can u maybe write about mj (any era) catching us touching ourselves and then helping her
Pleasure
A/N: OF COURSE. Keep these requests coming u guysssss
Warning: masturbation, getting caught, wait nvm it’s actually cute, smut ofc
December 31, 1980
The bass thrummed through your chest, vibrating the floorboards. It was the soundtrack of your youth, the soundtrack of your dreams. Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You” pulsed from the living room speakers, filling your apartment with a warmth that was more than just the heater’s output. It was him. He was here.
December 31, 1980.
New Year’s Eve.
You’d been friends for years, a connection forged through shared love for his art and a shy, mutual understanding. He wasn’t the global icon in your living room tonight; he was Michael, the guy who laughed at your bad jokes, who insisted on making the popcorn himself, who danced with an effortless grace that made your heart stutter just watching him move across the carpet. His presence was electric, but tonight it felt… different. More intimate. The world outside was celebrating, but here, in your cozy space, it was just the two of you.
“This one’s my favorite,” he said softly, nodding towards the stereo as the smooth synth of “Off the Wall” began. He was leaning against your bookshelf, his silhouette framed by the lamplight. The iconic red leather jacket from the tour was hanging on a chair, leaving him in a simple, soft black sweater and jeans. He looked comfortable. He looked real.
You’d watched The Empire Strikes Back, then The Shining, the latter making him clutch your arm during the scary parts, his laughter nervous and genuine afterwards. The space between you on the sofa had gradually vanished, until his thigh was pressed against yours, the warmth seeping through your own jeans. Every brush of his arm, every shared glance felt loaded with a tension you hadn’t dared name.
It was a crush. A deep, aching, years-long crush that had morphed into something more visceral tonight. The way his lips moved when he spoke, the flash of his eyes when he smiled, the subtle scent of his cologne—it all coiled inside you, a tight, needy knot in your lower belly. You were turned on. Simple as that. Aroused by your friend, by the proximity, by the sheer impossibility of it.
Your mind raced. You needed a moment. A private moment to deal with this sudden, overwhelming surge.
“I think I left my… my watch in my bedroom,” you stammered, standing up abruptly. “I’ll go grab it.”
Michael glanced at you, his dark eyes soft. “Sure. Don’t be long, the next movie’s starting.”
You hurried down the short hallway, your pulse hammering in your ears. The bedroom door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in the quiet, familiar darkness of your room. The faint music still drifted in, a sensual backdrop to your turmoil.
You couldn’t hold it. The image of him—his slender hands, the curve of his neck, the whisper of his voice—flooded your mind. Your breath came in short gasps as you sank onto the edge of your bed. This was madness. He was Michael Jackson. Your friend. But the desire was a physical thing now, a throbbing ache between your legs that demanded attention.
Your hands trembled as you unzipped your jeans, pushing them down your hips along with your underwear. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to calm the heat radiating from your core. You leaned back against the pillows, your legs parting almost instinctively.
You let your fingers trail down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, until they finally brushed against your own wetness. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped you. This was for him. Every thought was of him. You imagined it was his touch, not yours. His elegant, famous fingers tracing these same paths. You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the fantasy.
You began to touch yourself, slowly at first, circling your clit with a building pressure. The sensations were immediate and intense, a direct feedback loop to the mental image of Michael. You pictured him kneeling beside the bed, watching you with those intense, curious eyes. You imagined his voice, gentle and encouraging. Your movements became more deliberate, more urgent. Two fingers slipped inside yourself, and you arched off the bed, a moan caught in your throat. You worked yourself, pumping your fingers, rubbing your clit with your thumb, lost in a private, desperate rhythm fueled entirely by your forbidden longing for the man in your living room.
You were so lost in it, so consumed by the building peak, that you didn’t hear the soft footsteps. You didn’t hear the door hinge sigh.
The fantasy was vivid—he was praising you, calling you beautiful, leaning closer—when a real voice, soft and stunned, cut through the illusion.
“Oh…”
Your eyes flew open.
He was there. Michael. Standing in your bedroom doorway, the hall light casting a long shadow behind him. His expression was one of pure surprise, his eyes wide, fixed on where your hand moved between your legs. You froze, your whole body seizing with instant, mortifying embarrassment. You yanked your hand away, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, but it was too late. He’d seen. He’d seen everything.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you blurted, your voice shaking. “I didn’t… I just…”
He didn’t move away. He didn’t laugh or look disgusted. He just stood there, his surprise slowly melting into something else—something thoughtful, something understanding. He took a step into the room, his movements quiet and deliberate.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, his voice lower than usual, a rich, soothing tone. “It’s… it’s normal. Everyone does it. I do it.”
