BlkBratt

but… michael would love that for you, right? he’s your best friend after all, and he knows your goal is to eventually find your one true love. maybe lucas is that person.

with that mindset, you sit next to michael on the sofa, practically jumping in excitement to tell your best friend the good news. how cute lucas is, how he totally understands your literary taste, and how you’re able laugh with him. really laugh with him. how you met him in a bookshop, the most romantic place of all places in the world.

“you’re never gonna guess what happened,” you begin, placing your hands on his thigh to get michael’s attention. michael’s lazily paging through the tv guide, trying to find something interesting while attentively listening to you. “tell me, pretty.”

you scratch your neck in shyness, feeling the heat dawn on your cheeks and the curve of your ears. “i’m going on a date.” and with that, you let your statement hang in the air. you sound squealy, excited, even.

suddenly, michael stops paging through the tv guide. his eyes flick up to you, where you sit next to him, all pretty and perfect, where you belong. “a date?” he asks in confusion, wondering if he heard you correctly. because since when do you speak with other guys? do you have other guy friends he doesn’t know of? “and you said yes?”

you breathe out a tiny laugh, folding your arms around your chest to make yourself small. “well… yes. we’re going tonight. he’s taking me to the movie theater. this new horror movie.”

michael huffs out a laugh, a tad bit cocky. “you don’t like horror.” he says it like it’s a fact.

part of it burns within you, how he knows you so well and uses that advantage to get his way all the time. you want to stand tall and go against the ferocity of his actions and manipulation, but part of you likes knowing that there’s someone in this world who knows you like the back of their hand.

the pressure in your chest tightens. “things can change, michael.” you say, already knowing where the conversation is headed. a piece of michael thinks it’s endearing, how you try to be cross with him, go against everything he says. he thinks the little frown on your face is rather adorable than scary.

without another word, michael pats his thigh. “let me explain somethin’ to you.” his tone is all authorative and deep, leaving no room for argument. you comply almost instantly, dropping your weight on his lap as michael brings his large hand out to give your chin a wiggle.

“listen to me, sweetheart,” he starts, his free hand kneading the fat of your waist under your top. “he’s just pretendin’ to like you, baby. he doesn’t love you like i do. y’don’t need him—” he brushes his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “y’have me. that’s all that matters.” he gives your chin another wobble to emphasise his short lecture.

and you just stare at him, saying nothing. only busy with recollecting your thoughts that seem to crumble in your mind. the feeling of michael’s warm thigh under you, his soft hand caressing your face. it’s mind-numbing, but at times like these, when michael clearly shows you that he knows best, you relish in the fact that you have a best friend who knows how to take the lead.

well, normally you would. you don’t want that today, you decide. “i think i should go out with other guys my age, mikey,” you confess softly, peering at the rough denim of michael’s jeans. “i think it’s good for me.”

at that, michael barks out a melodic laugh. it sounds condescending and hearty at the same time, and it makes your clit pulse underneath the cotton of your panties. “y’think it’s good for you?”

not even an hour later, michael has you face down, ass up on the sofa while he slides his cock in and out of you. your warm slick streams out of you in droopy strings, keeping michael’s length attached to your little hole as the sloppy sounds fill the room, mixed in with your small cries.

“he’s not good f’you—” michael starts again, thrusting himself in you again. at this point, your warm muscle is totally used to him, welcoming him in and accommodating his size in your soppy entrance. his tip nudges at your cervix, making you feel like electricity runs through your veins everytime he pushes your lowerback down to force your back into an arch as michael keeps ramming in you. “only i am good f’you, right, pretty?”

the sounds of skin on skin echo through the living room, and you feel weird. “yes— yes, only you—” you babble, voice muffled in the cushions, feeling him all the way in your throat. your cunt feels raw as your hole sputters out more of your cream at the thought of getting fucked by your best friend on his sofa.

he enters you again, agonisingly slow. “he can’t give this to you, can he?” he deliberately pushes his cock in inch by inch, making sure you feel his length penetrating your narrow alley. demanding to be felt. demanding to wedge it within you and mould your insides to his shape.

you whimper at the feeling of michael bottoming out, the crown of his cock kissing your cervix deliciously as your wetness drips on the expensive leather of the sofa. “n-no…” your pussy twitches from sensitivity, hips bucking backward when michael’s free hand reaches down to rub controlled circles to your clit.

your cunt flutters open like a flower, white slick gushing out of you like a greasy waterfall, and michael has the audacity to coo at you. “can he make you feel like this?” oh, you hate him. big time.

michael slides out of you with ease, then right back in, creating a ring of white around his shaft. he listens to your muffled cries and moans like it’s his latest demo, and actually finds joy in how you welcome him in so easily. “look at you, taking your best friend’s dick and going onna’ date later.”

You didn't mean to stay that late. Latoya had invited you over for a few drinks, something casual, but the moment you walked through the door and saw him lounging on the couch, long legs stretched out, remote in hand, that soft, knowing smile playing at his lips, you knew you were in trouble.

Michael Jackson. Latoya's younger brother. Single? Or you didn’t know. You never got the full story, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the way his eyes followed you every time you moved, the way he tilted his head and watched you like he could see right through you clothes.

Now Latoya was passed out on the sectional, snoring lightly, a half-empty bottle of wine tilted in her grip. And Michael was leading you down the hallway and up the stairs by the wrist, his fingers wrapped around your arm, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your pulse point.

His bedroom was dim, a single lamp casting amber light across the rumpled sheets. He guided you to the bed without a word, movements patient, deliberate. you sank onto the mattress, and he lowered himself between your legs, settling on his knees, his hands already finding the waistband of your jeans.

"Lemme take care of you mama’," he murmured, his voice soft. So soft it made your chest ache. His need curled around the words, sweet as honey, but his eyes held a flicker of something darker, more possessive. "Been watchin' you all night. You kept lookin' at me like you needed somethin'."

you couldn't deny it. You didn't even try.

His fingers worked your jeans down your thighs, then your panties, his touch featherlight. When you were bare before him, he hummed low in his throat, a sound of approval, and spread your legs wider with gentle pressure on your knees.

And then he began.

His fingers were long and elegant, almost, but strong. He used them like a musician uses an instrument: with precision, with patience, with an intimate knowledge of every note your body could play. He slid two fingers inside you slowly, watching your face, feeling your walls clench around him.

"There she go," he whispered. "Relax for me. I got you."

His other hand pressed flat against your lower belly, his palm warm and heavy. He curled his fingers just so, finding that spongy spot inside you, and you gasped, hips jerking. He held you down with that hand on your belly, firm but not rough.

"Easy, easy. I know. I know."

He pumped his fingers in a steady rhythm, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. You could see the veins in his forearm standing out, bulging as he worked, the muscles flexing beneath his golden skin. To see how hard he was trying, how much he wanted to make you feel this, made you dizzy.

"That's it," he breathed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I can feel fat ma’ tightenin' up. You close, aren't you?"

you nodded, your breath hitching.

"Let it go, baby. I'll catch you."

You came with a broken cry, body arching, but he didn't stop. He kept his fingers deep, kept pressing that spot, and you felt the rush of warmth gush against his hand the first release, soaking the sheets beneath you.

"Beautiful," he said softly. "One more. Give me one more."

You shook your head, trembling, but his fingers didn't slow. He curled them again, rubbing your slick walls, his thumb circling your clit in slow, wet strokes. His palm pressed harder on your belly, steadying you, grounding you.

"You can do it," he coaxed, his voice that same sweet, soothing tone. "I know you can. Ma’s so good for me. So beautiful like this."

you came again. This time a violent, shuddering release that left her choking on a sob. Liquid splashed against his hand and wrist, and he finally slowed, steadying you with soft circles, letting you ride out the aftershocks.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, glistening, and brought them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving hers, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Two," he said, almost to himself. Then he moved around you, leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "But I ain't done wit fat ma’ yet. Rest up, pretty girl. We got all night."

