love will last @imactuallyniii - Tumblr Blog

̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ masked

chapter two

pairing ━━ ༯ mature! michael x fem! camgirl reader

author's note ━━ ༯ i wasn't planning on it, but now this is going to be multichapter. i hope u enjoy my little art references and such in here. i did a fair bit of research on the dialogue that occurs.

tags ━━ ༯ deep conversations, masks, hidden identity, or so michael thinks lmao, intimatacy, eventual smut, oral (f! receiving), soft dom! michael, praise, age gap, cam girl, slight sugar baby vibes but not really tbh, michael is just rich and wants some company, fantasy-esque, michael is dramatic af, idk what to tell u guys,

chapters; one | two

The silence after you typed ‘Yes’ was disgustingly menacing. The chat log sat open, mocking you, its dark bolded lettering a digital burn on your screen: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.

You stared at it until the letters blurred, the monitor glow drying your eyes, the laptop fan a thin whine beneath the pound of blood in your ears.

The adrenaline that had carried you through the confrontation with your own fear bled away, leaving a cold, hollow dread in its wake, a nausea so unsettling that you thought you might upchuck at any moment.

You’d agreed. You, a broke college student with very limited prospects, or protection, for that matter; had just agreed to be driven to a remote estate to meet a 'masked' man who paid you thousands of dollars to talk dirty.

You were an idiot. A spectacularly, dangerously stupid idiot.

You were driven to this... you were sure of it. There was only so much you could take of the male petulance; after a shift where a guy spent forty dollars to have you read him a Wikipedia article about car parts in a baby voice, you merely… cracked.

The memory of that caller’s dead-eyed request still itched under your skin, the degrading banality of it making this new insanity feel almost like liberation.

But you were also a pragmatist.

And $2,200 was a siren song that drowned out the screams of your better judgment, a neon pulse behind your eyes that said rent, food, sleep.

Before the panic could fully set in, his username blinked back to life in your private chat.

king777tut: I did not expect for you to want to meet me.

SweetViolet: Yeah, well me neither. surprised myself on this one. But i feel compelled to see where this goes.

A pause. The cursor blinked. You could feel the shift, the digital air cooling from the intimacy of before into something more procedural, the warmth of his earlier whispers scraped away to leave bare transaction.

king777tut: We should discuss practicalities. Compensation for your time and travel. I want this to be clear cut. For your comfort, of course.

The phrasing was stiff, awkward. It felt like he was reading from a script, or trying to sound like someone who conducted business, the words too careful, too measured for a man who’d just come apart over text.

SweetViolet: What did you have in mind?

king777tut: I am not sure what is standard. I do not wish to offend you,,, Please. Tell me what you need….

There it was. The out.

You could name some absurd number, scare him off, retreat back into the safe, grimy anonymity of your cam room.

But the $2,200 already in your account from very little work was siphoning you.

The power was in your hands, he’d handed it to you.

You had to look like you knew what you were doing, had to wear the armor of a woman who did this daily.

“Okay,” you whispered to the empty, hot room.

“You’re a professional. Act like one.”

You didn't make yourself sound convincing. You couldn't.

You closed the chat window and opened a blank notes document. The cursor mocked you, sitting in the empty document like a tiny, blinking eye.

For the next three hours, you fell down a rabbit hole of your own making. You combed through shady forums, archived subreddits and the cryptic jargon of “sugar baby” blogs, the blue light of the screen painting your knees in ghostly pallor.

You learned terms like “PPM” (Pay Per Meet), “allowance,” “overnight fee,” “travel companionship.”

You saw numbers that made your head spin; four figures for a dinner date, five figures for a weekend. You read advice columns about safety, about screening and about never compromising your rate.

You felt like a fraud, a kid playing dress-up in a world of hardened courtesans, your dollar-store panties a world away from their elite lingerie drawers.

Every line you typed felt like a lie etched deeper into your soul. You weren't really a professional. You were a scared girl who got slightly more turned on than usual listening to a sad man whisper dirty sweet nothings through a mask on a blurry cam.

But you had gotten yourself into this position and now you had to sell the fantasy. Of confidence. Of experience. For the money. Just for the money.

Make him believe you. Extort this celebrity man for his fortune so you can simply afford the nicer butter in the grocery store.

So, you made a list. A cold, calculated breakdown of your own worth by the hour.

Social Companion (Dinner/Event): $2,000 for up to 4 hours. Includes platonic public or private companionship, conversation. No physical intimacy implied.

Private Companion (In-Call/Out-Call): $5,000 for up to 6 hours. Includes intimate, private time. Overnight stays begin after 6 hours.

Overnight Fee: $8,000 for a 12-hour period (e.g., 8 PM to 8 AM). Requires private, secure accommodations.

Extended Stay (24 Hours): $12,000.

Weekend (48 Hours): $20,000.

You read it over. It was a masterpiece of bullshit. It sounded legit.

If you were completely honest with yourself, you were pretending to be someone you weren’t, so the fake price list was just another lie to add to the list.

It was so far removed from what you wanted to do but again... the money.

The guilt was a leaden weight in your gut. You were constructing a persona out of greed and desperation, spinning a web of lies to entrap a person who, for all his fame and wealth, had shown you a semblance of vulnerability you’d never encountered in a man before.

But you needed the money. You needed it. It didn't matter who he was or what he was. You'd take the opportunity.

With a final, shaky breath, you copied the text and pasted it into the chat.

SweetViolet: My terms are below. Please review them and let me know

You hit send.

The wall of text, so clinical and mercenary, landed in the space where just hours before you’d typed out how he made you feel. The whiplash was nauseating.

The ellipsis appeared. It pulsed. And pulsed. For five full minutes. You imagined him on the other side, in his silk sheets, reading this cold contract, his masked face unreadable.