The confession, so simple and frank, stunned you more than his presence. You stared at him, your embarrassment still hot on your face, but now mixed with a shock of vulnerability.
He came closer, sitting gently on the edge of your bed, near your feet. He looked at you, not at your exposed body, but at your eyes. “You were thinking about something,” he murmured. “Something that made you feel good.”
You couldn’t lie. The truth was too palpable. You nodded slowly, a tear of shame and relief welling in your eye. “Yeah.”
A gentle smile touched his lips. It wasn’t mocking. It was… kind. “Can I… can I see?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I help?”
Your mind screamed a dozen warnings, but your body, your aching, wanting body, answered for you. You nodded again, a tiny, helpless movement.
He shifted closer. His presence was overwhelming now, not just famous, but male, intimate, focused on you. He reached out, his hand—the hand you’d idolized, the hand that created magic—hovered for a moment before it gently replaced yours. His fingertips brushed over your lower stomach, a touch so light it felt like a whisper. Then they dipped lower, tracing through your wetness, exploring you with a tender, curious precision.
You gasped, your back pressing into the mattress. His touch was different. It was assured, intentional. It wasn’t the frantic, selfish touch of your own need; it was an exploration, a gift.
“You’re so beautiful here,” he murmured, his eyes studying his own movements. He spread your folds gently with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit and applying a perfect, circling pressure. “So soft. So warm.”
Every word, every touch, sent bolts of pleasure through you. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore. It was real. Michael Jackson, the shy superstar, was touching you, making you feel things you’d never dreamed possible. His other hand came up to rest on your thigh, his grip firm and reassuring.
He leaned in closer, his face now just inches from your core. His breath was warm against your sensitive skin. “Let me make it better for you,” he whispered, and then he lowered his head.
His lips pressed against you, a soft, closed-mouth kiss that made your entire body jolt. Then he opened his mouth, and his tongue touched you. It was a slow, languid stroke from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit. You cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound of pleasure. He didn’t stop. He began to eat you out with a dedication that was almost artistic. His tongue licked, probed, circled. He used the flat of it to press against your entire sensitive area, then the tip to flick rapidly at your clit. His movements were rhythmic, building a steady, incredible pressure.
You were panting now, your hands fisting the sheets beside you. You watched, through a haze of pleasure, his beautiful face buried between your legs, his eyes closed in concentration. He was lost in it, too. Giving you pleasure was his pleasure. He hummed softly against you, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. One of his hands slid up your body, under your shirt, to cup your breast. His thumb rubbed over your nipple through the fabric, matching the rhythm of his tongue.
The dual sensations were overwhelming. Your hips began to move, rocking against his mouth, seeking more of that perfect friction. He responded, his tongue moving faster, his suction becoming stronger. He was drinking from you, consuming you, and you felt yourself unraveling.
“Michael… I’m…” you moaned, warning him.
He just intensified his efforts. His tongue became a relentless, pinpoint instrument on your clit, while his fingers, now slick with your moisture, pushed inside you again, two then three, filling you, stretching you in a way that made you see stars. The combination was exquisite—the internal pressure of his fingers, the external, focused assault of his tongue.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. It wasn’t a slow build; it was a sudden, seismic rupture of pleasure that started deep in your belly and exploded outward. You screamed, your body convulsing, arching off the bed so violently he had to hold you down. Colors flashed behind your eyelids. The world narrowed to the point where his mouth met your body. You bucked against him, your release soaking his chin, his lips, as he continued to work you through it, gentler now, licking and soothing until the last tremor faded from your limbs.
You collapsed back onto the mattress, breathless, utterly spent. He finally lifted his head, his face glistening with your essence. He looked at you, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something else—desire. His own desire.
He didn’t speak. He just crawled up the bed, his body aligning with yours. He kissed you, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. It was intimate, primal. His hand went to his own jeans, unzipping them. He pushed them down, along with his underwear, and his erection sprang free, hard and urgent against your thigh.
You looked at it, then at him. The need to reciprocate was immediate, overwhelming. You wanted to give him the same pleasure he’d just given you.
You pushed him gently so he was lying beside you, then you slid down the bed, positioning yourself between his legs. You took him in your hand first, feeling the smooth, hot skin of his shaft. He was perfectly formed, elegant like the rest of him. You leaned down and, without hesitation, took him into your mouth.