The music is already shaking the walls by the time you step inside. Heat hits first, then the smell of smoke, sweat, and liquor. Bodies press shoulder to shoulder, and people dance wherever they can find space; others cling to the walls like a lifeline. Someone’s yelling over the music about body shots, a sorority girl is laughing too loudly, and in the darker corners of the house, couples are already latching onto each other, swapping a little more than spit. Homecoming always does this: turns the whole campus into one restless cesspool of drunk, loud, horny twenty-somethings. This party is the one everybody’s been waiting for; the football game against the opposing university had been won with a staggering victory, and now it was time to let loose. Omega Psi Phi always does it big, and this year is no exception.

You stick close to your girls as you move through the crowd, eyes adjusting, taking it all in. The energy bothers you. Everything feels too loud, maybe even reckless. The mess around you isn’t your problem; Jermajesty is. The way he’d been acting all day had pissed you off. Short answers, stuck off in his phone, hellbent on like you were his biggest inconvenience.

You tried to talk to him more than once, wanting to know what crawled so far up his ass and died that he’d call you ‘bruh’ for most of the day. Still, he gave you nothing but annoyed sighs and kissed teeth. Fed up, you decided to go to the party on your own. Since your boyfriend wanted to act like you were such a bother, he didn’t have to worry about you.

Now you’re here, scoping out the scene, almost sure he’s cooled off by now. It doesn’t take long to find him, and when you do, your stomach drops. ‘Off the Leash’ by Gucci Mane blares in the background. He’s locked in on some bitch like you don’t even exist. She’s all up on him, titties nearly spilling out of her cheap dress, laughing and feeling on his arms. He’s eating it up, rolling his head from side to side, tongue flicking out with a smile, moving like he’s a free agent. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it somewhere in the crowd. The chain you got him for his birthday glints in the light against the wife-beater he had on underneath. His large frame hovers over hers. The muscles in his back flex as he moves. You stare for a second too long, and his eyes catch yours, winking before pushing himself back onto the girl.

“This nigga trippin.” You mutter, more to yourself than anybody else. Anger settles in your chest while you watch him, eyes stinging as you take in the scene before you. The longer you stare, the clearer it gets. He’s comfortable embarrassing you. He’s acting like you don’t even exist, like he doesn’t know the only reason you came was him.

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth hurt, but you force your expression to stay neutral. You’re not about to be that girl, pressed, kicking and screaming in the middle of a party just because your man ain’t shit. The two girls you came with scoff, rubbing your back apologetically. Imani, your closest friend since freshman year, speaks first. “Leave that nigga where he is, baby. He’s clearly busy.” Your other friend, Niyah, pipes up next. “Yeah, girl, forget his ass! It’s plenty of niggas here that would kiss yours. Let’s go find em’ and get fucked up like we came to!”

Niyah was right about that, you looked the fuck good. Eyes had been on you since you walked into the cramped space. Your braids are freshly done, the face card never declines, and the outfit draping your frame didn’t help either, leaving very little to the imagination. Nothing extravagant, just a plum colored mini-dress that hugged you tight, coupled with a strappy pair of open-toed heels. Still, nobody does it like you. As you think about all the ways you can get even, the girl fawning over your boyfriend takes his hand and leads him deeper into the sea of people.

You make up your mind fast, and with a single nod to your friends, you let them guide you in the opposite direction, toward something that feels more in your control. As you move through the horde of undergrads, your mind focuses on the way your boyfriend practically disowned you in front of everybody, and it becomes crystal clear that liquor is going to be your best friend tonight.

Shot after shot passes through your glossed lips, slowly but surely numbing the irritation that has settled over your spirit. The hurt is still there, but it’s starting to blur at the edges. As the liquid courage flows through your veins, you get the bright idea to scale the kitchen counter and dance a little bit, hoping to distract yourself from him. Yells of encouragement from onlookers spur you on, and just as you get ready to bend over, your eyes find him again. He’s behind a different girl now, his hands roaming her body, softer than when it’s yours, whispering something in her ear with a smirk. The enthusiasm drains out of you as quickly as it came.  Suddenly, the counter is too high to stand. on. You swallow the lump in your throat.

Before the pain can linger, rival frat Kappa Alpha Psi arrives. The sound of glass breaking rattles from the speakers as Soulja Boy’s ‘Prettyboy Swag,’  begins, changing from Omega's theme to Kappas. The crowd parts just enough, and eyes start drifting toward them. They stroll through, slow and steady. Instead of stepping back and ignoring it as is expected of you, you move fast. You place yourself right where you’ll be seen, with less than pure intentions. It doesn’t take their president long to lock onto you. Ah, Rakheem Jones. Tall, dark, and impossibly charming. An academic beast with a smile that could stop any girl’s heart, someone you’d explicitly been told to stay away from. Oh yeah, you’d hit the fucking jackpot.

He moves through the room like he owns the air around him, stopping the stroll in front of you with an exaggerated swagger. His eyes drag slowly from your face, down your body, and back up again, taking his time on purpose. All you see in front of you is quiet certainty, the kind that tells you exactly what he wants. He isn’t Jermajesty, not by a long shot, but you can’t deny that he’s pretty damn close. Close enough for you right now.

A smile breaks on his face as his frat brothers bounce in step. He spreads his arms out, palms facing up in an open invitation, and you let your body answer for you. Though you are no doubt very drunk, every movement is intentional. Jermajesty’s reaction is now an afterthought. If he could have his fun, why couldn’t you? Your lips curl into something slow and dangerous, the bottom one caught between your teeth as you step forward and spin around. You bend at the waist, hands sliding down your legs and stopping at your ankles, nasty and slow; a move typically reserved for the man making a mockery of you across the room.

As your hips rock from side to side, the dress hugging your frame rides up, showing off your lace panties; it’s retaliation disguised as a proposition, but Rakheem doesn’t need to know that. It’s effortless, the way your ass moves in this dress. It should be a crime. Shouts of approval ring throughout the room. Rakheem steps in, palming your rear like he’s been given permission. He presses into you, testing the waters, and when you don’t pull away, he makes another move. Next thing you know, his hands wrap around the back of your thighs, and you’re in the air.

High above the crowd, sitting on his shoulders, you feel the room erupt because everybody knows what that means. He’s claimed you for the night. Cheers break out all over.

“Ain’t that Maj’s girl?”

“Oh shit–it is!”

One of the other Nupes yells out, “Aye! She with the Nupes now!”

The words spread fast, cutting through the music and the noise. All eyes are trained on the two of you, and you can’t help but bask in it. Someone passes you a cup, and you raise it toward the sky. You toss the drink back, and with a shout, you unknowingly seal your fate for the night. “She with the Nupes now!” Across the room, Jermajesty hears it before he understands it. Ain’t no way he just heard…what he thinks he heard. He tries to ignore the commotion.

Tries to. He’s caught up in his own game of pretending he doesn’t care, but that nonchalant shit flies out the window when he takes a quick glance around the room. Everything stops. There you are. Elevated above everybody else, laughing, moving like you don’t have a care in the world…on another man’s shoulders, practically humping his head. The sight is like a slap in the face, and the shock turns to fury.

And it’s not just any man, you’re too petty for that. It was Kappa Alpha Psi’s fucking president. Jermajesty’s teeth grind together, and his hands ball into fists. The girl in front of him grabs his face gently, trying to bring his attention back to her. “Focus on me, baby. She don’t mean nothing.” When he registers her acrylics grazing his jaw, he nearly growls in disgust, no longer interested in her advances. With an open palm and five fingers, he mushes her back, “Fuck off me.” She stumbles and looks at him like he just lost his mind. She just might be right about that. Jermajesty doesn’t waste any more time and pushes through the crowd, fuming.

