hecallsmeback

To say that you were planning to 'try' for a baby seemed like poor wording for a couple who never needed to deliberately attempt to trigger conception. That risk followed you around almost every time you had sex, and miraculously, you'd so far succeeded in never accidentally getting pregnant. There was that one scare though, which you preferred to pretend didn't happen, because it had led to a very embarrassing ordeal with Katherine Jackson.

So with how often you recklessly had unprotected sex, you most definitely didn't need to plan to make your baby. A few nights of mindless insemination would do the trick, but Michael wanted the night you conceived your child to be very special. Or the multiple nights, rather, because you obviously couldn't be certain which night would be the night.

And so, for the entire week around the time of ovulation that month, Michael treated every night with the same grace and thoughtful purpose. He had finally moved out of Hayvenhurst two months ago when you married, so now you had a huge house all to yourselves. He dimmed the lights, lit up the bed with candles, then made sweet love to you in the most heart-achingly slow way, always having one hand interlaced with yours, and the other cradling your jaw. For that whole week, every single night was spent in the same routine, with your husband rocking into you aside warm candlelight and the mingled scent of flowers and sex. Each of those nights you went at it for hours at a time, between missionary, prone bone, mating press, cow girl and reverse...

But Michael refused to do anything with you that he deemed as on the 'dirtier' side while you were babymaking, because he felt those methods of sexuality didn't align with the evening's intention. He wouldn't give you backshots, nor would he let you give him oral, or do anything on your knees. He wouldn't talk dirty—he'd speak only praise, although that's what he did most of the time anyway. And in cowgirl, he hardly even let you bounce—instead planting his feet on the bed and pounding you from underneath, running his hands all up and down your body.

Michael was masculine in a very specific way. To describe him as a soft dom would be putting it too simply, for he was much more complex with the way he loved on a lady in bed. Since he lost his virginity to you in '78, he grew to believe that making love to his goddess was the single most precious thing in life, that he should give her absolutely everything, put her pleasure above all else, and treasure her until the end of the earth. He was inherently soft-natured and gentle, what one may deem submissive in that sense, but such would be an incorrect statement to make regarding Michael Jackson, because while Michael could definitely lean into submission if he wanted to (often he did so in his post-sex haze), his dominance lay in the mode of admiration he displayed during your sexual encounters. He almost always took the lead, and was so naturally talented with his hips. You never had a single night of dissatisfaction.

Throughout those ovulatory evenings, missionary was your go-to, because it felt the most intimate. Chests pressed against each other, your limbs locked around his torso, and Michael's thrusts were beautifully slow and deep; almost too slow at times, because he was treating your fertile body like a sacred object. He always did, except now he'd taken that sacred care to a whole other level, where you were in the arms of a man who adored you so much that he felt he had to pay close attention to every single aching inch of your walls with each stroke. While you made your very first baby, the most important thing to Michael was that he deeply took in and appreciated your inner angelic ambience. Since he was a boy he'd dreamed of the day he would start making his own family, free of Joseph's constraints, and he never believed it would be with the girl he then went on to spend years 'platonically' cuddling and playfighting with. Now he was here, at the grown age of twenty-two, nestled deep inside that same girl, whispering in her ear everything he loved about her. Tender love and care—that's all you deserved. Michael would happily spend a lifetime in a never-ending process of continual conception, because nothing had ever been more intimate.

The first night you began trying, it had honestly felt like you'd lost your virginity all over again. You giggled like shy teenagers as he first pushed in, smooching all over your face while you tugged at his hair playfully.

"Mikey, I can't believe we're really doin' this..." you sighed in half-nervous, half-excited anticipation.

"I know, I feel like 'm in heaven, baby..." Michael moaned, stroking your face as he bottomed out. You gasped and squeezed his hand that he'd already met with yours.

"But remember," he added, "if you change your mind at any point, 'n decide y' not ready, that's perfectly okay. Just tell me."

You nodded, kissing his nose. "No, I really think I'm ready. Wow," you took a deep breath, "this is really happening."

"It is really happenin', angel." As he said the words aloud, Michael had smiled so wide it made your heart ache.

Sometimes in that week you had to actually plead with him to go faster, because while you were perfectly satisfied with the slow strokes, you didn't always need him to be so gentle with you. And of course you were ovulating—which was the whole point—so you had primal urges that needed to be satiated.

"No, honey, I wanna keep takin' it slow... Need to really feel ya..." Michael hummed into your neck as he sucked there, rolling his hips with precision, tip nudging your sweet spot perfectly each time.

"Sweetheart, we've been at this for two hours already," you laughed. "You've made me cum three times. I think we can say you've treated me with more than enough care tonight—now I just really need you to go faster. Please, baby."

Michael giggled, now pressing wet kisses over your breasts, around your areolas. "Okay, fine."

Every time he came inside you, he'd instruct you to lie on your back for ten minutes, then he'd lay with you and cuddle while his warm seed still explored your walls. He'd suck on your breasts, play with your hair, sing whimsically under his breath, talk to you about the most random topics on his mind—doing enough for the duration of what he believed was enough time passed for his cum to really reach enough depth. You told him that all of that was probably mythological—that there was more likely no ritual that actually aided fertilisation. Luck was all you needed, and the sheer number of times Michael had spilled himself into you that week had to have been enough without the alleged pregnancy hacks in between that he insisted on adhering to. But of course he continued to insist.

