DOLLĒ

as you roll your hips forward, pressing your cunt right against his throbbing cock, a low groan escapes his throat. his large hands immediately lock onto your hips, pulling you flush against him and guiding your rhythm while you melt into each other's mouths. the intense friction drives him so crazy that before long, he's already leaking straight through the thin fabric of his boxers.

when your hands reach for his waistband to pull them off, he catches your wrists, stopping you with a breathless, raspy "no... not yet."

instead, his hands slide down to your shoulders, gently guiding you down to your knees between his legs. looking up at him, you press your lips right against the warm, damp cotton, tasting him through the cloth. he gasps, his fingers instantly tangling into your hair to hold your head tight against him as you lick and suck at his tip right through his underwear.

—CAN YOU STAND THE RAIN? | M. JACKSON

—70s era

—mike will do anything for his girl! even if it means carrying her in the pouring rain (fluff, suggestive)

The grandfather clock in your family’s downstairs hallway strikes midnight. The heavy, resonant bass of the chime bleeds through the thick wooden door of your bedroom, sounding like a warning. You freeze instantly, your back pressing flat against your mattress, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You wait. Five seconds. Ten. You count the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, listening intently for the floorboards outside your room to groan, or for the low, rhythmic snoring of your parents down the hall to break.

Nothing happens. The house remains dead silent.

Slowly, you let out the shaky breath you’ve been holding. You slide out from under the heavy quilt, already dressed in a simple cotton top and a pair of denim shorts, your sneakers already tied tight. You move across the dark room on your tiptoes, carefully avoiding the one spot near the closet that always creaks. When you reach the window, your fingers are trembling, but you push the glass up centimeter by centimeter, praying the frame won't screech.

The moment the window glides open, the cool, crisp night air hits your face. It carries the sharp, heavy scent of damp earth, the unmistakable warning of a late summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. But a little weather isn't going to keep you inside tonight.

Climbing out onto the sturdiest branch of the old oak tree outside your window is a routine you’ve perfected over the last few months. You shimmy down the rough bark, your sneakers hitting the grass with a faint, muffled thud.

The streets of the neighborhood are completely abandoned, illuminated only by the fuzzy, amber glow of the occasional streetlamp. You keep to the shadows, the cool wind whipping through your hair as your pace quickens from a fast walk to a frantic, excited jog. Your chest rises and falls with a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer anticipation.

You and Michael had planned this hours ago over a hurried, whispered phone call, his voice crackling through the telephone receiver as he promised he’d meet you at the old playground the exact moment the clock struck twelve.

As the dark, iron outline of the park’s chain-link fence comes into view, your eyes scan the gloom. And then, your heart leaps.

Michael is already there. He is a silhouette of pure 70s cool beneath the silver glow of the moon, leaning against the tall metal frame of the swing set. He’s wearing a soft, vintage ringer tee that clings to his lean frame, frayed denim flares, his afro catches the moonlight like a halo. He looks so effortlessly handsome it makes your stomach do a dizzying flip. The moment your sneakers crunch against the gravel of the playground, his head snaps up.

That bright, blinding smile of his splits across his face, instantly cutting through the midnight gloom and melting every ounce of your anxiety.

"You actually made it," Michael laughs softly, his voice a sweet, melodic whisper that seems to vibrate in the quiet night air. He takes a seat on one of the rubber swing seats, his long legs stretching out as he gently pushes himself back and forth. "Oh boy, I was starting to think you got caught, Mama."

"And miss this?" you whisper back, your chest heaving as you jog across the woodchips toward him.

The playground is entirely yours, an isolated kingdom of shadows and silver light. As you reach him, the temptation to be close to him overrides any sense of caution. With a mischievous grin, you move forward and try to clamber right onto his lap while the swing is still gently swaying.

The heavy metal chains groan loudly in protest. The swing wobbles violently sideways, and you both immediately devolve into a chaotic mess of flailing limbs, tangled elbows, and breathless, suppressed laughter.

"Dude, hold on! Stop, stop—we’re gonna break the swing!" Michael gasps, a high-pitched, giggly wheeze escaping his throat. His long arms wrap securely around your waist, his large hands anchoring you to keep you both from falling face first into the dirt.

It’s so awkward at first. Your knees digging into his thighs, your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and you’re both shifting and squirming, trying to find a center of gravity on a seat meant for one person. But Michael’s laughing so hard his entire chest is heaving against yours, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that beautiful, familiar way.

"Okay, okay, I think we got it," he whispers, his breath warm and sweet against your cheek as you finally settle into his lap.

Michael plants his sneakers firmly in the dirt, pulls back until the chains tauten, and then pushes off with all his might. The swing lifts, and suddenly you’re soaring through the night air together. The cool wind rushes past your ears, lifting your hair and carrying the sound of your shared, childish gigiggles into the dark. It’s pure, silly, unadulterated bliss—two young adults playing like kids in the dead of night.

But as the momentum naturally begins to slow, the playful energy in the air starts to thicken.

The wind dies down. The swing grounds to a crawl, and the silence of the night rushes back in. Michael’s sneakers drag heavily into the dirt, stopping the motion completely. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of how close your faces are. The silly, giggly boy vanishes in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, electric heat that makes your breath catch in your throat.

His breathing turns shallow, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. Michael's large, warm hands slide down from your waist, his long fingers gripping your hips securely, anchoring your body against his. His gaze drops, locking onto your lips with an intensity that burns.

When his lips meet yours, the innocence of the playground is entirely scorched away.

The kiss is heavy, needy, and desperate, fueled by the thrill of the midnight air and the intoxicating danger of being caught. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the soft, springy curls of his afro. Michael groans softly against your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your lips. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you flush against his lap.

The friction of your bodies, the rhythmic, heavy grinding into each other on the cramped swing seat sends a jolt of pure fire straight down your spine. It isn't subtle anymore. It's desperate and hungry. Your hearts are hammering frantically against each other's ribs, both of you breathless, dizzy, and consumed by a heavy, needy passion you’ve never allowed yourselves to explore until this exact moment.

Then, a cool, sharp drop hits your bare shoulder. Then another.

You pull apart, both of you panting heavily, your lips swollen and wet. "Is it... raining?" you whisper, blinking up at the dark sky.

Michael blinks, his eyes dazed, heavy-lidded, and hooded with desire as he glances up. "Ah, it'll probably pass. Just a little cloud," he murmurs, his voice deep, raspy, and stripped of its usual softness. His hands tighten on your hips again, trying to pull you back down to resume where you left off.

But the sky has other plans.

In a matter of seconds, the gentle drizzle erupts into a violent, roaring summer downpour.

"Oh my god!" you shriek as the freezing rain drenches you both instantly. The water plasters Michael's thin ringer tee to his chest, completely flattening his hair, water streaming down his face in sheets.

