
Michael strode into the kitchen calmly in an unbuttoned, white shirt and black slacks, tie loose around his neck — god, he looked perfect.
“Sorry about that,” Michael started, smiling softly at you as you met his gaze, your heart thumping in your chest at the eye-contact, “She’s just a nosey girl.”
“It’s okay, really.” You replied, voice now softer and less relaxed as you had been when it had just been you and the kids, “I think it’s sweet.”
Michael smiled gently at you, lips tugging at each side as he watched you glance over at Paris who couldn’t care less about her father’s correction of her words, eyes glistening with affection at the adorable little girl.
“How were they today?” Michael questioned, reaching into the fridge to retrieve a cold carton of orange juice, his favourite.
“Amazing, as always.” You admitted wholeheartedly, eyes not daring to meet his own out of your own nervousness, gaze glued to the soapy plates between your grasp, “Paris finished her book, which she was happy about, and Prince finished a banana.”
Michael laughed loudly at the difference in his children’s days, “He finished a banana?”
“Very big achievement, actually,” You chuckled, smile so wide it made your cheeks burn, “You said he’s been refusing to even touch one, let alone finish it, for the past week, right? Not sure what changed but he did it.”
Michael grinned deeply, vision fixated on the way your own gaze landed on his young offspring, eyes full of pure love for his children as you admitted your proudness.
And he knew exactly why Prince decided he suddenly liked bananas. It wasn’t because his tastebuds had changed, or he wasn’t in the mood for it the previous days where Michael had attempted to get him to eat one — it was because of you. You were the reason — knowing his son loved and admired you so dearly that he was willing to finish his least favourite fruit just for your happiness and approval.
“Well done, Princey, good job, buddy.” Michael spoke as Prince thanked him back loudly, voice muffled with the mouthful of food he had eaten, “Thank you, I know I say it all the time, but you are really too good to us.”
The blush spread wildly across your face deepened, the smile splayed over your lips tugging further into your aching cheeks, “No, thank you. I’m forever indebted to you, Michael, and your beautiful little ones.”
As Michael watched you giggled as Paris claimed triumphantly that she had finished her dinner first and that she had first dibs on dessert — his eyes glinting at the genuine grin that adorned your gorgeous face.
Michael, unaware of it yourself, had always found you utterly breath-taking — a stunning sight to bless his eyes each time you’d leave Prince’s room late at night in your skimpy, tight pyjamas shorts, yawning a good-night as you rubbed your eyes, or how you’d let stray pieces of fair fall over your face from your messy bun as you taught Paris how to roll dough with a rolling-pin as you made sugar cookies, or when you’d fall asleep with the kids on the couch, mouth ajar as you slumbered peacefully, a snoring child under each arm, pulling them close to you as you all rested in unison, not helping his own feelings towards you as he’d pull a blanket over you, pressing a kiss to his children’s temples, and then yours, letting his heart flutter in his chest.
Unbeknownst to you, Michael had always felt a little something special towards you that he had never felt for a colleague before — a special place in his heart being reserved just for you. He didn’t know whether it was your kindness towards him, or your dedication to your job role, or your continuous care and love for his children, that made him so interested in you — but he knew he felt something. Something deep in his soul, a familiar feeling that clad your heart too, each time you’d lock eyes.
“Right, let’s get these mucky pups clean, hm?” You spoke, hands on your hips as the two children before you, now finished with their meals, giggled loudly.
Michael watched, taking slow sips of the cold beverage with a smile hidden behind the carton, as you took a turn with each child, wiping down their hands and faces with a warm rag, encouraging them to keep still with a chuckle as they wriggled away from your hands.
“Alright, alright, that’ll do.” You breathed out, shaking your head as you attempted to wipe one last smidgen of sauce from Prince’s cheek, who squeaked, jerking his head to the side to get away from you, “Time for bed.”
Michael, completely transfixed with your natural, maternal instincts, kept his gaze on you as you set Prince down from his chair, and slid Paris onto your hip, smiling to himself as the smaller girl nestled her face into your neck, small arms clinging to your apron.
“Do you want some tea after I finish up?” Your dedication to everyone’s happiness had Michael’s heart swelling in his chest.
Not only did you care for his children so deeply — but you also cared about him, too.
This time, it was you whose heart skipped a beat at the casual pet-name, nodding quickly, biting back a smile as you led the children from the kitchen, towards the back of the large, elegant mansion, nearer to their bedrooms. You spent the time, finally alone to reduce your increased heart rate, brushing their teeth, fighting to put their pyjamas on, and tucking them in with a bedtime story.
Prince was already fast asleep when you slipped from his bedroom quietly, tip-toeing into the hallway as you closed the door slowly behind you. As you turned around, attempting to head towards Paris’ bedroom next, you jumped with a gasp, your hand slapping over your mouth as you collided with a broad chest.