"Darlin', if y' lay on your back it gives the sperm an uninterrupted path upward. We don't want any slippin' out."

"Whatever, baby," you'd chuckle, heart racing at how obsessed he was with filling you up now that there were no negative consequences. You'd never seen him act so wild before, and he was unironically treating this process as a full time job. Never had he given such focus toward anything outside of the recording studio.

Whenever you laid on your back after a round, obliging with his orders, he'd rest forward on his elbows and examine your soaked pussy like a damn gynecologist. He'd rub his thumb just slightly over your entrance, noticing the way you hissed at the feeling, but without his usual primary intention of making you feel good—rather, he was just genuinely intrigued, and insanely captivated by his breeding endeavours. For those ten minutes you laid there, he'd rest on your thighs, breathing in the scent of your post-sex core, the mixed flavour of his release and yours. You'd stroke through his curls, always ending up smacking his head lightly whenever he lost sight of what he was doing and accidentally started playing with your overly-sensitive clit.

"Nuh-uh," you scolded, with a playful whack to his head. "Wait."

He'd always roll his eyes in frustration, but do as he was told. "Mama, y' not gonna make me lie here without lettin' me touch."

"Michael, you've been touchin' me nonstop. Take a break, honey. Matter of fact, give my pussy a break."

A heart-warmingly genuine laugh came from his throat.

"And," you continued, so amused, "you're telling me I made you lie here when it's you who told me that I have to?"

Michael ignored that, pressing a kiss to your thigh before sitting up on his knees and crawling up to the top of the bed to be beside you.

Once the remaining minutes were over, he eagerly dipped back down to his favourite place, instructing you to lift your hips so that his pearly, sticky release would drip out. It slowly formed a damp stain on the pillow he'd put beneath you, and he watched in awe as the liquid flowed like a filthy river from your sex.

Using two fingers, he dragged the salty filth up and down your slit, circling around your hole before drenching your sensitive flesh. Despite how vocal he always was, he mostly did this part wordlessly, too focused to say anything; and each time, you watched in complete disbelief at how he never grew tired of enacting this same activity. To Michael, smearing his thick cum all over the part of your body that would give his baby life was the most lewdly precious activity, and in the moments where you weren't way too sensitive, he'd lean in after his examination, licking up the sloppy mixture.

"Just wonderful, honey..." his soft voice would murmur against your swollen bud.

On one night that week, you were both attending an award show, and following the ceremony you skipped the afterparty altogether—to your friends' confusion—because despite how incredibly sexually active you'd already been that week, you both couldn't wait to rush home and make love some more. The outside world was secondary to the inner sanctuary you shared, and especially in the most important week of all. You'd initially suggested to Michael that you could both attend the afterparty but have sex in a bathroom or another locked room—or that you could stay out for a while and then later go home to have sex—but your husband didn't enjoy the prospect of either idea. Yes, it was night four, where you'd already spent hours per night in the bed that despite its luxury was so close to breaking, and yes, he'd hoisted you up against the shower wall that morning and given it to you twice, but in Michael's eyes, those sessions were no reason to disrupt what he had planned.

During your fertile period, he had firmly decided that the evening into late night was for lovemaking, no matter what outdoor activities were on offer. And you couldn't complain that he was so specific about that self-determined rule. What better excuse to have sex with your man all night long for a week straight than for the purpose of conceiving your first baby?

Michael was so excited to meet his unborn child. Outside of the hours he spent buried inside you, he couldn't stop talking about your future baby—and by extension, the babies plural, that would later follow. You would laugh at him when he'd go too far into the future, reminding him to stay in the present and not get too ahead of himself, but when he said yet again that he wished for eighteen children—almost double the number his parents had produced—you obviously weren't on board in the slightest.

"Michael," you chuckled, laid in the crook of his bare neck as you drew circles just above his nipple. "You better shut the hell up about this eighteen kids thing. 'm serious, don't talk about that shit with me." You were serious, but you continued to laugh because he was just so ridiculous, never looking at life situations logically.

"Honey, 'm sorry, I just want so many." He smiled bashfully, pulling your naked body closer into him.

"Oh, I can see that." You raised your brows in amusement.

"We've got a huge house—I just wanna fill it w' so many beautiful children."

"And that would be amazing, baby, except I don't think my vagina would be very happy."

Suddenly Michael froze at the realisation of his accidental bordering on typical male coercion, although you knew that's not at all what he meant. He just hadn't thought it through properly, lost in the heartwarming image of two football teams' worth of kids running around with him.

"Oh—yeah, that's um, really bad of me, 'm sorry, sweetheart. I wasn't thinkin' of it that way."

"Mikey," you laughed, "I don't think my pussy has been out of your mind for five days straight—and now you're tellin' me you forgot about that part of childbirth altogether?"

He chuckled shyly, shaking his head, then shuffled a little downward to face you properly. You squeezed his cheek and ruffled his hair.

But there was another thing your newly-wed husband couldn't stop obsessing over—and that was the prospect of what you'd grow to look like while pregnant. How your curves would swell, how you'd look fuller in all the places he already cherished most. And the thought of your breasts working through hormonal shifts to create milk for his baby... he felt as though he might go insane at the first sight of that image. He hoped you wouldn't think he was strange for wanting a taste.

And oh, you couldn't have been even slightly prepared for how insatiable he'd be. If you thought your husband was addicted to you now, just wait until you were heavily pregnant, all sexy and swollen with his child...

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