Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

you huff dramatically, flipping a page in your magazine with unnecessary force, refusing to look at him. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, your tone dripping with sarcasm. you kick your leg out, letting the oversized shirt ride up higher on your thigh, testing his patience. knowing exactly what buttons to push.

michael’s jaw clenches as he watched the shirt ride up your leg. he knows this game all too well—the bratty behaviour, the teasing, the testing of boundaries. he unbuttons the first button of his white shirts, his voice lowering. “come here.”

you scoff, not moving an inch, instead turning a page in your magazine with exaggerated slowness. “no,” you reply, your voice dripping with defiance. you deliberately cross your legs, the hem of the shirt riding up even higher, revealing more of your smooth, bare legs.

the warning vibe in the room thickens instantly. michael doesn’t repeat himself; he simply moves, his long strides eating up the distance between the chair and the bed. he grips the magazine, yanking it from your hands and tossing it carelessly onto the floor, leaving you with nothing to distract you. he cages you in with his arms, hair dark eyes boring into yours.

“let’s get something straight, princess,” michael says, his voice low and firm, his face inches from yours. “you’ve been pushing me all day, and i’ve let it slide because i love you. but this attitude? it ends now.”

you open your mouth to fire back another bratty remark, but before you could michael grips your ankles, his large hands wrapping around them easily. with one smooth motion, he yanks you down the bed until you’re in front of him.

you let out a surprised yelp as your back slides down the mattress and michael looks over you, his expression stern and commanding. he’s no longer the patient, indulgent boyfriend; he’s now the dominant man who knows exactly how to handle a bratty woman. “you’re testing me.”

“maybe i am,” you challenge back, but your voice wavers slightly now, heart racing as his dark eyes lock onto yours. you reach up to touch his face, but he catches your wrist in an instant, pinning it beside your head. “nice try,” he murmurs, a dangerous smirk on his face.

he releases your wrist suddenly, only to grab both of your hands and pin them above your head with one hand, his other hand quickly moving to hold down both of your legs. he’s effectively trapped you beneath him, his body pressing against yours.

“stay quiet,” he orders firmly, before disappearing between your legs, lifting the oversized shirt up to your stomach. he doesn’t start slow or gentle; he immediately attacks your clit with his tongue, eating you out roughly and dominantly to punish your attitude.

you gasp sharply, your hands immediately flying to his hair but he growls against your skin, a warning that makes you freeze. his tongue works you ruthlessly, no sweet exploration, just pure domination—flicking your clit hard, plunging deep, sucking insistently. there’s no tenderness here, only calculated punishment that makes your back arch off the bed.

you bite down on your lip hard, trying to obey, but he immediately pulls back, his dark eyes meeting yours with a sharp look. “i said be quiet.” his voice is a low command before he dives back in, his tongue pressing flat against your clit and holding it there, then flicking rapidly in a punishing rhythm that makes your thighs tremble violently around his head.

your hips buck upward, seeking friction, but he pushes your thighs back down with one strong hand, keeping you pinned. his other hand grips your hip bone hard enough to leave marks as he devours you relentlessly. the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue working you fill the room, punctuated by your muffled whimpers. he sucks your clit into his mouth hard, tugging insistently.

your resolve crumbles completely as he hits that spot relentlessly, your walls clenching around nothing as your orgasm crashed through you. you sob into the pillow, body shaking violently beneath him. michael doesn’t stop—he keeps eating you out through your climax, his tongue working harder, punishing even as you peak. finally, he pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his lips to you.

michael is still on his knees in front of the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction and dominance. he watches your chest heave, your body trembling in the aftermath, as he leans down to press a kiss against your stomach, then climbs back up your body to cage your face between his hands. “attitude gone?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

you blink up at him through hazy eyes, still catching your breath, your body still humming from the intense orgasm. but the fire isn’t extinguished yet—it’s just buried shallowly. before you can stop yourself, the bratty remark slips out, “not even close. you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

michael’s expression darkens instantly at your bratty response. a dangerous smirk plays on his lips as he leans down closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “is that so? you want me to try harder?”

you lift your chin defiantly, meeting his glare despite your trembling limbs. “yes,” you whisper, challenging him openly. michael’s jaw tightens visibly, the playful dominance evaporating into pure authority. without a word, he flips you over onto your stomach in one swift motion, pulling your hips up sharply so your ass is in the air. “brave choice,”

he smacks your ass hard, the sharp crack echoing in the room. you let out a moan, hands curling into the sheets. but before you can react, he grabs both of your wrists and pins them at the small of your back with one hand, keeping you bent over helplessly.

he leans down over you, his suit jacket brushing against your back. “you really want more?” his other hand moves to unbuckle his belt, the sound of metal clicking loudly as he pulls it through the loops.

he expertly loops the belt around your wrists, pulling it tight to secure your hands behind your back. the position arches your spine, pushing your ass higher in the air. he runs his hand over the roundness before smacking it again hard enough that it stings throughly.

you gasp into the mattress, your face buried in the sheets to muffle your cries. with your wrists secured tightly against your lower back, you are completely helpless and exposed. you hear the rustle of fabric behind you—michael is undoing his pants, pushing them down along with his boxers, freeing his heavy erection.

he trails one finger slowly down your spine, stopping teasingly at your entrance. “still want an attitude with me?” he asks, his voice thick with lust and command. you feel his thumb press against your clit briefly before he pulls away, denying you. every second of touch is agonisingly slow, a punishment for your defiance.

without warning, he grips your hips and slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless thrust. you scream into the mattress, your body arching violently as he stretches you instantly. he doesn’t give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace immediately, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in deep and hard. your wrists strain against the belt helplessly.

he fucks you brutally, using your bent over position to his advantage, his powerful hips snapping against your ass with wet smacks. his free hand reaches around to choke your neck gently, adding another layer of dominance and control.

“is that attitude still there?” he smirks against your neck, punctuating his words with particularly deep thrusts. “or are you realising who’s in charge here?” his hand squeezes your throat lightly, making you lightheaded and even more aroused.

you try to form words, but all that comes out is a choked moan. your body is completely under his control—wrists tied, throat threatened, pussy impaled and stretched by his relentless cock. “that’s what i thought,” he growls, his thrusts becoming even more merciless, hitting spots you didn’t know existed.

your walls clench around him desperately, your body betraying your earlier defiance completely. michael notices immediately, his grip tightening on your throat as he leans over your back. “look at you,” he breathes hotly against your ear. “so bratty all day, and now you’re begging for it without even saying a word.” he hits your deepest spot hard, making you cry out.

your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. michael doesn’t slow down—he keeps pounding through it, drawing out your pleasure until you are sobbing into the pillow. only then does he pull out abruptly, his hot seed shooting across your back and add in thick stripes.

he stands there for a moment, panting, watching his cum drip down your trembling body. then he unties the belt from your wrists, flipping you over roughly so you’re on your back again. his eyes drill into yours. “now,” he says, his voice raw. “are we done with the backtalk?”

your lips part, your chest still heaving, your body trembling and slick with sweat. the words form on your tongue—another challenge, another spark of that damn defiance—but something in his eyes made you pause. that dangerous glint, the absolute authority, the promise of more punishment if you dare.

you swallow hard, your gaze dripping first. “…yes.”

a satisfied smirk plays on his lips as he sees the submission in your eyes. he leans down, kissing you roughly—a claim, a punishment, a reward all rolled into one. when he pulls back, his thumb brushes over your swollen bottom lip. “good girl.”

he helps you sit up, his touch gentler now as he checks the red marks on your wrists from the belt. his expression softens imperceptibly. “you pushed it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “but you took it well.” he kisses your forehead, a silent apology for the roughness, though his eyes still hold that edge.

he grabs a tissue from the nightstand and begins cleaning you up, his movements efficient but surprisingly careful. the air between you feels heavy, charged with the lingering electricity of the punishment. once he’s wiped away his release, he pulls his pants back up, buckling his belt with a definitive click. “next time you want to act bratty,” he warns softly, smoothing your hair back.

