Professional yearner

Michael had somehow managed to occupy nearly every inch of your bed despite lying there alone.

Sheets that had been neatly tucked that morning were now creased beneath him, pillows haphazardly stacked behind his back to prop him upright while one long leg hung lazily over the side of the mattress. Beside him sat an ever-growing collection of loose papers, each one crowded with hurried lyrics, crossed-out verses, scattered arrows and little musical notes that only he himself seemed capable of deciphering. Some pages had already been discarded entirely, crumpled into imperfect balls that littered your bedroom floor like casualties of an invisible war.

The only page he seemed intent on protecting rested neatly inside the leather notebook balanced upon his knee.

Your birthday gift.

Months ago, after growing tired of watching him scribble melodies onto napkins, envelopes, receipts and the backs of grocery lists—only to spend the next week frantically searching for whichever scrap of paper held that one lyric—you'd surprised him with the journal. Rich brown leather, soft beneath his fingertips, his initials embossed discreetly into the corner.

He'd smiled so brightly that afternoon you thought he might cry.

It hadn't been an expensive gift by any means. Just a sturdy leather-bound notebook, warm brown beneath his fingertips, with creamy pages thick enough to withstand the relentless scratching of his pencil. You'd spent far longer choosing it than anyone reasonably should have, standing in little stationery shops with your thumb brushing over countless covers until you'd finally found one that reminded you of him. Simple. Timeless. Something that looked as though it belonged in the hands of someone destined to fill it with songs.

At first he'd simply stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the notebook again.

"You... got this for me?"

You'd laughed softly. "I did, baby. Well, unless somebody else has been hiding in my house, waitin' to give you birthday presents."

He hadn't even smiled immediately. Instead, he'd run his palm slowly across the leather as though afraid pressing too firmly might somehow damage it, before carefully opening the first page. His fingertips lingered over the untouched paper for a long moment.

"It's so nice," he'd murmured, almost to himself. You'd watched him with an amused smile.

"It's just a notebook, you goof."

"I know," he'd replied quietly, still turning the pages one by one. "I've just... nobody ever though of buying me somethin' thoughtful as this. Thank you, baby"

Not because the notebook was extraordinary—it wasn't—but because it had never once crossed your mind that something so ordinary could be unfamiliar to him. Michael, who filled page after page with melodies and fragments of poetry, who carried music around in his head from sunrise until long after midnight, had somehow never owned a place that belonged solely to those thoughts. You remembered reaching over then, gently nudging his shoulder.

"Well..." you'd smiled. "Now you've got somewhere to keep all those genius ideas instead of writing them on the backs of shopping lists."

That finally coaxed a laugh from him.

"I don't write on shopping lists."

You'd simply raised an eyebrow at that.

"Well...not often."

"You wrote a chorus on my electric bill last week."

"It was the only paper I could find," He argued back.

"And then you nearly threw it away."

"'Cause I forgot it was the electric bill!"

You'd shaken your head with a laugh while he grinned sheepishly, already clutching the notebook against his chest like something precious.

"Guess I won't lose 'em anymore."

Of course, the notebook hadn't managed to cure him entirely.

Inspiration, you'd quickly learned, was an impatient thing. It cared very little whether Michael happened to have the journal within arm's reach, and even less whether the nearest writing surface was appropriate. If a melody arrived while the two of you were eating breakfast, he'd seize the closest napkin before the thought had time to disappear. If an idea struck during a drive across Los Angeles, the nearest petrol receipt would become home to hastily scribbled lyrics, slanted diagonally across the paper because he'd forgotten there wasn't enough room. More than once you'd discovered little scraps tucked absentmindedly into the pockets of his jackets, or folded so many times over that you wondered how he'd ever expected to read them again.

"You are impossible, bambi" you'd sighed one evening after rescuing a verse from the back of yesterday's newspaper before it disappeared into the rubbish.

Michael had looked up from where he'd been searching beneath your sofa cushions for another missing page.

"I know where everything is."

"You've been looking for that lyric for twenty minutes."

"...I know where most everything is."

But whenever the songs mattered—whenever he wasn't merely chasing inspiration but inviting it to stay—he always reached for the notebook first.

It rested across his lap now, its once-pristine pages softened by months of use, little corners bent from being carried between studios and your house, the leather worn smooth wherever his thumb habitually rested while he thought. It had become less a birthday present and more an extension of him, holding pieces of songs long before anyone else would ever hear them.

Today, however, the notebook seemed to be testing him. What had once become a place of comfort, now lay open across his lap with pages that refused to cooperate, its cream-coloured paper gradually disappearing beneath relentless scratches of graphite and heavy lines drawn through verses that had only existed for mere moments before being condemned. Every now and then Michael would pause, his pencil hovering uncertainly over the page as he quietly mouthed a lyric to himself, hearing it exactly as it sounded inside his mind. Then came the inevitable disappointment. His brows would pinch together almost imperceptibly, the pencil would move once more, and another thought would disappear beneath a thick, impatient strike before he flipped to a fresh page with a sigh that grew progressively heavier as the afternoon wore on.

You knew better than to assume the words themselves were bad. In truth, if somebody else had happened upon those discarded pages, they likely would've found perfectly respectable lyrics scattered across them. The problem had never been whether Michael could write a good song. The problem was that good had never once satisfied him. Somewhere inside his head existed a version of every melody that was brighter, fuller, more alive than anything he seemed capable of translating onto paper, and until those two versions matched, he simply refused to settle. It was a habit that had followed him for as long as you'd known him, though lately it had begun to consume him with a fervour you hadn't witnessed before.

That was hardly surprising. Off the Wall wasn't simply another album to Michael. If anything, calling it merely an album felt like diminishing everything it represented. This wasn't another Jacksons record where responsibility was shared amongst his brothers, nor another Motown project carefully shaped beneath the opinions of executives who had spent years deciding what Michael Jackson ought to sound like. This was the first time he had been handed genuine creative freedom, the first time people were asking him what he wanted his music to be. Quincy Jones had seen something inside him that so few people had ever truly acknowledged—not simply a gifted singer, but an artist with instincts worth trusting—and Michael carried that belief with equal measures of gratitude and pressure. He wanted to prove that Quincy's faith hadn't been misplaced. More importantly, he wanted to prove it to himself.

Over the past several weeks, you'd watched that determination quietly bleed into every aspect of his life. Music had become something he carried with him rather than something he left behind at the studio. He'd arrive at your house with melodies already tumbling around inside his head, absentmindedly drumming complicated rhythms against your kitchen counter while waiting for the kettle to boil, stopping halfway through conversations because a line had suddenly appeared in his mind and simply couldn't wait to be written down. There had been mornings where you'd woken before him only to discover he wasn't beside you anymore, finding him instead sitting cross-legged at your dining table in yesterday's clothes, curls sticking out in every direction, completely oblivious to the cold cup of coffee he'd made for himself hours earlier. Inspiration seemed incapable of respecting ordinary routines, and Michael, in return, refused to ignore it whenever it arrived.

It was one of the things you admired most about him. There was something endlessly beautiful about the way music seemed to exist as naturally within him as breathing itself. Yet admiration didn't stop your heart from aching whenever that same devotion began turning against him. For every evening he'd rushed through your front door with a grin so infectious that he could hardly get his words out quickly enough before humming a new melody into your ear, there was another like today, where every crossed-out lyric seemed to convince him he was somehow drifting further away from the masterpiece he knew he was capable of creating. It was in those moments that you were reminded just how much of himself Michael poured into his art. He wasn't merely writing songs. Piece by piece, he was trying to introduce the world to the man he was becoming.

While Michael attempted to wrestle inspiration onto paper, you had resigned yourself to an entirely different task.

Your record collection had become an absolute disaster over the last several months, sleeves shoved wherever there'd happened to be room after late evenings spent searching for a particular album, promising yourself each time that you'd organise them properly another day. That day, it seemed, had finally arrived. The floor beside your shelves had disappeared beneath little piles of vinyl, separated only by whichever system made the most sense inside your own head. Soul together, disco together, funk together. Every so often you'd pause, smiling fondly as your fingers traced over an album cover you'd not pulled out in months before carefully returning it to its rightful place.

Music had always found a home in your house, long before Michael had begun spending half his life there. Now, though, the rooms seemed incapable of existing without him filling them with melodies of his own. You smiled to yourself as you pulled another record from the shelf.

"Oh, I forgot I had this one."

Michael hummed absentmindedly from somewhere behind you.

"Mhm."

You glanced over your shoulder. He hadn't even looked up. His notebook remained balanced upon his knee, his pencil tapping softly against his bottom lip while his brows knitted together in concentration.

"You didn't even ask what it was."

"...What is it?"

You laughed.

"Too late."

Another quiet mhm.

That one almost made you giggle. He wasn't listening to a word you were saying at all. You turned your attention back towards the shelves, humming softly as you slid the record into its place before pulling another from the pile. Marvin Gaye. Stevie Wonder. Earth, Wind & Fire. Bee Gees... Little by little, the shelf began looking far less chaotic than it had an hour ago. Behind you, however...

Scratch. Scratch, scratch.

A sigh.

The cassette player clicked as Michael rewound the tape.

Again.

The same few seconds drifted through your bedroom before abruptly stopping.

Scratch.

Another sigh.

You paused, another record halfway back into its sleeve. For a few moments you simply listened. The music. The scratching of graphite.

The occasional impatient exhale that Michael himself probably didn't even realise he was making. He'd been at it for nearly two hours now.

"Angelface?"

"Hm?"

"Y'know..." You smiled faintly, turning another record over in your hands. "If you keep frownin' like that, your face is gonna get stuck."

This time, he did look up. The smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.

"'m alright."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

His eyes had already returned to the page. You watched him for another quiet moment. The way he unconsciously bit at the inside of his cheek. The way his pencil hovered uncertainly before another line was scratched out. The way he leaned back against your headboard with a frustrated sigh that sounded heavier than the last.

Who was he kidding.

You gently slid the final record into place before dusting your hands together, remaining seated on the floor as you looked over at him.

"Peter Pan."

"Mhm?"

"You've said 'mhm' about seventeen times in the last five minutes."

That earned you a proper laugh.

"...Sorry."

"You don't gotta apologise." You tilted your head, studying him with the quiet fondness that always softened your expression whenever he became lost inside his own head.

"I just..." You shrugged lightly. "You're usually excited when you're writin'. Makes me sad to see you all distressed."

Michael's smile faded again. His fingers absentmindedly closed the notebook before opening it once more. For a little while he said nothing. You'd long since learnt that Michael wasn't someone who spoke simply because silence had become uncomfortable. If there were words, he'd find them eventually. If there weren't, you'd happily sit beside him until there were.

Finally, he let out a slow breath.

"'m scared."

The confession was so quiet you almost wondered whether he'd meant to say it aloud. He looked down at the notebook resting in his lap, running his thumb along its worn leather cover.

"I want this album t' be..." He paused, searching for words that felt big enough. "...Everythin'."

"It will be."

"But what if it isn't?"

His voice cracked ever so slightly.

"What if people hear it and just..." He shrugged helplessly. "...Don't care."

You frowned.

"Oh, Mikey..."

He shook his head before you could answer, "I know, I know... Quincy keeps tellin' me not t' think like that." A humourless chuckle escaped him. "Says I'm my own worst critic."

"He'd be right."

"I just..." He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "This one's different, baby. This one's mine."

You understood exactly what he meant.

This wasn't another Jacksons record, where the weight of success rested upon six pairs of shoulders instead of one. Nor was it another chapter in the life of the little boy who had spent years standing in front of microphones, singing words somebody else had written, beneath the watchful eyes of producers, executives and, above all, his father. For the first time in his life, Michael was being asked what he wanted to say. What he wanted to sound like. Every decision, every lyric, every melody would ultimately lead back to him.

When people held this record in their hands, there would be no brothers standing beside him, no familiar family name to soften either praise or criticism. Across the front cover would be just two words—Michael Jackson—and with those two words came every hope he'd carried since he was a little boy dreaming far beyond the walls of his childhood bedroom.