"Come on, run!" Michael yells over the deafening roar of the storm, instantly hoisting you off his lap. He grabs your hand, his grip tight and warm despite the freezing water. "My house is closer! I can sneak you in!"

You bolt toward the edge of the park together, laughing hysterically, your eyes blinking rapidly against the blinding sheets of water. But the grass has instantly turned into a slick, treacherous mud pit. Your sneaker slips on a hidden tree root. With a sharp, sickening twist, your ankle gives way beneath you.

A cry of pain escapes your lips, and you tumble hard into the wet grass.

Michael, running a few paces ahead, suddenly realizes your hand has slipped from his. He spins around, but the sudden combination of the pouring rain and a thick, heavy fog rolling across the grass makes it impossible to see a thing.

"Y/N?! Where are you?!" he calls out, a sharp edge of panic piercing through his voice, stripping away his composure.

"Michael! Down here!" you cry out, clutching your throbbing ankle as the cold rain beats down on you.

He materializes through the gray, blurry fog like a ghost, his eyes wide with terror as he drops to his knees in the mud right beside you. He doesn't care about his clothes or the mud soaking through his jeans. "Are you okay? What happened? Sweetheart, talk to me."

"My ankle," you gasp, pushing yourself up to try and stand, but the moment you put weight on it, a white-hot flash of pain shoots up your leg. You collapse back into his chest. "It hurts too bad. I don’t think I can walk."

"I got you. Don't worry, I've got you," he says instantly, his voice fierce, deep, and protective. Without a second thought, he turns his back to you and crouches low in the mud. "Get on. Wrap your arms around my neck tight."

You climb onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck, and Michael hoists you up with a grunt of exertion. His powerful legs drive through the mud and slick grass. He runs the rest of the way through the blinding storm, carrying you on his back as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his lungs burning and his chest heaving as he navigates the pitch black streets toward the Jackson home.

When you finally reach his backyard, you are both shivering violently, soaked to the bone and completely miserable from the cold. Michael carefully unlocks the back door, slipping inside with the practiced stealth of someone who knows exactly which floorboards to avoid.

He freezes in the dark kitchen, his eyes scanning the hallway, listening intently over the sound of your loud shivering. The house is completely quiet, but the stakes are incredibly high—if his father Joseph wakes up, or if one of his brothers stirs in a nearby bedroom, you're both dead. Holding his breath, he guides you down the hallway and slips into the sanctuary of the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft, barely audible click.

You sit on the porcelain edge of the bathtub, your teeth chattering so hard they click. The pain in your ankle is duller now, replaced by the sheer, biting cold of your drenched clothes.

"I'm freezing," you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Can... can I take a shower to warm up?"

"Yeah, of course," Michael whispers back immediately, his voice filled with concern as he reaches into the shower to turn on the hot faucet. "I'll go grab you a dry towel from the hall closet, and I'll wait out in the bedroom—"

"Michael," you interrupt softly, reaching out to catch the hem of his soaked shirt. "Take it with me."

Michael freezes dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly, his dark eyes widening to the size of saucers. A deep, dark flush instantly creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks a brilliant, burning red under the dim bathroom light.

You’ve been dating for a while, but you’ve never done anything truly sexual, never even seen each other naked. The innocence of your relationship has always been fiercely guarded, making this moment feel incredibly heavy with vulnerability. A sudden wave of shyness washes over you, but you keep your gaze steady on his.

"Y-you mean... together?" he stammered, his voice cracking noticeably as he swallows hard. "Like, both of us? In there?"

You look up at him, your eyes pleading as you squeeze his trembling hand. "Please. I just want you with me."

The anxiety and shock in his eyes melt away, replaced by a wave of profound, protective tenderness. "Are you sure?" he whispers, searching your face. When you nod, he takes a slow, steadying breath. "Okay. Okay, let me help you."

With extreme reverence and trembling fingers, Michael steps closer. He reaches down, his hands shaky but incredibly gentle as he helps you peel away your soaked, muddy clothes. He keeps his eyes firmly locked onto your face, a beautiful show of modesty, giving you whatever privacy he can even as his gaze burns with a raw, undeniable attraction.

When it’s time for his clothes to come off, you reach out with shivering hands, helping him pull the heavy, wet cotton of his shirt over his head.

There is a breathless, sacred pause as you stand before each other completely bare for the very first time. The thick steam from the shower cascades over you both, cloaking you in warmth. Michael looks at you with pure, unadulterated awe, a soft, reverent gasp escaping his lips as his eyes map your frame, looking at you like you are the only beautiful thing left in the world. There is no judgment in his eyes, no objectification—only a deep, consuming adoration.

Michael steps into the warm spray first, then reaches out his long arms to gently guide you in. The moment your foot touches the wet tile, you wince, unable to balance on your hurt ankle.

"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, stepping in close.

He wraps one strong, muscular arm securely around your waist, pulling your front flush against his chest so you can rest your weight entirely on him. The feeling of his bare, warm skin pressed against yours, combined with the hot water rushing over your shoulders, makes your heart race a mile a minute.

He reaches for the bar of soap, lathering it between his washcloth until it was covered in thick, warm suds. Then, with absolute gentleness, he begins to wash your body.

There are no urgent, lustful undertones here. His touch is slow, careful, and filled with a profound, consuming love. He washes the dirt and mud from your shoulders, strokes down your back, and mindfully avoids putting any pressure on your swollen leg. He treats you like something incredibly fragile, something sacred that he has been trusted to protect.

Tears of pure warmth prick your eyes. You lean up on your good foot, pressing a sweet, lingering, deeply grateful kiss onto his wet lips. "Thank you, Mikey," you breathe against his mouth.

Michael smiles, that soft, dimpled look returning to his face as he kisses your forehead. "Always."

You lather your own washcloth and begin to wash his shoulders, mapping the smooth, elegant line of his collarbones and running your fingers through the damp, softened curls of his hair. The mutual trust between you feels unbreakable, solidifying into something far deeper than anything you’ve ever shared before.

Once you are both thoroughly clean and warmed to the bone, Michael turns off the water. The bathroom is a haven of thick, heavy steam. He steps out first, grabbing a large, fluffy towel and wrapping it securely around you. Before you can even attempt to step out, he hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you into his arms once more.

He carries you across the dark hall, slipping into the dark sanctuary of his bedroom and closing the door with his foot.

He gently sets you down in the center of his mattress, leaving for a brief moment to rummage through his dresser. When he returns, he carries one of his oversized, incredibly soft vintage t-shirts. He sits beside you, carefully helping you slide your arms through the sleeves and pulling it over your head. It swallows you whole, cascading down to your thighs and smelling perfectly of his sweet cologne and cedarwood. After throwing on a pair of dry sweatpants himself, Michael moves to the foot of the bed.

"Let me look at that ankle," he whispers, his voice low and serious in the dark.

