zee

“taste so perfect, shit—” your boyfriend grumbles between sloppy licks, trying to catch all your drops with his soft, wet tongue. “you close, baby?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to your pussy lips.

your stomach tenses up, the knot in your stomach tightening. your senses are all heightened, your head spinning from the rhythmic waves in which jaafar’s tongue and lips caress your clit, eliciting more moans out of you.

you pussy splutters, wetness pooling under your ass as he eats you out like a man starved.

until he suddenly stops, and you let out a pitchy whine when he cool air hits your wet slit. “j, i said i was cl—”

jaafar sits up on his knees, eyes dark and hooded. “i know baby,” he tells you, all sympathetic and out of breath. he slides himself further away from you, his large hand mindlessly palming the tent in his joggers.

“want y’to touch yourself f’me,” he urges you, eyes zeroed in on your twitching, sensitive pussy. “show me how you do it without me.”

his words are so deep and vulgar, your hole gaping open as more slick drips out of you in strings, all nasty and wet on the sheets.

you can’t believe yourself. your skin feels clammy against your hand as your hand travels all the way down to your bare pussy, your fingertips immediately finding your pulsing clit. “what a precious girl y’are.”

the circling motions are slow and deliberate as your eyes stay locked on jaafar at the other end of the bed. his hand is already reaching into his joggers, sloppily moving over his cock, producing those nasty, creamy sounds as the tendons in his forearm is pulled taut.

almost immediately, you plunge two fingers into your spongey hole, eyes transfixed on how jaafar jerks himself off, how his biceps bulge under his shirt, how his adam’s apple bobs as he throws his head back.

“fuck, you’re doing so good—” he mumbles, out of breath. “look so beautiful, all stuffed full.”

it’s his praise what pulls you over the edge. your release washes over you with white specks floating in front of your eyes. your tiny sighs and mewls, your pretty body coated in sweat only spur jaafar on to rub himself faster.

his eyes stay glued on your pussy, entrance pushing out the last drops of your pearly white cum. “taste y’rself.” jaafar orders between pants, the sounds of skin hitting skin obscene in the thick air of the bedroom.

your fingers reach down, swirling around your milky hole to gather your essence on your fingers. it drips down the length of your fingers obscenely slow before you bring them to your plush lips to lick your cream off, tongue out and all, giving your boyfriend a show.

jaafar’s still rubbing himself up and down, sweat beading across his forehead. his arm is getting tingly. “gonna help me, baby? gonna give me’a rub?”

you don’t hesitate to scramble over the sheets to help your boyfriend out. you end up on your knees on the floor, hands securely holding his shaft as you lower your mouth on him.

it is common knowledge that your boyfriend is big, but you love it. how your jaw just hinges open, tongue swirling over the underside of his dick, his tip hitting the back of your throat repeatedly. your throat is narrow and slick. snug and warm.

fuck, he’d cockwarm your perfect little throat if he had the time.

the gaggy sounds of you trying to drink him down echo through the room. “shit— take me s’good,” jaafar groans above you, hips bucking up, pushing his cock deeper in your mouth. “gonna fuck y’r throat full, yeah?”

you can’t do anything but hum in excitement, fingers clamping down around his base to squeeze more precum on your tongue. and jaafar just keeps on going. your nose bumps against his stomach rhythmically, your cunt leaking drooly drips of slick on the floor in a pathetic puddle as you suck him off.

spit drools down the corners of your mouth. “fuck, look at you— look—” he sighs, totally blissed out, balls slapping against your chin as his cock demands all the space in your throat. “y’like that, huh? big mouth is fuckin’ made for my cock.”

you move your head up and down to nod in agreement, nudging the tip of his dick against the roof of your throat. his hands are knitted into your hair to move your head up and down his shaft just the way he likes it. you feel like a damn doll, but another part of you enjoys how jaafar just uses your mouth to please himself.

“gonna come on y’r pretty tits,” he stutters out after a while, the thrusts into your throat getting increasingly sloppier. his fingers cup your chin to slowly pull himself out of your small throat, his shaft completely covered in your thick spit.

instinctively, your two hands slide over his slippery length, all red and swollen from how neglected it feels. “that’s it, baby, that’s it,” jaafar heaves, leaning on his elbows. “ah— y’do it so well for daddy.”

adrenaline rushes through your spine as jaafar’s hands cramp around the cotton of the duvet. a sign he’s close. he shatters with a heavy groan, thick ropes of milky cum shooting all over your chest, meandering down to your stomach.

you rub him through his orgasm, his tip still leaking white. your tongue darts out, suddenly all shy as you give his twitching dick a couple of kitten licks.

his semen all over your body warms you right up. your own slick is still growing tacky between your folds. jaafar reaches down, as he cradles your cheeks in his hands. “such a good girl.” he simply praises.

you nose his cheek. “only f’you,” you whisper sweetly.

“d’awwh,” jaafar croons. dropping down to your level while simultaneously laying you down on the floor. “sweetest girl in the whole world.” he says while peering down at your weeping pussy.

“this sweet girl deserves some attention too,” jaafar whispers to you, referring to your cunt. his fingers fondle with your pulsating clit while his other hand pushes your legs up. “lucky f’r me, she’s aaalll ready, isn’t she?”

“yeah—” your eyes turn glassy again when jaafar pushes into you. your pussy produces a loud, squelching, sucking nose when he bottoms out, both of his arms holding your knees open to your chest as he plummets into you. you release a pathetic whine when you feel the agonising weight of his dick sliding into your tunnel like a teasing taunt.

he rearranges you with sin and silk, right there on the floor, hips nudging his cock deeper into your soppy little hole with every thrust, every jerk of his hips pushing you closer to the edge.

“y’feel me?” he breathes out, right in your face. his smile looks sweet yet sardonic when his tip prods against your cervix deliciously. “‘m all the way in your guts, baby.”

It kept you up at night — how can a man so infatuated not want to strip you bare and ravish you till the sun came up. Not want to see you, stark naked, in all your glory, writhing and whining underneath him as he took you.

Michael had his reasons.

Timidity. Inexperience. Insecurity.

But, the largest factor of all — religion.

Michael was a raised as a devoted Jehovah’s Witness — something his Mother had instilled in him from birth. A religion built on morality and modesty. A religion that forbid sexual intercourse before marriage.

Michael wasn’t as devoted as his Mother — ever since his album Off the Wall, he had slowly began parting ways with the religion. Distancing himself as the connotations of his album were subtly frowned upon due to mentions of sensuality and infidelity — however, his personal beliefs about a higher power still remained.

He still, after his parting, believed that sex was something marital and holy — something to be worshipped and protected, performed with someone you truly love and trust.

And he did. He did, wholeheartedly, love and trust you — with every fibre of his being. But, every time your hand would trickle down his body, grazing over the painfully obvious bulge that clad him beneath his slacks — he would stop you. The guilt that washed over him far greater than any aching pleasure he so desired.

As time progressed, and your relationship blossomed — that guilt diminished. Grower smaller and smaller with each tentative touch or pleading look you’d give him. Each one cracking the glass dome of restraint he had locked himself in.

You knew tonight you’d finally shattered it.

Michael was sat comfortably next to you on the sofa at Hayvenhurst, a gentle hand resting on the curve of your clothed knee, television blabbering in the background as you watched him. He looked gorgeous in every aspect, but right now — calm, relaxed, content, it took the cake.

“Watch the movie, lovey.” His voice soft and bashful, a blush creeping onto the round of his cheeks after catching you staring.

“I think my view is better.”

Michael breathed out a huff of timid air — your quick-witted flirting always got to him. “Stop. Y’know I’ll get shy.”

You giggled next to him, shuffling closer to his warm body, “I know y’beautiful, Mike.”

He laughed, turning his flushed face away from you in embarrassment, “Can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause..” “‘Cause, what, angelface?”

Michael groaned, finally returning his gaze back onto you, a smile he failed to suppress adorning his ethereal face, “‘Cause y’makin’ me think things that I shouldn’t.”

Ting!

The lustful lightbulb sparked so bright in your brain you almost saw stars.

There was your green light.

“Like what, sweetie.” Your voice now hushed, darker, deeper — an undertone of temptation that had Michael reeling inside, “Tell me.”

“B-Baby.” He was cracking — you were certain. The way he twitched as a calculated hand fell into the tense of his lap, stroking languidly along his clothed thigh, the denim scratching along your manicured nails — paired with a small knit in his eyebrows that made him look so deliciously adorable.

“What’s up, honey?” You teased, face now inches from his own bashful one, “Tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty lil’ mind of yours.”

Michael whined, deep from his throat, as you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your mouth moved slowly — trailing to his warm cheek, to the sharp of his jawline, and ending on the smooth of his bare neck. The gentleness of your lips against his burning skin had him fluttering his eyes shut — basking in the sensation. His hands moved subconsciously, once against your knee, now hesitantly holding the curve of your waist as you pressed yourself against him.

“Wanna hear it, Michael.”

He whined again, ever so louder this time, a statement of his timidity, “Baby, please.”

Your lips left his skin to move upwards, meeting his gaze once more. He looked wrecked — torn between honouring his devout innocence or letting his dirty mouth reveal his secrets.

You made the decision for him, clambering over him to settle in his lap, legs either side of his twitching hips. His eyes shot open in surprise.

“Honey, I-“ “It’s okay, sweet boy, I know what you’re thinkin’, anyways. Someone else is doin’ all the talkin’ for ya.”

Michael knew exactly what you were on about.

His embarrassingly obvious hard-on pressed into the softness of your clothed cunt — your skirt ridden up your thighs so perfectly that the cotton of your panties now resided directly on top of the boner he was attempting to hide. Despite never seeing his gracious cock with your own eyes, you knew he was big — every ridge now digging into the slick of your covered folds, hugging his length through his pyjamas bottoms.

“Let me make you feel better, handsome.”

Heaven and hell. That was the only thought that plagued Michael’s mind in this moment. Did he remain pledged to his beliefs, or was the way your drooling cunt wrapped around him, despite the barrier of clothing, enough to make him crack?

With one flex of his grip around your waist, and a breathy whine from your lips — the restraint shattered.

His lips met yours in a feverish connection — sloppy and messy. Spit coating your lips and chin as he forced his eager tongue into your mouth — hands now splayed across the small of your back, pushing you closer. His mouth met yours in a frantic motion, quick and rushed, like he was afraid someone, or something, would stop him at any moment. Your hands slipped up his body, resting on the lean of his shoulders, before sliding into the sweetness of his curls.

He truly crumbled when your hips began moving.

A slow, tantalising rock against him — movements so precise and languid he was certain one harsh buck and he’d fill his boxers right then and there. You had played this game with him before — being in this compromising position wasn’t new to you and Michael. You had once, in a state of pleasure, picked up your speed as you rocked against him, but he quickly shut it down. Telling you, bashfully, he was soon to finish and felt wrong about it — paired with a pout and blush.

This time, though, when your hips picked up a swifter pace — he daren’t stop you.

He’d been agonisingly hard and denied an orgasm for months now — every time he’d nearly get there, the devil on his shoulder telling him to carry on and make a mess of his shorts, the angel on the other side would force him to halt your hips to a stop, apologising at the way you’d whine in disappointment.

Michael let you take what you needed — back arched, hands threaded through his curls as you fucked yourself on his clothed cock, the prettiest noises falling from your swollen lips.

“Y’look so beautiful like this.” Michael revealed quietly, hands following the liquid movements of your hips, eyes trailing over your frame, focusing on your erect nipples poking through your tank-top, the curve of your breasts becoming more visible with each bounce.

With every drag he guided along the ridge of his cock that relentlessly nudged against your puffy clit — your whines got louder, only forcing his cock to throb beneath.

Michael, all too familiarly, held you to a stop.

“Michael.” His name fell past your lips in a desperate plea, the pleasure depleting as you stilled against his crotch.

“I know, I know, sweet girl.” He reassured, leaning up to press a gentle peck to your pouting lips, “M’not stoppin’, don’t worry that pretty head. Just wanna try somethin’.”

He lifted you off his lap with strong precision — settling you down to a place you’d not explored with the temptation between your legs.

His thigh.

“There y’go, pretty.” He whispered, smoothing down the back of your hair in kind strokes, “Go’head, baby, take what’cha you need.”

Your head reeled at the sudden change in his disposition — the once shy boy had magically been transformed into a confident man as the remains of his restraint settled around you.

His new attitude sent a pulsation so strong between your thighs you ground down on his — the tense of his muscle rolling against your nub in the most sensual way. Something you’d never quite felt before.

“Oh, God.” You whined — ignoring the way Michael tched at the name used in vain, not once stopping as he dragged you along his leg, lip caught between his teeth as he ogled at you.

“D’ya feel good, pretty?” Despite his switch in confidence, he was still desperate for your praise, his voice cracking slightly as he met your glossy eyes.

“Mmhm—s-s’good, Mikey.” Your voice hit him right where he needed you most — the place between his twitching legs that had been denied touch for so long.

You didn’t miss the way his hips bucked ever so slightly upwards, chasing a grasp he undeniably craved. Your hands soothed that ache — reaching forward, ever so hesitantly, to palm the bulge in his slacks.

Michael gasped, hand flinching at your side, frantic eyes meeting yours once more, “This okay, angel?” You questioned.

Michael’s lip sucked between his teeth once again, glance flickering from your gorgeous smile to your manicured hands hovering over his crotch. An act he would once deny — but not this time.

He hummed, his voice high-pitched and needy, nodding quickly, “Please, mama.”

A curse fell from your swollen rosebud at the sound of his despair — your hand enveloping around his length beneath his bottoms.

“Oh, my Lord.”

He was done for — head falling back against the plush of the sofa, eyes rolled to his skull as the pleasure washed over him. You wasted no time in pleasing the man beneath you, never once stopping rocking your hips against him, as you slowly stroked him.

The scene was erotic — a dirty array of arousal in the way he bucked his hips unapologetically into your hand, cock throbbing under your palm, as you continued to hump the meat of this thigh, your slick staining the blue denim that had trickled from your soaked panties. It was enough for him — no direct physical contact, but just the right amount of pleasure to satisfy you both.

When your thumb swiped over the oozing head of his cock, Michael lost it. Whining so loud like he didn’t care who heard — the sudden boldness depleting faster than it had come around, now replaced by uncontrollable desperation.

“O-Oh, s-shit,” The curse fell from his mouth before he could suppress it, “G-Gonna cum, lovey.” His hips now fucking up into your hand pathetically, chasing a high he’d been yearning for for so long.

In your own state of blinding pleasure, your only response was a melodic whimper, his tensing thigh hitting the ridge of your clit that had your own orgasm building. Michael, with no prior warning, came with a cry, his milky white release soaking the material of his boxers — the neediest whines of lust filling the room. You soon followed — an exclaim of his name hitting his ears, only furthering his pleasure, as you came undone on his thigh, humping him at such a speed you were almost a blur in his glassy vision.

Michael heaved as he came down from a high that had been lingering on his mind since the moment you met him — an orgasm so strong he was twitching uncontrollably. You stilled against his leg, catching your breath simultaneously, peering down at his fucked out state.

“Thank you, pretty.”

“Ah, ah, I’m not done with you yet.”

Michael swore he died and went to heaven as you dropped to your knees beneath him — eyes hungry and dark, agenda unclear to him.

It was only when you lay your tongue flat against the rough of his jeans, the ones you had once fucked yourself on, licking up your essence that clad the denim, that Michael realised how much of a sex-hungry slut you were. The tang of your seeping arousal lingered on your tongue as you lapped up the mess you’d made on him — glancing up at him through your lashes at his knitted eyebrows and agape mouth. His suspicion that you were a cock-slut only deepening as you retracted your tongue back into your mouth, savouring the taste of yourself, and kissed your way up his leg, getting dangerously close to where he was pulsating.

“Mama, I—“ “Shhh, just gonna clean y’up, baby.”

Michael saw stars when you shoved his pyjama bottoms down his thighs and latched your greedy mouth to the wet spot that clad his boxers, a crackled groan ripping from his throat as you hummed around him. Your lips, settling right against the softening tip of his cock, suckled the cum straight from the cotton — his salty release flooding your tastebuds, colliding with the tang of your own essence in a delicious blaze on your tongue. His hand flew down to cradle your cheek as you lapped up the cum that stained him — his cock throbbing once more as your hands gripped his thighs, jeans now even more wet from your eager mouth.

“Baby—fuck, I-I’m gonn—“ With a strangled cry, another irrepressible spurt of cum shot from him once more, hands tightening ever so slightly around your flushed cheek as you greedily sucked up what he blessed you with — lapping up his second orgasm like you were dying of thirst.

Only when you pulled away, satisfied with your salty refreshment, did Michael’s breathing level out — blissed out expression meeting your devilish one.

And he knew — he had never loved you more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It wasn’t even noticeable at first. Well, not really, until you connected every small instance like one huge puzzle. A particularly suggestive flutter of his eyelashes, a nearly crimson blush on his cheeks whenever you praised him for anything. Then, there was that one time when you called yourself ‘mommy’ as a joke.

You’d just arrived home from your 4-month anniversary dinner date. Your feet were aching; clad in a pair of deep red 8-inch pumps that Michael practically begged you to wear. “I think it’s sexy that you’re taller than me in those heels. Your legs look extra long and beautiful. Please m-, baby? Please, wear them.” That just about undid you.

You’d started regretting letting him sway you like that, though, because you swore that with every step, you could feel a new callous forming on your pinky toe.

“Come help mommy take these things off, baby.” It was said so casually, because it was. Yet, his reaction had you thinking you’d said something offensive. He’d just finished taking off his own loafers, one knee on the floor. He nearly toppled all the way over, and he looked up at you with this almost pained expression. You could’ve sworn you saw tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so direct. It’s probably the wine…I’ll take them off mys–” He’d waved off your thought with his left hand, cleared his throat, and mumbled something along the lines of “…seriously driving me insane” under his breath, but it sounded lighthearted enough for you not to question him further. The two of you had your best sex yet that night.

Last week, though? It got to a point where Michael damn near made you lose your mind. You put on a pair of jeans that were slightly too long, and you didn’t have time to get them hemmed, so you asked your boyfriend to cuff the bottoms for you, playfully pretending to press your stiletto onto his chest while he knelt down.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded earnestly. He looked up at you while he said it, eyes glazed over with sparkles and something else you couldn’t quite place. There was a faint, crooked smile playing on his lips. One that read: I’m right where I want to be. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head like he was in the presence of royalty, then continued on with the task.

Really, it was a very quick exchange. Almost even casual; you just so happened to remember every aspect of it because it ruined you and your panties for the next two days.

That’s what’d been on your mind all afternoon. The two of you decided to spend your 6-month anniversary at a beachfront resort. Michael rented the whole thing out nearly two months in advance, your display of subtle dominance on your 4-month anniversary influencing the idea. He had a plan, and all he needed to do was gather up the confidence to act upon it.

You two took a series of photos on the digital camera he gifted you, involving various activities; a photo of you eating the breakfast he cooked the two of you in your suite’s kitchen, one of him almost missing his step on the jetski he was gonna race you on…One of you towering above him as he adjusted the delicate golden anklet he gave you the day prior, the cursive M glinting in the sunlight. He coughed hysterically to cover up the sound of its shudder, internally chastising himself for forgetting to turn off the sound in its settings.

When you two got home, he seemed overly eager about the evening, his attitude rubbing off on you. The both of you were a giggling mess, and you were completely sober. Just high off of the presence of the other.

