Ellie

YOU’RE ANNOYED at your husband.

And yes, it’s probably for a stupid reason. Art autographed a hat with Love you! and it rubbed you the wrong way. The girl was young, maybe nineteen, glossy hair and ridiculously long lashes. She’s the kind of fan that giggles loud and obnoxious when his hand brushes hers to hand the cap back, who probably only watches tennis because she thinks the male players look hot in polos and shorts.

(Yes, you’re salty. Irrational, entirely unfair thought. Whatever. You aren’t above being childish.)

But what really gets under your skin is the way Art doesn’t even notice. He beams like the golden boy of tennis that he is, scribbles his name and the little love you! flourish without thinking twice, because that’s just who he is. Always giving, always generous, oblivious to how it might look to you. Which always leaves you to hold your breath, manicured nails digging painful crescents into your palm as the girl swoons right in front of your eyes.

He spends the entire day blissfully unaware of your annoyance.

So you make sure he feels it. Dodging kisses, keeping your hands shoved deep in your pockets to avoid holding his on the way back to the hotel, staying stubbornly on your side of the plush mattress. When he drapes an arm across your waist to cuddle before bed, you shrug it off with a muttered, “Stop. It’s way too warm, Art.”

You don’t catch the way his face folds into a hurt frown behind you, but you feel his hand fall away tentatively like he’s been stung before he withdraws to the opposite side of the sheets.

Two days pass in that same sulky fog until eventually he can’t take it anymore. Everyone’s always made jokes about him being your lapdog, unable to go a second without attention and a scratch between the ears. It couldn’t be more apparent than now when he shifts on his feet, gathering the courage to bring it up.

“Did I do something?” His voice is quiet, a touch careful, when he finally blurts it out. “You seem mad at me.”

All you offer in reply is a one-shouldered, entirely half-assed shrug with your eyes still glued to your phone screen. “No.”

It’s the clipped way you say it—without the usual why would I be? tacked on at the end—that gives you away. He swallows hard, too gentle to push (or maybe just too pathetic), and just nods. He slinks off and lets you stew in the irritation simmering beneath the surface, figuring you’ll come to him when you’re ready.

And you do. Not because you’re mature and ready to express your agitation like an adult, but because one of your friends forwarded you a Facebook screenshot: HE SAID I LOVE YOU!! I’M NEVER WASHING THIS!! scrawled under a blurry photo of that very same girl clutching her autographed hat.

Like she’d ever wash a signed hat in the first place. Idiot.

Okay, you’re being unfair. The displeasure in your chest isn’t targeted at the poor girl. You know it isn’t her fault. It’s Art. Stupid Art and his stupid inability to think things through. Stupid Art and his ridiculous charm. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The same night the text comes through, you decide to act on your frustration in bed. Art’s already there when you step out of the bathroom—cropped blonde hair damp from a shower, lounging in just his boxers with the sheets pulled back neatly. When he glances up, you almost feel bad at the expression that breaks out on his face. A faint smile, something one might even call hopeful. 

Almost.

“Hi.” It’s small, the way he says it. A peace offering, or an olive branch of sorts. Like that soft little greeting might soothe away whatever invisible line he crossed to have you sulking with him for two days. 

You don’t give him much back. Just a noncommittal hum as you crawl onto the mattress in a nightdress. Something short, nipples pert through the fabric, moisturised thighs on display as you straddle him. 

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” His voice pitches in surprise. “You—uh, okay.” Then, like an idiot, he tries for a joke. “Guess you aren’t in a mood with me anymore?”

Your face doesn’t crack as your fingers trail down his stomach, muscles tensing beneath you. He watches with bated breath as they dip into his briefs, wrapping around him. He’s hard almost instantly—pathetic, really, how easily his body bends to your touch—and his breath stutters.

It only takes a few strokes to have him moaning. Your thumb catches on the round tip on every upstroke, smearing precum and making him squirm at the pressure against his leaking slit. Art’s mouth falls open, head tipping back and blonde lashes fluttering. 

“Tell me how bad you want me,” you coax, voice low and sultry.

“So bad,” he replies without even thinking, his own pitched in a whine. “I can’t even— nghhh. I wanna be inside you. Can you—?”

Finally, you smile at him. Something sharp that should really have alarm bells ringing in his head but he’s too desperate for your attention that he doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “‘Course I can,” you murmur, lulling him into that false sense of security. 

You don’t have to ask him to lift his hips for you. He just seems to know your intentions— you suppose several years of marriage will do that to you— and lets you ease his boxers down enough to fully free his aching cock. Then your nightdress is pushed up, no panties in sight, and the warm heat of you presses against him.

He reaches for your hips instinctively to help you balance, but you catch his wrists and pin them to the bed. “Don’t,” you murmur.

Art blinks up at you, dazed. “Don’t—what?” It wouldn’t take much strength from him to free himself, but he remains obediently still.

“Don’t move. Don’t touch.” You roll your hips forward, clit catching on his tip with a gasp. Then you free one of his hands (though it stays against the sheets) to wrap your own around his cock and guide him into you. The sink is deliberately slow, tight cunt gripping him until you’re fully seated on him.

He twitches inside you and the urge to rock your hips is strong, but you clamp down with your thighs and still yourself. “We stay like this.”

He’s already sweating. “Babe, wha—?”

“You don’t get to fuck me. Not until I say so.”

His brows knit, confusion breaking into something akin to need. He shifts slightly, barely a shallow twitch of his hips but enough to garner a moan, and you immediately clench tighter.

“Art.” Your voice is sharp, like you’re scolding a puppy and not your grown husband. “I said don’t.”

He groans pathetically, a long drawn out sound, and lets his head fall back into the plush pillow beneath him. “Fuck, you’re… come on, baby. You’re killing me.”

“Good.” You lean forward, tits pressed against his chest, lips grazing his jaw lightly as you continue. “Consider this punishment.”

He doesn’t even know what for. But the question catches in his throat—he doesn’t want to upset you any further. So his eyes flutter shut, pretty lashes brushing his cheeks instead as the tension in his body draws tight. Every time your walls flutter around him, a tiny sound slips out. A muffled whimper, a bitten-off groan.

Minutes seem to stretch into forever.

You hardly move other than to languish his jaw in barely there kisses. Your weight shifts once or twice to adjust yourself, but every tiny ripple around his throbbing length has him gritting his teeth and clutching the sheets to keep himself still.

It feels like you’re punishing yourself too. You can feel it: the way the heat coils low in your belly, filled so deeply it makes you ache with the burning desire to move. To ride him until you forget about the girl and the hat. But you restrain yourself and stay still, iron-willed despite how much you’re gushing around his cock, while he writhes underneath you.

“Please,” he croaks. “I can’t—”

“You can.” You aren’t sure if you’re encouraging him or taunting him. “You’re an athlete, Art. Discipline is in your nature.”

His hips tremble beneath you. “Not like this,” he counters, voice cracking with desperation. “It’s—oh, God—it’s too much.”

A cruel roll of your hips has him choking on a sound halfway between a moan and a sob. His eyes squeeze shut, lashes growing damp the longer you perch on top of him. When he blinks again, there’s a damp sheen on his cheeks.

“Are you crying?” You murmur, tilting your head.

His face flushes and he tries to turn his face away, but you catch his jaw and force his eyes back on you. His lip trembles. “I can’t,” he repeats in a whisper. “I need you so bad.”

It’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen: Art Donaldson, golden boy of tennis, your husband, shaking and tear-streaked under you with eyes blown back with anguish. Another two minutes of that exquisite torture and he’s breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, I’ll never do it again. Just… fucking move. Sorry. I just—nghh. Please let me do something. Or… or tell me what I did so I can apologise. Come on, give me something.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He blinks, thrown by the non-answer. “... Okay. Any… ah, any particular reason? Or is that just a general character assessment?”

“The hat,” you bite.

“The—” He frowns, clearly lost. “What hat?”

“The one you signed for that girl. The one you wrote ‘love you’ on.” You push yourself up, and he groans beneath you at the shift. The sting of the entire thing rises all over again, and you're half-tempted to send him down to reception to book himself his own room for the night for some space. “Do you have any idea how stupid that makes me look?”

Recognition finally flickers across his face. Oh. That hat. His mouth opens, then shuts immediately, scrambling for the right defence. He could tell you you’re blowing it out of proportion, but something tells him you’d never let him cum again if he dared utter such a thing right now.

“Baby, I was just being nice—” He tries instead.

“Too nice,” you cut in. “You don’t think, Art. You never do.”

He looks guilty now, bottom lip jutting out in a teary pout. “I didn’t it mean it like that. You know that, come on—”

“Exactly. You don’t mean it. But these idiot fangirls think you do, and it makes me look like some cheap trophy wife when you’re letting eighteen year olds fawn all over you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, fingers flexing against the sheets. Your cunt squeezes around him and another tear slips down his cheek. “I love you so much. I swear, I won’t be so stupid again. I’m an idiot.” Art rambles. “No more signing like that. I didn’t mean it. Not at all. You’re the only one I care about.”

“I know you didn’t mean it. But you need a reminder.”

“A… reminder?”

“Mmm. Of who you belong to.” Another slow roll of your hips. “Of who you save your love for. So you get to stay here, just like this. And you get to think about how stupid you were.”

So Art stays there obediently. Lets you cockwarm him while he’s sniffling and choking back sobs, apologising profusely every time you squeeze him. But you can feel it—you aren’t even moving and he’s nearing the edge. His cock is swollen and throbbing inside you, balls drawn up, trying to withhold himself.

You could let him cum like this. It’d be embarrassing. A few words about how he’s only yours and he’d be filling you up without you moving an inch.

But he hasn’t even earned that. So you lift yourself off him slowly, his cock slick with you, dragging against your cunt as you pull away. He makes a sound like he’s genuinely being gutted, a pathetic whimper of loss, hips lifting to chase your wet heat.

“No. No, babe, please—”

“Shh.” You straddle his thighs again, a hand on his chest to press him flat against the mattress. “I don’t think you deserve my pussy tonight.”

His jaw drops. “What? That’s not… fuck. But I need you—”

“You need to learn,” you cut him off mercilessly. Your hand wraps around his cock, slick from being buried in you for so long, and he sinks into the pillow with a weak groan. “You’ll take what I give you. You only get my hand tonight.”