“i’ll remember this,” you murmur back, half joking but also completely serious. your body aches in the best way, your ass stinging gently with every movement. he just smirks knowingly, clearly pleased that the lesson has sunken in. “good,” he says firmly.

aftercare if a non-negotiable for him. he’s dominant as hell in the bedroom, but he always takes care of you afterward—no matter how bratty or demanding you’ve been. he pulls you into his side, wrapping those strong arms around you lovingly. “come here,”

he gathers you against his chest, your face pressed to his rapidly beating heart. one hand strokes your hair soothingly while the other massages your back in slow, deliberate circles. he smells like expensive cologne and sex, and his body heat seeps into your chilled skin. “you okay?” his voice is softer now, genuinely concerned.

you hum softly in real, shifting so you’re wrapped tighter around him. your legs tangle together, your back pressed to his chest. his large hands splay over your stomach, one thumb rubbing soothing circles over your lower belly.

“you did good,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “for a brat.” the playful insult is said with such tenderness it barely registers as teasing. he reaches over to the nightstand and pulls out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and bringing it to your lips. “drink.”

you take slow sips, feeling utterly cared for.

he pulls the plush duvet over both of you, tucking you in securely. you’re nestled completely against him—from your chest to your thighs, every inch of you is pressed to his. his lips find your ear, his voice dropping to that intimate, vulnerable tone he only uses when it’s just the two of you. “i love you so much.”

you turn in his arms, pressing your lips to his softly. “i love you more,” you whisper against his mouth, tasting him lingering on your tongue. he kisses you deeply, tenderly this time—no dominance, just pure affection. when you finally drift off, his arms are wrapped tightly around you.

Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

It had only been a few hours since Michael left, and the kitchen and dining room were now so spotless you could almost see a sparkle on the surfaces. Next on your to-do list was the living room.

The music played throughout the house, your broom in your hand as you hummed absentmindedly to the song that played previously, before it faded off, leaving the house in a short moment of silence until the familiar opening of "The Way You Make Me Feel" started playing, the punchy sound of drums and bass echoing out into the space. Your body instinctively moved on its own as you twirled around the coffee table, completely immersed in the song, maybe too immersed that you didn’t hear the sound of the front door clicking shut, or the sound of his loafers clicking against the marble floors.

You were already shouting at the top of your lungs, using the broom as your own personal microphone, pointing at your invisible audience as you sang.

“The way you make me feellll”

Was the only thing Michael heard as he made his way through the halls into the living room, stopping in his tracks as he peered through the opening. The sight of the sun leaking through the windows completely lighting up the space as you pranced around, somehow ending up on the cushions of the couch, bouncing around and unbeknownst to you. Your fake audience had now become a live one, an amused smile playing out on Michael's face as he bobbed his head along to the beat, just waiting for the moment when you'd turn around and see him standing there.

Well, it seemed he didn't have to wait long as you turned around, posing, your eyes closed before you opened them, the realization setting in as you glanced at your position on the couch then to the smile that danced on Michael's face.

“Oh…OH!” You squealed, hopping off the couch, immediately cutting the music that filled the embarrassing moment.

“Just how much of that did you see…” you covered your face, your words muffled by your hands that were pressed to your face.

“Oh, I saw enough, maybe I should make you my apprentice,” he let out a hearty laugh, throwing his head back.

“Oh gosh, Michael, stop.”

"C'mon, do the pose again," he laughed as you buried your face in his chest, shaking it from the pure embarrassment of the moment.

"I'm never living this down."

"Nope, I expect a show every time I come home."

"Not happening.”

©angelfacediary

Requests : open

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Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

you huff dramatically, flipping a page in your magazine with unnecessary force, refusing to look at him. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, your tone dripping with sarcasm. you kick your leg out, letting the oversized shirt ride up higher on your thigh, testing his patience. knowing exactly what buttons to push.

michael’s jaw clenches as he watched the shirt ride up your leg. he knows this game all too well—the bratty behaviour, the teasing, the testing of boundaries. he unbuttons the first button of his white shirts, his voice lowering. “come here.”

you scoff, not moving an inch, instead turning a page in your magazine with exaggerated slowness. “no,” you reply, your voice dripping with defiance. you deliberately cross your legs, the hem of the shirt riding up even higher, revealing more of your smooth, bare legs.

the warning vibe in the room thickens instantly. michael doesn’t repeat himself; he simply moves, his long strides eating up the distance between the chair and the bed. he grips the magazine, yanking it from your hands and tossing it carelessly onto the floor, leaving you with nothing to distract you. he cages you in with his arms, hair dark eyes boring into yours.

“let’s get something straight, princess,” michael says, his voice low and firm, his face inches from yours. “you’ve been pushing me all day, and i’ve let it slide because i love you. but this attitude? it ends now.”

you open your mouth to fire back another bratty remark, but before you could michael grips your ankles, his large hands wrapping around them easily. with one smooth motion, he yanks you down the bed until you’re in front of him.

you let out a surprised yelp as your back slides down the mattress and michael looks over you, his expression stern and commanding. he’s no longer the patient, indulgent boyfriend; he’s now the dominant man who knows exactly how to handle a bratty woman. “you’re testing me.”

“maybe i am,” you challenge back, but your voice wavers slightly now, heart racing as his dark eyes lock onto yours. you reach up to touch his face, but he catches your wrist in an instant, pinning it beside your head. “nice try,” he murmurs, a dangerous smirk on his face.

he releases your wrist suddenly, only to grab both of your hands and pin them above your head with one hand, his other hand quickly moving to hold down both of your legs. he’s effectively trapped you beneath him, his body pressing against yours.

“stay quiet,” he orders firmly, before disappearing between your legs, lifting the oversized shirt up to your stomach. he doesn’t start slow or gentle; he immediately attacks your clit with his tongue, eating you out roughly and dominantly to punish your attitude.

you gasp sharply, your hands immediately flying to his hair but he growls against your skin, a warning that makes you freeze. his tongue works you ruthlessly, no sweet exploration, just pure domination—flicking your clit hard, plunging deep, sucking insistently. there’s no tenderness here, only calculated punishment that makes your back arch off the bed.

you bite down on your lip hard, trying to obey, but he immediately pulls back, his dark eyes meeting yours with a sharp look. “i said be quiet.” his voice is a low command before he dives back in, his tongue pressing flat against your clit and holding it there, then flicking rapidly in a punishing rhythm that makes your thighs tremble violently around his head.

your hips buck upward, seeking friction, but he pushes your thighs back down with one strong hand, keeping you pinned. his other hand grips your hip bone hard enough to leave marks as he devours you relentlessly. the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue working you fill the room, punctuated by your muffled whimpers. he sucks your clit into his mouth hard, tugging insistently.

your resolve crumbles completely as he hits that spot relentlessly, your walls clenching around nothing as your orgasm crashed through you. you sob into the pillow, body shaking violently beneath him. michael doesn’t stop—he keeps eating you out through your climax, his tongue working harder, punishing even as you peak. finally, he pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his lips to you.

michael is still on his knees in front of the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction and dominance. he watches your chest heave, your body trembling in the aftermath, as he leans down to press a kiss against your stomach, then climbs back up your body to cage your face between his hands. “attitude gone?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

you blink up at him through hazy eyes, still catching your breath, your body still humming from the intense orgasm. but the fire isn’t extinguished yet—it’s just buried shallowly. before you can stop yourself, the bratty remark slips out, “not even close. you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

michael’s expression darkens instantly at your bratty response. a dangerous smirk plays on his lips as he leans down closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “is that so? you want me to try harder?”

you lift your chin defiantly, meeting his glare despite your trembling limbs. “yes,” you whisper, challenging him openly. michael’s jaw tightens visibly, the playful dominance evaporating into pure authority. without a word, he flips you over onto your stomach in one swift motion, pulling your hips up sharply so your ass is in the air. “brave choice,”

he smacks your ass hard, the sharp crack echoing in the room. you let out a moan, hands curling into the sheets. but before you can react, he grabs both of your wrists and pins them at the small of your back with one hand, keeping you bent over helplessly.

he leans down over you, his suit jacket brushing against your back. “you really want more?” his other hand moves to unbuckle his belt, the sound of metal clicking loudly as he pulls it through the loops.

he expertly loops the belt around your wrists, pulling it tight to secure your hands behind your back. the position arches your spine, pushing your ass higher in the air. he runs his hand over the roundness before smacking it again hard enough that it stings throughly.

you gasp into the mattress, your face buried in the sheets to muffle your cries. with your wrists secured tightly against your lower back, you are completely helpless and exposed. you hear the rustle of fabric behind you—michael is undoing his pants, pushing them down along with his boxers, freeing his heavy erection.

he trails one finger slowly down your spine, stopping teasingly at your entrance. “still want an attitude with me?” he asks, his voice thick with lust and command. you feel his thumb press against your clit briefly before he pulls away, denying you. every second of touch is agonisingly slow, a punishment for your defiance.

without warning, he grips your hips and slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless thrust. you scream into the mattress, your body arching violently as he stretches you instantly. he doesn’t give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace immediately, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in deep and hard. your wrists strain against the belt helplessly.

he fucks you brutally, using your bent over position to his advantage, his powerful hips snapping against your ass with wet smacks. his free hand reaches around to choke your neck gently, adding another layer of dominance and control.