The two of you had dinner reservations at 6:30pm, so you decided to shower together to ‘save water’ and time. Michael basically did the showering for the both of you though, making sure to do every step like you would. You’ve showered together enough for him to know your whole routine, and it made your heart swell with warmth, and your thighs unnoticeably squeeze together with want. He even rinsed and dried the both of you, making sure you didn’t lift your pretty fingers to do anything but grip onto his shoulders for balance.

It made you insatiable.

While you put on the finishing touches of your makeup, Michael approached you with a pleading look settled onto his face.

“Does this shirt look weird untucked? Should I button it up some more?”

You turned around, your unset makeup almost plastering onto his black button up. He looked delicious. Your mouth actually got watery at the sight right in front of you. You gulped down your lust, and met his eyes.

“Michael, you look beautiful. Leave it untucked and unbuttoned just like that. Wow.”

He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush crawling up his neck, as he let out a nervous chuckle. For a man so gorgeous, you’d think he’d be used to compliments from his own girlfriend by now.

“Y-you sure? Tonight’s important. I wanna look like we belong together. Like I belong with you.”

It took everything in you not to ruin your dinner plans and prove it to him right there, your hands fighting the urge to push him onto the bed and show him just how pretty you thought he was.

You cleared your throat and answered with a joking, “Michael, I’d swear you have a praise kink or something, because there’s no way you don’t see just how tasty you look right now.”

You turned back to the mirror, powdering up your face and putting on the remainder of your lip combo.

You didn’t notice just how badly Michael was holding it together from that point forward.

The two of you played the rest of the night cool, though. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for Michael fighting off his neediness when you ordered for him because you noticed him get shy, and when you wiped enchilada sauce off of his face, calling him your ‘clumsy baby.’ Or, the instance where you almost dragged him to the bathroom when you asked if he wanted dessert, and looked at you all lovesick with a, “Yes, please.”

He aggressively adjusted his black jeans, not so subtly, after you told him to pick up the napkin he (purposely) dropped. He felt like he was drunk. His nerves and his body were on fire. He started to down the bottle of wine he purchased for the two of you, for liquid courage. You quickly followed suit. It did nothing to help either of your states.

On the walk back to your suite, Michael’s demeanor nearly killed your buzz. He looked terrified.

“Mikey, baby. What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping in front of him and tilting his head up by his chin so he’d look you in your eyes. The heels you wore had you standing taller than him, and, unbeknownst to you, that only made it worse.

“It’s nothin, baby.” he responded, but his voice wasn’t matching his actions.

“Michael, come on, it’s me. What’s going o-”

“I said it’s nothin’,” he cut you off sharply. His voice was loud- too loud- and he wouldn’t look you in the eyes. He grabbed ahold of the hand that you had underneath his chin, and rushed the two of you the rest of the way to the hotel.

You were furious. Concerned by his terror-stricken face, mostly. But, his sharpness with you stirred something inside that you thought you’d buried, only fueled by the ache in your feet from nearly running in stilettos.

As you made it to your room, you pushed past his usually taller frame, and sat down onto the nearest plush chair, bending over to undo the straps of your pumps. You heard the door close with a click and looked up to see Michael rushing his way towards you, trying to stop you from removing them yourself. The two of you had your hands tangled in a mess; his fingers trying to gently push yours off, and yours almost aggressively shoving his.

“Enough, Michael.”

He gulped loudly, seeming almost embarrassed to look at you.

That was almost enough to ease the fire on your lips. Almost.

“Look at me while I’m speaking to you. What happened, and why are you acting so weird towards me?” Your voice quivered on the latter half of your question, insecurity starting to creep its way through your tone. Your cleared your throat and waited for him to speak.

He sighed visibly at the beginning of your monologue. The words affecting him in a way you couldn’t understand.

He continued removing your shoes as he answered, needing something to keep his eyes away from yours, due to the vulnerable truth behind his actions.

“I…” he cleared his throat. “I want you to control me.”

That was not what you were expecting. You waited, scared that you’d misinterpreted the intentions behind his words, hoping he’d expand on it further. By this point, both of your shoes were off, and he was still kneeling in front of your legs, both of his hands opting to massage on one of your aching feet. He still wasn’t looking at you.

“Mike…?” you asked. Your voice slightly deepened with a lust you were fighting so hard to control. You ran your fingers through his hair softly, eliciting a soft whine from his throat. You used the hand in his hair to gently guide his face up to yours. He obeyed your silent command as soon as you slightly tugged, actions already proving that he meant what you thought he did. Your stomach did a flip. The alcohol in your system was making you extremely sensitive to your emotions, everything heightened. Apparently, Michael was going through the same.

“I-I mean. Well look at you…Your legs are so long, ‘n you take care of me so good. You’re so good at telling people what to do and I always wish it was me on the other end of that. I- I think about you doing things to me. Things that I can’t control. I sometimes try ‘n push your buttons just so you can finally snap at me, but you’re so patient, even though your energy is kinda scary, and that somehow drives me even crazier.” The alcohol had him saying quite literally every word that came into his brain. He’d managed to fully massage all the tension from your feet during the rambling. He gave them each a quick peck and set them down gently onto the plush carpet beneath you. Then he sat up on his knees, properly. Both of his hands were placed on his lap like he was preparing for prayer.

“Please, baby. I can’t take it anymore. I want you to use me and control me and take everything I have. I want you to be mean to me and I want you to punish me for being rude earlier. Put me in my place, please. Please, pleasepleaseplease. It’s embarrassing, but I really do want this.” He added the last part after he noticed you weren’t responding, embarrassment and alcohol settling into his bones. He started sniffling, his eyes rimming with tears.

You didn’t say a word. Silently, you stood up, gripping Michael by the collar, dragging his frame up with yours, and then crashed your lips into his. He whimpered loudly. The sound shred the last bit of sanity you had left. The two of you tumbled through the doors that led to your room, his socks being kicked off and your shawl strewn onto the floor on the way there.

You turned him around and shoved him onto the bed forcefully. Michael looked up at you like you held the universe up just for him. Your hands made their way to his shirt first. The opened buttons were driving you crazy all day. You started unbuttoning, but grew impatient, opting to just aggressively pull them apart instead, buttons popping off and flying onto the floor in the act.

Michael was a whimpering mess beneath you, and you hadn’t even touched him properly. His hands were at his sides and his body was rigid. He hadn’t even tried touching you.

“Mikey, baby. You know you can touch me, right?”

“I just wanted your permission first ma- ahem. Baby.”

“What was that?” you questioned, catching his slip-up.

“Nothin’,” Mike said, clearly embarrassed. He tried kissing you after to cover it up, but the alcohol in your system made you not care. You pushed his torso back down onto the bed.

“Don’t lie to me, Michael. I can stop all this right now,” you said sternly.

“I..Uhm. It’s just.. sometimes I kinda wanna call you..mommy…?” He phrased it like a question.

That’s how you ended up the position the two of you were in right now. Him with his head propped up on the spare pillows he requested earlier, and your body propped up on his face, straddling it. Michael was going dumb beneath you, fully letting your core and the alcohol in his veins consume him.

“Mmm, Mikey. I didn’t know you had this in you,” you say with surprise laced into your voice. And it’s true. The two of you had sex a few times, but he usually seemed okay with taking over for you. Only now did you realize that it was more of him servicing you than taking control.

“I’ve always had it in me, m- ah baby,” he says, slightly pushing his head further into the pillow so he can speak.

You grab one of his nipples and pinch it harshly.

“Did I say you could stop? Don’t think I forgot about your little attitude earlier.”

That only turns him on further though, his hips jutting into the air immediately at the rough contact.

“N-no. I’m sor- ah- sorry baby. You’re right. I’ve been s-so bad,” his voice melting into a needy whine on the last word.

“Yeah, so bad. I- mmm- s-should teach you a lesson, shouldn’t I?”

“P-please. Please do whatever you want to me. I’ll make it up to y…ou, mmm.”

In one swift movement, you climb off of his face, and settle your soaking core onto his bare chest. You take your right hand and place it onto his neck with no pressure- yet.

“How sorry are you?” you question, his fucked out face only fueling your actions.

“Really sorry. Sorrier than I can even put into words,” he jumbled out. Not good enough. You give him a slight slap on the face, and then grip onto his neck with more fervor. He moans like it’s his first time being touched sexually.

“That’s it? You’re sooo sorry you can’t even say it?” you scoff at him, playing up your anger just to see him fold beneath your grasp. You begin grinding down hard onto his chest, reveling in this.

“N-no! I mean, yes, b-but, fuck keep using me like that please. I just, I have to show you. Let me show you?” he says, still trying to work your pussy between each word.

“Hmm, go ahead then,” you respond almost immediately, intrigued by his request.

He tenderly grabs onto your thighs and lifts your body up off of his chest, and places you next to him, sliding from the bed in the same movement. Then, he eagerly walks to the foot of the bed and sinks onto his knees, beckoning you toward him with two of his fingers, his twinkling eyes never leaving yours.

“Join me, please?” he asks, voice laced with desire.

You seductively crawl toward him, his body looking meek in this position. You can feel your core drip more at the sight of him. He uncrosses your legs for you, making sure to do all of the work. He’s gonna prove to you just how sorry he is for not being a good boy.

He takes one of your legs and starts to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of it; from the tips of your toes, to the backs of your knees. His eyes never leave yours. He’s waiting for some sign of approval, a praise, anything that tells him he’s making up for it, but you sit there in shock, staring at the submissive man beneath you. You’re almost too scared to move, afraid that any action or sound will break the spell.

Then he starts to speak. “You’re so beautiful. Your body’s like a painting that only Michelangelo himself could’ve imagined. How could I have been so stupid? You deserve everything. I’m gonna give you everything,” he says between kisses.

“This?” he says, kissing your inner thigh, “I don’t even deserve it. I’m lucky to be able to touch you like this. Lucky ta even see you like this.”

He grabs onto your hips, and looks up at you, pleading.

“M gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”

Michael kisses up the soft skin of your stomach, making sure to save what’s beneath it for last. Then, he makes it to your breasts, and drool dribbles out of his mouth as he speaks.

“I don’t even deserve these,” he says, almost to himself with a sigh. He peppers kisses to the undersides of them, teasing his way up to your erect nipples. Then, he takes one into his mouth, suckling like a man starved. You nearly scream from pleasure at the contact, causing Michael to look up with worry, only for him to see your blissed expression. He grabs your other nipple and rolls it between his fingers, still holding eye contact with you.

“F-fuck Michael, that’s it baby. Just like that.”

He switches his ministrations to your next nipple, replacing his mouth with his hand, and his hand with his mouth. He starts whimpering louder and louder with each gasp you take, your arousal fueling his tenfold. You feel high. You try clamping your legs together, but his lanky body is blocking you from doing so, eliciting a whine from your lips. He notices this. He notices everything. He removes the hand from your nipple and immediately starts rubbing languid, deep circles on your clit. You let out a loud moan straight from your diaphragm, internally thanking Michael for renting the whole resort out for the two of you.

Michael’s lips detach from your tit with a pop. “You like this?” he questions genuinely, wanting to be good for you.

“Mike- fuck- yes! L-love it! So good!” You can barely even think properly, your mind only focused on how his long fingers work your clit with ease.

“Mmm,” he responds, not fully satisfied with himself. He doesn’t want you to love it. He wants you to crave it.

He gets up and straddles your waist, fingers still slowly rubbing your clit, searching your neck for its sweet spot with his lips. When you buck your core into his hand at a particular area, he starts licking and biting on it, hungrily inhaling the perfume on your neck in the process.

“You-ngh. You smell so sweet. Did you wear my favorite perfume for me?” he asks, a wave of gratitude crashing onto him.

“Y-yes Mike. Come on- more. I need more. Give me more.” You’re desperate now. You have half a mind not to start fucking yourself on his fingers right there, but he’s one step ahead.

His fingers slide straight into your pussy, and your walls clenched around them immediately, not expecting the intrusion so suddenly. Your back arches up off the bed, lifting both of you in the process.

“M sorry. I’m gonna get you there baby. I promise.” Without another word, he carefully slides back down your frame, and starts suckling at your clit like he’s tasting ice cream for the first time ever, his fingers still curling and pumping in and out of you. Your eyes start to water.

“Ohhhh my- fuuuuuck. Mikeyyy, baby mmm. S-shit. I feel sososo good. So good. You’re so good to me baby. My perfect- ah. My perfect angel. S-so pretty on your knees for me.” You smile at him weakly and squeeze his head in between your thighs forcefully, grinding yourself onto his mouth and nose. The dichotomy is giving him whiplash.

The praise that you give Michael is driving him halfway insane. He moans erotically into your squelching pussy, pumping his fingers into you faster and harsher, squeezing his thighs together for his own relief. The sight of you using him like this is making his brain go numb, the only thing on his mind is making up for his behavior earlier. Making sure you’re feeling good.

Your legs start to shake uncontrollably now, a telltale sign of your orgasm approaching.

This fuels Michael further.

“Please cum on my face. I wanna taste it, ma.”

You almost do it on the spot, but you have other plans. You lightly kick his face from between your legs and his mouth detaches from your pussy loudly. He looks at you confused, his face glistening with your arousal.

“I’m sorry. Did I do something wro-” You interrupt him by slamming your lips onto his, the force of it pushing his torso onto the floor. You moan at the taste of yourself on his mouth, your tongue searching for his in the process. You break the kiss and lean into his ear with a seductive whisper. “I want to fuck you, Michael.”

His entire body goes rigid and he gasps loudly. You palm him through his jeans, feeling his dick straining against the black fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath, wanting so desperately for more friction, while simultaneously wanting to show you he can be good.

“Ohhh, were you this hard all this time, baby?” you coo at him, loving how the condescending tone in your words feels.

“A-ah yes. I just wanted you to feel good,” he replies between choked breaths, seemingly trying not to pass out. He loves how dumb you’re making him feel.

“Aww my good boy, you did so well for me. I think it’s time for us to both feel good together, hmm?” you ask him, eager for his response. He looks so pretty like this, and his whimpers sound even prettier.

“O-only if that’s what you want. Ngh- everything’s your choice. Everything, everything,” he slurs out, already losing his grasp on reality due to the way you’re speaking to him and the way you rub hungrily against his clothed erection.

You unzip his jeans faster than he can even process and pulled them down off his legs along with his boxers, his leaking erection slapping against his abdomen harshly.

“Look at me,” you command him. He obeys without a second thought.

You take your pretty manicured hands and begin to jerk him off slowly, enjoying the way he tries not to grind up into your hands because he’s your good boy.

You speed up your actions faster, faster, faster, until you see Michael nearing his climax. He’s warning you over and over that he’s gonna cum, not wanting to before you do. Not after his behavior today. He didn’t deserve it, and you agree.

“Baby, pleeeeease, ‘m so close. Can’t do it. You have ta first. Iss too good ‘n i can’t hold it,” he whines, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. You kiss them away and go faster, ignoring his cries. The tears only turned you on further.

“F-FUCK! BABY I’M GONN-” You stop moving your hand entirely, and squeeze down on his dick hard.

“Wh-wha..” Michael trails off, not knowing how to speak anymore.

“Thank you,” he says, looking up at you with tear-filled eyes, chest heaving. He knew better than to complain- you touching him at all was enough.

You lean up to give him a quick kiss, before lining his dick up with your entrance and sinking down onto it. The stretch was enough to make your legs shake and almost make you fall over. You can’t take it all at once, opting to go slowly, grinding yourself against it in the meantime.

“Oh my GOD,” Michael cries out, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at you. You look like an answered prayer.

“Mikey, you’re too big,” you whine out, drawling the last word out on purpose.

“I’m sor-ry,” he sincerely apologizes. It would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t so turned on by his facial expression. You sink the rest of the way down, too impatient to care about the burn. You grip onto his neck for support and start riding him slowly, your thighs burning with pain and pleasure. Michael moans at the feeling of your delicate fingers around his neck again and he loses his filter completely.

“Please choke me again. Hard. Control when I can breathe,” he begs you. You do just that and start bouncing against his length, the begging and whimpering from your boyfriend turning you on more than you’ve ever been.

His eyes start to roll back, and you loosen your grip so that he can gasp for air, his lungs greedily swallowing the oxygen creeping in. He starts rolling his hips up into yours to help, knowing riding isn’t easy for women. Always the gentleman, even when you’re fucking his brains out. He looks into your eyes, grabs your free hand and starts sucking on your fingers, muffling his moans with them from embarrassment. You don’t know whether to be angry that he won’t let you hear them, or turned on from the sight, so you grind and choke him harder.

His eyes fog over and he drools onto his chest, arching his back up to meet all of your grinds. You loosen your grip once again.

“Let me hear your pretty voice, baby,” you drawl at him, removing your fingers from his mouth and using them to play with your nipple. That basically does it for him.

“Baaaaaaby. Oh my god I-I can’t even think. You’re s-so good to me and- YEAH keep touching yourself like that please. You’re so beauti-f-ful. I’m never letting you go. You’re t-too perfect iss driving me crazy. Plea-” you choke him again- “Mmmfuck. Please cum on me. Please use my body to cum.”

“Then fuck me like you want it, Mike,” you order, dragging your fingers down from his neck, using your nails to scratch all the way down to his chest.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He flips you over and pins you beneath him, and begins thrusting into you the exact way he knows you like it, totally focusing on your pleasure.

“Michael! Baby fuckkkkkk, you…feel sooo good. Don’t stop!”

“I won’t, baby.” He presses a hand onto your stomach for comfort, but what he felt flipped a switch in him. He looked down and saw himself moving inside of your belly.

“Oh my god…” he gasped out, making you look at him with concern. “B-baby. I can see myself inside of you,” he says, genuinely surprised.

“It’s ‘cause you’re so big,” you say, pouting at him. “G-go ahead, baby. Fuck me until m’ cervix is shaped like your dick.” He groans at the filth in your words, doing just as you say. His body begins to shake with pleasure. He feels so good, too good. Like something only his imagination could come up with. He starts drooling again.

The sight above you is getting you so close to your release. You reach your hand down to your clit and started playing with it, making sure to tilt Michael’s face down to watch before you do so. You want to put on a show for him. It is your anniversary, after all.

“M gonna cum for you Mikey. ‘M gonna make a mess of that pretty dick of yours,” you say nastily. You can feel the knot in your stomach start to tighten more and more.

“Y-Yes! Please cum all over me. Please turn me into a mess,” he begs, and that did it. Your entire body locks up and your vision turns blurry.

“Michael FUCK!” you scream- genuinely scream- out in pleasure. You grip onto his shoulders with all the force you can muster, mumbling out praises of “You’re so pretty” and “Did so good” until your lips fall numb. He rides you through the whole thing, legs shaking and forehead dripping with sweat.

“C-can I please cum? It hurts…” You look at him with surprise, not realizing he was still going for you, and it almost does enough for you to want a round two.

“Oh, Michael. You’re so obedient. I didn’t realize you were still going, love. Cum inside me, baby. Fill me up.”

He whimpers and cums on command, his body stilling and his toes curling up in pleasure. His eyes roll so far back into his head that you can’t even see his irises anymore.

“Thank you, thank you, thank y- ahh, thank you. ‘M so so-ahhhgghh, so sorry. I’ll be good forever ‘m sorry my pretty girl.”

His sweaty body collapses onto yours, and you two lay there for a while, his dick still inside of you, fully softened up.

After at least ten minutes of this, Michael speaks.

“So…Can we do this again?” he asks hesitantly.

“Michael,” you start, “I don’t think I can ever go back. Do you know how sexy you are when you’re submissive?” Your thighs start to clench again at the thought of what you two got up to tonight.