You stroke him deliberately slow, twisting your wrist in a way that has his entire body jerking. Within a minute he’s leaking over your fingers, borderline wailing with every drag of your hand.

“God—” He says, guttural. “I’m so close. Please don’t stop, I’m sorry—”

You speed up, pumping him harder, your thumb pressing into the thick vein alongside the underside of his length until he’s jerking helplessly up into your first. His strong thighs are trembling, mouth hanging open on broken moans, begging incoherently and apologising all in the same strained breath.

And just as his cock twitches and he gasps out your name— 

You let go.

He cries out, high and desperate, hands clutching at the silk as his entire body convulses. His cock spurts weakly against his stomach, unfinished, his orgasm ripped away mid-spasm. You’ve left him trembled, frustrated and leaking, denied the sweet relief he was milliseconds away from.

You lean down and kiss the corner of his wet mouth as he takes in a shuddering breath, tone deceptively sweet. “There we go. No more hats.”

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Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

-

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

-

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

-

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

-

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

-

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

also. he licks you all the time for no reason … you’ll be cuddling on the couch watching a movie, your back to his chest, and he’ll just randomly dip down and lick your shoulder? and you’re like, “art, did you just lick me?” and he acts like he didn’t even though he literally just did. when he gives you hickeys (which he does a lot, and everywhere on your body) he’ll almost always lick them after he’s done .. like, he’ll leave a patch of them in the juncture between your neck and shoulder then swipe his tongue over them as if he’s sealing the deal. speaking of hickeys, his favourite to give you are chest hickeys!! (they’re your favourite to receive, too). he’ll pull your bra down to suck and nip at the fleshy, warm skin of your breasts until patches of purply red bloom up like flowers and you’re breathless underneath him. then of course he’ll finish ‘em off with a good lick. sometimes he’ll lick all the way from your sternum and up your neck and then plant a kiss on your mouth. he’s kinda gross but you love it.

also, art makes some verrry questionable noises when he’s extra needy or when something feels really good (like your hands in his hair and your nails scratching at his scalp, as we established he enjoys a lot). I’m talking purring, whimpering, borderline growling. literal dog noises and it’s a little bit pathetic but it only makes you want him more. <3

"hey." he reaches out, fingers intertwining with the hem of your shirt. when you don't immediately face him, he tugs, gentle.

"i played good, didn't i?"

"yes, baby. you played good.” you pat his cheek without so much as looking at him, and while the contact is nice—your palm cool and tender against the warm flush of his cheeks—its fleeting. you don’t even linger long enough for him to lean into it.

a subtle frown twists his lips. he sits up, feeling unsteady. the weight of the mattress sinks underneath him as he slowly, cautiously crawls over to you. his arms slide around your waist, body wrapping itself around your back. 

"hi." "hi." you answer, vaguely amused. he buries his nose into your nape and breathes in. the smell of you is intoxicating. "can we go to bed?" he murmurs, and the phrasing is so polite, so courteously horny that you have to laugh. "when i'm done." he makes a little, unhappy noise. it rumbles against your back. "but i need you now."

you raise a brow. "don't be gross, art." that effectively cows him. though he still remains, chin propped up on your chin and legs on either side of you, tucking you in. you can feel it when he begins to grind slowly against you, thick length of his cock twitching tentatively against your ass. "ah-ah." you tut. he freezes. you don't even turn to face him. "did i say you could do that?"

he groans, drags himself off of you (with great effort) and slides off the bed. it's almost petulant. "when?" "when i say so." the noise that rips from him is positively mournful. he slumps, head in your lap—hands clenching and unclenching uselessly into the mattress.

you're still not even looking at him, fingers wordlessly threading into his hair and moving along in these elegant, tenderly gratifying movements that leave his cheeks burning impossibly hot, the patch in his boxers growing impossibly wet.

at a loss, he begins to slowly rub up against the corner of the mattress, hips rolling in steadied, carefully monitored waves. it's imperceptible, its perfect. he just needs a little release. just a little, to hold him out until you finally glance up from your laptop and give him something, anything— fuck. his groin finds that sweet spot the same moment your nails dig just right, and he can't bite back the moan slips from his lips. it's damnably loud in the silence of the room.

art meets your eyes, keening at the unimpressed stare you level him with, the knowing twitch of your lips. he has to swallow the instinctive plea that swells up in his throat. no, no. don't stop don't stop—

"oh, sweetie." like clockwork, your hand untwines from his locks, and he crumples.

"please—can’t fucking take it.” he moans miserably into your thigh, slumped over. he's grinding brazenly now, all pretences lost; rutting hopelessly against the edge of the mattress with his cheek pressed against your thigh. "baby." you sigh, closing the lid of your laptop. he just shakes his head, hands wringing into the sheets as if he were clinging to the edge of a cliff.

it's so pathetic, you have to take pity on him. "up. on the bed." art perks up, hope ballooning in his chest. he scrambles up on the mattress, so eager—lips parted, on all fours. god, he looks so pretty like this; dick cradled by the fabric of his soaked boxers, straining so you were almost sure they’d tear a hole. he looks ready to jump you. you snort, running a hand through his hair indulgently. "not so fast, pretty boy. use the pillow, if it'll stop you from whining." he doesn't even protest. he's burning too hot. as soon as you give him permission, art scrambles on top of the pillow like it's god-given gift to the world. the moment it makes contact, his breath hitches—eyes flittering up with the feeling of goddamn heaven—

"wait." "what?" art hisses, though he freezes anyway, a dog on your leash. his eyes are sparkling as he looks up at you. "boxers. off." "okay." he agrees breathlessly. his mind is so fuzzy you could tell him to cum and he simply, would. he yanks his boxers down and his dick springs up like a jack-in-the-box. he lets out a low moan, limbs almost folding in on themselves when his bare, swollen tip slides slick against fabric. ah, jeez.

if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was your thigh. "n-now?" his legs are quivering. his dick hurts. you look entirely too amused. "mhm." the noise he makes is guttural. he's so sensitive—each thrust elicits another pant, hips rolling in a frenzied rhythm. he wishes it was you. fuck, your warmth wrapping around his cock—your hands cradling his balls. the veins on his underside bulge, the coil in his sack drawing tighter and tighter. shit, shit. he's gonna cum now. he's gonna cum in record-time to the tender loving care of your pillow. his moans twist into cries, bed-frame shaking under the force of his weight. "you gonna cum now, angel?"art nods, jerky and furious. it's that word that gets him. angel. angel. a shudder rips through his body and thick, ropy streams of cum are splattering against the pillow. painting it, stained and sticky. he's hovers there for a moment; crammed between his legs, frame quivering, thighs wet as his mind blanks. it'd be in disbelief, if he had the pride—but he doesn't—so it's simple, utter pleasure. god, his life is perfect. he crumbles into your lap like the colosseum. the corners of his mind are still fuzzy. the warmth of your thigh against his cheek is the only thing he's ever needed, only thing he's ever craved. god, he didn't even realise his cheeks were wet—doesn't think he cares. "good boy." you murmur, and he can hear the smile in your voice. your hand finds his hair, and he can't stop his hips from rolling against nothing.

▸ time ticking on.. the coil of heat in his gut winding tighter n tighter.. art's cheeks are flushed and hes wetting the back of your shirt with his silent tears. he persists, though, because he's good. he's gonna be a good boy for you. and it works! for a time, when you seem like you've almost forgotten your pussy is strangling his cock and you're only rolling your hips occasionally, sending warm thrums of pleasure through him. lulling him into a false sense of security.

▸ until all of a sudden you decide to be mean and for whatever reason you lift your hips before slamming them back down again, and his sharp gasp and slurred mewls perfectly cue the geyser that erupts from his slit.

▸ not even letting him cum inside you.. sliding off his spurting cock thats blowing cum like a volcano. hot, sticky strings arcing in the air and splattering all over the carpet, the couch cushions. his eyes glazing over, all glassy n sparkly as he crumples back in the couch, blubbering tearful apologies as his cock leaks like a faucet, staining the poor, new pillows.

▸ adores aftercare. or just your comfort in general. please rest your hand against his cheek and let him sigh and melt and nuzzle into the palm of your hand like you're taking the weight of the world off his shoulders. tug gently on his hair. scratch his scalp. let him curl up on your lap and pat him and coo sweet nothings in his ear. simple things, like "sweet baby, did so good today." or "tired puppy. took mommy so well."

▸ "fuck— m'sorry. m'sorry, m'sorry—" "hey, shh, darling. aw, don't cry. mommy's got you. how bout you curl up on momma's lap, kay?" "..mkay."

The screen door claps against the frame, rattling the loose hook in its eye, and the house takes the sound into itself with a long wooden shiver.

Outside, the pasture has gone dark at the edges, the mares moving in pale, restless shapes beyond the fence line, and the butchered hen lies wrapped in paper against your hip, still warm enough to leave its damp weight through the cloth.

The kitchen smells of iron, cornmeal, lamp oil, and hot wood, all of it made heavier by the wet breath of summer pressing against the windows. Blood has soaked through your apron in stiff patches. It darkens your knuckles, clings under your nails, and slicks the inside of your fingers where the washbasin has not yet had its turn at you.

Remmick sits at the kitchen table with supper cooling in front of him, fork laid across the plate like a prop in some poor play. Cornbread, beans, and a slice of onion sit untouched on the plate, though he had taken care to move his fork once or twice as if the habit of eating could make him seem less unnatural.

He's been better at pretending lately.

Better at wearing a man’s shape around your house.

That pretense slips the moment he sees your hands.

His eyes lift first, then hold. His mouth goes wet. The change comes over him with shameful quickness, a stillness so complete the whole kitchen seems to lean toward it. His fingers curl against the table, nails scraping once, soft and desperate, and he swallows as if something in his throat has gone dry despite the shine already gathering on his lower lip.

“Bring me the basin,” you say, setting the wrapped hen near the stove, “and stop staring like you’ve never seen blood in this house before.”

A sound catches in his throat, too low to be a laugh and too eager to be shame, but he rises quickly enough, chair legs dragging hard across the boards.

Months ago, when he first came to your land, you would have taken that quickness for threat and reached for the shotgun you kept by the pantry.

The first night he came to you, pale as a corpse in the moonlight and smiling like something raised wrong from the marsh, you had been in the stable with your sick mare, her flank hot beneath your palm and her breath sour with fever.