He gasped, a sharp, musical sound. His hips twitched. You began to move, using your tongue along the underside of his shaft, circling the head, taking him deep. You worshipped him with your mouth, with the same focused intensity he had shown you. You listened to his breathing, to the soft moans that escaped him, and you adjusted your rhythm—slower, then faster, adding suction, using your hand to stroke what your mouth couldn’t cover.
He was soon trembling, his hands gripping your hair gently, not guiding, just holding. “That’s… so good,” he choked out. “You’re so good.”
You felt him swell, tighten. You knew he was close. You redoubled your efforts, sucking him firmly, your tongue dancing over the most sensitive spot. With a cry that was half-sung, half-moan, he came. His release flooded your mouth, warm and abundant. You swallowed, taking all of him, not stopping until he was soft and spent in your mouth.
You crawled back up to lie beside him, both of you breathless, naked, entangled in the aftermath. The silence was thick, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full.
You turned to look at him, his profile serene against your pillow. The confession, the one you’d held for years, bubbled up now, unstoppable. “Michael,” you whispered. “I… I have feelings for you. More than friendship. I’ve had them for a long time.”
He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… relieved. A soft smile broke on his lips. “I know,” he said quietly. “I have them for you, too. I’ve just… been scared to say it.”
He reached out, his fingers tracing your cheek. “But tonight… tonight wasn’t scary. It was beautiful.”
You kissed him again, slowly, a kiss that sealed the confession, that turned a secret crush into a shared, explicit truth. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close in the dim light of your bedroom, the distant pulse of his music still the only sound in the world.
————-
The silence in your bedroom is warm. It’s a thick, comfortable silence, filled with the memory of shared breath and the scent of each other’s skin. You lie tangled together, the blanket pulled haphazardly over your legs, his arm draped across your waist. His heartbeat is a slow, steady drum against your back.
You can feel the shift in the air as morning begins to creep through the window. The deep, intimate night is giving way to something else—something lighter, clearer. And with it comes a flicker of shyness.
It starts as a flutter in your stomach. The raw, unbridled passion of the hours before—his mouth on you, your mouth on him, the whispered confessions—was a world unto itself, a bubble where normal rules didn’t apply. But now, the real world is pushing its way back in. You are lying naked with Michael Jackson. Not the fantasy Michael, the poster on your wall, but the man. The man whose shy smile you know, whose laugh you love, whose body you just explored with a hunger that left you both trembling.
A sudden, sharp sense of exposure washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, pressing your cheek into the pillow. Did we really do all that? The thought is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
You feel him stir beside you. His arm tightens a little around you, a reflexive, sleepy gesture. Then he shifts, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are soft, still a little blurred with sleep and satisfaction. He smiles, a small, private smile that makes your heart clench.
“Morning,” he murmurs. His voice is sleep-rough, deeper than usual.
“Morning,” you whisper back. Your voice feels fragile.
The shyness blooms fully now, a hot flush rising up your neck to your cheeks. You look away, focusing on the pattern of light on the ceiling. You want to pull the blanket tighter, to hide yourself a little, but you don’t. You stay still, letting him see you.
He sees it, of course. He sees everything. His fingers trace a slow, gentle line up your spine. “You’re thinking,” he says softly.
“A little,” you admit.
“About last night?”
You nod, still not looking at him. “About… what it means.”
His hand stops its tracing. He takes a slow breath, the air moving against your shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he says. His tone is careful, thoughtful. “Since the moment you kissed me back.”
That makes you turn to face him. His expression is open, vulnerable. There’s no superstar mask here. It’s just Michael, looking a little unsure, a little hopeful. “We should talk,” he says. “Not here. It’s too… intense here. Let’s get dressed. Go to the living room. Sit on the sofa like we did before the movies started.”
The idea is a relief. The bed feels like a confessional booth, a place of pure physical truth. The sofa feels like a neutral ground, a place for words. You nod again, more firmly this time. “Okay.”
He slips out of bed first, his movements graceful even in this simple act. His body is slim and beautiful in the morning light, a sculpture of smooth, caramel skin and gentle curves. You watch him, the shyness mixing with a fresh, low ache of desire. He finds his jeans and sweater, pulling them on with a quiet efficiency. He doesn’t look at you while he dresses, giving you a moment of privacy.
You get up, feeling a slight soreness between your legs—a pleasant, lingering reminder of his attention. You find your own clothes, the jeans and sweater from yesterday, and put them on. The fabric feels strange against your skin, a barrier between you and the memory of his touch.