“O-oh. Really? It wasn’t too much?” he asks shyly as he rolls off of your body.

“Really. You should’ve said something sooner, angel face. I prefer being dominant,” you reveal, although you’re sure it was obvious.

“I was just shy, is all. But you? I don’t think- no, I know I’ve never seen anything or anyone as sexy as you were tonight. I feel like I died from bliss and met God. Truly, you were heavenly. I didn’t want any of it to end.”

“It doesn’t have to…We still have a whole weekend to spend here,” you offer, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. He blushes a deep red.

“I’m gonna go get our stuff ready for a bath,” you say. “Tidy up the room for when we’re back, yeah?”

“I’ll do anything for you,” Michael says, clearly still pussy drunk. He grabs your hand before you head to the bathroom.

“I love you. I’m not just saying that because of what we did tonight, you know that. But I love you. Thank you for being the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll cherish you for all of my days, and even afterwards, if I can.“ He gives you a brief, yet passionate kiss on the lips. “I’ll be as quick as possible. Happy anniversary, pretty girl.”

Maybe it was when he let his hair grow long again, dark curls whispering along his neckline. Maybe a few weeks ago, the first time you’d felt that heady longing sprout in your gut after he slipped past you in the kitchen, muttering a small “‘scuse me” with a hand held to your waist.

You studied that moment—the engulfing mass of his hand fit to the curve of your plush skin. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to go—you craving something he evidently doesn't. And your okay with that. 

Relieved, you feel Jaafar's teeming eyes collapse from your face to the person by his side; his “girlfriend”. This was a new revelation in the Jackson household. Jaafar had always spoken to girls, dated, slept around—stories spread from Jermajesty to you, each one picked apart when the words hadn’t yet stung. When none of it mattered at all.

Now it's different. This is the two of them sharing longing gazes and loving smiles. This is something you fear—no, you hope—is permanent. 

You and jermajesty fight the Encino heat as a shitty blockbuster film envelopes Hayvenhurst's games-room in the sound of curses and corny one-liners.

This moment is familiar, comfortable. It's shared and stuffed whole with memories of you and Jermajesty, holding your stomachs as laughter drowned whatever movie you’d both been paying no mind too. 

Yet as your mouth opens to spit out another joke only he'll understand, you hear it. A thud. Hard against the wall, hurried like it was an accident. 

Then, ‘thud’, again. 

“Jer, pause.” “Huh?” “Pause!” The boy meddles with the remote ‘till taciturnity substitutes the TV’s gunfire. Puzzlement paints his face as his dark eyes shadow your own, looking to the ceiling–above is the bedroom only a floor away. 

But when the ‘thud’ appears again, it comes in the form of a wail. Gradual, sultry, slick with only one thing—pleasure. 

“No fuckin’ way.” Jermajesty curses through the hand now airtight over his mouth. He side-eyes you, sneer playing with the tips of his lips. 

Then; another moan, this one a repulsive and undisputable souvenir of the thing you’ll never have—‘Jaafar!’ 

“Hey.” Jermajesty jostles your side, and when your answer is silence, calling your name seems to do the trick. “Fuckin’ perv. Listenin’ to them fuckin’.”

“I am not!” That breaks the seal—Jermajesty lets out a crescendo of moans, each just as whiney and high as the ones you’ve seen in cheap pornos. 

“Shut up! Gross.” You shunt him ‘till he finally accepts defeat and puts on a childish pout. Yet to your utter bewilderment, the noises halt completely. Silence returns like there was never anything before it. 

It was what felt to be the longest week of your life.

There was no amount of music, of noise, of focus on how your steering wheel felt in your hands that would satiate your mind. It simply kept replaying that same sound, an echo haunting your paper-view in every stagnant moment.

‘Jaafar!’

Like a broken record. 

You mocked your own neediness when dusk swallowed the summer evenings. Your idiocy was evident when you caught yourself hoping that Jaafar was anything more than your best friends brother, the boy who had you on his shoulders in the pool when you were young, who'd tease and mock 'till you shot him a cold glare—the man who'd stare at you across a crowded dining table like he chanted your name in his head. 

Though as Monday eased into Saturday, you made good at disregarding his posts online (or his presence in general). Instead, you’d managed to shove things into each second of every day, leaving no space for thoughts of him.

Now, Sunday collapses on you. 

Some vile part of you hopes that he can’t make it to the dinner, somehow falling ill and in dire need of attention from his girlfriend. 

You let out a hearty sigh and realign your spine, stepping out of the car into the setting sun. 

Encino ardour wraps your body in sweat as you knock once, rotating to admire the view from beneath Hayvenhursts imposing front-door. The sky is ribboned in pinks and reds as shadow begins swallowing the evening.

You are content. You are okay. 

The door behind you unbolts with a click and a slide before you turn to meet who you presume is the housemaid. Yet as your lips effort to form a smile, you find the muscles unmoving. 

Oversized shadowy cargos. A sheer white tee. An acquainted pair of polished air Jordans. 

Your heart falters as your eyes rake over the towering form. 

Jaafar isn't smiling—not yet. Not ‘till he checks you over once more for himself. Then it was all teeth, sharp canines and plush lips. 

“Hey.” A voice smoother than the spineless wind dancing with your hair.

“Hi.” You are the brick wall, tone an unbending force. You tear yourself away from his scrutiny and ram past him in a manner even you feel the urge to apologise for. But not today. 

You catch his scoff before the door is slammed behind you.

You ignore it, your focus instead stumbling upon the first thing your eyes find security in—Jermajesty. The boy is lounged across the living room couch like it’d proposed itself for his personal use.

You revelled in his lax demeanour, in his untidy hair and serpentine smile. You only wish you could share how the fighting urge to run from his house was because of his elder brother. 

Dinner manages to feebly leash your nerves. Yet with that familiar presence only a few feet away, another unwanted emotion seems to seep into your stomach. Guilt. 

Jaafar Jackson is a thoughtful and gentle man. He carries himself like clouds carry rain—capable of flooding, yet determined to hydrate instead. His reserve is thick around him. You often find yourself grateful that the coyness the media receives is not the attitude he presents to you. 

But, he can also be gaudy, brash, a tornado capable of taking entire towns down. His drive finds no end—and that is a precarious thought. When he focuses, his elusive auburn eyes flicker and ignite ‘till said focus is satisfied. 

You take another bite of your mash, grinning as someone’s infectious laughter catches in your own, before you feel it–

His merciless focus, the one that brands your skin every other dinner.

Instead of shying-away this time, you meet his gaze with the sharpness of your own.

He doesn't give in. He waits, and waits, and waits ‘till your reaction—in the form of your foot meeting his shin—forces him to squint and seethe. 

“Shit!” Jaafar curses below his breath, knuckles now a milky-white against the table. He raises his brows and chews at his bottom lip, shoulders shrugging like he’s got no clue why you left a blooming bruise on his leg.

If he could, you’re sure Jaafar would interrogate your motives—shake you ‘till you revealed the reason you snubbed him at the door, why your ‘cold shoulder’ feels searing hot.

But the boy beside you plays the finest safety net. Jermajesty is blissfully unaware that the only thing holding Jaafar back is himself. 

As the hours pass from 8pm, to 11, to 12, night shows no sign of ceasing its heat. Somehow, you’ve indulged in Jermajesty’s choice of movie. It gives you something to study, a sort of amity acting as the cherry on top of the fact that Jaafar had left not long after you and Jermajesty escaped dinner—a habit built after years of being sent away from the dining room when conversation drew in darker topics. 

You reach for the glass on the coffee-table, but find it filled with only a few stray blocks of ice.

“Jer, I’m gonna’ get something to drink. You want?” The boy shook his head, eyes glued to the screen. “Don’t pause.” “What makes you think I was gon’ wait for you.” 

You shake your head at his wit, rising from the relief of the couch and dragging your taut body to the kitchen.

Nightfall ebbs in through the windows, making each callous corner that much smoother as you make your way to the fridge. A content sigh leaves your lips as icy air breaches your sizzling skin. Your drink could wait.

For now, the cold air is- 

“Boo!” Two colossal hands fall heavy on your shoulders.

You yelp and tumble backward ‘till you find your footing practically inside the fridge. Before you connect those hands to a face, your mind is swift to prompt you on who’s fingers dig into the apex of your shoulders. 

“Jaafar, get off!” You shimmy and hope your ire-laced tone is adequate in warding him away. 

It doesn't seem to do the trick. Jaafar is unswerving ahead of you, hands on his stomach like your fear is the funniest thing in the world. He giggles ‘till his throat parches, ‘till he finds your face and realises you are, in fact, not harmonising with the hilarity. 

“Aw, c’mon! I was jus’ joking around.” “Aren’t you supposed to be gone?”

The man toys with his pink bottom lip. “I’m staying here tonight.”

You nod indifferently, as if you arn't aware of his every move.

Jaafar slithers past you as your back meets with the kitchen island, another trifling “‘scuse me” mumbled when he moves to the fridge and disappears inside. 

“What d’you want?” “Nothing.” “Then why you out here?” He peers out of the door, brows furrowed. White engulfs your knuckles as you wrestle the urge to smack the dainty moles on the left side of his face clean off.

Even in a state of perplexity, the man is painted like God bowed scripture into a human being.

“Where’s your girlfriend.” Your demand is disguised as a question.

“So thas’ why.” Jaafar delves back into the fridge, locating the glass bottle of iced water like he hadn't just opened a coffin full of unanswered questions.

“What does that mean?” “Nothing.” He withdraws, shuts the fridge, and steals space on the counter ahead of you.

“Jus’ knew you didn’t like her. And she’s not my girlfriend…” He hesitates, bottle half-way to his mouth before; “It's complicated.”

Something splits open inside you and delight threatens to crawl out. “Either way-” You barely have time to retort before Jaafar robs you of words. “Was it last week?”

You cross your arms, hating how the grin behind the lip of his bottle widens. “What about last week?” You attempt sincerity, even if your eyes oppose your tone. You can't look at him as your face warms. 

“I heard Jer. To be fair, I didn’t even realise we were bein’ that loud ‘till he started mocking her.” He dwells on whatever words teeter on the edge of his tongue, his silence drawing your eyes as he searches the bottom of his bottle. You can tell something is looming—something you have no control over. 

“But we've all done that before, right?” Jaafar knows that you aren't exactly untouched, but he's also aware that your dull experiences by-far overshadow any good ones.

Yet even as he presses all your buttons, his voice remains laced with silk. 

Jaafar expects you to shove him or to contest like you typically would.

Instead, your lower lip meet's its fate between your teeth as your eyes drift to the floor, lost in a thought you can't quite come to terms with. 

The idea of someone making those sounds because of the man unwavering ahead, eyeing you like he knows of your weak attempts to not think of him all week, has that cavernous need nestling into the hollow of your stomach. You squeeze your thighs and tense the arms enveloping your front. 

Nothing halts the molten desire, the repulsive remorse, from soaking into your fingertips. 

“Wait.” Is all Jaafar says, faintly below his breath. Then; “Is us talkin' about this … Turning you on?” 

That hauls you from your thoughts like a siren to an air-raid. It's red hot, flashing ‘warning! get out! escape!’

But as you meet Jaafar's gaze, his features shaded only by the full moon, you find your feet embedded to the floor. You are unmovable. 

“Shut up.” You mumble. “Nah, don’t think I will.” Jaafar pushes off the counter and stalks toward you, grin subsiding into a flat line on his face. 

He's close now. So close you can smell the musk and pungent leather from his opulent cologne.

His brawny arms fence you in as his hands fall flat on either side of you, like he knows his entire being is an emergency exit sign. You inhale before he can steal your breath.

“What, uh…” He sinks his head as warm lips meet with your ear, chest kissing the hands still folded over your front.

“What’d you do when you went home, huh?”

Your desperate to counter, to make any sound at all—but when your lips unfasten, only air flee's. 

“Did your hand find that sweet spot between your legs when you thought of her callin’ out my name? Did you imagine what I did to her to make her sound like that?” 

You study the tiles behind Jaafar's head like you have any concern of where they're from, then ponder just how long that toaster's been around because it looks rather new when-

Two sizeable hands find your wrists and work them undone. You realise now, as his heated skin meets with yours, that no amount of distraction can mute his touch.

So, you let him mould you like putty, enjoying how he manoeuvres you as if he's aware the heat from his palms is enough to melt wax. 

“Jaafar.” You exhale, waning annoyance nothing but an afterthought in your tone.

Yet the inkling of reluctance has Jaafar unfolding your forearms and kneading them tenderly, up and down, gesture slackening the nausea in your stomach.

“Hey, hey… It’s okay. Jus’ wan’ help you out, yeah?” He finally retreats from the crook of your neck and studies your expression—low-lidded eyes, your parted lips, the sweat forming along your hairline as your glistening chest rises without rhythm.

God, you look like craving incarnate. You look so horribly, irreversibly unfulfilled. 

“Counter.” Jaafar mutters.

It barely takes you a moment to lift yourself with the aid of his sturdy arms. You teem as the cool tile meets your bare thighs, soon thawed by Jaafars lengthy fingers, rubbing and kneading ‘till they slacken to allow his entry. 

His thumb edges along your panty-line, pushing in deep circles just beside the place you swore would never involve the man now only inches away from it. 

“Hands on my shoulders.” Another demand, another order you comply with in seconds. 

“T-this is stupid, Jaafar.” You murmur when his head unearths the crook between your shoulder and neck, lips not kissing but merely pressed against your glossy skin. 

“I know.” Then his palm was on you, driving deep circles into your clothed clit.

An unversed sound seeps from the back of your throat, like a whimper braided into a sigh—it's the sound of pure and unpolluted relief. 

“Theeeere you go.” He exhales against you, whole body stirring as he nudges the spot your desire begins. 

“Fuck…” You whine into his shoulder, mouth undone against the white of his shirt.

“You wan’ more?” 

You nod wildly, indifferent to how pitiable and deprived you must sound. All you know is that if this thing infecting your abdomen isn’t reached soon, it’ll drive you mad. 

“Atta’ girl.” 

You drone as his palm lifts from your core, only to find his fingers working to unfasten your shorts. With one hand, he unbuttons each with a pop so he can elevate you with his other.

He glides them down your legs, watches them hook onto your bare foot with a soundless scoff before focusing on the part of you pleading for release. 

“P-please, feels so-!” You huff like your patience is running from you. Jaafar doesn’t respond with sound, he simply raises his ring and middle finger to your lips, countenance speaking the words you know he can’t be bothered too—'open’.

Your lips part as two lengthy digits find the pad of your tongue and sink ‘till his knuckle is inches from your lips.

“C’mon.” He urges, watching you take the length with ease, sealing them inside as they lather in your spit.

He pulls them out with a ‘pop’ and admires the twinkle of slick in the moonshine.

His unsoiled hand moves your panties aside and makes way for his wet fingers to find your bare, swollen clit. You shudder into his touch, shaken at how fast he reveals that syrupy spot aching for aid.

He's unhurried at first, circling lightly at the nub while he studies your already fucked-out expression. When he sees your eyes beginning to seal, head waving like it's too heavy to hold, his pace quickens. 

“Fuck!” You cry out before feeling his hand thrust your head into his shoulder. You whimper against his shirt, fingers clinging to the delicate fabric.

“God, haven’t even done shit n’ you’re practically shaking.” He mutters into your hair as his fingers glide lower, lower, ‘till they gather at the concaving entrance to your sleek desire.

He hovers at the birth of your need, knowing just how to threaten your usually gutsy attitude.

“Please…” Defeat feels like fire between your thighs.  “Yeah? You want my fingers so bad I ain’t even gotta’ ask you to beg?”  

“Yes, Jaafar. Please…” Your sentence is one song-like slur. You're drunk on whatever spell this man has you under, and you have no intention of ridding yourself of it. 

The earthquake that is two fingers gliding into you has your teeth burrowing into the tough flesh on his shoulder. 

“Theeeere she is… Lemme’ in.” His fat fingers are motionless inside you, waiting ‘till your tightness moulds to the foreign sensation.

Then, they’re sluggishly drawn out, pulling an abhorrent sound from the back of your throat, before submerging back into your core. 

Your body shudders with each torturous lunge, hands seizing anything they can; his shoulders, his shirt—his hair. 

Your fingers venture to his scalp and yank as he drives inside you.

Jaafar falters as a pitiable noise trickles past his lips—a whimper.

Stretched like a sigh after a hard day’s work, scrawny like he’d been waiting for someone to claw at his scalp ‘till the hurt settled and stayed. Your thighs contract around his lean waist.

“Fuck, I felt that.” He mutters against you as your hole clenches on his hand. 

“Do it again.” Curiosity seeps through his gasping words. 

You tug at his scalp again, receive another high-pitched groan, and squeeze on his fingers. It’s like you flicked a switch in him, suddenly working you with a firmer, harsher hand.

Jaafar's fingers alone stuff you full. That thought earns him another hearty moan. 

“So fuckin’ tight f’me, shit…” His fingers stretch you wide and scissor when you feel something shift inside you, almost threatening your bladder—Jaafar's curling his fingers inside your stomach. You cry out again, noise stifled by his shirt. 

“Shh, shh. Use my shoulder, thas’ right.” Jaafar is nothing if not persistent. Curling, unfurling, curling again ‘till you can’t tell whether the white behind your eyelids is you seeing stars or the sun rising.

It doesn't matter—nothing seems to as he jerks at the knot in your abdomen and works on you ‘till all you can retain is the feel of his frenzied mouth against your ear. 

“You are so pent up… I can feel it. Your pussy’s practically crying for me.” You miss the moment his voice distorts from song-like to starving. Now, it's gruff, guttural, untiring as he feeds you a sensation you can only describe as being filled.

“Say you needed this—you needed me.” “Needed—Ngh!” His middle finger discovers the spongy spot inside you, prodding at it ruthlessly. 

“C’mon, use your words.” “N-needed you… Jaafar!” 

“That’s right.” He rewards you by grasping your hair and tugging ‘till your neck is left vulnerable.

Another spot he’s never truly been able to explore 'till now—an unpolluted canvas practically pleading for his marks. 

“Jaafar!” You warn between wheezes, trying to drag him away from the one place that’d raise questions you won't know how to answer. 

He grumbles in frustration, combatting the urge to latch on and suck ‘till purple spots and darkened bruises freckle your neck and chest. He diverts himself by putting his thumb to work, kneading your clit.

Tears invade your waterline at the added sensation. “Shit—F-feel s’ good.”

“Yeah? You’re so sweet, God. Didn’t even know I was doin’ this to you.”

His thumb accelerates and sets your nerves alight. Your digits spasm in his scalp, your thighs quiver with each thrust, and the only sound in the kitchen is the slick of your pussy and a pair of panting sighs. 

“Anyone ever make you feel like this?” He speaks your name and it's like a being embraced by the sun. 

You shake your head and snatch onto the forearm pistoning into you. “N-no.” You let out weakly. 

“No wonder you're so overwhelmed. Poor thing.” 

His words give you whiplash.

Only moments ago, Jaafar used your pitiable behaviour as leverage, a way to force words from your mouth that, in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of uttering.

Now, even though the words are coated in a twisted kindness only Jaafar is able to bend, they seem sincere. 

But with the way his fingers lead you to your edge, each slide and thrust a cruel reminder of the impending orgasm only he’s capable of tearing from you, you feel close to moaning his name the way you’d overheard exactly a week ago. 

“Gon’ make it all better, promise, sweet girl.” 

Sweet girl. 

Jaafar grunts when your fingers tense in his scalp, mouth ajar beside your ear as each of his huffs slowly transform into groans.