He gently lifts your swollen leg, resting your foot in his lap. His large thumbs begin to massage the skin around the joint with incredible, practiced tenderness, his face pulled into a tight frown of focused concern. "Does it hurt right here?"

"A little," you murmur, leaning back against his pillows.

Michael leans down, his afro brushing against your shin as he presses a soft, lingering kiss right to the side of your swollen ankle. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, a soft, dimpled smile playing on his lips. "To make it feel better."

Your heart melts completely.

He climbs under the heavy, thick blankets beside you, instantly opening his arms. You slide into his embrace, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he pulls the covers up to your chin. Outside, the summer storm continues to rage, the rain beating furiously against the windowpane—a chaotic, violent contrast to the perfect, absolute peace inside his room.

You lay together in the dark, your limbs tangled, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

"We really almost broke that swing, didn't we?" Michael whispers into the dark, a sudden, quiet giggle vibrating in his chest.

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "We definitely did. You're a dork, Michael Jackson."

"Yeah, but I'm your dork," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you, pulling you as close as humanly possible. He plants one last, sacred kiss onto the crown of your head, his voice drifting off into the cozy warmth of the room. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whisper back, closing your eyes as the rhythm of his breathing safely guides you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.

If you had one wish, it wouldn’t be a grammy, or to be famous. It wouldn’t even be to have a million dollars.

You’d wish for another fan.

But the summer of 2004 was officially personal enemies with you.

Being seven months pregnant in the dead of a California heatwave was a special kind of purgatory. Your ankles were swollen, your skin felt two sizes too small, and the air inside the house was so thick you could practically chew on it. To make matters worse, the HVAC system at the ranch had chosen today—a blistering, triple-digit Saturday—to completely give up the ghost.

You were currently sprawled on the living room rug, a cold, damp washcloth draped over your forehead, only wearing underwear and a t-shirt that barely covered your round tummy, feeling like a stranded whale.

"Daddy! Prince won't let the fan turn this way!" Paris’s indignant six-year-old voice echoed across the room.

"I’m just trying to keep the baby warm!" seven-year-old Prince fired back with absolute, unflinching older-brother authority, pointing to the plastic box fan sitting on the coffee table. "Blanket is small, he needs it more!"

Right on cue, two-year-old Blanket was sitting a foot away from the fan, blissfully clutching his favorite toy, entirely oblivious to the sibling warfare raging above his head.

"Nobody needs to be warm today, Prince, I promise you" Michael sighed, his voice laced with that familiar, gentle exhaustion.

You cracked one eye open from under your washcloth. Michael was sitting on the floor a few feet away from you, looking equally defeated by the elements. He had his signature black curls pulled back into a messy, loose bun, a few damp tendrils sticking to his neck. He was wearing a loose, unbuttoned red short-sleeve shirt over a white tank top, the fabric clinging to his chest. Even in a crisis, the man looked effortlessly beautiful, which you found deeply unfair given that you felt and looked like a melted popsicle.

"Michael," you groaned, your voice a pathetic whimper. "Michael, I’m upset. Officially. With every last bit of energy I have left."

Michael immediately shifted, shuffling over on his knees until he was hovering over you. His dark eyes were full of soft, worried affection as he looked down at your swollen belly. "What’s wrong, beautiful? Is the baby kicking? Do you need water?"

"I need an industrial-grade wind tunnel," you muttered, pulling the washcloth off your face to glare at him. "You are a multi-millionaire. A global icon. Why do we only own one functioning box fan? Why are we surviving like we're in a frontier cabin?"

Michael let out a soft, breathless laugh, his shoulders shaking. "Because the central air has never broken down before, my love! I didn't plan for the apocalypse."

"Well, plan for it now," you wheezed, placing a hand over your bump. "Because your unborn child is currently baking like a loaf of sourdough bread. Buy ten fans. Buy fifty. Go to Sears and buy the whole store, Michael, I’m not joking."

"Okay, okay, I’ll have someone run out and get more," he promised soothingly. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. His hand felt incredibly cool against your burning skin, and you instinctively leaned into his touch.

Seeing an opportunity, Paris grabbed the box fan and aggressively angled it directly toward you. "There! It goes to Mama and the baby!"

"Hey!" Prince protested.

"Thank you, Paris," you sighed as the stream of lukewarm air hit your face. It wasn't freezing, but it was heaven.

Michael smiled, his heart melting at how protective the kids were being. He carefully crawled closer, settling his frame onto the floor right next to you. Despite the unbearable heat, he couldn't help himself—he slid an arm under your waist and pulled your back against his chest.

"Baby, no," you whined, though you didn't actually pull away. "It’s too hot. We might fuse together."

"Just for a second," he whispered into your ear, his warm breath tickling your neck. He wrapped his other hand completely over your pregnant belly, his palm resting against the fabric of your maternity shirt. "Let me feel my baby."

As if on cue, the baby gave a sharp, hard kick right against Michael’s palm.

Michael gasped, a bright, radiant smile breaking across his face. "Oh! Did you feel that? He’s mad at the heat too."

"Or she is telling her daddy to go buy an air conditioner," you grumbled, but the tension left your body as you melted back into him. Even though his skin was warm, his presence was instantly grounding. He began tracing slow, lazy circles over your bump, his touch light and comforting.

"Group hug!" Paris cheered.

Before you could warn them about the thermal mass of five human bodies in a closed room, Paris scrambled over, plop-ping down right by your legs and resting her head against your knee. Prince dragged Blanket over by his hands, sitting down right in front of you and Michael, effectively creating a human fortress around the box fan. Blanket immediately leaned his little head against your stomach, murmuring a quiet, sleepy sound.

"See?" Michael murmured, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as he looked at the beautiful, chaotic family you had built together. He tightened his arms around you and the baby, his voice dropping into that sweet, private register meant only for you. "We have the fan blasting right at us, the kids are happy, and we're altogether. It’s not so bad."

You looked at Prince and Paris bickering in whispers over who got to hold Blanket’s hand, felt the steady, loving heartbeat of the man holding you, and felt the little kick of life inside you.

You let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes as the fan blew over the five—soon to be six—of you.

"It’s fine," you whispered, reaching back to tangle your fingers in Michael's. "But you're still buying those fans tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Michael agreed, kissing your cheek softly. "I promise."

preotw era!

context : michael’s 21st birthday surprise at the strip club leads to his discovery of dominance he never knew he possessed.

wc: 3.8k

The heavy bass from the jukebox didn't just play; it rattled the cheap wood panelling of the Cadillac’s dashboard, vibrating straight through the soles of Michael’s loafers.