You walk into the living room together. The space is still dim, the curtains drawn against the New Year’s Day morning. The stereo is silent now. His red leather jacket is still on the chair. The empty popcorn bowl sits on the coffee table. It feels like a museum of the night before.
He sits on the sofa first, in the same spot he occupied last night. You sit beside him, but you leave a small gap between you. Not the pressing closeness of before, but a space for breathing, for talking.
He turns to you, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “So,” he begins, his voice quiet. “Last night… was incredible. For me. I hope it was for you too.”
“It was,” you say quickly, the words rushing out. “It was… beyond anything I’ve ever felt.”
He smiles, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Good.” He pauses, looking down at his hands. “I’ve… I’ve never done that with someone I really cared about. Not like this. Not where it felt… real. Most of the time, it’s just… performance. For the other person. Or for the cameras, even if they’re not there.” He looks up at you. “But with you… it wasn’t a performance. It was just me. Wanting you. Wanting to make you feel good.”
The honesty of it hits you like a physical touch. You reach out, placing your hand over his clasped ones. “It felt real,” you assure him. “It felt like you.”
He nods, relaxing a little under your touch. “The thing is…” he continues, his gaze steady on yours. “I have feelings for you. You know that now. I said it. And you have them for me. But… my life isn’t normal. It’s not a life where I can just… date someone. Go to the movies and hold hands in public. It’s a life where every move is watched, every connection is analyzed.” He swallows. “If we… if we try to have something… it would have to be a secret. A really, really big secret. For a long time. Maybe forever.”
You’ve known this, of course. You’ve known it abstractly for years. But hearing it now, in the context of his mouth on your skin, his release in your mouth, makes it concrete and heavy. It’s not just a theoretical problem. It’s the wall you’d have to live behind.
“I understand,” you say softly. Your hand tightens on his. “But… do you want to try? Despite all that?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says, the word firm and clear. “I want to try. I want you. More than I’ve wanted anything outside of my music. I’m… tired of being alone. Tired of the fantasy being only on stage. I want a real one. With you.”
The admission is so raw, so stripped of his usual poetic veneer, that it brings tears to your eyes. You lean forward, closing the gap between you on the sofa. You kiss him, not with the hungry passion of last night, but with a tender, affirming sweetness. His lips respond, soft and welcoming.
When you pull back, you’re both breathing a little faster. The talking has opened the door again, not to shyness, but to the desire that lurks just beneath it. The physical truth of last night is still in your bodies, a live wire waiting to be touched.
You look at him, at his beautiful face, his expressive eyes now dark with a renewed want. The shyness is melting away, burned off by the heat of his confession and the memory of his touch. You want to feel him again. You want to show him, not just with words, but with your body, that you accept the secret, that you choose him despite it.
Your hand, still resting on his, moves. You slide it up his arm, over the soft fabric of his sweater, until your fingers reach the side of his neck. You trace the line of his jaw, feeling the smooth skin beneath your touch.
He watches you, his eyes tracking your movements. His breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.
“We talked,” you whisper, your voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. “Now… I want to feel again.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, a smile of understanding and anticipation. “I want to feel too,” he murmurs.
You don’t move to undress him. Not yet. The clothed intimacy feels important now—a bridge between the raw nakedness of last night and the complicated world outside. You want to touch him through the barriers, to find the heat beneath the fabric.
You lean in closer, your body pressing against his side on the sofa. Your other hand comes up, joining the first, and you begin to explore him with a deliberate, slow curiosity. Your palms glide over the black sweater, feeling the contours of his chest, the slim shape of his torso. You can feel the warmth of his body radiating through the wool, the slight rise of his muscles as he tenses under your touch.
He closes his eyes, letting you explore. His head tilts back against the sofa cushion, a silent surrender.
You move your hands lower, over his stomach, the flat plane of his abdomen. Then you slide them down to his thighs, still clad in the soft denim of his jeans. You squeeze gently, feeling the firm muscle beneath. Your touch is possessive, admiring. You’re rediscovering his body, but this time with the knowledge of what lies beneath, with the memory of his taste and his hardness.
Your fingers find the button of his jeans. You don’t open it. You just rest your hand there, over the bulge that is already forming. You feel him swell under your touch, a responsive thickening against your palm.
He opens his eyes, looking at you with a heated focus. “You don’t have to be shy anymore,” he says, his voice a husky whisper. “You can touch me anywhere. Any way you want.”