“is that attitude still there?” he smirks against your neck, punctuating his words with particularly deep thrusts. “or are you realising who’s in charge here?” his hand squeezes your throat lightly, making you lightheaded and even more aroused.

you try to form words, but all that comes out is a choked moan. your body is completely under his control—wrists tied, throat threatened, pussy impaled and stretched by his relentless cock. “that’s what i thought,” he growls, his thrusts becoming even more merciless, hitting spots you didn’t know existed.

your walls clench around him desperately, your body betraying your earlier defiance completely. michael notices immediately, his grip tightening on your throat as he leans over your back. “look at you,” he breathes hotly against your ear. “so bratty all day, and now you’re begging for it without even saying a word.” he hits your deepest spot hard, making you cry out.

your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. michael doesn’t slow down—he keeps pounding through it, drawing out your pleasure until you are sobbing into the pillow. only then does he pull out abruptly, his hot seed shooting across your back and add in thick stripes.

he stands there for a moment, panting, watching his cum drip down your trembling body. then he unties the belt from your wrists, flipping you over roughly so you’re on your back again. his eyes drill into yours. “now,” he says, his voice raw. “are we done with the backtalk?”

your lips part, your chest still heaving, your body trembling and slick with sweat. the words form on your tongue—another challenge, another spark of that damn defiance—but something in his eyes made you pause. that dangerous glint, the absolute authority, the promise of more punishment if you dare.

you swallow hard, your gaze dripping first. “…yes.”

a satisfied smirk plays on his lips as he sees the submission in your eyes. he leans down, kissing you roughly—a claim, a punishment, a reward all rolled into one. when he pulls back, his thumb brushes over your swollen bottom lip. “good girl.”

he helps you sit up, his touch gentler now as he checks the red marks on your wrists from the belt. his expression softens imperceptibly. “you pushed it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “but you took it well.” he kisses your forehead, a silent apology for the roughness, though his eyes still hold that edge.

he grabs a tissue from the nightstand and begins cleaning you up, his movements efficient but surprisingly careful. the air between you feels heavy, charged with the lingering electricity of the punishment. once he’s wiped away his release, he pulls his pants back up, buckling his belt with a definitive click. “next time you want to act bratty,” he warns softly, smoothing your hair back.

“i’ll remember this,” you murmur back, half joking but also completely serious. your body aches in the best way, your ass stinging gently with every movement. he just smirks knowingly, clearly pleased that the lesson has sunken in. “good,” he says firmly.

aftercare if a non-negotiable for him. he’s dominant as hell in the bedroom, but he always takes care of you afterward—no matter how bratty or demanding you’ve been. he pulls you into his side, wrapping those strong arms around you lovingly. “come here,”

he gathers you against his chest, your face pressed to his rapidly beating heart. one hand strokes your hair soothingly while the other massages your back in slow, deliberate circles. he smells like expensive cologne and sex, and his body heat seeps into your chilled skin. “you okay?” his voice is softer now, genuinely concerned.

you hum softly in real, shifting so you’re wrapped tighter around him. your legs tangle together, your back pressed to his chest. his large hands splay over your stomach, one thumb rubbing soothing circles over your lower belly.

“you did good,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “for a brat.” the playful insult is said with such tenderness it barely registers as teasing. he reaches over to the nightstand and pulls out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and bringing it to your lips. “drink.”

you take slow sips, feeling utterly cared for.

he pulls the plush duvet over both of you, tucking you in securely. you’re nestled completely against him—from your chest to your thighs, every inch of you is pressed to his. his lips find your ear, his voice dropping to that intimate, vulnerable tone he only uses when it’s just the two of you. “i love you so much.”

you turn in his arms, pressing your lips to his softly. “i love you more,” you whisper against his mouth, tasting him lingering on your tongue. he kisses you deeply, tenderly this time—no dominance, just pure affection. when you finally drift off, his arms are wrapped tightly around you.

Underneath your materialistic nature, you were the perfect lady for him. Albeit a lot younger than he would’ve usually gone for, not that he cared nowadays, but you were the embodiment of marriage material. You spoilt him with unconditional love and affection, showered him in praise and compliments that left him blushing, tended to his needs and wants whenever he so needed, respected his busy, demanding career, spent every minute at his side, supporting and sticking up for him, and never stopped loving him no matter what.

You were proud to be his woman — no matter what anyone had to say about you.

A week didn’t go by without the tabloids reporting on how you were a horrible girlfriend, irritating you further as it was hard to miss the humongous twenty-four carat gold Cartier engagement ring on your finger that literally blinded everyone who walked past you, and that you were dragging him down by being a spoiled brat.

They also didn’t know that Michael made you this way.

Before him you were a normal girl — you grew up in a traditional household, seemingly classic childhood, and didn’t have things handed to you on a silver platter. You understood you had to work for what you wanted, and that extravagant, expensive things didn’t come without effort.

It was only when you started dating Michael did he remind you that money actually did grow on trees in his eyes — and those paper notes in his wallet were at your fingertip whenever you so desired.

It all started on your twenty-fifth birthday — you had been seeing Michael for a mere few months at this point, and had been slowly integrated into his bustling lifestyle. You saw the money, the clothes, the antiques, the jewels, the cars — everything. It was a sight to see, the wealth that oozed from like it was natural, like how a billion-dollar net-worth was normal.

You had spent the evening at an extremely fancy restaurant, one that required a minimum of two years waiting time to get a table, one that Michael had obtained with a five minute phone call two days beforehand. He was Michael Jackson after all.

He had arranged, in the sweetest way a boyfriend could do, for all your family and friends to join you in the restaurant that had been booked out — leaving you with your loved ones, and very famous boyfriend, to have some much needed privacy. You all indulged in ridiculously overpriced, minuscule portioned food that, much to your dismay, tasted incredible — practically moaning with each bite.

It was only when dessert had been polished off, did the gifts begin to roll in. Your parents had bought you a gorgeous necklace, a locket, with a portrait of their wedding photo and your baby picture on each side — a heart-warming, sentimental present that had tears welling up in your eyes.

Your friends got you personal, hilarious yet fitting gifts that had a smile spread so wide across your face you were certain it was stuck there.

But, when it came to Michael’s gift, it took the cake.

He placed an item in front of you on the table, unable to his smile, as the words ‘Hermés’ embroidered into the cotton covering hit your eyes.

“No way, Michael.” You breathed, eyes practically bulging out of your head at the gift before you.

“Open it, baby.” He pressed, voice soft and calm was he awaited the excitable panic to arise.

Your hands trembled frantically as you tore the covering off, gasping loudly, as well as many others on the table, as a chic, white Birkin bag rest in your hands. The very one you’d mentioned to Michael you’d wanted your whole life, an item you knew you’d never have, but desired more than anything.

The loud scream-like squeal that left your mouth had Michael chuckling softly as you rose to your feet, jumping up and down in undeniable joy, hands flailing as the realisation hit you that the one physical item you had wanted in the whole world had been blessed upon you by your boyfriend of only six months.

You flew into Michael’s embrace, throwing your arms around his neck as you giggled delightfully into his ear, pulling back to litter kisses all over his grinning face.

“Happy Birthday, doll.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, as you flew back into your seat, gazing lovingly at the bag, feeling wrong to even be able to touch it, let alone carry it around.

