Yours truly, Tee★

Oftentimes they're internalised, stuffed into a thick glass bottle that only you can see straight through. The only way to gain access is to smash through it with a large hammer, and even then sometimes it bounces off the surface like a bouncy ball, leaving you helpless in an attempt to enter the prism of his thoughts. 

"Michael..." You're sitting in the back of a cab, the partition rolled up between you and the driver. Michael is beside you, still in his outfit from the Grammys, his legs angled away from you as he faces out the window with his chin resting on palm. His gaze is trained on the passing cars and buildings of New York, jaw clenched. "Talk to me..."

"There's nothin' to say," he simply responds, pushing himself closer to the window as though he couldn't bear to face you right now. 

"You've always got something to say. Come on, lemme hear it." You're turning in your seat to face him full on, your hand reaching for his that rests lazily across his lap. He glances down when you interlace your fingers. "You can talk to me. You know that, right?"

Michael only hums as though he's uninterested, moving his hand away from your grasp and folding them both across his chest as he finally leans back to rest against the seat. A pair of sunglasses shield his eyes, much like the true emotions he hides from you right now. His bottom lip rolls into his mouth, biting down as though he's currently racking through his brain with thoughts you can't see. He's stiff. Rigid. And if you didn't know him any better, you would say that he's definitely mad. 

But Michael isn't just mad, in fact, he's seething with rage. He stretches his hands that threaten to ball into fists with every passing moment, wanting to puncture the skin of his palms with his blunt nails to replace that pain with the ache in his chest. Control is limited and it takes him immense strength to not just turn around and yell at you, or better yet, crash his lips right against yours with fierce aggression to get you to shut up.

Sighing, you shift back into your seat and turn your head to look at the passing city lights as the night looms. But actually you're not watching them, you're staring at Michael's reflection in your window, how his attention has finally switched to you and his chest rises and falls with unsteady breaths. 

You ignore him, just as he was ignoring you. 

Minutes pass before you finally reach your hotel. Michael doesn't thank the driver like he normally does. Instead he gives a curt nod of recognition as you trail after him into the building. Also ignoring the concierge and hotel staff that never fail to greet him, he makes a beeline for the elevator without so much as waiting for you. "Michael, slow down!" But he doesn't respond as you slip in after him, the doors sliding shut as he presses a button to trap you in the confined space. Tension radiates from every pore in his body, nostrils flaring with every ragged breath as his eyes remain fixed ahead, away from you. "What's gotten into you?"

Again, he's only silent. At this point it's beginning to frustrate you. He won't talk or even look at you, as though you're the reason for his return without a single award after such a highly anticipated event. You're concerned for how he continuously buries his emotions beneath the ground and kicks over them with a layer of dirt, brushing it all off later like it was never a big deal in the first place. It's also just aggravating to see how your boyfriend won't listen to you, or even give a response to your words. 

After the elevator reaches the top floor, he's the first to slip out and head straight down the corridor to your shared room. His loafers thud against the muffled carpet with his hurried steps before he unlocks the door, stepping inside for you to follow behind him just a moment later. 

You click the door shut behind you and when you turn around, Michael is pacing the length of the small room. His hands thread into his curls, tugging softly before he switches to reaching over and ripping his sunglasses from his face. He tosses them somewhere onto the floor and they clatter against the hardwood as he rounds to the small two-seater in the corner, sitting down with his head buried in his hands. 

You don’t move from your spot at the door. You've seen Michael angry before but it's always been about little things such as minor jealousy involving you or small frustrations over his busy schedule that he can easily amend. This is different. This is something completely out of his control and something that is not involving you in any way. Something that triggers the dedication and perfectionism within him because he thought he was doing good. He thought he was making history again. Breaking records, sealing more deals, gaining more awards. 

Apparently it wasn't enough. 

You're cautious to approach him when he's in such a vulnerable state, but when you do you take slow steps to stand at his side, hesitant to prod any further considering how he untangled your hands in the cab earlier. "Michael, baby... I'm really sorry about how this all turned out. Nobody saw this coming. It's not your fault." He answers you with a stretch of silence, and you take another step forward. "Tell me how I can make you feel better. Talk to me. What do you need—"

Your words catch in your throat when his head suddenly jerks up. "I don't know what I need. Okay? I don't know." His voice is sharp and loud, slicing directly through your gentle tone with a knife. His frustration has seeped to the top, overflowing with angry crimson bubbles. "All that... work. All those late nights, all that planning, all those blisters and aches and..." He rises to his feet, storming past you as he begins to pace again. "It still wasn't enough? Really? Y'know how much fucking time I spent on that album?"

You flinch when he curses considering how it's unusual to slip past his mouth even when he's in a fit of rage. He's staring at you as though he's waiting for an answer, his eyes dark and glossy with the onset of frustrated tears. You're taking a step forward in an attempt to comfort him. "Yes, Michael, I know—"

"No! You don't. Nobody does." His blunt voice causes you to swallow as he tears his gaze from yours and he steps away again. His tone is laced with anger but it's not directed at you, just frustration spilling out wherever it can. "I put my fucking heart and soul into my music. I spend hours and hours writing. Singing. Dancing. Rehearsing. But it's not enough. It's never enough. I have to do more." His footing stops at the window, the spread of New York city expanding far out of view. 

"Michael, I hear you. Loud and clear. But it really isn't your fault. You're being too hard on yourself—"

"Don't," he snaps, his head flicking to you in a split second. Tears brim in his eyes. "Don't tell me I'm bein' too hard on myself. I'm not. I know my work and I know I haven't done enough. I can do better." 

His words linger quietly. You're not quite sure how to respond to him. His anger is self-targeted and you don't think your involvement would help him change his mind. He's much too stubborn. "Michael, do you want me to give you some space? Should I leave?" 

But then he's shaking his head, a hot stray tear spilling down his cheek as he faces the ground between you. "No, stay. Please." He wipes the tear away with the back of his hand, sniffling once. "I'm sorry. I'm just so... angry. I don't even know what to do with myself. I—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard. Then he closes the gap between you with a few long strides, his arms enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so sorry." 

You manage to sneak your hands past the underside of his chest to return the embrace, but if anything the embrace is more so vicehold keeping you locked in place. His grip only tightens, his frustration slipping through into his actions yet he's still mindful not to hurt you. Head resting against your hair, heart thumping rapidly against his chest, he realises that even your soothing sway isn't enough to extinguish the fire within him.

