pairing: matureera!michael jackson x s3xtherapist!female reader
synopsis: michael jackson is the world’s biggest superstar, but behind closed doors, his prescription drugs leave him entirely numb—so after humiliating himself with twenty-something models, he resorts to clicking a borderline sketchy ad on a sex therapist.
tags: mature content, explicit smut (minors dni!), porn with plot, age gap (reader is 27 / michael is 42), handjob, blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, missionary, creampie, switch!michael, switch!fem reader, crying during sex, michael can't get it up!, mentions of medications, hints of suppressed libido and erectile dysfunction, angst, comfort
word count: 9.3k (i know i got carried away)
an: this is kinda crazyyy! excuse the poorly designed windows layout below. also, first time using animated dividers :p the credits goes to @pixopix @cafekitsune @graphicdesignevident !
In front of the massive, heavy desktop computer in the Neverland Ranch private study, Michael sat with his silver prescription eyeglasses–surfing the web for God knows what.
As the pixelated pointer wandered over the screen, a sketchy, flashing banner ad promising “Discreet, Absolute Healing for Men’s Private Needs” pops up.
Michael’s brows shot up, his posture straightening in the squeaky office chair.
The ad was borderline sketchy. It was unpolished–only consisting of texts and that purple font. “House Calls Only,” the ad read.
He bit his lower lip, the hours of mindless scrolling suddenly had a point.
He remembered the time when he discreetly arranged encounters with the women he found attractive during fan meetings and autograph signing events. Those twenty-something slender models who looked picture perfect in photos. But behind closed doors, those encounters had turned into a recurring nightmare.
Michael remembered the look of polite confusion shifting to an uncomfortable, subtle patronizing pity on a beautiful brunette’s face when his body simply refused to respond to her touch. That quiet humiliation of sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, his head in his hands, his belt unbuckled, while he listens to the rustle of fabric as the girl dressed herself in silence, offering an empty reassurance before slipping out the door.
To them, he was a myth–and finding out he’s a broken piece of a man who couldn’t perform under the weight of his painkillers was a disappointment they couldn’t hide.
He must’ve been the talk of the town among those kinds of girls, he thought.
So he stopped trying to meet women and retreated into the dark, using his desktop computer and dial-up internet to search for a solution. Anything.
Now, as the ad flashed across his crest fallen eyes, his heart hammered against his ribs as he clicked it, hiding behind an encrypted email and a fake name.
Truthfully, he did not expect anyone to really come to the ranch. It might’ve been a scam. Or worse, it is a plot made by the tabloids to get him.
But now, twenty four hours later, the reality of that desperate click sat directly across him.
Michael had expected a ‘doctor’ his age, or perhaps a senile old man to enter his house. But no. Across his mahogany desk, a woman much younger than him sat in that armchair, looking impeccably professional in a white tailored blazer, cream colored pencil skirt that stopped above her knee, a pair of black pantyhose and those cream colored stilettos that made his breath hitch.
He felt out of place in his own space as he watched her balance a clipboard on her knee, her expression neutral–clinical, focused, and devoid of that wide-eyed eagerness Michael usually saw.
To her, he wasn’t the biggest, most hunted man on the planet. Tonight, he was just ‘Peter,’ a client who had paid a massive sum for a private house call.
Michael was a nervous wreck. He isn’t familiar with how any of these sex therapies go. He is tucked into his swivel chair, wearing a pair of black silk pajamas, his long, slender fingers tightly laced together between his knees.
“Alright, Peter,” she began, her voice smooth and businesslike as she tapped her pen against the clipboard. “Let’s establish the baseline. I’ve read the file you gave me, and it notes a persistent inability to achieve or maintain an erection, correlating with your long-term medical regimen.”
She looks up, her long eyelashes fluttering as she stares at his face.
“I need you to be precise and discuss what you feel when intimacy is initiated.”
Michael flinched, a deep crimson blush instantly rushing up his neck. He lets out a mortified gasp as he looks down on his lap.
“I…I don’t know if I can say it out loud, it’s…it’s embarrassing.”
She sets her pen down. “Peter,” she said, her tone tightening with that clinical authority that made his pulse spike. “If you wanted a yes man, you should have stayed with those girls who walked away. You paid for a clinical intervention. If we are going to understand the side effects of your medications, you have to strip away the shame. Now, answer the question. What happens when you are touched?”
The demanding edge in her voice did something dangerous to Michael’s heart. For years everyone coddled him, speaking in hushed voices afraid to disagree with him. Being spoken to with an unapologetic dominance left him completely bare.
He swallowed hard, his large eyes vulnerable as he looked up. “I–It starts out okay,” he shyly smiled. “I feel the heat of it. In my mind. I want it so badly I can’t breathe. But then, it’s like I am drowning. I feel like my body is miles away. I go numb, and then…I see the disappointment on their faces, and the panic paralyzes me.
She did not speak to offer empty comfort. She simply nodded, jotting down a quick note on her clipboard before setting it firmly on the mahogany table. She stood up, her movements deliberate as she circled the table and stopped directly in front of him.
“The physical numbness is amplified by acute performance trauma,” she murmurs, stepping directly into his personal space. “We need to re-establish a tactile baseline. Can you unbutton your shirt?”
Michael froze, his eyes drifting from the curve of her hips up to her eyes.