“God, Michael.” You breathed, hand steadying against your chest as your heart leapt into your throat, “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” He whispered with a small laugh, “Is he asleep?”
“Yeah, just gonna read to Paris,” You nodded, “Wanna come with me? She likes it when I do it, but no-one’s better than Daddy.”
Michael hated himself — not because he didn’t want to aid his daughter to sleep, but because of the thoughts that plagued his mind at your words.
The words, meant to be harmless, turned wicked and twisted in his mind — now clouded seductively in his brain as you addressed him as the pet-name often used in the bedroom, one he was partial to himself.
Michael agreed, nodding slowly as you began to lead the way, cursing himself as his eyes wondered down to the curve of your ass in the shorts that clad your behind — riding dangerously high up the skin that threatened to peek out underneath, a thought that had him twitching beneath his joggers.
He tried not to be a lewd man — striving on traditionalism and being a gentleman. But, when you were this sweet, tentative, and gentle with his children, and cared for him just as much too, whilst being unfathomably beautiful — he literally couldn’t help himself. Often letting his cock twitch as it dared to stiffen in his boxers each time you’d smile at him or accidentally brush your fingers against one another’s.
He was unaware you felt the same way — panties sticking to the ridge of your folds in slickness at the way he’d laugh or hold your gaze intensely, having to swallow thickly from the sheer weight of his aura, eliciting an undeniable, visceral reaction out of you each time without fail. You’d spend most nights, after carrying out your usual day-to-day routine babysitting, with your hands shoved down your pyjama shorts — fingers rubbing frantic circles around your throbbing clit in an attempt to soothe the arousing desire that surged through you every time you got close to him.
You slipped into Paris’ room quietly, smiling as she lay in her bed, eyes open awaiting your arrival, smiling as she met your eyes.
“Hey, princess.” You whispered, striding across the room to perch on the edge of her bed, eyes warming at the sight of her adorable frame tucked up into bed.
Michael wasn’t far behind you — sliding in quietly, not pushing the door completely shut behind you to allow you both to exit in the quietest form possible, before joining you on Paris’ bed.
“What story do you wanna read tonight, babe?” You questioned, voice soft and delicate as your gaze flickered towards the large array of books next to her bed.
“No.” She protested, “Don’t want a book.”
“Oh?” Michael finally spoke, laughing softly at his daughter’s change in character, “Why not, princess?”
Paris huffed, tugging her bedsheets further up her chest, “Well, Daddy, I finished my book today.” She started, rambling, “A-And Lovey said I did a good job so I don’t want to read another one.”
You and Michael, flickering glances towards one another, shared small laughter, as you reached over smoothed the hair on her head, “You funny girl. Why don’t you tell Daddy about your day, then?”
Paris, jumping for joy at the chance to talk, began ranting about how she had pancakes for breakfast, how yours were better than his as they had chocolate chips in them, and then how she and Prince ran around the garden for ages (half an hour), and then she finished her book in the sun with you and Prince, who took a much needed nap in your lap, as you helped her sound out words she didn’t understand yet, before she had the best dinner ever, a meal she’d had a million times before but still adored, especially when you made it.
“Wow, princess,” Michael breathed, now having his hand taken hostage as Paris wrapped her tiny fingers around his own, “Sounds like a great day with Lovey and Princey, hm?”
“Was the best, Daddy.” She mumbled, her own rambling tiring her out as her eyes fluttered against her cheeks, “I miss you.”
You pouted slightly at the adorable connotation of her words, your heart warming as she threatens to drift off into a much needed rest after her bustling day.
“I missed you too, baby,” Michael whispered, leaning over to press a soft kiss to her cheek, thumbing the skin where he had kissed, smiling as her eyes shut for a few seconds before opening once more.
She reached for your hand, tiny fingers now enclosing around your index finger as she peered up at you, “Lovey?”
“Yes, babygirl?” You replied, tracing soft circles on her skin as you grinned down lovingly at her, not noticing the way Michael’s heart thumped in adoration at the interaction.
“I wish you were my mommy.”
Your head snapped towards Michael as you met each other’s gaze — not noticing the way Paris finally fell asleep, grip around your finger falling slack as slumber took over her small body, as your mouth fell ajar at her shocking words, face contorting into shock as you stared at Michael.
Silence consumed you, the sound of Paris’ soft breathing the only noise filling the room, as you let her sudden admission settle in your brain.
“I, um,” Michael started, voice deathly quiet as he attempted to find the right words, “Come on.”
He took your hand, leading you out the room softly, shutting the door behind him carefully, before leading you through the quiet of the house, hand enclosed gently in your own, towards his bedroom.
You’d been in there a few times, albeit alone, grabbing something quickly before rushing out as you felt like you had intruded into his personal space — but this was a whole new step.