He pulls back first, peering down at you with his hard dark eyes. "Tell me, how can I help you?" Your hand slithers up in the tight gap between you to rest on his cheek, thumb brushing the skin of his cheekbone and the further tears that have slipped past their barrier. "I'll do anything to make you feel better. Just tell me what you need." 

His gaze draws over your face slowly, as though he's searching for something. Trailing from your eyes, to your nose and then to your lips, lingering there for seconds longer than normal. A breath of air passes them upon the weight of his stare. "Michael?"

And then his hands slide from their place on your back, one reaching up towards the back of your neck and the other heading down to your waist, wrapping around you firm and tight. Then he leans in, and his mouth crashes against yours in a bruising kiss. You're flush against him, following his lead as he further tilts his head for extended access. There's almost nothing gentle about it. It conveys every fiery emotion buried deep in his heart and every frustration from the night that slipped between his fingers. But it feels good. It feels wanted. Needed. Passionate. 

Your arms wrap around his neck as he dips you down slightly. His kisses are fast, almost sloppy, and then he pulls you up, turning you both around and leading you backwards till you feel the cool glass against your spine all without breaking the kiss. 

When you finally pull back for air, he stays close, murmuring against your lips, "look, I don't wanna argue. I don't wanna take anythin' out on you, I just..." His chest rises with a breath, his tongue darting out to leave a coat of sheen on his plump bottom lip before he rests his forehead against yours. You notice how his eyes are still glassy with resentment and leftover tears, but now there's something else burning in them. Something raw and hot and fierce. A feral, desperate hunger. Then his voice drops low, just above a whisper. "I need you. God, I need you." 

His eyes flutter shut after his statement, body tightly pressed against yours and you’re afraid if he pushes any harder you might just break the glass of the window behind you. But how could you resist him when he’s being so vulnerable with you. “Have me,” you whisper back, holding him equally as tight. “I’m yours.” 

Grabbing a hold of your hips, he quickly scoops you up before setting you down on the wall beside the bed. His large hand gently wraps around your throat, his thumb pushing your jaw so your cheek meets the cool wall. He leans over to hush in your ear, “tell me you want this, my love. Tell me you’re gonna let me have my way tonight. Tell me it’s okay for me to take control.” 

You’re not exactly sure when the conversation escalated, but what you are sure of is the tingle that his soft yet dominating voice sends down your back and straight towards your core. His voice is dripping with arousal and longing. Your thighs squeeze together in growing need, your words simpering past with a soft gasp, “yes, baby. You can take control.” 

“Good.” He relieves the pressure on your neck and your head turns back to face him before he crashes against your mouth together in another hot kiss. It moves with indiscernible urgency. His tongue swipes against yours, a hand drifting into your hair to tug gently, the other looping around your waist to set you flush against his growing bulge. When he breaks the kiss, your breaths are heavy, his lips wet and glossy when he murmurs against yours, “gonna fuck you so hard. Gonna make you scream so loud.” Another tingle sent down your spine. “And you’ll take it all, yeah? Cause you’re my sweet angel. My princess.” 

Your eyes flutter shut upon hearing his words, your mouth parting with a breathy whimper. Michael’s been rough before, many times, but it’s never contained this amount of desperation. Something about his rawness has you yearning for more, but because he wants to take control, you don’t push any further. “Yes, Michael.” 

And that’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s spinning you around to push your front up against the wall. He pins you with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck, his other trailing up the slit of your olive green slip dress. His fingers leave a touch of fire as they skim up your thigh, a finger curling around the waistband of your panties before he tugs them down. “Hm, bet you’re so wet already ‘n I’ve hardly touched ya. Am I right, angel?” 

The combination of his filthy words and sweet pet names has you pushing back against him, arching in order to feel his thick bulge that presses against the seam of his trousers. “Yes.” You’re barely whispering, so tangled up in need. Your hands press up against the wall before you. “Mikey, fuck me. Please…” 

“You looked so beautiful tonight.” His voice uses the same hushed tone as he lets your panties drop to the floor, barely giving you time to step out of them before his hand is slithering beneath the front of your dress to find your slit. A finger dips in between your folds to collect the wetness that has already pooled. "God, you're too generous." His free hand threads into your hair, pulling your head back. "All this for me?"

"All for you," you breathe out. He only hums as he swirls a finger around your clit with light pressure, circling it before edging down towards your entrance, the tip of his finger barely tipping past before he's trailing up again. "Baby, please."

He shushes your whining, removing both his hands from your body to hike up your dress. He pushes it over the curve of your ass, a breathy moan slipping past his lips at the sight of your plumpness. His fingers press into the soft skin to draw your cheeks apart and he leans over to gaze at your wetness that is practically dripping down and covering the inside of your thighs. Then he puffs cool air onto your slick heat, causing you to shiver. "Fuck—so beautiful. Tell me, who do you belong to?" 

"You." The word passes quickly, desperate in an attempt to please him and stop his teasing. "I'm all yours, Michael." 

He readjusts your dress to stay collected at your hips and then you hear the buckle of his belt behind you as he slides it off. The sound only has you further needy, back arching in chase of his hands or his cock to fill you up. He steps closer to you after freeing his length from the restriction of his trousers, pressing it up against the curve of your ass. His ankles nudge yours apart, your heels still on, before he dips the tip between your folds. One hand plants firmly against your hip beneath your bunched up dress, and the other guides his cock up and down, circling your clit before pressing his thick length up towards your entrance. "Look at you. My sweet angel, my beautiful princess. So needy. So filthy. Hm?"

Your whimpers melt into a moan when he finally pushes inside you. All the way. His thick, hard cock trapped between your slick walls. Throbbing at the pressure of your tightness, he guides himself out once slowly before burying back in, his gaze trained on the way your bodies meld into one. His free hand pushes your head against the hard wall, cold against your cheek. Then he does it again, although this time faster, gradually picking up speed each time he's thrusting in and out of you. Your mouth falls open at the speed but also at the hardness, the roughness of the pace, the way his whimpers melt in with yours to tangle together in your pleasure. 