God, are you affecting him the way he's affecting you? 

The thought has you chanting curses into his neck.

And then it dawns on you—his hands everywhere, his breath fanning your skin, the idea of him rock-hard in his pants. A wave from the ever-growing ocean of your orgasm arises in your gut. You arch into his hold. 

“Quiet,” he whispers, breath heating your ear, “or else I’m gon’ have to find another way to shut you up.” 

Another swell jolts your spine and slinks into your crux. Jaafar shifts inside you once, adapts to the new angle, before discovering the sweet spot that has you salivating against his white tee. 

“There! Fuck, right there…” Your a blubbering mess, practically putty in his arms as your orgasm teases and twists your core.

“Mmm, that it? Fuck, your doin’ s’ well.” You squeeze and flutter around his fingers at the praise. “Can’t believe how good your bein’ for me.” 

“G-gon’ come!”

“I know, I know. You’re so sensitive.” When he feels your breath wedge in your lungs, when he feels the way your thighs lock around his waist and trap his hand, he yanks you away from his shoulder and takes your face into his hold. 

Your own hand wraps around his thick wrist as you acclimatise to the new position, eyes wavering closed as each nerve is attacked by his fingers. 

“Nah uh, look at me, c’mon sweetie…” 

You force your eyes open and contest every instinct that begs to roll them to the back of your head.

“Wan’ see the face you make when you come from jus’ my fingers.” 

Those words, the ones now tattooed to your mind, are enough to flip your gut and land lopsided inside you. The knot that pined to unravel for the past week pulls ‘till your muscles are solid beneath your skin, and then undos in a crescendo of agonising, suffocating waves of release. 

“Thaaaat’s it, there you go.” 

Your body ignites, blood and bone and artery singing as your orgasm leaves your ears ringing and your vision white. It stains you as Jaafar works methodically through it, his tentative rhythm syncing with that of your spasming muscles.

Yet even as his fingers persistently tease your entrance, you feel the weight of his eyes on every feature. 

He’s reading you like a book, annotating every freckle, mole and scar, just to note how they mould to your fucked out expression.

The way your lips part on a hushed sigh, the way your neck arches as the closing current of your orgasm frees itself, the way your sweat falls in perfect beads down your front and disappears beneath your shirt.

Your like the cover of his favourite novel. 

Silence loiters between you, blanketing breathless shoulders with a weight you both now understand you’ve ruined any chance of purging.

Yet ahead of you, Jaafars expression is almost one of indifference, like what he did was just an errand for your tortured body. 

A creaky whine crawls up your raw throat as his fingers finally glide out of your slick. You watch the way he eyes his hand, engrossed by the mess of liquids accumulating and dribbling down his fingers to his wrist.

He raises the concoction to his lips just like he had his water, and unlatches. Jaafar grins, pearly whites on display, before his fingers land flat on his tongue and disappear behind his plump lips. 

“Mmm…” He keens at your taste, eyes never wavering from yours as he removes them with an enthusiastic ‘pop!’ 

Jaafar Jackson looks delectable. His hair is dishevelled from your nails, shirt wrinkled from your hands, shoulder damp and marked by your drool.

Your eyes lower to the thing twitching beneath his pyjama pants as his voice comes out like velvet, sultry and soft—like he hadn’t just fucked you raw on his fat fingers and gone faint from the aftertaste; “Better?”

There were only a handful of people capable of generating this level of unnecessary chaos before nine in the morning and Jermajesty sat comfortably at the top of that list.

The moment she unlocked her screen, she immediately understood why her phone had nearly vibrated itself off the counter.

Jermajesty 🥳 created "victims of my genius"

Jermajesty 🥳 added Unknown number

Jermajesty 🥳 added Y/N

For several seconds she simply stared.

It felt so entirely like something Jermajesty would do that she could practically picture the sequence of events unfolding in real time. He'd had the idea. Congratulated himself on the idea. Executed the idea without consulting anybody involved. Then sat back expecting gratitude for services nobody had requested.

The line moved forward without her noticing.

It wasn't until somebody behind her cleared their throat politely that Y/N realized she'd been standing perfectly still in the middle of a busy coffee shop, staring at her phone while the rest of the world continued functioning around her.

Muttering an apology, she stepped forward.

Another notification appeared before she reached the counter.

Jermajesty 🥳 now you have each other's numbers you're welcome

The audacity of it actually made her laugh.

Of course he would phrase it like that. Of course he would act as though he'd single handedly solved an international crisis rather than create a group chat. There was something almost admirable about the confidence. Completely undeserved confidence, but confidence nonetheless.

She ordered her coffee and by the time she reached the end of the counter, a final notification had appeared.

Jermajesty 🥳 left the conversation.

Y/N stopped walking again.

The man truly possessed no survival instincts whatsoever.

For a moment she simply stood there holding her receipt, looking at the screen while the reality of the situation settled around her. The chat remained open. Jermajesty's dramatic exit sat near the top. Beneath it rested a phone number she didn't have saved.

She didn't need to ask who it belonged to, there was nobody else it could be. The realization arrived immediately and it was followed almost instantly by another one.

Expectation.

Small enough to miss if she wasn't paying attention, brief enough to disappear the second she noticed it.

Some part of her found herself looking at the screen and wondering whether he was going to say anything. The awareness irritated her on principle and before she could examine it further, the typing bubble appeared.

Y/N hated how quickly her attention locked onto it.

For several seconds it lingered there. Then disappeared. Then returned.

Finally:

Unknown Number i think we just got abandoned

The smile arrived before she could stop it.

Y/N cowardly behaviour honestly

The response arrived almost immediately.

Unknown Number he's probably very proud of himself

Y/N laughed quietly as she collected her coffee.

Y/N that's the worst part he definitely is

Unknown Number he's probably waiting for us to thank him

Y/N he'll be waiting a long time

Unknown Number good

The conversation should have ended there.

Logically speaking, it made perfect sense.

The group chat existed solely because Jermajesty possessed too much free time and not nearly enough shame. The issue had been acknowledged. The culprit had been identified. Justice, while unlikely, had at least been discussed.

Instead, the typing bubble appeared again.

Jaafar it's jaafar btw just in case jer forgot that detail too

The laugh escaped before she could stop it.

Y/N honestly i'm impressed he remembered our names

Jaafar 😂

The exchange lasted less than five minutes. The entire conversation probably contained fewer than thirty words. By all reasonable standards, it should have been forgettable yet somehow, throughout the rest of the day, Y/N found herself thinking about it more than once.

Not the messages themselves but the feeling of them. The strange simplicity of opening her phone and finding him there.

The thought surfaced unexpectedly while she ate lunch. Again while she waited at a traffic light after work. Later still while brushing her teeth before bed.

Each time she ignored it because there wasn't really anything to think about. They'd exchanged a handful of messages adn that was all.

The problem was that Wednesday arrived. Then Thursday and somehow the conversation never entirely stopped. Not continuously, neither of them spent hours glued to their phones. Entire stretches of the day passed without messages. Sometimes one replied hours later and sometimes neither responded until the next morning.

Yet the conversation remained alive.

A tiktok would appear.

A photograph.

A random observation.

Something Abu Bakr had apparently done.

Something Jermajesty had apparently said.

The subjects themselves barely mattered the point was that they kept finding reasons to reach for the conversation again.

By Thursday afternoon, Y/N was standing in the pasta aisle of a supermarket trying to remember which brand she'd bought last time when her phone vibrated in her pocket.

The reaction happened before she could stop it.

Her attention shifted instantly.

Jaafar are you coming saturday?

Y/N frowned.

Y/N where?

The response arrived so quickly she almost suspected he'd been waiting.

Jaafar the family bbq pool day apparently attendance is mandatory

A laugh escaped immediately.

Y/N says who?

This time the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Jaafar me of course

The smile arrived before she could stop it, again, for the hundredth time that week. And, for reasons she still couldn't properly explain, it remained there long after she'd put her phone away.

Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and the kind of heat that seemed determined to settle over the city before noon.

By the time Y/N was standing in front of her mirror, the barbecue was still several hours away and yet she had already changed twice. The realization irritated her almost immediately. Not because she couldn't find something to wear. Her wardrobe was full of perfectly acceptable options and the occasion itself hardly demanded extensive preparation. The Jackson family hosted some variation of a barbecue, pool day, birthday celebration or spontaneous gathering often enough that she'd stopped considering them events years ago. Most of the time she showed up wearing whatever happened to be clean, spent several hours getting dragged into activities she hadn't agreed to participate in, and went home later wondering how an afternoon had somehow disappeared so quickly.

Today should have felt exactly the same.

Instead, she found herself standing motionless in front of her wardrobe holding a red bikini she hadn't worn in months while engaging in an internal debate she had absolutely no interest in having.

The argument itself was ridiculous.

People wore bikinis to pool parties, that was the entire purpose of pool parties.

The logic seemed perfectly sound until she actually put it on and found herself staring at her reflection for a moment longer than necessary before immediately becoming annoyed with herself for doing so. The irritation only deepened when she realized she was now considering outfit choices for the walk between the house and the pool as though anyone would care.

Nobody would.

The thought should have settled the matter but it didn't because somewhere beneath the practical considerations and increasingly unconvincing excuses sat a realization she was trying very hard not to examine too closely.

She was looking forward to today.

The realization hovered at the edge of her thoughts while she brushed her hair quiclly and reached for her bag. Every attempt to ignore it seemed to make it more noticeable. The problem wasn't that she didn't understand why she was excited. The problem was that she understood perfectly well and preferred not to acknowledge it.

The drive to the Jackson house provided entirely too much time to think.

Traffic moved steadily. Music played softly through the speakers. Outside, the city drifted past in familiar fragments of sunlight and weekend activity. Yet her thoughts kept wandering elsewhere, returning repeatedly to the same place they'd been returning all week.

The messages. They had started with the group chat then somehow it hadn't stopped.

The conversations themselves weren't particularly remarkable when examined individually. Most of them were ridiculous, if anything. Photographs of dogs that looked suspiciously similar to Jaafar's infamous painting. Arguments regarding films neither of them had actually finished watching. An increasingly passionate disagreement about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. The subjects changed constantly. The point was that they kept finding reasons to continue talking.

One day she'd found herself checking her phone during lunch because she'd remembered something funny and wanted to send it to him.

The next she'd caught herself smiling at a notification before she'd even opened the message.

Then Thursday had become Friday and suddenly texting him no longer felt like a deliberate action. It had simply become part of her day.

The awareness followed her all the way to the driveway.

The familiar sounds of a Jackson gathering greeted her almost immediately. The entire house seemed alive with movement, carrying the familiar energy she'd come to associate with family gatherings over the years.

By the time she reached the backyard gate, she found herself smiling because some places possessed the ability to make people feel welcome before they even arrived.

The moment she stepped through, Jermajesty appeared.

'Aha, look who finally decided to show up.'

The grin arrived before the greeting had even finished leaving his mouth.

Y/N narrowed her eyes immediately looking at the time on her phone.

'I am literally on time.'

'According to who?'

'According to clocks.' She points her phone.

Jermajesty looked unconvinced.

The resulting hug interrupted whatever argument she was preparing next, and within moments they had fallen back into the familiar rhythm established through years of friendship. Conversations with Jermajesty rarely followed any recognizable structure. One topic flowed into another. Stories interrupted each other halfway through. By the time he'd finished explaining some ongoing disagreement with Randy Jr., Y/N had already forgotten how the conversation had started.

The backyard was busy enough that Y/N should have had plenty of things competing for her attention. Somebody had claimed responsibility for the grill and was treating it with the seriousness of a military operation. Music drifted lazily from a speaker hidden somewhere near the patio. Several younger cousins were already in the pool despite the fact that most of the adults hadn't even settled into their chairs yet. The entire afternoon carried the familiar energy of a Jackson gathering, the kind she'd spent enough years around to navigate almost instinctively. Usually, arriving meant stepping directly into whatever conversation happened to be nearest and allowing the day to unfold from there.

Instead, the moment Jaafar stepped through the patio doors, everything else seemed to blur slightly around the edges.

Jermajesty was still talking. Y/N was vaguely aware of that. Something about the last episode of The Rookie, she thought. Or maybe basketball. The details slipped past her before she could properly register them. Her attention had already moved elsewhere, pulled toward the figure crossing the patio with sunglasses pushed down his nose and a baseball cap shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun.

An entire week of messages had made seeing him today feel inevitable. Somewhere between arguments about pizza toppings and photographs exchanged at random hours of the day, he'd stopped feeling like someone she occasionally ran into through Jermajesty and started feeling like a person who occupied an actual place in her routine. Not a large one. Not enough to justify the amount of attention she seemed determined to give him. Yet present enough that she'd caught herself wondering more than once what he was doing before he'd eventually appeared on her screen to answer the question himself.

Now he was here and somehow that felt different. The distance between texting somebody and standing in front of them turned out to be larger than she'd expected because messages didn't smile at her from across a backyard. Messages didn't walk toward her looking unfairly comfortable in the afternoon heat. Messages certainly didn't make it impossible to remember whatever Jermajesty had been saying for the last thirty seconds.

'There she is.'

The grin arrived before she could answer. Predictably. Instantly. As though he'd spent the entire walk across the yard deciding that would be the first thing he said.

'There I am.'

'You came.'

The statement was simple enough. Casual. Yet something about it lodged itself stubbornly beneath her ribs.

He sounded pleased.

As though her being there had been the expected outcome all along.

As though there had never been a version of the afternoon where she didn't show up.

'Apparently attendance was mandatory.' She repeated what he texted her the other day.

His laugh escaped immediately. 'Says who?'

'You.'

Conversation slipped into place almost immediately after that. Not because either of them made an effort to keep it moving, but because talking to one another had somehow become easy. The transition happened so smoothly she couldn't identify where one topic ended and another began. 

The afternoon settled into its own rhythm after that, the kind that seemed unique to large family gatherings where nobody was entirely sure who had arrived, who was cooking, or how many people were actually staying for dinner. 

She spent most of it talking.

That wasn't unusual. The Jackson family had always possessed a remarkable ability to absorb people into conversations whether they intended to participate or not. One moment she was helping Alejandra carry drinks outside, the next she was listening to an aunt she hadn't seen in months recount a story from fifteen years ago as though Y/N had been there to witness it herself. Somewhere in between, Randy Jr. appeared and attempted to convince three separate people that a film he'd watched recently deserved a second chance. Judging by the reactions around him, the campaign was not going particularly well.

Yet through all of it, her attention kept catching on the same thing, or rather, the same person.

Not continuously, like she wasn't standing around staring at Jaafar from across the backyard. The thought alone was enough to make her cringe. It happened in smaller moments than that. She'd be halfway through a conversation and hear his laugh from somewhere nearby. She'd glance up while reaching for a drink and find him talking to one of his cousins near the pool. At one point she looked over because somebody had mentioned his name only to discover he was already looking in her direction, the brief smile that followed arriving so easily it felt less like a greeting and more like the continuation of a conversation they'd temporarily paused.

The familiarity of it sat strangely with her.

Only a few weeks ago, Jaafar had occupied the same category as countless other people she'd heard about through Jermajesty over the years. Somebody she knew of rather than somebody she knew. Now she could identify the sound of his laugh from across a crowded backyard. She knew which topics would make him argue purely for the sake of arguing. She knew he replied to messages surprisingly quickly when he was bored and suspiciously slowly when he was trying to seem busy. She knew that whenever Abu Bakr started explaining something, Jaafar listened with complete seriousness no matter how ridiculous the explanation became. The knowledge had accumulated gradually enough that she hadn't noticed it happening until now.

Perhaps that was why Jermajesty's announcement felt less like the beginning of something and more like an interruption.

The conversation nearest the pool stopped first. Then another. A few heads turned. Whatever idea had taken hold of him was already visible on his face, that familiar expression of somebody entirely too pleased with himself. Years of friendship had taught Y/N to be wary whenever he looked like that. Experience suggested that the more satisfied he appeared, the more likely everybody else was about to suffer.

'Pool volleyball.'

The declaration was met with exactly the level of enthusiasm she'd expected. Far too much.

Within minutes people were moving toward the water with the kind of commitment usually reserved for genuinely important activities. Somebody started arguing about rules before teams had even been decided. Randy Jr. immediately volunteered himself. A cousin protested a decision nobody had made yet. Another cousin attempted to establish scoring regulations despite the fact that nobody seemed entirely sure whether there would even be scoring. The entire thing unfolded with such inevitability that Y/N found herself laughing before she'd even agreed to participate.

Not that agreement seemed particularly relevant.

By the time she reached the edge of the pool, Jermajesty had apparently appointed himself organizer, referee and commissioner of whatever sporting event he believed he was running. The role suited him far too well. The authority was entirely imaginary, yet he carried it with enough confidence that people kept listening anyway.

'Me and Randy.'

Nobody objected.

His gaze shifted toward the opposite side of the pool where Jaafar was standing with his arms folded across his chest, already looking more invested in the outcome than anyone reasonably should have.

'You and Y/N.'

For a moment, the noise around them continued uninterrupted. People kept talking. Somebody splashed water. A younger cousin cannonballed into the deep end despite immediate protests from three different adults. Randy Jr. was already complaining about the teams before the game had even started. Yet Y/N became aware of Jaafar glancing in her direction at almost the exact same time she looked at him, amusement already pulling at the corner of his mouth as though the outcome pleased him far more than he intended to admit.

The smile that appeared on her own face arrived before she could stop it.

Jaafar simply stepped past Jermajesty and stopped beside her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of sunscreen and chlorine lingering from the pool.

The conversation dissolved beneath a chorus of objections from everybody else. Randy wanted different teams. One of the cousins wanted to know why nobody had picked him. Somebody else was still arguing about rules. Through all of it, Jaafar simply stepped past Jermajesty and stopped beside her.

'Ready to lose?'

The confidence in his voice was astonishing.

Y/N looked at him. Then laughed.

'That's bold considering we haven't even started.'

'I'm speaking it into existence, manifesting as they call it.'

'That's not how winning works.'

'Mh, we’ll see.'

The ease of the exchange settled over her before she had time to think about it. It felt strangely natural now, slipping into conversation with him. The effortlessness still caught her off guard occasionally. Most people required time. Friendships developed gradually. Familiarity arrived in layers yet every interaction with Jaafar seemed to pick up exactly where the previous one had left off, as though some invisible conversation had been running continuously in the background ever since they met.

Around them, the backyard continued slipping gradually toward chaos. Somebody had produced a volleyball. Somebody else was insisting it wasn't the right kind of volleyball despite the fact that nobody present seemed particularly qualified to make that distinction. Randy had become involved in an argument he was unlikely to win. Jermajesty, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, which usually meant everybody else was about to suffer. The entire afternoon had taken on the familiar shape of a Jackson gathering, where plans emerged organically, acquired participants before anyone officially agreed to them, and somehow became mandatory within minutes.

Jaafar should have been paying attention.

Instead, his attention drifted elsewhere.

Later, if somebody asked, he probably wouldn't have been able to identify the exact moment it happened. One second he was half-listening to Randy complain about the teams. The next, Y/N reached for the tie at the waist of her pool dress and everything after that became significantly more complicated.

The movement itself was completely ordinary. There wasn't anything particularly noteworthy about it. People had been arriving at the pool all afternoon, shedding oversized shirts, cover-ups and summer layers as naturally as breathing. Y/N seemed entirely unconcerned with the action, more interested in whatever Randy was currently saying than in the lightweight fabric she was pulling over her head. If anything, the absence of self-consciousness made it worse. There was no awareness behind it. No attempt to draw attention to herself. She simply stepped out of the dress the same way everyone else around the pool had stepped out of theirs.