By the time he gets close, you’re fully gone, rolling your body, completely unbothered. Then your eyes meet his, and you laugh. Not small or nervous, no, one big boisterous cackle that displays just how little you care. Again, while looking him dead in the eye, you chant, “She with the motherfuckin’ Nupes now!” Your smile stretches ear to fucking ear. Rakheem follows your lead, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Real slow like, the rival Greek plants his hands firmly on your waist and lifts you over his head, guiding your body down until your feet hit the floor. Rakheem then presses a deep arch into your spine, positioning you exactly how he wants you, eyes locked on Jermajesty the entire time. He only has time to roll his hips once. That’s it, the disrespect is too loud for him to ignore.

Jermajesty snaps, shoving you aside roughly, fist already in motion. It connects clean with Rakheem’s jaw, the crack sharp enough to cut through the music. Just like that, everything explodes. Omegas step in immediately, forming up behind their president without hesitation. Kappas surge forward just as fast, not about to let theirs get dropped without response.

The party morphs into shouting, pushing, and different hues of purple and red colliding with each other. Phones come out, and flashlights illuminate the brawl; the partygoers are having a ball with this, no doubt staring lives and reporting in on Snapchat. The frat's reputation could very well be on the line, but Jermajesty could give a fuck less. All he cares about is bodying the nigga dumb enough to touch his bitch. He’s got Rakheem by the back of his shirt. “Fucked up!” he yells, fist connecting again. “You. Got. Me. Fucked. Up.” Each word lands with another hit. Rakheem tries to defend himself, but he’s outmatched. Jermajesty is bigger, stronger, and fueled by nothing but alcohol and jealousy. The poor Kappa’s licks are as soft as cotton balls.

Your boyfriend doesn’t stop until Rakheem’s limp, no longer able to fight back, and far too weak to hold himself up. He leans in, making sure the Kappa’s president looks him in the eye. Voice low and dangerous, he speaks, “Try that shit again. Watch what I do.” He drops Rakheem and stands to his full height, chest rising fast, and finally looks around. His brothers are still fighting, having dealt out the same kind of damage to the rest of Kheem’s posse. Jermajesty can’t let this get any worse, or he’ll have a meeting with the dean come Monday. He inhales once, then lets out a loud bark. His fraternity falls back, bellowing out their own barks in response to his call. Across from them, the Kappas hesitate, but ultimately decide they’ve taken a big enough loss tonight. They pull away, dragging Rakheem with them, and just like that, it's over. The music creeps back up, loud chatter resumes, and bodies start to move again, like nothing even happened.

When the dust settles completely, and Jermajesty is sure no one else is going to try him, he turns to face you, “Say your little goodbyes, and take your ass to the car.” His voice holds a finality that you really can’t argue with. You stand there for a moment, testing whether or not defiance would fare well for you. When he blows through his nose, you understand the answer is no. Doing as he says, you find Mani and Niyah and offer them quick hugs. “Ooh! Somebody in trouble!” Niyah starts, “Mhmm, little Ms. ‘She with the nupes now!’ Nah, more like she done did it now!” Mani finishes. You roll your eyes. They’re right, you’re in deep shit, but you won’t admit it.

“Shut up. That nigga had it comin’.” They giggle and kiss your cheek goodbye, wishing you luck. As you make your way toward the door, you feel eyes on you again. Some of Jermajesty’s frat brothers cast betrayed glances in your direction. “Fuck are y’all looking at?” They shake their heads and wave you off, “Nothing, Nupe.” You sigh, completely over tonight. The walk to the car is long and uncomfortable as you reflect on how everything unfolded. The thought that you might’ve done too much crosses your mind. Did Jermajesty really deserve that kind of betrayal? Flashes of him caressing someone else with so much care and tenderness replay. Yes the fuck he did.

The sleek, black BMW, which had been given to Jermajesty as a graduation gift, comes into view. It was fully loaded: all-black interior, leather seats, moonroof, and custom headrests with his and your initials. Arms folded, you lean against the door, anxiety washing over your bones. What if he breaks up with you over this? The move you made was bold and not something to be taken lightly in the Greek world. You still love him, but god does he piss you off. While you ponder, his voice cuts through the air as he says his goodbyes. You shift on your feet as an unsettling feeling nestles deep in your gut. He stalks toward you now, aura anything but safe, letterman jacket clutched tightly in his right hand. Jermajesty’s head tilts to the side as he lifts his free hand to his face, brows furrowed, rubbing his jaw as his gaze locks on you. His gait is strong; each step he takes feels like it has the magnitude of a devastating earthquake. He’s pissed.

“The fuck was that? Huh?” Jermajesty asks, eyes hard, voice eerily calm. Your arms unfold, and you stare at him in disbelief. Did he seriously have the nerve to be calling you out right now? “I could ask you the same damn thing, Jermajesty!” He cuts his gaze to the side, trying to keep his composure. “You’ve been pissy all fuckin’ day. I tried over and over again to check up on you, make sure you were straight, and what do you do? Treat me like I’m some regular bitch, that’s what!” Your arms fly around frantically as you speak. His eyes return to yours, daring you to keep going. You accept, and double down continuing the tirade, “And THEN, when I pull up to this fuck ass party, that I didn’t even want to be at by the way, what do I find? You. Snug as a bug in a fuckin’ rug with some random. Get the fuck outta my face with that ‘Fuck was that?’ bullshit, Majesty. Seriously.”

He glances away, nodding a few times before speaking, “You done?” That’s it? That’s all he has to offer you? Having reached a boiling point, a response dripping with venom leaves your lips. “Nah, nigga. We done.” Jermajesty chuckles, unlocking the car and tossing his jacket in the backseat. “Yeah, okay.” He didn’t think you were serious. Sure, you’ve both been through this song and dance plenty of times before, but you always stay. With a huff, you throw your arms up and spin on your heels, starting in the other direction, hoping it’s not too late to catch a ride with Mani. “How the fuck you gon get home, y/n?” He asks, amusement lacing his tone. You growl and turn back around, “I don’t know Jermajesty! Maybe the Kappas will take me in.”

His eyes darken, and in two quick steps, he’s in front of you. “Get your ass…in the fuckin’ car.” You roll your eyes and push his chest, creating some distance. “Fuck. No.” You snarl, “This ain't even the first time you’ve pulled some shit like this. I’m fucking done, Jermaj—” Your words catch in your throat when his right hand wraps around your wrist, and he drags you into him. His other hand comes up to grip your chin as he pulls you into a searing kiss. You curse internally, feeling yourself melt as his soft, plush lips move against yours. The hand holding your wrist moves to your back, pressing you closer as he deepens the kiss. It trails down further, cupping your ass and squeezing. The action makes you gasp, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth.

You both wrestle for dominance, but another firm squeeze to your behind leaves Jermajesty as the victor. When you part, his lips are covered in a thin film of gloss, matching yours. “Ma,” He whispers soft and low, “If you think you leavin’ me…you out yo fuckin’ mind. I’m not gon’ tell your little ass again, get in the car.” This time, dazed, you listen. Slipping into the passenger side and clicking your seatbelt in place. Jermajesty follows suit, starting the engine and peeling out with a quickness. As he drives, you notice the way his large hands grip the wheel, knuckles white as he seethes.

After some time, he pulls into an empty parking lot, throws the beemer in park, and gets out. The back door on the driver’s side swings open, and he slips in. Your boyfriend leans back and spreads his legs wide. You look over your shoulder to find his eyes locked on you. “Strip.” He says, low and dark. Unsure of whether or not he’s serious, you freeze. He lifts a brow, wondering what’s taking you so long. Message received. You shimmy out of your dress in the seat and work on your heels next. Once finished, you move to climb over the center console. “Uh-uh, all of it.” You pause, glancing down at your body, still clad in your bra, and the same panties you were so keen on showing off earlier. Peeking back up at your boyfriend, you see his arms are now resting behind his head as he waits with practiced restraint.