He pulls you back, arching your back further, your hands plant against the wall as both of his settle on your hips, fingers digging into your skin before he drives into you with a commanding force. The quick snap of your bodies together has you crying out with pleasure. He removes a hand from your hip to lift it up and smack it down against your cheek, hard. A moan filters past your lips at the resounding impact, his fingers reaching over to massage the soft skin before he does it again. And then once more. Your jaw drops open at the slight sting that has a familiar knot building up in your stomach. "Pretty, pretty girl. All mine,” you hear him grumble beneath grunts. A hand reaches over to swirl at your throbbing clit, the pressure continuing to build. 

"Michael, I'm gonna..." 

He retracts his hand immediately but his pace remains equally as brutal. "Already? Nuh-uh. Not until I say so. You're gonna hold it for me, yeah? Hold it for me whilst I fuck you hard against the wall. Aren't you, baby?"

You let out a quiet "yes" and finally turn to look at him over your shoulder with a pleading look. His curls are a mess, grazing his shoulders and sticking to his temples with sweat. His eyes meet yours, his bottom lip sucking between his teeth as his nostrils flare with a breath. The look on your face almost has him hurling towards his own orgasm. 

Suddenly he pulls out, spinning you around to face him. The absence of his warmth inside you has you whining softly. "My beautiful girl's gonna have me cummin' too quick with that look." He chuckles darkly, lips hovering just above yours. "Lemme hold off a little longer. Get on the bed, clothes off." 

You comply immediately, kicking off your heels and stepping out of your dress. Michael kicks off his loafers, stepping out of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt and watches as you crawl onto the bed, peering down at his thick, swollen cock that leaks with your arousal with such patience.

Such a good girl. All for him.

"On your stomach." 

You turn around, arms stretched above your head against the pillows whilst your knees bend, hips rising into the air. He groans behind you at the sight of you quietly presenting yourself to him. The bed dips down behind you with the weight of his body, his warmth approaching you from behind. His hand comes down to strike your ass once more, and then again, causing you to gasp. Then he quickly aligns his tip with your entrance before pushing back in. You moan at the feeling of him reentering your walls, his pace picking up exactly where it left off.

"Always so tight," he breathes out between snaps of his hips. "Always so good to me. Always listenin’. Such a good, good girl. Lettin' me use you. Lettin' me have my way. Tell me, whose pussy is this?"

"Fuck—yours," you moan between his deep strokes. "It's all yours, Michael." 

Groaning at your words, his grip on your hips tighten hard enough to leave marks. "God, I needed this. Tell me you love it. Tell me you love it when I have my way with you, my precious baby."

"I love it." His filthy words mingled with sweet praises make it difficult for you to hold off your peak. "I love it. So much. Love being yours, Michael." 

His response is a tangle of his hand into your hair, drawing your head up from its position muffled against the sheets. He leans down, his chest lowering to collide with your sweat slicked back, his other hand wrapping around your stomach to hold you in place. The new angle has him even deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock is pushing against a familiar spot that would have you writhing if it weren’t for his tight grip on you. "Good girl. Taking it just right." His breath tickles your ear, warm and soothing despite his unforgiving speed. "Just hold on a little longer for me, yeah? I know you're close."

You're unable to respond as he continues pounding into you at. The knot begins to form slowly and it takes all strength from you not to lean into the feeling of pleasure and climax on the spot. Your whimpers and moans gradually increase in frequency. "Michael, please. I can't—" 

"Yes you can." He continues his deep strokes, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes as he begins to feel the onset of his own climax approaching. He lets out a wrecked moan then reaches around your body, fingers instantly finding your clit when he begins to rub quick, tight circles. "That’s it. Cum for me, pretty girl. Give it to me." 

You let go. The pressure builds and builds till the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm comes in waves, rendering a loud cry from you along with his name spilling from your lips like a helpless prayer. Your walls clench around him, a grunt slipping past his lips. "Oh—fuck, Michael."

"You gonna take me?" He hushes into your ear as he rides out your high with his continued quickening pace. "Gonna take every single last drop of me, yeah princess?" 

"Yes, please—I want it all." Your eyes flutter shut as he pushes your head into the sheets again, breathing heavy and hard. A moment later he lets out a loud groan, your name falling from his lips along with a string of praises as his thick, hot seed shoots and paints the inside of your walls. His cries are mixed with your own as his pace slows, his length twitching inside of you and his breathing ragged as he bathes in the glow of his climax. 

He stills, catching his breath, eyes trailing over the expanse of your figure below him before he slides out with a hiss from the two of you. Immediately, he flips you over and collects you into his arms with a hug. You feel like jelly under his touch, your body heavy with the weight of both your climaxes and aftermath of his unforgiving pace. Yet it still felt good. It felt hot. And maybe, the most aggressive yet best sex you’ve had together. 

"I'm sorry." 

You're trying to even out your breathing when you pull back to take a look at him. His eyes, previously dark with a combination of frustration, need and hunger now only hold guilt with a hint of concern. "What do you mean?"

"I was so rough—I, I didn't mean to do that." His usual tone of voice is laced with a little sadness, his fingers threading through your hair to keep you close. "Did I hurt you?" His eyes trail down your body, past your exposed breasts and to your hips to see angry red marks, left on his own accord. "I did..." 

"No, Michael. You didn’t hurt me, it's okay." You tuck a stray curl behind his ear, planting a kiss to his forehead as he continues to stare at your hips, his thumb soothing over the marks. 

"It's not okay." He moves to set you down against the sheets, planting himself on his forearms to hover just about you. "I was too rough. I used you. God—I was so mad and upset and I just. . . I didn't even realise what I was doing and—"

"You didn't use me, sweetheart." You drag both your hands up the length of his arms and onto his shoulders before cupping both his cheeks. "I just gave you what you wanted. You've been rough before. This is no different."

"This is different." He shifts to move over the rest of your body, settling back so that his face lines with your stomach. His hands gently rest at the dip of your waist, his lips grazing over the faint marks littering your hips. "I've been rough before, I know. But that's just playin'. I'd never actually hurt you. But this time, I..." His eyes catch yours, gleaming with worry. "I took my anger out on you. I used you." 

"Michael, no—come here." You tug on his arms to drag him back up, softness in your expression. "It was none of that, okay? Yes, you were mad. But I let it happen. I wanted to be there for you. Especially because you wouldn't talk to me." 