Yet somehow, Jaafar's attention caught immediately.

The red suited her.

That was the first coherent thought that surfaced.

The color stood out against the bright blue water behind her, vivid enough to draw the eye without trying. Sunlight reflected across the pool in shifting patterns, catching briefly against her skin before disappearing again beneath the movement of the water. For a moment, all he could really do was look. Not in the exaggerated way Randy or Jermajesty would inevitably accuse him of later. Just long enough for the image to settle. Long enough to register the fact that seeing her through a phone screen and seeing her standing a few feet away were apparently two very different experiences.

The frustrating part was that his brain refused to stop there because once he'd noticed her, he started noticing everything else.

The sunglasses she'd pushed onto the top of her head.

The way the afternoon heat had left a few loose strands of hair escaping around her face.

The way she laughed when Randy said something ridiculous, tipping her head back slightly before immediately arguing with him again.

The ease with which she moved through the backyard, stopping to talk to cousins, helping his mother with the drinks, slipping naturally into conversations as though she'd belonged there forever.

The red bikini happened to be standing at the center of his thoughts, that was all, at least that was what he told himself. Unfortunately, the explanation felt increasingly unconvincing the longer he looked at her.

Because the truth was that she looked beautiful as the kind that made it difficult to focus on conversations happening around him. The kind that made a perfectly ordinary Saturday afternoon suddenly feel far less ordinary than it had a few minutes earlier.

The backyard rushed back into focus. Music. Conversations. Water splashing against the side of the pool. Somebody calling for the ball. Jermajesty shouting instructions nobody intended to follow.

Across the patio, Y/N happened to glance up at exactly the wrong moment. Their eyes met almost instantly. The smile that appeared on her face was easy, familiar and entirely unguarded, the same smile she'd been giving him all afternoon.

A whistle interrupted whatever thought he was having.

Nobody knew where the whistle had come from, nobody knew who owned it. Jermajesty was holding it anyway.

The game, apparently, had begun.

The transformation in Jaafar was almost immediate.

His attention sharpened. His focus narrowed. Whatever easygoing energy he'd been carrying through the afternoon shifted subtly toward something more competitive. The change reminded her of athletes before matches or performers before stepping onstage, that small adjustment that happened when somebody became fully invested in what they were doing.

It was pool volleyball.

He looked ready for war.

'Okay.'

Y/N turned toward him as they stepped into the shallow end.

The seriousness in his voice already made her suspicious. 'Why do you sound like a coach?'

'Because we need a strategy.'

For a moment she simply stared at him, pressed her lips together.

The laugh escaped anyway.

'You cannot be serious.'

'I am.'

'Jaafar.'

'Y/N.'

'It's pool volleyball.'

'Exactly.'

The answer came so quickly she almost laughed again.

As though pool volleyball deserved preparation. As though there were tactical advantages to consider. As though the outcome of the afternoon somehow depended on their performance.

'Okay,' she said, folding her arms. 'Go on then.'

His eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Go on what?'

'The strategy.'

The smile that appeared immediately told her she had made a mistake.

For the next several minutes, Y/N found herself listening to Jaafar explain the strengths and weaknesses of their opponents with a level of commitment usually reserved for professional athletes. Randy, according to him, got distracted easily. Jermajesty became overconfident whenever he started winning. Communication would be important. Positioning mattered. Momentum mattered.

By the time he started discussing momentum, Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Sunlight reflected across the water between them, shifting and breaking apart every time somebody moved nearby. The pool reached just above her waist here. Every now and then a small wave rolled through from the deeper end from the others' movement, nudging them slightly closer before drifting away again. Neither seemed to notice.

'You're making fun of me.'

The accusation arrived midway through his explanation.

Y/N blinked. 'What?'

'You're smiling.'

The fact that he sounded genuinely offended only made things worse.

'I'm not smiling.'

'You are. You want to laugh.'

'I am not.'

'You absolutely are.'

Now she was laughing again, the sound slipped out before she could stop it, carrying easily across the water.

Jaafar shook his head. 'This is why people underestimate us.'

'There's an us now?'

'There has to be. We're a team.'

Across from them, Jermajesty finally blew the whistle he'd somehow acquired.

'GAME TIME!'

The shout echoed across the backyard, immediately followed by Randy complaining about the whistle.

Y/N laughed.

Jaafar rolled his eyes and then, with all the seriousness of a man preparing for battle, he looked back at her.

'Ready?'

The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined the effect entirely.

Y/N grinned.

'Let's win this thing.'

The game itself became a blur almost immediately.

Y/N would remember fragments rather than a coherent sequence of events. Jermajesty complaining about a point he'd absolutely lost. Randy insisting the rules had changed midway through the game. Somebody keeping score and then immediately forgetting what the score actually was. The details blurred together beneath sunlight, splashing water and the constant noise of half a dozen conversations happening at once.

What she remembered clearly was Jaafar, not because he was particularly good at pool volleyball, though, annoyingly enough, he was, but because somewhere during the first few minutes, he seemed to forget the concept of personal space entirely.

The first time it happened, she barely thought about it.

The ball had drifted farther than expected. Both of them moved at the same time. Before she could adjust, a hand landed lightly against her waist, steering her a few inches to the side.

'I've got it.'

The words arrived at the same time the ball did.

A second later it was gone again.

The touch lasted barely a moment.

The pool forced everyone closer together than they would've been on land. Movement required balance. Balance occasionally required help. Every explanation felt perfectly reasonable.

Yet somehow, Jaafar always seemed to be nearby.

A hand at the small of her back while maneuvering around her in the water. Fingers wrapping briefly around her wrist when she nearly drifted directly into his path. His arm brushing hers every time they celebrated a point.

At one point, Y/N managed a surprisingly decent save that sent the ball back into play. The reaction from Jaafar was immediate.

'LET'S GO!'

Before she could react, his hands were on her shoulders.

A second later he was grinning at her like she'd just won them a championship. The enthusiasm was so genuine that she couldn't help laughing.

By the time the game finally approached its end, Y/N couldn't have told anyone what the score was.

Only that they were winning.

Only that Jaafar seemed very pleased about it.

Only that every time she looked up, he was already looking at her.

The game ended the same way it had unfolded: loudly, chaotically and with absolutely no consensus regarding what had actually happened.

Jermajesty was still arguing about the final point by the time Y/N climbed out of the pool. Randy was arguing back. Several cousins had inserted themselves into the debate despite not having participated. The volleyball had already been abandoned somewhere near the patio and nobody seemed particularly interested in retrieving it. Around them, the backyard was beginning its slow transition back into smaller conversations and scattered groups, the brief collective focus dissolving as people returned to food, drinks and whatever they had been doing before the game took over the afternoon.

Y/N barely paid attention.

The exertion had left her pleasantly tired, her skin still warm from the sun and the water dripping steadily from the ends of her hair as she crossed toward the lounge chairs. She grabbed the towel she'd left earlier, pressing the fabric briefly against her face before beginning the familiar process of trying to dry hair that was far too thick to cooperate. The noise of the barbecue continued around her unchanged. 

It should have felt like every other summer afternoon she'd spent there.

Instead, she found herself glancing up.

Jaafar was standing a few yards away doing exactly the same thing.

His hair was damp and slightly flattened from the water, curls falling across his forehead while he worked a towel through them with one hand. He appeared to be listening to Randy Jr., who was still passionately defending whatever version of events he believed had occurred, but the attention wasn't entirely convincing.

Mostly because the moment Y/N looked over, he looked over too.

Neither of them looked away immediately. There was nothing deliberate in the glance. No performance. No awareness that anyone else might be watching. Just a brief, ordinary moment that somehow lasted a fraction longer than it should have before reality reasserted itself and both of them remembered there were other people in the backyard.

Y/N looked down first, enough to break whatever invisible thread had stretched unexpectedly between them.

The problem was that it happened again.

A few minutes later she glanced up while squeezing water from the ends of her hair and found him looking in her direction. Not directly this time. Not quite. The sort of glance that suggested his attention had wandered naturally before getting caught somewhere it hadn't intended to stay. She looked away. Then looked back a minute later and discovered she wasn't the only one apparently failing at the task.

The entire situation felt absurd. Like there were probably thirty people in the backyard, conversations happening everywhere, music food, children running through the house.

Yet somehow she kept becoming aware of him.

The towel hanging around his neck.

The way he laughed at something Jermajesty said.

The way his smile seemed to arrive gradually rather than all at once.

Details that should have been insignificant.

Details that would've been insignificant a month ago.

That was perhaps the most frustrating part.

A month ago she wouldn't have noticed any of this.

A month ago Jaafar existed mostly as a name attached to stories. Somebody she'd heard about often enough to form an impression without ever really knowing him. Now she could identify his laugh from across a crowded backyard. Now she knew exactly what expression appeared whenever he thought he was winning an argument. Now she found herself noticing when he walked into a room and, even more annoyingly, when he wasn't there.

When Jaafar finally wandered over, it felt less like somebody approaching and more like the inevitable conclusion to a conversation neither of them had actually been having.

'You know,' he said, stopping beside her, the remains of victory still lingering somewhere in his smile, 'I think we carried that team.'

Y/N laughed immediately.

'We carried the team?'

'Absolutely.'

'Jaafar, nobody even knows what the score was.'

'The score is irrelevant. That's how victory works.'

The confidence in his voice made her shake her head.

At some point they found themselves sitting on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water while the afternoon gradually softened around them. The sun hung lower now, painting everything in shades of gold that turned the surface of the pool into rippling sheets of light. The backyard remained busy, but the energy had changed. The frantic excitement of the game had faded into something slower. More comfortable.

The conversation between them wandered just as aimlessly.

Several times, Y/N found herself laughing so hard she nearly lost her balance.

Several times, Jaafar looked suspiciously pleased with himself afterward.

Beside her, Jaafar skimmed his fingers absentmindedly through the surface of the water while listening to whatever story she was currently telling. Every now and then he laughed. Every now and then she caught him smiling before she'd even reached the punchline.

The familiarity of it should have felt strange but instead, it felt natural enough to be dangerous.

Eventually, people started leaving and before long, Y/N found herself standing beside her car while saying goodbye to people one by one.

The farewell with Jaafar should have felt ordinary. It didn't.

Just a smile. A quick 'see you.' A promise to continue an argument they'd started earlier. The kind of goodbye friends exchanged every day.

Once she got home, she got directly into the shower to wash the chlorine away. She couldn’t stop thinking about the day, she had lots of fun and she ate amazing food but her thoughts kept circling around the same person.

By the time she finally climbed into bed, the afternoon existed mostly as a pleasant blur of sunlight and laughter, the sort of day that left behind a feeling rather than a sequence of memories.

Her phone buzzed.

Jermajesty.

Y/N opened the message without thinking.

The photograph loaded immediately.

For a second she simply stared.

She and Jaafar sat side by side on the edge of the pool, feet in the water. Neither was looking at the camera. In fact, neither seemed remotely aware it existed. Y/N was halfway through saying something. Jaafar was looking at her while she spoke, smiling at whatever story she'd been telling.

The image carried the effortless intimacy of a moment that hadn't known it was being observed.

A second message appeared beneath it.

Jermajesty🥳 disgustingly cute btw

Y/N immediately laughed.

Then another notification appeared.

Different conversation.

Different name.

Her smile faded.

Only because surprise arrived first.

Jaafar.

For one ridiculous second, her pulse actually sped up.

Jaafar Are you free tomorrow?

You had crawled into bed with Michael one night, skin glistening from the expensive floral scented lotion you’d just delicately rubbed into your skin, settling comfortably in the sheets next to him. He was quieter that night — he mumbled at dinner, barely conversing with you, playing with his food. Michael didn’t have a large appetite, so his lack of eating hadn’t phased you as much as it did now. You didn’t expect him to be too chatty that night either, you had already had a heated disagreement a few hours earlier that remained unresolved — something that was becoming more frequent in recent times due to his demanding career.

So, when you nestled against him, his hands rigid at his sides, was when you noticed something was undeniably wrong.

“Is everything okay, baby?” You asked, peering up from his chest to glance at his pokerface.

“I think we should split up.”

The words hit you full-force, panic and shock instantly flooding your emotion — sitting up so frantically it made Michael flinch.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your voice was frantic and distressed, face forced into a scrunch of anxiety.

Michael stayed silent for a few moments, not daring to meet your eyes, just staring blankly at the wall next to him.

“Michael, don’t fucking joke with me. Fucking say something.”

“Stop cursing, please.” He forced out, voice hoarse and low, attempting to keep his dignity.

You scoffed in disbelief, “So, you blurt out that you wanna break-up, but all you care about is a curse? Are you fucking serious?” Anger was the emotion at the forefront of your brain now, utterly disgusted with his coldness towards you mixed with the cruelty of his words.

“Things are complicated right now.” He started, still facing away from you, “I’ve got the album and the tour, and we’re fighting too much already because of it. It’s not good for us especially if I’m away for long periods of time. You deserve someone who can be around for you. Someone better.” He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t want to let this progress and then end up hurting one another more.”

“‘Let this progress?’ Michael we’ve been together for three years, nearly four. You didn’t think to end things three and half years ago if you didn’t wanna get hurt? Are you serious?”

“I still love you, I just want to protect us both from pain.” He spoke quietly.

“Love? This isn’t love, Michael, this is cruel. This is worse pain. Someone who loved me wouldn’t treat me like this. Why are you doing this to me? To us?”

His heart clenched as your voice cracked, not brave enough to look you in your eyes, now brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt faux as they left his lips — silencing encasing the room. You scoffed, standing up swiftly from the bed, rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door harshly behind you. You missed the way Michael flinched once more as the loud sound echoed throughout the quiet room, a single tear falling down his cold cheek — attempting to ignore your wails of despair from behind the door.

He saw you for the last time as you rushed out of the bathroom — bag full of your toiletries in hand as you raced towards the bedroom door, sobbing.

He called your name, but you cut him off, swearing brutally at him, along the lines of ‘Go fuck yourself, Michael’. Your memory of that night wavered thin now — your brain compartmentalising the pain to the back of your mind, pushing it the furthest away from to prevent you from punishing yourself with the hurtful memory.

You were packed and moved out the same night — moving back in with your parents, who comforted you for weeks on end as you experienced the worst heartbreak you’d ever felt in your life. The one person you loved and trusted the most in your life had been the one to hurt you the most, too. It was a strange phenomenon — to still love and yearn for the person causing you agonising misery.

At month one, you spent most days in bed — wallowing in your despair, reading old love-letters, staring at photos taken on your first tropical vacation, your anniversary, his birthday. You were torturing yourself — a bittersweet pain that you struggled to rid yourself of. Ending most nights by sobbing into your hand as you read the newspapers — headlines of your split plastered everywhere. Utterly devastated at how disgusting tabloids portrayed you as a deadweight on Michael’s blossoming career, that you were only dragging him down, that he made a good decision to free himself of you.

By month two, you got back to work. You had managed to find your new routine — working hard on your own music, pouring your damaged heart into each song, passion flowing from your lips with each lyric. You didn’t cry as much — only now and again when Michael would pop up on the television, his new album ‘Bad’ going world platinum again, just as his others did, his success booming. What irked you most was he looked perfectly fine — smiling happily for the cameras, performing on stage on tour with pure, irrevocable talent, adoration and excitement oozing off of him, like he didn’t destroy someone’s life two months ago.

By month three, you acted unaffected. You’d moved out into your own place — gaining some unwanted independence. You began going about your life like you’d never met him — going on a few dates, dancing at clubs with your friends with guys you were a stranger to, late night calls with men you knew deep down would never compare, but indulging in the fun of it nonetheless— heart fuelled by anger and frustration, desperate to get back at him. When you finally moved on sexually, you were irritatingly disappointed — no man on the planet could please you like Michael had. That’s what filled you with pure rage. Faking orgasms and pretending as though their cock’s even made half the stretch that Michael’s did had you furious — often pushing them away mid sex, ordering them to get out of your apartment.

You were now almost at month six and the ice in your heart towards Michael hadn’t let up.

You pretended, to your family and friends, that you were over it — that it didn’t affect you anymore. That you had totally moved on with your life. Wrong. You were still livid deep down — not a single day going by where you didn’t curl your fists up in fury at the thought of him. Fury that you still had an annoyingly large place for him in your heart — that no matter how bitter you tried to convince yourself you were about him, it did nothing to dilute the sickly sweetness that overpowered your heart.

And that lovesick heart of yours was pounding violently in your chest right now.

Sat in the back of a limousine, dolled up to the Gods — hair, makeup and outfit perfected to a T, you looked divine. So divine you were determined to make a statement — one just as bad his.

Ironic.

The man in question who you were dying to shock, self-proclaimed as ‘bad’, connotations to his new album, was someone you believed to be sweet, tender and loving. An album title you always thought was truly ironic as he was quite the opposite.

Not as of recent.

Diana Ross had been a thorn in your side since the day you and Michael met. Her relentless flirtatious energy towards the man you craved was angering — even before you called it official was she persistent with her teasing.

“So, you’re the girl Michael keeps talkin’ so much about.” She drawled, the day you met her, your handshake harsher than usual as you gripped her bony hand in your own, “Not his girl, yet though, right?” She laughed, “Better snatch that handsome thing up before I do.”

You confessed your love to Michael that night.

You did truly have intense feelings for him — but that old cow had given you the push you needed. No way in hell was she going to take him away from you — not on your watch.

So, rightfully so, you were anxious at the thought of her finding out about your split — wondering what her next move would be. You’d spend everyday reading the newspapers in a panic, skimming through a thousand words a second in an attempt to find any news of them being spotted together.

And the day came — a week before The 1988 Soul Train Music Awards. The very award ceremony you were heading to, looking so beautiful.

Michael and Diana were front page — pressed tightly against one another at a famous club. His smile was bright, wide and genuine — something you’d missed seeing in person, now adorning his captivating face because of that witch. She had looped her arm through his, the picture capturing her pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. The title read ‘MICHAEL MOVING ON ALREADY? — OLD FLAME REIGNITED’

Oh, he had really done it this time.

He knew how much you hated her — loathed her, actually. The older woman often getting in the way of your relationship throughout the years you were together — despite having a husband herself, she was betrothed with your man.

So, even if technically he didn’t owe you a thing as you weren’t his anymore, you silently felt fury at him for letting her kiss him for the cameras.

Therefore, your only response was to fight fire with fire — childish? Maybe. But, clever? Absolutely.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

The sound of Prince’s voice next to you in the limo tugged a devilish smirk onto your face as you nodded.

If Michael wanted to play dirty — you would play real dirty.

The car had rolled to a stop — flashes of the paparazzi’s intrusive cameras burnt into your vision as the driver pulled the door open. You stepped out, smoothing your dress, a wide smile on your face, waving sweetly as you waited for your date to exit the vehicle.

If you thought the flash was bright before, you were mistaken. Spots blurred into your vision as Prince stood next to you, instantly taking your hand in his own, confidence oozing from him as always, before smiling down at you. You turned to him — pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, lipstick now smeared across his skin, earning a knowing laugh from his throat.

Cha-ching!

Those pictures, dripping with revenge, were a real moneymaker — something that would put that sloppy, old hag’s attempt to make you jealous to shame.

Everyone knew of the musical feud between Michael and Prince — the two men battling for the title of ‘the biggest star in the world’. You knew that Michael took the cake — but, you also knew that seeing his biggest rival with his ex-girl would shut down any attempt of riling you up.

“Nicely done.” Prince whispered, lips close to your ear as you were ushered inside the building. He was aware of your vengeful plan — and more than willing to help aggravate his arch nemesis.