Sitting back, gradually, you peel the last layer of clothing and dignity off your body. Jermajesty revels in your beauty, eyes raking up and down your form twice, before patting his thigh. Now, given permission, you slip into the back of the car and onto his lap. Jermajesty's head is tipped up, and his hands, rough and calloused, hold your waist softly, as if he’ll break you if he isn’t careful. He lets a deep breath out through his nose and looks into your eyes, “You know I love you, right, mama?” Though it didn’t feel like just moments ago, you still nod, big doe eyes peering back at him. “Good, because I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

He then reaches for something near him. You hear it rustle before it comes into view. The letterman. He holds it up and only says three words: “Put it on.” Hesitantly, you slide your arms into the sleeves and shrug it the rest of the way on. “Gorgeous.” Jermajesty slides you off his lap gently and pushes you toward the other end of the car, “Lie back.” You ease down, and your legs part in the process. He takes in the sight of your dripping heat and lets out an appreciative groan. Your legs stretch past his face, and your toes touch the glass next to him. In the soft moonlight illuminating the car, your boyfriend notices something dancing on your ankle. Delicate gold lace, adorned with a pendant shaped like a 'J', rests there.

The visual nearly undoes Jermajesty. He takes your leg in his right hand and bends your knee. His fingers curl around your toes as he places soft kisses along your foot. His left hand trails up to caress the rest of your leg. Eventually, the hand holding your toes slides down to your heel. Jermajesty's kisses grow more urgent, less controlled. He moves feverishly, and before you can process what is happening, your big toe is in his mouth. He swirls his tongue, and a deep moan reverberates in your ears. You didn’t expect it to feel as good as it did, and the action earned a soft moan. Maybe it was the sensuality, but your body shakes with need. The slick between your thighs becomes unbearable. While your boyfriend continues his ministrations, you reach down. Your clit is aching, and the soft circles you begin to rub are barely enough to satisfy you.

When a whimper escapes your chest, and before you can pick up the pace, a sharp slap to your hand stops you. Jermajesty pulls off of your toe with a pop. “I didn’t say you could touch my shit, ma.” He then leans over and spreads you wider, wrapping his hands around your thighs and lifting your back off the seat. You look at him in surprise, and Jermajesty holds your gaze, blowing cool air over your clit. Frustrated, you whine out, “Maj, please—” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can’t admire what's mine, mama?”

You let out a huff and try to sink back down. Big, veiny arms keep you steady, though. Jermajesty tuts at your bratty behavior, “Fuckin’ spoiled.” As you go to make another complaint, his lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard. “Oh, fuck— Maj!” He eats like a man starved, slurping like you’ll run dry if he stops. The sounds of your sins echo in the confined space. His tongue trails down to your ass and back up. He pushes the wet muscle deep into your pussy, earning a high wail from you. He stays there for a moment, savoring your taste, before moving back up toward the bundle of nerves hidden in your folds. Stars form behind your eyelids when two fingers dip in, making up for the empty feeling.

It’s all too much, too fast. You feel yourself careening toward the edge as he pumps them into you. He quickens his pace, knowing your body like the back of his hand. The digits buried inside of you press into that spongy spot over and over again. “Give it to me.” He murmurs into your heat. As if your body were waiting for his command, euphoria crashes into you. You tense as your eyes roll back, and his name slips off your tongue as you ride out your high. Jermajesty doesn’t stop, drinking your juices like he’s found the fountain of youth.

Overstimulation racks through your body, and you push him off your center. He leans back, breaths labored, chin glistening with your essence. You’re breathing just as hard, unsure if you’ll be able to withstand what else he has in store for you.​ “Baby—” He shushes you while pulling the wife-beater over his head. His jeans come off next, then his shoes, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The outline of his arousal leaves your mouth watering. No matter how many times you fuck him, you never get used to it. “Turn around f’me. Arch my shit the way I like it.” Itching for more, you do as he says, sinking into a sinful arch. Your pussy is on full display, and that beautiful, round ass has him thanking whichever god sent you down to him.

Your ears pick up on his movement, sure that he’s slipped out of the last layer between the two of you. You feel his heavy cock against your inner thigh, pre-cum smearing against it. The feeling leaves you clenching around nothing. Jermajesty leans down, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “When I’m done with you…you gon remember you ain’t fuckin’ with no little ass puppy.” With that, he lines himself up with your heat. The tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you to the point of tears. In one long, slow thrust, Jermajesty bottoms out and has you split wide around his length.

Your mouth opens, and a loud moan tears from your chest. It burns so fucking good, he’s filled you to the brim. Your boyfriend waits for you to adjust, and when you nod, his strokes begin slowly, dragging along your sopping walls with deliberate patience. His cock is covered in your slick, and it takes everything in him to hold steady. He wants you to beg. “You forgot who I am, ma?” He asks, while still digging you out. Already too cockdrunk to speak, you shake your head with a muffled “Mm-mm.” Not satisfied with your answer, Jermajesty switches gears, picking up the pace. He feeds you harder, faster strokes, hips slamming into your ass roughly, “Nah. Tell me, baby.” He breathes out, “You forgot?”

Your breath hitches, and you throw your head back, drool sliding down the corners of your mouth. “Noo— Neverrr,” you drag out, surprised by the sudden change in tempo. Jermajesty catches the underside of your chin in his right hand, pulling you up as he props up his left leg near your side for better leverage. Again, he speeds up, driving mean strokes into your already abused pussy. A series of grunts leaves his lips before he lets you drop back down against the seat. The same foot he has propped up comes to rest on the side of your face as he reaches new depths in your core.

“Which frat you with— Shit!” The new angle leaves both of you weak. You search for the right words, but his fat mushroom tip bullying into your g-spot has you stupid. “I don’t know, Maj!— Fuck, I can’t—” He presses more of his weight into you, a ‘Thwack!’ rings through the air, and you struggle to catch your breath. “You don’t know? Sure you do, baby girl.” The strokes are heavy and slow now, grazing over your pleasure center again, and again. “I don’t, I swear.” Jermajesty laughs then, rich and smooth. “You really don’t? Guess I gotta stop then huh?” He says, still stroking deliciously slow. Panic washes over your blissed out face, “NO!— I just… Maj, give me a hint!”  

His shoulders bounce as he realizes he has you right where he wants you. Too fucked out and stupid to think about anything but his dick, “What jacket you got on, baby?” Hell, if you know, all you're worried about is the heat pooling in your belly. “Majesty. Please, baby— I don’t know!” He grips you by the waist and pulls you off of him. A cry rips from your body, and tears form in your eyes. Jermajesty flips you onto your back, “It’s okay, pretty girl, don’t cry.” He utters mockingly,  "I'm gon’ give you what you want.” he finishes, leaning down to lick away your tears.

 In one swift move, Jermajesty pulls back and enters you again. A chortled gasp reaches his ears, and he smirks. He holds himself there for a moment and then decides that he wants to wreck you completely. He folds you in half, your knees almost touch your ears, and the tips of your toes touch the window behind you. The filthy mating press leaves your faces just inches apart. Jermajesty breathes out slowly to ground himself, “Omega. Psi. Phi.” He whispers, voice sweet like honey. Your face contorts in ecstasy as he punctuates each Greek letter with heavy, relentless blows to your pussy.

“Those are the only words I wanna hear.” He leaves no room for you to process and begins pounding into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against your cervix. “Ughh! Maj!— Fuck- Slow down!” Your boyfriend ignores your plea, driving into you harder. “Who. You. With? Hm?” Your brain is sent into overdrive, and instead of answering, your hand comes up to push against his stomach, hoping to slow down the brutal assault on your pussy. “Move it,” He grunts out, head dropping to watch where the two of you are joined together. His hand shifts up to squeeze your right tit, moving yours out of the way in the process.