He wanted to prove that he was more than a child star. More than Joe Jackson's son. More than the lead singer of a family band. He wanted the world to finally see him as the artist he knew, somewhere deep inside himself, he was capable of becoming. And that was precisely why nothing he wrote ever seemed good enough—not because it lacked quality, but because he refused to let this moment become anything less than extraordinary.

It pained you to watch him carry that weight so quietly.

You understood why this album mattered to him. In truth, nobody understood it better than you. You had watched him speak about it for months with stars in his eyes, watched him excitedly ramble about working with Quincy until words tripped over one another in his haste to get them all out. There had been evenings where he'd burst through your front door before you'd even had a chance to greet him, immediately launching into animated explanations of new arrangements they'd experimented with, or a bassline he simply couldn't stop thinking about. His enthusiasm was infectious; whenever Michael spoke about music, it was impossible not to fall in love with it yourself.

Which was exactly why seeing him like this hurt.

His excitement hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had grown so large that it had begun collapsing in on itself, every ounce of passion slowly transforming into pressure. The closer Off the Wall came to becoming reality, the more determined he became to ensure it deserved to exist. Every lyric had to mean something. Every melody had to feel alive. Every song had to earn its place. He wasn't chasing perfection because somebody else demanded it of him anymore. The voice urging him onwards now belonged entirely to himself.

You looked around your bedroom for a moment, smiling softly despite yourself.

The room had become such a reflection of the two of you. Your records lay scattered neatly across the floor in organised little piles, waiting patiently to be returned to their shelves, while Michael's side of the room looked as though a small hurricane had swept through it. Crumpled pages surrounded the bed, his jacket had somehow found its way over the back of your desk chair, and three sharpened pencils lay abandoned atop your duvet despite the one tucked securely between his fingers.

He always did leave little pieces of himself wherever he went.

You reached for another record, smiling fondly as your thumb brushed over its worn cardboard sleeve.

"I haven't listened to this one in forever." Michael hummed distractedly.

"Mhm."

You raised an amused eyebrow.

"'Mhm' again?"

That earned you the faintest smile.

"...Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"...No."

His answer came so quickly that you couldn't help laughing.

"There he is."

"What?"

"My Bambi."

Michael finally looked up properly, confusion giving way to a sheepish little smile as he watched you holding the record against your chest.

"You disappear when you get like this," you said gently. "I keep tryin' t' talk to you and all I get is..." You lowered your voice into a teasing imitation. "'Mhm.'" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably guilty.

"I don't even realise I'm doin' it."

"I know."

"You aren't mad?"

You stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.

"Baby..." You shook your head. "How could I be mad at you for thinkin' too much?"

His shoulders loosened just enough for you to notice. Still, the notebook remained open in his lap, his eyes drifting back towards the half-finished page as though it were pulling him away from the conversation. Even now, while he was looking directly at you, you could almost see the gears turning behind those dark eyes, another lyric trying desperately to piece itself together.

You'd seen that look before.

It usually meant he needed someone to gently pull him back into the room.

You'd learnt early on that there was very little use in trying to compete with the music whenever it wrapped itself around Michael's mind like this. If a melody refused to leave him alone, no amount of coaxing would persuade him to forget about it. Equally, telling him to simply stop worrying was perhaps the least effective advice one could give. Michael had never known how to switch his mind off. He loved too deeply, thought too deeply, dreamt too deeply. felt too deeply. It was one of the many reasons you adored him so much, but it also meant that every disappointment—no matter how small—seemed to linger inside him far longer than it ought to.

What he needed wasn't a solution. He needed permission to breathe.

Your gaze drifted towards the little cassette player perched beside him on the bed, the tape inside no doubt having been rewound so many times that afternoon it was beginning to protest. You'd lost count of how many snippets of unfinished melodies had floated through your bedroom over the last few hours, each one cut short before it had truly begun as Michael searched for whatever elusive feeling refused to reveal itself.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"Hunny?"

He looked up almost immediately this time.

"Mhm?"

You reached over, gently plucking the pencil from between his fingers before he could absentmindedly return it to the page. His brows lifted ever so slightly, though he made no attempt to take it back.

"I think your notebook deserves a lil' vacation."

A soft huff of laughter escaped him.

"...A vacation?"

"Mhm."

"'Cause I've been workin' it too hard?"

"'Cause you've been workin' it too hard."

His eyes softened, and for the first time all afternoon, the corners of his mouth stayed lifted for longer than a second. You set the pencil atop the notebook before nodding towards the cassette player.

"Play it for me, baby."

His expression immediately turned bashful.

"Huh? The demo?"

"The one you've been drivin' yourself crazy over."

"It isn't finished."

"I know."

"It still needs a lot."

"It probably does."

He blinked.

"...That's not very encouragin'."

You laughed.

"It wasn't supposed t' be."

He couldn't help smiling properly now, his dimples finally making an appearance.

"I just mean..." You shifted closer, resting your chin against the edge of the mattress as you looked up at him. "You've been sittin' here listenin' to the same few seconds over and over again that I don't think you're hearin' it anymore. Lemme hear it."

Michael looked down at the cassette player, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. There was something strangely vulnerable about playing unfinished music for somebody else.

The world would one day hear polished arrangements, perfected vocals and lyrics that had survived countless revisions, but this... this was different. This was raw. Bare. A song still finding its feet, uncertain of what it wanted to become. Letting somebody into that process felt oddly intimate, as though he were asking you to look inside his mind before he'd had the chance to tidy it. Not that he'd ever minded you seeing those parts of him.

Quite the opposite. If there was one opinion Michael trusted above all others, it was yours.

Not because you always praised him—you didn't. In fact, there had been more than one occasion where you'd wrinkled your nose, told him a lyric sounded clumsy, or admitted that a melody hadn't quite caught your ear. You'd never been cruel, but you'd always been honest, and that honesty had become something he relied upon. There wasn't a trace of ego between the two of you when it came to his music. He wanted your genuine reaction, not your reassurance.

After a moment, he finally reached for the cassette player.

"...Okay." His thumb hovered over the play button.

"But y' gotta promise not t' laugh."

You looked at him in mock offence.

"I have never laughed at your music."

"You laughed at that one love song."

"'Cause you rhymed fire with desire."

"It worked."

"It was painfully obvious."

Michael pointed at you with narrowed eyes.

"I still think it worked."

You grinned, "And I still think Quincy would've thrown that page straight in the trash." He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against your headboard.

"Baby..."

"What?"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course."

You reached over, smoothing one of his little curls away from his forehead.

"Always yours."

With a quiet exhale, he pressed play.

he familiar hiss of the cassette filled the room for a brief moment before it gave way to the music, rough around the edges in all the ways unfinished songs often were. There were no polished vocals, no perfected arrangement, no final flourishes Quincy would inevitably insist upon before the record was complete. It was little more than an idea caught on tape—a groove searching for its identity, instruments feeling one another out, melodies still deciding where they belonged. Yet to you, it already possessed something unmistakably Michael. Even stripped bare, there existed a buoyancy to the rhythm that seemed incapable of sitting still, a brightness that filled your little bedroom as effortlessly as the afternoon sun pouring through the curtains. It made the room feel alive.

Neither of you spoke.

Michael watched your face expression intensely

His dark eyes scarcely left your face, searching for the tiniest shift in your expression with an attentiveness that would've made anybody else nervous. You, however, had long since grown accustomed to it. This was how he'd always shown you his music. He never listened to your words first; he listened to your face. Whether your eyebrows lifted at an unexpected chord, whether your lips pursed thoughtfully at a lyric, whether your fingers unconsciously began keeping time against your leg. Long before you ever voiced an opinion, Michael had usually gathered one of his own simply by watching you exist within his songs.

You hardly realised you were moving.

It began with nothing more than your foot, tapping lazily against the floorboards in quiet companionship with the beat. Then your shoulders followed, rocking ever so slightly, your head beginning to nod without permission as a smile slowly, almost absentmindedly, found its way across your face.

There was something infectious about the groove. It wasn't loud, nor particularly complicated in its current state, but it had attitude. It had swagger. It felt playful in a way that made you want to grin for reasons you couldn't quite explain. Michael noticed immediately.

"...You like it?"

His voice was almost hesitant. You turned to him, surprised he'd interrupted the music.

"Hm?"

"The song." He scratched lightly at the back of his neck.

"Do y'..." He shrugged one shoulder, unable to hide the uncertainty colouring his expression. "Do y' like it?"

You stared at him for a second before softly laughing through your nose.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You've been watchin' me this whole time."

"...Maybe."

"And?"

His lips twitched.

"I wanna hear y' say it."

Your smile only widened.

"I think it's wonderful."

Relief flickered across his face so quickly that it almost escaped notice.

"It sounds..." You looked back towards the little cassette player, listening more carefully now as another section rolled by. "...Happy." Michael tilted his head.

"Happy?"

"Mhm." You nodded thoughtfully. "Not childish. Just..." You searched for the right word, your fingertips still absentmindedly marking the rhythm against your knee. "...Free. Like it doesn't care who's watchin'."

His eyes softened. That was exactly the feeling he'd been chasing. You hadn't known that, of course. You simply heard it.

"You really think so?"

"I do." You smiled, your eyes drifting back towards the cassette player as the groove filled the room once more. There was something undeniably infectious about it. Even unfinished, it possessed a rhythm that seemed to slip beneath your skin before you even realised it, coaxing movement from places entirely beyond your control. Your foot had been keeping time almost since the music began, and now your shoulders followed, swaying ever so gently as you sat beside him.

Michael noticed. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You're dancin'."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You are."

You looked down at yourself, only then realising your knee had been bouncing with the beat.

"...Oh."

"Told y'."

"I didn't even notice." His grin widened, the first truly carefree smile you'd seen on him all afternoon.

"I did."

You laughed softly, unable to help yourself as the rhythm continued carrying you along. "Well..." You shrugged, still absentmindedly bobbing your head. "Can you blame me?"

He watched you for another moment.

"...No."

"It just..." You searched for the words, looking towards the cassette player again. "I dunno, Mickey. It makes me wanna move."

Michael's smile softened.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"It's not finished."

"I don't care."

Your answer came without hesitation. The simplicity of it made something inside him loosen. You looked back at him then, only to find him still sitting exactly where he'd been for the last two hours—criss cross applesauce atop your bed, notebook forgotten beside him now, though the crease between his brows had finally disappeared.

You smiled to yourself before climbing to your feet, smoothing imaginary creases from your jeans as the music continued to play. Michael watched curiously.

"What're y' doin'?"

You held a hand out towards him.

"C'mere."

He looked from your hand to your face.

"...Why?"

"'Cause."

"That's not an answer."

"It is today."

A quiet laugh escaped him, though he made no move to stand.

"'m serious."

"So am I."

He raised an amused eyebrow.

"What if I don't wanna?"

You gasped dramatically.

"Oh, don't be such a grouch."

"'m not a grouch."

"You've been sittin' in one spot pouting at that notebook for two hours."

"I was not poutin'."

"Michael."

"...Maybe a little."

You wiggled your fingers at him impatiently.

"C'mon."

Michael looked at your outstretched hand for another second before slipping his own into it. His long, slender fingers curled naturally around yours, warm as always, and with only the gentlest tug you pulled him up from the bed. He laughed under his breath.

"You are so bossy."

"And you're stallin'."

"I just don't know what we're doin'."

You stepped backwards, still holding onto his hands, a mischievous smile spreading across your face as the rhythm continued spilling from the cassette player.

"c'mon..." you said, giving his hands another playful tug.

"Just get on the floor 'nd dance with me."

Michael laughed.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"You really just want t' dance?"

You beamed at him.

"That's what music's for, isn't it?"

Before Michael had the chance to answer, you gave his hand another gentle tug, encouraging him away from the bed and onto the open space of your bedroom floor. He came willingly this time, though not without an amused shake of his head, his notebook forgotten amongst the rumpled blankets where it'd occupied him all afternoon.

"You are unbelievable," he laughed, still allowing you to lead him.

"I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

"And yet you keep comin' back."

"I do."

"You must like me."

Michael looked at you with mock contemplation.

"...A little."