“Right now,” she commanded softly, her eyes with absolute certainty. “Let me see what we’re working with.”
With shaking fingers, Michael reached up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric parting to reveal the pale expanse of his chest.
She did not hesitate. She leant down, her steady hand reaching over, her palm flattening against his chest. The contrast of her cold skin against the feverish heat of his torso made him let out a ragged gasp.
“Your heart is racing,” she notes, her thumb tracing a soft firm line on his ribs, applying a calculated pressure that made his head loll back against the backrest of his chair. “Close your eyes. Block out every memory of your ‘failure.’ Focus on where my hands are moving. Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel…pressure,” Michael choked out, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands gripped the worn leather of his chair. “I feel your fingers. It’s…It’s hot.”
“Good. Your neural pathways are awake. They’re just blocked by your anxiety,” she whispered. Her hands slowly moved downwards, sliding over his lean stomach, her fingers trailing with a deliberate friction that stopped just at the waistband of his pants.
She leaned down, her eyes watching his reaction as her lips brushed the sensitive skin right below his ear, her voice losing a fraction of its clinical chill. “Now, do you want to proceed and test our hypothesis?”
Michael’s breath hitched, a shallow, uneven sound in the study. His eyes remained squeezed shut, his lashes trembling against his cheekbones. He was terrified that if he opened them, the illusion would shatter that she would suddenly realize he wasn't 'Peter,' that she would see the myth and lose that clinical, commanding edge that was currently keeping him tethered to the chair.
But the heat of her hand at the waistband of his silk pants was too real to be a dream. It was a grounding sensation that made the rest of the room fade into a blur.
"Yes," he whispered, the word barely a sound. He swallowed, his throat tight. "Please."
He didn't move to help her, he was too paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, his body waiting for her to take the lead as she had been doing. He felt a strange, dizzying sense of relief in her dominance. For once, he didn't have to be the one in control. He didn't have to be the one who provided, who performed, who led. He could just... receive.
Her fingers applied a steady, deliberate pressure against where his flaccid length rested, Michael’s head lolled back further, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. A soft, involuntary groan escaped him not of pleasure yet, but of a deep, aching tension finally finding a place to land.
"Is this..." He paused, his voice straining as he tried to maintain some semblance of his usual composure, though it was failing him miserably. "Is this part of the...the clinical process?"
Even in his vulnerability, his mind tried to retreat into the safety of her professional jargon, a desperate attempt to rationalize the way his blood was beginning to thrum in his veins.
He felt her move closer, her presence enveloping him, the scent of her–smelling of vanilla and a hint of sanitizing alcohol filling his senses. He was hyper aware of the distance between his skin and hers, the way the air seemed to hum where they almost touched.
"Just focus on the feeling. Tell me how it feels."
Michael nodded weakly, his fingers digging into the leather of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.
Her palms flattened against his flaccid length, moving in slow circles as her scrutinizing eyes watched his face.
Michael’s eyes flew open at the sensation, his pupils blown wide. A sharp, jagged gasp escaped him, his chest heaving as the sudden, direct contact sent a jolt through his entire nervous system.
He felt the familiar, terrifying tug of war in his gut. His mind was screaming, yes, more, don't stop, but his lower half felt sluggish as if veiled by an unknown presence.
"It's... it's doing it," he managed to choke out, his voice trembling with a mix of frustration and arousal. He looked down, his gaze flickering toward where her hands were working, before he quickly looked back up at her, his expression desperate. "The heat. It's there. But it's... it's like it's stuck."
He let out a frustrated, shaky breath, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch upward, seeking more of that friction. He was mortified by how much he wanted it, by how much he was leaning into her touch like a starving man.
"Am I...am I doing it wrong?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quiet, vulnerable pitch. He sounded less like the man on the stage and more like a boy seeking approval. "The numbness...it's trying to come back. Every time I think it's working, it pulls me away."
He reached out, his long, slender fingers hovering near her wrists, not quite daring to touch her yet, as if he were afraid he might break the spell if he moved too fast. He was watching her face intensely, searching for any sign of that disappointment he had feared so much the subtle shift in a woman's eyes when his dick failed to respond.
"Don't stop," he whispered, a command wrapped in a plea. "Please. Just... keep going. Tell me what to do."
She hummed, her lips slightly grazing the skin under his ear. "Don't think. Feel." She seemed unbothered that his body wasn't responding, like this is completely normal. Her focus set on making sure he feels.
The sound of her hum–a low, vibration directly into his skin made Michael’s toes curl against the floor. It was the most grounding thing he had ever felt.
Most women, when they felt the stagnation, would hesitate. They would soften their touch, or worse, they would pull back slightly, their eyes searching his for a sign of apology. That hesitation was like a death warrant for him, it was the moment the shame would flood in and drown the sensation.
But she didn't hesitate. She didn't even blink.
She treated his body like a painting she was admiring, a territory she was reclaiming from the fog of his medication. Her lack of reaction to his lack of response was the most intoxicating part. It stripped away the pressure to perform. For the first time in years, he wasn't a man trying to prove his masculinity, he was just a man trying to feel.
"Don't think..." he repeated her words, the words a ragged breath.
He closed his eyes again, trying to obey her. He tried to let the analytical part of his brain–the part that calculated choreography to simply shut down.
He focused entirely on the friction of her palms. He focused on the weight of her, the scent of her, and the rhythmic, relentless way she moved. He stopped trying to force a reaction and instead tried to simply exist within the sensation.