Was he disappointed? Was he impressed? Was he even the one reading it, or was it maybe one of his staff? Perhaps the sharp-eyed manager?

Finally, a response.

king777tut: I understand. This is comprehensive,,, The amounts are of no consequence, to me. I would like to begin with the Companion 6 hr option. For this Friday.

You were bewildered at how he had just accepted the terms with no questions asked, like your price list was pocket change.

The fantasy was officially over; the contract had begun.

You had to act like a business woman now for the most part. This was technically business and maybe he’d treat it that way too. Paying for a product—experiencing what it says on the tin.

Be a companion to him.

The hairs on your arms raised at the thought.

SweetViolet: Agreed. I will need the payment 24 hours prior to the engagement.

king777tut: I will need a few days to rearrange my schedule and ensure security protocols are in place,,, I will have my associate, Mr. Lees, send the car details and the payment. You will hear from him.

SweetViolet: Okay.

king777tut: Thank you. I will… see you soon,,, I hope.

He logged off. You minimised the chat and stared at your price list document. You had just sold your first call out; a lump sum of $5,000.

You had lied about literally being a prostitute. And now, through sheer, terrified will, you had become one. The web was spun. You were caught in it too.

You slammed the laptop lid shut in an emotional daze. Was this the right thing to do?

The question hung, unanswered, in the stale, hot apartment air.

.˚○ • °

The silence stretched for two days, thick and unnerving. No new messages and no log ons. You could see his last active status and it was days ago, a frozen timestamp mocking your waiting.

You went through the motions of your classes, of your shifts, but your mind was fixated on the only thing keeping you afloat.

Friday. The money. Meeting with him in person.

You checked your Wire account a dozen times a day, the balance a taunting, static number, showing no new deposits, the refresh button worn smooth under your thumb.

The dread had changed into a frightening suspicion. Had it all been a bizarre fantasy? A cruel joke played by a man with too much money and too little to do?

Part of you hoped it was, so you could get out of this situation, unscathed and with your dignity intact. It would mean you weren’t a liar.

The other, more desperate part of you felt the impact and weight of that five thousand dollars, already spent on tuition, rent and credit card debt in your head, a phantom ledger you couldn't undo.

.˚○ • °

On the morning of the third day of silence, things changed.

A courier service you’d never heard of was stopped outside of your house; a big unmarked grey van.

After nearly tumbling down the stairs in a fit of excitement, you reached the door, where a uniformed driver greeted you gruffly, and presented a large, rectangular hamper at your apartment door.

It was a woven willow basket, the size of a small suitcase, with a deep, arched handle. It looked like something out of a Victorian fairytale, or for a very expensive picnic. The wicker scratched against your palm as you took its weight.

You hauled it inside, the weight of it fairly substantial for its size, your arms trembling by the time you reached your room.

You got it up into your bedroom and let it rest on your scuffed laminate floor, an alien artifact among your scattered textbooks.

Tied to the handle with a thick, black silk ribbon was a small, cream-colored envelope. Your username was written on it in a looping, elegant script that used too much ink. It was handwritten, the strokes pressing into the paper deeply.

With trembling fingers, you untied the ribbon and lifted the basket’s lid.

A scent bloomed into the air first; a really strong cologne. A spicy, powdery, distinctive aroma of sandalwood, clove, and something floral and expensive, ylang-ylang, maybe.

It was so potent, so present in your teeny room that it felt like an invasion, like he’d actually walked into this place and graced you with his presence.

He’d sprayed it, liberally, somewhere in this package, the mist clinging to every fold of tissue neatly packed.

Beneath a layer of delicate, black tissue paper, the contents glimmered.

It was lingerie, but not from any store you knew. There was a slip dress the color of moonlit smoke, so fine it was nearly translucent, with straps as thin as spider silk and a hem that would brush mid-thigh.

Next to it, a chemise in a neutral, creamy chiffon, dotted with tiny, hand-embroidered black stars along the plunging neckline. A pair of sheer stockings, black as a raven’s wing, with seams so straight they looked drawn on. And at the very bottom, folded with care, a robe.

It was black velvet on one side, a pattern of silver-grey damask on the other, heavy and luxurious, with wide, dramatic sleeves.

It was fantasy wear. It was floaty, ethereal, and undeniably sensual. And it was all brand new, the tags on the pieces, tiny slivers of satin from some sort of Parisian atelier you’d only read about in novels.

Where the hell did he get this? Had he flown it in just for you? Or was this something he did often enough that he kept this boutique on hand?

Whichever it was in this moment, you felt you didn’t quite care. It completely eliminated you having to stand in front of your small and sad wardrobe and pick out overused lingerie you’d been wearing for well over 8 months on the cam site. You’d never really had the money to invest in anything better than what you had.

You reached for the envelope next, the paper thick and expensive under your thumb.

The cologne was strongest here. You slid out a single sheet of matching cream stationery.

The handwriting was the same as on the envelope, but here it was smaller, more rushed, the letters leaning into each other.

The handwriting was in cursive at points, but blended into capital letters; showing a slightly chaotic approach to the writing, like they’d learned partially how to write cursive but never quite could commit to it.

For Sweet Violet,

A small gift. I hope the colours please you. I imagined you in shades of night and mist.

You’ve never seen me before; for I have remained anonymous. Masked. We truly all wear them. Some are flesh. Some are silk. Some are smiles. Mine is one I have to wear to protect myself.

Wear one for me. Not to hide, but to reveal the truth that only anonymity can grant. True indulgence and enjoyment.

I have taken the liberty of including one I thought would suit the fantasy. I will be masked as well.

The mask does not conceal the soul's intended hue,

It simply lets the hidden self speak true.

So let us meet as shadows, let us meet as art,

every touch, a brushstroke in the dark.