You gasped dramatically.

"A little?"

"Mhm."

"That's all?"

He couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face.

"I'll let your ego wonder."

"Oh, you're awful."

"So I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

The music continued to drift through the speakers, its steady groove wrapping itself around the two of you as naturally as conversation always seemed to. There wasn't any choreography, nor any concern over whether either of you looked particularly graceful. You simply moved however the rhythm asked you to, swaying opposite one another with easy smiles, your joined hands occasionally pulling one another into little spins before finding each other again.

You'd always loved dancing with Michael.

Not because he was extraordinary at it—though he certainly was—but because he never danced at you. There was no performance when the two of you were alone, no audience to impress, no expectation to be perfect. The polished precision that captivated crowds gave way to something softer within the walls of your home. He laughed when he missed a step. He exaggerated little movements simply to make you laugh. Sometimes he'd deliberately copy your sillier dance moves with complete seriousness until you were giggling too hard to remain standing. Today proved no different.

"You call that dancin', girl?" he teased, raising an eyebrow as you bounced your shoulders with exaggerated enthusiasm. You narrowed your eyes.

"It absolutely is."

"It looks more like..." He demonstrated your movement with shameless exaggeration, earning an immediate laugh from you. "...Whatever that is."

You pointed accusingly at him.

"Oh, don't start."

"'m not starting anythin'."

"You are."

"I merely made an observation."

"You're a mean."

"So you keep tellin' me."

You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your hand from his and turning away from him with an intentionally dramatic flourish, letting the music carry you as you spun across the floorboards. The movement was playful more than anything, your laughter filling the room as you swayed your hips a little more dramatically than before simply because you knew he was watching. Behind you, Michael let out a soft whistle.

"Mmm..."

You glanced back over your shoulder.

"What?"

A mischievous smile slowly tugged at his lips, his eyes sparkling now in a way they hadn't all afternoon.

"I like the way you shake your thing, baby."

You burst into laughter.

"My thing?"

He immediately covered his face with one hand, already laughing at himself.

"'m sorry. it jus' slipped out."

"You mean my ass?"

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly unashamed despite the ridiculousness of the phrase.

"...It sounded better in my head."

"Oh, Mikey," you giggled, walking back over to him. "You're hopeless."

"I know."

"No, really."

"I know."

Still smiling, you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt where it'd twisted from dancing, your fingertips brushing lightly over the fabric. Michael watched you quietly, his grin softening into something infinitely more affectionate as your eyes met again.

"You know," you murmured, now closer to his face, "I think I like this version of you a whole lot better."

He tilted his head.

"What version?"

"The one that laughs."

His expression gentled.

"So do I."

Without breaking eye contact, Michael reached out, his hands finding your waist with a familiarity that felt like coming home. He didn't pull you close with any force or demand; instead, his touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if he were still awed by the simple fact that you were standing there, swaying with him in the quiet of the room. His thumbs traced idle, lazy circles against the fabric of your shirt, seeking out the heat of your skin beneath.

"You're so beautiful, hunny," he murmured, now suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed by you. "Sometimes I gotta remind myself 'm not dreamin'"

A soft laugh bubbled up in your throat as you leaned into him, closing the scant distance between your bodies. "You're not dreaming, baby. 'm right here."

When your lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, bruising kiss of someone starved, but something far sweeter a slow, exploratory press that tasted of comfort and promise. It started soft, but as your arms wound around his neck and your fingers tangled in those familiar curls at the nape of his neck, the kiss deepened. Michael let out a shaky exhale against your mouth, a sound that was half sigh and half whimper as he surrendered to the sensation.

The dance continued, though the rhythm had shifted from something structured to something primal and instinctive. You both swayed softly from side to side, your hips rolling in lazy synchronization with the music that seemed to fade into the background of your own shared breath. Michael pulled you closer to remove every possible millimeter of air between you, seeking the friction of your bodies as you moved.

His mouth wandered from yours to the corner of your lips, then down to the sensitive sensitive line of your jaw, leaving trails of wet, heated kisses in his wake. "I love you so much it hurts sometimes, angel," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. "I really do."

The make out session grew more passionate, tongues tangling and teeth clashing in a wet, rhythmic dance that mirrored the swaying of your bodies. Every time you pressed closer, Michael would respond with a needy little hum, his hands sliding down from your waist to splay across the small of your back, holding you.

Michael's mouth left yours only to trail along the sensitive column of your throat, and you hummed at the sensation. His teeth grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your knees weaken. Hands sliding lower to cup the swell of your ass through your clothes, guiding your hips to roll against his in a way that made the friction feel almost sinful.

"You got that look in your eyes again, baby," he murmured against your pulse point, his breath hot and unsteady. "That look like you're plannin' something. Makes my head spin just thinkin' 'bout what you're gonna do to me once we get past this music."

You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders. "Maybe I am. Can you blame me? Look at how you're holding me. You're acting like you're scared 'm gonna float away if you let go for even a second."

You leaned down to nip at his earlobe, feeling the way his entire frame shuddered beneath your touch.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare. "Now you keep swaying like that, and I might just forget we're supposed to be bein' civilized."

"Oh, I think we passed 'civilized' about twenty minutes ago, Mikey," you teased, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath your palms. "Besides, if you're gonna act this needy, you might as well commit to it."

Michael let out a breathless, giddy laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. "Needy? Me? baby, you know damn well you're the one who started this fire. Now I'm just the poor fool tryin' to keep from burnin' up."

He pulled back just enough to capture your lips again, but this time the kiss was hungrier, tasting of desperate wanting even as his touch remained impossibly gentle.

"C'mon, girl, get your thing on this bed. Before I end up beggin' you right here on the floor."

You and Michael were a giddy mess of laughter and messy kisses as you both stumbled backwards. He kept his arms wrapped around you, his kisses never ceasing tracing your jaw, your throat, the sensitive shell of your ear as he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap.

"Y' so sweet, baby," he murmured against your shoulder as you stumbled through the doorway. "Every time I think I can't love you more, you go and do somethin' like this."

"You say that all the time, Mikey," you teased, though your voice was thick with affection. He grinned up at you with that boyish smile, before rolling you over, maneuvering you under him.

He pressed his forhead against yours as your fingers trailed down his chest amd to the bulge of his jeans. His hands cradled your face with such careful delicacy, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were made of spun glass. "Just wanna look at you, hunny. wanna see every single little expression you make while I'm takin' care of you. You're so precious to me, angel."

"Then keep lookin', baby," you whispered, your own voice thick with arousal as you wrapped your fingers struggled to pull his cock out of his jeans. He let out a giggle as he watched you struggle, to which you gave him an unimpressed look. "Don't laugh at me now, Michael. Help me get you out of those damn jeans before I rip 'em."

He kissed your forehead and let out an amused huff. "'m sorry baby. 'm not laughing at you." He backed off the bad to discard his boxers along his jeans before crawling on top of you again.

"You totally were laughing at me, mister." You mumbled, pulling him in by his shirt as he leaned in to kiss you again.

Your fingers delicately wrapped around the tip of his thick lengh, to which he let out a soft noise against your mouth. You began to stroke him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, watching how his pupils dilated. "Y' so handsome when you look at me like that."

"'s 'cause y' so pretty. so, so pretty baby. Your body's magic," he whimpered, his voice cracking slightly. He let out a shaky breath as your grip tightened just a fraction, his hips rolling upward to meet your hand.

Michael's breathing was loud now, a ragged series of exhales that fanned across your skin as he watched you work on him. "God, you're killin' me, angel baby... just killin' me with how good y' make me feel." He let out a low, guttural sound when your grip tightened around his cock, his hips rolling upward instinctively to chase the friction of your palm.

"Y' love it though," you teased breathlessly, your eyes locked on his as you maintained that steady, maddening rhythm on his dick.

"love everythin' 'bout you," he whimpered, as he leaned down to capture your lips in another messy kiss. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, nuzzling his face against your neck and inhaling sharply. "Y' smell so good angel."

His hands wandered down from your face, sliding past your ribs to the waistband of your panties. He didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the fabric with a slow, deliberate tug that made your hips arch off the mattress. "I been thinkin' 'bout gettin' these off the second I saw you," he murmured against your pulse point. "Been thinkin' about what's hidin' under here."

He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The cool air hit your skin for only a second before he moved back between your thighs, his gaze dropping to where you were already dripping wet for him. "Look at her," he breathed, a genuine sound of awe escaping him as he saw how slick you were. " Y' got the prettiest pussy ever, hunny. Seriously. She's so gorgeous."

"Michael " you whined, the bluntness of him just praising and talking to your pussy sending electricity straight to your core. "Don't just stare at it. 'm workin' real hard on you over here."

"I know you are, babygirl, 'nd y' doin' amazing," he muttered, voice thick with arousal. He reached down, his large hand cupping your thigh to spread you wider, exposing your cunt completely to his intense gaze. "'m gonna make you feel real good, girl."

His middle finger found your clit first, circling the sensitive bud with just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "There we go... yeah, just like that," he whispered as you let out a broken moan. "Yeah, feels good baby, doesn't it?"

"Just like that, baby... oh my God, Michael, fuuuuck," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer while your other hand continued to stroke  his cock.

"Baby, don't curse... Yeah? Do I make y' feel good?" he whispered, his own hips jerking as your hand moved faster on his dick. He slid one finger inside your wet cunt, then two, his eyes fixed on your face to catch every moment of your pleasure. "Oh wow. Y' so slick, sweet girl... so perfect. Jus' lemme take care of you."

Michael's breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched your face contort with pleasure. He pushed two fingers deeper into your wet cunt, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your hips buck involuntarily, curling them just the right way to hit that spongey spot.

"Oh my God— Michael yes, right there—" you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows. Your free hand was clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as the friction of his fingers against your walls sent waves of heat crashing through you. "Fuck— don't stop, please, don't you dare stop."

"'m not goin' nowhere, angel. I've got you," he promised, his voice a soothing balm even as his actions became more intense. While his fingers worked deep inside you, finding that perfect spot that made you whimper, his thumb continued to circle your clit in firm, maddening motions. Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, leaving you aching and wanting. "I wanna see all of you, sweetheart. wanna worship every inch."

He started to trail kisses upward, his lips warm and soft as they moved from your inner thighs to your stomach. "Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "Just so beautiful." He moved higher, pressing tender kisses against your ribs before finding the sensitive column of your throat. He lingered there, sucking gently at your neck.

With one hand still holding yours tight, he used his other to hook beneath the hem of your shirt. He slowly slid the fabric upward, exposing the lace of your bra before deftly working it free to reveal your breasts. "There they are," he breathed, his eyes full of wonder. "My pretty girls." He leaned down, capturing one nipple between his lips. He sucked on it with a gentle, reverent hunger, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until you couldn't help but cry out. His free hand reached up to find yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing gently, anchoring you to him as he moved his other fingers in and out of your pussy

"Shit baby— " you whined, your hips rolling involuntarily forward.

"Shh, jus' feel it. Jus' feel how much I love you," he whispered against your breast. Then he pulled away to continue his descent. Still holding your hand lovingly, he pressed his face against your stomach, showering your soft skin with sweet, lingering kisses.

The pleasure was building to something monumental, a tidal wave of heat that started at your clit and rolled through your entire body.

But just as you reached the precipice, something shifted. The sensation changed from a sharp, focused climax to a heavy, terrifying pressure deep inside your pelvis.

"Michael—oh no. wait—" you gasped, your hips freezing mid roll. Your breathing turned shallow and panicked. "Michael, stop, something's wrong."

He pulled back immediately, his face contorting with instant concern. "What? What is it, baby? Did I hurt you? Did I go too hard?" His hands moved to your hips to steady you, his thumbs brushing your skin with anxious tenderness. "Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. We can stop. We're stoppin' right now if you need to."

"No, it's not " you stammered, your hands clutching at his forearms. Your heart was hammering against your ribs as that strange, full sensation intensified. "I just—don't know. It just... Michael, I feel like I'm gonna pee. Like, I'm gonna pee myself right now. It feels weird. It feels too much."