A slow, heavy warmth began to spread from his groin, moving up his abdomen and settling deep in his pelvis. It wasn't the sudden, sharp spike he was used to chasing, it was a slow, creeping tide.
"It's...it's different," he murmured, his voice thickening. He leaned his head back, his throat exposed and pulsing.
She feels his length start to harden against her palm very slightly. "You're doing well, Peter." She pauses her movement. "Do you want me to take your pants off? Feel me directly on your skin?"
He looked down at her hands, seeing the subtle change in himself, the slight, tentative thickening of his length beneath her palms. To him, it felt like a miracle.
"Yes," he said, the word coming out more forcefully than he intended. He cleared his throat, trying to regain a sliver of the dignity he usually wore like armor, but his eyes betrayed him. They were wide, shimmering with a raw, unadulterated need.
"Please," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register that usually commanded stadiums, but here, it was stripped of all bravado. "No more barriers. Just...you. Directly."
She watches him peel his pants and boxers off. His hands trembling slightly as he pulled the waistband of his silk pants–revealing his pale length, barely half-hard, his length mostly flaccid but the arousal is there.
She reached into her medical bag, grabbing a small bottle of water based lube, spurting a generous amount on her palm before gripping his length firmly.
The cool, slick sensation of the lubricant was a shock to his system, a sudden, sliding glide that made his entire body arch off the leather chair. As her hand closed around him, firm and unapologetic, Michael let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a sob.
The directness of it was overwhelming. Without his pants to buffer the sensation, every ridge of her palm, every subtle movement of her fingers, felt magnified a hundred times. He felt the slickness coating him, the warmth of her hand mixing with the artificial coolness of the lube, creating a sensory overload that made his head swim.
"Oh..." he breathed, his eyes lidding shut as he surrendered to the feeling.
Michael was acutely aware of how he looked–how much of him was still soft, how much of him was still struggling to rise to the occasion. He felt the old, familiar prickle of shame at the back of his neck, the instinct to cover himself, to hide the failure of his body. But then her grip tightened, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along the underside of his length, and the shame was forcibly pushed aside by a wave of pure, unadulterated sensation.
"It's...it's so much," he choked out, his hands finding the armrests of the chair and gripping them until his knuckles were white. "The sensation...I–It's everywhere."
He was beginning to feel it–the blood rushing, the heaviness in his groin shifting from a dull ache to a pulsing, insistent throb. The numbness he had feared so much was being pushed back by the tactile reality of her hand.
He began to move with her, a slow, rhythmic tilt of his hips that was almost entirely involuntary. He was chasing the friction, desperate to see just how much more of this contact his body could take before it finally, truly woke up.
"Don't be gentle," he whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes opening to find hers with a look of raw, hungry intensity.
Her pupils dilated as she saw his length coming to life, now standing tall inside her palm as she pumped him slowly.
The moment he felt himself fully harden, a surge of triumph rushed through him. The blood was there, the tension was there, the connection was there.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back against the chair, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He felt invincible. He felt like he had finally cracked the fucking code.
"Yes," he groaned, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Yes, right there. That's it."
He began to move more rhythmically, his hips meeting her hand with an increasing, desperate urgency. The sensation was incredible–the slick glide of the lube, the firm, steady pressure of her grip, and the overwhelming heat of her proximity. He felt alive, more alive than he had in months.
But then, the familiar, dreaded sensation began to creep back in.
It wasn't a sudden crash, but a subtle, insidious softening. The intense, pulsing pressure began to ebb, the rigid strength in his length slowly, agonizingly giving way to a familiar, heavy lethargy.
Panic, sharp and cold, flared in his chest.
"No," he whispered, his eyes snapping open, searching her face with a sudden, frantic vulnerability. He tried to tighten his muscles, to force the blood to stay, to fight the inevitable retreat.
He looked down, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he watched the very thing he had just achieved begin to wilt under her hand. The triumph was being replaced by a crushing sense of déjà vu.
"It's happening again," he choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, desperate frustration. He gripped her wrist, his fingers trembling, not to pull her away, but to hold her there, to anchor him to this moment before it slipped through his fingers like sand. "Please, what should I do?"
She stilled her hand. "Interesting. The erection lasted for more than three seconds before turning flaccid." She pulls back, her eyes staring into his. "Don't try to force it. Don't chase it. Just feel." She gently murmured before leaning down, uncaring of the taste of the water based vanilla lubricant as she licked his flaccid length, straight from balls to the foreskin covered head.
The moment her tongue made contact, Michael’s entire body jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. A sharp, strangled cry escaped his throat–a sound of pure, unadulterated shock.
He had expected her to pull back, to look at him with that clinical, disappointed scrutiny when he softened. He had expected her to reach for her clipboard to record his failure. But she hadn't. She had leaned in. She had gone even lower.
The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was a sensory explosion–the vanilla scent, the heat of her mouth, the wet, sliding friction, it was too much and yet, not fucking enough.
His hands flew to her hair, his long fingers tangling in the strands, not to push her away, but to steady himself as the world began to tilt.
He forced himself to breathe. He just let himself be a man being worshipped.
"Oh God," he whimpered, his eyes rolling back, his head thumping against the leather of the chair. "It's...it's not going away. It's different this time."