His gaze falters from yours before he sighs, pulling away his weight to lay beside you. He pulls you in close, sliding an arm beneath your head and another around your waist. "I'm sorry for actin' like that before. I was just so angry... I was so in my own head. I didn't even know what t'think of it all." 

You listen along, smoothing a hand up his arm. "That's completely understandable. What were you thinking?"

He pauses, taking in a deep breath. "I just... what if I never reach Thriller success again, y'know? What if it was a one off that, no matter how hard I work, I'll never reach that level again." He looks down at you, eyes searching yours as though you held all the answers. "What if that was it and my career is over?"

"Mikey..." You shake your head in the minimal space, your hand reaching up to feather through his curls. "If you're talking about winning a grammy, then you've already done that. You've won loads. You can't just let those awards define your worth." He listens intently as you continue. "You're incredible, Michael. Genuinely. I know how hard you work and you deserve the absolute world. I know you pour your heart and soul into your music. Everyone does. And you've got your entire career ahead of you. So many more opportunities and songs to be written." You plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It's okay to be mad. It's okay to be angry or sad. But just know that it's not the end. Okay?"

"Yeah." He releases a slow breath of air that tickles your temple, absorbing your words like a sponge for a few moments. "You're right, angel. You always are. I love you." 

Then he draws you in for a kiss to your lips. It’s different from before, now sweet, breathy and soft. You pull back first to speak. "I love you too." A smile grazes his lips, and you're mirroring it, before yours slowly morphs into a cheeky smirk. "By the way, that was possibly the hottest sex we've ever had." 

He bursts into a surprised laugh, one that rumbles in his chest and bubbles out between his perfect white teeth. "Yeah? You liked that?" He licks his bottom lip, biting it gently between his teeth before speaking again. "Maybe I should be mad more often."

Your eyes flick between his devilish stare and heart shaped mouth, leaning in again. "Hm, maybe you should."

You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.

But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!

Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.

The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.

“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”

Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.

In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.

Bingo!

You knew exactly how to get out of this one.

With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.

A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!

You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.

“Licence and registration, please.”

Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.

Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.

He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.

“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.

“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you had clenching your thighs together involuntarily.

“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.

“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”

You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”

“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.

“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”

Fuck.

“I—um—“

“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.

“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.

He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.

“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.

“I didn’t, Sir.”

“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”

Shit—what?

“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”

“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”

You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”

He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”

“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!

With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.

“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”

“ …Uh—“

“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”

Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.

You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.

“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”

You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“

“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”

“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”

“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”

“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“

“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”

You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.

And you were more than into it.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”

Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.

“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”

“Turn around.”

The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.

“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”

“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.

“Good girl.”

He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.

“Oh!”

The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.

“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.

“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”

God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.

Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.

In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.

“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”

Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.

“Officer, I—“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.

“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”

“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.

“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.

Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.

You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.

“This better, Sir?”

“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”

“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.

He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.

His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.

“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”

“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”

He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.

“Consented, right, sweetheart?”

You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.

That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.

“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.

A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.

“Officer!”

“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”

You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.

“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.

You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.

“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”

You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.

“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.

You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.

“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”

“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.

A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.

“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”

“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”

Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.

And that’s exactly what it did.

With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.

“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”

“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.

“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.

The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.

“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”

Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.

“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“

With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.

For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.

“Here.”

You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.

“Leg.”

His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.

Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.

“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”

“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”

He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”

You giggled, “I understand.“

You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.

He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”

Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

OFFICER MICHAEL JACKSON

BADGE NUMBER : 4389

MOBILE NUMBER : (213) 555-1***

And scribbled underneath in messy black biro—

—Call me ;)

was this too crazy …?

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

You had realized at a very young age that most of the products sold in stores never considered the beautiful brown of your skin. So you taught yourself, becoming an expert in color theory and mixing the right amount of body paint into foundations to create the perfect shade for each and every one of your clients. And soon enough, your phone kept ringing, and you and your team kept traveling the world to work from the shadows on the biggest shows.

Still, it was when he called that you truly felt like you had won in life. Not because he was the biggest star in the world--well, kind of. But because despite being the biggest star in the world, he may be the biggest case of failed potential.

Michael was the canvas every makeup artist dreamed of. Aside from possessing one of the prettiest faces you had ever seen, he had the most perfect facial structure. A sharp jawline, defined cheekbones that were calling for rouge, big and round eyes ideal for khol and color combinations on his lids that would make one faint in ecstasy, long lashes that would make any girl jealous, and plump lips on which a creamy lipstick would glide effortlessly like water on the skin.

Absolute perfection.

And yet, you were doomed to see such a beautiful man work with a makeup artist who wouldn't blend the contour of his nose. Or perhaps it was his request. After all, Michael was known to be a perfectionist. Perhaps he wanted it this way. He would not go out with such makeup if he did not like it.

But it could definitely be better.

You could make it better.

You were working at the salon you had opened when your assistant rushed into the room. Music was playing in the background, every chair occupied, as you mentored one of the newly arrived interns.

"(Y/N)!" Lizzie called, barging into the main room. "(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N)! This is huge!"

You rested your hand on the intern's arm, a silent apology before you walked away and turned to your assistant. The look in your eyes was gentle but a little accusatory when you reached her.

"Lizzie, we have customers here," you calmly scolded.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" She exclaimed, not toning down her excitement one bit. "But you have to get the phone. Now!"

"Can't you handle it? Danielle is working on her first cut crease--"

"Boss," she cut off. "I'm telling you, you want to take that phone call."

Lizzie was of a discreet nature, so for her to lose her cool like this, you knew it was a big thing. So you left the salon and went to your office at the back of the store. The further you walked, the fainter the music and chatter got, replaced by the clicking of both your and Lizzie's heels on the floor. The handset was lying on the desk, right beside the phone.

You grabbed it and pressed the receiver to your ear.

"(Y/N), from Venus Cosmetics," you introduced yourself. "I was told you wished to talk to me?"

"Oh, Miss, yes, indeed," the man on the other line replied, relief clearly in his voice. "I am Mr. Michael Jackson's manager, who has tasked me to hire you. Would you be free tomorrow, perhaps?"

No word left your mouth.

You turned to Lizzie, who was trying her hardest not to squeal and stay put, though her smile was stretching from one ear to the other, and held her two thumbs up to you.

"Miss?" the manager called.