He had stood beyond the open doors with rainwater silvering his hair, asking after the road to the nearest town, then begging for a cup of water in a voice too soft for a man who looked as though he might open his jaw and show you a wolf’s hunger.

You had given him directions and your flask because you were not cruel, then told him to leave because you were not a fool.

Night after night afterward, he returned to the porch with some new misery tucked under his tongue; a stone in his boot, dogs in the distance, fever in his head, a weakness in his knees, any excuse that might win him a chair by your fire.

You let him speak to the locked door until dawn thinned the trees and drove him away.

Then he came bleeding.

You think of it now when he brings the basin from the sideboard and sets it down too near you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your elbow.

That night he had sagged against your porch post with one hand pressed to his ribs, shirt torn, mouth trembling with a pain you later understood he had chosen for himself.

Mercy had gotten him across your threshold. Mercy, and your own hands, and the foolish human pity he had learned to pull from you like a thread from cloth. And after mercy came habit, then want, then the strange arrangement of a dead thing living in your house as if marriage vows had been exchanged under the kitchen rafters instead of hunger.

He mended fences after dusk, hauled feed in the bruised light before sunrise, kept his hat low and his hands busy, and in return he crawled into your bed each night because he begged so sweetly for it, and because his body never held heat unless he stole yours.

By the time you found him in the yard one night with one of your hens torn open between his hands, his mouth red and his fangs hooked deep into the limp, feathered body, you had already let him kiss you. You had already let him climb into your bed. You had already slapped him once for nearly putting those teeth in your throat while his cock was inside you, and watched him go rigid with hurt, hunger, shame, and pleasure all tangled together until he looked as ruined as any sinner caught at the altar.

His hand hovers over yours, not touching, but every part of him strains toward the blood.

“Remmick,” you warn.

“I know,” he says, though his voice has gone thin and ragged. “I know, I know, I only—”

“You only what?”

He looks from your hands to your face, and the lamplight makes something red move behind his eyes before he blinks it back.

His tongue touches the corner of his mouth. He looks wretched with wanting, dressed in the same shirt he wore to mend the smokehouse latch, the sleeves rolled past his forearms, his suspenders loose, his hair damp at the temples from the heat. There's dirt beneath his nails, a smear of dust along one cheekbone, and for all his sweetness around the house, for all the way he carries himself when he wants to seem harmless, the sight of blood has peeled him down to the thing you know he is.

“Please,” he whispers.

“You’ve had supper put in front of you.” You tilt your head, searching for any changes in his expression.

His eyes flick toward the plate with no interest at all. “That is supper for a livin' man.”

“And what are you?”

The question strikes him low. In the tremor that moves through his mouth, and in the way his gaze drops from your face to your fingers again. “Whatever you tell me to be.”

The answer is pretty, pathetic, and practiced only because every true thing in him has begun to sound like begging.

You lift your hand and let your bloodied fingers hover near his mouth, and his lips part.

The sight of it sends a slow warmth through you, power sinking into flesh.

He has torn through men, animals, God knows what else, and yet in your kitchen he waits for permission with his cock already swelling in his trousers because you might let him lick chicken blood from your hand.

“Open,” you tell him.

Remmick obeys with such speed that his shame seems to arrive after the hunger, following it across his face in a red wash. His mouth closes around two of your fingers, hot and wet, his tongue moving with careful greed over the dried blood.

He sucks gently at first, trying to make a show of restraint, but the effort fails as soon as the taste reaches him.

His lashes lower. His breath shudders. Drool gathers where your fingers press his lower lip, and the sound he makes around you is obscene, a low, grateful hum that vibrates through the bones of your hand.

You watch him take what you allow, watch the stain disappear from your knuckles, watch his hands grip the table because he knows better than to seize your wrist.

That lesson had taken several nights to settle into him, several bruises, several warnings, and the pleasure of it still lives in the way he trembles when you call him greedy.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, easing your fingers deeper until his throat works around the pressure. “Sitting here drooling over chicken blood like I starve you.”

His eyes lift, red flickering deep behind the brown, and the word filthy nearly finishes whatever restraint he has left.

His hips press once toward nothing. A thick shape pushes against the front of his trousers, plain beneath the lamplight, and when you glance down at it, he gives a muffled whine that turns wetter around your fingers.

You pull back slowly, but his mouth follows before he catches himself, lips chasing the taste, and then he does it: the smallest tilt of his head, the slightest flash of ragged fangs, an attempt to catch your thumb and nick the living blood beneath the skin.

Your palm cracks across his face before his teeth can close.

The blow rings through the kitchen and leaves him turned with one hand braced against the table, mouth open, cheek already flushing beneath the mark.

He breathes hard, almost panting. Shame folds through his expression, but pleasure rises with it, sick and immediate, his body betraying him so plainly that his eyes squeeze shut. His fingers flex against the wood as though he needs something to hold or he might sink to the floor.

“I told you not to bite me,” you say, quiet enough to make him listen.

Remmick nods quickly, his voice rough when he answers, “Yes.”

“You tried anyway.”

“I was only—” He stops himself because the lie would insult you more than the disobedience. His throat works, and the red print on his cheek deepens. “I wanted more.”

A slow look down his body makes him shift like he can hide what the slap has done to him. “And now look at you.”

His gaze drops, and you follow it without mercy. His cock strains against his trousers, obscene and thick beneath worn fabric, the front of him tented as plainly as if he had meant to show you. He looks down at himself and makes a sound that is almost pain.

“One little slap and you’re fit to spend in your pants.”

Humiliation bends his head, but it does not soften the hunger in him. If anything, it makes him worse.

His lashes flutter, his lips part, and a shine of spit gathers again at the corner of his mouth as though the slap has loosened something in him that hunger alone could not.

You take the clean side of your thumb and press it to the reddening mark on his cheek. He leans into the touch like a whipped dog seeking the same hand that struck him.

“You’ll fetch water so I can wash,” you say, letting your thumb drag once along his cheekbone. “Then you’ll go sit in the bedroom and wait for me. You will not touch yourself.”

His face twists with need. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

He nods slowly, too eager and too miserable and, when he turns for the pump, his gait is wrong with arousal, stiff through the hips, one hand hovering near the front of his trousers before he snatches it back like he remembers your command by pain alone.

By the time the basin is filled and your hands are clean, the water has turned a cloudy brown-red that seems to grieve him when you pour it out.

He watches the blood vanish into the yard through the back door, his jaw tight, his gaze hollowed by want, but he goes where you send him.

The boards in the hall complain under his steps, and you take your time with the kitchen because you know every ordinary sound will torment him. The knife is washed and dried. The wrapped chicken is set aside. The apron comes off stiff with blood and hangs from the nail by the door.

In the bathroom, you clean yourself with warmed water by lamplight, dragging the cloth over your arms, your throat, the sweat-slick hollow between your breasts, the places where blood had soaked through the cotton and touched skin.

The house is quieter there, close and damp, yet you know his hearing catches the water wrung from the cloth, the shift of your dress loosening, the soft fall of your stockings.

Letting him imagine is its own punishment, and you enjoy it more than you care to name.

The bedroom is dark except for the low lamp on the dresser and the moonless weight at the window when you finally step inside.

Remmick's sitting on the edge of the bed with his suspenders hanging loose, shirt open down the chest, hair damp at the temples from a sweat his body has no honest reason to make. One hand grips his thigh. The other is pressed over the bulge in his trousers, just holding himself through the fabric as if pressure alone might keep him from splitting apart.

His gaze lifts to you, then drops to the thin shift clinging to your freshly washed skin, and the sound that leaves him is half-starved.

“You touched yourself,” you say, crossing the room slowly.

“I held it,” he answers, breathless with the need to explain. “Only held it. It hurt.”

“Poor Remmick,” you say, and the false softness of it makes his hips twitch beneath his hand.

He stands before you reach him, crowding close but not quite touching until your eyes give him leave.

His hands settle at your waist with a tremor. His mouth lowers to your shoulder, kissing through the shift first, then nudging the loosened neckline aside to taste skin.

The kisses come wet and scattered, down your throat, along your jaw, over your cheek, each one leaving a shine behind. He is always too messy when want has burned through his manners, too open-mouthed, too eager, too grateful for anything your body allows him.

When you catch his chin and make him look at you, his pupils are wide, his lips swollen from biting back whines.

“I said not to touch yourself,” you remind him.

“I only held it,” he says, pleading already. “I swear, I only—Christ, I needed something.”

"Poor you," you repeat.

His hips push forward before he can stop them, the hard length of him grinding against your thigh. He chokes on the sound that follows and tries to pull back, but you keep him there with your hand on his jaw.

“You like being pitied?” you ask, letting your thumb rest at the corner of his mouth where spit has gathered. “You like being made small?”

The shame in him answers before he does, running down his throat in a swallow. “I like when you say anything to me.”

The answer is so bare that it would soften you on another night. It does soften you, somewhere deep and unwise, but you do not let it reach your hands.

You stroke your thumb over the red mark on his cheek, and he turns into the touch with such helpless hunger that your own body answers, heat blooming between your thighs.

“Get on your knees, then.”

Remmick sinks down so fast the floorboards creak beneath him, hands sliding to your calves, face tipped up with a hunger that looks nearly devotional.

Your back settles against the wardrobe as you gather your shift in one fist and lift it, the old wood cool and solid behind your shoulders.

When he leans forward, you raise one thigh over his shoulder, making room for him between your legs while his hands come up to steady you at the hips. He stops with his mouth hovering inches from you, breathing against your inner thighs while he waits, and the restraint costs him badly enough that his fingers dig into your skin before he catches himself and loosens his grip.

His eyes flick up for permission, and when you give it, he falls on you with a groan that nearly buckles the leg still planted beneath you. His mouth is hot, wet, and shameless, licking into you with the desperation of something denied too long.

He drags the muscle through your slickness, circles your clit, then sucks with enough care that his fangs never touch, though the danger of them stays present in every breath. Drool slips down his chin and cools against your thighs while his hands clutch under your shift, holding you open as he eats you like praise might be found there if he works hard enough for it.

Your fingers push into his hair and pull him closer, and he makes a grateful, muffled sound, tongue circling your clit before flattening, then dipping lower to taste where you are opening for him.

His nose presses against you. His fingers dig bruises into your hips. He breathes harshly through it, rutting once against nothing before he catches himself and stops, shaking with the effort.

“No,” you say, tightening your hand in his hair. “You don’t get to rub yourself on my floor like a dog.”