A flash of genuine panic crossed your features as you tried to process the conflicting signals: the pleasure was still there, humming beneath the surface, but the fear of losing control was overwhelming.

Michael watched you closely, searching your eyes. He didn't laugh or dismiss you; he just listened, his expression softening as he processed what you were saying. "You feel like y' gonna pee?" he repeated gently, his voice low and steady. "Like that pressure right there?" His hand slid down to press lightly against your lower abdomen, offering a grounding touch.

"Yes! And it's it's good, but it's scary, Michael. I feel like I'm gonna lose it," you whimpered, your thighs quivering against his chest.

He didn't hesitate. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, sugar, if it feels good, then it's right. That's all that matters to me." He leaned up to press a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. "If that's what your body's tellin' you it needs to get to that good place, then y' let it happen."

"But what if I—"

"Hey, hey, look at me," he interrupted softly, cupping your face in both hands so you had no choice but to meet his adoring gaze. "Look at me, baby. Nothing to be scared of. A little pee not gonna hurt nobody. Not you, and certainly not me. 'm right here. I got you, and 'm not goin' nowhere."

His voice soothed your worries.  "'s okay, lovely. Jus' let it happen. 'm right here with you." His thumb resumed its maddening, gentle circle against your clit, while his other hand reached up to find yours again, intertwining your fingers in a tight grip.

"I'm tryin', Mikey, but 's a bit scary" you gasped, your voice breaking as another wave of that heavy, full pressure rolled through your pelvis. Even as you panicked, your other hand couldn't help but tighten around his cock, your palm slick with his pre cum as you instinctively sought friction to counter the overwhelming sensation.

The dual stimulation his mouth on you and your own desperate grip on his dick was pushing you toward a breaking point you couldn't control.

"I know, baby. I know," he murmured against your inner thigh, his breath hot and steady. "Don't fight it. Just give in to it. Let whatever happens happen. I love every single part of you, even the messy parts." His fingers slid deeper into your cunt, stretching you open to accommodate the building pressure, while his tongue worked with increasing urgency.

The sensations overwhelmed you. That feeling became an unbearable, throbbing fullness that seemed to occupy your entire lower body. "Baby, oh fuck, 'm gonna—"

"Do it, angel. Let it go for me," he urged, his voice a low, commanding caress. "Jus let it all out."

With a choked cry that was half sob and half moan, the dam finally broke. The terrifying pressure exploded into an intense, convulsing climax that felt like lightning striking your core, but it wasn't just a feeling it was a physical eruption. Your muscles spasmed around his fingers with such violence that you couldn't have stopped it if you tried.

"Oh fuuuuck," you whined, your body arching so violently off the bed that your spine nearly snapped. In that instant of total surrender, you felt yourself spray. The release was powerful and uncontrolled, hot jets of fluid shooting forth from your cunt with enough force to send droplets flying in every direction.

It splattered across Michael's jaw as he leaned in close, the warm, clear liquid catching the light before streaming down his chin. His hand, still buried between your thighs, became instantly slick and drenched as the torrent soaked through his fingers and up his wrist. A few stray arcs even landed against his bare chest. Below you both, the sheets were instantly completely and utterly soaked.

"Oh... oh my God..." you whimpered between gasps, your body still twitching uncontrollably from the aftershocks. You felt exposed, raw, and completely spent, staring up at him through teary blurred eyes in shock.

Michael didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at the mess you'd made, then back up at your face with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder. His eyes were wide. "Baby..." he breathed, his voice reverent, almost awestruck. "That was... you were incredible."

He looked at his wet hand and the soaked sheets as if they were sacred relics, his chest heaving. "Look at what y' did, baby," he whispered, a grin of pure adoration breaking across his face. "Y' just... y' pure magic, angel."

The sight of his awe, the way he looked at you not with judgment but with absolute worship despite the chaos between your legs, made your heart swell even as your body continued to tremble. "Michael, I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupted immediately, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead. "Don't you ever apologize for being this beautiful. I love every single drop of you."

The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you feeling boneless and hypersensitive. Your breathing was still shaky, each inhale coming in uneven stutters as you stared up at the ceiling, feeling the dampness of the sheets clinging to your thighs. "Michael, I—" you started, "I'm so embarrassed, I— I didn't know I could do that... I made such a mess of everything, I—"

But Michael was already moving. He didn't care about the soaked fabric or the droplets clinging to his skin. He crawled up your body with careful, reverent movements, settling beside your head so he could cradle your face in his hands. "Shh, shh, none of that, angel. None of that," he murmured.

He began to pepper your face with kisses soft, feather light presses of his lips against your temples, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "You're okay, sweetheart. Y' so okay. Y' were perfect. Amazing baby."

"But Michael," you whispered. "What about you? You're... you're still..." You gestured vaguely toward his still semi-hard cock. "You need to—"

"Shh," he interrupted softly, pressing his lips against your forehead before moving down to kiss each of your cheeks. His thumbs stroked over your cheekbones, wiping away stray tears with tenderness. "Just let me love y', baby. That's all I wanna do right now. Just you."

He lowered his head to nuzzle against your neck, breathing in your scent as if it were oxygen. "I don't need nothin' else but you right here. Just let me take care of you, angel baby. Lemme hold you." His touch was so gentle, so utterly focused on your comfort, that the embarrassment began to melt away, replaced by a warm, overwhelming sense of being cherished beyond measure.

Against his chest, his arms remained wrapped around you like a shield against the world. The dampness of the sheets still lingered beneath you, but it no longer carried even the slightest trace of embarrassment. It simply existed as quiet evidence of what the two of you had shared. You felt safe. Boneless. Entirely adored.

For a little while, neither of you spoke.

Michael absentmindedly traced lazy circles along your back while his breathing gradually evened beside your ear. You'd almost drifted off when you felt his chest vibrate with a quiet murmur, the words too indistinct for you to catch.

"What'd you say, baby?" you asked sleepily, lifting your head just enough to look at him. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They'd drifted somewhere else entirely.

"...Get on the floor," he repeated under his breath, almost to himself this time. You blinked.

"What?"

He didn't answer. Instead, his brows knitted together ever so slightly as though he were trying to catch hold of a thought before it escaped him again.

"What do you mean, get on the floor?" you laughed softly, your voice still hoarse. "Angelface, I love you, but I'm exhausted. I can barely move." That finally brought him back.

"Oh—" He laughed breathily, shaking his head. "No, no, baby. That's not what I meant."

A slow smile began creeping across his face. The kind you recognised immediately. You'd seen it countless times before. It was the smile that appeared whenever inspiration found him.

He reached up, gently brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek as though he hardly realised he was touching you.

"I remember what you said," he murmured, his eyes beginning to brighten. "Back when I played you the demo..." You looked at him curiously.

"When you started dancin'..."

He smiled a little wider.

"You took my hand..." He chuckled quietly, almost hearing the memory play back inside his head. "...An' you said..." His gaze flickered upward for only a second before returning to yours.

"'So c'mon...'"

His smile grew.

"'Get on the floor and dance with me.'"

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Baby."

"What?"

He sat up just enough to look at you properly now, excitement slowly replacing the sleepy contentment that had settled over him only moments before.

"I think..." A little disbelieving laugh escaped him. "I think that's it."

You frowned in confusion. "What's it?"

He looked at you as though he could hardly believe the answer himself.

"The song."

A grin spread across his face, brighter with every passing second.

"'So get on the floor...'"

He tested the words quietly, almost singing them beneath his breath.

"'...And dance with me.'"

His eyes met yours again.

"I love the way you shake your thing… especially."

"Oh my god, Michael—"

"Oh, baby..."

He laughed, equal parts astonished and delighted.

────୨ৎ────

part V: the bubble.

dangerous was released in november, and you kept your word.

you resigned about a month before the album hit the shelves, once the final masters were safely handed over.

there was no scene. no dramatic exit. just a quiet conversation in teddy’s office on a gloomy monday morning. rain streaked the windows, turning the hollywood hills into a soft gray.

the irony wasn’t lost on you. rain. in los angeles. today of all days.

“i’m going to continue working with michael,” you said, sitting in the plush chair across from his desk, fingers fidgeting with the new diamond bracelet michael had given you the week before. the stones caught the dim light every time your hand moved, a constant reminder of the choice you had already made.

teddy looked at you for a long moment. there was no surprise on his face; only a quiet sadness that settled around his eyes.

“michael already told me,” he said, leaning back.

of course he did.

“you sure?”

“i’m sure.” you offered a small smile. “i just… wanted to thank you again. for everything. for taking a chance on me. for everything you taught me. this just feels… right.”

teddy studied you, then stood and came around to the front of the desk, leaning against it with his arms loosely crossed. his voice dropped, gentler than usual.

“can i give you some advice?” he asked, running his hand over his jaw.

you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, nodding.

“michael is…” he searched for the words. “he’s one of the most generous people i’ve ever known.”

you smiled immediately, “i know.”

his eyes immediately shifted to your fingers playing with the bracelet.

“i know you do.”

another pause.

the rain tapped harder against the glass.

“but it’s hard to step out of somebody else’s shadow.” his eyes held yours. “especially one that large.”

his words lingered between you. it didn’t sound much like advice. it sounded like a quiet warning. for half a second, the old version of yourself, the soft-spoken assistant who stayed in the back of the control room, stirred. but then you thought of michael’s hands in your hair, the way he said your name like a prayer… and that future already felt more real than anything you’d leave behind.

“i’ll be fine,” you answered.

teddy didn’t look convinced, but he offered you a soft smile and pulled you into a brief, awkward hug that smelled like coffee and rain. he told you to call if you ever needed anything, but you both knew you wouldn’t.

you quietly packed up your things and walked out into the gray afternoon. the drizzle kissed your face as you crossed the lot. you didn’t look back.

neverland felt like the only real place left in the world.

your days quietly rearranged themselves around michael. the silence felt so luxurious. after months of fourteen-hour studio sessions and endless deadlines, there was nowhere you needed to be that wasn’t wherever he was.

everything felt… pure. a little love bubble the two of you created together. no schedules, no sessions, no voices that weren’t his. the private wing became a sealed universe of soft light and slower time.

mornings started late. you’d wake tangled in his sheets, the air still warm from the night before, his arm heavy across your waist and his face buried in the curve of your neck. the sheets always smelled like him: clean skin, a trace of sandalwood oil, the faint sweetness of the lotion he rubbed into your shoulders. he’d press slow, open-mouthed kisses there until you stirred, then roll you under him with a quiet sound of contentment. he’d take you soft and deep while the light was still gold, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face while repeatedly murmuring ‘i love you.’

afternoons stretched in the same unhurried way. you’d sit on the balcony with coffee that tasted like cinnamon and cream while he read half-finished lyrics to you, your legs draped over his lap, his fingers moving gently through your hair. the california air was warm and dry, carrying the scent of flowers from the lower gardens. later he’d cut fruit and feed you pieces between kisses, juice running down your chin that he’d lean in to lick away with a soft laugh. the simple domesticity of it made your chest ache in the best way.

at night he’d run a bath so hot the mirrors fogged completely, pull you in with him, and wash your hair with slow, thorough fingers. afterward he’d wrap you in an oversized towel that always smelled like the lavender detergent the staff used. then he’d carry you to bed even though you could walk just fine. the weight of him settling over you felt like coming home every single time.

there were no fights. no silent treatments. no jealousy. just the soft, constant gravity of him and the quiet knowledge that the rest of the world had temporarily ceased to exist.

when he asked you to go on tour with him, it was a no-brainer. you had already been expecting him to ask you. you knew how badly he needed you, and you couldn’t imagine being away from him for that long anyway.

the night before the two of you left for munich, germany, he came into the bedroom carrying a small robin’s-egg blue box. you were scribbling song lyrics in your journal, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old t-shirts that still smelled faintly of his cologne. he sat on the edge of the bed and waited until you looked up.

“i got you something,” he said. his voice was quieter than usual, almost shy. when you looked up, your breath hitched at the sight of the familiar blue box. as he opened it, he said, “it’s a promise. a promise that no matter how crazy things get… we belong to each other.”

the ring was simple and perfect; a thin platinum band with a single round diamond that caught the low light and threw tiny rainbows across the sheets. he took your left hand carefully and slid it on. it fit like it had been waiting for you.