The sensation makes your body twitch. Everything feels like jelly, and it’s hard to keep your eyes open; with them half-lidded, the only thing you’re able to see properly is the gold chain that dangles over you, thumping against his chest with every stroke. He presses delicate kisses across your chest before moving up to that sensitive spot on your neck. He sucks harshly, and a deep purple mark forms there. “I’m not askin’ again, you better tell me before I stop.” He says, nipping at your neck as his girth bullies into your g-spot, “Omega— Fuck! Psi Phi!” You yelp. Not yet satisfied, your boyfriend leans up, steadying most of his weight with one hand on the back of your thigh. “Louder.” He growls out, cracking his other hand down on your dripping snatch. Repeating the name is a feat you’re only able to accomplish by the grace of god. It still isn’t enough for Jermajesty.

“Again.” He orders, thumbing at your abused clit. Tight, fast circles send pleasure shooting up through your spine. “Omega!” He nods along in encouragement, “Mhm,” he groans,  “Give it to me, baby”, eyes still focused on the way your warm, wet hole swallows his length. His hips hammer into yours at an impossible speed, sweat beading on his forehead. “Psi— Ooh Shit!” He moves to nuzzle his face in your neck, now struggling to hold himself together. His hand leaves your clit, and presses down just above your mound, adding to the whirlwind of stimulation. “Come on y/n— Fuck! Almost there. Give it to me!” With a piercing scream, the final letter tumbles from your throat. You feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. “There it is. Shit, that’s so fucking good.” His praise adds to the familiar warmth settling into your core. You feel it coming hard and fast, “Maj, wait! The seats—” His heavy body drags against yours, “Fuck the seats. Gimme my shit.”

It only takes a few more seconds of him pistoning into you before you fall apart. Your vision goes white, and your toes curl, and your jaw drops with a silent cry. Violent streams of pleasure spurt around your boyfriend’s dick and across his abdomen. Jermajesty is right behind you, grip so tight you’re sure it’ll bruise. “Fuck! Gonna cum.” His stills as his balls tighten, and a loud groan rips from his chest. Thick globs of his spunk coat your insides. He stays put until he’s sure you’ve taken all of it.

You both breathe heavily as you come down from your highs. Your boyfriend slides out of you gently and moves to look at the mess he’s made of you. As your body twitches, completely and utterly spent, his eyes flicker to your half-lidded ones, and a smirk creeps onto his face. “A Nupe, can’t fuck you like this. Remember that.”

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The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.

Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety. 

He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.

And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.

You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself. 

You’d borne witness to it all. 

The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.

It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.

Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”

He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”

It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.

You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.

The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.

“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.

Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.

He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.

The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.

His childhood bedroom.

It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter. 

Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.

You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.

He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.

The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache. 

In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.

You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.

“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.

His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”

“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”

“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”

He turned then.

His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.

“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”

You closed the final distance.

You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”

“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”

He was shaking now.

You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.

He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.

He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.

“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.

“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”

He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.

“Mmmhh—!”

The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot. 

He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.

“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”

He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.” 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.

“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”

He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.

The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.

He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary. 

“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.

“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”

But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful. 

He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”

He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.

He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths. 

“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”

His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being. 

He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale. 

You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.

He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter. 

His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours. 

You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.

“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”

You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.

“Ah—ah—!”

“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure. 

“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.

His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.

Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”

you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.

He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.

“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger. 

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.

“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”

He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments. 

His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.

“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.

He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.

“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”

His own end took him by storm.

His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.

You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.

He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.

When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.

“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”

"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"

He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.

He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade. 

The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys. 

Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks. 

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.

"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing. 

He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush. 

"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"

The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.

You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."

He turned his head too. 

His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity. 

"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."

He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality. 

The decision was made.

He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.

He began to part you.

It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.

A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”

He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.

"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.

“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.

"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"

He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes. 

The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.

You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"

He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place. 

There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.

He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.

You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.

You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.

His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender. 

Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button. 

The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.

"Wha—?"

You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…

You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed. 

You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.

A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.

For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected. 

You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.

Then you began to move.

You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length. 

His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips. 

"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"

But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.

The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.

"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual. 

He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath. 

" harder. Take what you want. Use me."

He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.

"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure. 

"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"

His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse. 

You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.

He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.

With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.

"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips. 

His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices. 

He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.

"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs. 

"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"

His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible. 

He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.

His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.

“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”

fin.. ;)

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The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and old-world perfume. The year was 1978, and the wedding of the decade had just concluded. Michael looked breathtaking in his white tuxedo, his eyes never leaving you as you glided across the dance floor. To the world, he was the superstar, the voice of a generation, but as he pulled you flush against his chest for their first dance as husband and wife, he was just a man trembling with a desperate, overwhelming love for you.

As the music slowed, both of your family members began to filter out, leaving the two of you alone in the dim, golden light of the reception hall. The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. Michael didn’t let go… instead, he slid his hand down to the small of your back, pressing your hips firmly against his. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

"I thought I was going to die during the vows," he whispered, his voice a soft, melodic vibration that sent shivers down your spine. "All I could think about was getting you alone. I want to feel every inch of you. I want to take you."

He began to move with you, not a dance anymore, but a slow, sensual grind. His hand wandered lower, cupping your rear and squeezing firmly, pulling you into the hard bump of his cock through the fabric of your wedding dress. You let out a soft moan, and the sound seemed to break something inside him. Michael whimpered, a small, needy sound, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Please," he breathed, his voice cracking. "Tell me you want me as much as I want you. I'm shaking, baby... I need you so bad."

The honeymoon house was a secluded haven where the rest of the world ceased to exist. In the master bedroom, the moonlight spilled across the silk sheets in pale, shimmering ribbons, casting a ghostly glow over the two of you. Michael was a wreck of nerves, his movements tentative and shaking as he helped you out of your dress. His fingers fumbled with the fastenings, his breath hitching every time his skin brushed yours. When the fabric finally pooled at your feet and you stood before him completely naked, the sight of you made him gasp. He stepped back for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated adoration, looking at you as if you were a miracle he wasn't worthy of touching.

He laid you down gently, his touch light and almost reverent, as if you were made of the finest porcelain. As he began to explore your body, his lips trailing a path of fire down your stomach, his voice became a constant, needy stream of soft pleas. "Is this okay? Do you like this?" he whispered against your skin, his voice trembling. "Tell me you love me, baby... please, I need to hear it."

When he finally positioned his hard, throbbing cock at your entrance, he paused. He didn't just push in; he stopped, resting his forehead against yours, their breaths mingling in the quiet room. He was trembling violently now, the sheer emotional weight of the moment crashing over him. "I want this to be perfect for you," he whimpered, a small, broken sound of desperation.

As he slowly pushed inside, the searing tightness of your pussy walls gripped him firmly. Michael let out a long, shaky groan of pleasure and effort, his muscles locking as he sank deeper into your heat. You gasped, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders, and the sound of your first moan triggered something primal and starving within him.

"Yes... please, yes, moan for me," he pleaded, his voice breaking. He didn't rush; he moved with an agonizing slowness, savoring every millimeter of friction, his breaths coming in ragged, needy whimpers. He wasn't just taking your innocence as you took his, he was worshipping it.

He spent what felt like hours just moving shallowly, the head of his cock teasing your entrance while he showered your face in kisses. He begged for reassurance, his voice a frantic whisper, asking if he was making you feel good, if you could feel how much he loved you. His heart hammered like a trapped bird against your chest, the rhythm accelerating as the tension built to an unbearable peak. When he finally lost control, he drove deep one last time, spilling his warm cum inside you with a loud, desperate cry of your name that echoed through the velvet silence of the room.

Long into the night, the sweetness evolved into a hunger. Michael had discovered how sensitive your body was, and it had become an obsession. He found you in the kitchen getting a snack, and before you could speak, he had you hoisted onto the counter, your night dress pushed up to your waist.

He didn't go for the penetration immediately. He spent an hour with his tongue, licking and sucking your clit with a rhythmic intensity that had you screaming. He was vocal, moaning loudly into your folds, whimpering when you arched your back.