The words break a rough sound out of him, humiliation moving through him like fever, and he moans into your cunt as his tongue flattens against your clit again, then slips lower while two fingers stroke up the inside of your thigh.

Your free hand braces against the wardrobe, and he feels the shift of your weight, feels the way your raised thigh tightens over his shoulder. He always knows when he has done well, and he turns ravenous with the knowledge, licking you with long, desperate strokes until pleasure gathers low and heavy in your stomach.

“That’s better,” you say, breath thinning. “Good boy.”

The praise wrecks him worse than the insult. He pulls back just enough to gasp, “Again.”

You look down at him, at the wet shine all over his mouth and chin, at the way his eyes have gone glassy with need.

“Earn it.”

Remmick earns it with his tongue, with his mouth, with his fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh only after you nod.

When he presses two of them into you, they go slow at first, crooked carefully, finding the place that makes your breath catch. He watches your face as he does it, his mouth still working your clit, eyes almost fever-bright with the pleasure of being used.

The room thickens around you, close and hot, the lamp smoking faintly on the dresser, the quilt twisted on the bed behind him, the open window letting in all the wet green rot of summer.

You can hear his fingers moving in you, and you can hear him swallowing your pleasure as if he is starving for that too.

Your orgasm gathers, and he seems to sense it before you tell him, pressing deeper, sucking softer, giving you his mouth as steadily as he can while his own body shakes.

Pleasure rolls through you hard, making your hand fist in his hair, your thigh tightening over his shoulder as you bow against the wardrobe and come on his tongue.

He groans as if your pleasure hurts him sweetly. His fingers keep moving until you shove at his shoulder, oversensitive and breathless, and even then he kisses your inner thigh once, twice, wet open-mouthed kisses that beg forgiveness for stopping and permission to start again.

By the time you pull him up, Remmick’s mouth and chin are shining. His cock strains so heavily against his trousers that the fabric is damp at the front, and the sight of your pleasure on his face has made him glassy-eyed rather than proud.

He looks debased, beautiful, and miserable with restraint.

You rub your thumb over his slick lower lip, and he opens for it without instruction, tongue touching your skin with a shiver.

“You did that well,” you murmur.

Praise hits him harder than the slap. His eyes flutter, and his hands curl uselessly near your waist, not daring to grab. “Again,” he whispers, though it is unclear whether he means the praise, your mouth, or the chance to get between your thighs until he stops shaking.

“Bed,” you tell him, and he nearly stumbles in his hurry to obey.

The mattress gives under you with a familiar rope-and-frame complaint as you lie back, shift bunched around your hips.

He kisses you on the way down to it, or tries to. His mouth finds yours in broken, greedy attempts, too eager to be smooth.

You taste yourself on him, salt and heat beneath the faint copper memory of the chicken blood he had cleaned from your fingers.

He whimpers when your tongue touches his. He whimpers again when you bite his lower lip hard enough to warn him but not hard enough to bleed.

Remmick’s hands make poor work of his buttons. He is too aroused to be graceful, too eager to be quick, and by the time he gets his trousers open, his cock springs heavy and flushed into his palm.

He grips himself once by instinct, then snatches his hand away at the look you give him. The remorse on his face is immediate, but he doesn't cry; his eyes only shine, wet at the edges, his mouth tightening as he fights the ache.

When you finally part your thighs, the expression on his face changes so sharply it borders on pain as he climbs over you with care, one hand bracing near your head, the other gripping the base of his cock because even now, with permission, he's trying not to spend too soon.

The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and his face tightens as if the pleasure has teeth. He pushes in slowly because you told him once that you liked to feel him try not to lose himself, and he remembers the things that torment him.

When his hips finally settle flush against yours, his forehead drops near your collarbone with a low, broken moan.

“No teeth,” you remind him, turning his face away from your throat with two fingers at his jaw.

“No teeth,” he repeats, voice rough. “I know.”

“And no coming until I say.”

Remmick’s whole body tenses above you, then obeys by force of will alone.

He begins with slow strokes, dragging out of you almost to the tip before sinking back in, the rhythm careful and reverent until care becomes impossible.

His mouth moves everywhere it can safely go: your shoulder, your jaw, the curve of your breast through the shift, the place beneath your ear where he trembles from keeping his fangs away.

Each time his hunger gets too close, he turns his face aside and curses softly into the pillow.

The restraint makes him rougher through the hips, less polished, more desperate, and the bed starts to knock against the wall in a steady wooden pulse.

“You’re trying so hard,” you say, nails dragging down his back.

The praise makes him shudder, and one thin tear slips free despite his effort to hold it back. It cuts down the slapped cheek, catching the lamplight before disappearing near his jaw.

That's all he gives you at first, that single sign of being split too wide by pleasure, shame, and obedience. He doesn't fall apart the way he has before—he keeps moving, breathing hard through his nose, mouth open and wet, eyes fixed on your face because looking away would feel like failing.

“You like being kept like this,” you say, wrapping your legs higher around his waist. “Being made to wait. Being told no. Being put in your place.”

His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and the next thrust goes deeper. “Yes.”

“Say it proper.”

“Yes,” he says again, hoarser, his hand fisting in the sheet beside your head. “I like it.”

“You like being treated like something that needs training.”

A sob catches in his throat. He thrusts harder, then whines when you tug his hair in warning.

“Careful,” you say. “Don’t get stupid now.”

“I am stupid,” he says, the words falling out in a rush, all dignity gone. “I’m stupid for it, I can’t think when you smell like this, when you open for me, when you look at me like that."

The answer pulls a sound from you before you can swallow it.

Remmick hears it and gives you that angle again, his body learning yours in the filthy, faithful way it always does.

The room fills with him: the slap of his hips, the damp heat of his mouth against your skin, the faint copper ghost of blood still hidden somewhere in his breath from your fingers.

Your hand slides between your bodies when the second climb starts, and the first touch of your fingers to your clit makes you tighten around him so suddenly that he chokes.

“Christ,” he gasps, eyes dropping to where your hand moves, hips rolling into you while your fingers rub tight circles over your clit.

His mouth hangs open, drool shining on his lower lip, and his cock jerks inside you each time your body clenches around him.

You touch yourself harder, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, using him and your own hand together until pleasure spreads hot and heavy through your belly.

Remmick's breathing turns ragged.

“That’s it,” you breathe, gripping his shoulder with your free hand. “Right there. Don’t change it.”

His jaw locks with the effort of keeping the pace.

The bedframe hits the wall harder, rain beginning at the window in a sudden silver rush, and the scent of wet earth rolls through the room with the smell of sweat and sex.

He drives into you exactly as ordered while your fingers work your clit, and the second orgasm breaks through you in a deep, pulsing wave.

Your back arches from the mattress, your thighs tightening around his hips, your cunt clenching hard around every inch of him.

Remmick makes a strangled sound and nearly follows, his rhythm collapsing into short, frantic thrusts before he catches himself.

“Not yet,” you say, still shaking from it, your hand leaving your clit to grip his face.

Agony flashes across him. His eyes go wet again, and this time the tears gather because he's too close, because your body is still gripping him, because obedience has become almost unbearable. “Please,” he says, the word cracked and low. “Please, please—I can’t hold it—”

“You can hold it until I tell you.”

His mouth trembles, but he nods, fucking you in broken strokes that keep him buried deep without letting him finish. Every muscle in him strains. His fangs show, not from threat but from the force of clenching his jaw, and he turns his face away from your neck as if the very sight of your pulse might break him.

You stroke his cheek, softer than before, and that gentleness ruins him more cleanly than cruelty.

“You did well,” you tell him.

The first true sob comes then, quiet and torn up, his face crumpling with relief before pleasure swallows it. “I tried.”

“I know.”

Remmick comes with a hoarse cry, hips driving in deep as his body bows over yours.

His cock pulses hard, filling you with heat while his breath breaks against your mouth. A few tears spill down his face at the force of it, not the endless weeping of earlier nights but something sharper, dragged out of him by release and the awful sweetness of permission.

He keeps whispering your name into the damp space between your mouths, each repetition less like speech and more like surrender.

You hold him through it, fingers in his hair, nails resting against the marks you left on his back, and his weight lowers carefully once the last tremor leaves him.

After the storm opens fully over the fields, the bedroom settles into a humid dark sweetened by rain through the window and the low smoke of the lamp.

Remmick stays buried in your warmth, softening by degrees, his face tucked near your collarbone without touching his teeth to your skin. The monster in him has not gone anywhere. It lies quiet under his skin, fed and chastened, listening to the blood in your throat with the same devotion he gives your voice.

You know what he is, what he had planned when he first crossed your threshold bleeding on purpose, what he could still make of you now that the house has accepted him.

He could turn you whenever he chose if you grew careless enough to let him.

He knows it too, and maybe that's why he clings to obedience so fiercely, why his mouth trembles when you stroke his hair, why the palm-mark on his cheek seems to comfort him as much as it shames him.

“You hit me hard,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin.

“You earned it.”

A faint shiver moves through him, and even spent, he presses closer, seeking your heat like an animal crawling toward a hearth. “I know.”

“If you try to bite me again, I’ll do worse.”

Remmick’s lips touch your shoulder in one careful, toothless kiss, and his answer comes low, reverent, and still a little hungry. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rain batters the sill, the pasture disappears beyond the dark glass, and the blood has long since been washed from your hands, though its memory remains in the damp shine of his mouth.

You let him lie there, half corpse and half supplicant, the devil you allowed inside because mercy had once looked too much like need.

When his arm tightens around your waist and his breath slows against your throat, you do not tell him to move.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All he could see was you.

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

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

No response. “Michael.” Still nothing.

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

The longer he watched, the worse it became.

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

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

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

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

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

His stomach twisted.

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

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

“Don’t start.”

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

Michael forgot how to breathe.

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

Because you had noticed him.

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

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

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

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

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

God.

You looked beautiful.

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

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

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

Yet somehow the space between you felt strangely quiet.

Then you lifted your hand.

Just one finger.

Crooked toward yourself.

Come here.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, man. That boy is gone.”

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

Just a look and a simple little come here.

And off he went.

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

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

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

“Hi.” The response came out embarrassingly quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s sweet.”

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

“Go get skates.” You ordered

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

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

“Oh, right!” Another blink. “Okay.”

You stared at him.

Michael stared back.