It was from that moment Michael knew he had created a monster — watching as the glint in your eye, as you gazed at the present, grew stronger than any reaction you’d given to the previous presents. He could tell, by the look in your blown pupils, that this, this bag, that cost a fortune, that was just a drop in the ocean for him — meant more to you than the any personal, sentimental gift your loved ones had got you.

A bag — a fucking bag, meant more to you than a personalised present that had real meaning.

And when you got home that night, in a loved-up daze of excitement as you rode him into the mattress, all other gifts discarded downstairs, back arched into his touch as his cock slammed into you, did Michael feel the obsession with money begin to start by the way your eye kept catching the bag that rest upon the nightstand in the moonlight — needy whines of pleasure only increasing in octave at the moment you realised you needed more.

More of his cock, more of him, more of his money — you didn’t care. You just knew that Michael was yours, forever and always.

And Michael felt the exact same way. He knew you deserved this, that he wanted to spoil you rotten with this expensive lifestyle, not because he wanted to win over your love and loyalty — but because you already gave it beforehand without needing to be spoiled. You had shown irrevocable love and attention to him, despite his life, career and age, and never once faltered. You had been there, a constant reminder from the day he met you a year ago, to the moment he gifted you that bag, that you were always going to be the one to love him.

That’s when he decided he had to turn you into his little princess. One that was shocked when something was only $3,000, claiming that it was cheap, or refused to buy (let him buy) something that didn’t come from Dior or Chanel, or didn’t understand why you had no more room in your walk-in closet at your shared home after your thousandth shopping trip on his card this week.

You were truly spoiled tooth decayingly rotten.

But, you never let it ruin how you felt towards him.

He could’ve gone broke and you would still love him. Sure, you’d be fucking devastated as you now you were hooked on clearing out every department store every chance you got — but you knew he was the one for you. The one you wanted to marry, have children with, love forever and grow old with.

But, you were too far gone now.

Michael had marked his expensive taste into you forever — branding you into a materialistic diva who always needed his card or his cars. And he loved it — literally dying at any chance to spoil you, shower you in gifts and surprises that cost thousands each time, something he wouldn’t even notice coming out of his bank account, but something that would leave you smiling and squealing, kissing him all over.

He had built the perfect lady to spoil.

And the more you were drenched in expensive clothing, and jewellery, and sunglasses, and nails and a new blow-out each week, did you become just that little bit more ditsy.

Ditsy and unaware of how unbearably stunning you were — and how much of a brat you had become.

Everyone around you, including Michael, knew — they could sense it each time you’d have a conversation with him or talk about things that were such first-world problems, but meant so much to you. They would exchange glances, as Michael would just smile, glistening eyes hidden behind his infamous aviators, as you rambled on, pouting about how Armani didn’t have the $14,000 dress you wanted in stock, even after you told them you were marrying Michael Jackson.

They would see you, pouting and complaining about something totally unnecessary and borderline ridiculous, and then Michael, enabling the behaviour by apologising to you, kissing you with a smile, before getting Giorgio himself on the phone to demand the dress to his home within the next twenty-four hours or else he’d pull his credit card from file and threaten to never spend another cent there again if they upset his lady like that again.

They’d watch, utterly gobsmacked, as you’d purr praises into his ear as you kissed along his jawline, complete oblivious to the fact that other people were in the room and watching you press yourself up against him, whispering ‘Thank you, Mikey, I just need it so bad, ‘Love you so much.’

But, with being a spoiled brat came with its downsides.

The downside being your temper tantrums at your least favourite word.

No.

A downside that he thought was utterly hilarious and adorable each time your eyebrows would furrow in irritation with a pout on your face whenever he’d, once in a blue moon, say the word ‘No’ to you. A reaction he’d only brought upon himself with his incessant spoiling — but he didn’t care, he would just tease you back, tugging on your jutted out bottom lip, pressing a peck there before demanding you to behave or else he’d never spend another dollar on you again.

You both knew he was lying whenever he uttered those words — because you’d soon get your way.

But, these tantrums would make you into a real brat. Often acting up just to further your point or to piss him off deliberately, just so he could feel exactly how you felt right now.

Your latest had been after being told you couldn’t have a $150k Chandelier for a room you never even went into in your twelve bedroom mansion.

So, in retaliation, you’d either not speak to him for a few hours, caving in yourself in the end after you realised your silent treatment didn’t prevail, or refuse to drink the $50 cocktail you ordered when he’d take you out for dinner just to rub it in his face, or blast music throughout the house, a song with deliberate intent to wind him up.

Just like today — you had walked down stairs, rubbing your eyes from the tiredness that plagued you, yawning as you sauntered into the living area, where Michael resided with a few familiar producers, musical engineers, his manager and his close personal friend, Chris Tucker.

“Ah, there she is!” Chris spoke excitedly, “Speak of the devil, huh?”

Michael chuckled, peering behind him to meet your sleepy frame, lip coming between his teeth at the sight of you.

You were dressed, barely, in a Dolce & Gabbana lacy nightgown, one that left little to the imagination due to its short length and thin straps that were loose over your shoulders — a beautiful duck-egg grey that complimented your skin tone, a colour Michael loved on you. His eyes raked over you, a familiar seductive glint present in his pupils at your erect nipples poking through the satin filled his vision.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” You sassed, eyebrows furrowing as you stared him down.

Chris laughed, “Damn, someone’s not a morning person, huh?” Michael returned the chuckle at the truth in his question, “We were talkin’ about that Chandelier.”

Michael groaned, rolling his eyes with a playful smile, “Don’t get her started.”

You instantly burst into a smile, “Oh my God, isn’t just such a good idea!” You exclaimed, “It’s so pretty, like the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I need it.”

“Baby, we don’t even go in the room you want it in.” Michael reminded, peering over at you as the room erupted into laughs.

“That’s beside the point.” You huffed, hands settling on your hips, “It’s pretty and I want it.”

You missed the way the room exchanged looks that said ‘Oh, wow’ in shock at your sassed firing back, as Michael just smiled at you.

“Do I not even get a good-morning kiss before you start demanding stuff this early, baby?”

Your face changed dramatically again, a soft grin tugging onto your face as you giggled, walking towards where he sat on the couch.

You bent down, completely unaware to how your nightdress rode up your backside, flashing the curve of your ass and your lacy panties to the men sat behind you, as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The only noise, in the uncomfortable silence only falling upon those not engaging in the lip-locking, was your happy hums into his mouth and the sound of lips connecting.

You rose once again, the room huffing out stabilising breaths as your behind was covered once more, again barely, smiling down at Michael, “So, can I have it now?”

“Still no, baby.”

And it started.

You frowned deeply, an even deeper pout forming on your face as your hands crossed over your chest, not noticing the way Michael licked his lips hungrily as your tits pressed up more into his view, as the tantrum began.

“Why?”

“Because it’s $150,000, angel, for something that will collect dust and never even be seen.” Michael spoke, voice still soft despite your attitude.

“It won’t collect dust, I’ll clean it.” You attempted to convince him, knowing that it was all lies.

Michael snorted, “Baby, I don’t think I’ve seen you clean a single inch of this house, let alone a Chandelier in the guest bedroom.”

You huffed, finding the other men’s laughter behind you taunting, “Fine, I’ll get Martha to clean it.”

Michael chuckled harder as you dragged the maid into your convincing, “I don’t particularly want her breaking her neck trying to get up there, honey.”

“Come on, Mikey, it’ll look so nice in there.” You whined, forcing your pout out further to push him to agree to your ridiculous request, “All the guests who stay in there will agree with me.”

“Baby, no one stays ‘round here. It’ll just go to waste.”

“Chris can stay, I’m sure you’d love waking up to a Chandlier, right, Chris?” You turned around, facing the laughing man who shot his hands into the air in surrender.

“Don’t drag me into this, girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m with Mike on this one.”

You groaned, stomping your foot, clad in fluffy slippers, on the floor, “Michael.” You drawled out, voice a whiny beg.

“I said no, honey. Sorry, that’s final.”

You huffed loudly, grumbling under your breath, as Michael just smiled up at you. He was loving this — he absolutely adored riling you up, seeing you pout and get so irritated at him as you sassed him, just making him fall in love with you more.

“Fine, I’ll just go hang out in the kitchen where I’m actually wanted.” You shot back, words completely unreasonable and false as you acted out.