“You too.” You sent a wink his way, engaging in a childish, unison giggle, knowing exactly what you were doing was going to end messy, “I’ll see you later.”

You parted ways with your exes nemesis, not before letting him press a calculated kiss to your knuckles, peripheral vision burning as more cameras captured your (fake) romantic moment, before being ushered to your assigned seat.

You were fairly near the stage, around three rows in front, next to your favourite female pop-star and close friend, Whitney Houston. A real, genuine smile burst across your face when she seated herself next to you.

“Girl.” She breathed out a laugh, placing her clutch bag gently in her lap.

“What?” You laughed, smiling across at her in confusion.

“Honey, I think you know what.” She shook her head with a grin, “You made quite the entrance back there.”

Perfect.

The corners of your lips tugged up into a deeper smile, “Then my plan is working.”

Whitney chuckled, “I just know that poor man is beyond ticked off right now.”

“‘Poor man’?” You scoffed, “He is far from poor. You saw the papers, right?”

“Everybody did, sweetie.”

“Number one, not helpful,” You pointed a finger at her, ignoring the way she cackled, “And two, he had it comin’” You paused, “Everyone, including him, knows how much I hate her.”

“Hate who?”

You froze — the infamously familiar voice that once had you smiling like a damn idiot before, now had your face falling as your head lurched behind you.

And there he was.

Michael.

In all his annoying glory — sporting a dashing red button-up, a sleek tie around his neck, paired with a black suit jacket, that hugged the curve of the lean muscles in his arms in a way that your breath hitching in your throat.

It aggravated you that he looked so good.

But, you knew that he knew that you looked better.

Your irritation only blossomed as you glanced at the seat to your right — eyes rolling in annoyance as his name, scribbled onto a flimsy piece of paper on the chair right next to you, hit your vision.

Fuck award show assigned seats.

“Well, shit, girl.” Whitney mumbled, laughing under her breath as she turned away from the tension that was rising as Michael took his seat.

“Hello.” He spoke, voice soft and gentle, just like you remembered.

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Your voice came out harsher than expected, an angered frown visible on your face as a grin bloomed on his.

His mouth went to open, but you cut him off, hand shooing him away, “Actually, don’t even speak to me, please.”

“You look beautiful.”

“What did I just say Michael?”

You hated the way he smirked at your snappy tone, lip coming between his teeth as he obeyed your request, getting comfortable in his chair. You also hated the way your heart did an extremely noticeable flip in your chest at the compliment.

This night was going to be the death of you.

And it only got worse as Michael retreated to the stage, not once, but twice — each time looking more gracious and handsome as the next. He won Best Single and Album of the Year for Bad — the trophies enclosed around his beautiful, slender hands, ones that once gave you blissful satisfaction.

You despised your weak mind for the way you let it run away with itself — eyes trailing over his tall, elegant frame each time he’d take the stage. That infamous smile that had you weak at the knees did nothing to cool the desire that was overpowering your anger, the yearn for him only increasing.

Michael thumped into his seat next to you with a sigh, now two awards richer, running a hand through his long curls that cascaded down his shoulders.

You could sense he was looking at you — his smiling face visible in your side eye-line, but you refused to turn, your eyes fixated on the stage as the next category was revealed.

“Saw your little stunt earlier.” He whispered, “Real classy.”

You scoffed quietly, “That’s rich.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You knew that tone — that cocky, teasing tone that had you gritting your teeth.

You finally turned to face him, “Oh, right. I’m sure letting that old crow kiss you is a regular thing now, huh?”

“Saw that, did you?” He was testing you, it was evident in the way the knowing smirk on his face never faltered.

You were halfheartedly listening as your name was read for the nomination, not even bothering to care as you held your gaze with the man seated next to you — a brutal lock of eyes that said a thousand words. You were furious, failing to hide it miserably, and he, well, he was enjoying it.

“I did.” You started, “Nice to see a downgrade was my replacement.”

Michael’s smile flickered at your harsh dig at his life-long friend, “I think I could say the same about your date.”

“At least I have one.”

That sure wiped the smirk off his face.

“And definitely not a downgrade in the bedroom.”

You basked in his shock — the smirk he once sported now adorning your face, nearly missing the way your name was called from the stage, the room erupting in applause.

“Excuse me?” Michael’s voice was bitter, cold, mortified at your admission. A false one at that, but he didn’t need to know. Yet.

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” You shrugged him off, rising to your feet with a proud smile — at your award mostly, but also at your triumphant win in the petty disagreement, as loud cheers exploded in your ears.

You took the stage — a new found confidence oozing off of you, a gorgeous smile on your face as you took the award from the announcer’s hands, pulling them into a small hug. You thanked your producer, musical team, family and friends — humbleness evident in every word you spoke.

You looked perfect — utterly radiant under the bright lighting blaring down onto the stage, award glistening in your hands as your pearly white smile twinkled in the spotlight.

Michael, albeit still in an angered daze over your admission, couldn’t help himself but rake his eyes over your frame — breasts pushed perfectly up your corseted dress, the curve of the plush mounds visible to everyone’s eyes from the audience, eyes never leaving those perfect tits he’d once nestle his face into as he flung your legs over his shoulders and filled you to the hilt with his cock.

The thought had him readjusting his slacks — hard-on now painful against the restrictive clothing at the delicious reminiscing of your love-making.

It was your next words that had the sexual memories leaving his head.

“And I wanna thank my wonderful date for tonight— matter of fact, come up here! Prince, where y’at, honey?”

The room erupted into cheers once more — everyone but Michael, who attempted to drown out Whitney’s disbelieving laughter from two seats down from him, watching as you shielded your eyes from the light, searching for the man in the crowd.

Michael stared lethal daggers into Prince’s back as he sauntered up the stairs to the stage — his chest heaving in undeniable envy as he watched Prince pull you into a tight hug. Those gorgeous breasts now pressed up against Prince’s chest.

He was livid. Hands tightening around the material of his trousers, knuckles white as his grip turned taut.

“Not only is he a Pop King,” The room exchanged hushed gasps at the title, one that everyone knew belonged to your furious ex, “But, he’s also a fantastic plus one.” Laughs fizzled out the shock at your insinuation that Prince was only there with you, not for his own musical nominations.

Michael, however, had never felt fury quite like it.

That title was his.

One he worked so hard for — something him and that idiot, in his mind, up on stage with you had fought over for so many years. And you knew that.

He knew you were aggravating him deliberately.

Prince smirked, eyes finding Michael’s in the crowd, expression darkening, “Sorry, Michael.”

And with a smooth arm wrapped around your back, and a swift dip in the air — he kissed you.

Well, not actually.

His lips attached to the corner of your mouth, barely touching, but to the audience, and more importantly, the cameras, it looked as though your ex-boyfriend’s fiercest enemy was kissing the life out of you on stage.

And, boy, did everyone in the room eat it up.

Standing ovations and screams of joy sounded in the room as they clapped — basking in the pure drama of it all.

Prince pulled away from you with a smile, winking at you as you laughed, shaking your head. He took his hand in yours, guiding you backstage, the noise of the crowd dying down as you were ushered away.

“You’re evil.” You chuckled, chest heaving from the adrenaline.

“Well, maybe it’ll give him the push he needs to try get y’back.” Prince admitted, “Either that or to write ‘nother okay album.”

You shoved his arm playfully, “Oh, stop. Y’know it was a good album.”

“Sure, sweetheart, sure.” He teased, sending another smug wink your way, earning another giggle from your lips.

You’d barely made it ten steps backstage before an all familiar frame blocked your way.

You swallowed thickly as Michael’s cold, blank expression met your eyes, his hands curled at his side as he held your gaze — watching as the smile fell from your face.

He didn’t fail to notice how quickly you dropped Prince’s hand, either.

“Come with me. Now.” His voice was darker than his usual soft, gentle tone — not holding a deeper undertone of something that had a chill running down your spine.

“Oh, he mad now.” Prince spoke up, a soft, breathy laugh leaving his lips, “Don’t be jealous, brother, y’got ‘Ross don’t’cha?”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his gaze turning to Prince, eyes darkening into something icier, “I’d walk away if you know what’s good for you.”

Prince laughed once again, eyes flickering back towards you, “Good luck, girl.” He turned back to Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Be sure to bring her back t’me when you’re done, yeah?”

Michael lunged, flinging his hand off his shoulder in a brutal shove, turning towards him with clear intent. You rushed in between a seething Michael and a laughing Prince, hands steadying the angered man on his chest.

“Enough. Both of you.” You hissed, “Just go.” You signalled to the amused man behind you.

Prince didn’t fight it — just turned to walk away with his hands in the air in surrender, chuckling as he went.

“Michael, what the hell was that for?” You snapped.

Michael didn’t speak — only grabbed your wrist in a firm, not aggressive, more so possessive, grasp, tugging you away, his longer legs moving swiftly with each stride, your own practically in a run as you fought to keep up.

He found a nearby bathroom, pushing the door open with all his strength, ignoring the way you winced at the sound of the handle harshly slammed into the wall. The door was shut and locked quicker than it had opened — before you were pushed against it.

“Me?” He started, answering your prior question, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, pupils blown in distress, “I think I should be asking you that question, sweetheart.”

The pet-name spat from his mouth with a curl of his lips — face contorted into a scowl.

You gained your pride, taking two hands to his shoulders and shoving him, your strength against his own doing as little as moving him a few steps backwards.

“Don’t get it twisted, Michael.” You retorted, “You started this with that bitch.”

Michael scoffed, “Go’head, baby, try and convince yourself I’m in the wrong here.” His tongue poked out from his inner cheek, “You’re insatiable.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Your voice seeping with distaste at the familiar pet-name, “You lost that privilege the second you gave up on us like we were nothin’.” You shook your head, “Would’ve let you have it back if you didn’t let that old slut rub up on you like you’re a fuckin’ groupie.” You laughed darkly, looking him up and down, “Not now. Lost every fuckin’ chance with me.”

Michael looked taken aback by your disrespectful words — teeth grinding together as he never took his eyes away from your own.

“I never gave up on us willingly.” He revealed, ignoring the way you scoffed with a laugh, as he took a step closer to you, “And as for her,” He paused, attempting to find the right words.

“See? You can’t even convince yourself there’s nothin’ going on there.” You cut him off, hands flailing in the air as you spoke theatrically.

“Let me finish, woman.” He shot back, “As I was sayin’ — she means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. She’s an old friend. Someone who mentored me as a kid. We have history — but nothin’ more than platonic. Barely even platonic, just professional.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Michael. No ‘professional mentor’ kisses their ‘colleague’ like that.” You air-quoted the words that felt faux with your manicured fingers, shaking your head, “Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

“Not in that sense, no.” He started, “For actin’ like that him? Maybe.”

You laughed in disbelief, “You just love it, don’t you? Pretending to yourself that I’m the bad guy, that I went up there and acted like that just to hurt you with no real reason?” You looked him up and down with disgust, “You’re so blind.”

“How many times, girl? There’s nothin’ going on with me and Di.”

He regretted the use of the nickname the second it left his mouth.

“Di? That sounds real professional to me, asshole.” You turned on your heel, clicking the lock back open and twisting the handle, pulling the door open in an attempt to storm out.

Before you could even move, the door was slammed shut once again. The loudness blooming a new found silence in the room, one that failed to occur from the second you walked in there.

Michael’s hand, despite his reverent anger, remained gentle as moved your body back to face him, pressing you back into the door.

“Don’t even think about it.” He whispered, “You are not walkin’ away from me.”

“That’s ironic.” You bit back, “If you hadn’t have done that in the first place, we wouldn’t be havin’ this argument.”

“Y’think I wanted to do that? Think I wanted to sit there and watch you panic? Listen to you cry? Hear you cuss me out because of pain and anger I caused? No. That’s where y’dead wrong, girl.” He let out a shaken breath, “I have always, from the moment I met you, till this very day, loved you. Loved you so much I had to give you the life you deserved. I had to let you go. Had to get you away from the pain I was bringin’. No one wants to be with someone who’s never there, and when they are, they’re always fightin’.” Then, he went silent, his eyes now softened as they met your glassy ones, tears threatening to fall as you let him talk.

You both stayed in deathly loud silence, louder than any door slamming or screaming argument — silence that spoke more words than any you’d ever said.

You swallowed thickly, your resolve cracking as his admission settled in your brain, “That wasn’t your decision to make, Michael.” Your voice was quieter now, still with the same stubborn sharpness, but less accusatory, now filled with evident upset.

Michael breathed, his head hanging low, his forehead a mere few inches from your own, “I regret that night every fucking day.” He whispered, a vulnerable string of words that hung heavy in your heart, “Letting you walk out that door was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Why her?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, a stray tear falling down your cheek as you met his gaze.

“It wasn’t a personal attack. She was just at the same club and approached me.” He revealed, “The picture was taken before I even had a chance to say no.”

You shook your head, breaking the eye-contact as you looked at your feet, hiding your rapidly falling tears. Michael’s trembling hand reached for your face, a tentative hand cupping your warm cheek, lifting your face to meet his eyes once more.

“Mama..”

“Stop.” You turned your head, pushing his hand away with your own, “I can’t even look at you.”

“Don’t act so innocent.” Michael’s tone, that had once softened, grew the all too familiar iciness that had been evident the whole evening, “I’m trying to fix things here despite your little ordeal earlier. D’y’know what it’s like to see you kissing him up there? That used to be me if you even remember.”

You let out a low laugh, “He didn’t even kiss me, fool, ‘was all an act. Unlike you and Di.” You barked, “Y’know you actually blow my mind, you’re so—Mmmph!”

Michael connected your lips in a frantic kiss, cutting off your incessant bickering, lips moving against yours quickly.

You shoved him back, gasping for air at the sudden loss of breath, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Puttin’ that bratty fuckin’ mouth to better use.”

He kissed you again — mouth sliding against your own in a feverish lip-locking, a hand now gripping the nape of your neck, the other on the curve of your waist.

And this time — you let him.

You melted into him, hands flying to his face, eyes fluttering shut as you caved, droplets of tears falling onto the tops of your cheeks — falling deeper into his mercy. His tongue slid across the surface of your bottom lip, still awaiting permission despite his frustration. You allowed it, letting his tongue slide into your warm mouth, humming in delight at the taste of his minty breath on the hot muscle, revelling in the way he pushed his body into yours. His hands wondered — now travelling down your body to grab a handful of your ass through your dress, continuing his oral assault on your swollen lips.

“Jump.”

You obeyed, leaving his lips to leap into his arms — his hands cradling your behind as he connected your lips once more, settling you on the sink, slotting himself between your ajar legs.

Michael detached his mouth from own, moving his lips down the curve of your jaw, and down your exposed neck — letting his hips rock into yours involuntarily, while he sucked possessive marks into your skin, at the sound of your breathy moans, head tilted back to allow him better access.

“Michael, please.” You whined, voice a needy plea, hands sliding up into his hair, threading through his tight curls.

“Please, what, angel?” He mumbled against your neck, breath hot against your skin, fresh lovebites forming as he spoke.

“Please—mmhm—Need you, fuck.”

Michael pulled away, hands flying to your dress, pulling down the zipper harshly — before pulling you to your heeled feet, pushing it off your body swiftly, leaving you in just a skimpy bare of lace panties.

Ones you knew were his favourite.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He breathed, eyes raking over your bare frame, glossy doe-eyes peering up at him as he towered above you, “Wore my favourite just for me?”

You nodded, “Just f’you, Mike.”

Michael turned you, with precise smoothness, pressing your stomach against the cold of the sink, your bare back now pressed against his chest.

He slid a tentative hand up your side, toying with the tiny string the thong that clad your bottom half, as he locked eyes with your own in the mirror before you, “How am I supposed to know you didn’t wear them for him, mama?”

You pushed back against him, rolling your hips into the statement of his arousal, “Shut up about him and fuck me.”

A harsh hand connected with your left ass cheek — a half-gasp half-moan ripping from your throat at the sudden contact, “Thought I told you to keep that bratty mouth shut?”

You, testing your luck, ground against him once more, smirking at the way his hand tightened against your hand-printed behind, “Give me what I want then.”

Michael shook his head behind you — one hand working on his belt, pushing his slacks down along with his boxers, his palm wrapping around his achingly hard cock, pumping himself slowly, while the other pulled down your panties, now morphed into the shape of your plush folds from your leaking arousal, to the side, “Be careful what you wish for, doll.”

With one swift, sudden thrust, Michael pushed inside you — bottoming out instantly. A scream erupted from your throat at the instant fullness, your tight cunt struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him as his leaking tip kissed your cervix. Your pussy betrayed you as it clenched around him, drooling around him, coating his cock in your slick.

His hand flew to your mouth, his large palm enclosing around your swollen lips, muffling the whimpers that left you as you struggled around him — eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of him throbbing inside you.

“Keep those eyes open, mama,” He ordered, sliding out of you slowly until the only thing that remained inside your quivering hole was his plump mauve cockend, “Want you to see how pathetically you fall apart on my cock. My cock. No-one else’s.”

He pushed in again with the familiar harshness from before as your eyes shot open — now starting a brutal, animalistic pace that had you clawing at the tense of his hand that enveloped your mouth, hiding the high-pitched squeals and whines of pure, irrevocable lust that took over your mind, body and soul.

Michael groaned into your ear, eyes locked on your own as he fucked into you with such a pace and lack of gentleness that you’d never seen before. During your companionship, Michael took his time with you — worked you open with his mouth and fingers, took his time to get you ready for the thickness and length of him. But, not this time — all the pent up rage brought upon him from the start of the night now being fucked into you with every harsh rock of his hips.

Keeping you flush against his chest, his free hand slid down to where you connected — rubbing tight figure eights against your clit that throbbed for attention. Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head, ignoring any order he gave you to hold his gaze.

“Mmphmh—M-Mich—Michael, please!”

Words failed you as you cried against his hand, drunk on the way his cock dragged in and out of your gummy walls that sucked him in with each thrust — the sound of your feverish moans and your squelching cunt mixing with his breathy groans filling the air of the bathroom that now stunk of Michael’s intoxicating cologne and passionate sex.

“Take it, baby, take this fuckin’ dick.” He grunted into your ear, his words unlike his usual loving coaxes, “Make up for what’cha did.”

Michael hissed as you bit down on the skin of his palm, his hand pulling away from the source of pain as he meet your gaze in the mirror — your own expression now deepening into a scowl, “Fuck you.”

The words spat from your mouth, dripping with venom, at his words of blame, watching as his face scrunched up in frustration.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, ma.”

His pace never let up — if anything, since your oral stunt, it quickened. He forced you down, now completely bent over the sink as he created a new angle — his cock now driving deeper into your sopping cunt, abusing the sweet spot inside you relentlessly.

Now released from his grasp, your loud, incessant cries sounded throughout the small room — so voluminous that any passerby would hear every scream of his name.

His hand collided with your ass cheek again — cursing under his breath as the familiar feeling of a much needed orgasm crept up his abdomen. The lustful spark in your stomach blossoming much the same as he slid a hand into your hair, tugging your head upwards to look directly into the mirror once more. You were a state, completely, and literally, fucked — eyes streaming with tears that coated your hot cheeks, lips swollen and stricken with spit from his frantic kisses, and a small yet equally evident imprint of his fingers around your mouth where he held you harshly.

“‘M gonna cum so fuckin’ deep in this pussy that you can’t fuckin’ walk without flooding your little panties with my seed.” He grunted, never letting his thrusts faltering as you squirmed beneath him, “Who’s needy little cunt is this?”