"Sorry, um..." The words played in your mind again, and a frown of pure confusion appeared on your brow. "Michael Jackson, the singer?"

The man let out a soft laugh. "Yes, Miss. The one and only. A photoshoot for the cover of a magazine is set for tomorrow morning, but the makeup artist he usually works with is on sick leave and won't be able to attend," he explained. "In our search for a solution, we found out that you have already worked with Mr. Jackson's sisters, who had nothing but praise for you. So he requests your talents for the duration of Miss Faye's absence."

Speechless was not even a strong enough word to express your state of shock. More than an opportunity that had fallen from the sky, it was a divine intervention. So what else could you answer than--

"Yes." You had to remain professional, but your smile laced your voice. "It's an honor to work for Mr. Jackson. Thank you for considering me."

You foraged through the desk for a pen, and Lizzie hurried to give you hers and her notepad. You scribbled down the photoshoot address and all the details the manager told you. And when the handset was back on the switchhook, you turned to Lizzie. Then you both squealed, jumping up and down as you celebrated the opportunity. Even if it was just temporary, having the chance to work with Michael Jackson was nothing short of extraordinary.

Once the salon was closed and you were back in your home, you immediately readied your makeup suitcase. You chose the best, softest brushes you owned, testing the fibers on the back of your hand; stored all your depotted makeup by color, from the lightest to the darkest shades; and made sure you had everything in double, triple, even, in case something happens on set.

The next day, you were among the very first to arrive on set. Before Michael's team, and even before all the props were ready. The backdrop was not mounted, the lights were not positioned, but you were already there. In a corner. You set all your products on the vanity; laid all your brushes on a fine cloth, lined all your khol pencils in one row, and the eyeliner pens in another, and rested your kit on the side, displaying all the depotted palettes.

You were ready.

Less than an hour later, the crew grew a little more restless, hurrying to get everything ready. And a second later, the door opened.

Immediately, you straightened up, fixing your hair as Michael entered, surrounded by his team. His two bodyguards were a step in front of him, and his manager a step behind. He beamed a kind smile to all those his eyes would meet, returning a polite greeting each time they would speak to him.

The photographer was the first to formally speak to him. They spoke some small talk, exchanging a few laughs before jumping straight to business. Michael was then led to another room by the stylist and returned with his checkered shirt and regular trousers switched for a vibrant red one, a black tie hanging from his neck, and black pants with buckles lined from his hips to his ankles. His new branding since the release of Bad.

It was then that he finally noticed you. You beamed a kind smile, although it took everything in you to keep your composure when he tilted his head to the side as his eyes trailed down your body. The corner of his lips curled up.

And you nearly fainted.

You weren't wearing anything fancy; just a high-neck dress with a slit and stiletto heels. And it was not the first time you were being checked out, but the way he did it made you feel giddy. Because it was innocent. Usually, men barely hid their intentions; the lustful thoughts so present in their eyes, never failing to make you feel like a piece of meat rather than a human being. But not Michael. He just really liked the way you dressed. And somehow, that made him more attractive than he already was.

"Hello, I'm Michael," he introduced himself, though he clearly did not need to, and extended his hand to you. "Sorry for the wait. I look forward to working with you."

"All is fine," you reassured him as you shook his hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

You stepped aside and motioned to the chair. He sat down as he observed the vanity full of products and brushes.

"I hope we did not cause too much trouble with your schedule," Michael said. "We called for you last minute, and I know you are quite in demand in the industry. I apologize."

"My schedule was pretty clear." You picked up a foundation in his shade. "I was focusing on my salon, rather than exclusive commissions."

You were about to pour a few pumps on the back of your hand when you stopped and turned to him.

"Is there any brand that causes irritation to your skin?" you asked. "I made sure to bring products with limited chemicals and natural ingredients, but I know all risks cannot be truly pushed aside."

His manager, upon calling you the day before, had mentioned the sensitivity of Michael's skin, so you made sure to adapt your products when you were packing.

He stared at you for a second, seemingly surprised you would even ask the question. Or be considerate enough to adjust your supplies for him.

"It's fine," Michael reassured. "Makeup has never really caused any irritation to my skin."

You nodded, relieved. The last thing you wanted was to ruin his health and bungle the entire affair.

So, you applied primer first on his face, then you poured foundation on your hand, and a few drops of green concealer too. His face was a little red; rashes on his cheeks. He looked at you, curious, when you dapped the green cream on the redness, and his eyes widened slightly when it blended so perfectly with the foundation. Usually, the rash would still be visible through the makeup, but it completely disappeared.

"How...," Michael muttered.

You giggled. "Color theory. Green cancels red, so it's great to even out the skin tone."

"Did you learn all of this at school?" he asked. "Your work is very different from what I usually see."

"No, I'm self-taught."

You applied a darker shade around his face, below his cheekbones, and around his nose, before blending it all out.

"Really?" His eyes had widened again. "You did not attend a makeup academy?"

"I did, but I dropped out after the first year."

"May I ask why?"

You reapplied some more makeup on his nose. From the pictures you had studied the night before, he liked having a very thin nose. Or the illusion of it, at least.

"They didn't teach makeup for people who looked like me," you said quietly.

And Michael's eyes softened in quiet understanding. "So you taught yourself."

"If no one else was about to do it, it fell upon me to do it." A smirk played on your lips. "To be young, gifted, and black, right?"

Michael's lips stretched in a smile, slightly nodding not to mess with your work.

As you were focused on adding the tiniest bit of highlighter on the tip of his nose and his cheeks, Michael let his eyes detail your face. Your makeup was simple: a soft blush on your cheeks and eyeshadow and lipstick that almost made it all look natural. But the inner corner of your eyes was decorated with white eyeshadow, as if you were glowing.

Had it been anyone else, Michael would have believed you were trying to impress him. But he had seen enough pictures of you and had studied the photobook you had released about makeup to know this was your day-to-day look. And it was the very reason he wanted to work with you.

It amazed him how you could make one look as though they were shimmering, or the way you could make one look so... velvety. The way the colors sat so perfectly on the skin, blended so smoothly like a rainbow had been infused into the complexion. The way you turned a mere eyeliner, the hardest makeup step, into pure art with curves and patterns of all kinds. The way you sometimes added rhinestones and glitter to make one look even more glamorous.