"You're so wet for me... look at how much you want it," he gasped, looking up at you with blown-out pupils. When he finally slid inside, the friction was electric. He began to pump into you with a newfound urgency, his voice cracking as he begged you to tell him how good it felt. He pushed you to the edge over and over, refusing to let you finish until he had you sobbing his name, finally letting you peak in a violent explosion that left him shaking and spent.

By the next morning, Michael’s stamina had become tireless. He didn't just want sex, he wanted to consume you. He trapped you against the bedroom wall, his hands gripping your thighs and hoisting them around his waist.

"I can't get enough of you," he whimpered, his voice strained. "I need to be inside you every second of every day."

He fucked you with a raw, desperate energy, his hips slamming against yours with wet, slapping sounds. He was constantly talking, his singer's voice modulating between deep growls and high, needy whimpers. "Tell me I'm yours... tell me you'll never leave me."

He discovered that by flicking your clit while thrusting deep, he could make you lose control. You came three times in a row, your body shaking, but he didn't stop. He kept driving into you, his eyes locked on yours, obsessed with the way your walls clamped around him. He filled you to the brim, his cum pulsing deep inside you as he sobbed into your shoulder, overwhelmed by the intensity of his bond with you.

The obsession had shifted into something more intense. Your body had become so attuned to him that the mere sight of him made you ache. Once afternoon came, he walked into the room and simply brushed his hand against your inner thigh, you let out a sharp gasp.

When he pushed you back onto the bed and entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, the sensation was too much. The instant your walls closed around his cock, you screamed, your body snapping into a violent orgasm. A huge spray of fluid erupted from you, soaking his thighs and the sheets.

Michael froze, his eyes widening. "Did you... did you just cum from me just entering you?" he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement.

He didn't pull out. He began to move, and every single thrust triggered another wave. You were squirting uncontrollably, the bed becoming a lake of your juices. Michael was losing his mind, whimpering and moaning with every splash, his voice breaking as he realized he had total control over your pleasure. "You're so sensitive... my sweet, sensitive girl. I'm going to make you squirt until you're empty."

The final stage of his obsession was the desire to leave a permanent mark. He pinned you to the plush carpet of the living room, his eyes dark with a singular focus. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted a family.

"I hmm- want to fill you," he whimpered, his voice a soft, needy rasp. "I want eighteen children, baby. Eighteen little versions of us. I need to fill you until your belly is round and you can't think of anything but my seed inside you."

He entered you with a brutal, possessive force, pushing deep into your cervix. Every time he hit that spot, you creamed, lubricating his cock as he hammered into you. He was vocal, pleading and begging, his voice cracking. "Please, take it all... take every drop. I want to plant a baby in you right now. Tell me you want my babies! Tell me you want to me to fill you!"

He didn't stop even when you were shaking from overstimulation, pushing through your climaxes with a relentless rhythm. As he reached his peak, he gripped your hips so hard he left bruises, letting out a loud shout as he unloaded a massive amount of cum deep inside your womb, whimpering with a mixture of love and lust, promising to do it again and again until his dream of eighteen children was a reality.

The music shifted into another song, drawing a fresh wave of skaters onto the floor. Michael watched absentmindedly, fingers drumming against the side of his cup.

Unfortunately for Michael, the second he saw you every carefully constructed fantasy he’d been rehearsing in his head before he went to sleep these past couple nights went poof! Oh, baby had the vision planned out so perfectly too. You would arrive alone, right? Perhaps a little late knowing how you girls were. Your eyes would find him across the rink.. he’d wave you over with a pretty smile, say something clever to make you giggle, something charming to make you blush, and the two of you would spend the whole evening together. Simple! Romantic! And honestly.. the sort of thing that only ever seemed possible in his imagination.

Instead, you arrived wrapped in a world that had nothing to do with him.

You were laughing before you had even fully stepped inside, surrounded by friends who seemed to orbit you as naturally as planets around the sun. One of them hooked an arm through yours. Another leaned close enough to whisper something that sent you into another fit of giggles. You moved through the crowd completely absorbed in your circle, tucked safely inside a bubble of conversation and affection that Michael found himself staring at with an intensity that bordered on painful.

It was ridiculous, really. He knew that. These were your friends. People who loved you. People who had every right to occupy your attention. Yet all he could think about was how easily they had access to you. They could stand beside you without overthinking. They could make you laugh without rehearsing every sentence beforehand. They could touch your arm, lean into your space, steal your attention for entire evenings without their heart threatening to beat itself clean out of their chest. Michael hated the ugly little stab of jealousy the realization inspired but it settled in anyway, impossible to ignore.

The worst part was that you looked so happy. Not even looking for him. Not wondering if he had shown up. Not scanning the room in search of a familiar face. You were perfectly content exactly where you were and that simple fact managed to burst his fantasy more effectively than outright rejection ever could have. It forced him to confront the embarrassing truth that while he had spent the better part of a week thinking about you, you had probably spent the week simply living your life.

His fingers tightened around his cup as he watched you laugh again, your head tilting back beneath the colorful lights. God, you were beautiful. So beautiful it almost felt unfair. There was something doll like about you tonight, something soft and luminous that seemed untouched by the chaos around you. For a moment, Michael forgot entirely about the drink in his hand. Orange juice slipped over the rim and splashed across the table, but he barely noticed. The pounding in his ears had grown so loud that the rest of the rink seemed to fade into the background.

All he could see was you.

And all he could think, with a mixture of longing and frustration that made him feel like an awkward teen instead of twenty one, was that every single person standing between him and you suddenly felt like an obstacle because they were occupying the exact place he wished he was.

The pounding in his ears was so loud he didn’t even hear Bill calling for him. “Michael.”

No response. “Michael.” Still nothing.

“Yeah, that brotha’s starvin’.” Bill says shaking his head, causing the other two in his party to chuckle at how adorably absurd this entire situation was.

The longer he watched, the worse it became.

At first, Michael told himself he was being dramatic. You had only been there a few minutes. There was no reason to assume you wouldn’t acknowledge him eventually. No reason to let his imagination run wild simply because you were occupied talking with your friends.

Yet with every passing moment, his confidence seemed to shrink.

You looked so settled over there. Every now and then another person would stop to greet you, extending the circle around you further. You laughed, listened, smiled, completely absorbed in whatever conversation was unfolding. Meanwhile, Michael remained exactly where he was, nursing a cup of orange juice and feeling increasingly foolish for having spent the entire evening waiting for you.

The ugly little voice in the back of his mind began whispering all the things he hated most.

Maybe you hadn’t come for him. Maybe you’d only mentioned stopping by in passing. Maybe you hadn’t even noticed he was there.

His stomach twisted.

The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he became. Suddenly every hopeful fantasy he’d entertained over the past week felt very childish. Of course you weren’t looking for him. Why would you be? You had a life, friends, people you genuinely wanted to see. You were a socialite. The world did not stop spinning simply because Michael Jackson happened to have a crush.

Across the table, Bill watched the slow collapse unfold in real time. The slumped shoulders, distant stare, the deepening pout.

“Don’t start.”

Michael frowned. “’M not startin’ anything.” Oh! He has a little funky attitude now.

“Alright now.” Bill warned and Michael looked away.

For a moment, Michael seriously considered leaving the booth altogether. Maybe he’d skate a few laps, find something else to focus on. Anything was preferable to sitting there feeling sorry for himself while you remained blissfully unaware of the emotional catastrophe taking place twenty feet away.

Then it happened.

Your laughter softened as the conversation around you shifted, and for the first time since you'd arrived your attention wandered. Almost absentmindedly, your gaze swept across the rink drifting over the crowd until it landed on him.

Michael forgot how to breathe.

The feeling was instantaneous and overwhelming. One moment he had been sitting there stewing in his wounded pride, thoroughly convinced that you hadn’t noticed him all evening. The next, he found himself trapped beneath the weight of your attention, every insecurity he’d managed to accumulate over the last ten minutes suddenly feeling ridiculous.

Because you had noticed him.

And apparently, you’d noticed him quite a while ago. A smile began to form on your lips, and Michael felt his stomach drop for an entirely different reason.