I have also included a dress. Purple. Silk. Wear this when you arrive. Over the other things.

Yours,

KT.

Beneath the signature, in a different, more utilitarian pen stroke, was a postscript:

P.S. The agreed compensation for your engagement with my client has been initiated. Please check your Wire account upon receipt of this hamper. It should be settled by close of business today. – Mr. R. Lees

You dropped the note as if it had burned you. The paper fluttered to the floor, the smell of his cologne rising up through the horrendous California heat like a fire.

Your eyes flew to the hamper. You’d missed it, nestled in a fold of the velvet robe and just beside the purple dress; a mask.

You lifted it out. It was a half-face creation of black lace and stiffened silk, covering from the hairline down to just above the lips. It was Phantom of the Opera esque, but more elegant, less grotesque.

Delicate silver filigree traced the brow line and curled along the high cheekbones, and a single, tear-shaped black crystal hung where it would rest against your temple and then, some thin, black silk ribbons for tying.

It was beautiful. It was theatrical.

It was exhilarating; playing a part, playing into his hand.

He was building a set, designing a costume, scripting a scene for you to come and slip into.

The note was a love letter to the concept of being someone’s little secret.

You hadn’t really thought of that before; maybe you were his. Maybe he was married?

You knew from stalking the internet that he had kids, so it wasn’t far from the realm of reality that he may be cheating on his partner.

The poem was awkward, heartfelt, and very cheesy.

The reminder about the payment, tacked on by the efficient Mr. Lees, was the cold splash of reality in the middle of this perfumed fantasy.

You sat on the floor, the scent of him enveloping you, the gorgeous, impossible fabrics spilling around you like a silken tide.

You had things to sort out now; pruning to do.

Fix your eyebrows, shave, wax, moisturise… everything shower to the point you are seeing stars from heat exhaustion.

You picked up the mask from the floor as you stood, holding it up to your face.

In the dim reflection of the plastic make up mirror that sat awkwardly on your desk, you saw a stranger; a mysterious, elegant woman, from a different century. Your own eyes, wide and scared, peered out from the ornate holes.

He wanted to play a game where both players were disguised. The dirtiness you’d sensed was a bit crude and cringe but you had to give it to him, it was well thought out and curated.

It would be a performance within a performance. The intimacy would be mediated through silk and lace, through roles he’d written.

The thought should have revolted you. It should have sent you running to send a cancellation.

But a treacherous, dark part of you, the same part that had gotten turned on listening to his whispered fantasies, stirred.

The sheer audacity of it. How ridiculous he really was, the fact he’d given you hundreds of dollars worth of lingerie, and was paying for you to be a pawn in his little game.

The decadent, obsessive attention to detail, the way he’d sprayed his cologne on the note so you’d have to smell him while you read his words... It was possessive. It was insane.

It was also the most romantic and the most violating thing anyone had ever done for you.

And the money. You grabbed your laptop from where it sat on the desk and pulled it close, your fingers clumsy. You opened internet explorer and found your banking app.

You refreshed.

The balance updated. A deposit of $5,000. From an entity listed as MJJ777 Holdings LLC.

Shit. It was all laid out for you now, and suddenly you realised, due to dropping the funds, you won’t be able to get out of it now.

You carefully folded the lingerie back into the hamper, placed the mask on top, and closed the lid. The scent of him lingered in your apartment, in your hair, on your hands.

.˚○ • °

An unmarked car pulled up at 1pm on the Friday, after an agonising wait. The promised car thankfully wasn’t a limo, which was your first relief.

It was a dark, unremarkable SUV with very dark tinted windows. The driver, a large, silent man with a kind face, simply nodded when you gave your name.

The drive north on the 101 was a slow unraveling of the city’s grip; the surreal blur of the early evening streetlights fading.

You’d asked the driver to have the windows down for most of the drive; it made you feel better. When they were closed, it was suffocating, to not be able to see around you.

The baked concrete and smog gave way to rolling golden hills, then to the lush, manicured green of the Santa Ynez Valley, weirdly untouched by the drought. Vineyards stretched in orderly rows, their leaves a vibrant, almost artificial emerald against the water-starved landscape.

After a few doses, you startled awake, the car pulling into a non-descript road. The driver started to roll up the windows again.

“For security purposes, we don’t allow people to see the outside of the property, ma’am.” His gruff voice came from the front seat.

You gulped and nodded.

Goosebumps rose on your arms— you were imagining it to be just like the pictures and the TV specials. It was crazy that you were here. On his estate. In his world.

You felt totally disorientated as the movement came to a halt.

the driver finally got out and then opened the door for you.

When you emerged, you noticed you were in a clearing dominated by a picturesque, storybook cottage and tall dense trees.

It was made of river stone and dark timber, with a steeply pitched roof and leaded glass windows. It looked like something from a fairy tale.

To the left, a path disappeared into more trees.

To the right, you could just catch a glimpse of something vast and white through the foliage, it had to be the main residence, you presumed.

The cottage door opened before the driver could even get out to let you out of the vehicle. Your heart was in your throat at the thought of him stepping out so casually—but it wasn’t him.

A short man stepped out instead; he looked to be in his late fifties, impeccably dressed in a navy blazer and crisp khakis, his silver hair cut with military precision. He had calm, assessing eyes that were roaming over your very formal purple slip dress that was chosen for you. or maybe it was the wrinkles he was looking at, from you sitting in it. Either or, it was a bit intense.

You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact that he was even eye fucking you in the first place.

“Miss,” he said, his voice neutral, professional. “Welcome. I’m Mr Lees. You can call me Rich. I handle uh… my client’s domestic affairs.”

Mr. Jackson. You had wanted him to say the name so badly so you could no longer pretend that you didn’t know who this was that you were meeting.