A laugh escaped you. “Michael.”

“Yeah?”

”Go.”

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

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

Michael had spent most of the night orbiting you.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old is he again?”

“Twenty one.”

Your friend made a face. “Girl..”

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

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

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

The sight made something warm settle in your chest.

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

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

Like he’d just accomplished something so important.

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

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

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

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

He went without resistance.

Of course he did.

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

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

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

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

Not where?

Not why?

Not even a hesitant really?

Just: “Okay.”

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

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

Bill sighed heavily. “You serious?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael blinked. “Huh?”

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

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

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

Michael shrugged awkwardly.

“She’s..”

“Pretty?” Michael nodded.

“Successful?” Another nod.

“Older than you?” A smaller nod.

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

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

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

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

Michael frowned. “I’m not..”

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

Michael buried his face in his hands.

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

Bill caught it and a long, exhausted sigh followed.

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

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

Bill shook his head. “You hopeless.”

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

Because he loved bossy women.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s mine..” He whimpers out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s a story for a different day.

Michael Jackson was very, very stupid.

When you showed him your outfit for tonight, he nearly had a panic attack. You looked edible, and you were all his. He got so giddy at the thought of it.

You wore a long, mesh-like, black dress with gold accents and a plunging back, accompanied by red lace detail settled on your tailbone. It matched his extravagant jacket perfectly. Your smooth skin peeked out from the material in all the right places, and your legs looked magnificent. You wore a pair of gold red bottoms to accentuate the look, knowing Michael loved it when you wore high heels.

He had absolutely no complaints, other than one; he wanted to take the dress off of you as soon as you got it on.

“C’mon, we’re only 15 minutes from the venue. It won’t take us that long,” he complained.

“Michael, you cannot seriously be asking me for a quickie right now. You know how long it took me to get my hair and makeup done earlier. I don’t know what those ladies did to it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to recreate it either,” you said, giving your boyfriend an incredulous look.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You do look perfect though,” he complimented you, lifting your hand and giving it a tender kiss. “So glad you’re all mine.”

“All yours, baby,” you responded, loving the way his eyelashes fluttered at the nickname.

So yes, he was stupid. For some idiotic reason, he thought that because you were all his, that meant that you could only be seen by him.

Boy, was he dead wrong. The whole night, everyone’s eyes were on you. Because he’s stupid, he thought it was because of him, and it partially was- nobody knew who you were or why you were walking with him hand in hand, yet- but no. They were all looking at you hungrily. Looking at you the way he did. It made him sick. And the worst part? You didn’t even notice.

You looked that good and you didn’t even notice that basically everyone in attendance, man and woman, your age and older, was lusting over you.

You weren’t allowed to sit next to Michael the whole night, to your disappointment. He was getting honored with the biggest award, so he had a special table setup with all the works. The seating arrangement did, however, bless you in a way you didn’t expect. Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, had assigned seats next to yours, and it took everything in you to not fangirl over them.

During the second commercial break, one of the members reached over for your hand and shook it firmly.

“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Marz, and this,” he gestured to his music mate, “is Mercury.”

“I know!” you answered, a little too fast, embarrassing yourself in the process.

“I mean, I’m a huge fan of y’all’s music,” you corrected, hoping your excitement didn’t ruin the moment.

“Oh, really?” Mercury questioned you.

“Yeah! You guys had one of my favorite albums this year. I love the experimental sound you have,” you said earnestly.

“Why, thank you. What brings you here all by yourself tonight?” asked Marz, a polite way of asking ‘Who are you?’

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you say, dramatically sighing. The boys giggled.

“Nah for real, tell us.” Mercury leaned in in anticipation.

“Well, you know Michael Jackson is getting awarded ton-”

“Yo, Mike’s a legend! He deserves that award more than anyone!” Mercury interrupted, causing you to giggle.

“Yes, he is,” you said smiling to yourself.

“Our latest single actually samples Human Nature. He cleared the sample personally. Can you believe it?!” Marz asked, starting to sound like a fanboy. It was adorable.

“I know! I think it might actually be one of my favorites so far. It’s very beautiful,” you said, flashing a sincere smile at the both of them. An announcement over the speakers signaled that it was time for the venue to quiet down and hurry back to their seats.

“It was nice speaking to you,” you whispered to the duo.

“Likewise,” they said at the same time, Mercury blowing you a kiss, and Marz giving you a tap on the shoulder as the lights dimmed.

Michael was able to watch you from his seat. He felt terrible that for your first public event together, he couldn’t even hold you through the whole thing. Although he was grateful for the award, he would’ve given it up to Prince if it meant he could be with his baby the whole night. Especially after what he just saw.

Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, were flirting with you. He was so far that he couldn’t even hear what you were laughing at, let alone say anything to interrupt, and it made him seethe. Michael never got angry, never jealous, but tonight turned him into a whole different animal.

Every commercial break, they’d talk to you again, exchange knowing glances with each other when you weren’t looking, and it irritated him to no end. They even started getting comfortable touching you. Mercury pathetically reached over his friend’s lap to brush nothing off of your hair, just a desperate attempt to touch you. He was so frustrated, he could barely pay attention whenever someone would come up and congratulate him on the award he was winning tonight. An uncharacteristically green part of him wanted to march down from his table and pick you up from your seat, showing off just exactly who you belonged to.

He was getting more and more tempted to when one of the guys- Pluto, was it?- openly ogled your tits as you leaned down to fix one of the straps on your heels. He nudged his little friend and raised his eyebrows suggestively. When you fully sat up, the Pluto guy whispered something into your ear, and sneakily grabbed onto your waist when you started laughing hysterically. What the hell could be so funny that you didn’t even feel his heavy hand on your body?

It was time for Michael to be presented with Artist of the Decade, and you prepared your throat for the loudest scream you could muster. You tried searching for his face in the crowd, realizing he must’ve been dragged backstage during the last commercial break. Marz whispered, “Oh my God, it’s Michael Jackson time!” into your ears, to which you responded with an excited “I know!”

As soon as they announced his name, you stood up and hollered at the top of your lungs, the rest of the crowd following suit. He looked so unreal. The way the stage lights shone on his perfect features was enough to make your mouth water.

He began thanking his record company for having faith in his visions, his family for supporting him and he gave a beautiful speech dedicated to all the children in the world that inspired him. His humbleness made your heart melt. He ended off the monologue with a special shootout- to you. He called your name and pointed you out in the crowd, blowing you a bashful kiss.

“And to the beautiful lady in my life, to whom I owe everything. Thank you for being my muse and my girl. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he added with a wink. “I love you so much!”

You screamed out a muffled “I love you, baby!” and the crowd erupted in cheers.

The rest of the ceremony was spent in silence, to your surprise. You’d wondered if you did something to annoy your favorite artists, and got embarrassed by the idea.

Michael made his way to you before the lights even fully dimmed, looking restless. He gripped onto your waist needily.

“Come on, baby. Bill’s outside,” he said, before you could even properly greet or congratulate him.

“Oh, Michael! Congratulations!” you exclaim to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Your mauve-colored lipstick leaving a stain.

“E-excuse me, sir?” Pluto Marz interrupted. “I’m Marz, and this is Mercury. We met over the phone once with our manager. You gave us permission to sample Human Nature in our most recent single! We just wanted to say thank you so much for that. The song is receiving insane reviews, and it’s all thanks to you!”

“Yeah, it’s a huge honor! You’re our biggest inspiration!” Neptune Mercury added, clumsily.

“I appreciate the compliments! If you don’t mind, me and my lady have an event to attend. Congratulations on the success with your new project!” Michael responded politely and smoothly. Too smoothly. Something was up. He gripped onto your waist even tighter when the boys came up to hug you goodbye. He loudly cleared his throat when one of them hugged you a bit too long for his liking, flashed him a glare, and then quickly composed himself with a sweet smile when he realized what he was doing.

You were driving him crazy. When you walked out of the venue, he stopped in front of your limo and kissed you hungrily, knowing the cameras would capture it all on film. You pulled back, flustered.

“Mikey, there’s so many people and cameras here,” you whispered into his ear with an exasperated giggle.

“Let ‘em watch,” he said lunging back for your lips.

“Come on, Mike! We gon’ be late if you keep that up!” Bill called from the driver’s seat.

The two of you flashed the paps brilliant smiles and ducked into the vehicle, your stomach twisting with the excitement of the evening. You couldn’t believe the beautiful words Michael dedicated to you in his speech, or the fact that you met your favorite artists.

You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

“Oh, and Michael! Marz said that he wanted me in their next video! Can you believe it? He said I reminded him of an old hollywood film actress and said I just had to get in contact with them! He gave me his number and everything!” you squeeled excitedly, flashing him the napkin he’d scribbled his contact info on.

“And you took it?” Michael asked flatly.

“Of course, silly,” you responded lightheartedly, not catching on to his attitude. “How else would I have been able to call them? It’s not like I’d just be able to find them in the phone book,” you say with a giggle at the idea.

“Coulda asked me,” he said with a shrug.

“Hmm, yeah. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” you said with a nod. “Still, they were hilarious the whole night. Saved me from being bored all by myself.” You shuffled closer to his side, trying to build some tension. He looked scrumptious tonight, and you needed a taste.

“Yeah, seems like they entertained you more than I could’ve,” he added with a concealed roll of his eyes.

“Not even. I missed you so mu-”

“We’re pulling up to the party,” Michael interrupted, shrugging you off of his shoulder. You felt rejected, and you didn’t even know why. Did you smell? Did you embarrass him with all your screaming? You decided to shrug it off and pocket it for later, when you got home.

The entire party overstimulated you. You wanted to go home before you even stepped in, Michael’s dryness with you wavered your confidence. What the hell did you do wrong? It made you uneasy. You decided it was a good idea to down three flutes of champagne, ignoring the celebrities watching you. Seriously, did you have a ‘Kick Me!’ sign on your back?

As you and Michael made your way through the party- you awkwardly clinging onto him while he possessively hugged your hips- you were met with loads of familiar faces. All of them were A-listers you’ve seen on TV or plastered on the covers of magazines. You felt totally out of place.

The alcohol was making you hot, and you excused yourself to the restroom from Michael and the two pretty models he was talking to. He offered to go with you, but you made him stay, feeling like a burden already.

“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah? Just need to freshen up a bit,” you assured him with a wavering smile.

“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Michael responded evenly.

What the hell is on his mind? You wondered to yourself.