“michael, it’s beautiful,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

he stared into your eyes so intensely it was like he was looking into your soul. it was overwhelming in the softest way. you leaned forward and kissed him gently, lovingly. he kissed you back with the same tenderness, brushing his fingers over the ring on your finger. when he pulled back, he tucked your hair behind your ear and took a deep breath.

“i’m terrified of the tour,” he admitted, eyes fixed on the ring instead of your face. his thumb still stroking the band. “the crowds. the noise. the way everything gets so big it feels like i disappear inside it. but you’re coming with me. and that… that makes it bearable. i need you with me, baby. i don’t know how to do any of this without knowing you’re mine when the lights go down.”

you felt the words settle deep in your chest. you leaned forward and kissed him, slow and sure, tasting the faint mint of the tea he’d been drinking.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

he exhaled against your mouth like he’d been holding his breath for days. his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes, and for a long moment neither of you spoke, the weight of the promise settling between you like something sacred.

the first four weeks of the dangerous tour were electric.

it started with a quiet conversation in the hotel suite the morning before the opening show in munich.

michael had been restless the entire night before, and all morning long. he couldn’t stop pacing, checking the set list again, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the tour was already sitting on them. you watched him from the edge of the bed for a long time before you spoke.

“breathe, my love,” you said softly.

he let out a short breath and kept pacing.

“i already feel like every choice is being taken from me. where i stand, what time i eat, when i sleep, what i wear on stage. someone else’s schedule shoved down my throat. i hate it.”

you stayed seated on the edge of the bed and watched him pace for another few seconds before you spoke again, voice softer than before.

“michael… come here.”

he stopped and looked at you. after a moment, he walked over, still restless, and stood in front of you. you reached for his hand, playing with his fingers for a second while you gathered the words.

“you said everything feels like it’s being taken from you,” you said quietly, eyes on his hand instead of his face. “so… maybe take something back.” you hesitated, cheeks warming. “you could pick for me. my clothes. my hair. whatever you want. if you want to.”

he was quiet for a long moment. when you finally glanced up, something shifted in his expression. his shoulders loosened a fraction. he studied your face for a long moment, as if checking whether you meant it.

“you don’t have to do that,” he said, voice lower.

“i want to.”

he looked at you for a second longer, like he was still making sure, then gently tugged your hand.

“come here,” he said quietly.

he led you over to the full-length mirror and positioned you in front of it, standing close behind you. for a moment, he just rested his hands on your waist, eyes meeting yours in the glass. the restless energy that had been rolling off him all morning had already started to settle.

“you’re so good to me,” he murmured against the side of your head, voice low and genuine. “i love you.”

then he turned his attention to the open closet. his hands were careful when he finally reached for the first dress, holding it up against your body, tilting his head, setting it aside. another. then another. when he found the one he wanted, he helped you into it himself; guiding the fabric over your shoulders, zipping it slowly up your spine, smoothing the material over your hips with both palms.

he chose the lipstick next, uncapping it and handing it to you. he watched as you applied the lipstick of his choice, his free hand steadying your chin. he left your hair down so he could run his fingers through it later. the entire time, his eyes stayed on your reflection, soft and intent. his shoulders dropped. a small, private smile appeared when everything was exactly the way he wanted.

“there,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “perfect.”

you watched him in the mirror and felt something warm and heavy unfurl low in your stomach. you liked the way it made him look at you, like you were something he’d made.

you liked the quiet power of giving him this small piece of control in a world that was constantly trying to take larger ones from him. every time he finished and said those two words, you felt a flush of pleasure that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with him.

he brought you to the very first show that night.

you wore dark sunglasses, a hat, and one of his oversized jackets that still smelled like his cologne. every time you stepped out of a building or from the car into the venue, he pulled the jacket up over your head himself, shielding your face from any lingering cameras. the only thing that stayed visible was the tiffany ring on your finger.

the tabloids went crazy. speculative headlines started appearing in the entertainment magazines and papers within days:

jackson’s mystery companion

who is the mystery woman michael won’t show?

only the ring stays visible: jackson’s private obsession

when the coverage stayed vague and hungry, something in michael loosened. one night in the hotel, looking at a folded tabloid left on the table, he glanced over at you with a quiet, almost secretive smile. his thumb brushed the band on your finger.

“they know you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “they just don’t get to see you. i decide how much of you the world gets. and right now they get nothing but the proof that you belong to me.”

the secrecy thrilled him. it made the bubble feel tighter, more sacred. you felt it too. the strange pleasure of being hidden, claimed, unseen by anyone but him. you didn’t mind living in the shadows. it kept your love private. secure. it let the two of you hold onto the same domesticated bliss you had built at neverland, even while the rest of the world screamed his name every night.

the first stretch of dates moved quickly. munich. then rotterdam. then rome. the cities blurred together in blacked-out cars and under-stage tunnels, but the rhythm of the tour settled over both of you like a second skin.

michael came alive under the lights in a way that still left you breathless. the adrenaline carried him through the long days and longer nights. he would find you the second he stepped off stage, eyes bright, skin damp, still vibrating with the leftover electricity of the performance.

in rotterdam he backed you into an empty dressing room and kissed you until you were dizzy, laughing against your mouth like he couldn’t believe you were real.

in rome he had his staff decorate the hotel suite while the two of you were at the stadium. when you got back to the room, the lights were low, and the entire space smelled like your favorite flowers. soft music was playing. the bed was covered in rose petals. he closed the door behind you, took your face in both hands, and just looked at you for a long moment like the surprise itself had been for him as much as for you.

“i wanted to give you something that felt like home,” he said quietly. “even if it’s only for one night.”

the ritual the two of you built stayed consistent. every night before a show, he still chose what you wore, stood behind you at the mirror, and made sure everything was exactly the way he wanted. the smile when he finished never faded. “perfect,” he would say, voice low and pleased, and you would feel the same warm, heavy satisfaction in your stomach every single time.

you loved the tour. you loved the private language of it: the way he always found your hand in the dark of the car, the way he still pulled his jacket over your head to shield you from cameras even when there were none, the way he looked at you across a crowded backstage hallway like you were the only solid thing in the building. the bubble had simply learned how to travel.

the days took on their own rhythm. soundcheck, the long stretch of waiting, the sudden roar of the crowd, then the sharp drop afterward when the lights went down, and there was only the two of you left in the noise. you learned the shape of his adrenaline. the way it still lived in his hands and his mouth long after the final bow, the way it needed somewhere to go.

half the time he didn’t even make it back to the hotel after a show. the adrenaline was too high, the need too sharp. he’d push you into the nearest empty dressing room or the back of the blacked-out suv and fuck you hard and fast, still in stage clothes that smelled like sweat and lights and fog machines.

it reminded you of the way he’d take you when he was jealous, only this time it was pure adrenaline. nothing like the slow mornings you had shared at neverland. and you became obsessed with the intensity of it.

after dublin, he was especially eager. the show had only been over for twelve minutes when the door of the blacked-out suv slammed shut behind you.

the second the privacy partition was rolled up, michael was on you.

he didn’t speak at first. he just took your face in both hands and kissed you like he’d been starving for it the entire performance. the kiss was deep, open-mouthed, almost rough. his tongue sliding against yours like he was desperate for you. you could taste the salt on his upper lip and feel the sweat from his curls brushing against your face as he devoured you.

“come here,” he ordered against your mouth, already pulling you into his lap so you straddled him.

the leather seat creaked under the shift of weight. his hands were impatient, shoving the dress he chose for you up around your waist, dragging your underwear to the side with his fingers. the second he felt how soaked you already were, he made a low, dark sound in his throat. he freed himself from his pants and boxers quickly, and wasted no time pulling you down onto his cock in one hard, unbroken thrust.

the stretch punched the air out of your lungs. he was so thick, so deep, so fast that your thighs trembled around his hips. he immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide.

“be quiet,” he rasped, voice low and firm, breath hot against your cheek. “not a sound. you take me, and you stay quiet. understand?”

you nodded against his palm, already clenching around him. he kept his hand there and started fucking up into you with deep, relentless strokes that made the whole back of the suv rock slightly. the wet, filthy sound of it filled the small space.

every time he bottomed out, you felt it in your stomach, moaning and whimpering against his hand. outside, dublin moved past the windows. you could hear the sounds of other cars nearby, but none of it mattered. the world had narrowed to the heat of his cock splitting you open and the way he watched your face like he was addicted to every expression you made.

“that’s it,” he murmured, voice rough with need, still watching you. “take it. such a good girl for me. you feel how deep i am? how you’re already dripping down me? that’s mine. you’re mine.”

he thrusted harder, the leather squeaking under you, the wet slap of skin against skin making you wetter. every time a broken noise tried to escape your throat, he pressed his palm firmer against your mouth, eyes dark with satisfaction.

you could tell how much he needed this. you could feel how hard he was inside of you, how he was twitching and pulsating while buried deep. he was consumed with lust… the same desperate hunger that lived under your own skin. the more he took, the more you wanted to give it to him. the addiction ran both ways, and neither of you could stop feeding it.

“good. stay quiet for me. let me use what’s mine. fuck. you get so tight when i talk to you like this.”

he sounded absolutely filthy underneath you. he was running off pure adrenaline, and desperate to claim something that couldn’t be scheduled or controlled by anyone else.

only when he felt your thighs shaking around his hips did he finally pull his hand away from your mouth. he moved it to fist your hair and pulled you down until your lips were pressed against the sweat-damp skin of his ear.

“now let me hear you,” he demanded, voice wrecked and low. “moan for me in my ear. whimper for me. i want every fucking sound right here. i earned this. after everything i give, i deserve to know how good i fuck you. be a good girl and let me hear exactly what i do to you.”

the second the permission came, the sounds spilled out of you; broken, desperate, wet little whimpers and moans right against his ear the way he wanted.

he groaned like the noise itself was pushing him closer to the edge and kept driving up into you. he moved his hand from your hair to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. claiming. the other locked on your hip hard enough to bruise as he pulled you down onto every thrust.

“that’s it, fuck, just like that. let me hear how bad you need this. you’re addicted to the way i fuck you, aren’t you? say it while you’re moaning in my ear. tell me.”

“fuck, i need you. i’m so addicted to you—” you gasped against his skin, the words broken and shameless.

“i know you are.” his voice was almost vicious with satisfaction. “cum for me. make a mess on my cock like the needy little thing you are.”

the orgasm hit so hard your whole body locked around him, pulsing so tightly he cursed under his breath. he fucked you through it without slowing down, chasing his own release with short, brutal thrusts until he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan, pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot waves while he kept your face pressed to the side of his neck. you could feel every spurt of him, the way he held you there like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

he stayed inside you until he softened, forehead pressed to yours, both of you still breathing hard. when he finally lifted you off him, it was careful, gentle. he tugged your dress back down, wiped you clean with a folded napkin from the back seat, then pulled you sideways into his lap and wrapped the oversized jacket around both of you. his hand settled on your lower back, thumb stroking slow and steady.

“i love you so much it scares me,” he whispered against your hair, voice soft and completely stripped of the roughness from minutes before. “sometimes i look at you, and i can’t believe how lucky i am. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you nuzzled yourself deeper into him, placing a gentle kiss to his neck before looking up at him.

“you’re my entire world,” you said honestly, moving your hand to play with the loose curls hanging in front of his face. “i love you more.”

you were happy. obsessively, almost stupidly happy. it still felt like the two of you against the world.

────୨ৎ────

part VI: the quiet.

the exhaustion settled in slowly, like fog.

at first you barely noticed it. the shows were still electric, the crowds still deafening, but the man who walked off stage started to look smaller somehow.

the bright, almost feverish focus that used to live in his eyes dimmed a little more each week. he still chose your clothes every night… the dress, the lingerie underneath, the lipstick, the way your hair should fall, but the ritual changed.

his hands moved through the motions without the same quiet intensity. he no longer stood behind you at the mirror and murmured “perfect” like the word itself settled something in him. now he would simply nod once, sometimes without even looking at your reflection for more than a second, and turn away.

the ritual had lost its softness. it felt like a chore.

some nights he asked you to stay at the hotel.