However, it seemed your masked cam boy wanted to stay private for a little while longer.

It was perplexing that he would not even think of you going to google his address and finding what you did, but it was besides the point. You’d go along with the rouse.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice thin.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you where you are and what is happening this evening.” His phrasing made you cringe a bit.

“The home owner, and your point of contact” he cleared his throat again awkwardly, clearly not sure how to deliver his next thoughts. You were beginning to doubt if his client had done this before.

At this point you didn’t know what you were either; was this truly prostitution? You got chills at the thought. Getting men off on a cam was very different to this.

“-- Is a multi-millionaire, a philanthropist, a performer, and a humanitarian. He is well known and therefore we have arranged for your meeting with him to be on his property, where no media outlets or outside entities can be aware of your meeting.”

“Uhhh. okay thank you for the introduction, i guess” you mumbled, your voice small. This already felt insane—you thought about climbing back into the big fancy car with the kind man and have him drop you back off at your shithole apartment.

“Your bag, Miss?” He took your duffel from your hands without waiting for a response.

“My client is indisposed at the moment. He asked that you get settled in. This,” he gestured to the sightly cottage behind him, “will be your accommodation during your visits.”

The use of ‘visits’ threw you—there’d be more? The mysterious socialite hadn’t even met you in person yet. Hadn’t given you a chance; how could he know it would go further?

The language Rich was using was so carefully sterile, it sanitised the sheer insanity of the situation.

He then led you inside. The cottage was cool, dim, and smelled of lemon floor polish and old wood.

It was decorated with a kind of expensive, impersonal coziness; overstuffed floral sofas, landscapes in heavy gilt frames, a grand piano in the corner. It was like a stage set. A very beautiful, very lonely stage set.

“The kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself to anything. There’s a media room downstairs in the basement. The terrace has a view of the gardens.” Rich placed your bag by the foot of a sweeping staircase.

“He will arrive here, when he’s ready. Is there anything you require immediately?”

Yes. An explanation. A way out. My sanity.

“No. Thank you.”

He gave a curt nod. “The house rules are simple. You are not to leave the cottage grounds unaccompanied. You are not to approach the main house unless specifically invited. You are not to take photographs. Your cell will have no service here, but there is a landline in the library for local calls. All other communications are monitored for security.” He said it all with bored efficiency, like he’d spieled this to someone before.

Your stomach was churning at an alarming rate.

“Dinner will be served later in the evening.” he moved around you awkwardly and then nodded. “Enjoy your stay, miss Y/LN”

You froze up out of undeniable shock and fear; your full name?

He’d clearly had someone look into you. See who you truly were and what you were all about.

It seemed like an unfair power balance; one that you didn’t really fully appreciate.

There went your privacy and any kind of anonymity if this all blew up in your face.

And then Rich was gone, the heavy oak door closing with a soft, definitive click.

This was all morphing into some impending doom; you had to take some majorly deep breaths to keep calm and to not cry.

You were alone. In a cottage. On his sprawling grounds with no signal whatsoever.

You walked to the large window overlooking the terrace, embracing the quiet and the sound of the birds. The “gardens” were less a garden and more a wild, semi-tamed jungle of exotic plants, towering bamboo, and winding gravel paths.

In the distance, you could see the stark white peaks of a roller coaster, motionless against the blue sky.

You were here now; you had to just work through the anxiety and make it to the inevitable. The act that you’d been hired for.

.˚○ • °

Full dark had settled when the soft tapping came at the French windows.

Knock. Knock-knock.

You walked to the glass, the purple dress you changed into billowing behind you.

Outside, on the flagstone terrace, stood a figure in black velvet. The mask was simple, severe, anonymizing. It was contoured around his face perfectly; all black materials, lace, velour and some leather. It carved out the bottom of his face, leaving lips and a jawline on show, and tied around the back of his head with some lace black ribbon.

You’d always known what he’d looked like; the most photographed man in the world, but the way this mask sat on his face, and the way his dark hair framed it all, it really was hard to tell who he was.

You knew who this was, though. It was making concentrating on the money, harder.

He lifted a gloved hand and waved, the gesture awkward, then pointed toward the garden path.

You turned the latch and stepped out.

The night air was cool. He looked at you, his masked head tilting.

A soft, breathy sound escaped him. Huuuh-oh. It was a vocalization, pure and surprised.

“You…” he started, his voice that familiar, breathy tenor, but softer, more present. He seemed to be choosing each word with extreme care.

“You wore the dress. I… I was thinking you might not.” He took a small step closer. “You look… my goodness. You look like a painting. A Laura Wheeler Waring painting, come to life.” The art reference was a shock, and utterly disarming.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice thin and nervous in the vast quiet.

“Come,” he said, his voice light and just… lovely. He extended his gloved hand, palm up, a silent, formal invitation.

You hesitated for only a second before placing your hand in his. Goosebumps rose on contact with him. The leather was soft, warm from his skin.

His fingers closed around yours with a gentle, surprising firmness. He simply turned, leading you down the terrace steps and onto the gravel path.

He walked beside you, your hands linked. The formality of it, the old-world gallantry, made your heart stutter.

He was quiet for a moment, then his voice, closer now, floated to you. The words came in a rush, as if he’d been holding them back.

His earlier precision began to soften, the sentences running together.

“I have thought of this. For days. Since you said yes.”

“I would be in a meeting,” he said, the words spilling out, “and my mind would drift. I would wonder… will she like the gifts? Was it too much? The mask… was it too theatrical?” He glanced at you, the faint light catching the lower curve of his mask that sat just above his lips.

He gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, the sound loosening something in his posture.

“I have a flare for the dramatics. I can’t help it. It’s just… who I am.”