Michael pressed himself deeper into the corner of the backseat, pulling the brim of his oversized hat down until it practically scraped the bridge of his aviator sunglasses. He felt like a fugitive, suffocated by the heat of an August night and the overpowering scent of his brothers' expensive colognes. They were miles outside of Los Angeles, deep in a part of town where the streetlights were spaced too far apart, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. The neon signs of the passing businesses buzzed with a tired, flickering wheeze, painting the interior of the car in brief flashes of sickly green and hot pink.

"Man, Mike, straighten up," Marlon laughed from the front seat, turning around in the smooth leather chair to slap Michael’s knee. "You look like you're heading to an execution. Relax your shoulders, man! You twenty-one today. The big two-one! Ain't no more boys in this car."

"I am relaxed," Michael murmured. His voice was a soft, breathy whisper, almost completely swallowed by the heavy rumble of the engine and the thick funk music pouring from the speakers. He reached up with two fingers, nervously adjusting the stiff collar of his button-down shirt. "I just don't see why we had to drive all the way out here. We could’ve just stayed at the house. Mother made a chocolate cake, and we could've rehearsed that new bridge for the track—"

Jermaine snorted from the driver’s seat, steering the big Caddy with one hand as he turned into a gravel parking lot. The stones crunched loudly under the heavy tires, kicking up dust that coated the bottom of the billboard for The Velvet Lounge. "A cake? Mike, you a grown man now. Joseph can’t say nothing to you about where you spend your nights or whose hand you holding. It’s time you see how the real world lives. Get some grit in your teeth. You can't be singing about love and passion if you spend your whole life locked in a studio or watching cartoons."

"I got grit," Michael mumbled, though his heart was doing a frantic, irregular tap-dance against his ribs.

The parking lot was packed tight with old Buicks, lowered Chevys, and a row of gleaming choppers. A broad-shouldered man in a leather vest stood by the front door of the club, his arms crossed over a massive chest, nodding lazily to people as they slid past him. The thick scent of fried catfish, spilled gin, and stale menthol cigarettes drifted through the air the moment Jermaine cut the ignition, invading the cool sanctuary of the air-conditioned car.

"Look," Jackie said, leaning over from the passenger side to look at Michael through the rearview mirror. "We ain't tryna embarrass you, Brother. But you spend all your time around managers, lawyers, and screaming little girls. Tonight, we just regular guys. No cameras, no press, no Jackson 5. Just music, drinks, and some fine Black women. Now get your tail out the car. Move it."

Michael hesitated, his slender fingers lingering on the chrome door handle. He loved his brothers, but their energy tonight was loud, boisterous, and entirely predatory. They wanted to see him sweat. They liked that he was the sheltered one, the pure one, the one who still blushed and looked at his shoes whenever a woman got too close or spoke too low.

He took a deep, shaky breath, adjusted his jacket, and stepped out into the heavy, humid night air, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

Inside, The Velvet Lounge was a sprawling sea of deep red velvet, dark corners, and thick, hazy smoke that caught the colorful beams of light cutting through the room. The air was thick, heavy with the moisture of human bodies, liquor, and perfume. A long horseshoe bar took up the center of the room, lined with men in sharp leather jackets and women with high-combed afros and glittering jewelry. At the far end, a small, circular stage rose above the floor, illuminated by a single, crimson spotlight. A long, polished brass pole stretched from the center of the platform all the way to the mirrored ceiling, reflecting the dim, sexy glow of the room.

"Now this is what I’m talking about," Tito chuckled, rubbing his palms together as a waitress in a high-cut black bodysuit guided them to a booth right against the edge of the stage.

Michael sat down quickly, sliding his slender frame into the deepest corner of the booth, hoping the shadows would swallow him whole. He kept his aviators firmly on, his large, dark eyes darting around nervously behind the dark lenses. He felt completely out of his depth. The men around the bar were laughing loudly, slamming wooden dominoes onto tables with a loud clack, shouting over the music while naked women leaned against their shoulders.

"Get the birthday boy a double of whatever he wants," Marlon told the waitress, flashing a blinding, charming smile.

"Just a Shirley Temple, please. Extra cherries," Michael said quickly, his voice cracking just a bit as he leaned forward.

His brothers burst out laughing, shaking their heads and slapping the table. "A Shirley Temple! Man, you a trip," Jackie laughed, throwing his arm over the back of the booth. "We gotta do some serious work on you, Mike. Seriously. Twenty-one and you still drinking sugar water."

Michael just smiled weakly, his hands tucked safely between his knees, pulling his head down. He just had to survive a few hours. That’s all. Just a few hours of the music and the noise, and then he could go back to his safe, quiet room, his sketchbooks, and his melodies.

The DJ’s voice suddenly cut through the chatter, booming through a pair of large, slightly blown-out speakers that made the bass distort with a gritty, raw edge.

"Alright, y'all. Stop what you doing and lock your eyes on the main stage. We got the baddest girl in the state coming out to show you what a real woman look like. She don't need no introduction, but when she make you weak, don't say I didn't warn you... give it up for Giggles!"

The crowd erupted into a roar. Men started whistling through their fingers, banging their liquor glasses against the wooden tables until the ice rattled. The jukebox switched off, and a heavy, slow, incredibly filthy bassline started pouring out of the speakers. It was a deep, unhurried funk groove—something with a rhythm so thick and heavy you could feel it vibrating in your teeth and settling deep in your gut.

Michael, being a dancer down to his very bones, instinctively caught the time. *One, two, three, four.* His foot gave a tiny, almost invisible tap against the floor, his mind automatically breaking down the cadence of the drums.

Then, you stepped onto the stage.

Michael’s breath caught completely in his throat. You were wearing a shimmering, beaded gold outfit that barely covered your curves, catching every drop of the crimson spotlight and throwing tiny glints of fire across the dark room. Your hair was styled in beautiful, soft curls that framed a face that looked entirely too sweet, too regal for a place like this. But it wasn't just how you looked—it was the raw, heavy sensuality of how you moved.

The moment your heeled feet touched the worn wood of the stage, a fierce, commanding confidence took over your body. You walked up to the pole, wrapping one hand high above your head, and with an effortless, gravity-defying pull that required immense, terrifying strength, you hoisted your entire body up.

Michael’s jaw literally dropped. His sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but he didn't even think to push them back up. His large, expressive eyes were wide, taking in every single detail. He was a perfectionist when it came to choreography, and what he was watching right now wasn't just stripping—it was a masterclass in rhythm, control, and raw, carnal power.

You spun upside down around the brass pole, your legs extending into a perfect, flawless split, your core holding your body entirely rigid against the metal as you slowly slid downward, inch by inch, keeping perfect time with the dirty bassline. The movement was incredibly sexual, your hips rolling in slow, hypnotic circles that drove the crowd insane. When you dropped down, catching yourself just inches from the stage floor with a soft, cat-like arch of your back, your breasts heavy against the beaded fabric, the entire club went into an absolute frenzy.

"Lord have mercy!" Marlon yelled, slamming a handful of dollar bills onto the edge of the stage. "Gon 'head, girl! Shake it then!"