It wasn’t a grin nor was it playful enough to be teasing or sweet enough to be innocent. It was something far more dangerous than either of those things. A smile touched with amusement and recognition, as though you’d caught sight of something you found particularly endearing. As though the sight of him sitting over there, staring at you from across the rink like a lovesick puppy had confirmed something you’d suspected all along.

Heat climbed his neck and the longer you looked at him, the more certain he became that you’d seen everything.

You’d seen him checking the entrance, seen him watching your group from across the room. Seen the way his mood had visibly soured the longer he convinced himself you weren’t coming over.

The realization should have mortified him. Instead, all it seemed to do was make him feel validated.

God.

You looked beautiful.

The colorful lights flashed across your face as you stood among your friends on the rink, completely at ease in a way Michael had always envied. While he spent half his life overthinking every conversation, every interaction, every glance, you moved through the world so effortlessly confident that made everything look easy. You never seemed concerned with whether people liked you. They just did. You never chased attention because it found you anyway.

And right now, all of that attention was directed at him.

Neither of you looked away as the skaters continued moving around you. Music thundered from the speakers. Laughter echoed throughout the rink.

Yet somehow the space between you felt strangely quiet.

Then you lifted your hand.

Just one finger.

Crooked toward yourself.

Come here.

It felt like a command because it absolutely was, with the confidence of someone who already knew exactly what would happen next. And the truly humiliating part was that you were right.

Michael was on his feet before his brain had fully processed the gesture. His knee struck the edge of the table and all the drinks nearly spilled over as the booth rattled violently.

A chorus of protests erupted behind him as he nearly sent the entire setup crashing to the floor, but Michael barely heard any of it. He was already moving through the crowd, abandoning every ounce of composure he’d spent the evening trying to maintain.

Behind him, Bill watched the scene unfold with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing something both embarrassing and completely predictable.

“Oh, man. That boy is gone.”

Because after all that moping, it had taken exactly one finger to get Michael Jackson moving. Not a greeting or even his name.

Just a look and a simple little come here.

And off he went.

You stood on the other side of the low barricade that separated the rink from the seating area, balanced easily on your own personal skates. Colored lights skimmed across the polished wood beneath your feet, catching on your jewelry every time you moved. Up close, Michael found you even more distracting. You smelled so good.

The journey across the rink had done absolutely nothing to improve his condition. If anything, it had made it worse.

“Hi, Michael.” You tilted your head slightly as you looked at him, your smile lingering at the corners of your mouth.

“Hi.” The response came out embarrassingly quiet.

For all the confidence he’d managed to summon while crossing the room, it deserted him the second he arrived. He was suddenly intensely interested in the floor, the barricade, the wheels on your skates, anything except your eyes.

A soft laugh escaped your lips. “You look nice.”

Before he could respond, your hand rose to straighten his collar. The gesture was casual and like muscle memory, and Michael felt every nerve in his body come alive beneath your touch. Your fingers smoothed the fabric before sliding behind his neck, settling briefly against the nape.

Your acrylics scratched lightly through his curls just enough to send a pleasant shiver down his spine.

You noticed the way his shoulders stiffened and your smile widened. “Miss me?”

Michael swallowed. The honest answer sat so heavily in his chest that he couldn’t think of a clever way around it.

“Yeah..” His voice was barely above a mumble.

You heard him but you pretended like you didn’t just to hear him say it again. “Hm?”

Then he nodded and a little louder, “Yeah.”

Something softened in your expression, satisfaction. You’d suspected that was going to be the answer and you were merely waiting to hear him say it.

“That’s sweet.”

Michael felt his face grow hotter. You, meanwhile, appeared completely unaffected.

“Go get skates.” You ordered

Michael blinked. “Pardon?” He wasn’t listening, he was staring.

”Go get skates.” You gave his shoulder a light push. “You’re not gonna sit over there all night, are you?”

“Oh, right!” Another blink. “Okay.”

You stared at him.

Michael stared back.

A laugh escaped you. “Michael.”

“Yeah?”

”Go.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Okay.” Then he turned and started walking away to rent some skates for the night.

By the time the night was halfway over, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.

Michael had spent most of the night orbiting you.

Not hovering awkwardly across the room or lingering nearby under the pretense of doing his own thing. Deadass on you. Every time you moved, he ended up moving too. If you skated toward the opposite side of the rink, he followed. If you stopped to talk to someone, he appeared a few feet behind you waiting for you to get done. More than once, you’d looked over your shoulder only to discover him on your heels, wearing the innocent expression of a man who had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten there.

The funniest part was that he never seemed aware he was doing it, but you were no better.

At one point you’d hooked a finger through one of his belt loops and dragged him through a crowd because he kept getting distracted by people stopping to talk to him. Michael hadn’t protested, he was right where he wanted to be and simply allowed himself to be steered wherever you wanted him, weaving obediently between skaters and crowds alike while your friends tried not to laugh. Which by the way? You didn’t like very much, because you should always be the one giggling him out of his underwear.

Then later, there was a point where the music grew too loud and you’d grabbed his jaw to pull his face closer so you could hear him better.

“What?”

You’d tugged him forward. “What’d you say?”

Michael had repeated himself, this time barely three inches from your ear. The poor thing had nearly short circuited.

Now he was standing at the concession counter retrieving the drink you’s sent him to get, and your friends were watching him with poorly concealed amusement.

“Girl,” One of them said, glancing between you and Michael. “He’s been overly going. All night.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “I know.”

Across the room, Michael accepted the drink from the cashier before immediately turning to look for you. The second he spotted you, he started heading back like clockwork.

You watched him approach, taking in the sight of him weaving through the crowd with such earnest determination that somehow managed to be both charming and ridiculous.

“He’s just as cute in person, right?” you asked.

Your friend barked out a laugh. “He’s cute but what if the shy thing is for appearances?”

You shrugged, not minding her. “I’ve known him for a while through my dad, he’s really like that. I think it’s charming.”

“How old is he again?”

“Twenty one.”

Your friend made a face. “Girl..”

“What?” You laughed. “I’m twenty (number).”

"I don't know— younger guys.. they be lowkey annoying.”

Your gaze drifted back toward Michael. He was almost there now, protecting the drink from being knocked out of his hands while navigating around people.

The sight made something warm settle in your chest.

“Mm.” You tilted your head slightly, she eyes him. “He’s been good to me though..”

Michael finally reached the group and immediately held out the drink you’d asked for and his expression brightened the moment you took it.

Like he’d just accomplished something so important.

You were feeling generous tonight, maybe even a little possessive.

That was the only explanation you could come up with later, because the way the evening had escalated felt almost absurd in retrospect. One moment Michael had been trailing after you everywhere you went, carrying drinks, accepting orders, allowing himself to be tugged through crowds by his ear whenever he drifted too far away from you. The next, you were standing beside him beneath the flashing lights, watching him laugh again at something one of your girlfriends said, and making a decision that surprised even you because usually you were much more.. tactful.

Maybe it was the way he’d spent the entire night looking at you or the fact that he’d never once complained. Maybe it was because every time you called his name, he appeared instantly.

Whatever the reason, you’d found yourself gliding up beside him as the night began winding down. Michael was midway through a conversation with Bill when you hooked a finger through the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly.

He went without resistance.

Of course he did.

The music was still loud enough that nobody else could hear you as you leaned close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You’re coming home with me tonight.” You felt him go completely still. “Say bye bye to Bill and your people, ‘kay?”

For a moment, Michael simply stared at the floor and you watched the reaction spread down his neck. When he finally looked at you, there was something dazed in his expression, as though his brain had temporarily stopped functioning.

“Okay.” The answer came so fast you nearly laughed.

Not where?

Not why?

Not even a hesitant really?

Just: “Okay.”

You bit back a smile and wave at Bill as she glides away back to her table and Michael had barely managed three words of explanation before Bill figured it out.