The permission, given so explicitly, sends a surge of boldness through you. You lean forward and kiss him again, this time with more pressure, more hunger. Your tongue slips into his mouth, tasting the familiar sweetness mixed with a hint of sleep. He responds instantly, his mouth opening wider, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, sensual dance.
As you kiss him, your hand finally works the button of his jeans. You pop it open, then slide your hand inside, under the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers find him immediately—hard, hot, and already slick at the tip. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the smooth, velvety skin, the solid weight of his arousal.
He groans into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound. His hips shift, pressing himself more firmly into your grip.
You break the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your hand starts to move, a slow, steady stroke up and down his length. You watch his face as you do it, studying the changes—the flutter of his eyelids, the tightening of his jaw, the way his lips part as his breath quickens.
“You like that,” you murmur, your own voice thick with desire.
“I love it,” he gasps. “Your hand… it’s perfect.”
You increase the pace, your strokes becoming more rhythmic, more demanding. Your thumb brushes over the head of his cock each time you reach the top, spreading the moisture that’s gathered there. He is fully erect now, a beautiful, rigid curve against your palm.
The sight of him, so responsive, so vulnerable to your touch, ignites a deep, aching need in your own body. The soreness between your legs is gone, replaced by a fresh, throbbing emptiness that wants to be filled. You want him inside you. Not just in your mouth, but in the deepest part of you.
But you don’t rush. You savor this. You keep stroking him, your hand moving with a practiced ease that surprises you. You’ve never done this with such confidence, such ownership.
He reaches for you then, his own hands moving to your body. They slide under your sweater, finding the bare skin of your waist. His touch is electric, his fingers tracing the sensitive dip just above your hip bone. Then his hands move upward, cupping your breasts through your bra. He squeezes gently, his thumbs finding your nipples and rubbing them until they pebble into hard points against the fabric.
You arch into his touch, a moan escaping you. The dual stimulation—your hand on him, his hands on you—is overwhelming. You’re both fully clothed, but the sex is happening anyway, vivid and intense beneath the layers.
His breathing is ragged now. “I want to see you,” he says, his voice strained. “Take this off.”
He pulls at your sweater, helping you to lift it over your head. Your bra follows, discarded onto the floor beside the sofa. Your breasts are bare now, exposed to the cool room air and to his hungry gaze.
He looks at you, his eyes wide and appreciative. “So beautiful,” he breathes. He leans forward, his mouth finding one of your nipples. He doesn’t just kiss it; he sucks, drawing the sensitive flesh into his mouth with a gentle, persistent pressure. His tongue circles the tip, flicking it rapidly.
You cry out, your hand on his cock tightening reflexively. The sensation is sharp and exquisite, radiating from your nipple down to your core. You’re wet again, soaking through your jeans, a desperate dampness that you can feel against the fabric.
He switches to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. You can feel his cock pulsing in your hand, responding to the sounds you’re making, to the way your body is writhing against his mouth.
After a few minutes of this, he pulls back, his lips glistening. “Now you,” he says, his hands going to his sweater. He pulls it off, revealing his own bare chest. His torso is slender, his skin smooth and taut over a subtle musculature. You’ve seen it before, in photos, in videos, but seeing it now, in this private context, is breathtaking.
You lean in and kiss his chest, your mouth moving over his skin. You taste the salt of him, the unique scent that is Michael. Your lips find one of his nipples, and you mimic what he did to you, sucking and licking until he shudders under your touch.
Your hand never stops moving on his cock. It’s a constant, rhythmic stimulation, keeping him on the edge. You can feel the tension building in his body, the way his stomach muscles contract, the way his thighs tremble.
He pushes you back gently, his eyes blazing. “I need to touch you,” he says, his voice urgent. “Properly.”
He unbuttons your jeans, his fingers working quickly. He pulls them down your legs, along with your underwear, leaving you completely naked on the sofa. The cool air hits your skin, but his gaze is hotter.
He kneels on the floor before you, his position reverent, like last night in the bedroom. He looks up at you, his eyes traveling over your body—your breasts, your stomach, the thatch of hair between your legs. “You’re incredible,” he whispers.
Then he leans forward, his hands spreading your thighs wider. He doesn’t use his mouth this time. Instead, his fingers find your entrance, dipping inside with an easy, knowing motion. He pushes two fingers into you, deep, until they’re fully embedded. You gasp, your hips lifting off the sofa cushions.