Money was flying through the air like confetti, green bills landing on your skin, sticking to the light sheen of sweat that made your dark skin gleam under the red light. Men were leaning over the barrier, shouting, completely hypnotized by the fluid, aggressive grace of your body.

But Michael couldn't make a sound. He was totally transfixed, a heavy, unfamiliar heat blooming deep in his lower stomach. He watched the way your thigh muscles rippled, the absolute dominance oozing from your pores, the way you looked down at the screaming men like they were completely at your mercy. You looked like a goddess. Powerful. Invincible. Sexy beyond anything he had ever witnessed in his life.

As you spun around the pole one last time, arching your spine until your head almost touched the floor, your eyes swept across the front booths. For a split second, your gaze landed right on Michael. Even under his hat, his big, wide eyes were staring up at you with a mixture of raw lust and pure, unadulterated reverence.

You didn't break character, giving him a slow, teasing smirk, your hips giving one last, heavy roll right in his direction before the music faded out and you strutted off into the back, leaving the room vibrating with energy.

"Hey," Jermaine leaned over, nudging Michael so hard in the ribs he almost knocked his Shirley Temple over. "Mike. Look at him, y'all. Mike is hooked! Look at his eyes, they about to pop out his head!"

"Man, his tongue is hanging out on the floor," Tito joked, slapping Marlon’s hand. "Lil' Bro ain’t ever seen a woman move like that in his whole life."

Michael felt his face burning hot, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. He quickly pulled his hat down, trying to look away, but his eyes kept darting toward the black velvet curtain where you had just disappeared. "I-I was just watching the dancing. She’s... she’s got really good rhythm. Her center of gravity is incredible. The control in her core is..."

"Rhythm? Center of gravity?" Marlon scoffed, standing up and pulling a thick, heavy wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. "Man, you don't look at a girl like that for her rhythm. Hold on. I’m gonna fix this right now. It’s time you get a real birthday present."

"Marlon, no! Don't!" Michael pleaded, his voice rising in an anxious panic. He reached out to grab his brother's leather jacket, but Marlon was already waving over the floor manager, a big guy with a gold tooth and a silk shirt.

Michael watched in absolute horror as Marlon whispered something to the manager, pointing right back at Michael’s corner. Marlon shoved a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills into the man's hand. The manager looked over, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he recognized the famous Jackson features despite the hat and glasses. He nodded quickly, grinning, and pointed toward a row of dim, heavy doors at the back of the hallway.

Marlon walked back to the booth, a triumphant, wicked grin on his face. He grabbed Michael by the upper arm, hoisting him out of the booth with ease.

"W-What are you doing? Let me go, Marlon, I mean it," Michael stammered, his limbs going weak and shaky with anxiety.

"Your birthday present is waiting in the back room," Marlon said, guiding him firmly through the crowd, his large hand on Michael’s shoulder so he couldn't bolt. "Thirty minutes. Private. Just you and Giggles. And don't you dare come out early, or we gonna tease you until you thirty-one."

"Jermaine! Jackie! Help me!" Michael hissed, looking back over his shoulder. But his brothers were just laughing, raising their glasses to him as he was marched down the hall.

Before he could fight it, the manager opened a heavy oak door marked VIP, and Marlon gave Michael a firm, unyielding shove forward.

The door clicked shut behind him, locking with a heavy, definitive thud that cut off the roaring sound of the club.

The room was small, suffocatingly intimate, lit only by a low lit amber lamp in the corner that cast long, golden shadows over the walls. It smelled faintly of sweet vanilla, heavy baby oil, and an expensive, musky perfume that immediately filled Michael’s nose, making his head spin. A plush, circular red leather couch sat against the far wall, facing a clear space of dark carpet where a second, private polished brass pole stretched to the ceiling.

Michael stood completely frozen by the door, his back pressed against the wood. His heart was hammering so loudly, so violently against his ribs, he was certain it was echoing in the quiet room. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He wanted to turn around, knock on the door, and beg Marlon to let him out, but the thought of the relentless mockery kept his hand from moving.

He took off his corduroy cap, holding it nervously in both hands like a shield over his chest, and sat down on the absolute edge of the leather couch, his knees pressed tight together. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for the thirty minutes to pass instantly.

A few seconds later, a door in the back of the room clicked open.

Michael snapped his eyes open, his posture going entirely rigid. You stepped into the room.

The beaded, glittering gold stage outfit was gone, replaced by a simple, oversized white silk robe tied loosely around your waist. Your feet were bare, your toes sinking into the carpet. Michael braced himself, his muscles tensing as he expected the fierce, dominating woman who had just conquered the stage to come marching over, to throw herself into his lap and dominate him. He prepared to hide his face and apologize for his brothers' behavior.

But the woman who walked in didn't look fierce at all.

As soon as the door closed behind you, your shoulders dropped, the heavy tension leaving your frame. You let out a long, heavy, trembling breath, looking suddenly very small, very soft. You didn't look at him with a predatory smirk; instead, you kept your eyes glued to the carpet, your slender fingers nervously fiddling with the silk belt of your robe.

"Um... hey," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper, completely different from the booming music outside—it was sweet, hesitant, and laced with a gentle, everyday warmth.

Michael blinked, totally thrown off balance. "H-Hey," he managed to squeak out, his voice cracking.

You finally looked up, your eyes wide and a little anxious as you glanced at him. Because the room was so dim, and because he was sitting there without his glasses, looking so small and holding his hat like a shield, you didn't see a legendary pop star. You just saw a young, incredibly handsome Black guy who looked like he was about to pass out from sheer terror.

A soft, high-pitched giggle escaped your lips, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand, your cheeks turning a dark, beautiful shade of pink. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your shoulders shaking a little. "I giggle when I get nervous. You just... you look so scared."

Michael felt a strange, sudden shift in the air. The absolute terror he felt a second ago began to melt, replaced by a profound curiosity. He let his hat drop slightly. "I'm... I'm not scared," he said, though his soft voice betrayed him. He cleared his throat, trying to sound a bit more mature, though his fingers still twitched. "I'm sorry about them. Those are my brothers out there. They... they think they're being funny. They paid the man because... well, it's my birthday today."

A soft, genuine smile broke across your face, completely transforming your features. The dominating stage persona was totally gone. Standing here, you were surprisingly submissive, your posture slightly curved inward, waiting for his permission just to exist in the space with him. You weren't a loud, outgoing girl; you were quiet, reserved, letting him dictate the energy of the room.

"Oh. Well... happy birthday, Mike," you murmured, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "The manager told me your name. I'm... well, they call me Giggles out there, obviously, because I can't keep my mouth shut when I'm stressed. Heh. But my real name is [name]."