Michael breathed out a laugh, reaching for your hand, “Baby, you are wanted here. I just told you no and you don’t like it. Come on, gimme’ a smile, pretty girl.”

“No.” You fired back, moving backwards to avoid his touch, believing only you were allowed to say the word, “Have fun without me, boys.”

Michael just shook his head, grinning deeply as you moved to storm away, hands still firmly pressed over your chest, “Hey, angel, will you grab me an OJ while you’re in there?”

“No Chandelier, no orange juice, Michael!” You shouted as you moved out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen and out of his view as the room burst into laughter once again.

You were truly a brat — and he adored it.

“Jesus, Mike, that lady of yours sure is something.” One of his engineers chuckled, still in disbelief at your ordeal.

Michael smiled, “She’s perfect.”

And he meant it — even when you were throwing your toys out of your pram like you were so hard done by, he loved you. He was utterly, crazily in love with you. He always treated you with the utmost adoration and respect — caring for and tending to you like you were a real queen, giving up everything to make you happy.

But, when you pushed him too far — you knew about it.

So, when a familiar 90’s tune began blasting from the kitchen, did Michael start to feel his patience wear thin.

His jaw clenched as the lyrics hit his ears, as well as your loud singing, that caused the men sat before him in the room to side-eye one another with cackles at your dig towards him.

No Scrubs by TLC.

A song directly dissing a broke, lazy boy who had the confidence of a King, but couldn’t afford anything for his woman and made himself look a fool.

You say particularly hard when the song sounded, ‘Always talkin’ bout what he wants, and just sits on his broke ass!’, directly aiming it towards your fiancé who twitched in irritation at your insinuation that he was anything but a provider for you.

“Oh shit.” Chris laughed, puffing out his cheeks as Michael kissed his teeth, choosing to let you have your fun.

He didn’t let it affect him too much, knowing that the lyrics were more fitting to you as you were the one who talked about all the things you wanted from him — but it wasn’t the last time you pushed him that day.

He had parted from the house, composing his frustration as you moved your face when he leant down to kiss you before he left for an important meeting, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth instead of where he intended.

He brushed it off, only giving you a pass as you reciprocated his words when he told you he loved you, as most times you’d give him the silent treatment, and went about his day.

But, alas, you didn’t let up.

He had been deep in important business — having a serious conversation about contracts, and expenses, and documents that needed to be signed, when you came storming past the large window that covered the conference room.

The room went silent as the sound of your voice, arguing with the office building receptionist, who trailed behind you, commanding you to stop walking and leave at once, rang through the room, muffled through the glass.

“Ma’am, that is a confidential meeting, you are not permitted to be in there.” The older lady demanded, pointing her finger at you harshly.

You scoffed, “Lady, I’m the wife.” Michael had chuckled at your false words as you wiggled your ring-clad finger, ignoring the way the businessmen in the room looked at him in confusion, “If I wanna talk to my man when he’s in a meeting, I can. Talk to the hand, girl.”

Michael laughed again at your childish response as you shoved a manicured hand in her face, ignoring the way she gasped as you pushed the door open.

“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed, smiling brightly as you shuffled into the room.

You were an oxymoron to the boring professionalism of the meeting where middle-aged men with greying beards in dark-coloured suits watched you in shock as you stood in the doorway — dressed head to toe in a pink D&G mini-dress, kitten heels on your pedicured feet, five large shopping bags in your right hand, and a baby-blue, bedazzled leash in your left, connected to your two-year-old Pomeranian puppy-dog who barked loudly, one he’d got for you on your one-year anniversary.

“Say hi to Daddy, LV!” You let the leash go from your grasp as the tiny dog ran towards Michael at the end of the table, jumping up at his leg as it continued to bark.

Michael, choosing to ignore the way everyone in the room looked utterly bewildered at what was occurring in front of them, picked up the small dog and cuddled it in his lap, letting the pup lick all over his face.

“Ugh, what a day I’ve had already, Mikey.” You started with a huff, setting your bags down in the large table that adorned majority of the room, unaware you’d just placed them on important documents right in front of a random man, before you continued with your rant, “The lady at Louis tried to kick me out ‘cuz I brought LV in there.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Even after I told her I named my baby boy after the store.”

It was true — you had legitimately named your dog after Louis Vuitton. Something that Michael thought was hilarious and adorable all in one each time you’d beckon the pet into the back garden to use the bathroom before bedtime.

“Sounds awful, honey.” Michael spoke softly, hands still pawing at the fluff-ball in his hands, “How much today?”

You peered down at the many bags splayed across the table as he nodded towards them, wondering how much of his net-worth had been drained today.

“Oh, not even that much, like $8k?” You smiled, “Found some self-restraint.”

Someone in the room scoffed, cutting through your conversation, all heads whipping towards the noise as the man scrunched his face up into disgust as he stared at you.

“You do realise we are in the middle of an extremely important meeting, right?” The man spoke, hands waving towards the men crowded round the table.

“Yeah, so?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at your ignorant response — revelling in how ridiculously rude, yet hilarious, your interrupting prescene was. He thought it was blissful — you visiting him while he was working despite your morning.

But, he knew you had an ulterior motive.

You were deliberately embarrassing him — making an unnecessary scene just to make a fool of him. To piss him off just because he said no to you. That you travelled from the other end of town where the shopping mall was just to bombard his meeting.

He knew it was annoying you that he hadn’t snapped yet — that your hard work to rile him up wasn’t working. Yet. You still had a few tricks up your sleeve — one’s that would have him seething.

“Ma’am, I—“ “Anyways, baby, which one should I wear later?”

Michael’s jaw clenched tightly as you reached into one of your shopping bags and pulled out two sets of extremely promiscuous, laced lingerie sets — leaving nothing to the imagination as you held them up for the whole room to see.

One was red, with a garter belt you could wear around your thigh, with silk and lace decorating the rim of the panties and bra. The other was white, with pretty bows on the front of both items, and the panties were crotchless.

Michael sucked his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as you smirked evilly at him — you both had a silent understanding that you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’m thinking the white,” You started, peering at it as you held it higher, “Easy access, y’know?”

You didn’t miss the way Michael’s eyes darkened as you giggled, feigning innocence, as the room plastered shocked expression on their faces at your audacity.

“Still a no, baby.”

You raised your eyebrows at his words, tongue rolling over your front teeth as you titled your head to the side, looking at him as if it were just the two of you in the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Michael.” You fired back, a hand on your hip as you moved your head sassily.

“You do. And it’s still a no.”

Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of success as you huffed in irritation, stomping that heeled foot once again, shoving the sets back into one of the bags and snatching the rest off the table quickly, letting papers fly to the floor, ignoring the way people groaned out loudly in frustration.

“Come to Mommy, LV,” You ordered, tapping your bare thigh as the little dog jumped from Michael’s lap to sit by your feet as you took the leash in your hand once again, “Daddy clearly doesn’t love Mommy as much as he says.”

Michael laughed, “Baby, c’mon now.”

“Whatever, Michael.” You spat, waving him away as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heels clicking as the door slammed behind you, head held high as you flicked the sunglasses that rest upon your head back over your eyes, disappearing around the corner.

The room fell into awkward silence as the men exchanged disbelieving looks with one another until Michael let out a chuckle, still finding your out-break humorous.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

Michael had assumed, in his ignorance, that maybe you would let this go soon enough — that you’d find something else, hopefully a little less expensive, to obsess over. Maybe he’d surprise you with new heels you could wear out with your bratty stomping, or a new bag you could smack him with whenever you fell into one of your adorable little moods that he loved.

But, no.

You weren’t giving up that easy — it was no fun getting glamorous things without a little challenge sometimes.

And Michael soon realised you weren’t letting this go when he slipped into the back of the black Mercedes that always transported him around, now late in the evening, sighing as he got comfortable in the seat, eyes hiding behind his aviators as people swarmed the car, raising a hand to wave with a smile to his delighted fans.

It was only when he looked down at the Nokia you had bought him for his birthday, one that he still had no idea how to use, and saw a notification that had him cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in anger.

-$150,000 — New transaction from ‘R.H CHANDELIERS’ on American Express ending in 3398

Oh, you had really done it now.