Words failed you as you continued to cry — only desperate, eager whimpers falling from your lips.

Another spank connected with your ass cheek, coaxing a loud whine out of you, “Answer me when I ask you a fuckin’ question, woman.”

“Yours!—fuck, Michael, it’s all yours.” You panted, tears falling from your eyes faster than you could stop them.

“Say this pussy’s mine.” Michael spat, tugging hard on your locks of hair.

“My pussy’s all yours, baby, fuck—mmph!—Gonna cum!”

Michael hummed, clearly pleased with your response, his hips stuttering as he neared his own release, “Cum with me, beautiful, cum on my cock like a good girl.”

You cried out, loud and despairingly, as you finally broke — red-hot ecstasy taking over your body as you came, the flood gates of your pleasure breaking open to consume you. Michael followed, the tight clenching of your quivering pussy sending him over the edge, spurting his hot seed into your fertile cunt as he groaned lowly — the sensation of his cum filling your fluttering sex only furthering your own orgasm.

You slumped against the countertop — chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath. Michael stilled behind you, swallowing thickly as he softened inside you. He leant down, pushing his chest against your back, coated with a sheen of sweat, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to your shoulder.

His kisses trailed up to your neck, beneath your earlobe, your cheek, before using a trembling hand to tilt your head to the side, and pressing his lips against your own. You sobbed into the kiss, more tears, now from overwhelming emotion, falling from your eyes. Michael’s hand cupped your cheek — deepening the kiss, that once held so much irritation, resentment and anger, now filled with undeniable attachment, deep love and compassion.

“I love you.” Michael breathed, disconnecting your lips, resting his forehead against yours — singular curl that stuck to his slick forehead tickling your own, “Please be mine again.” He whispered.

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his nose, head reeling from the overstimulating rush of emotions.

“But don’t pull that shit again.” He added with a playful smile.

“Yeah,” You sniffled with a breathy laugh, “You too.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Maybe you were overthinking it, or maybe it was because you hadn’t seen, heard from or touched your husband in 3 days. 3 long, excruciating days. Michael usually would call, but it seemed the concentration and focus the album needed was at the centre of his mind.

So, you had situated yourself in front of the television — a movie you’d already seen twice playing in front of your tired eyes. Barely focusing on what the actors were saying — you drifted off to a place where your husband was. Picturing him sat beside you — warm, salty popcorn in a bowl and a freshly squeezed orange juice in hand, giggling away at a movie he loved.

The soft smile that had crept onto your face slowly sank away into the depths of despair at the reminder your man wasn’t here, and you had no idea when you’d next see him.

You knew you could see him if you really wanted to by paying Westlake Recording Studios a visit, but, Quincy Jones was a perfectionist like Michael, and any unnecessary distractions this close to finishing the album were not permitted to enter the studio.

And you were definitely a distraction to Michael.

Despite being a busy man, whenever you did spent time together, by God did he make up for lost time. That man would spend 50 days and 50 nights making up for any time you’d spent apart by showering you in irrevocable affection to show you just how much he missed you too.

With an exaggerated yawn, you glanced at the glistening gold watch around your wrist, one Michael had gifted you for your 4th wedding anniversary. Mumbling about the time, the numbers 20:38 stared back at you.

‘Time to get ready to sleep alone, again’ You thought to yourself.

Sighing dramatically, you pushed yourself off the couch, switching off the television and dragging your tired feet towards the stairs. The house was always eerily dark and quiet at this time of night, especially being alone, leaving goosebumps down your arms as you reached your even quieter bedroom.

A wave of sadness hit you as you observed your cold, dark and pitiful bedroom — once filled with glistening low lighting, a bottle of Champagne and love-making all night, giggling with your other half. Now, the total opposite.

And the worst thought of it all — even when the album was finished, you knew he’d be touring, and you’d either be stuck at home alone permanently or living on the road for the next year. Either way, you’d do anything for Michael — which agitated you even more.

There was no one better — he was the one for you, the one you promised at the alter that you’d be there, sickness and in health, for better and for worse. This was the worse they were referring to. You loved him more than life itself to ever leave him — it’d break your heart more than this loneliness ever would.

For now, you’d wait for his call. Sit around all night, yawning and rubbing your tired eyes — awaiting a call that would never come, before succumbing to sleep and kicking yourself in the morning for not staying up for him.

Brushing away the negative thoughts that corrupted your mind, you trudged to the bathroom, deciding a floral scented body cream to flood your nostrils would hopefully cheer you up. Grabbing the large bottle, you squeezed a small amount out of the tube — rubbing the delightful smelling cream into your arms, your eyes locking on the phone on your nightstand.

‘If he didn’t call by 10 o’clock, you’d call.’ You decided, knowing that the next hour would be spend watching the time, feeling as though watching paint dry would be quicker. But, what else would a viciously devoted wife do?

Once your body was slicked with the fanciest lotion Michael could’ve possibly bought, just because, you slipped under the covers of your four-poster bed, the Emerald green, satin bedsheets sliding over your skin like water as you settled down.

21:05, Check the clock.

21:18, Sigh irritatingly at the ceiling.

21:25, Rest your eyes for a moment to pass the time.

21:29, Surely at least 10 minutes had gone by—oh, no, just 4 minutes!

"Oh, fuck this." You mumbled to yourself, ignoring the 21:34 on the clock metaphorically screaming ‘You’re weak’ at you as you picked up the phone and dialled the number to Westlake Studios.

The sound of the phone ringing droned on throughout the room — your nails tapping impatiently on the handle, your bottom lips being gnawed on as you waited.

"Hello, Westlake Recording Studios, this is Susie, how can I help?"

"Hi Susie. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why I’m calling, huh?" You chuckled into the phone, knowing your voice was recognisable by now.

"Oh, good-evening, Mrs Jackson," She replied, a smile evident in her voice, "Let me check with Mr Jones that he’s available, okay? Give me a sec, sweetie."

"No problem."

A rustle, a click and the sound of the hold music indicated Susie, the receptionist at Westlake, was calling Quincy Jones to make sure your husband wasn’t knee deep in a song. Knowing your husband, he probably was.

Click! "Hey, sweetie, just gonna connect you now."

Butterflies erupted in your stomach like a lovesick teenager at the confirmation you were about to speak to your husband, having to bite back a smile at the thought of hearing his sweet voice.

Click! "Baby?"

Oh, Lord, it was better than you imagined.

You sighed a sweet relief, "Oh, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice." You admitted straight off the bat, "Hi, my love."

Michael laughed, a smile that hurt your cheeks creeping up onto your face, "Hi, sweet girl, are you okay?"

"I’m so much better now I’m talking to you." You spoke, clutching the phone in two hands in desperation, "Mikey, I miss you so much."

"I know, baby, I miss you too." Michael agreed, "I’m coming home tonight, so don’t fret that little head anymore, okay?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really, my baby, I can’t wait to hold you." His voice as sweet as sugar, echoing in your brain like an addiction begging to be tended to, "My beautiful wife all alone — makes me so sad."

"So alone." You pouted, craving to be babied, "Need you so bad, Mike." You whispered.

Michael breathed out a laugh, your grin deepening as you pictured his flustered face behind the phone — blush creeping onto his face at your suggestive words, "Oh, darling." He whispered, "I love you, I hope you know that."

"I love you so much more." You sighed, "The house is so quiet and boring without you."

"I know, I know. I’m sorry I’ve left you for so long — things have been hectic here. Y’know how Quincy gets when the album’s nearly finished, he just gets so excited and just wants to make that push to the finish line without stopping."

"I know." You mumbled, toying with the phone cord, "I just can’t wait to have you all to myself."

"Won’t be long, baby. Only a few hours."

"Mm, I can’t wai—" "Mikey, come back, the album won’t finish itself!"

Silence filled the room as your eyes widened, the smile wiped clean off your face as the reality of what you just heard hit you.

A female voice — calling your husband the nickname you have for him, beckoning him back to the studio. A voice laced with an undertone you didn’t like nor want to hear the other end of the phone knowing she was with your man and not you.

Absolutely the fuck not.

"O-Okay, Coming!" Michael called out, "Baby, I gotta go."

"Who was that?" You pressed, your eyebrows knitted together.

"Oh, just another producer. I’ll speak to you later, okay? Don’t wait up for me. Love you."

Click! Beeeeep!

Your jaw dropped, moving the beeping phone away from your ear as the line disconnected. You blinked, in utter shock at the conversation that just occurred in your ear without even a second to process.

Your brain ran a mile a minute as you replayed the scene in your head. An unfamiliar female voice, with a suspicious tone, calling your husband back to the studio, then being hung up on after being told to not wait up for him, ending with the ‘I’ missing from ‘I love you’, had you spiralling as you placed the phone down.

The silence that consumed the room was deafening — your heart beating out of your chest as your mind ran away with itself.

Michael, tired, lonely, and equally as sexually frustrated as you, alone with a musically talented woman who’s investing in his career and spending more 1-on-1 time with him than you, could easily lead to—

You’d never picked the phone back up quicker, speed dialling the Studio back, the mortifying thought of anything happening clouding your judgement, your foot tapping impatiently against the floor, now sitting on the edge of your bed cautiously.

"Hello, Westlake Recording Studio, this is—“

"Hi, Susie, it’s me again. I need you to connect me with Michael again right now please." You rushed through gritted teeth.

"Oh! Hello, again, I thought I already connected you, sweetie?"

"You did. But, I need connecting again, please. Now." You pleaded, your shaking fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Let me check with Mr Jones, okay? One second."

Click! Before you even had chance to plead her to just put you through, the hold music sounded again. Groaning as you flung backwards onto the bed, phone still pressed to your ear, you could feel the anger growing inside you.

Click! "Hey, honey, I’m afraid I can’t put you through. Mr Jackson’s very busy right now."

Could worse words ever be spoken.

"Okay, I appreciate that, Susie, but I must speak to my husband right now."

"I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, there’s nothing I can do."

"Please. Let me just speak to Quincy, I’m sure he’ll let me speak to him."

"I’m sorry, but Mr Jones has just left for the night, so Mr Jackson is with one of our other producers who has left me with strict instructions to make sure Mr Jackson has no distractions. Goodnight, Mrs Jackson." Beeeeep!

You placed the phone down once more — the beeping subsiding as you stared off into the distance, zoning out as the recollection of the past few minutes clouded your mind.

He’s in there, alone with her. Not even Quincy was there anymore. Your heart was in your throat as you remained perched on the end of the bed, chest heaving in pure adrenaline — visions of your husband doing things he shouldn’t polluting your thoughts.

How he didn’t even notice how concerned you sounded when asking who she was made anger and jealousy bubble in your chest. Knowing that you’d been dying to see Michael for days, not counting the past few weeks, months and even years he’s been busy working on music where you’ve missed out on marital business because of his work — and now she was getting to spend alone time with him without even having to lift a finger?

Furious didn’t even cover half of it.

Michael didn’t know what he was walking into when he pushed open the door to the Hayvenhurst mansion, sighing tiredly. It was just past midnight, his eyes were heavy and his feet were dragging against the floor as he trudged through to the kitchen, expecting an empty room to make himself a warm glass of milk and head up to bed, to hold you as promised.

What he didn’t expect to see was you, in a long sheer gown, feathers on the edges, barely covering the matching black and baby pink lacy lingerie set that adorned your delicious body. Your tits pushed up perfectly, and your hips, waist and glorious legs all on display, with your hair perfectly groomed and a glass of wine in hand, stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island.

His heart jumped into his mouth at the sight of you — in shock of not expecting you to be there and the vision of your beautiful body on full display for him.

"Baby, wow, you look— wow, incredible." He breathed, taking in the sight of you as a took a swig of your wine, "What are you doing awake? I told you not to wait up."

You didn’t answer straight away — just stared at him, taking sips of your wine as you remained in constant eye contact with him. After a few seconds of silence, Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"Honey, you okay?"

"Do you like what you see, Michael?"

Michael breathed out a laugh, "Like? Baby, I’m in love. You look breathtaking."

His eyes never left yours as you sauntered your way around the kitchen island, slowly heading towards him, your high-heels clicking against the floor.

"I called you back, did you get the message?"

"Sorry?" Michael questioned, utterly confused at your words.

"Earlier. I called you back — did someone tell you I called again?"

Michael scratched the back of his neck, puffing out air as he thought, "Uhh, no. Sorry, honey, I was really busy."

You hummed in response, standing before him, eyeing him up and down, "So I was told. Something about a new producer not wanting you to be disturbed, hm?"

"Oh, yeah, that’s Ester, she’s great. Been helping me and Q with the album." Michael innocently complimented, a smile on his face as he looked down at you, "God, baby, I can’t get over how amazing you look. I just wanna touch you all over."

You brushed past him before he got a chance to grab a hold of you, a waft of your sickly, addicting perfume clouding his nostrils, "Come get me then." You beckoned, heading towards the stairs, your gown traipsing behind you.

Michael trailed behind you like a predator to prey — his eyes glistening in desire at the sight of you, your plump ass and curvy thighs on perfect display as he practically crawled up the stairs like a rapid dog behind you.

"Come here, darling, wanna touch you so bad."

"Patience, Mikey." You dragged out the nickname, "Gotta catch me."

Playfulness glistened in his eyes as you turned around, walking backwards up the stairs slowly, as if assessing the threat that crawled slowly behind you, his eyes never once leaving yours.

After making it up the stairs without being ‘caught’, you waltzed into the bedroom with an aura radiating off you that Michael had never seen — your hair bouncing as you walked, along with the wobble of your perfect ass, which he couldn’t help but stare at, his cock twitching in arousal.

Michael remained behind you as he watched you slip your gown off, letting it fall of your body sensually, your half naked body now fully exposed to him. A shaky breath left his lips at the sight of you as you crawled onto the bed on all fours — your hips swaying while looking back to meet his eyes.

"Fuck." Michael groaned under his breath, his gaze not daring to look away from your frame, contorting into sensual positions.

You slid slowly onto your back, your arms holding you up and your legs pressed together, your eyes never leaving his own blown out ones — observing as his chest rose and fell quicker as he anticipated your next move. Fulfilling his undeniable need, you slowly parted your legs, revelling in the gasp that ripped from his throat at the sight of your crotchless panties, your gushing cunt exposed to him so suddenly.

"Oh, baby." He sighed, falling to his knees at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on your glistening pussy.

"Is she pretty?"

"Mhm, the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen." He mumbled, barely listening to you as he gawked at you.

"No — Is she pretty?"

That’s when it hit him — the reason you were awake, the outfit, the wine, the questions. It all finally clicked in his head what was going on.

"What? Ester?"

"Yes, her." You spat, a foul look on your face, acting as those even referring to her tasted vile in your mouth.

Michael breathed out a laugh, "Baby, no. Not at all. Never in a million years. She’s my producer." He answered, a playful smile on his face, "Enough of that — let me taste this sweet pussy that I’ve missed so much."

Leaning forward in attempt to press his face between your thighs, he was met with a forceful being stopping his path.

Your shoe — the heel pressing firmly on his forehead, stopping him in his tracks.

"Ah, ah, ah! No touching for you, Mikey." You teased, "Or is it only her that’s allowed to call you that?"

Michael groaned, a hint of a pathetic whine threatening to blend with the gruff of his voice, the severity of the situation really setting in for him now.

"Baby—"

"No. Beg."

"Honey, please," He wasted no time, his eyes meeting your own challenging ones from between your legs, all of his wrong-doings becoming apparent to him now he was being denied your pussy, "I don’t know why she called me that — that name is reserved for you and you only. You, my beautiful, loving, perfect wife. Not her." He rambled, his eyebrows curved upwards in despair as his voice threatened to break, desperation dripping off him more than the slick from your wet pussy at the submissive sight of him, "And I am beyond sorry at the fact I didn’t say ‘I love you’, I was in a rush and I didn’t think. But, I should’ve thought. How dare I deny my gorgeous sweet little one the words of my true love. And I should’ve answered your second call, and I should’ve been here to begin with. I hate leaving you alone for so long, but I’m an idiot husband, please, please, forgive me."

You stayed silent as your high-heel, the Armani ones he’d bought for your birthday, still remained pressed against his warm forehead. His puppy dog eyes, now a silent plea of desperation as he looked at you, his face a complete wreck at the pure fact that he was being denied your glorious pussy.

"Hm." You spoke finally, lowering your foot off of his face, "I suppose I’ll forgive you."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He chanted, grabbing a hold of your ankle, craving any sort of touch at this point.

"If."

"Yes, baby, anything." He rambled, "Anything — just let me feel you, please."

His obvious built up sexual frustration was manifesting itself in the most submissive, pathetic manner you’d ever seen — his voice cracking and stuttering as he begged you for physical contact.

"You let me use that pretty mouth and cock of yours until I decide you’ve made up for it."

He could’ve cum on the spot at the pure erotica that left your pretty pink lips, swallowing hard as his cheeks flushed, trying to ignore the way his cock throbbed in his boxers.

"Jesus, sweetheart." He breathed, "You’re killing me over here."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, absolutely, 1000%, yes."

"Lay down then."

Michael wasted no time doing what you asked. Usually, he would dominate in the bedroom, and he knew deep down the second he slid his achingly hard cock into your tight little cunt, that you’d submit to him that millisecond, but right now, he’d humour you — secretly enjoying letting you take the reigns for once, especially if it meant getting to devour your pretty pussy.

You crawled up his body, before hovering over his face, your legs either side of his head — your clenching cunt just centimetres above his eager mouth that had him twitching in excitement at the thought of the taste of your sweet pussy, one he’s missed for so long.

"Lemme take care of you, sweet girl. Make everything alright again." He promised, two firm hands coming to grab a handful of your shaking thighs.

Without giving him a second to prepare, you lowered your pussy down onto his face — both of you moaning at the feeling of one another after so long.

"Oh, Michael." You cried out, your hands flying to the headboard above your bed, as his tongue wasted no time in delving between your lips.

His tongue slithering its way around your quivering sex — the tip of the warm muscle swiping over your throbbing clit, eliciting the most needy, pornographic whine from your lips. Michael couldn’t help but smile into you — knowing the dominant act was going to wear off pretty soon with that way he was devouring your cunt like his last meal.

The erotic noises that filled your once depressingly quiet bedroom had Michael twitching uncontrollably in his pants — his cock screaming to be freed as you began rocking your hips back and forth on his face, moaning like a bitch in heat at the feeling is his nose nudging your sensitive nub.

"O-Oh, baby, yes! Yes, God, baby, so good." You whined, your voice a high-pitched strain of undeniable ecstasy as you rode his face.

Michael was in heaven — after weeks of not even seeing you naked let alone having his face stuffed full of your pussy, he couldn’t be stopped from devouring you even if anyone tried. He didn’t even care that his dick was begging to be touched — he wanted, no, needed to be forgiven, to make things right. Prove to you that you were the only woman he needed in his life.

A devilish hand slid up your thigh to grab a handful of your ass, earning a moan of delight into your pussy as Michael sucked your aching clit. Nearly buckling over at the vibrations of his noises — you hunched over, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the headboard for dear life at the feeling of his swollen lips wrapping around your clit like his life depended on it.

It was only when two of his long, slender fingers dipped suddenly into your hole, reaching such depths so quickly that you came on the spot — crying out deliciously as you coated Michael’s face in your juices.

"Michael—ah! God, yes! Don’t stop!"

Your hips rocked back and forth faster than before, denying him of oxygen, not that he cared, but prolonging your orgasm as his slicked nose repeatedly abused your extremely overstimulated clit.