He starts to move them, pumping slowly, his thumb once again finding your clit and applying a perfect, circling pressure. It’s the same magic as last night, but now you’re watching him, watching the focused intensity on his face as he pleasures you.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, his fingers twisting inside you. “So warm. I can feel you pulsing around my fingers.”
The words, combined with the action, push you closer to the edge. You’re panting, your head thrown back, your hands gripping the sofa behind you. His fingers are a delicious invasion, filling you exactly where you need to be filled.
He adds a third finger, stretching you further. The sensation is intense, a sweet burn that makes you cry out. He uses his other hand to press against your lower stomach, adding external pressure that makes the internal stimulation even more profound.
You’re bucking against his hand now, your body moving in a frantic rhythm. The orgasm is building, a tight coil of pleasure in your belly that’s ready to snap.
“Michael… please…” you moan, not knowing what you’re asking for.
He understands. He withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Then he stands up, his own jeans now open, his cock fully exposed and throbbing. He looks at you, his expression fierce with desire.
“I want to be inside you,” he says, the statement simple and direct. “I want to feel you around me.”
You nod, your voice gone. You want that too. More than anything.
He climbs onto the sofa, positioning himself between your legs. He leans down, kissing you deeply as he aligns his body with yours. His cock presses against your entrance, the head nudging against your wet, sensitive flesh.
He doesn’t push in immediately. He teases, rubbing himself against you, letting you feel the full length of him against your slit. The friction is maddening, a delicious promise of what’s to come.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Now,” you plead. “Please, now.”
He nods, his eyes locked with yours. Then he pushes forward, slowly, steadily.
The feeling of him entering you is transcendent. It’s a fullness that goes beyond physical sensation; it’s emotional, a completion. He slides into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully buried inside you. You can feel every part of him—the heat, the hardness, the slight curve of his shaft. He fits you perfectly, as if your body was made for him.
He stops when he’s all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He lets out a long, shaky breath. “Oh… wow,” he whispers. “You feel… incredible.”
You feel the same. You’re stretched, filled, connected to him in the most fundamental way. You look up at him, seeing the awe in his face. This is new for him too. This level of intimacy, this deep joining.
He begins to move. His first thrust is gentle, a slow withdrawal and a careful return. You gasp, your body adjusting to the rhythm. Then he picks up pace, his hips moving with a natural, graceful motion. Each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through you. Each time he pulls back, you feel a desperate emptiness that is instantly filled again by his forward push.
His thrusts are deep, reaching places his fingers couldn’t. You can feel him hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
He doesn’t mind. He’s lost in the sensation too. His eyes are closed now, his face a mask of pure concentration and pleasure. His breathing is ragged, his muscles working as he drives into you.
The sofa cushions are soft beneath you, but the force of his movements is pushing you into them, creating a friction against your back that adds to the intensity. The room is filled with the sounds of your coupling—the soft slap of skin, your moans, his groans, the creak of the sofa frame.
He changes his angle slightly, tilting your hips upward. The new position sends his cock rubbing directly against your clit with each thrust. The dual stimulation—internal and external—is overwhelming. You’re climbing fast, the peak approaching with a dizzying speed.
“I’m close,” you pant, your voice breaking. “Michael, I’m so close…”
He nods, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. He’s chasing his own peak now, driven by your tightness, by your wetness, by the sounds you’re making. “Come with me,” he grunts, his voice strained. “Let’s come together.”
You try to hold on, to match his rhythm, but your body is surrendering. The orgasm erupts, a brilliant, white-hot explosion that starts in your core and radiates outward to every limb. You scream, your body convulsing around him, clamping down on his cock with a powerful, rhythmic pulse.
He feels it, and it triggers his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and lets go. His orgasm is a flood of heat, a pulsing release that you feel deep within you. He cries out, a sound that is half-moan, half-song, his body shuddering against yours.
He collapses onto you, his weight a welcome, solid pressure. He stays inside you, both of you still connected, as the aftershocks tremble through your bodies. His breath is hot against your neck, his heart hammering against your chest.
After a long moment, he slowly pulls out, the sensation making you both sigh. He rolls to lie beside you on the sofa, both of you naked, spent, and tangled together in the aftermath.
You look at him, at his face flushed with exertion, his eyes soft with satisfaction. The shyness is gone, burned away by the fire of this joining. You reach out, tracing his cheek with your finger.
He smiles, a lazy, contented smile. “So,” he says, his voice low and rough. “That’s what it means.”