When Michael pushed open the door to your home, ignoring the way it slammed against the wall from the sheer strength of his hands against it, you were no-where to be seen. Just a few handy-men who walked down the stairs, carrying empty boxes and bubble wrap, sighing in fatigue as they wiped sweat from their foreheads.

“Who are you?” Michael snapped, not even bothering to be jovial and pleasant as the two worn out men froze.

“I, uh, sorry, Mr Jackson, we just had a call to fit this new Chandelier, your fiancée said it was urgent.” One spoke up, voice cracking nervously at the look of rage in Michael’s face.

“Get out.”

They didn’t wait around — instantly rushing out the door and shutting it gently behind them, with trembling hands. Michael also didn’t skip a beat, striding up the stairs with long, rushed steps as he rushed across the house, straight to the guest bedroom.

However, when he pushed the door open, chest heaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

There was no Chandelier.

“Wrong room, jackass.”

Michael’s head snapped to his left, clenching his jaw at the sight of you stood in the doorway of the master bedroom where you and Michael resided the most, clad in the white lingerie set you had once attempted to embarrass him with, the heels you were wearing previously still on your feet as you stared at him, daringly.

“What did you just say to me?” Michael snapped, walking slowly towards you, clear anger spread across his face, only furthering his heightened emotions as you just smiled.

As he reached you, you slipped away from him inside the room, making sure to sway your hips the way you knew he loved, as you disappeared out of view. Michael followed you, cursing the betrayal of his lewd mind as his eyes fell to the curve of your bare ass, before walking straight into the room you had hidden in.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

You were now splayed across the bed on all fours, back arched, legs spread to display your glistening pussy through your crotchless panties, a seductive grin still tugged onto your lips. And above you — a breath-taking, bejewelled Chandelier, cladding 3,500 diamonds that twinkled in the sunrise through the large window behind you.

“Which is prettier?” You spoke lowly, never leaving his eyes as he undressed you with his eyes, the burning flame of fury never leaving his gaze.

Michael was scarily quiet as he sauntered slowly towards the edge of the bed — eyes dark and unreadable as he approached you silently. His jaw was still pressed into a tight clench when he reached you, forcing you to swallow thickly in anticipation.

“I told you no.”

The words hit deep in your chest as the insinuation of the concequence of your actions crept up your spine — the smile now dropping from your lips as you shuddered.

“‘M sorry, baby, but,” There it was, your argumentative tone as usual, “You said no to the guest room — not in here.” You sassed, sporting your usual pout

You gasped loudly, half-heartedly mixing with a moan, as Michael’s large palm connected with the bare of your left ass-cheek, sending shockwaves of anticipatory pleasure through your body.

“You never listen.” He started, rubbing soothing circles over the skin he had assaulted, “You’re so ungrateful.”

You whimpered at his harsh words, before squealing as another crack of his hand against your stinging cheek sounded into the room. Even despite the blinding pain with each brutal spank, your body betrayed you as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be touched as the sexual tension ignited in the room.

“‘M really sorry, baby.” You mewled, tears springing to your ears as another smack landed on your swollen skin, “Just wanted it so badly.”

“And I wanted you to behave but you decided to be a fucking brat instead.”

You couldn’t suppress the moan that fell past your lips at the word, meant to be an insult, but sent shockwaves of arousal coursing through your veins, landing straight between your legs where you dripped.

Michael’s eyebrow twitched up his face at your reaction, a dangerous smile creeping up onto his face, “Oh? You like being called a brat, huh?” He started, fingers trailing down the skin of your inner thighs, “You like it when I call you out for being my fucking spoiled little princess?”

“Yes.” You cried out, hips jerking backwards as his fingers finally dragged along your clothed pussy lips, avoiding the opening where your cunt revealed itself to him, now drenched from your essence, “Please punish me, Daddy.”

Michael groaned — the sensuality of the nickname hitting him beneath his boxers where he too twitched, now the hardest he ever had been as you lurched back into his touch, whining with your lip tucked under your teeth.

It was only when he slid a finger through your spread folds, collecting your arousal on a singular digit, drowning in the way you whined his name like a prayer, hips now jolting involuntarily as you begged for his touch as his finger swirled around your clenching hole, did he finally smile. He teased you relentlessly, letting you cry out, tears now falling freely from your eyes as he refused to fill you with his fingers, watching as you writhed pathetically from one touch.

“Beg for it.” He commanded, dipping just the tip of his middle finger into your spasming cunt, smirk deepening as you whined loudly.

“Please, God, please, baby, I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good f’you—fuck!” You panted, streaming eyes locked on his eyes as you pleaded, “I’ll never disobey you again, Mikey, I promise. ‘Be such a good girl, forever, ‘swear.”

He hummed, satisfied with your response, pushing a singular finger inside you, vision locked on the way your back arched deeper as he curled his finger just the way you liked — a needy, theatrical moan leaving your test-stricken lips as you ground back onto his hand.

His free hand spread across your side, pulling you back down onto his fingers as he slid a second inside, rubbing tight circles into the curve of your hip-dips, as you fucked yourself back onto him. His name fell from your lips in a chant — eyes rolled to the back of your head in pleasure as the pads of his fingers repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“Need your cock!” You exclaimed, eyes now squeezed shut as the arousal thumped deep in your bones, wanting nothing more than to be filled by his manhood.

“Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.” Michael reminded, grip tightening on your hip.

“‘M sorry—mmgh—just need to f-feel you!”

He hated the way he felt his resolve wearing thin at your pitiful begging — cock throbbing violently in his briefs as your cunt clenched around him, your wetness dripping down his knuckles.

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” You cried out, head thrown back as your hair splayed across your back, “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

And as soon as your release threatened to spill over — it was snatched away from you as Michael retracted his fingers swiftly. You whined loudly, much like you had done in recent times, more tears splashing down your flushed cheeks as your head hung low as the blissful sensation of an orgasm fizzed away.

“You don’t get to cum.” Michael spoke darkly, the sound of his belt clinking against the floor mixing with his voice as he knelt against the bed, “Not until I say so.”

You nodded meekly, whimpering, “Yes, Michael.”

“Good girl. See? Not that hard, is it?” Michael praised, a hand coming to rub smooth, gentle circles on your ass cheek.

You gasped once more as the head of cock slid between your folds, catching on your aching clit, your muscles tensing as the familiar pleasureful sensation that was ripped away from you climbed back into your body. Your hips pushed back into him at the feeling — whining for more as he just stared down at you menacingly.

“Convince me why I should let you have it, baby.” Michael started, gliding his stiff cock between your folds, collecting your essence over the tip, revelling in the way you whined each time it would nudge your clit, “Why should I let my baby have what she wants all the time?”

“Fuck, please, Michael, please.”

Michael scoffed, “Gotta do better than that, sweetie.”

You cried out, hips jerking back to feel more of him, a desperate noise leaving you, “‘Cuz I love you so much, Mikey—fuck—‘cuz I’m so pretty and sweet and spend all your money on cute clothes that you l-love me wearing. ‘Cuz I wanna marry you and have your babies—oh, fuck me please!”

I mean, you weren’t wrong. If anything, it made Michael chuckle behind you — what you said was so correct yet so you at the same time he couldn’t help but let you have it. You cried out, hand clawing at the bedsheets beneath you as you fell into them, as Michael’s cock dragged to your entrance and slid inside — stuffing you to the hilt as he bottomed out immediately, your cunt twitching aggressively as it struggled to accommodate the fullness.

“So tight f’me, baby, fuck.” Michael groaned, eyes fluttering at the sensation of your convulsing sex wrapped beautifully around his hard cock.

His thrusts were relentless from the get go — the first drag back and push in was harsh and brutal, slamming against your cervix each time. Your eyes were permanently rolled to the back of your head as you drooled, mouth hanging ajar as you jittered around him, the prettiest noises sounding from your lips with each jerk of his hips.

He was unsympathetic — fucking you like he hated you as he set a devilish pace, grunting behind you as pleasure consumed him, too. Your hands frantically flailed behind you, pushing against his flexed abdomen to shove him away, his impressive stamina getting the better of you as he stretched you open — but it did nothing, only spurring him on to fuck you senseless for your teasing and childishness.

“‘Can’t—Can’t take it, ‘S too big!”