"[name]," Michael repeated, his voice dropping into that deep, gentle register he used when he was being completely sincere. He liked the way your name felt on his tongue. He felt a tiny smile tugging at his own lips, his large eyes locked onto yours. "That's a beautiful name. Much better than Giggles. Though... your laugh is very sweet."

You blushed deeply, looking down at the floor again, your fingers tightening around the silk of your robe. "Thank you. Most guys... they don't care about no names. They just want me to get to it." You paused, looking up through your thick lashes, your demeanor completely deferential, yielding all the power in the room to him. "They paid for a private dance, Mike. 30 minutes VIP. I... I can do that for you, if you want. But if you just want to sit here, or if you want me to just sit quiet on the other side of the room, I can do that too. Whatever you want. You in charge in here."

Michael’s heart skipped a heavy, fluttering beat. You in charge.

Nobody ever told him he was in charge outside of a recording studio. In his family, he was the little brother who needed to be guided. In the world, he was the prodigy handled by massive corporate machines. But looking at you—seeing how gentle, how quiet, and how completely submissive you were the moment the stage lights were gone—he felt a sudden, powerful surge of confidence. You were just like him. A creature of pure, explosive fire when the music played, but a shy, quiet soul when the music stopped.

"Can..." Michael swallowed, his eyes growing darker, heavier as he looked at your form. "Can you dance for me? Just... you don't have to do all the wild stuff from out there. I just want to watch you move in here. Close."

You nodded softly, your breath hitching. "Okay. I can do that for you, Mike."

You walked over to a small cassette player sitting on a wooden shelf in the corner, clicking a button. A slow, instrumental soul track began to play—heavy on a weeping saxophone, smooth, and laced with a late-night, deeply intimate rhythm that filled the small space.

You stood by the private pole in the center of the room, just a few feet away from where he sat on the edge of the couch. For a second, you closed your eyes, letting the slow cadence of the music settle into your hips.

When your fingers reached for the silk tie of your robe, Michael’s grip on his hat tightened until his knuckles went white. Slowly, you parted the silk, letting the robe slide down your shoulders, down your arms, until it pooled in a white circle on the dark carpet. Underneath, you were wearing a simple, soft black bra and matching panties that clung tightly to your hips, emphasizing every soft curve of your dark skin.

You turned to the pole, and though your eyes still held that quiet, submissive glance toward him, your body instinctively knew its art. You wrapped one hand around the brass, your skin gripping the warm metal. With a slow, hypnotic arch of your back, you began to move around the pole.

You slid your body down the length of the metal, your smooth thighs rubbing against the pole as your hips rolled in deep, agonizingly sexy circles. You threw your head back, your afro shaking softly as your spine curved into a wicked, supple arch. The exoticism of your movements was breathtaking; you hooked one leg over the brass, hoisting yourself up just a few feet before spinning down in a slow, controlled spiral that kept perfect time with the weeping saxophone.

Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his cap completely slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. He didn't even notice. He was totally entranced, his throat dry. He watched the way the amber light licked over the smooth, glistening skin of your stomach as you rolled your torso against the pole, the slow, heavy weight of your movements completely synchronized with the music. You were constantly casting quiet, yielding looks over your shoulder to see if he was pleased, Michael found a raw, masculine confidence he didn't know he possessed. He didn't look away for a single second.

You turned your back to the pole, grabbing it high above your head, and dropped into a slow, deep squat right in front of it. Your round, bare cheeks twitched as you rolled your hips against the base of the brass, giving him an explicit, unobstructed view of your curves. Michael’s breath caught, his eyes widening as he stared at the smooth perfection of your skin, the musky scent of your perfume filling his senses until his head throbbed with desire.

Slowly, you stood up, spinning off the pole, and lowered yourself to your knees right between his parted legs. You rested your hands softly on your own thighs, looking up at him with wide, yielding eyes, your chest rising and falling heavily.

"Is this... is this alright, Mike?" you whispered, a nervous laugh escaping your lips as you looked at how intensely he was staring at you.

Michael didn't answer with words. Slowly, deliberately, he reached his hand out. His slender fingers were trembling just a little bit, but he didn't pull back. He gently rested his palm against the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your high cheekbone. Your skin was warm, incredibly soft, damp with a light sheen of sweat.

"You're beautiful," Michael murmured, his voice thick, dropping into a low, raspy register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "The way you move... it's like magic. You're a wonderful dancer, [name]."

You opened your eyes, looking up at him with a mixture of shock and deep, bubbling warmth. "Thank you, Mike," you whispered, your voice cracking. You reached up, your smaller hand gently wrapping around his wrist, holding his hand tightly against your cheek. "You... you ain't like the other men that come in here. Not at all. You so gentle."

"I don't want to be like them," Michael said softly, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips, and the air between you grew incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy static.

The music on the cassette tape shifted, sliding into a darker, even slower rhythm—a heavy, repetitive drumbeat accompanied by a deep, throbbing bass guitar that sounded like a heartbeat.

You swallowed hard, your eyes locking onto his. The submissive nature in you wanted to please him, wanted to give him everything his brothers had paid for and more. You slowly stood up from your knees, your eyes never leaving his face.

"Can I... can I get closer, Mike?" you asked softly, your voice trembling slightly.

Michael’s throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He just nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the leather couch, his knuckles turning white again. "Yes. Please."

You took a step forward, sliding one leg over his thighs, and slowly lowered your weight onto his lap. Michael let out a soft, ragged gasp as the heat of your skin pressed directly against him. You sat straddling him, your knees resting on either side of his hips on the couch. Because you were shorter, you had to look up slightly, your chest pressing against his button-down shirt with every breath you took.

You placed your hands gently on his broad shoulders, your fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket. Slowly, in time with the deep, throbbing bass, you began to grind your hips against him.

Michael’s head fell back against the cushions, a low, guttural groan slipping from his lips. The sensation was overwhelming. You were moving in slow, heavy circles, the thin silk of your panties friction.ing against the heavy denim of his jeans. He could feel every bit of your warmth, the soft, heavy pressure of your center pressing directly against the hardening length of his cock.

"Oh, God..." Michael whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands instinctively came up, his large palms settling on the sides of your waist. His long fingers dug into your soft flesh, holding you firmly as you continued to roll your hips against him.

You let out a soft sigh, your own head dropping onto his shoulder as you kept moving. The shyness was still there, but it was melting into a deep, mutual heat. You liked how firm his grip was on your waist, liked the ragged sound of his breathing in your ear. Every time his hips gave a small, involuntary twitch upward to meet your movements, a tiny, nervous giggle would leave your lips, vibrating against his neck.

"You like that, Mike?" you whispered into his skin, your hips giving a heavy, downward press that made him violently shudder beneath you.

"Yes... yes, baby, please don't stop," Michael rasped, his eyes snapping open. They were dark, dilated, filled with a raw, intense hunger that completely contradicted his gentle persona. He gripped your waist tighter, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin, guiding the rhythm of your lap dance now, pulling you down harder against him.