He felt the blood returning, not as a sudden rush, but as a steady, pulsing tide, driven by the relentless, wet heat of her mouth. He was beginning to realize that she wasn't just treating a symptom; she was rewiring him.
"Don't stop," he pleaded, his voice a low, guttural rasp, his fingers tightening in her hair. "Please...don't stop. Just keep doing that."
She stares into his eyes as she takes all of his hardening length into her mouth, humming softly as she feels him slowly grow inside.
The sensation of her taking him fully into her mouth–the warmth, the tight, velvet pressure, and the rhythmic hum of her throat against him sent a shockwave through Michael that felt like it might actually shatter his ribs.
As he felt himself growing inside her, the slow, steady expansion of his length against the heat of her mouth, a low, guttural groan vibrated deep in his chest. It was a sound of pure surrender.
He felt the numbness retreating, the failure he had feared was being replaced by a sensation so profound it was almost overwhelming. He wasn't just getting hard, he was becoming alive.
His hands, which had been gripping her hair, slid down to her cheeks, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw as he looked down at her. His eyes were dark, glazed with a mixture of arousal and awe. He saw the focus in her eyes, the unwavering professionality that made this feel so much more intimate than a mere sexual encounter.
"It's...it's coming back," he whispered, his voice thick and heavy.
He began to thrust, his movements no longer tentative or desperate, but slow, deep, and rhythmic. He was finding his own tempo, a steady, pulsing drive that matched the incredible sensation of her mouth.
"Don't let go," he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rasp, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, intense clarity. "Don't you dare let go."
She gripped his thighs as she began to create a suction–sucking his length as she bobbed her head.
The sudden, intense pressure of the suction was the breaking point. It was as if she had found the exact frequency required to shatter the last of his defenses. Michael’s back arched violently, his spine curving like a bow as a sharp, high pitched gasp was torn from his lungs.
"God!" he choked out, his hands sliding from her face to her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp with a strength he didn't know he possessed.
He was no longer in control. His hips began to move with a frantic, uncoordinated urgency, his body trying to meet the incredible suction, trying to push deeper, to find more of that overwhelming pressure. Every time she bobbed her head, a new wave of electricity surged through him, making his toes curl and his vision blur into a haze of white light.
"Please," he gasped, his voice a broken, desperate thread. He was hovering on the precipice, the tension in his body reaching a fever pitch that felt like it might snap him in two. "It's too much..."
But even as he said it, he was leaning into it, his head lolling back as he surrendered to the exquisite torment. He could feel the climax building, not as a sudden explosion, but as a massive swell of energy, a tidal wave that was about to crash over him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. He was terrified of the loss of control, of the sheer vulnerability of the moment, but he was even more terrified of her stopping.
"Don't stop," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural command that was more of a plea.
As she moved to move her focus on sucking his swollen head, her eyes gazed at his like an apex predator. Waiting for the exact moment her prey surrenders.
The vacuum-like pressure to the very tip of his dick made Michael felt like his consciousness was fracturing. He felt like she was pulling his life source directly out of his marrow.
But…it was her eyes that truly undid him.
She wasn’t looking at him like a doctor, or even a lover. There was a terrifying dominance–that he was hers to dismantle, hers to study, and hers to break.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he choked out.
He wasn't even sure if he was accusing her or thanking her. The tension in his lower abdomen was a coiled spring, wound so tight it felt as though his very skin might tear.
"Look at me," he commanded, though it sounded more like a desperate prayer. He needed to see her, to anchor himself to the woman who was currently unmaking him. "Don't... don't look away. Watch me."
He was begging for the humiliation of being seen in his most undone state, because the alternative the thought of her losing that predatory focus was more terrifying than the pleasure itself. He was on the absolute edge, the tidal wave of his climax looming large and heavy, and he wanted her to witness every second of his collapse.
When he exploded, she groaned against his length as he came inside her mouth–painting her throat a pearlescent white.
To Michael, the world fucking shattered. His entire body went rigid, his spine arching so sharply it felt as though he might snap. A long, broken sound halfway between a sob and a roar tore from his lungs.
This was violent. This was raw. It was a visceral, pulsing outpouring of everything he had been holding back the exhaustion, the loneliness, the pressure, and the sheer, overwhelming need to be known.
He felt the rhythmic, heavy pulses of his climax, the sensation of himself being emptied into her warmth, and for a moment, he felt as though he were floating, untethered from the earth, drifting in a void of pure, white light.
His hands, which had been gripping her shoulders, slowly lost their strength, his fingers sliding down her skin as his muscles began to quiver with the aftershocks. His head fell back against the leather, his eyes lidded and glazed, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to find his breath.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of vanilla lubricant and the musk of their shared heat.
He slowly lowered his gaze to her, his eyes searching hers through the haze of his exhaustion. He looked at her with a quiet, intense reverence, a look that went far beyond the clinical boundaries of their "session."
"Did you..." He swallowed hard, a small, dazed smirk flickering on his lips, though his eyes remained deeply serious. "Did you get the data you needed?"
The vulnerability of being so completely undone was terrifying, yet it left him with a hunger that the release hadn't satisfied. He felt the phantom sensation of her mouth, the way she had looked at him like a prize she had successfully claimed, and it ignited a new, different kind of desperation.
He wasn't satisfied with just being the subject. He needed to be the force.