“the venue’s too chaotic tonight,” he’d say, rubbing the back of his neck. “security’s stretched thin. i’d feel better if you stayed here.”

or

“my throat’s rough. i’m going to need the quiet after. just… wait for me?”

the reasons were always believable. always gentle. you never argued. you would kiss him at the door, watch the blacked-out cars pull away, and spend the next six to seven hours in the suite trying not to count the minutes.

time stretched differently when he was gone.

you tried to fill the hours. you reorganized the already-neat closet twice. you sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched the water run until it turned cold. you opened your journal and wrote the same three lines over and over before tearing the page out and starting again. everything came back to him; how he had looked at you when the intensity was still there, how quiet the room felt without the sound of him moving through it, how the silence had stopped feeling luxurious and started feeling like proof that you were becoming easy to leave behind.

once you picked up the hotel phone and started dialing your mother’s number before hanging up halfway through. you didn’t know what you would even say. that you were fine? that you were happy? that the man you had given up everything for was slipping into a politeness that made your stomach turn? the words felt impossible. so you set the receiver down and went back to waiting.

you started watching the clock more than the television. you learned the exact sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall, the particular rhythm of his footsteps when he was truly spent. every time the door finally opened, you felt a small, humiliating rush of hope; and every time it died the same way.

he would walk in already half-gone, stage makeup only partially removed, the scent of the stadium still clinging to his skin. the kiss he gave you was soft and almost absent, barely there, before he dropped onto the bed or the couch like his bones had given out. sometimes he didn’t even make it out of his stage clothes. you would sit beside him, fingers gently working the heavy jacket off his shoulders, and he would murmur a tired “thank you, baby” without ever fully looking at you.

the attention that used to feel like a living thing between you had thinned into something polite and distant.

it triggered the same old panic.

you knew he was exhausted. you knew the tour was eating him alive, but knowledge didn’t stop the familiar, sick twist in your stomach. it was the same one you’d felt the week after mr. harlan gave you that ride. the quiet voice that whispered you did something wrong. he’s pulling away because of you. even when the rational part of your mind insisted it wasn’t true, the fear still settled under your ribs and stayed there.

so you tried harder.

you became almost frantic in your perfection. every morning you made sure the suite was exactly the way he liked it; temperature, lighting, the right tea steeping when he woke. you pressed cool cloths to the back of his neck when the headaches hit. you sat on the edge of the bathtub and carefully removed the rest of his stage makeup with shaking hands when he was too tired to do it himself.

he always thanked you.

sometimes he even pulled you against his chest and let you listen to his heartbeat until he fell asleep. but the electricity was gone. the hungry way he used to look at you, like you were the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to dissolve him, had been replaced by exhausted gratitude. it should have been enough. it wasn’t.

the loneliness wasn’t loud. it was quiet and constant, like a low hum under everything. you had built your entire world around being needed by him, and now you were discovering what it felt like when that need went dim. the worst part was how small you felt inside it, and how willing you still were to rearrange yourself into whatever shape might bring even a fraction of his focus back.

you’d lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling, his arm heavy across your waist, and felt the same hollow ache you’d felt during that long week of silence months ago. the difference was that this time there was no clear mistake to fix. no neighbor to explain. only the slow, terrifying realization that the version of him who needed you with every nerve ending was slipping further away with every show, and no amount of perfect care seemed able to call him back.

by the time the glasgow show arrived, the ache had settled so deep it felt structural.

that show had drained him more than most.

when the suite door finally opened, he barely made it to the edge of the bed before his legs gave out. he sat heavily, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

you watched him from the bathroom doorway for a long moment.

the new black leather lingerie felt different against your skin; tighter, cooler, more deliberate. you always wore lace for him, never leather. the way the material hugged your body made something restless and determined settle in your chest. you needed him to see you. you needed the electricity back, even if you had to drag it out of him.

you crossed the room quietly and stepped behind him. your hands slid over his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight knots of muscle there. he didn’t lift his head. you leaned down, lips brushing the damp skin of his neck, and opened your mouth against him. your tongue traced a slow path through the salt of his sweat, tasting the night still clinging to him.

he sighed, the sound heavy and apologetic. “i’m sorry, baby… i’m too tired. too tired to fuck you tonight.”

you stayed close, mouth near his ear, voice soft but steady.

“then let me fuck you.”

for a second he didn’t move. then he slowly lifted his head.

you stepped around in front of him and sank to your knees between his spread thighs. surprise flickered across his exhausted face as he looked down at you; the leather, the deliberate way you were already reaching for his belt, the expression in your eyes. you kept your gaze on him as you undid the buckle, pulled the zipper down, and freed him. he was only half-hard, heavy and warm in your hand.

“you don’t need to do anything,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing. “you don’t need to touch me. you don’t need to think. you don’t even need to look at me. just let me take the stress away.”

you leaned in and took him into your mouth.

the first slow slide of your lips around him pulled a quiet, involuntary sound from his throat. you worked him carefully at first; tongue pressing along the underside, cheeks hollowing as you took him deeper, the wet heat of your mouth surrounding every inch until your nose brushed his stomach.

you could feel him hardening against your tongue, growing thicker, longer, until he filled your mouth. spit gathered at the corners of your lips and slipped down his length as you moved with steady, focused need. you wanted him fully hard. you wanted him to feel how desperate and willing you were for him.

when he was rigid and pulsing against your tongue, you finally pulled off with a wet sound and rose. you pushed gently at his chest until he fell back onto the mattress. his eyes closed the moment his head hit the bed… and he didn’t open them again.

you climbed over him, knees bracketing his hips, and reached down to guide him to your entrance. the head of his cock nudged against you, slick from your mouth, and you sank slowly, taking every inch until he was buried to the hilt. a shaky breath left you at the stretch. he felt thick and hot inside you, filling you completely, the leather of your lingerie cool against your thighs in contrast. he only exhaled, eyes still shut.

you began to move.

“let me be useful,” you whispered, voice tight as you rolled your hips. “just feel me. i’m yours. i’m right here for you to get off in.”

his only response was a quiet, low moan. one of his hands drifted up and settled lightly on your waist; not guiding, not gripping, just resting there as you rode him. the wet sound of your body taking him filled the quiet room. you kept talking, the words spilling out soft and desperate between the wet sounds of your body taking his.

“i exist for this… for you”

“let me do all the work baby, you just relax”

“you make me so fucking desperate”

you hoped the vulgar words would spark something in him again, the way it normally does... making him pin you down and take control. but he never opened his eyes. he never spoke. the hand on your waist stayed loose and passive.

you watched his face the entire time, the furrow of exhaustion between his brows, the way his lips parted on heavier breaths as you moved faster. when his breath started to stutter, you clenched around him deliberately, milking him with every upward stroke.

“cum whenever you want,” you told him, voice soft and wrecked. “fill me up. i’ll take all of you. i don’t need anything back.”

when he finished, it was with a low, almost pained sound, hips twitching once beneath you as he spilled inside you in thick, hot pulses. you felt every spurt, the heat spreading deep, and kept moving through it, hoping the aftershocks might pull something more from him. they didn’t.

he stayed inside you, and you could feel the tension leaving his body completely. his hand slipped from your waist. his eyes remained closed, like he was already falling asleep.

“…thank you, baby,” he murmured, voice already drifting. soft. polite. distant.

you stayed straddling him for several long seconds, still full of him, still aching and unfinished. the leather suddenly felt cold against your skin. the quiet ‘thank you’ sat in the air like a door being gently shut in your face.

you had offered him everything. your body, your pride, the chance to take without giving anything back, and even that hadn’t been enough to make him look at you.

you carefully lifted yourself off him, the loss of him making your throat tight. you plopped down next to him, and his hands immediately found their way around you, pulling you slightly closer to him. he nuzzled his face in the nape of your neck, and you could feel his heart rate slow down as he dozed completely.

you laid there for a long time, feeling his breath against your neck as the realization settled in: he never even kissed you that night. it was stupid. unreasonable. he was right there with you, his cum still warm between your thighs, but he never felt further away.

the next two nights followed the same pattern. he came back later and later, the stage still clinging to his skin, the exhaustion heavier each time. the first night you tried again; softer this time, fewer words, just your hands and your mouth and the quiet offer of your body. he accepted it the same way he had in glasgow: eyes closed, passive, murmuring a tired thank-you when it was over.

the second night you didn’t even try. you simply laid beside him in the dark while he slept, listening to his breathing and feeling the hollow space where the intensity used to live.

by the third morning, the nausea had settled into something sharper.

you stood in the bathroom staring at your own reflection and finally admitted what you had been circling for days. the politeness sat in your stomach like something spoiled. the more perfectly you behaved, the more invisible you became.

he wasn’t reacting because you weren’t giving him anything to react to.

there was no threat. no reason for jealousy. no reason for that dark, focused intensity that used to take over his entire body when he thought he might lose even a fraction of you. you had made yourself so easy, so careful, so useful that there was nothing left for him to fight for.

and the most sickening part was that you missed it.

you missed the version of him that got sharp and possessive. you missed the way he used to look at you like he needed to remind both of you who you belonged to.

the thought that you were starting to crave the toxic heat of his jealousy, so much so that you were considering doing something just to pull it out of him, made your hands shake against the porcelain sink. but the craving didn’t go away.

that was when the small tests began.

you started going to bed before he arrived back at the suite. instead of waiting up to give him a massage or run him a shower, you’d keep your eyes closed as he returned to the room.

he’d be quiet, moving slowly around the bed, undressing in the dark so he wouldn’t wake you. you’d lie there, heart pounding, facing away from his side of the bed, waiting to see if he’d wake you up. instead he climbed into the sheets, leaned over, and placed a quick kiss to the top of your head, then settled in without a word.

the next morning you waited… and waited… and waited for him to make a comment about you not waiting up. it never came.

the lack of reaction made something restless and ugly twist in your chest. if quiet withdrawal didn’t reach him, you would have to push harder.

he had asked you to come to the show with him that night. while he was in the shower, you opened the closet and slipped into the dress he had specifically told you he didn’t like; the one that was too short when you sat down and too bright under cameras. you stood in front of the mirror and waited.

when he came out of the bathroom, he stopped short. his eyes moved over you slowly.

“that’s what you’re wearing?” his voice was flat. “i don’t like it.”

you met his gaze in the mirror and didn’t reach for anything else.

“i know.”

a longer silence stretched between you this time. something flickered behind the exhaustion, not full anger yet, but a sharper tightening of his jaw. a brief flash of the intensity you had been starving for.

for a second, you thought he might actually demand you change. instead, he only looked at you for another beat, then turned away and finished getting ready in silence. the quiet withdrawal that followed felt heavier than the night before, and the fact that even this didn’t pull a real reaction out of him only made the ache in your chest worse.

before he stepped on stage at wembley, he cupped the side of your face briefly, eyes already half in performance mode, and said, “wait in my dressing room, baby. i’ll come get you when it’s over.”

you nodded.

you didn’t stay there.

the restlessness under your skin had become too loud to ignore. halfway through the show, you left the dressing room and wandered the backstage corridors, listening to the muffled roar of the crowd through the walls. when the show ended, you drifted toward the dancers’ area.

two of the male dancers were there. one was packing. the other- the one michael had disliked since the first week of tour, the one he had quietly warned you about- looked up and smiled as he invited you to join them.

the conversation stayed light. cities, sore legs, bad catering. at some point, you both laughed at something small and your knees brushed on the couch. neither of you moved away. every minute that passed without you returning to his dressing room felt like another deliberate step further from the version of yourself who used to wait exactly where he told you to.

about thirty minutes later, the door opened. michael stood there with a towel around his neck, stage makeup still smeared, curls damp with sweat. for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion wasn’t the strongest thing on his face. irritation was. sharp and immediate. his eyes moved from your face to the dancer sitting too close to you, then to the place where your knees still touched.

you didn’t get up. you didn’t cross the room the way you always did, the way he had come to expect you to. he was used to you moving straight to his side like gravity, but this time you stayed seated, looked over at him, and said simply,

“hey.”

the word landed wrong. it was too casual. too light. the kind of greeting you might give an acquaintance, not the man whose dressing room you were supposed to be waiting in, not the man who was used to you appearing at his side the second he entered a room.

the irritation on his face sharpened into something colder. the two dancers read the air instantly. they grabbed their bags, offered quiet excuses, and filed out.

once the door was shut, michael’s voice was low.