You began to move faster, the friction building between your bodies. The heat in the small room was stifling, the scent of your combined arousal mixing with the vanilla perfume. You arched your back, pulling your head back so he could see your face, your lips parted as you panted, your hips grinding against his hardness in a relentless, agonizingly sexy rhythm. Michael’s breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his entire body rigid as he fought the urge to lose control completely right there on the couch.

Michael’s hands slid from your waist down to your hips, his long fingers resting on the smooth skin of your thighs. He looked up at you, his face flushed, his lips slightly parted. He looked completely undone, his hair slightly wild, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

The music transitioned again, sinking into a dark, molasses-slow soul groove. Michael’s dark eyes locked onto yours, completely abandoning his nervous demeanor. His fingers slid up from your thighs to the edge of your black silk bra.

"Let me take this off," he whispered politely, though his hands were firm.

You nodded, a little nervous giggle slipping out as he reached behind you, unhooking the clasp with surprising precision. The silk fell away, exposing your full, heavy breasts to the warm amber light. Michael let out a shaky, reverent breath, his large hands immediately coming up to cup you. His long fingers squeezed your soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over your stiffening nipples. You whimpered, your head dropping back as a sudden, intense heat bloomed in your lower stomach.

Michael slid down from the couch, moving you on the carpet. His hands trailed down over your stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your black panties. He peeled them down your legs slowly, his eyes locked onto the dark patch of curls between your thighs. You were already slick, a glistening sheen of arousal coating your inner lips.

"Mike..." you breathed, your knees trembling.

He didn't say a word. He slid two long, slender fingers right into your soaking wet cunt.

"Oh!" You arched your back, a loud gasp tearing from your throat as he buried his fingers deep inside your tight walls. Michael started curling his fingers inside you, finding a sweet spot that made you completely lose your breath. Squish, squish. The explicit, incredibly wet sound of his fingers working inside you filled the dim room. You were so slick, your juices dripping onto his knuckles as he pumped you slowly, intentionally, stretching you out.

"You're so wet for me, mama," Michael murmured, watching your face distort with pleasure.

You started getting too loud, a high-pitched scream bubbling up as his thumbs rubbed hard against your swollen clitoris. "Oh God, Mike, right there—!"

"Shh, please, baby, keep it down," Michael whispered anxiously, his protective instincts flaring up. He didn't want his brothers hearing how good he was making you feel.

Without thinking, he pulled his two fingers out of your dripping pussy—thickly coated in your slick, milky juices—and shoved them right into your open mouth.

You choked out a muffled groan, your eyes widening as you sucked on his slick fingers. The taste of your own wetness and the heavy musk of his skin hit your tongue, completely silencing you. Michael watched with a dark, heavy gaze as you wrapped your lips around his wet fingers, his thumb still reaching down to viciously flick your dripping clit.

"Good girl," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dirty, dominant growl. He pulled his fingers out of your mouth, leaving your lips glistening with saliva. "Get on your knees for me. Please."

Your submissive heart slammed against your ribs, and you obeyed instantly. You scrambled around, kneeling directly between his legs. Michael reached down, unzipping his denim jeans with a sharp, heavy zip, yanking his undergarments down to free a massive, violently throbbing erection. It was thick, dark, and already weeping heavy drops of clear pre-cum at the crown.

You let out a soft giggle, entirely mesmerized by the sheer size of him, before leaning down. You wrapped your warm lips around the thick head of his cock, sliding your mouth down his shaft.

Michael’s head slammed back against the leather couch, a low, guttural roar ripping from his chest. Your wet tongue swirled around his tip, your throat squeezing his length tightly. He gripped your curls, his long fingers burying into your hair as your mouth moved up and down his cock, the sloppy, wet noises echoing in the small room. He started pacing his hips, shoving his dick deeper down your throat.

He felt the heavy, volcanic surge of a climax building too fast. True to his sweet nature, he didn't want to ruin the moment by finishing in your mouth before you got yours.

"Wait... stop, stop," Michael panted, his hands gently but firmly gripping your shoulders and pulling you off his cock. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he looked down at his glistening length. "I'm gonna finish. Let me... let me return the favor."

Before you could even protest, Michael grabbed your waist and pulled you down onto the carpet, spreading your thighs wide. He buried his face directly into your soaking wet pussy.

"MMF~!" You shrieked, your hands flying to his hair as his warm tongue made a direct, heavy strike against your swollen clit. Michael was relentless. He lapped at your wetness like a starving man, his tongue sliding deep inside your hole before curling back up to aggressively lick your clit. The wet, explicit sounds of his mouth devouring your pussy were deafening. You were thrashing on the carpet, your hips rolling against his face as he ate you out with a fierce, desperate hunger, driving you right to the absolute edge of a climax.

"I want more," Michael rasped, pulling his wet face away from your thighs, his eyes completely dark and wild with lust. He looked at his throbbing cock, then looked back at your dripping pussy. "I want all of you, [name]. Right now."

The time was running out, and they both knew it. The urgency turned the air completely electric. Michael didn't waste another second. He gripped your hips with an iron strength, flipping you onto your stomach right there on the dark carpet.

He knelt behind you, his large palms smacking your bare hips to force you onto your hands and knees. Your round ass was thrust high into the air, your dripping pussy lips completely exposed and glistening with a heavy mixture of your release and his saliva.

Michael centered the thick head of his cock against your wet opening, and with one heavy, aggressive shove of his narrow hips, he buried himself completely inside you from behind.

You screamed into the floor, your head slamming down as the thick, massive stretch of him filled you to the absolute brim. Your internal walls clenched violently around his shaft, the sheer wetness of your pussy squelching loudly with a heavy, wet sound as he bottomed out inside you.

"Shh... please, love, they're right outside," Michael panted, though his own warning was entirely useless as he immediately began to jackhammer his hips into yours. Slap, slap, slap. The vulgar, explicit sound of his groin brutally colliding with your bare backside echoed off the walls.

"Mike! Oh my God, you're SO deep!" you wailed, your hands clawing at the carpet as he hit your cervix with every single relentless thrust. You reached back, trying to push against his waist to slow him down, but he was completely dominant, his fingers digging into your waist so hard he was leaving bruises.

He was trying to make the absolute best of what little time they had left, shifting your body into every position he could think of. He suddenly reached down, pulling you backward by your hips until your back was flush against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you as he pounded you in a tight, kneeling embrace. The friction was unbearable. Your wet juices were leaking down his thighs, making a sloppy, loud noise with every deep stroke.

"Ffuck, you're so tight... you're milking me," Michael groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rasp that didn't sound like him at all. Sweat was pouring down his face, soaking his shirt as he drove himself into you with an explicit, primal ferocity.