But you also mastered the more subtle looks. The gentle elegance, the quiet beauty, the natural air that were, in truth, crafted from A to Z. Your hands were made of gold, and your clients always came out as works of art, blessed by your vision. Everything you touched turned into a masterpiece.

"Done," you said as you put away your brush and lipstick. You had added just a tiny bit on his lips to have them pop out a little more. "You're all ready to go."

"Um." Michael looked at you, then at the vanity. "In, uh, your book, you wrote about a technique that made the skin look like velvet."

You tiltled you head. "Someone made his homework."

His ears grew, though a smile played on his lips.

"I really like the look of it."

"The wet and dry technique," you said, grabbing a towel from your suitcase. "It was especially used in the 40s to make the skin look flawless. Would you like I do it for you?"

Michael nodded, so you tied the towel around his neck to protect his clothes.

"Uh, do you mind wearing this for a sec?" You held up a fluffy headband with fluffy bunny ears and a bow.

Michael let out a soft giggle, his eyes squinting in amusement, and nodded. So you put it on him to keep his hair out of the way. With a velvet pad, you powdered his entire face, then removed the excess with a clean brush.

Every one of your movements was so gentle and kind, conscious of him and handling him with all the delicacy in the world, as if he were the most precious man you had ever encountered. Michael knew you were most likely this attentive with every one of your customers, but it was still pleasant. It was different from everything he had known so far.

You reapplied eyeliner on his lids to have the jet black color be more vibrant, and once you had removed the towel, Michael leaned closer to the mirror, marvelling at your work.

"You are amazing...," he breathed.

This put a smile on your face. This was not one of your most challenging works, but it was still pleasant to hear.

"Thank you," you said. "It was quite easy with a face like yours."

Michael froze, his face flushing as his head snapped at you. But you were too busy putting away all your supplies for you to even realize what you had just uttered, or the state of fluster you had put him in.

Michael quickly recovered his composure and stood up, ready to proceed with the photoshoot.

"Oh, wait!"

He turned to you again, and you recovered the cute headband that was still on his head. Michael's face flushed again as you readjusted the curls that fell on his face.

This was but the beginning. Karen's sick leave was extended for the entire month, as she was not getting better from the flu she caught. So you worked in her stead. You accompanied Michael wherever he'd go. On interview sets, you were there. For award shows, you were there. For any public appearance, you were there, behind the scenes, helping him prepare.

Michael especially liked having you around. He liked your little jokes that would ease him before he would need to switch back to the superstar who needed to be perfect at all times. He liked it when you'd boop his nose with a brush when he'd tease you. He liked it when you'd give him a thumbs-up from the sideline. There was something about you that was different. Different from how the people he worked with behaved with him.

He could always tell when one was trying too hard to get on his good side. Or when they wanted to show off their proximity to him, flaunting being in his inner circle, at the price of his own comfort. Karen was like that, too, sometimes. Not ceasing her teases and jokes even after he already said he was uncomfortable.

But you were not like that. Perhaps it was because your contract was only temporary. Or perhaps it was just how you were. But you treated him like any other person. With professionalism, never crossing a line, but with enough amiability, it felt like he was one of your friends.

You'd tell him some funny anecdotes about celebrities you had worked with. You'd tell him about your time at the beauty academy. You'd tell him about entitled clients at the salon.

So it was inevitable. Michael wanted to know more about you. Beyond who you were as a professional makeup artist. Beyond the formal setting.

So he visited you after working hours, when your salon was closed, and all your team had gone home. He'd tell you about his day as he helped you mop the floor. About his future project, or something that happened at Hayvenhurst. Anything that would cross his mind. Then he'd listen to you. To your ramble about that movie you recently saw and hated the main character in. About that new song you were obsessed with. Or the way your neighbour messed his meal so badly that the firefighters were called, thinking there was a fire in his apartment.

And he invited you to Encino, too, on many occasions. He introduced you to all his pets: the giraffes, the tiger, the panther, the chimpanzee, even the boa constrictor, though you hid behind Michael when you saw it move around freely. Your favorite animals in his extensive possession were the deer, by far.

You gasped, melting at the sight. "Oh, they're so adorable!" You crouched down, holding onto the fence as you watched the little deer approach you. "Look at those big eyes! Just like yours."

Michael crouched beside you as you petted the deer's head. "Like me?"

"Yes. You have the most perfect eyes, you know." You chuckled when the deer nuzzled closer to your palm as Michael's face heated up, his heart beating madly. "So expressive, it's the best to work with."

Makeup, he had to remind himself. Of course, you were talking about makeup.

Michael then brought you to his private amusement park, and he swore he nearly melted when he saw your face light up at the sight of the carousel. He swore he nearly collapsed when he heard your laugh as you sat on a horse with the carousel's music playing in the background.

There was truly something about you that made him waver.

You were one hell of a makeup artist; incredibly talented. But behind that elegant air, that professional front you often wore, you retained that free spirit most would define as childish. You didn't mind playing board games with him. You loved going to Disneyland with him. You loved discussing movies and music. Everything people look at him with a frown on, you welcomed it. Not by pretense and hope to get in his good favor to ultimately profit from him, but simply because you truly loved it all.

"Why did you choose makeup?" Michael asked as you were both walking back to the house under the setting sun.

Your arm was looped with his as he helped you walk. Heels were not ideal for walking on gravel, which had not been something you had thought of when you had packed for the weekend.

"Makeup is to me what painting is to an artist," you said. "It's a means of expression and liberation. People are my canvas. But I think what I most like is making my customers happy."

"Making them happy?" He repeated.

You nodded. "Doing someone's makeup is like building a piece of their life. Building a piece of a memory they might look back on one day with a fond smile. A wedding day where they felt the prettiest. A birthday where they felt the best in the world. Or for people of Hollywood, an award night or a concert where they felt on top of the world. Some people think it's superficial, but sometimes, feeling pretty can really help one feel better about themselves. It helps with self-esteem. And I cherish that I can help people in that regard, even just for a moment."

And it was then that Michael knew. He knew that he liked you more than one should like someone who worked for him.

But it was too late.

He had already crossed the threshold. His heart was already beating abnormally fast when you were around. He was already shivering when your hand would graze his. He was already looking forward to seeing you the moment he walked away from you. He already dreaded the day this partnership would end. He already wanted you around at all times.

"For what it's worth," Michael said with a soft smile. "You are doing a very good job."