As the tremors in his limbs began to subside, a quiet, intense resolve settled over him. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, still glistening from him.
"It wasn't enough," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated between them.
He wasn't talking about the climax. He was talking about the connection, the sheer, unadulterated power of what had just happened. He felt the heavy, pulsing ache in his groin beginning to stir again not the frantic, panicked need from before, but a slow, deliberate rebuilding of strength.
"I need to feel you," he whispered, his eyes searching hers with a sudden, piercing intensity. He wasn't asking as a patient anymore. He was asking as a man. "Not just...not just like that. I want to feel you against me."
He was watching her every expression, looking for that clinical detachment to crack, for the predator to show a hint of the woman underneath.
"I want to see if it works," he said, his voice dropping to a deadpan whisper, though the heat in his eyes betrayed the seriousness of his mission. "If I can do that to you. If I can make you lose that...that control."
He moved his hand from her cheek down to her waist, his fingers splaying against her skin, pulling her just an inch closer, enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
"Tell me you want to see if I can handle you. If I can please you."
She blinks. Her hands suddenly clammy as she holds onto his shoulders.
"I don't usually hook up with my patients," she teases though her voice is starting to get rid of that clinical tone.
Michael didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk.
"Then don't think of it as a hookup," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that carried a weight of quiet authority. "Think of it as...making sure your patient is a hundred percent recovered."
He didn't let her pull away. Instead, he gently pulled her until she was draped across him, her skin meeting his in a way that made his breath hitch. He was acutely aware of the way his body was responding to her proximity–the slow, steady rebuild of his arousal, a heavy, pulsing heat that felt much more stable than the frantic spike from before.
He watched her closely, his observant eyes noting the slight change in her breathing, the way her pupils were still wide, the way the clinical coolness in her gaze was being replaced by something much more dangerous.
He shifted beneath her, a slow, grounding movement that allowed him to feel the weight of her against his growing hardness. He wasn't rushing. He was being patient, a man who knew that the best performances and the best sensations came from a controlled, steady build.
"So," he whispered, his eyes locking onto hers, intense and unblinking. "Are we going to keep talking about your professional ethics...or are you going to let me see if you can keep that composure when it's my turn to lead?"
The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, slightly uneven breathing. Michael didn't look away from her face. He kept his gaze locked on hers, observant and intense, as if he were trying to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed her features.
He stood up from the swivel chair, carrying her body with him as he set her down to sit on the mahogany table.
His movements were slow, almost agonizingly so. He wasn't in a rush to reach the goal, he was savoring the tension, the anticipation that sat between them like a physical weight. His fingers, long and steady, reached under her skirt and hooked into the waistband of her pantyhose. He felt the slight resistance of the fabric, the delicate texture against his skin, but he didn't let his focus waver from her eyes.
He watched her pupils dilate. He watched the way her jaw tightened ever so slightly as he began to peel the sheer material down her thighs.
"You're being very quiet," he murmured, his voice a low, dry vibration. It was a tease, a way to acknowledge the tension without breaking it.
He continued the descent, his hands working with a calm, controlled precision. He moved the fabric past her knees, then her thighs, his touch light but intentional, ensuring she felt every inch of his progress.
As the fabric cleared the curve of her hips, he finally allowed his gaze to drop, just for a second, to the skin he had revealed, before snapping back up to her eyes to demand her attention.
"There," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "No more barriers."
He let the pantyhose pool around her ankles, leaving her exposed to his gaze and his touch. He wanted her to feel the heat of his attention, the way he was looking at her not as a therapist, but as a man who was very much aware of exactly what he wanted to do to her.
He leaned forward, his movements fluid and graceful, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her ankle. The sound of her heels hitting the carpet was a dull, heavy thud that seemed to echo the sudden pounding of his own heart. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against her skin, simply breathing her in.
He started at her ankles, his lips tracing the delicate bone, his tongue sweeping in slow, wet strokes that sent shivers racing up her legs. He moved with a quiet, intense focus, his eyes occasionally lifting to catch her expression, watching for the slightest tremor of pleasure.
His mouth traveled up the length of her calves, his kisses becoming more fervent, more demanding. He used his hands to hold her legs steady, his fingers spreading wide against her skin to anchor her as he worked his way upward. Every inch of her skin felt like a new territory to be explored, a new sensation to be mastered.
He reached her knees, his tongue swirling around the kneecaps as he bunched her skirt up her hips before his lips moved to the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the subtle, involuntary twitch of her muscles as his mouth neared the most intimate parts of her.
He slowed down even more, his breath hot and damp against her skin. He was being meticulous, almost surgical, in the way he teased the sensitive skin of her upper thighs, his lips grazing the edges of her heat without quite touching it.
He wanted her to ache. He wanted the anticipation to become a physical weight, a pressure that she couldn't ignore.
"Tell me," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet rasp as he pressed his face into the crook of her thigh, his breath hitching. "Tell me if you're still just 'observing' me."
He looked up then, his eyes dark and heavy with a quiet, predatory hunger, his face inches from her, his lips still wet from her skin.
"You paid me to make sure you feel good. My pleasure is out of the question," her voice losing all of the clinical tone. Her posture suddenly shy and uncertain.
He stopped his movement, his lips still hovering just inches from her inner thigh. Then, he slowly sat up, his movements graceful but heavy with intent. He didn't look at her with the eyes of a patient anymore. He looked at her with the eyes of a man who had just been given the keys to a kingdom.