“It wasn’t too much,” you said, the truth of it surprising you. “It was beautiful. All of it.”

He squeezed your hand lightly. The gesture was less formal now, more genuine.

“I’m glad. Really. I wanted it to be… special. For you.” He paused as you both rounded a bend.

“You said you study. At UCLA.”

“Art history. With a minor in sociology.”

“Sociology!” he exclaimed, the word bursting from him with genuine delight.

The exclamation was less measured, more spontaneous. “The study of people. That is… that is a very smart degree to pursue. And art history… tell me, who moves you? Not just who you study. Who speaks to here?” He brought his free hand to his chest, over his heart.

The question was so earnest, so direct, it bypassed your nerves.

“Recently? The Symbolists. Moreau. Redon. The way they use myth… it’s not about literal truth, it’s about psychological truth. The monsters aren’t out there, they’re in here.” You tapped your own temple.

“Trust me, I know all about the monsters in the mind,” he said, his voice dropping into a more confidential tone. The ‘g’ in ‘going’ vanished, a sign of his growing ease.

“I’ve been battlin’ some…demons my whole life.” He squeezed your hand lightly again, as if to say I won’t get into that, but I know.

He continued, his speech beginning to flow, losing its stilted over performed edge.

“I read a lot of philosophy. Been blessed to travel, see places with rich history. To learn more about religion and the human condition."

“So, in other words you… you know your stuff,” you finally said.

The mask dipped in a gesture of modesty.

“I have been… fortunate. To see many things. To live with art. It has been my teacher.” his voice had gotten higher as he got more excited recalling his experiences. He cleared his throat, and his next words came out much deeper. “And, my… escape.”

He fell quiet for a few steps.

“Books, art, my animals… sometimes they’re better company than people. People… they want a piece. I’ll only let them see the surface. Nothin’ deeper. Fame is the mask I can’t take off.” He said it as a simple fact.

Then he seemed to catch himself, to remember the mask he was literally wearing and stopped abruptly. He let out that soft, breathy laugh again. The laugh was easier now. “I guess I’m takin’ that quite literally, now, huh?”

He fell back into step beside you, hand still linked and changed the subject.

"This whole place," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand at the sprawling dark beyond the trees, "it's bigger'n you'd think. Hundreds of acres. Never really remember how many. You ever seen anythin' like it? Feels like another country right?"

You shook your head, the gravel crunching under your heeled shoes. "Never. I've never even been on a date this elaborate. Hell, I've never left the country."

He slowed, his head tilting toward you. "Never left the country? Not once?"

"Nope. Barely left California, if I'm honest."

Something flickered in him—a soft, saddened crease at the corners of his visible eyes.

"That's… that's a real shame. A girl like you, should see the world. The things I've seen, the temples, the coast lines, the culture…" He cleared his throat again, clearly a nervous tick. It was awkward, the sound small in the quiet. "You got a passport, at least?"

You laughed, a little embarrassed. "No. Never needed one."

"Right. Well. You’ll have to fix that, someday." The words landed casual, but his grip on your hand tightened just slightly.

He stopped walking then, turning to face you fully in the dappled light.

The clearing with the table was just ahead.

“I hpe I am not coming across as too much,” he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate.

“Forgive me. It’s just… I’m excited. I can’t believe you came. And I’ve been really lookin’ at you… you’re so young. And so bright.” He lifted his other hand, as if to touch your face, but stopped short, his gloved fingers hovering near your jawline.

“The days since I found you… they’ve settled me. And excited me, in ways… you can’t imagine. Been missin’ that. Missin’ a real spark.” He said, a lovely smile touching his full lips, the only part of his masked face you could see.

"mhm maybe this ol' man is just being a bit too mushy--"

“You’re not old,” you said automatically, totally interrupting him.

The mask tilted. “Oh, I know, not really,” he said, his voice warm with the hint of a smile.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived ten lives. But in here…” He brought his hovering hand to his own temple.

“Sometimes I’m still that boy, lookin’ at the stars in my hometown, dreamin’ of magic. Dreamin’ of makin’ a difference.” He sighed, a sound of real weariness.

“I tried… I really tried to make a difference, you know? But it… it pushes people away. All of it. Gets real lonely. Exhaustin’. So… that’s where you come in, I guess.”

The confession was so vulnerable, so starkly at odds with the grandeur around you, it stole your breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, his voice brightening, though it still sounded a little forced.

“Tonight… I don’t feel lonely at all. C’mon. Let me do this right for you.”

He led you to the table and, with a courtly flourish, pulled out your chair.

You sat. He pushed it in gently before taking his own seat. The staff appeared, performed the silent ballet of pouring water and wine, and vanished.

Once alone, he lifted his glass, a shy smile in his voice. “To art,” he said.

“And… makin’ some new memories.”

You clinked glasses. The wine was crisp, cold, perfect.

Over the first course, he asked more. He wanted to know about the sociology minor. He leaned in, his elbows on the table now, the last of the stiff posture gone.

“Is it… is it ‘cause you wanna understand why folks do the things they do?” he asked. “Why they hurt each other? Why they need what they need?”

“Something like that,” you said.

He was quiet for a long moment, toying with a cherry tomato. He looked up.

“And your other work. The cam site. Is that… another way of tryin’ to understand? The human condition?”

The question was so piercingly insightful it felt like an X-ray. You fumbled.

“Uh. Unfortunately that is not as profound as you think. I just needed the money.”

He nodded slowly. “I get it,” he said softly. “I really do. Sex is… it’s a powerful thing.” He took a small sip of wine.

“You shouldn’t be havin’ to give pieces of yourself away like that. You should be free to chase your art, your dreams… not worryin’ ‘bout where the money’s comin’ from. You should have… real intimacy in your life.”