Lifting off his face with a whine, your legs threatened to collapse before Michael caught you, two strong, reliable hands holding your waist and legs before they gave way. Michael picked you up with a smile, before laying you gently on the bed beneath him.

"You’re such a good girl for me, baby." He whispered, leaning down to press a sweet, gentle kiss on your forehead, cheek and nose, "Did so good for me."

You hummed tiredly, looking up at him innocently — one side of your bra strap had fallen down in the bustling of your orgasm, revealing your rounded left breast, your erect nipple on show for him, as well as your now dripping wet pussy one buck upwards away from meeting his thick bulge as he situated between your open legs.

He knew your dominatrix act would let up after he made you cum.

"Look what you did to me, sweet girl." Michael revealed, guiding your hand gently to grab a handful of his despicably hard cock, a loud gasp ripping from your throat, "So fucking hard for you baby. Missed feeling you cum against me so fucking bad."

"Mikey." You whined, irresistibly desperate beneath him.

"Fuck, I only love it when you say it, darling."

You wrapped your arms swiftly around his neck, pulling him down to connect your lips in a fiery, needy, frantic kiss. You hummed into his mouth, the taste of your tangy release still evident on his tongue. Michael kissed you with a burning passion that had you rubbing your legs together once more — the feeling of irrefutable arousal radiating off you like heat.

Michael, without needing to be told, freed himself quickly from his boxers, hissing into your mouth at the contact of his warm hand around the base, guiding it towards your slick cunt.

"Legs up, baby." He mumbled into your mouth, not daring to break the intense kiss.

Michael hummed in pure delight at the feeling of your heeled feet wrapping around his waist and forcing his hips closer to you — his leaking tip now colliding with your clit.

Michael cursed under his breath as his positioned his cock at your hole, his hands shaking at your sides, as he pushed in slowly. The feeling of his pulsating tip, dribbling with anticipatory pre-cum, stretching your pleading pussy had both of you crying out in euphoria — your moans already growing louder before he’d even filled you to the brim.

"Oh, my fuck — this pussy is to die for, Jesus." Michael whined as he pushed further into your tight cunt, inch by inch, his cock stretching you so perfectly.

Once bottomed out and fitted perfectly into your abused cunt — Michael began to set a brutal pace. One that you seeing stars and moaning beyond control underneath him — your sharp nails dragging down his muscular back as he ploughed deeper.

"Mhm!, Mikey, right there!" You gasped blissfully, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slammed perfectly into your G-Spot, brushing your cervix perfectly.

Michael was a piece of string held taut and being sawed at — ready to snap at any given moment. You hadn’t had sex this good in months — the build up frustration and lack of communication had you both needing each other like water in the desert.

"M-Michael?"

"Yeah, baby?" He panted above you, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek, and down your neck.

You whined, "Pass me the phone."

"What?"

“Don’t stop. Just pass me the phone."

Michael obliged reluctantly, unsure of where this was going. He reached over, his thrusts slowly slighly, one handed to grab the phone, handing it back to you.

"Dial her number."

Michael’s face drained of colour as his thrusts slowed to a stop, which earnt him a slap on the ass from behind, like a jockey on a horse, "Don’t stop, I said. Now, dial her number."

Michael’s swallowed thickly as he searched your face for any sign of humour, but your knitted eyebrows in pleasure paired with your oh so serious eyes had him reaching over to the phone and dialling Westlake Recording Studio.

This late at night had the calls connecting directly to Michael’s studio, Susie long gone, and the only person left in the Studio, was the one person you wanted to answer the phone the most.

"Hello, Ester from Westlake Studio speaking."

A wicked smile flickered over your face as her muffled voice filled your ears. You took the phone from Michael’s hand, sneaking out from under him, pushing him onto the bed and climbing on top of him, guiding his slicked, hard cock back inside you — now riding him just how you knew he loved. Michael strained a loud moan that threatened to escape his lips.

"Hello?" Her voice sounding more confused at the rustling and whispering on the other side of the phone.

You handed the phone back to Michael who eyed you confusedly. His only instruction was the word ‘Speak’ that you mouthed at him, before lifting your cunt off his throbbing cock and bouncing straight back down, his cock nudging your cervix perfectly now.

"H-Hi Ester, it’s M-Michael."

"Michael? What are you doing calling this late?"

Michael looked at your fucked out face for answers — as your beautiful frame and gorgeous complexion stared right back at him, your wedding ring glistening in the moonlight as you grabbed a handful of your tits, he knew exactly what he needed to do to make things right.

"I’ve decided your actions at the Studio are wildly inappropriate and disrespectful to my wife." He started, his voice huffed as he bucked his hips up into you, "Using a personal and private nickname that is reserved for my wife and my wife only is—ah, baby! unprofessional and calls for immediate dismissal."

"What? A-Are you firing me over a nickname?"

"Yes, e-exactly." Michael breathed, "My w-wife is the most important thing in my life, and anyone who upsets her will be—o-oh fuck—banished effective immediately."

Michael positioned the phone to be held up with his shoulder as he gripped your hips — slamming upwards into your tightening pussy, forcing your moans and whines to grow deliberately louder.

"What the fuck? Are you having sex?"

"Pack your stuff and be gone by tonight," Michael breathed, biting his lips momentarily at the sight of your tits bouncing as he fucked up into you, "And never disrespect my wife again."

Not even bothering to hang up, knowing the embarrassed woman on the other line would, Michael threw the phone onto the floor and thrust up into your drooling pussy like he had seconds left to live.

"Oh, Michael, I love you—I love you so so much. Thank you, baby—mmhm!!— thank you, you’re so good to me!"

"I love you, sweetheart, god, M’love you so much."

With a tentative hand crawling down your body to rub tight circles on your clit, to the way it made you clench around his twitching cock — the both of you came with a strangled cry.

"Yeah — cum on my cock, baby, give it to me." Michael coaxed, a whine following shortly after as he forced his cock as deep as it would go before letting his much needed release fire up inside of your oh so willing cunt.

Whining on top of him, juices flowing down his length, coating his tightened balls, your orgasm subsided and you crashed onto his chest, heaving as he, too, came down from filling your cunt up to the brim with his hot seed, before slipping out as he softened.

His gentle hand came up to caress your head, the other taking a hold of your left hand, lifting it carefully to display your wedding ring to the both of you, the 24 Carat gold rock glistened in front of both your eyes, a smile creeping onto your face as it remained a reminder of your dedication to one another no matter.

"This will get you anything you want and more." He admitted, "Just say the word and I’ll go to the ends of the Earth for you, darling."

You peered up at him, your eyes a hazy, fucked out mess, "Will it get me a week alone with my husband?"

Michael smiled, pressing a kiss to your jewelled finger, a boyish giggle leaving his lips before he spoke, "I’d have to check with Quincy—“

"That’s so not funny."

requests are open!

you two are in the dressing room during a break from filming the Blood On The Dane Floor music video. it was painfully obvious that you two wanted to fuck while in the midst of the recording. he’s sitting down in those red , leather pants that just hug his thighs so deliciously, and you’re riding one of them. his big hands holding your hips to support you. you couldn’t help but get even more horny at the sight of him , the slightly unbuttoned blouse, the fishtail braid that made him look so hot , and the slightest coat of sweat on his neck from dancing so much.

he’s whispering the most sexiest things you could possibly think of into your ear, and kissing you deeply to swallow your moans so nobody outside the door could hear. and when you finally cum, he didn’t give you a break & immediately begins to tug your panties to the side finger you , feeling the cold metal from his rings brush against your clit adding onto the bliss. it didn’t take you long to cum again. michael’s then looked at into dilated eyes with his lustful ones as he slowly put his fingers in his mouth and sucked your juices from them.

it was just in time when the director called everyone back to the set. michael fixes your underwear, cleaned your slick from his pants, and gave you one last kiss before he left the dressing room. now you stood there, alone, wondering how you were going to get through another 5 hours of filming without thinking of him taking you over the vanity..

even more groans, like he’s drowning in it. “fuckin—just fuckin’ ride it, please.”

and you wouldn’t hide your smirk as you continued to drag your hips over him. your hand traveling down to play with his curls, pulling at the back of his head so you can push even further down on his nose: “you're so generous, baby.”

“want you happy,” he’d mumble against you. between harsh kisses to your clit, and sneaking a glance at you, “are you happy?”

you know better than to make him beg when he's glassy-eyed and sensitive.

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You sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, messing with the edge of the glove you wore. A new outfit Michael had bought for you and insisted that you wore.

He was leaving in two days and would be gone for a while, not to mention you were about to go on a press tour for your new movie, and he had been slowly working up your confidence to get you to say yes to making a tape.

A sex tape.

The thought made you blush as you watched him set up the camera, the lens positioned directly at the bed. Your eyes then cautiously trailing to the door— because of course he chose to do this when your family was visiting. Not only that, you two were supposed to go to dinner with them in an hour.

You already felt light headed. Even though it was just you and Michael, you still felt watched. One half of you found it terrifying, the other a little thrilled.

You loved trying new things, especially if he was excited about something.

Thus your current get up of black latex.

Your eyes then flicked down- it was crotchless.

And there you go feeling lightheaded again.

"Okay," Michael muttered, mostly to himself. "I think that's good." He then stepped behind it, checking to see the angle and the grin that stretched his face as he saw you through the monitor was down right fiendish.

“You look beautiful, baby.” He said softly, “I’m gonna start recording now, okay?”

You bit your lip, eyes glancing at the door one last time before you nodded. “Ready.”

That flashing red light started a moment later and you watched in bated breath as Michael lowered his boxers, his lips tilting in amusement at the immediate starstruck look to your gaze.

You barely had time to appreciate the size of his cock when his mouth pressed to yours in a heated kiss, his hands raking along your bare back and you melted against him. His teeth grazed along your bottom lip and opened for him, his wet tongue sliding into your mouth and tracing every inch.

The feel of your breasts pressed against him sent blood all the way down to his already painfully hard cock and he had to hold himself back from grinding into you. Instead he pushed forward, pressing your back down into the sheets. His lips trailed down to your jaw, a hand winding in your hair and he yanked your head to the side to expose your neck, earning a lovely sound from the back of your throat.

Open mouthed, he latched onto your soft skin, sucking and biting lightly, careful not to leave a mark even though he desperately wanted to. That was fine though, he’d mark you a different way.

“We… we need to be quick.” You managed, your fingers burying themselves in his hair.

“Not too quick, I plan to wreck you baby,” he muttered into your skin as his mouth drifted to your collar bones, his free hand coming up to caress and tease your nipples and that made you groan and buck against him, your bare pussy peeking out from the slit in the crotch and sliding against him.

Michael shivered, reeling in his self restraint. “None of that. Keep still.”

Nonetheless, he pushed against you harder and your hips rolled again, causing him to pull on your hair harder and you whimpered, but it only made you more wet. “You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

“All for you, honey.”

He hummed and you yelped as he suddenly hooked a hand under each of your knees and pushed your legs up and out.

You could hear the voices of people passing by down the hall, but you didn’t have time to dwell as Michael lowered his hips and you ground against his length, an electric sort of friction against your clit and you moaned and a groan tore its way up his throat.

His hands dug into your sides and his mouth latched onto your right breast, causing you to arch into him. Your hands came up to hold his head to you, but before you could manage, your wrists were then pinned above you, Michael holding you against the mattress with his hips to yours and he ground into you again. “Don’t try to take control, baby. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“Usually the man finds it hot when the woman takes control.”

“It’s an entertaining thought but I rather like the sight of you writhing beneath me, and I bet you just love it when I do this…” Michael slowly snaked a hand up your throat, his fingers dancing along the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat before his grip slowly tightened.

You could still breathe, but you could feel your pulse thudding violently and you shuddered as he pressed against you again.

“Keep your hands above your head, don’t move them.” He ordered, his voice a caress on your skin and you nodded, eyes heavy as he started to move down your body.

Then his fingers were pulling the latex out of the way, a blissful sigh leaving him as his breath hit your exposed pussy, making you shiver. “God, look at you… your fucking dripping, baby.”

And then his mouth was on you, tongue flattening from the bottom of your opened and dragging up to your clit before he wrapped his lips around it, rolling his tongue in a point and your back arched off the bed. You bit down harshly on your bottom lip, trying to keep your moaning at a minimum and your fingers grasped at the sheets, desperate to reach down into his hair but wanting to do as told.

You felt like your soul was leaving your body as his mouth dragged down, tongue fucking you as his ofher hand came up to play with your clit.

“Michael, please.” Your tone was torn between a moan and a whimper.

“Use your words.”

“I need your fingers—“

He abided immediately, lips dragging back up to your clit while two of his long fingers sunk into you. Dragging and curling up, his pace quick and deep and you threw your head back, feeling euphoric.

You came embarrassingly quickly, the sensation taking you by surprise but then he kept going— his other hand pressing low on your abdomen while he fucking you with his fingers and his tongue flattened on your clit.

“Michael, I feel… what—“

“Come for me, babygirl. I know you can do it again.”

He pressed down on your pelvis just a bit more and you came again, liquid squirting out of you and all over his face and fuck… he looked so pleased.

“Such a good girl for me,” he praised, bringing up his hand to suck his fingers clean as he then settled his hips against yours.

You bit your lip, your gaze becoming even more hungry as you took him in. Like everything else about him, his cock was an impressive length, thick, and the tip flushed as pre-come leaked out.

Brushing his hips forward, the head of his cock slid through your folds and rubbed against your clit, causing a buzzing moan to leave your lips and you rolled her hips forward, desperate for more but his hand danced back up to your throat and tightened. “None of that,” he warned, his dark eyes nearly looked feral as he glanced down at your dripping and awaiting cunt.

Slowly, he began to enter you, not taking his eyes off the way you stretched around him as he sank in.

“Fuck ,” you hissed, throwing your head back against the bed and you felt dizzy with your lower lack of air supply, his hand warm and firm around your neck.

A groan rumbled in the back of his throat, you were so tight but he didn’t stop pushing in until he was at the hilt. Then slowly pulling out, you clenched around him and he bit into your shoulder to bite back his own moan.

Michael’s thrusts were slow and steady, in no hurry and every few seconds his grip on your throat would loosen before tightening again. He rolled his hips forward, stretching you out and his pelvis created friction against your clit and you moaned loudly, momentarily not caring who heard you but his mouth swallowed the sound as he kissed you, wet and opened mouth.

Picking up his pace, his thrusts rammed into you, rocking the bed frame into the wall and the wood groaned in protest.

You continued to moan and whimper into his mouth, your arms tingling and begging to hold onto him. Michael must’ve read your body language and he pulled back, “rest them on my shoulders.”

They fell immediately, your nails digging into his shoulders and your eyes watered as you were temporarily deprived of air.

“You feel so good, baby.”

He shifted the angle of his hips, dragging himself in deep to the point where he hit your cervix. It was painful and wonderful and maddeningly delicious all at once.

Michael tilted his hips forwards and ground into you, his pelvis creating a slippery friction against your clit, then as he pulled out the the head of his cock dragged against that sweet spot and for fuck’s sake you practically screamed.

“Fuck! Do that again, please, oh my-”

Michael clamped a hand over your mouth, not being able to help it as he laughed and he didn’t stop his rough thrusts—

There was suddenly a knock on the door.

“Sweetheart, we’re gonna leave for dinner in about half an hour.” Your dad called through the door. “You okay? Or still getting ready?”

Michael’s cock continued to drag against your inner walls, slamming into you, his grip on your throat tight and tears slipped down your cheeks. He looked at you pointedly before removing his hand from your mouth, instead burying it in your hair as his mouth latched onto your neck.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. I’m still getting ready… fuck-” Michael bit into your neck. “My hair won’t cooperate.” You bit down on your lip so hard to stop yourself from screaming again as his hand left your hair and dragged down to rub tight circles into your clit.

“Do you want your mom to come help?”

“Fuck no,” your voice was breathless and you cleared your throat the best you could, “I’m sorry, I think she’ll stress me out more. I’m okay… God, I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” Your dad walked away and Michael nearly laughed but it turned into a moan of his own as you clenched painfully hard around him. You were close.

“Did that excite you, baby? Nearly getting caught while I fuck you?”

You whimpered, your nails biting into his shoulders painfully and he took in the tears that were streaming down your cheeks, how your chest was heaving, how he stretched you out and how your clit was swollen.

“Come for me, come all over my cock, baby. I want the whole fucking house to hear you.”

The head of his cock rammed into that spot again and he rubbed another circle into your clit and you came with a hard cry, the sensation felt like you just shattered from being struck by lightning.

Michael didn’t stop, but he shuddered violently as you clamped around him.

His rough pace slipped into something erratic, fucking you harshly and the bed slammed hard into the wall, rocking violently on its legs and your heels dug into his lower back, pushing him in deeper.

“Fuck,” he panted, you were trembling and your skin was flushed, his pelvis grinding into your oversensitive clit and you clenched again.

“Just like that baby,” his grip on your throat tightened to the point where it hurt and you genuinely couldn’t breathe.

“Michael!” you cried out, your voice a rasp and laced in pain and arousal.

His whole body shuddered as he came with a deep moan tearing up his throat, his come filling you up, spurting and hot and you felt full.

Michael had never finished inside of you before.

You weren't on any contraceptives, but the thought was lost in the shadows of your subconscious as Michael rode out his high before pulling out, sighing as he watched how his cum mixed with your pooled between her pussy and dripped between your thighs. He ran a finger through it and you whimpered.

Michael lifted his hand to your lips, his eyes burned as he looked at you, “open.”

Doing as told, you parted your lips and his finger slid against your tongue, which you then took to swirling it around the digit and sucked on it.

He could only long to have those pretty lips of yours wrapped around him, but he knew they didn’t have the time before dinner.

You let go of his fingers with a pop and immediately after his mouth pressed to yours, though this time much more gentle and he slowly lowered your legs and rubbed circles into your thighs through the latex.

“You did so good for me,” he muttered and your hands buried in his hair and pulled him closer, your lips molding together.

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It was seven in the morning and you had only just forced yourself up to make a cup of coffee after the London premiere for your movie when the phone rang. Your tired eyes blinked at it, confused as to why it would be doing such an offensive thing at this hour.

You picked it up on the last ring, voice rough around the edges with sleep, “hello?”

“Baby? Did I wake you?”

Your sleepiness waned a little bit at the sound of Michael’s voice. “No, I got up a few minutes ago. You okay? Isn’t it like two—“

“Have you turned on the tv or read the paper at all?”

As your grogginess faded, you started to pick up on the edge to his voice.

Your brows furrowed. “No? Why?”

He sighed. “Baby, I’m really sorry. Really. I don’t know how it happened, someone must’ve gone through my things. I’m gonna have to have Bill do a screening on everybody and—“

“Michael, slow down.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What happened?”

The other end of the line was dead silent and you gnawed at your lip, dress suddenly pooling low in your stomach.

“…No.”

“I’m really sorry.”

Your knuckles tightened on the phone and your teeth sank into your bottom lip before you threw your head back— “Fuck!”

You slumped against the wall, not having the faintest idea on what to do with yourself.

“I mean,” Michael started, tone cautious, “on the bright side, you looked great—“

“Michael, do not finish that sentence.”

You lowered the phone and stared up at the ceiling. Mind reeling because of course this had to happen. Your manager was going to kill you and you dreaded the phone call you’d undoubtedly get within the next hour.

Your gaze then flicked down to the kitchen counter, breath hitching because you had completely forgotten you’d taken a test last night. Two, actually. Just in case.

“Michael,” you started slowly, staring at the two pink plus signs.

“Yeah, baby?”

“How quickly can you get a flight to London?”

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michael jackson masterlist

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