Not that there had been much mystery to solve, the equation practically solved itself.

Bill sighed heavily. “You serious?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

“She askin’ or tellin’?” Bill immediately had his answer when Michael coughed in response.

Michael looked down at the floor and Bill shook his head. “Son, one of these days you’re gonna have to stop jumpin’every time that woman points somewhere.”

Michael’s embarrassment deepened. “I don’t do that.”

The thing was, Bill liked you. You made Michael happy. You were good to him. You looked after him in your own way.

Bill had no objections there. His issue was the complete collapse of Michael’s spine whenever you entered the equation.

The boy had spent all evening following you around like he’d been hired for the job. “You know she already likes you, right?” Bill asked.

Michael blinked. “Huh?”

Bill rubbed his face. “She already likes you.”

Michael stared, the very suggestion seemed impossible to him. “But..”

Bill already knew where this was going. “But what?”

Michael shrugged awkwardly.

“She’s..”

“Pretty?” Michael nodded.

“Successful?” Another nod.

“Older than you?” A smaller nod.

Bill threw his hands in the air. “And?”

Michael didn’t answer, because that was the problem.

Somewhere deep down, Michael still couldn’t understand why someone like you would choose him when you could have anybody. Meanwhile, everyone around him had been forced to watch you practically drag him around a roller rink all evening.

Bill snorted. “Son, if you don’t quit feelin’ sorry for yourself."

Michael frowned. “I’m not..”

Bill laughed. “She got you fetchin’ drinks, carryin’ her stuff, followin’ her around, and lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Michael buried his face in his hands.

You looked over your shoulder at him across the room, probably to see what was taking so long and the second Michael noticed, he straightened.

Bill caught it and a long, exhausted sigh followed.

Then he patted Michael’s shoulder. “Go on. Use protection.”

Michael sputtered. “You’re talkin’ dirty! I’m a gentleman.”

Bill shook his head. “You hopeless.”

The funny thing is Bill didn’t dislike the dynamic. He probably finds it adorable. He just spends a lot of the time trying, and failing, to convince Michael that being loved by a confident woman did not require acting like he’d been personally selected by royalty every single day. Michael, unfortunately, would continue acting exactly like that.

Because he loved bossy women.

You were beautiful—everyone knew that. It wasn’t exactly a revolutionary observation. People noticed when you walked into a room, they turned their heads and stumbled over conversations, found reasons to linger a little longer in your presence.

But Michael’s problem had long since surpassed simple attraction, because your pussy was the closest thing Michael thought he’d ever get to experiencing heaven while he was still on earth.

The thing about Michael was that he was sort of person who experienced affection through proximity. He liked sitting close enough for your shoulders to touch. He liked feeling your weight beside him on a couch. He liked the absent minded ways you occupied space, the little touches that seemed insignificant to everyone else but somehow lingered in his mind for days afterward.

The truth was that he never quite got used to you, even more so because you were the one to take his virginity.

Some people eventually acclimated to affection, they normalized it and over time, they came to expect it. Michael never seemed capable of doing that. Every act of intimacy, no matter how small, retained its ability to affect him. A hand on the back of his neck. Your fingers smoothing his collar. Your arm looping through his. Tiny gestures that should have become ordinary by now somehow remained extraordinary.

There’s unfortunately just a small part of him still couldn’t believe he was being chosen.

For Michael, intimacy was never something separate from affection. The two were hopelessly intertwined. Physical closeness carried an emotional weight that he couldn’t easily detach from which is why he’s so enamored with you. Where other people might eventually grow accustomed to being loved, Michael seemed determined to remain grateful for it. The familiarity never dulled his appreciation.

You’re no longer just the woman he has a crush on. You’re the person he trusted with something deeply personal. The person who guided him through an experience he had spent years imagining, worrying about, romanticizing, and building up in his head.

The irony is that it probably makes him less focused on sex itself and more focused on you.

Because afterward, what’s left isn’t necessarily the memory of the sex. It’s the memory of your kindness. Your patience. The way you looked at him during. The fact that you wanted him there with you. The feeling of being accepted completely, without performance or expectation.

For someone like Michael, that would be difficult to separate from love. Very difficult.

“Fuck, Michael,” You feel breathless, hands resting on the sides of his abdomen as you wrap your legs around his waist. Michael balances his weight above you, palms spread out on your soft bedding as you pull him closer with each thrust deeper into your pussy. Your pubic bones met with each movement, curly bushes intermingling and creating a friction. “That feel s’good, baby. Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ me this good..”

Michael’s face twists with a cute strain, his eyes squeeze shut so tightly his brows pinch. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he fights the overwhelming to pump his nut inside of you. He can’t cum now. It’s too early, it’s way too soon. He can’t. He can’t. It’s barely been three minutes! But the filth spilling from your pretty lips in such a nasty tone makes his dick fucking throb and jerk against your tight walls. ”Lovey.. stop—stop.. stop talkin’ for a second..”

You know exactly what you’re doing, but you don’t mind. He’s been very generous with his mouth tonight and you can’t even count the amount of times you used his tongue to get off. Emphasis on you using his tongue, he’s eager to please but he still needs a little guidance. So, usually when he’s between your legs, you’re practically face fucking him. Hands in his curly coils to hold him in place as you roll your clit along his tongue.

Your heavy breasts bounce and sway with each sloppy thrust, jiggling provocatively under his straining chest. You reach up, soft palms cupping his tense cheeks, tenderly stroking his sweaty skin as you whisper.

“Look,” You tilt his face down, forcing him to look directly beneath the two of you—making him watch. “Look at that dick fucking your pussy, daddy.” He lets out a particularly pathetic whine as the nickname, you only use it to tease him but he seems to like it even though.. he’s not really the ”daddy” type. He watches as his slick, latex covered cock pushes relentlessly in and out of your pretty petaled pussy. The smooth wrapper makes his shaft glide effortlessly, pumping in and out as his dark skin contrasts against the lighter colored latex. Fuck, it’s pretty. All six inches of it.

“Who’s pussy is this? Let me know..” You grab his jaw, making him look at you as you gently runs a finger down his bottom lip to watch it pop back into place.

“It’s mine..” He whimpers out.

“Yeah? ’s all yours?” You smile, slipping her ring and middle finger into his mouth.

“Mhm..” He nods, closing his eyes again as he sucks on her fingers.

“Look at me, baby..” You say and he reluctantly does as he’s told. “I love watching you fuck me this good..” You look up at him with those big soft eyes, your expression melting into a breathtaking mix of pure adoration and overwhelming affection. Right now, there’s nothing dirty in your gaze now, only a deep, lovesick tenderness that reciprocates his same feelings for you—and it completely unravels him. Seeing you look at him with such.. love is his absolute undoing, shattering his control instantly.

Michael’s hips start to stutter and falter, his rhythm breaking as he approaches his high. His face contorts with distress, a mixture of pleasure and panic etched into his features.

“Oh—m’god..” He pants, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Can’t.. that's gonna make me..”

“Make you what, angel face? Cum?” You smile.

“I can’t—I really can’t..” There’s really no warning.

Michael’s body suddenly goes rigid and his hips press deep as he buries himself completely inside you. His muscles tense and twitch as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes over him, filling the condom with thick ropes of hot, sticky cum.

Michael collapses fully onto you, his strength completely spent as his body trembles uncontrollably. His hips continue to rut instinctively, pathetic little twitches driving his spent cock deeper into your warmth as he rides out the overwhelming aftershocks. His face buries into you shoulder, whimpering softly.

“Sorry.. sorry—felt too good..” There’s always a sense of shame that sits on his chest because since he’s been having sex, he’s been struggling with prematurely finishing. But you always tell him it’s not his fault when he brings it up hours later, his body has never known a woman until relatively recently. It just makes his body notoriously hypersensitive and prone to finishing too soon. It takes some time to build an endurance. But what he lacks in lasting, he makes up for with his refractory period which is seemingly nonexistent.

But that’s a story for a different day.