Michael landed another harsh slap to your ass cheek, “You can and you will. You owe it to me, baby, for being such a fucking brat.”

His words elicited a pounding throb to your clit — your whines only increasing in octave and decibel as his pace remained unceasing. Michael noticed the way you clenched, begging for more as you sucked him in, and leant over to grab a fistful of your hair — dragging you firmly, albeit still gently, up against his chest.

You panted as your head threw back against his shoulder, eyes still slammed shut, as his thrusts never let up — pleasure surpassing what you had ever felt as his hand slithered down your strained body, and began rolling tight, precise circles onto your clit, slick coating his fingers once more.

“Look at that stupid thing, baby.” Michael ordered, your eyes pouncing open, the ethereal bedroom decoration filling your vision, “Think those diamonds can see how much of a pathetic little princess you are?”

“‘M not—Not pathetic.” You managed to blurt out, whimpers falling past your lips the second sentence left you.

“Quit your bitchin’.”

Michael soon shut you up, shoving his free hand of fingers down your throat — the taste of your essence landing on your tongue as you hummed and swirled the warm muscle around him, now plugged at both ends as his other hand still worked magic against your clit, the familiar sensation of your release creeping up your spine.

“‘M there!” You mumbled against his fingers, spit coating his digits as you slobbered over him.

“Yeah? ‘M there too, pretty, give it to me. Give Daddy what he wants for once.” Michael panted, breath hot against your ear, “Gonna fill this pussy so good you’ll want nothin’ else from me ever again.”

You cried out — loud enough so that everyone in the house could hear exactly how blissfully pleasured you were as your orgasm hit you full force. You writhed in his grasp, the hand stuffed into your mouth now grabbing a handful of your breast, toying with your erect nipple through the lace of your bra as he continued to not only plough deep into your convulsing cunt, but also play with your swollen clit. You chanted his name like a prayer as he soon found his release, groaning as he sunk his teeth gently into the bare of your shoulder to ground himself as his hips finally stuttered, burying himself as deep as he could reach — his warm, spurting cum flooding your spent pussy.

Michael, despite your whines of overstimulation, rolled lazily, deep thrusts inside you — ignoring his own overwhelm as he fucked seed further inside you, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to where his teeth marks con-caved into your skin.

When he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, you fell forward onto the bed, panting as you attempted to retrieve your breath — cheeks now red hot, and body aching from the relentless sex. Michael crashed next to you, sighing loudly, as he pulled you against his chest, until the only sound that filled the room was his thumping heartbeat in your ear, and soft, yet ragged breaths.

“You.”

“What?”

“You’re prettier.” He admitted, eyes meeting your dazed ones, both of your lips tugging into a smile.

You leant up — connecting your lips in a gentle kiss, displaying your deep, irrevocable adoration for your man, mouths moving slowly together. You pulled away, brushing a stand of his silky hair away from his face, cupping his cheek, before pecking the tip of his nose.

“Does that mean it can stay?”

Michael laughed — even after everything, you were still set on that damn Chandelier.

“Fine,” He breathed out a chuckle, kissing to your cheek as you both peered up at the glistening decoration that had caused your playful disagreement,

“It can stay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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

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

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

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

And you were definitely a distraction to Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

21:05, Check the clock.

21:18, Sigh irritatingly at the ceiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No problem."

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

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

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

Click! "Baby?"

Oh, Lord, it was better than you imagined.

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

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely the fuck not.

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

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

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

Click! Beeeeep!

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello, Westlake Recording Studio, this is—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could worse words ever be spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Furious didn’t even cover half of it.

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

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

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

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

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

"Honey, you okay?"

"Do you like what you see, Michael?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael remained behind you as he watched you slip your gown off, letting it fall of your body sensually, your half naked body now fully exposed to him. A shaky breath left his lips at the sight of you as you crawled onto the bed on all fours — your hips swaying while looking back to meet his eyes.

"Fuck." Michael groaned under his breath, his gaze not daring to look away from your frame, contorting into sensual positions.

You slid slowly onto your back, your arms holding you up and your legs pressed together, your eyes never leaving his own blown out ones — observing as his chest rose and fell quicker as he anticipated your next move. Fulfilling his undeniable need, you slowly parted your legs, revelling in the gasp that ripped from his throat at the sight of your crotchless panties, your gushing cunt exposed to him so suddenly.

"Oh, baby." He sighed, falling to his knees at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on your glistening pussy.

"Is she pretty?"

"Mhm, the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen." He mumbled, barely listening to you as he gawked at you.

"No — Is she pretty?"

That’s when it hit him — the reason you were awake, the outfit, the wine, the questions. It all finally clicked in his head what was going on.

"What? Ester?"

"Yes, her." You spat, a foul look on your face, acting as those even referring to her tasted vile in your mouth.

Michael breathed out a laugh, "Baby, no. Not at all. Never in a million years. She’s my producer." He answered, a playful smile on his face, "Enough of that — let me taste this sweet pussy that I’ve missed so much."

Leaning forward in attempt to press his face between your thighs, he was met with a forceful being stopping his path.

Your shoe — the heel pressing firmly on his forehead, stopping him in his tracks.

"Ah, ah, ah! No touching for you, Mikey." You teased, "Or is it only her that’s allowed to call you that?"

Michael groaned, a hint of a pathetic whine threatening to blend with the gruff of his voice, the severity of the situation really setting in for him now.

"Baby—"

"No. Beg."

"Honey, please," He wasted no time, his eyes meeting your own challenging ones from between your legs, all of his wrong-doings becoming apparent to him now he was being denied your pussy, "I don’t know why she called me that — that name is reserved for you and you only. You, my beautiful, loving, perfect wife. Not her." He rambled, his eyebrows curved upwards in despair as his voice threatened to break, desperation dripping off him more than the slick from your wet pussy at the submissive sight of him, "And I am beyond sorry at the fact I didn’t say ‘I love you’, I was in a rush and I didn’t think. But, I should’ve thought. How dare I deny my gorgeous sweet little one the words of my true love. And I should’ve answered your second call, and I should’ve been here to begin with. I hate leaving you alone for so long, but I’m an idiot husband, please, please, forgive me."

You stayed silent as your high-heel, the Armani ones he’d bought for your birthday, still remained pressed against his warm forehead. His puppy dog eyes, now a silent plea of desperation as he looked at you, his face a complete wreck at the pure fact that he was being denied your glorious pussy.

"Hm." You spoke finally, lowering your foot off of his face, "I suppose I’ll forgive you."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He chanted, grabbing a hold of your ankle, craving any sort of touch at this point.

"If."

"Yes, baby, anything." He rambled, "Anything — just let me feel you, please."

His obvious built up sexual frustration was manifesting itself in the most submissive, pathetic manner you’d ever seen — his voice cracking and stuttering as he begged you for physical contact.

"You let me use that pretty mouth and cock of yours until I decide you’ve made up for it."

He could’ve cum on the spot at the pure erotica that left your pretty pink lips, swallowing hard as his cheeks flushed, trying to ignore the way his cock throbbed in his boxers.

"Jesus, sweetheart." He breathed, "You’re killing me over here."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, absolutely, 1000%, yes."

"Lay down then."

Michael wasted no time doing what you asked. Usually, he would dominate in the bedroom, and he knew deep down the second he slid his achingly hard cock into your tight little cunt, that you’d submit to him that millisecond, but right now, he’d humour you — secretly enjoying letting you take the reigns for once, especially if it meant getting to devour your pretty pussy.

You crawled up his body, before hovering over his face, your legs either side of his head — your clenching cunt just centimetres above his eager mouth that had him twitching in excitement at the thought of the taste of your sweet pussy, one he’s missed for so long.

"Lemme take care of you, sweet girl. Make everything alright again." He promised, two firm hands coming to grab a handful of your shaking thighs.

Without giving him a second to prepare, you lowered your pussy down onto his face — both of you moaning at the feeling of one another after so long.

"Oh, Michael." You cried out, your hands flying to the headboard above your bed, as his tongue wasted no time in delving between your lips.

His tongue slithering its way around your quivering sex — the tip of the warm muscle swiping over your throbbing clit, eliciting the most needy, pornographic whine from your lips. Michael couldn’t help but smile into you — knowing the dominant act was going to wear off pretty soon with that way he was devouring your cunt like his last meal.