He lead you inside, clicking the door closed as you suddenly let the tears fall that had been welling up in your ears from the moment the words left Paris’ lips. You let out a quiet sob — chest wracking as you covered your mouth to conceal your saddened noises as to not wake the children.
Michael embraced you instantly — wrapping his slender arms around your back and pulling you against his chest as you let the tears fall freely from your eyes, down your flushed cheeks at the sudden contact. You clung to his shirt as he held you, your head falling into his chest as you sniffled.
You pulled away, wiping the tears from your eyes, “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t expect her to say something like that.”
Michael breathed, looking down at you as you blinked the wetness away from your lashes, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t either.” He admitted, still holding you close to him, trying to ignore the way his heart thumped in his chest, “I apologise if it’s off-putting.”
Your eyes widened, “No, no, not at all.” You reassured, hands still gripping the smooth of his t-shirt, “I’m honoured, I just feel so sorry that she doesn’t have her real mother here.”
Michael’s chest tightened at the mention of his absent ex-wife, the mother of his two children, “She’ll understand when she’s older.” He whispered, his gentle hand coming up to move a strand of your hair from your face, “I’m just glad she trusts you enough to view you as a motherly figure.”
You peered up at him — finally meeting his gaze, breath hitching in your throat at his deep stare. Your heart-rate rapidly increasingly as you remained locked in his vision — a deep, irrevocable sense of desire blossoming into undeniable tension around you as he kept you flush against him.
“She just loves you so much.” Michael breathed, eyes flickering down to your lips, before uttering his next words even quieter, “As do I.”
His words hit you straight in the chest — a quiet, barely audible gasp leaving your lips as your eyes darkened. Michael heard it — the physical reaction to his admission of his infatuation giving him all the answers he needed to your mutual pining.
“Michael.”
He wasted no time at your whimpered plea — hands flying to cup your face as his lips pressed against your own in a desperate, intense kiss, revelling in the way you moaned into his mouth. Your hands flattened against his chest, tongue lapping at his own as it slid into your mouth, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks at the connection you’d been yearning to have for years.
Michael pulled from your mouth, catching his breath as he locked eyes with you once more — a sudden change in his blown pupils as you tugged your lip between your teeth.
“Say you want me as much I want you.” Michael panted, hand tightening around your flushed cheek, “That you need me like I need you.”
You sighed deeply, lips falling open as your deepest desire came to life, “Michael, I need you. Please.”
In one fell swoop, you were raised from the ground — gasping in surprise as Michael lifted you from the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist as he guided you to the bed, laying you flat against it gently, his lips connected to yours once more in a frantic kiss.
Your legs tightened around his middle, whining into the air, attempting to muffle your noises with your lip between your teeth, as his mouth slipped from the comforts of your mouth, to trail eager kisses down your neck — suckling and nibbling at the warm skin from your jawline to the curve of your collarbone, as his hand slithered down your side to knead the flesh of your hip.
You arched into his touch — needy whines falling from your spit-stricken lips, his name slipped from them like a plea, begging for his pleasureful love.
Michael’s hands found the waistband of your shorts, toying with the soft material as his face parted from the soft of your skin, meeting your eyes, “May I?”
“Dear God, please do.”
He tugged them down in one swift movement — the bare, nakedness of your pussy meeting his eyes as the arousing prospect that you weren’t seeing any underwear clouded the forefront of his brain. He groaned lowly under his breath, as you tore the oversized shirt from your torso, revealing your similarly bare chest to him.
Michael let out a shaken breath he didn’t know he was holding as your stark naked frame met his eyes — cock twitching violently beneath his clothes at the sight of you.
“My God,” He exhaled deeply, eyes taking over your bare figure, vision darkening at the sight of your perky tits, nipples erect in anticatpru arousal, the beautiful curve of your waist and hips, and your slicked-up cunt all on display for him, “So fucking beautiful.”
A daring hand slipped between your legs — a singular finger dragging between your folds, collecting your essence on his fingers, groaning at the way you writhed breathed him, whining loudly at the contact. It was only when Michael slid a digit towards your entrance, sliding inside you with one thrust, curling his finger instantly to abuse the sweet spot inside you, did he have to shut you up — leaning down to capture your lips in another ferocious kiss, swallowing your noises.
“Shh, baby,” He coaxed, now grinding his hard cock into the smooth of the mattress as you mewled beneath him, finger still forcing you open, “They’re asleep remember.”
You cried out again — whimpering against his lips as you nodded your head, trying your hardest to keep quiet as the ball of his hand nudged against your throbbing clit.
“Don’t want all your hard work today to go to waste by letting those pretty noises wake them up, huh?”
“No, no, Michael, no.” You agreed, head falling back as a second finger was slipped inside you, the stretching sensation sending a shudder through you as you clung to his shirt tightly.