You couldn't stay quiet. You were screaming into his shoulder, your body shivering violently as your inner walls began to convulse in a massive, shattering orgasm. "I'm cumming! Oh God, Mike!"

Feeling your cunt clench around his shaft broke his last bit of restraint. Michael let out a raw, masculine roar, his hips locking tightly against your backside as he shoved his dick as deep as it could possibly go. His entire body went rigid, vibrating violently as he shot thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside your twitching, climaxing walls.

"Ahhh... fuck..." Michael gasped, his chest heaving violently as he collapsed completely onto your back, his slick, sweating body pressing you down into the carpet.

Inside you, his cock pulsed heavily, leaking a mixture of your juices and his warm semen onto the carpet.

For a long, quiet minute, the only sound in the VIP room was the ragged, synchronized breathing of your two bodies. The air smelled heavily of raw sex, sweat, and vanilla.

Slowly, gently, Michael pulled himself out of you with a soft plop, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. The dominant beast from a moment ago vanished, and the sweet, polite boy returned instantly. He reached down, grabbing your robe, and wrapped it carefully around your shivering shoulders.

"Are... are you okay?" Michael whispered, his large, dark eyes filled with genuine concern as he looked down at you. He reached out, gently wiping a stray curl away from your damp forehead. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm sorry if I was too rough... I just lost control."

You let out a breathy, exhausted giggle, your body still tingling from the orgasm. "I'm perfect. You didn't hurt me at all. That was... wow. You really know what you doing with that thing."

Michael blushed furiously, looking down at his jeans as he began to pull them back up, buttoning them with shaky fingers. "I'm glad. I just... I usually have to keep so much inside, you know? Because of my career. it’s nice to just be a man for a second."

You paused, looking at his handsome face, his large, gentle eyes, and the unmistakable structure of his jaw. The name Mike... his brothers... the famous features. Your eyes suddenly went wide as saucers, your mouth dropping open.

"Wait..." you stammered, your voice rising. "Mike? As in... Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson?"

Michael bit his lower lip, looking a little shy as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. That's me. I hope you don't look at me any different."

"Oh my god! Wow!" you gasped, a loud, thrilled giggle escaping you. "My baby sister loves your music! She got your posters all over her bedroom walls! She gonna lose her mind if she ever finds out about this!"

Michael laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But then, a thought caught in his head. His brows furrowed slightly, a sudden wave of curiosity washing over him. He looked at the mature slope of your shoulders, the confident way you carried yourself despite your shyness.

"Wait..." Michael said slowly, his voice dropping. "How old is your baby sister?"

"She's fifteen," you answered easily, adjusting the robe around yourself.

"Oh," Michael nodded. "And... how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-five," you said, completely nonchalant as you began to look for your discarded panties.

Michael froze. His hands stopped entirely on his belt buckle, his jaw dropping so low it practically hit the floor. His large eyes were wide with absolute, utter shock.

"T-Twenty-five?" Michael stammered, his voice cracking violently. "You're... you're twenty-five? A grown woman?"

"Yeah," you laughed, looking at his panicked expression. "Why you look like that?"

Michael felt his head spinning. He was twenty-one today. He had spent his entire life being the sheltered, innocent boy. He had entered this room a virgin, terrified of a girl his brothers bought for him—and he had just completely, brutally dominated a woman who was four years older than him. He couldn't believe it. He had lost his virginity to an older woman.

Before he could spiral any further, a loud, heavy bang rattled the oak door.

"Yo, Mike! Time's up, man! We know you in there chasing a nut, bring your tail out here!" Marlon's boisterous voice echoed through the door.

You let out a giggle, quickly scrambling to your feet. Michael, despite his shock, immediately stepped in to help you. His hands were incredibly gentle as he helped you slide your black silk bra back on, his fingers brushing against your skin with a sweet reverence, before helping you pull your robe tight.

You walked over to the door, unlocking it, and guided him out into the dim hallway.

The moment Michael stepped into the hall, his brothers were waiting, leaning against the wall with massive, wicked grins on their faces. They looked at Michael’s wrinkled shirt, his slightly messy hair, and the unmistakable, clear lip gloss smudge on his jawline.

"Oh, look at him!" Jackie roared, slapping his knee. "He’s glowing! Look at that smile!"

"Man, we heard everything through that damn door," Marlon laughed loudly, throwing his arm around Michael’s neck. "You wasn't being quiet at all, Mike! We thought you was gon break the couch!"

But Michael didn't care. For the first time in his life, his brothers' teasing completely bounced off him. He had a massive, dazed, completely beautiful smile plastered across his face. His large eyes were completely glazed over, staring off into space, entirely deaf to whatever jokes they were cracking. He was literally glowing from head to toe, a man completely transformed.

Two hours later, The Velvet Lounge was beginning to wind down. The crowd had thinned out, the heavy smoke clearing as the bartenders started wiping down the counters. You were in the back room, fully dressed in your regular street clothes—a pair of low-waisted jeans and a soft knit top—packing your dance shoes into your bag.

The door suddenly clicked open.

You turned around, expecting the manager, but instead, your breath caught. Standing in the doorway was Michael. He had gotten rid of his brothers, and he was no longer wearing his hat or his sunglasses. He just stood there, looking incredibly handsome, his large eyes wide and filled with a nervous, breathless energy.

"Mike?" you whispered, surprised. "What you doing back here? I thought your brothers took you home."

Michael took a few hesitant steps into the room, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked so shy, a total contrast to the man who had commanded your body on the carpet just hours before.

"I made them leave," Michael said softly, his voice trembling a bit. He walked right up to you, stopping just inches away. He looked down at you, his heart practically visible beating through his shirt. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, [name]. I really couldn't. I don't care about the club, and I don't care about the dancing... I just... I want to see you again. Outside of this place. Please... will you go on a date with me?"

Your heart completely melted. Looking at this legendary man, so vulnerable, so completely smitten and begging for a chance to just talk to you, you couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, Michael," you said softly, a genuine smile breaking across your face. "I'd love to go on a date with you."

Michael’s face lit up with a brilliant, breathtaking smile, his entire frame relaxing. "Really? Oh, wow. That's... that's wonderful."

"Let me just finish packing my bag and clock out," you said, turning back to the shelf. "You can wait in the parking lot so nobody sees you."

"No," Michael said firmly.

You turned back, surprised. Michael reached out, his long, slender fingers gently wrapping around your hand, lacing his fingers completely through yours. His grip was warm, strong, and unyielding.

"I'm waiting right here with you," he said softly, his eyes locked onto yours with that sweet, stubborn determination.

And he did. Michael stood right by your side in the back of the dingy strip club, holding your hand tightly, completely indifferent to the staff walking by. Once your shift was officially over, he guided you out of the back door and into the cool night air, walking hand in hand, stepping into a brand new chapter of his life as a grown man.