You shifted in your seat. "It wasn't all bad. Some of them were… nice. Like you."

His eyes sparkled through the mask at that. "I don’t want to imagine the others, quite frankly," he said sounding amused.

"But i’ll take the compliment, Sweet Violet.”

After the thoughts crossed his mind about you on there, he continued;

“I mean it—you are on that site, half dressed, sellin' a fantasy to strangers. That's puttin’ yourself into a box. Trappin’ yourself in something that is pretty hard to step away from. I wanna see you flourish outside of that."

The main course came and went, the conversation flowing easier now. He’d even started crackin’ little jokes, laughin’ that free, breathy laugh of his. The performance was over. He was, you realised, wildly intelligent, deeply emotional, and starved for a real, unfiltered connection.

As the dessert plates were cleared, he fell silent, looking at you. The fairy lights twinkled in his dark eyes behind his mask.

“Gettin’ cooler out.”

He stood, and again offered his hand. “Would you… come inside with me? It’s real warm in the cottage.”

You placed your hand in his and stood. He didn’t drop it after helping you up; he held it tightly, his grip sure and warm, and led you back along the path. His pace was slower, more deliberate.

When you reached the edge of the clearing, you blurted, "This is kinda insane. All of it. I’ve had such a good time, it feels like a real date or somethin'."

He glanced at you, mask tilted, that breathy laugh huffing out.

"Who said it wasn’t a real date, Sweet Violet?" The tease was light, you knew it couldn’t be fully true considering his payment. Maybe he wanted to pretend?

When you reached the terrace steps, he stopped. “The steps are uneven in the dark,” he murmured, his hand shifting to support your elbow. “Here. Allow me.”

He guided you up, his touch firm and sure. At the top, he reached past you to open the French door, ushering you into the warm, lamplit glow of the cottage. He followed you in and closed the door. Inside, the space felt smaller, more intimate. He turned to you, still holding your hand. He was close now.

You could smell the subtle mix of his cologne, the wine on his breath, the clean scent of his velvet suit.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, all the earlier nerves gone. “For the most normal… and the most extraordinary evenin’ I’ve had in… in a real long time.”

He lifted your hand, still enclosed in his gloved one, and pressed his lips softly against your knuckles. The leather was warm, his kiss feather-light and devastatingly formal.

Then he straightened, but didn’t release your hand.

His other hand came up, and his gloved fingertips traced the edge of your lace mask, from your temple down to your cheekbone.

“Now,” he breathed, the word full of promise and a tremor of his old shyness.

“Can I get to know you a bit more intimately?”

“Isn’t that what you brought me here for?” you tried to sound sultry, but it came out just above a whisper, and more unsure than that.

He let out a sweet, nervous chuckle. “I guess so. I just… I wanted to ask you first. Before I… before we touch like that.”

The way his eyes were trained on you through the mask was agonising—it had been a while since you had felt the real warmth and touch of a man.

Your ex’s affections felt so far removed from the reality you were living in here and now.

He was stood opposite you in his ornate velvet outfit, a vision, really.

His wolf cut was perfectly cut, and framed the mask expertly. As if it had been made just for him, and maybe, you supposed it had been.

He’d had another on the call. Maybe he hides frequently? Wears masks even into public?

He’d been entirely gentlemanly all night but now his stance seemed, hungry.

“P-please. Go ahead,” your voice was strained; desperate almost.

Internally you were kicking yourself, you had to make sure in future that you weren’t wearing every thought and feeling on your face. You can't give him too much power over you.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he whispered, the words rushin’ out on a shaky breath of pure relief. “I would’ve been tormented if you’d said no.”

After standing so still in an almost stand off, he then, with a tenderness that contradicted the feverish energy you could feel radiating from him, closed the gap between you both, and lifted his gloved hands.

His fingers went to the silk ribbons of your mask. You could smell him even more clearly now as his hands circled you, the sleeves of his elegant blazer right by your face.

The scent he was wearing, whatever it may be, was genuinely intoxicating. He untied the knot with meticulous, painstaking slowness, as if disarming something precious and volatile.

You could hear his breath, soft and rhythmic through his nostrils in the quiet. The mask was loose and he cradled the side of your face with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheekbone just beside the lace, and then, with infinite care, he lifted it from your skin.

He held it for a second, looking from the ornate lace to your bare face. His eyes behind his own mask were wide, dark, and utterly focused.

He was seeing you finally, for the first time in person and not whatever persona you played on your cam profile.

It was so hard to lock up your energy here, you were an open book type of person and this was not a situation you found yourself in often.

He turned and placed your mask on the piano lid, aligning it neatly as if for display. Then he turned back, and his attention dropped to his own gloves.

He pinched the tip of a finger on his right glove and began to pull. The soft black leather peeled away with a whisper, revealing his hand inch by inch. His hands were big.

You'd never noticed on screen, but they were—long, slender fingers, yes, but with broad palms and pronounced knuckles.

The skin was pale, almost luminous in the warm light, peppered with darker pigment. He flexed it, tendons standing out, before repeating the process with the left. The gloves joined your mask on the piano.

“The dress,” he said, his voice lower now, a warm, private rasp. “It served its purpose. Beautifully.”

He stepped behind you. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch. His hands came to rest on the very crests of your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles of your neck. “But I’d really like to see you out of it now.”

He kneaded gently, and you couldn’t suppress a small sigh. He hummed in response, a soft, approving “Mmm.”

His fingers found the zipper at your nape. He drew it down slowly, a deliberate, steady pressure. The sound was a long, sighing that seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the quiet click of the tab reaching the end.

He pushed the purple silk from your shoulders, his hands sliding down your arms as the dress fell away. He let it drop, a puddle of vivid color on the dark rug.