“get up. we’re leaving.”

the car was silent the entire ride back. london slid past the windows in a blur as you tried to figure out exactly what you had just set in motion… and whether the reaction you had been chasing would be worth whatever came with it.

when the hotel came into view, a small cluster of paparazzi were already waiting near the entrance. michael reached over without looking at you, pulled the oversized jacket up over your head, and muttered under his breath,

“this fucking dress.”

he guided you through the flashing cameras with one hand firm on your back, body angled to block as much of you as possible, until the lobby doors closed behind you and the noise cut off.

the second the suite door locked, he spoke.

“you didn’t wait in my room as i told you to.”

your pulse was already climbing. you knew the risk. you had known it the moment you left his dressing room, the moment you sat down next to the dancer he disliked, the moment you stayed seated and didn’t run towards him. you knew what usually happened when you pushed him past a certain point. and still the restless, hollow ache had been louder than the fear. you needed him to react. you needed to feel the sharp edge of him again, even if it cut.

you set your bag down and met his eyes.

“i was bored.”

something shifted in his expression. the irritation sharpened into something flatter and more dangerous.

“so you decided to go sit with him.”

“we were just talking.”

he stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. then he crossed the space between you. your heart lurched hard. hope flared that he might grab your face, kiss you hard, press you against the wall, give you the consuming intensity you had been starving for.

instead, he stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your head back to hold his gaze. when he spoke, his voice was low and cold, but the control in it was paper-thin.

“take the ring off.”

the words knocked the air out of your lungs.

you looked down at the diamond on your finger, then back up at him, completely disoriented.

“what?”

“take it off.” his eyes didn’t leave yours. “if you’re going to act like you’re not mine, then don’t stand there with my ring on your hand.”

you didn’t move. you couldn’t. the demand sat between you like something far too sharp. for a second, the only thing you could hear was your own pulse. the ring suddenly felt heavier on your finger, like it had become the only solid thing left in the room.

when you still didn’t reach for it, something in his expression tightened further. his voice dropped even lower.

“i mean it. take it off. if it doesn’t mean the same thing to you anymore, then i don’t want it on you.”

the second push landed harder than the first. this wasn’t the reclaiming you had been chasing. this was him trying to take back the only solid thing left between you. the ring had been a promise; we belong to each other. now he was using it like a threat. the unfairness of it, the deep wrongness of it, made your eyes burn.

michael waited another second, watching your face. when you still didn’t move, he let out a quiet, humorless breath, turned, and walked toward the bedroom. the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

you stood alone in the living room. the dress he hated still clung to your skin, the ring heavy on your hand, and tears streaming down your cheeks. the hurt settled so deep it made it hard to breathe.

────୨ৎ────

part V: the freeze.

the next few days were torture.

it wasn’t the full silent treatment. he still spoke when necessary. he still sat in the same car. he still slept in the same bed. but he removed every trace of softness. the absentminded touches vanished. he stopped choosing your clothes. he answered questions with short, flat replies and looked at you like you were someone he used to know.

for the first time, you matched his energy.

every second of it hurt. the instinct to fix it clawed at you constantly; to soften your voice, to reach for him, to close the distance the way you always had. you pushed it down harder each time it rose. if he was going to withdraw the warmth, then you would too. you stopped making his tea. in the car, you sat further away, eyes on the window. at night you kept your back turned even though the cold space between your bodies felt like an open wound.

the longer the silence stretched, the more the suite itself started to feel like a third presence in the room.

at first his coldness was steady. controlled. the same flat withdrawal he had always used when he was angry. he seemed to be waiting, the way he always waited, for you to be the one to close the gap. for the soft apology. for the quiet “i’m sorry” that used to come easily from you. you could feel the expectation sitting between you like an open hand he kept holding out.

you didn’t take it.

instead, you moved through the days with careful, deliberate distance. when he entered a room, you no longer looked up right away. when he asked a quiet question, you answered in the fewest words possible. every small refusal cost you something. each time you swallowed the urge to break, you felt the ugly, complicated satisfaction of watching him feel even a fraction of what you had felt for weeks.

and that was when something in him began to change.

by the second day, the controlled coldness started to fray. you saw it in the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking, restless and searching. you saw it in the tight line of his mouth whenever you answered him with the same flat politeness he had once given you.

once, in the middle of the afternoon, he stood in the doorway of the living room and just watched you for a long time without speaking. the weight of his attention was almost physical. you kept your eyes on the book you weren’t really reading and refused to give him the softness he was silently asking for.

the guilt sat heavy under your ribs.

so did the darker relief.

for the first time, the helplessness was shared. he was the one left reaching. he was the one left wondering if the distance would become permanent. every time he tested the edge with a lingering glance, a quiet “did you eat?”, or hovering his hand near your back without quite touching, you didn’t meet him halfway. and you felt a sick, sharp satisfaction.

the symmetry was toxic, and you knew it.

you also weren’t ready to give it up.

by the evening of the second day, the fear in him had become impossible to miss.

he barely ate. he paced more. when he finally came to bed, he laid rigid on his side of the mattress for a long time before sleep took him, and even then his body stayed restless. turning toward the space between you as if searching in his dreams.

the next day, the two of you sat in silence on the private flight from london to vienna.

the cabin was quiet and plush, but the distance felt heavier in the smaller space. michael sat across the aisle with headphones on, eyes fixed on the clouds.

vienna was colder. the suite was larger, the windows overlooking a grey city you barely registered. the freeze simply continued, heavy and unbroken, through the third day and into the fourth.

before leaving for his show, he tried one last quiet reach, coming to sit on the opposite end of the couch. he sat close enough that you could have shifted toward him if you wanted. he asked in a low voice if you wanted anything from room service.

the question was ordinary. the look in his eyes was not. it was open and tired and almost pleading. the same man who had told you to take the ring off was now looking at you like the possibility that you might actually stay distant was starting to frighten him.

you kept your gaze on the window and answered without turning.

“no. thank you.”

the silence that followed was heavier than any of the ones before it. you felt him stay there for another full minute, waiting, before he finally stood and left the room. you sat very still after he was gone, hands cold in your lap, and let the truth settle.

you were both hurting.

you were both spiraling.

you were both choosing the wound over the risk of being the first to reach.

michael got in later than usual that night from the show. you were already in bed, back turned, all of the lights off. you kept your breathing steady, and your eyes closed. every muscle in your body was braced for the familiar weight of him settling onto the mattress without reaching for you.

instead, the footsteps crossed the room and stopped at the foot of the bed.

a second later, the lamp clicked on.

soft light spilled across the sheets, forcing you to open your eyes. michael stood at the end of the bed, still in his stage clothes, towel draped around his neck, looking more undone than you had seen him in weeks. the exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something raw and open that made your chest tighten.

he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you for a long moment, then walked around to your side of the bed and slowly sank to his knees on the floor beside you.

the movement was so unexpected that for a second you could only stare.

the last time someone had been on their knees in this relationship, it had been you. the first time you ever apologized to him, he had you drop to the floor and take him into your mouth until he decided you were forgiven.

that memory surfaced sharp and clear as you watched him lower himself now, the king of pop, the man who controlled every detail of your days, kneeling beside the bed like the power had finally shifted.

he reached out and took your left hand, holding it between both of his like he was afraid it might disappear.

“you’re still wearing it.” his voice was rough, stripped of the cool distance he had been maintaining. his thumb brushed over the diamond, unsteady. “you didn’t take it off.”

the words came out quieter this time, like he still couldn’t quite believe them. he kept his eyes on the ring, then finally lifted them to your face.

“i kept waiting for you to do it,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “every time i walked into a room, i thought that would be the moment you’d finally take it off and hand it back.”

you stayed still, heart slamming against your ribs, the cold façade you had been holding onto for the past few days starting to fracture under the sound of him breaking.

he looked up at you from where he knelt, the exhaustion still etched into his face, but underneath it was something frightened and completely unguarded.

“thank god,” he whispered. “i don’t know what i would’ve done if you had. i can’t lose you. i don’t know how to do any of this without you.”

the last of your resistance crumbled.

you turned toward him. the second you moved, he rose just enough to pull you into his chest, face pressing into your neck, arms locking around you so tightly it almost hurt. you felt him shake once, a quiet, uncontrolled breath against your skin.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, over and over.

it wasn’t lost on you that in all the time you’d been with him, this was the first time he had ever apologized.

and he was doing it from his knees.

the rest of the night passed in near silence. he didn’t try to take things further. he just held you, face buried in your neck, one hand spread wide across your back like he was still convincing himself you hadn’t disappeared.

every few minutes, his fingers would find the ring and rest there, tracing the band as if the metal itself was proof. you stayed awake longer than he did, listening to the gradual slowing of his breath, feeling the wetness of his quiet tears against your skin long after he had stopped shaking.

morning came gray and slow.

you woke to find him already watching you, eyes red-rimmed, expression stripped of every defense. for a long time, neither of you spoke. he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest motion.

when he finally kissed you, it was soft and searching. nothing like the claiming intensity you had been starving for, and nothing like the cold distance of the previous days. something in between. raw and unsteady.

“stay close today,” he said against your mouth, voice still rough. “please.”

the fevered softness began from there.

he cancelled everything that wasn’t essential. no interviews. no meetings. the first day he filled the suite with your favorite flowers until the air smelled thick and sweet. he barely let you out of reach. if you stood, he stood. if you moved to the window, his body followed.

that morning he brought you breakfast in bed and sat on the edge of the mattress watching you eat before he touched anything himself. later, when you shivered, he got up without a word, turned the heat higher, and pulled an extra blanket over both of you. at night, he drew you into his lap and simply held you, face pressed to your hair, breathing you in like the contact itself was keeping him steady.

the second day passed the same way. quiet. careful. devoted.

when he took you, it was different from the hungry, punishing sex you had been chasing. he laid you down and kissed every inch of skin he could reach, lingering, respectful. he moved inside you slow and deep, eyes open, watching your face the entire time. whispering over and over how much he loved you, how sorry he was, how he couldn’t lose you. every time he came, he held you through it, arms locked around you, trembling slightly like the release still scared him.

his attention never left you. not once.

it was the softest, most careful version of him you had ever been given.

it should have been enough.

on the second night, you laid tangled together in the dark. his chest against your back, one of his hands resting loosely over your stomach. the suite was quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. his breathing had already slowed, heavy and even against the back of your neck. every so often, his fingers would flex slightly, like even in sleep he was checking that you were still there.

it was the safest you had felt in weeks.

and still, staring at the faint outline of the curtains, you felt the old twist in your stomach. the quiet, shameful wish that he would wake up, pin you down, and take you like he was afraid of losing you all over again.

the softness was real. it was everything he knew how to give right now. but the part of you that had been shaped by the cycle still ached for the freefall, for the kind of claim that left marks and stole the air from the room.

you closed your eyes and tried to let the safety be enough.