And it was worth more than anything in the world to you.

You loved spending time with him, too. Besides the mind-blowing performer and artist that he was, Michael was a beautiful soul. His kindness and goodness of heart were a beacon of hope in such a cruel industry. In such a cruel world that forever tried to bring everyone down. He'd hold your hand with so much gentleness, and speak with such sweet honesty; it made you all giddy. He always had a kind word to tell you, never forgetting to tell you how beautiful you were when he'd see you, in awe at your outfit and makeup. 'You're so pretty' were words he'd tell you before saying 'hello'.

And in a world where the women who looked like you were never the first choice, the beauty standard, the pretty girl, it made you feel seen. Valued.

You should treat all your customers equally. But you had to admit you had a soft spot for Michael. More than a soft spot, in fact.

The way he looked at you made the butterflies in your stomach flutter. The way he rested his hand on the small of your back made your knees buckle. The way he'd always rush to help you with your kits and suitcases made your heart act up. The way he'd call you so often, send a car to drive you to the sets, listen to you every word like it meant the whole world to him--everything about him made you so weak.

But you ignored it.

Because it was not how one should look at their employer. This still remained a professional partnership.

But Michael did not want to. Which was a problem. Which made everything so much more difficult for him.

He wanted you around at all times, but he knew that the minute the contact expired, there was a risk that this beautiful thing that had blossomed between the two of you would wither. There was a risk that it would remain but a memory. There was a risk that the distance and busy schedules never lining up would make you both grow apart until he became but an anecdote you'd tell people about. A footnote in the story of your life.

But he wanted to be a whole chapter. A whole novel. He wanted to be a recurring character, someone who remained in your life.

There was a way to achieve that.

But he was conflicted.

Aside from the feelings he had developed for you, it was a truth Michael could not ignore that you were indeed the best makeup artist in the industry. Your skills were unmatched, able to pull off any aesthetic, any style. In that month he had worked with you, it was the best he had ever looked.

There had been a visible change. To the point his sisters called him, praising him and guessing who was behind the novelty. To the point his long-time associates noticed the quality shift in his makeup, appreciating it despite knowing nothing about the art. To the point tabloids reported on it and dedicated whole sections to his new look.

[Michael Jackson is glowing in new cover magazine!]

[Michael Jackson yet again renders fans speechless with recent looks.]

[Michael Jackson on top of the world, he's never looked this good!]

The change was visible. And it was hard to come back to the old ways. Reaching the summit only to step down a notch. Tasting the golden fruit only to return to the regular. Relentlessly chasing that perfection he once knew, only to forever find himself unsatisfied by the dupes.

But Karen was his friend. She had her moments, sometimes. But he had known her for a long time. A very long, long time. Wouldn't it be betrayal? To part ways with her after a month of working with you? It only spoke of your talent, but wasn't it unfair to her? It wasn't even like she did anything wrong. She did not offend him. She did not hurt him. She did not use him. She was just on sick leave, and he just happened to work with the best makeup artist in the field. This was but a poor, unfortunate following of events. And it made it all worse.

Michael was sitting on one of the many chairs in your salon, as you were tidying the shelves. Only a week was left before your contract expired. Fidgeting with your fingers, nibbling on his lower lip, Michael glanced at you, only to look away and gaze back at you again.

"Dollface," he called you. You replied with a soft 'mhm' as you kept arranging the shelves. "Have you ever thought of being someone's makeup artist?"

"I'm Whitney's. Kind of." You grabbed the empty box on the floor and gathered all the plastic packaging.

"Yeah, but I mean, real' exclusive," Michael specified, playing with his sleeves as his leg bounced on the floor, apprehensive. "Whitney still hires other makeup artists, sometimes. But, you know, being part of someone's team, their only makeup artist. You wouldn't need to ditch all the rest, but that person would be your number one priority."

"Like Miss Faye?" You asked.

"Yeah... like Karen."

The cardboard box propped on your hip, you stopped in front of Michael, musing as you fixed the stray curls on his face. "I would like that, yes. It would mean that that person really likes my work, which is the biggest compliment I can receive."

"And, um." You were just fixing his hair, a mundane gesture. And yet it was making it hard for him to focus. He cleared his throat. "Is there anyone you'd like to be the exclusive makeup artist of?"

"A few, yeah." You nodded. "Chaka Khan is one. Whitney, of course. I love her. Prince, too. His branding is speaking to me."

Michael's nose crunched at the mention of his rival, who also happened to be his friend. But he quickly pushed the jealousy aside.

"Anyone else?" he asked, hiding the anticipation in his voice.

"Yeah, but they already have an assigned makeup artist."

"Like?" he pressed.

"Donna Summers," you replied as you headed to the back of the shop. Michael quickly followed after you as you threw away the box. "You, obviously. And... I think that's all."

It took everything in Michael to contain his smile. You wanted to work for him. Exclusively. For him.

"So, if I ask you to work for me, would you say yes?"

You frozed. And you turned to him.

"Miss Faye is set to return next week," you pointed out.

"You haven't answered my question."

You stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was messing with you or being serious. And from the look in his eyes, he was. It had just been a month, but you had spent enough time with Michael to know he would never joke about his career. And makeup was one aspect of his career.

"Well, yes, I would love to work for you permanently, but..." You leaned onto your desk. "I mean, it's not unheard of for a singer to have several makeup artists, but I'm not really a secondary one."

As much as you were fond, very fond of Michael, you were not willing to downplay your status and become an assistant. You owned a renowned salon, had launched your own successful and all-inclusive makeup brand, and led your own team. You did not work this hard for more than a decade to become someone else's assistant, especially to someone with such a drastically different vision than yours.

But a smile stretched on Michael's lips at your answer. Most would have jumped on the opportunity, disregarding their entire life just to be close to him. And as flattering as it was, it also made him feel like an object, rather than a human. A money-making machine, a thing they could get something from--fame, recognition, money, a vicarious taste of wealth. Because they wanted to profit from what they had, the comfort his money and name would give them. He was the easy way out.

But you had your dignity, your pride that you refused to give up for anyone. Not even for him. Because in your eyes, he was just Michael, someone you loved doing makeup for. Not the performer, not the singer, not the best-selling artist, not the legend. Just Michael. Not a means to something. Not a tool to utilize for your own ends.

Just Michael.