He let you stand there in the lingerie he’d chosen, letting him look. You felt his gaze warm, traveling over the sheer chiffon of the chemise, the delicate black stars, the dark seams of the stockings tracing up your thighs.

It was different in person; being admired like this. Usually men were slobbering over you online but their eyes were boring into a webcam, unlike his now—transfixed and hungry, looking at your real flesh. No pixels.

He came around to face you. His eyes raked over you, but his expression behind the mask was one of deep, almost painful concentration.

"mhm, you deserve to be worshipped, not drooled over by fools on the internet,"

you shivered at the thought of the word worshipping; what it meant. How total and intense his attentions already were, you couldn't imagine much more.

"they worship me in their own ways, I guess," you breathed out, your voice still uneven from nerves.

"s'not good enough," he brushed your hair off your shoulder and traced your collarbone lightly. "m'gonna give you what you are missing”

He was sweating, just a little, a sheen at his hairline above the porcelain edge of his own mask. You deduced it was nerves, but not the kind that made a man fumble. It was the nerves of an actor before the curtain rose.

“Here,” he murmured, his hands finding your hips. They spanned your waist easily, his fingers curling around to the small of your back.

He guided you to the couch, his steps small and measured, until the back of your knees met the plush arm of the large sofa. “Sit.”

You sank into the deep cushions.

He didn't join you. He stood before you for a long moment, just looking down, his gaze piercing.

You felt out of your depth; him towering, having orchestrated this whole night, practically begged for it, and now he made no move to undress, no move to unveil, no move to close the distance with anything but his hands.

Then, slowly, he lowered himself to his knees on the carpet. The position was shockingly humble, but there was nothing subservient about it.

It was ownership. He knelt like a man who had paid for the right to look.

His hands settled on your knees. His thumbs began to stroke the insides of your thighs, through the sheer stockings. The touch was gentle, exploratory, his head tilted, watching his own hands move.

“So soft,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

His hands moved upward, pushing the hem of the chemise up your thighs. The air was cool on your newly exposed skin. He stared at the junction of your thighs, covered only by the flimsy silk of the panties he'd provided.

You could see the flush of arousal on his neck, creeping up above his collar, but his trousers—black velvet, strained at the fly—he made no move to touch himself.

He hooked his thumbs into the sides of the silk and, with a slowness that was agonising, drew them down your legs.

You lifted yourself slightly to let him. He folded them once, absently, and set them on the carpet beside his knee.

Now you were bare to him.

His breath hitched. “Huh-oh.” Soft, involuntary hunger.

His hands returned to your thighs, pushing them gently further apart. He leaned in. He was close enough that his breath, warm and quick, ghosted over your cunt.

Instead of touching, he brought his right hand up.

His fingers, long, elegant; hovered, then he plunged one into his mouth, wetting it.

With that one finger, just the pad, he dragged slowly, so slowly, through your folds.

He came away slick. He held it up to the lamplight, turning his hand, examining the wetness with a deep, fascinated focus.

“So lovely to not have to imagine what you feel like, watching you on a pixelated screen,” he breathed, voice thick.

“It's all for me.”

He looked up, eyes dark behind the mask.

“I've thought about this. The taste. The smell.” He brought that wet finger to his lips and sucked it clean.

His eyes fluttered shut. A low guttural groan vibrated in his chest—“Ungh.”

When they opened, the gentle curiosity was gone, burned into raw, obsessive need.

“God. Where have you been all this time?”

You couldn't answer. Didn't even try. You felt like you should be paying for this, and not the other way around.

That single taste broke his restraint—but not toward his own pleasure.

He leaned in, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the cushion, grip firm.

His mouth was on you with gentle kisses that transcended into hungry, open-mouthed desperation.

The first hot, wet lick from the bottom to the top of your heat made you whine, nails dragging the couch.

“Shh, shh, I got you,” he mumbled against you, muffled, then dove back in.

He was messy. Starving. Utterly focused on you. His tongue flat and broad, lapping, circling your clit with a pressure that made you see colours behind your eyelids.

He used his lips to suck, gently at first on your clit, tongue moving it back and forth, then he'd suck harder, pulling the sensitive flesh into the heat of his mouth.

His nose pressed against you, his breath hot and rapid. His hands held you in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

You could hear him—the wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you, the desperate, ragged pulls of his breathing through his nose, the soft, animal grunts of effort and pleasure he made in his throat.

The feeling of the mask on your skin was slightly foreign, but the scrape of it actually felt good - exciting.. And dark.

He was completely lost in the act of eating you out, but his own body stayed still, kneeling, the strained arc in his trousers ignored, untouched.

He was getting off on this—on your wetness, your gasps, the power of paying to make you come apart while he stayed clothed, in control.

One of his hands left your thigh.

You felt his fingers—two, slick with your wetness and his saliva—press against your entrance.

"you have the prettiest pussy I have ever seen in my life,"

He pushed inside, deep, in one smooth, unhesitating stroke.

The stretch was perfect, filling. He curled them, finding a spot inside that made your vision blur, and began a slow, relentless rhythm, in time with the devastating work of his tongue.

You were babbling, a stream of “oh god, oh Jesus” You tangled a hand in his hair.

“Language” He chuckled into your wetness. You tried to kill the laugh in your throat but couldn’t.

When he heard it, he didn’t stop, but glanced up at you behind the mask with dark eyes. The perfect wolf cut was getting messed up, under the tight knot of the lace holding his mask on. His hair was so soft too, damp with sweat at the root, his baby hairs peeking out.

He moaned, a deep, resonant sound of approval at your light touch on his head, and doubled his efforts.

His tongue flicked faster, his fingers pumped deeper, his other hand squeezing your thigh almost to the point of pain. Like he didn’t want to let you go.

You looked down, through a haze of pleasure.