Michael stood up, his hands sliding under her thighs to hook beneath her, lifting her slightly so he could settle himself more firmly between her legs. He wanted her to feel the sheer, unyielding reality of him. He was finally fully hard.
He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. He saw the way her breath was coming in shallow, uneven hitches. He saw the way she was looking at him not as a subject, but as her master.
"You're wrong," he whispered, his thumb catching her bottom lip and pulling it down just enough to expose the wetness of her mouth. "Your pleasure isn't out of the question. It’s the entire point."
He shifted his weight, his hips pressing firmly against her, making sure she felt every inch of his length against her most sensitive skin. He was being direct, his touch possessive and steady.
He moved one hand to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull, but to guide. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a command that was both a promise and a decree.
"Now," he breathed, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Let me try and worship you."
His thumb moved, pressing firmly into the center of her panties, Michael felt the truth of her words. The fabric was heavy, saturated with a warmth that told him everything his eyes already suspected. She wasn't just submissive; she was desperate.
He didn't pull away. He didn't move to strip the last of her clothing immediately. Instead, he stayed there, his thumb moving in a slow, deliberate circle, grinding the damp silk against her most sensitive point. He wanted to feel the exact rhythm of her arousal, the way the moisture pooled and shifted under his pressure.
A low, dark sound halfway between a growl and a sigh vibrated in his chest. The control he usually prided himself on was fraying at the edges, replaced by a heavy, pulsing need to bridge the gap between the fabric and her skin.
"You're a terrible liar," he murmured, his voice a thick, honeyed rasp. He didn't look up, his eyes were fixed on the way her hips instinctively hitched upward, seeking the very pressure he was providing. "You said your pleasure was out of the question...but you're soaking."
He increased the pressure, his thumb pressing harder, more insistent, feeling the slick heat through the thin barrier. He was being clinical in his observation, but the intent was entirely carnal.
"Don't try to hold it back," he commanded, his voice dropping to a quiet, intense whisper as he hovered just above the damp fabric. "Let me feel how much you want this."
He slid her panties aside. He felt the slick heat of her, a directness that made his heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was driven by a singular, focused intent, his hips moving with a slow, heavy determination as he notched himself against her entrance.
He began to rub the swollen head of his dick against her dampness. He wanted to feel every nuance of her friction, the way she pulsed against his hardness.
And then, as if the world had suddenly lost its gravity, the tension snapped.
It wasn't a sudden drop, but a slow, embarrassing receding of the tide. The hard, pulsing strength began to soften, the heavy throb in his veins turning into a dull, heavy ache. The sensation of her heat suddenly felt distant, as if a layer of thick glass had been placed between them.
He didn't move for a long time. He stayed positioned against her, his weight still pressing into her, but the commanding presence was gone. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of frustration, followed by a wave of quiet, stinging vulnerability. The man who was always in control, the man who managed every rehearsal and every public moment with precision, had just lost his grip on the most important thing in the room.
He didn't look up at her immediately. He couldn't. He stared down at where they were joined, his jaw tightening, a muscle leaping in his cheek.
"Damn it," he whispered, the words barely audible, a dry, self deprecating rasp.
He didn't sound angry at her, he sounded frustrated with himself. He felt the urge to pull away, to hide, but he forced himself to stay. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him flustered, even if his heart was currently a chaotic mess.
But Michael can’t help the frustrated tears from escaping his eyes.
He had spent his entire life learning how to hold his face still, how to be the calm center of every storm. But here, stripped of his clothes and his pretenses, the frustration of his own body betrayed him. It wasn't just the physical loss of his arousal, it was the overwhelming weight of the vulnerability he had allowed himself to feel. He had let her see him undone, and then, in the most crucial moment, he had failed to be the man he wanted to be for her.
The tears were silent, hot, and unbidden, tracing stinging paths through the sweat on his cheeks. He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest that was a humiliation he wasn't prepared for.
When he felt her lean in, he instinctively braced himself for a clinical observation, or worse the silent, polite pity of a doctor.
But instead, he felt the incredible softness of her lips against his skin.
She wasn't judging him. She was kissing the salt from his cheeks, her touch so tender that it felt like a benediction. The warmth of her mouth against his damp skin acted like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his frustration.
Michael let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing tightly as he finally allowed his muscles to go limp. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for hours perhaps even years began to bleed out of him. He didn't feel the need to be the performer anymore.
He reached up, his hands trembling as he cupped her face, his fingers sliding into her hair to pull her even closer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, his forehead resting against her shoulder.
"Don't," he whispered into her skin, his voice a wrecked, vulnerable thread of sound. "Don't be kind to me because you feel bad for me."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes red rimmed and raw, but the intense, observant light was returning to them.
"Don't feel bad Peter. You're just starting to get back on track." she smiles softly before rubbing his cheek.
Michael let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. He leaned into her hand as she rubbed his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savored the simple, grounding sensation of her touch.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, moving his body closer to hers until there was no space left between them. He reached down, his hand finding hers where it rested on his cheek, and he pressed her palm more firmly against his skin, as if he were trying to absorb her warmth.
"Back on track," he repeated, the words a low, dark vibration. He let his gaze drop to her lips, then back to her eyes, his expression turning serious, almost predatory in its quietness.