You were almost back to Michael, when you bumped into two familiar faces.

“Hey, you!” Mercury said excitedly, giving you a very friendly hug.

“How’s your night goin’?” Marz asked, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Pretty crazy! I’ve never been to anything this…exciting before!” you respond with slightly forced enthusiasm. As much as you were excited to see some friendly faces, all you wanted to do was get home with your pretty boyfriend and give him a proper congratulations on his award.

“Yeah, these things can get pretty hectic, but I bet it helps to see some familiar faces,” Mercury quipped with a cheesy smile.

“Yeah! Plus, I bet it must be so hard having to fight everyone offa you. You look incredible, by the way,” Marz slurred into your ear over the music.

“Oh, stop it!” you responded bashfully, still shy. You gave him a playful push to his shoulder.

“I actually do all the fighting for her, but thanks for the compliment.”

You turned to your left and saw your boyfriend hovering next to you, not realizing he’d made his way over there through all the chaos.

“Let’s go,” Michael said into your ear, not caring if he came off as rude. He gave a quick wave to the boys and led you out of the party, rushing his way through goodbyes and congratulations.

“Mike, slow down,” you yelled at him, nearly tumbling over your own feet.

“We’re almost to the car,” he responded dryly. He was fuming. How could you just let those two idiots flirt so openly with you? Did they not think you were serious about your own boyfriend? Were you giving them hints?

He opened the limo door for you, and slid in quickly behind.

“Bill, take us home, please. ‘N turn on the radio and slide up partition, will you?” Michael asked.

“No problem. ETA is 11 minutes,” Bill responded.

“Perfect, thank you.” Michael sunk to his knees in the spacious limousine as soon as the partition started rolling up, not caring if Bill saw or heard anymore.

Without a word, he started kissing up your thigh, immediately following them with slight nips of his teeth.

“M-michael, we don’t have time…” you started, already losing yourself in the pleasure. You realized you missed him all night. You didn’t have any alone time together.

“You had time for them all night,” he snapped suddenly. The stern tone in his voice was so surprising, you almost thought he was joking.

“Excuse me?” you questioned him.

“You heard me. I mean, I barely even had ya to myself tonight. You even somehow found your way to them after your little trip to the bathroom. Am I that boring?” he said sharply. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Michael, you’re being ridicul-”

“Am I? I saw the way they were lookin’ at you. The way they grabbed at you.” He palmed at your tits. “The way they drooled at these.” He looked up at your face. “You’re mine. You could’ve expressed that a lil more tonight,” he said accusatorily.

Who the hell did he think he was talking to?

“Michael, are you jealous?” you asked him, his behavior finally dawning on you. Was he seriously that worried about those two guys? They’re younger than you, totally not your type, and most of all, they’re not Michael. You started giggling.

“This is funny to you?” Michael asked, offended. He leaned back onto the balls of his feet, almost falling backward when Bill made a sharp turn.

“Hilarious, actually.” You started full on laughing. “Mike! Why would you think I’d seriously be entertaining any advances when you’re my boyfriend? I might always find it unbelievable that I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to take you for granted, ever. I love you and only you. Plus, they were just being nice!” you say, exhausted.

“Nice? Ha! They were practically ready to ask you for a threesome at the award venue before I came up,” he almost screeched. “But it’s okay. I’ll just show you who you belong to.”

He resumed his oral travel up your thighs, pausing right next to your core. He took his middle finger and started rubbing a harsh, slow circle on your clit through your lacy panties, staring up at you to gauge your reaction. You immediately let out a needy whine, to his satisfaction.

“Exactly,” he said, almost to himself.

His possessiveness was turning you on…a lot. You’d never seen him like this, and an evil part of yourself wanted to make him beg for you. You pushed his hand away and closed your thighs together.

“We’re almost home,” you said flatly. Now it was Michael’s turn to be uneasy. He pouted up at you just like you want him to.

As the car eased into the driveway, you felt Michael repeatedly try to touch you, to no avail. You weren’t letting him win tonight. The car drove to a stop, and Bill helped you out first. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, making sure Michael saw the whole thing.

“Have nice night, Bill,” you said, privately handing him the napkin Marz gave you earlier, and discreetly asking him to get rid of it for you. You had a hurried tone laced into your voice. You could see Michael squirm.

“Y-yeah, you too. Y’all have a good night now.” He gave Michael a quick hug and dove into the driver’s seat, ready to get away from whatever the hell was going on in front of him. You grabbed Michael by the belt loop and rushed inside of the expansive front door.

“What was that?” Michael asked you, jealousy creeping back into his demeanor.

You ignored him and rushed the up the stairs, ignoring the ache in your feet. You grabbed onto his hand and dragged him with you.

Once you made it inside your shared room, you removed your heels with ease, grabbed the clothes you left on the bed this morning, and hurried into the restroom, ignoring Michael’s calls from behind you. You wasted no time in the shower, scrubbing every surface of your body like it was covered in acid. You were buzzing with excitement because no matter how pissed you were at him for being such a brat all night, you were excited to see this new side of Michael.

“Michael, come join me!” you called from inside, hoping he heard you.

He rushed in immediately, and you realized he must’ve been standing right outside the door. You smiled to yourself at the image.

He was already naked. Perfect.

He opened the glass door and stepped in behind you, and you moved towards the door, letting the warm water hit his lanky body.

“Don’t be too long,” you said to your boyfriend, giving him a sloppy kiss on his lips, and walked out.

He watched you dry up and put on his favorite lingerie set as he struggled to pay attention to his task at hand.

You walked out of the restroom hastily, and shut the door behind you.

After a few more minutes, he rinsed off, dried up, and stepped into the bedroom in nothing but his towel around his waist.

He could’ve cum at the sight of you. You were laid on your stomach on the bed, clad in your red, lacy lingerie that hugged every curve of your body just right. Your back was arched slightly, giving him a beautiful view of your heart-shaped ass, and you were sipping water out of a glass, letting it dribble down your neck and onto the swell of your tits. A total vision.

“Hi,” you said seductively, getting up on your knees and setting the glass down on your bedside table.

“H-hi,” Michael said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He could feel his dick throb more and more each second he looked at you.

“You gonna keep starin’ at me, or you gonna come touch me?” you ask him in that smooth tone he loves oh so much.

He walked over to you quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss you. You took his lips into your mouth and sucked harshly, sighing at the contact. He took that millisecond of your lips parting to stick his tongue inside them, the wet muscle glided against yours with ease. You lunged closer to his body, craving the contact more than your lungs were currently craving air. He slipped his large hands onto your waist, groping aggressively.

“Can I take this off?” he asks against your lips, referring to your bra that left nothing to the imagination.

“Go ‘head, baby. It’s all for you anyway,” you nearly moan into his mouth.

“T-thank you.” He reached behind your back and expertly undid the clasp with one hand. God, you need him.

He walked backwards, keeping his hands on your hips and your lips on his, guiding you to the edge of the bed. He spread your legs and stood between them, lowering his hand to give your ass a needy squeeze, before going to his knees. He looked into your eyes.

“M gonna do you so good that you forget any other artist exists but me.” He takes one of your tits into his mouth, maintaining eye contact, and slurps onto your nipple greedily.

“M-michael!” you exclaimed. He popped off of your breast.

“That’s right. Only me.” He reattached immediately.

Your back arched and your eyes rolled back at his words. This is the sexiest thing he’s ever done, you thought to yourself. He began scratching up your thighs, looking at the faint marks he left behind. You squeezed his body between them, your body overly sensitive to everything he was giving you. He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same amount of attention as your other. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your core dripped for him hungrily.

He detached from your tit again, and kissed down your torso, leaving drool all over. He stopped right at your hip bone and gave it a dark lovebite, leaving you a moaning mess at the painful pleasure.

“N I’m the only one who can mark you like this, right ma?” he asked, looking you deep in the eyes.

“Mhm, yes! Only you, Mikey,” you moaned out.

He gripped onto the hem of your panties, ready to pull them down, and then noticed how they stuck to your pussy.

“And you’re wet like this ‘cause of me?” he asked sincerely.

“All because of you, baby,” you moaned. The neediness in his actions was seeping out and you felt like you could orgasm right then and there.

He kissed you right on your sweet spot and looked back up at you.

“Can I please take these off as well?” he asked hungrily.

“Mhm, and hand ‘em to me when they’re off,” you instructed, looking down at the confused expression on his face. You had a sneaky little plan on the back of your mind.

He handed them to you and you balled them up and sat them next to you for later.

“Continue,” you ordered, growing impatient at the tension.

“M sorry. Yes, ma’am.” He immediately dove into your seeping core and his mouth watered at the taste of you.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good M-Mike. Never been done like this before,” you praised him, a part of you feeling bad at the insecurity that took over him today. He groaned into your mouth, and teased your entrance with his long middle finger. You pushed your core around it impatiently and moaned heartily at the intrusion, your walls fluttering against it.

Michael removed his mouth from your clit.

“I’m the only one who listens to you like this, right?” he asked with anticipation, your juices dripping down his chin.

“Fuckkkkk yes, Mike. You’re such an angel f’me.”

“Your only angel?” he clarifiesd.

“My o-only angel,” you reassured.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, and resumed devouring your pussy like eating you out was his lifeline.

“F-fuck Michael, faster! I’m gonna c-cum,” you warned.

He sped up immediately, selfishly wanting to get you to your climax so he could drink up every drop of your nectar.

With one particularly lewd curl of his fingers and thirsty slurp of his tongue on your clit, you fell back onto the bed and your body went rigid. You let out a scream you were sure the whole city could hear.

“Michael, F-FUCK! I’M CU-MMING!” you hollered, grinding out your orgasm onto his nose, and gripping onto his hair for support.

He didn’t let up one bit, drinking up every bit of your come whilst whimpering into your mouth at the grip your fingers had in his hair.

“T-too much, get up,” you instructed him, feeling your clit burn with over sensitivity.

He sat up on his knees and licked his lips greedily, already missing your taste.

You sat up as well, still hungry for his touch.

“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” You beckoned him toward your naked body. He followed your command like second nature, and your lips connected like magnets. You moaned at the hunger evident in his ministrations, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Was I good?” he asked between lip bites.

“You were perfect. You are perfect,” you amended.

“Thank you,” he replied gratefully.

“I still have yet to congratulate you properly on your award tonight, baby. It was a big deal,” you said, your plan at the forefront of your mind.