"I don't want you as a secondary makeup artist," he reassured. "I want you as my makeup artist."

It was strange, but also so characteristic of him. There was this unwavering intensity in his eyes that made your heart beat faster, mingled with that softness that enveloped you in a sweet embrace. The kind of reassurance that made you want to follow him to the end of the world because you knew all would be fine as long as he was there. That kind of quiet strength and resilience that made you want to push your limits and better yourself. That made you feel like you could do anything.

"What about Miss Faye?" you asked.

Michael smiled. "Don't worry about that. So? What do you say?"

And there was only one answer to give a man so sweet that pursued you so earnestly.

"Yes."

husband!michael who notices the little smirk on y/n’s face as soon as she steps into the bedroom, hands behind her back, turning from side-to-side.

he raises a brow in silent question as his wife stands in the doorway, no doubt something filthy planned in her mind.

“hear me out…”

“oh god,”

“michael, just gimme a chance to explain,” she says, a pout forming on her lips as he groans, turning to face her fully.

“what if…i tied a bow on your dick?”

“of all the things i expected…”

“oh michael, please? it’d be so pretty,”

“it’s not pretty enough already?” he groans, before he looks to his wife, catching the pleading look on her face, accompanied by a pout.

first mistake.

“y/n…”

“I’ll suck you off too,” she steps forwards, eyes wide and begging.

husband!michael who sighs, because he knows fully well that once his girl has her heart set on something, it’s going to happen.

“…alright,”

y/n squeals, rushing off to another room to grab the ribbon, returning with one in every damn colour in the rainbow.

“oh it’s serious all right,” she catches the bewildered look on her husband’s face.

“pick a colour,” she holds them out in front of him. red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, black, white…every colour.

“that one,” he points to the white one, the same as the one in her hair.

y/n drops the other ones on her vanity as he sits on the edge of the bed.

husband!michael who has to admit, a part of him is excited for it, as y;n moves to her knees on the floor on front of him.

and what a sight that is.

“y’need to be hard for it,” y/n explains, like she’s planned the whole thing out (she has), pressing her hand flat on his clothed dick

he gasps at the sudden contact, so bold, as she palms him through the material of his trousers.

“shit, baby,” his hand comes to her hair on instinct, but he quickly stops himself. he wants to see her pretty hair, all neatly done with her how, matching his too.

husband!michael who can feel his face go hot as she helps him wriggle out of his trousers, then his pants, his cock semi-hard against his thigh.

he swallows as she lays the ribbon on his thighs so she can wrap her hands round his shaft.

she hums, looking up at him as he watches, chewing on his lower lip.

“good enough?” he leans back as she lets go, his dick twitching on his lap as y/n picks up the ribbon.

“it’ll do,”

“don’t sound very sure,” he muses, watching her almost in amusement, “get it a little harder, ma,”

husband!michael who takes his dick into his own hand, pumping himself a few times before pressing his tip to her lip.

“a little kiss?”

y/n presses a soft, gentle little kiss to his tip, his dick twitching at that, before she wraps her hands round him again, peppering little kisses along his shaft.

every kiss has him gasping or hissing, his lips swollen from him biting down on them.

she keeps him dry for the most part, licking off the pre-cum that leaks from his tip, til he’s hard in her hand, twitching at every movement.

husband!michael who leans back to watch the concentration on y/n’s face as she takes the ribbon into her hand, wrapping it gently round the bottom.

his dick twitches as her fingers brush over him lightly, ghosting over his hot skin.

she ties the pretty bow with an extra flourish of her wrist, leaning back to admire her work.

“it’s s’pretty, mike! isn’t it?” y/n looks up to him.

“as pretty as the girl who tied it,” he cups her cheek, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

she smiles proudly at that, adjusting the ribbon so it sad nice on his shaft, taking him into her hand once again.

husband!michael who knows exactly what’s coming as she leans forwards, pressing a warm, wet kiss to his tip.

he groans at that, hand coming to the back of her head as she takes his head into her warm mouth, swirling her tongue round him.

“that’s my pretty girl,” he rasps, voice low, “s’good for me, knows exactly what i like, don’t you?”

y/n looks up through her lashes, nodding as she spreads her warm salvia along his shaft, taking a little more of him in her mouth.

husband!michael who groans when she sucks a little harder, bobbing her head up and down on his tip.

“feels so good, ma,” he gasps, “you’re a damn angel,”

she speeds up with every bit of praise he gives her, gentle guiding her to suck his tip.

y/n pulls him out of her mouth with a wet pop, lips dragging along the side of his dick, her hands working as fast as she could make them go to pleasure him.

“oh yes, ma,” he moans when her lips trace over the vein on her underside, “right there, that’s the spot, baby girl,”

husband!michael who takes her hands into his to guide her along him, the warm metal of her wedding ring dipping over every ridge and vein along his shaft as he helps her along.

“so close, baby,” he mumbles, “keep goin’…please, ma,”

and she does what he says, moving faster, the lewd sounds of her bobbing up and down on his dick echoing in the room.

husband!michael who throws his head back, hips involuntarily bucking against her mouth a he gets closer.

his hand stays on the back of y/n’s head, guiding her off of him as he’s about to finish.

“that’s my girl, that’s my girl,” he gasps, repeating it like a prayer.

she keeps her hands on him, a string os salvia connecting his tip to her lips. she pumps him a few more times, pressing delicate kisses to his pretty dick.

“baby, i’m so close, mm-,”

husband!michael who moans loudly when he finishes, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, cum spurting onto her cheek and face, hot and thick.

he’s in a state of bliss for a few seconds, y/n’s hands working him through his orgasm before his eyes flutter open.

and what a sight she is.

beads of hot cum dribbling down her cheek and lips, her hair a little messy and bow askew - she was an angel.

husband!michael who takes her hand gently, pulling her up onto his lap.

“liked it, then?” he mumbles into her ear, fixing her bow gently as she nodded, looking down to the limp bow.

he cups her jaw, peppering gentle kisses along her jaw, down to her neck.

“can i braid your hair and we-?”

husband!michael who just rolls eyes at that, knowing she’d be on some other little obsession soon enough.

“keep them ideas in there for now,” he tapped her temple gently, “i can’t get hard that quick,”

y/n giggles.

“oh yeah, you’re getting old,”

“excuse me?”

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