He moved his hand from hers, sliding it down her neck to the nape of her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands to tilt her head back just a fraction. He wasn't rushing this time.
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a tease of a kiss, a slow, testing contact that was meant to reignite the fire he had felt slipping away. He was watching her, observing the way her breath caught, the way her eyes darkened, waiting for the moment he could prove to her and to himself that he could handle everything she was.
He decided. If he can’t please her with his damned dick, he will do everything to make her feel good.
Michael’s eyes never left hers. He was watching the way her expression shifted, the way her pupils swallowed the iris as he moved his hand lower.
His fingers were steady, despite the lingering tremor in his heart. He moved with a calm, surgical focus, his touch light and teasing at first as he circled her clit. He was exploring, feeling the way the heat intensified under his touch, the way she began to arch her hips instinctively toward his hand.
He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more rhythmic and deliberate. He used the pad of his thumb to apply a firm, consistent pressure, circling the sensitive peak with a slow, agonizing precision. He watched her face with a quiet, intense hunger, noting every hitch in her breath, every small, involuntary gasp that escaped her lips. He was looking for the exact frequency of her pleasure, the exact moment where her control would finally, irrevocably shatter.
He wasn't just trying to please her, he was trying to reclaim himself through her. Every tremor in her thighs, every soft moan she let out, was a testament to his power over her, even when his own body felt momentarily out of sync.
"There," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dark, velvet rasp as he felt her muscles tighten, her breathing becoming shallow and frantic. He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his eyes dark and heavy with a quiet, commanding intensity. "Don't hold back. Give me everything."
He shifted his hand, his fingers sliding a little deeper, providing a different kind of friction that made her entire body shudder.
"Show me," he commanded, his gaze locking onto hers, unyielding and profound. "Show me exactly how much you need this."
Then, the sound of her gasp loud, uninhibited, and completely devoid of that clinical composure was the most beautiful thing Michael had heard all day. It was the sound of a total surrender.
As she shuddered, her body arching violently against his hand, he felt the hot pulse of her release flooding over his fingers. He didn't pull back. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he leaned into it, his hand remaining steady and firm, his fingers moving with a slow, grounding rhythm to ride out the waves of her climax. He wanted to catch every single sensation, to feel the very moment her muscles clamped around his hand in the peak of her pleasure.
He watched her eyes roll back, his own gaze intense and unblinking, absorbing the sight of her undone. He felt a profound sense of triumph, he was able to make her feel good.
As the intensity of her orgasm began to ebb into long, shaky aftershocks, Michael didn't immediately move to reclaim himself. He stayed right there, his hand still cradling her, his thumb continuing to trace slow, soothing circles over her sensitive skin to soothe the ache of the climax.
He waited until her breathing began to level out, until the frantic tension in her thighs softened into a heavy, relaxed warmth. Only then did he lift his hand, his fingers glistening and wet, and he brought them up to his own mouth, tasting her with a slow, deliberate movement of his tongue.
He looked at her then, his expression calm and composed once more, though his eyes were still dark with a lingering, quiet heat. The vulnerability from before hadn't vanished; it had simply transformed into a deep, grounded connection.
"Did the patient exceed the doctor’s expectations?" he murmured, his voice a low, dry rasp, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his touch incredibly gentle. He stayed close, his body still pressed against hers, refusing to leave the space she had just created.
He shifted, his weight settling more firmly between her legs, and as he did, he felt the familiar, heavy throb returning to his own body. The frustration was gone, replaced by a singular, focused purpose.
"Now," he said, his voice a quiet, commanding velvet. "Let's see if I can finish what I started."
As he felt his length rise fully, he guided himself to her entrance.
As he sank into her, the sensation was overwhelming a tight, searing heat that felt like coming home. He let out a long, low exhale, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as he felt the friction of her dampness welcoming him.
But he didn't lose himself in the sensation. Instead, he forced himself to stay present, to stay observant. He opened his eyes and locked them onto hers, his gaze intense and unwavering. He wanted to see the exact moment the pleasure hit her, the way her expression would shift from the soft afterglow of her climax to the sharp, focused intensity of his presence.
He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic pace of someone trying to prove something. It was slow. Deliberate. Heavy. Each thrust was a long, dragging motion, designed to maximize the contact between them, to make sure she felt every inch of him stretching her, filling her.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dark vibration. He wanted her eyes on him, wanted to be the only thing she could see, the only thing she could feel.
He watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her breath hitched in her throat as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. He saw the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped the sheets, and the way her head fell back, only for him to catch her chin with his hand, pulling her gaze back to his.
"Don't close your eyes," he murmured, a hint of his usual dry, teasing tone returning, though it was weighted with a heavy, primal hunger. "You wouldn't want to miss your patient recovering, would you?"
He increased the depth of his strokes, his movements becoming more purposeful, more rhythmic. He was no longer the frustrated man from moments ago; he was a man in total control of his rhythm, using the slow, grinding pace to build a new, much more dangerous kind of tension.
"There," he whispered, his voice a velvet rasp as he felt her body begin to tighten around him again. "That's it. Just like that."
"Peter!" she moans as she holds onto his shoulder, her eyes growing heavy lidded as sweat dribbled down inside her blazer.
The sound of his alias ripped through the heavy, erotic air like a discord in a perfect melody. It was a name for a man who was a patient, a man who was not the one currently driving her to the brink of madness.