“S’ nothin’,” he responded humbly, entirely too focused on your plump lips in between his teeth.

“Michael, you won the biggest award of the decade! I’d say that deserves a proper celebration.” You backed away from his mouth, leaving him dumbfounded.

“Stand up,” you directed him. He did so immediately.

You undid the now loose towel around his waist, freeing his hungry dick from its cage.

He gulped loudly, his adam’s apple bobbing cartoonishly.

You stood up as well.

“Go lay on the pillows at the head of the bed.”

“Y-you don’t have t-”

“Do as I say,” you interrupted his protest.

He bowed his head quickly and did just as you said.

You sneakily grabbed your balled up panties and crawled up his frame on the bed, leaving a trail of your heat in your wake.

“Open your mouth,” you told him, thumb jutting his bottom lip down. He obeyed, intrigued.

You stuffed your panties in and he moaned immediately, his taste buds registering the flavor of your cum immediately.

“Taste that? Nod if you understand,” you demanded.

He nodded.

“I only get wet like that for you. Nobody else.”

You grab one of his big hands, using his fingertips to touch your erect nipples.

“And you feel those?” you asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“They only get that perky for you, Mikey.”

He started to drool, and his erection twitched right against your stomach.

You slid down his body once again, and propped yourself up on your knees. Then, you grabbed his throbbing dick with both your hands, and took the whole thing into your mouth, relaxing your throat so his tip could hit the back. You maintained eye contact with him, and you were glad you did. He groaned thickly against the fabric stuffed into his mouth, his eyes watered with pleasure, and his back launched off the bed.

You took one of your hands and messaged what couldn’t fit into your small mouth, moaning graphically against his length. He was fully sobbing above you. You bobbed your head up and down slowly a few more times, and came off of his dick with a theatrical pop. You wiped his precum off the side of your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean greedily.

“And nobody,” you began, “absolutely no one else will ever get me on my knees like that. Understand?

He lifted his torso up and rested on his elbows weakly, nodding eagerly and moaning out through the lace in his mouth.

You straddled his waist again, prepared for your big finish.

You grabbed his dick and slid it up and down your slit, covering it up in your already returned arousal. You teased it against your entrance and reached up to Michael’s face, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with your thumb.

“I’m yours and you’re mine. All mine. Got it?”

He mumbled out a string of acknowledgments, and then you took him deep inside you, your body shaking at the strain.

His mouth went limp and the panties fell from his lips, slightly, unmuzzling his sounds.

“A-AHHH!” he hollered as you began bouncing, your tits dangling above his face.

His hand flew to your waist and he spat the rest of your underwear out of his mouth.

“C-can I, GOD. Can I please grope you?” he begged.

“Mmmfuck, Mikey. Of course you can,” you obliged. You leaned closer to him, your breasts grazing his chest with every bounce.

He lifted you up and down by your waist, helping the blissful rhythm of your bodies continue their dance of pleasure.

“C-can’t believe you’re mine. T-thank you,” he sniffled, the pleasure in his stomach building up fast.

“Thank you,” you replied. “M already so close Michael. You’re fucking me so good.” You reached down to your clit and rubbed desperately, wanting to come undone around his dick.

His dick jumped at the visual.

“Me too,” he said, embarrassed. His brain was going hazy and the sight before him was adding so much to the pressure held within his abdomen.

You removed your fingers from your clit and stuffed them into his mouth.

He sucked obediently and whimpered at the taste, coming to realize he’d rather taste this over any other flavor on planet earth.

You retracted your hand and leaned down to his ear.

“I’m gonna make a mess all over your lap baby. Y-you ready?”

“Yesss, please! Please c-cum on me!”

He gathered all the strength he had and slammed you onto his dick even harder, overly excited for your release.

Then, your eyes rolled back, and your walls constricted around him aggressively, triggering his own orgasm in time with yours. You both let out the most pornagraphic moans known to mankind, holding onto each other’s bodies for grounding.

“F-It’s…S-So….!” he screamed out incoherently, brain not capable of forming a proper thought.

All you could do was whine out his name over and over until your body went limp on top of him.

You laid connected for a bit, still clawing at each other and catching your breath, trying to let your brains readjust to reality.

You lifted your face off of the crook of his neck, wiping the drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“And nobody could ever fuck me like that,” you said to Michael with a tired smile, wiping his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

“N-not even those-” he begins.

“ESPECIALLY not them,” you interrupt. “I’m completely and truly devoted to you and only you. You own me Michael. Mind, body, and soul. Congratulations, baby. My superstar.”

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 into 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 into 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 told him he was making up for it, but you sat there in shock, staring at the submissive man beneath you. You were almost too scared to move, afraid that any action or sound would 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 it. 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 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 arched 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 into 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, to 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 hungrily swallowing the oxygen creeping in. He starts rolling his hips up into yours, 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, arcing 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 playwith 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 groaned at the filth in your words, doing just as you said. His body began 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 could 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.

“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.”

“Yeah! Remember how I told ya I used to never go to the beach in a bikini? Well, the first time I did was with him and…”

A loud sigh interrupted you. You turned your head toward Michael, confused and a bit hurt. Were you boring him?

But he wouldn’t look into your eyes. He didn’t look particularly upset, because he was trying not to be. His eyebrows were only slightly furrowed, and a downward smile adorned his face; which was unusual for him.

You sat in silence for a bit, waiting for him to say something, or express discomfort. When he didn’t, you figured you could resume your story. 

“...like I said, I wore a bikini around a boy for the first time with him and–”

“Well I made you squirt for the first time.”

Silence.

You must’ve heard wrong. Truly, he only mumbled, and maybe your imagination was playing tricks on you.

“Pardon?”

Michael couldn’t look you in the eyes, but forced himself to. The defiance shining in his irises was a sharp contrast to his fidgeting hands.

“I’m just sayin’, the first time you squirted was with me. Ain’t it more important than you wearing a bikini around Jeremiah for the first time?”

“Jamal.”

“Same thing.” he rolled his eyes.

You couldn’t believe him. The whole situation was hilarious, truly, and all you could do was tilt your head with a slight smirk on your lips before questioning him.

“What’s the attitude for?”

You couldn’t quite see, but Michael’s eyes had a peculiar shine to them now, tears threatening to form. He didn’t want to cry because this whole situation was stupid, those guys you were rambling about were all in the past, but why did you have to bring them up with such joy and admiration? Michael’s better than them. 

He sat up a little straighter on the bed and faced you.

“I mean, it’s you and I now. I missed you so much during the tour, let’s talk about us yeah? I don’t care much about Jermaine or whatever his name is.”

You exploded in a fit of laughter, Michael’s irritated face being far too cute to take seriously.

“Awww angel face I’m sorry.” You crawled closer to him and settled right in front of him, cradling his face into your hands and wiping a lone tear on his right cheek. ”You know you matter more than any of them. See, I can’t even remember their names. Jeffrey, was it?”

Michael giggled a bit at that, his head leaning into your embrace.

“Jake, I believe.”

You smiled at him with a familiar softness, and leaned in to meet his lips with yours.

He melted quickly into the attention you gave him, getting feverish as you used your thumb to tug lightly on his bottom lip, urging him to open his mouth wider. When you slipped your tongue inside, he momentarily forgot all about your past conquests.

But as your kiss grew more passionate and he grew needier, a fierce competitiveness started to brew in the back of his throat, all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He needed to prove to you and to himself that he was better than them. Better at making you smile, better at making you coo, better at making you cum.

He broke the kiss and started peppering a series of light kisses and licks along the valley of your neck, occasionally biting and marking the flesh. You started heaving, arousal pooling down your needy cunt and tainting your white lacy underwear.

“Can I do somethin’ ?” he whispered along your collarbones.

You were far too lost in his ministrations to voice your answer, but when he nipped at your skin harder than before, you mumbled a hurried yes.

His kisses got lower and lower, pampering your torso and landing on your stomach as his hands bunched up your shirt. His own breath grew heavier, the faint notes of your arousal filtering through his nostrils. He placed a kiss on your hip bone before looking up at you with doe eyes, waiting for permission. 

You nodded his way and lifted up your hips to help him get your shorts off. He rested his face against your thigh for a bit, brows furrowed as a sudden thought ran through his mind. He wasn’t the first to have seen you like that, was he?

A yelp escaped the barrier of your lips when you felt a light slap on your cunt, and you jolted out of surprise.

“Michael.” Your voice was a mix of stern startlement and arousal. He let out an apologetic whimper before attaching his lips to your covered cunt.

The pleasure started filtering through your body, washing away Michael’s sudden outburst. But his licks were a bit harsher and more pointed, and he soon got frustrated with the cloth that stood between you and him.

He pushed your soaked panties to the side and resumed his ministrations, his eyes fixed on your heaving chest and open mouth.

“Mph’feelin good?” he muttered against you, two of his fingers coming up to toy with your entrance.

“Yes baby, so so good, God–”

He wanted to say something, the jealous fire deep within him not extinguished yet. He tried to go against it, Maybe she’ll get mad he thought, but he couldn’t keep it to himself, he needed to know.

He inserted his two digits as a form of distraction before voicing softly “Better than him?”

You answered, half-dazed and confused as to who he was referring to. “What? Who are you–”

“Better than Jamal, yeah? Makin’ you feel so so good, only me.”

His fingers sped up inside your cunt, the rapid motion sending pleasure coursing through your body in waves, your release not far away.

Michael whined a bit louder between your legs when you didn’t answer, only letting out honey-like moans.

“Common, I make you feel so much better, don’t I?” he urged, his eyes on you and his brows furrowed in need. His own hips were now humping the bed unconsciously, his cock throbbing inside his briefs.

You were trying to form a coherent answer in your mind, but when it took you more than a few seconds Michael decided that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t giving you enough yet. He needed to prove himself more.

And so he abruptly took his fingers out of your dripping, needy cunt right as you were about to orgasm. You tried to protest, the void you felt unbearable, but stopped once you saw him get on his knees and pull down his pants and boxers just enough for his cock to spring free.

His angry tip leaked precum, and he used it as lubricant to soak your pussy even more, bumping against your clit every time he went back and forth.

“Please…say it.”

“Michael, just put it in, you’re not being reasonable” you whined, which was unlike you, but you needed him so much.