The erotic noises that filled your once depressingly quiet bedroom had Michael twitching uncontrollably in his pants — his cock screaming to be freed as you began rocking your hips back and forth on his face, moaning like a bitch in heat at the feeling is his nose nudging your sensitive nub.

"O-Oh, baby, yes! Yes, God, baby, so good." You whined, your voice a high-pitched strain of undeniable ecstasy as you rode his face.

Michael was in heaven — after weeks of not even seeing you naked let alone having his face stuffed full of your pussy, he couldn’t be stopped from devouring you even if anyone tried. He didn’t even care that his dick was begging to be touched — he wanted, no, needed to be forgiven, to make things right. Prove to you that you were the only woman he needed in his life.

A devilish hand slid up your thigh to grab a handful of your ass, earning a moan of delight into your pussy as Michael sucked your aching clit. Nearly buckling over at the vibrations of his noises — you hunched over, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the headboard for dear life at the feeling of his swollen lips wrapping around your clit like his life depended on it.

It was only when two of his long, slender fingers dipped suddenly into your hole, reaching such depths so quickly that you came on the spot — crying out deliciously as you coated Michael’s face in your juices.

"Michael—ah! God, yes! Don’t stop!"

Your hips rocked back and forth faster than before, denying him of oxygen, not that he cared, but prolonging your orgasm as his slicked nose repeatedly abused your extremely overstimulated clit.

Lifting off his face with a whine, your legs threatened to collapse before Michael caught you, two strong, reliable hands holding your waist and legs before they gave way. Michael picked you up with a smile, before laying you gently on the bed beneath him.

"You’re such a good girl for me, baby." He whispered, leaning down to press a sweet, gentle kiss on your forehead, cheek and nose, "Did so good for me."

You hummed tiredly, looking up at him innocently — one side of your bra strap had fallen down in the bustling of your orgasm, revealing your rounded left breast, your erect nipple on show for him, as well as your now dripping wet pussy one buck upwards away from meeting his thick bulge as he situated between your open legs.

He knew your dominatrix act would let up after he made you cum.

"Look what you did to me, sweet girl." Michael revealed, guiding your hand gently to grab a handful of his despicably hard cock, a loud gasp ripping from your throat, "So fucking hard for you baby. Missed feeling you cum against me so fucking bad."

"Mikey." You whined, irresistibly desperate beneath him.

"Fuck, I only love it when you say it, darling."

You wrapped your arms swiftly around his neck, pulling him down to connect your lips in a fiery, needy, frantic kiss. You hummed into his mouth, the taste of your tangy release still evident on his tongue. Michael kissed you with a burning passion that had you rubbing your legs together once more — the feeling of irrefutable arousal radiating off you like heat.

Michael, without needing to be told, freed himself quickly from his boxers, hissing into your mouth at the contact of his warm hand around the base, guiding it towards your slick cunt.

"Legs up, baby." He mumbled into your mouth, not daring to break the intense kiss.

Michael hummed in pure delight at the feeling of your heeled feet wrapping around his waist and forcing his hips closer to you — his leaking tip now colliding with your clit.

Michael cursed under his breath as his positioned his cock at your hole, his hands shaking at your sides, as he pushed in slowly. The feeling of his pulsating tip, dribbling with anticipatory pre-cum, stretching your pleading pussy had both of you crying out in euphoria — your moans already growing louder before he’d even filled you to the brim.

"Oh, my fuck — this pussy is to die for, Jesus." Michael whined as he pushed further into your tight cunt, inch by inch, his cock stretching you so perfectly.

Once bottomed out and fitted perfectly into your abused cunt — Michael began to set a brutal pace. One that you seeing stars and moaning beyond control underneath him — your sharp nails dragging down his muscular back as he ploughed deeper.

"Mhm!, Mikey, right there!" You gasped blissfully, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slammed perfectly into your G-Spot, brushing your cervix perfectly.

Michael was a piece of string held taut and being sawed at — ready to snap at any given moment. You hadn’t had sex this good in months — the build up frustration and lack of communication had you both needing each other like water in the desert.

"M-Michael?"

"Yeah, baby?" He panted above you, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek, and down your neck.

You whined, "Pass me the phone."

"What?"

“Don’t stop. Just pass me the phone."

Michael obliged reluctantly, unsure of where this was going. He reached over, his thrusts slowly slighly, one handed to grab the phone, handing it back to you.

"Dial her number."

Michael’s face drained of colour as his thrusts slowed to a stop, which earnt him a slap on the ass from behind, like a jockey on a horse, "Don’t stop, I said. Now, dial her number."

Michael’s swallowed thickly as he searched your face for any sign of humour, but your knitted eyebrows in pleasure paired with your oh so serious eyes had him reaching over to the phone and dialling Westlake Recording Studio.

This late at night had the calls connecting directly to Michael’s studio, Susie long gone, and the only person left in the Studio, was the one person you wanted to answer the phone the most.

"Hello, Ester from Westlake Studio speaking."

A wicked smile flickered over your face as her muffled voice filled your ears. You took the phone from Michael’s hand, sneaking out from under him, pushing him onto the bed and climbing on top of him, guiding his slicked, hard cock back inside you — now riding him just how you knew he loved. Michael strained a loud moan that threatened to escape his lips.

"Hello?" Her voice sounding more confused at the rustling and whispering on the other side of the phone.

You handed the phone back to Michael who eyed you confusedly. His only instruction was the word ‘Speak’ that you mouthed at him, before lifting your cunt off his throbbing cock and bouncing straight back down, his cock nudging your cervix perfectly now.

"H-Hi Ester, it’s M-Michael."

"Michael? What are you doing calling this late?"

Michael looked at your fucked out face for answers — as your beautiful frame and gorgeous complexion stared right back at him, your wedding ring glistening in the moonlight as you grabbed a handful of your tits, he knew exactly what he needed to do to make things right.

"I’ve decided your actions at the Studio are wildly inappropriate and disrespectful to my wife." He started, his voice huffed as he bucked his hips up into you, "Using a personal and private nickname that is reserved for my wife and my wife only is—ah, baby! unprofessional and calls for immediate dismissal."

"What? A-Are you firing me over a nickname?"

"Yes, e-exactly." Michael breathed, "My w-wife is the most important thing in my life, and anyone who upsets her will be—o-oh fuck—banished effective immediately."

Michael positioned the phone to be held up with his shoulder as he gripped your hips — slamming upwards into your tightening pussy, forcing your moans and whines to grow deliberately louder.

"What the fuck? Are you having sex?"

"Pack your stuff and be gone by tonight," Michael breathed, biting his lips momentarily at the sight of your tits bouncing as he fucked up into you, "And never disrespect my wife again."

Not even bothering to hang up, knowing the embarrassed woman on the other line would, Michael threw the phone onto the floor and thrust up into your drooling pussy like he had seconds left to live.

"Oh, Michael, I love you—I love you so so much. Thank you, baby—mmhm!!— thank you, you’re so good to me!"

"I love you, sweetheart, god, M’love you so much."

With a tentative hand crawling down your body to rub tight circles on your clit, to the way it made you clench around his twitching cock — the both of you came with a strangled cry.

"Yeah — cum on my cock, baby, give it to me." Michael coaxed, a whine following shortly after as he forced his cock as deep as it would go before letting his much needed release fire up inside of your oh so willing cunt.

Whining on top of him, juices flowing down his length, coating his tightened balls, your orgasm subsided and you crashed onto his chest, heaving as he, too, came down from filling your cunt up to the brim with his hot seed, before slipping out as he softened.

His gentle hand came up to caress your head, the other taking a hold of your left hand, lifting it carefully to display your wedding ring to the both of you, the 24 Carat gold rock glistened in front of both your eyes, a smile creeping onto your face as it remained a reminder of your dedication to one another no matter.

"This will get you anything you want and more." He admitted, "Just say the word and I’ll go to the ends of the Earth for you, darling."

You peered up at him, your eyes a hazy, fucked out mess, "Will it get me a week alone with my husband?"

Michael smiled, pressing a kiss to your jewelled finger, a boyish giggle leaving his lips before he spoke, "I’d have to check with Quincy—“

"That’s so not funny."

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