Michael’s rhythm didn't falter, but his expression sharpened. The slow, grinding motion of his hips became a little more insistent, a little more demanding, as he felt her fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulder. He leaned down, his hands moving to unbutton her blazer–freeing the tank top underneath soaked by her sweat.
"No," he murmured, his voice a low, velvet growl.
He paused for a heartbeat, his length still deep inside her, the sudden stillness making the sensation of him even more overwhelming. He waited until she was looking at him, until he had her full, breathless attention.
"Not Peter," he commanded softly, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a firm, possessive pressure. "He’s not the one in here."
He gave a slow, heavy thrust, a deliberate movement designed to remind her exactly who was currently claiming her body. He watched her eyes, waiting for the realization to sink in.
"Call me Michael," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "I want to hear my name when you lose your mind."
He didn't wait for her to answer. He resumed the slow, torturous rhythm, his gaze never wavering from hers, his eyes challenging her to drop the last of her pretenses and give him the truth.
She licks her lips. "You feel so good. I can see why those girls were disappointed when you couldn't get it up." she moans out as her eyes rolled back
A sharp, short exhale escaped him a sound that was half laugh and half growl. Most men would have been insulted, but Michael simply felt a surge of dark, amused energy.
He didn't slow down. If anything, the jab seemed to fuel him, the slight sting of her sarcasm acting like a catalyst for the tension building in his gut.
"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, velvety register.
He leaned down, his chest pressing firmly against hers as he drove a deeper, more forceful thrust into her. He watched her eyes roll back, the sight of her undone by his very presence a silent answer to her teasing.
He increased the tempo, the slow, grinding rhythm evolving into something more urgent, more demanding. The friction was intense, the heat between them reaching a fever pitch. He was no longer just 'getting back on track'; he was driving toward a finish line that he intended to cross with her.
"Tell me again," he commanded, his voice a rough, commanding rasp as he felt her hips begin to buck against him. "Tell me how good it feels. And use my name this time."
She bites her lips before looking at him with glazed eyes. "You feel so good inside me, Michael. So deep inside me."
The way she said his name, thick with lust and heavy with the heat of her climax was the final blow to his restraint.
"Damn you," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly.
He didn't just move, he drove into her. He abandoned the slow, measured tempo for a more powerful, rhythmic drive, his hips hitting hers with a heavy, bruising intensity that made the bed frame groan.
He watched her glazed eyes. He wanted to be the only thing she could feel, the only thing she could think about.
"Deep?" he echoed, his voice a dark, commanding vibration. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Then let's see how much more you can take."
He reached down, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together, pinning her hand to the wood beside her head. He wanted to be tethered to her, to feel the exact moment her body reached its limit.
He increased the pace, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat. He was watching her, his eyes wide and dark, tracking every spasm of her muscles, every frantic gasp of her breath. He was waiting for the storm, for the moment her body would tighten around him in that final, exquisite crescendo.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a raw, desperate rasp as he felt the tremors of his own release beginning to pulse through him. "Look at me when you break."
The moment she broke, it was as if the world had finally caught up to the intensity they had been building. Michael felt her entire body seize, her internal muscles clamping around him in a fierce, rhythmic desperation that was almost too much to bear. She let out a long, shattered cry, her head tossing back as the waves of her orgasm crashed over her, her body trembling with a violence that was both beautiful and terrifying.
The control he had worked so hard to maintain, the composure he wore like armor, shattered completely.
He drove into her one last time, a deep, final thrust that seemed to bury him entirely within her. As he hit his own peak, he felt the sudden, explosive release, a powerful surge of heat that felt like it was pouring from his very soul into her. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that started in his chest and tore from his throat, his eyes snapping shut as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of coming inside her.
He didn't pull away. He couldn't. He collapsed forward, his chest heaving, his sweat slicked skin pressed tightly against hers. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in ragged, uneven stabs, his entire body vibrating with the aftershocks of his release.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of skin and sex and the quiet, profound aftermath of what they had just done.
Slowly, he lifted his head, though he didn't move away. His eyes were dark, heavy lidded, and filled with a quiet, intense adoration that he rarely allowed himself to show so openly. He looked at her, seeing the flushed skin, the messy hair, and the beautiful, exhausted haze in her eyes.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a damp strand of hair away from her face. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the primal intensity of moments ago.
"You're a very good therapist," he murmured, his voice a low, dry rasp, though the corners of his mouth twitched with the smallest, most genuine hint of a smile.
He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering, and incredibly tender kiss to her lips.
She closed her eyes, her hands coming up to cradle his jaw as he pulled away.
He grinned—that handsome lopsided smile that always showed a sliver of his lower teeth.
an: sooo...what do you guys think about the fic? you might be so weirded out why i attached slipknot's scissors to this but i think the track perfectly mirrors the frustration of wanting to rip through your skin to feel human again—to break free from the very drug consuming you, making you feel numb. also, you don't have to listen to it while reading! i just thought it fitted the fic while it played on my shuffle :’)
taglist: @misscowboyhat @persie123 @thrillerhaze @mylilikiwi @bernardmatthews @meowwnchild @appleheadsleftoe @srose1907 @azucarmorena26 @savemjfiction @girlyglitterprincess @beausophia22 @ididintliketheusernames @bluugangsta @canireadinpeace @tired-ginge