“If you want my cock say it”

Michael was being bolder than he ever was before, his delivery a bit off and his voice wavering on the word cock from how unnatural it felt coming from his lips, but the fire in his lungs was insatiable and he needed your reassurance.

Usually you wouldn’t entertain it, but you felt how bad he wanted it, how your comments affected him despite his playing it off. And so you indulged.

“You’re so much better Michael. Never had such a pretty face fuck me so good, yeah?” Your hand came up between the two of you, grabbing his dick and guiding him just in front of your entrance. “You’re the only one who can make me cum. The only one I let put his seed into me. Fill me up, Michael.”

A loud moan escaped his lips and without thinking, he pushed his entire length into you. The sudden intrusion made you let out a little cry of pain, and upon noticing it Michael tried to stay still until you felt better.

But your velvety walls were wrapping around him so tenderly, and the sweetness of your words left him shaking in utter bliss. Despite his efforts he couldn’t stop the small rolls of his hips into your heat, chasing a climax that was so near yet so far. 

When you felt good again and nodded in his direction, he was unstoppable. His hips snapped against your own, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his entire body pressing up against yours. He wanted to be so much deeper into you, wanted to crawl under your skin and be transported with you everywhere you go.

Moans and praises echoed against the velvety walls of your bedroom as your peaks grew closer, and you felt for the poor housekeepers that were probably being subjected to the music of your joined pleasure. 

“Can I cum inside? Please? Please, oh lemme…”

His words trailed off as his lips reached your own once again, wanting to feel you breathe into him as he brought both of you to the end. You muttered two or three breathless and barely audible yes, and shuddered when you felt his hand on your clit.

You came before he did, his name seemingly the only word you knew as your world collapsed in his embrace. He followed not long after, hips jerking uncontrollably as he filled you up to the brim, months of abstinence catching up to the both of you.

He stayed inside for a bit, his forehead resting on yours and your heavy breathing synchronized. He only moved when you playfully pinched his side, and he rolled over before enveloping you with his arms.

You placed a soft, almost non-existent kiss on his cheekbone before muttering to his dozing form, “You’ll always be better Mikey.”

He giggled softly against your hair and turned his head towards the ceiling.

“I don’t even know why we were talkin’ about him”

Then, added cheekily:

Sometimes you wonder how you got so lucky to have someone like Michael Jackson as your boyfriend.

It had happened unexpectedly.

You were super passionate about film ever since a kid so you studied it, going to college for it and you eventually landed a job with a company that filmed commercials, promotions and some music videos.

It was exciting and thrilling, getting to do what you loved every day.

Somehow it led to you meeting Michael Jackson for a promotional video he was doing.

You had always been a fan so when you were told, you were practically shaking the day of, nervous to be in his presence.

But he ended up being so kind and lovely to everyone there, making sure the crew was taken care of.

He ended up talking to you about cameras and filming as he also had a passion for filming, one day wanting to become a film director.

You ended up exchanging numbers after that and somehow one thing led to another, flirting and attractions grew, eventually leading to a relationship.

It was now a year later and your relationship was going strong, emotionally and sexually. You loved learning about this amazing human, learning about things that he never showed the media.

One of the things though that had suprised and delighted you to discover was that Michael Jackson couldn't be quiet during sex for the life of him.

It was all whimpers and moans, curses and whining out your name.

It delighted you though, having that confirmation that you were giving him pleasure.

There was one night during sex that you had teased him about it.

"You're so noisy baby." You teased softly as he moaned underneath you. "We could never have sex anywhere even remotely public. Everyone would know what we were doing."

He had blushed but his moans became louder, his breathing going heavier and you felt his body tense under you, him mumbling a curse as he came.

Your eyes widened in surprise. You knew he had been starting to get close but he definetly hadn't been that close.

Smirking, you said. "Hmmm seems like someone likes the idea of that."

He didn't reply, still panting and making noises underneath you as he rode out his orgasm.

The two of you talked later that night after you had showered. You were cuddled together, one leg tangled with his and your head on his shoulder as you traced patterns on his bare skin, following the blotchy parts of his skin.

He was blushing slightly as he talked. "I-i don't know.... the idea is just kinda hot. Trying to stay quiet. That someone could discover what we were doing." He was resolutely looking at the wall, avoiding your gaze.

You looked up at him. "Well personally I am down for trying it. I think it'll be hot seeing you try to be quiet." You chuckled but then grew a bit more serious. "But it's only if you want to and how we would go about it."

He sighed. "Yeah I don't really know... It's not like I could ever actually do anything in public. I literally cannot risk being caught." He bit his lip.

You contemplated for a moment. "Well we could always do some roleplay instead?"

His brow furrowed and he looked doubtful. "Roleplay? Wouldn't that be kinda.... I don't know... silly?"

You chuckled a little. "Maybe but also just imagine." You roamed your eyes to the vanity in the corner of the room. "We could have you sit there, pretend we're in a dressing room." You roamed your eyes to the bedroom door. "That your security is standing outside and that at any moment someone could walk in. So you need to be quiet so we don't get caught." You leaned foward, whispering the last part in his ear.

He shivered, his breath catching and you saw his throat bob as he swallowed heavily.

You smirked. "Doesn't seem so silly now huh?" You playfully nipped his ear and he made a sound.

"No." His voice was heated.

You giggled. "Looks like we might need a second round tonight hmm? Once wasn't enough for you?"

Hs rolled his eyes. "You're the one talking dirty to me."

"Yeah because you like it." You smiled.

He just sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm dating a menace."

"A menace that you love and who is gonna help your fantasies come to life."

He just sighed and rolled his eyes but he was smiling and he kissed you to shut you up.

It was a few days later and you were officially trying out roleplaying.

Michael was dressed in one of his suits that he didn't really wear anymore but still looked immaculate in and he styled his hair.

Originally he wasn't going to, not seeing the point but you had convinced him to. Mainly so you could see that perfect image get ruined though you told him it would make the roleplay feel more realistic.

He was now sitting at the vanity, fiddling with random things and you smiled as you watched him before finally getting up and walked over.

"Ready for your shoot today babe?" You asked. It was decided you guys would pretend he had a photoshoot that day and that you were in the dressing room before the shoot.

He turned to you, still looking shy and giggling a little, not used to doing something like this. "Yeah. It'll be easy."

You giggled. "Yeah I'm sure it will be for the king of pop." You sit down on his lap, making yourself comfortable and you look at him.

"You look so pretty today angelface." You admire his features and he blushes a little, averting your gaze.

"Oh don't be shy now." You gently direct his chin back so he can look at you and then you lean foward, giving him a heated kiss.

He makes a soft noise, eagerly kissing back. His hands rest on your waist.

You make out for a bit before you pull back, starting to press kisses to his neck. "My pretty boy." You praise.

He breaths out shakily. "Babe. Don't start something we can't finish."

You smirk against his neck, still kissing it. "Whatever do you mean? I'm just giving my pretty boy some kisses. Giving him the love he deserves."

His eyes close, and you see him swallow heavily but he doesn't say anything.

Still smirking you start to give him a hickey and he lets out another noise.

"B-babe, really, you need to stop." His voice is shaky.

"Why? What's the matter?" You ask teasingly then you purposefully look down, at where his hard on is straining against his suit pants.

"Ah is that the problem?" You move your leg so it pushes against his hard on and he lets out a soft moan but quickly bites his lip, looking at the door.

"We can't. We really can't. My bodyguards are out there." He looks at you with wide eyes but his eyes are heated.

"Hmmm I don't know babe. Will you even be able to calm down in time?" You tease, pressing against his hard on again and he breaths out shakily.

He doesn't reply and you smile, running a hand through his hand. "I don't think you'll be able to. I think you need to be taken care of, don't you?"

He still looks nervous. "I can't be caught babe."

"I know. That's why you're gonna have to be a good boy and be quiet." You start nipping at his ear. "Can't have them know how needy you are can we? That you got hard just from kissing me."

He hides his face a little by looking down, letting out another noise.

You gently grab his chin, making you look at him and you admire the flush of his cheeks, the heat and embarrassment in his eyes.

"Will you be a good boy and be quiet?"

He blushes even more but nods and you smirk.

"Good."

You go back to kissing him and you start slipping off his suit jacket. He helps you, moving to make it easier for you.

You run your hands over his chest, teasingly running your fingers close his nipples but not actually touching. He lets out a quiet whine.

Eventually you start to unbutton his shirt, not taking it off but leaving it open and you run a finger over his nipple. He lets out a moan, quieted by your kiss.

Pulling back, you give him a look. "If you're already gonna be this noisy we're gonna be caught right away."

His breath catches and he looks at the door again. "S-sorry." He mumbles.

"Just make sure we don't get caught." You smirk at him then start playing with his nipples again.

He bites his lip, closing his eyes. He's still letting out noises but he's doing better than you expected.

After a bit of playing with his nipples you let your hand wander down his stomach, going to the waistband of his suit pants and his breath catches slightly in anticipation.

You slowly unbutton his pants, pulling out his hard on. You gently run your hands over and he moans softly, still biting his lip.

You start to fully stroke him, making sure to give attention to the sensitive head as you want to see him break.

He lets out a whine, jerking a bit in your grip.

"Baby." You say sharply. "You're being too loud."

He looks at you with wide heated eyes and nods.

You go back to stroking him, speeding up. You watch as he puts his hand up to his mouth, biting on a finger as he moans, doing his best to stay quiet.

"You're not doing very well." You tease as you stroke him. "Maybe I need to try putting my hand over your mouth to shut you up."

His breath catches and his hard on jerks in your hand. He obviously likes that idea.

"Hmm seems like that's what we need to do." You move his hand from his mouth and put yours over it.

It's really hot, feeling his warm breath against your hand as he moans and whines underneath you, muffled by your hand.

His eyes are closed, head tilted back and his hips are jerking into your grip.

You stroke him faster, doing all the things you know make him come fast.

"Fuck babe fuck. I'm close." You can hear him say muffled behind your hand.

"Come for me." You whisper.

He tenses and comes, spilling into your hand and a bit onto his suit pants. He's still moaning and whining.

You stroke him through his orgasm, not stopping till he whines from overstimualtion, moving your hand away with his.

He relaxes against the chair, still catching his breath and his cheeks still flushed.

"Well safe to say it's good we didn't actually do this in public." You tease and he groans, hiding his face.

"My noisy boy. It's okay though cause I love it." You kiss him.