The sight was obscene, beautiful. Michael Jackson, on his knees, his half masked face buried between your legs, his shoulders working.

And below, the straining bulge in his black velvet trousers. You wanted to move to touch him; to give him some pleasure in return, as this felt like too much attention. Too much for just you.

Most men in a position like this would have been bucking into thin air, thinking of their next move—how to get their dick wet. But he was completely still, almost ignorant of it. He was so precise and focussed on you that he was neglecting himself.

He was paying for this, paying you, and that was the turn-on. Your pleasure was the product he'd bought, and he was consuming the act of giving it.

He could feel you tightening, trembling on the edge. You tried to pull away from him, to prolong the pleasure, so you could start on him as well. However this made him stern.

"Don't you move now. I'm not finished with you."

The way he said it and pushed his fingers in deeper, had you moaning so loud it embarrassed you; but you could not physically hold it in. the pleasure was taking up every single thought in your brain.

He went back to sucking and lightly tugging your clit. The wetness and heat feeling so good to you that it was unfathomable that this was not a dream.

He pulled his mouth away, breathing hard, his lips and chin glistening. “I can feel you gettin’ close,” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “You are to look me dead in the eye when it happens, okay? I wanna see your eyes on mine when I put you over the edge.”

His thumb replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing tight, furious circles. His fingers inside you hooked harder, stroking that deep, secret spot with unerring accuracy.

He held your gaze, his eyes wild and dark behind the mask, pupils blown wide.

“You deserve to be made to feel so good, sweet thing… you shouldn’t ever have to do this for yourself again. I’m gonna spoil you rotten with this. Give you everythin’ you’ve been wantin’.”

You were panting and babbling nonsense back to him now; your eyes strangely locked with his.

You couldn’t look away. The pleasure you were feeling made you want to cry, the effect it was having on your emotions was profound.

"Aren't you gonna say thank you?" he asked, a playful, breathy tease in his tone.

"Thank you for takin’ such good care of you… and not askin’ for a thing in return?" He chuckled softly, his hand never stuttering.

"Thank you," you squeaked out, writhing.

"Ah-ah. C’mon, now. Let me hear it. louder."

"thank you!" you let it expel from your throat louder this time, but it came out like a cry.

“So lovely watching you squirm from my touch,” he gritted out, lower this time, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“That’s a girl, come f’me”

That statement shattered you, his gruff directions from before, a departure from what you’d seen of him at the dinner table tonight. He changed so much moment to moment, you never really knew what you were getting.

The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that stole your breath, then your scream followed.

It was a full-body convulsion, your back bowing off the couch, your heels digging into his back where they lay over his shoulders, your vision whiting out into a kaleidoscope of pure sensation.

He rode you through it, his thumb never stopping, his fingers holding you firmly inside the maelstrom, his eyes watching every twitch, every shudder, drinking it in.

“That’s it, that’s it…all over me. Yeah… just like that.”

"good girl." he finally murmured, the praise warm and rough.

When the last pulses faded into aftershocks, he slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand.

He was panting, his shoulders heaving but he was almost trying to hide it.

He looked down at his fingers, soaked and glistening, then back at you, collapsed and boneless on the sofa.

A strange, quiet awe settled over his features, replacing the insatiable hunger.

He didn't kiss you. He didn't touch himself.

He just knelt there, catching his breath, the front of his trousers still visibly, painfully strained.

He seemed dazed, as if he wasn't even truly here with you in the room - like this was still in the cam room. He wasn't accessible.

Then, with a sudden, jarring movement, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, steadying himself on the arm of the sofa.

He wouldn't look at you now.

He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth, then his fingers, with quick, efficient strokes.

The shift was glacial and absolute. The man who had just worshipped you with desperate obsession was gone. He seemed sad almost, dejected, even. Like he had realised something.

“It’s gettin’ late,” he said, his voice flat, all the earlier warmth and openness, gone. He sound tired, like all his weary troubles had come flooding back. “I’ve taken up enough of your evenin’, I think.”

He walked to the French doors, his steps measured. He paused, his hand on the latch, his back to you. The velvet over his shoulders was taut with tension and his hair a mess from where your hands had been in it.

“My driver’s waitin’ in the driveway. He’ll get you home safe ‘n sound. It’s all taken care of.” He spoke to the glass on the door, out to the nighttime instead of you. Why couldn’t he look back at you?

He opened it, letting in a rush of cool night air.

“Til next time, Sweet Violet.”

The door clicked shut.

You were alone, sprawled on the couch, the smell of sex and his cologne heavy in the air, your body aching with spent pleasure, and the clinical chill of his departure settling into your weary bones.

From the way your insides clenched with desire, and the pleasure you felt in these moments, you knew you were not satiated.

You wanted to come back and see this through. would he want you back though?

You were hooked on this fantasy now.

tags;

@vxrmillion @babyimhis-mj @vincrichc @bigassapplehead @skywriter777 @sugarplumskiies @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons @ladyofmjslife @marley-n-me @saysaysay29 @t-o-pswifey @misscowboyhat @bowoah @bonesxinnyiwantushesoheavy @vntgamericana @wannabestartinsmth @impatientlynocturnalthorn @youkeepdreamin @auriuex @nyctogeny @raxxxxxxxxxxxx @kisssmethrudaphone @riiiiaaz @artflooo @loveposiie @nxctivaaa @ashmariet @nata-de-coconuts @marigoldmourning96 @sugrcookiiee @cass0419 @cherubae111 @izluvsyou @lovingyeet @sadieisagoodgirl @tinyvagrantorb @babyimhis-mj @vinylang3l @j-nae @trizixi1 @triviroko @jazzycurls @matcha-nicolas @glitterqueen123 @amnesia-sc @d3adlyclassrat @ssstarburst @literarycoquette

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