“Good girl.” He whispered, fingers never stopping as he fell to his knees between your legs.
Your legs tightened and an instantly regretted loud moan fell from your lips as Michael’s own wrapped around your clit — crying out at sensation. Michael, who’s hands squeezed your thigh in a silent plea for your reduction in noises, starting working his oral magic against you — sucking and slurping at your clit, before licking a tentative strip from your leaking hole to where you throbbed most, collecting your drooling arousal on his tongue. Meanwhile, his fingers never let up — still curling deep inside you as you bucked your hips to chase his digits, back arched sweetly into him as you whimpered his name like a prayer, begging for more.
“Quiet for me, sweet girl.” Michael whispered, giving your thigh a gentle tap, as you squirmed violently, “Gonna wake up the whole house with that mouth.”
You whimpered — voice, luckily, reducing in decibel as Michael retracted his mouth to speak, allowing you a few seconds to catch your breath, before his lips were back on you. You resorted to clasping your hand over your mouth in attempt to mask your sensual noises, crying out loudly as the slick noises of your sopping wet cunt against his lewd tongue now filled the room.
Michael continued to work you open with his fingers — the tip of his ring and middle finger abusing the sweet spot inside you that you had seeing stars and pleading his name out into the skin of your hand, the sensation of his eager tongue lapping at your cunt having you feeling otherworldly.
“Oh, God—fuck, oh, fuck yes,” You whined, voice muffled against yourself, before pulling your hand away completely to whimper, eyes falling into his gaze as he peered up at you, nose nudging against your clit, “Oh, Daddy, please.”
Michael lost it — his explicit, private fantasy blooming to life as the erotic name left your swollen lips. Michael groaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head, before planting a particularly hard suck to your clit — before rising to his feet. He shoved the bottom half of his clothing down his body, freeing his hard cock from his boxers, before instantaneously wrapping a hand around his aching dick — gasping at the sensation as his fingers continued to work themselves in and out of you.
“Please, Michael,” You cried, tears once falling in adoration for his daughter, now pleading to be stuffed full of his cock, “Put it in, baby, please.”
“Fuck,” Michael breathed, eyes locked on his fingers disappearing inside your clenching cunt, and his own hand pumping his cock, leaking with pre-cum, “I-I can’t.”
“W-Why? God, please, Mikey, please. I need you.”
Michael sighed, restraint wearing dangerously thin as his face contorted into pleasure at the sensation of him pumping himself quickly, “Y-You’re not my wife, not even my girl — it’d be w-wrong.”
You whined, head thrown back as the pad of finger left your spasming hole, found your clit, now rubbing quickened figure eights against the nub. You hated it — his traditional ways getting in the way of him stretching your needy cunt and filling you to the brim with his cum. But, you had to respect him — as someone you loved so deeply.
“Cum on me, Michael.” You breathed, dark eyes meeting his own as they jerked away from where you masturbated you both, the familiar feeling of an orgasm creeping up your spine.
“W-What?”
“Cum on my pussy, please, ‘M gonna cum, Daddy, mmph—!” You whined, teetering on the edge as your voice hit a higher octave.
The orgasm you’d been craving from him from the moment you locked eyes on the first day of the job, washed over you brutally — eyes slamming to the back of your head as you shook around him, clit overstimulated as he continued to circle the twitching nub.
Michael, watching you come undone on his fingers, nipples now erect from your overwhelming pleasure, had his hips stuttering into his enclosed fist — angling himself nearer to where you throbbed.
He found his release with a low groan, mouth falling open in cascading pleasure as he spilled over your cunt — hot, white cum drooling over your spread pussy lips, now shining with your clear essence and his fertile seed, as erotica left his lips in his blind lust, “Yeah, baby, let me make you a real mommy—fuck, that’s it, sweetheart, take this fucking cum.” He groaned, fingers now sliding down to disappear in and out of you once more, pumping his release, dripping all over your cunt, inside your willing hole.
You moaned out — watching as his seed trickled down your swollen clit, and disappeared inside you, his fertile arousal now flooding your womb without even needing to be stretched with his cock.
Michael slowed his jerking fist around himself, while his fingers let up inside you, pulling away to catch his breath as he stared at your cum-stricken pussy — glistening with both your releases.
He smiled, leaning down to press a loving kiss to your lips, humming into his mouth as the taste of your tangy essence lingered in his tongue. When he pulled away, he moved to spread your legs with two strong hands on your knees, eyes trailing over where a glob of his release drooled from your spent hole.
You shuddered, completely overstimulated, as two of his slender fingers reached down to shove his escaping cum back up inside you — gasping as he filled you once again.
His fingers remained there, plugging you up to prevent any more of his warm seed from falling out of you, as he leant over once more, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, before pressing a kiss there,
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