────୨ৎ────

part V: the cage.

on the third morning, the banging started at the door just after dawn.

michael answered it shirtless, still half-asleep. a member of his security team stood there with a stack of tabloids and a grim expression. “you need to see these. and turn on the television.”

the photographs were clear and intimate.

you and michael in a backstage hallway, his hand low on your back, faces close. another of you leaning up to kiss him, your hand on his chest, your expression soft and open. for the first time, your face was fully visible. your name was already printed underneath in bold letters. the commentary was vicious.

michael jackson’s secret girlfriend exposed

the ordinary girl who quit everything for him

ultimate yes-girl: how a nobody became the king of pop’s shadow

friends say they haven’t heard from her in over a year

is this really the best he could do?

gold digger or just desperate to be chosen?

anchors spoke over the images and dissected every single thing about them; the way you looked at him, the way you leaned in, the fact that no one had ever seen you before. the bubble that had protected the two of you for months was gone. strangers were looking at the most private parts of your dynamic and deciding what it meant.

michael stood in the middle of the room, staring at the screen, the papers clenched in one hand. the anger that settled over him was hot and immediate. it was the fury of control slipping through his fingers. he turned the television off abruptly, threw the entire stack of newspapers onto the floor, and started pacing. one hand dragging through his hair, while his jaw locked so tight the muscle jumped.

you watched him from the bed, sheet still pulled up around your waist, heart already climbing into your throat. the photographs were still burned into your mind. your own face, soft and open and completely exposed. the words they were using about you sat under your skin like glass.

ordinary.

nobody.

shadow.

for the first time, you felt the full weight of what it meant to be seen next to him. he was the most famous man in the world. and you were the girl who had disappeared into him so completely that even your own friends no longer recognized your life. the scrutiny didn’t just hurt; it confirmed every quiet fear you had tried not to name.

he paced for another full minute before he finally stopped and crossed the room to you. his hands framed your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes, but the touch was almost frantic.

“they’re going to tear you apart,” he said, voice low and shaking. “they’re already doing it. i won’t let them. i’m going to protect you. you’re safe with me, okay? i won’t let them ruin what we have.”

you nodded.

what else was there to do?

the fear in his voice was the same fear living in your own mind. but as the hours and days that followed unfolded, you began to feel the difference in how that fear moved through him. the control tightened quickly, and more intensely than anything that had come before.

he no longer simply chose your clothes; he decided what you were allowed to wear even inside the suite when staff might enter. certain necklines disappeared entirely. he determined which rooms of any venue you could wait in, and which ones were now off-limits without him present.

in public, his hand stayed on the small of your back constantly, not affectionate, directional. a clear signal that you moved only when he moved. once, when a member of the crew asked you a direct question, michael answered for you without even glancing your way.

the message was unmistakable: she does not speak unless i allow it.

you felt the shift.

this wasn’t the control that used to come from wanting you. this was containment. it was driven by the terror of what the outside world could still take from him, and every new restriction carried the same silent plea: i can’t lose you to them.

the grip was tighter than ever, but it didn’t feel like the claim you had been starving for. it didn’t feel like desire. it felt like fear wearing the shape of possession. and the difference sat heavily in your chest.

sometimes, when michael wasn’t in the room, the headlines got louder in your head. ordinary. nobody. the girl who gave up everything. the more you turned them over, the more they started to feel true. you had given up everything. the version of yourself that existed before him felt further away every day.

looking in the mirror had started to hurt. the face staring back at you looked smaller somehow, like it belonged to someone who had already been erased and was only still visible because he hadn’t let go yet.

and underneath all of it lived the quiet, sick fear that kept you awake: that he would eventually see what the papers saw. that one day the intensity would fade for good, and he would look at you and realize you were ordinary. that you had never belonged in his world. that the only reason he was holding on so tightly now was because he was afraid of the headlines, not because he still wanted you.

one afternoon he walked in and found you on the floor with your journal open, a small pile of torn pages beside you. you had ripped out every entry that tried to name what you were becoming. when he asked what you were doing, you only said “nothing” and closed the cover. he didn’t push, but the fear in his eyes sharpened, and the control tightened another degree.

another night he came out of the bathroom and caught you crying in front of the mirror, quiet tears while you stared at your own reflection in the dress he had chosen. you wiped your face the second you saw him, but not fast enough. he crossed the room, cupped your face, and kissed you with a sudden, almost desperate softness. when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours and stayed there for a long moment.

“don’t listen to them, baby,” he said, voice low and tight. “they don’t know you. you’re perfect.”

but some of their words had already moved in and made themselves at home.

he tried to offset the coldness of the new rules with gifts. a new birkin, new dresses, earrings that matched your ring. each present appeared when your silence had stretched too long. he would watch your face when you opened them, searching for proof that the gesture had reached you. when you softened under the attention, he softened too. when you leaned into his touch, he held on tighter.

the mixed signals left you unsteady. the underlying truth was simple and devastating: both of you were terrified of the same loss, and both of you were willing to disappear a little more if it meant the other stayed.

the day before the paris show, he came into the living room holding a small cream-colored card.

“there’s a dinner tonight,” he said. “private room. only a few people. now that they know your face, staying completely hidden will only make the speculation worse. we go together. we stay controlled. we leave when i say.”

it wasn’t a request.

you looked at him; you really looked at him. you noticed the tension in his shoulders, you noticed the way his thumb kept brushing over the ring on your hand as he spoke, and you felt the familiar need to soothe it, to make yourself smaller and easier so the fear in him would quiet.

“okay,” you said.

he exhaled, leaned in, and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“i’ll be right with you the whole time, baby.”

the words should have settled you. instead, they sat wrong in your chest. you were going to be displayed. not hidden, not protected like before, but walked into a room full of people who had already read the headlines and decided what you were.

the ordinary girl. the nobody who got chosen. the thought made your hands go cold. you nodded anyway, because the alternative was telling him you weren’t ready, and you weren’t sure if you could do that.

the private room was all low light and dark wood, the kind of place designed to make conversations feel exclusive. there were maybe twelve people total. lots of producers, a couple of executives, one or two familiar industry faces.

michael kept you close from the moment you entered, his hand steady at the small of your back as he guided you between short conversations. you smiled when required. you answered when spoken to.

you felt yourself starting to dissociate under the weight of being both displayed and tightly held to his side. it was during one of the introductions that the comment came. an older man looked between the two of you with a thin smile, eyes flicking to the ring on your hand.

“gotta say,” he said, “it’s something else seeing you settled. didn’t think anyone would ever get michael jackson on a leash.”

the words landed in the middle of the small group, causing everyone to chuckle. michael gave a small laugh and pressed into your back slightly. you felt the expectation that you should stay quiet and smile.

instead, something restless and sharp moved through you. the same control that currently felt like both protection and erasure pressed against your ribs, and the word leash sat too close to the truth.

you met the man’s gaze and said, voice even, “oh no. trust me, i’m the one on the leash.”

a short, uncomfortable silence followed. michael’s hand went rigid against your back. he politely excused the two of you and steered you away a moment later without finishing the conversation, the line of his shoulders tight.

“what’s wrong with you?” he whispered lowly against your ear.

you just looked up at him and shrugged.

his jaw tightened, but before he could say anything else, someone called his name from across the room. a producer he needed to speak with. michael hesitated, hand still firm on your back, then leaned in close enough that only you could hear him.

“stay where i can see you,” he said, voice low and tight. “don’t wander.”

he waited until you gave a small nod before releasing you and moving across the room.

for a few minutes, you remained near the edge of the group, glass in hand, watching the easy way he slipped back into conversation. the tension from the leash comment still lingered under your skin. you took a slow sip of your drink and let your gaze drift across the private room.

that’s when you saw her.

she moved through the space as if she belonged in it. tall, self-assured, the kind of beauty that didn’t have to announce itself. you recognized her from one of his videos earlier that year. she had drifted into the small circle around michael and was already laughing at something he said, the sound light and practiced.

her fingers brushed his forearm, lingering just long enough to be intentional. he didn’t step away. instead, his hand came up and rested briefly against her elbow, casual and familiar.

and then you saw it: his eyes moved over her once, quick and almost automatic, taking in the long line of her figure before returning to her face with that soft look on his face.

the glance lasted less than a second.

it was enough.

jealousy and something colder roared up so fast it made your ears ring. the tabloid words that had been living under your skin for days rose with it; ordinary, nobody, the girl who didn’t belong. you felt the intense fear that she was the opposite of everything the papers said you were; that she was the kind of woman who belonged in rooms like this without needing to be managed or hidden or carefully dressed.

the thought of being replaced, of him one day looking at someone else the way he used to look at you, made you feel like you were going to die. it was overwhelming. toxic. but underneath the pain was the sharp recognition that this was the exact voltage you had been starving for.

for the first time, you saw the opening clearly. you saw the opportunity to force the version of him that didn’t freeze: the one that claimed, the one that hurt, the one that still wanted you badly enough to lose control.

you set your glass down and crossed the short distance to a man you vaguely recognized from earlier in the tour. the conversation you started was warmer than it needed to be. you smiled, laughed once without guarding it, and when he said something mildly funny, you let your hand rest on his arm. your body stayed angled open, fully visible from where michael stood.

the entire time, your eyes stayed locked on michael’s across the room.

you watched the exact moment his composure cracked. the way his expression darkened, the way his body went still, the way every bit of careful control drained out of his face and left only raw, focused intensity behind.

a moment later, you stepped closer, both hands lightly on the man’s shoulders, and rose onto your toes to speak near his ear. long enough for michael to see it. long enough for the point to land. his hand settled on your back as you leaned in, just for a second, casual and easy.

that was the moment michael moved.

he was at your side in seconds. he didn’t even bother to look at the man. his hand closed around your upper arm, firm, and his voice was low enough that only you could hear it.

“we’re leaving.”

his grip on your arm was tight as he steered you through the private room. conversations dulled. eyes followed. he pushed the back exit open, and the night air hit your flushed skin, cool against the heat still rising in your face.

the blacked-out car was already waiting. he put you inside, slid in after you, and the privacy partition rose the second the door shut. the car pulled away from the curb.

michael sat rigid beside you, one hand braced on his knee, the other locked around the edge of the seat. city lights moved across his face in broken gold and white. the silence between you was thick.

you could feel the rawness on him. the focus. the anger that had finally broken through. this was the version you had been starving for. your pulse was still racing from the risk, from the way he had come for you across the room. the air between you felt alive again.

and underneath the high was the fear.

the fear that you had pushed him towards the coldness again. that he wouldn’t fight for you in the way you were pushing him to. that he didn’t desire you enough to show you who you belonged to.

then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“you did that on purpose.”

it wasn’t a question.

you kept your eyes forward for a second, pulse loud in your throat, then glanced over at him. your voice came out low and almost light.

“did it work?” you glanced over at him through your lashes, eyes dark and daring, cheeks already flushed, holding his gaze just long enough to make the challenge clear.

he turned his head. the look he gave you was darker than anything he had worn in weeks; stripped of exhausted politeness. it was pure, focused intensity. when he finally answered, his voice was quiet and rough.

“don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?” you asked, purposely acting dumb, twirling a piece of your hair around your finger.

his jaw flexed. for a second, his eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up, and the air between you tightened. he didn’t answer right away. he just looked at you like he was deciding how much restraint he still had left.

“like you already know what you’re getting when we get upstairs.”

the words landed low in your stomach. you felt your pulse quicken. your stomach twisted in excitement. he was finally looking at you like he had to have you.

by the time the car stopped in front of the hotel, the air between you felt ready to break.

the second the suite door locked behind you, he turned and backed you against the wall.

the kiss was nothing like the soft ones from the past days. it was hungry, almost angry, his hands already dragging the dress up your thighs. you kissed him back just as hard, then you pulled away enough to speak against his mouth, voice low and deliberately provocative.

“she looked good on your arm.”

his eyes flashed. “don’t.”

you smiled, small and sharp. “what? i’m just saying. you seemed comfortable. maybe i should get more comfortable too.”

that was all it took.

he growled, spun you around, and shoved you face-first against the wall, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. his other hand yanked the dress higher and ripped your underwear aside. you felt him hard and heavy against you, but instead of pushing in, he only rubbed the head of his cock through your wetness, slow and deliberate, never giving you more than the tip.

“this is how you repay me?” he rasped against your ear. “i get on my knees for you, and you let another man put his hands on you in front of me?”

you pushed your hips back, trying to take more of him. he pulled away just enough to deny you, one strong hand locking on your hip to keep you from sinking onto him.

“ah-ah. you don’t get it until you ask nicely.”

“no.”

the refusal came out breathless and defiant. you tried again to push back onto his cock.

his hand left your hip. the first spank landed sharp and open-palmed across your ass. the sound cracked through the quiet suite. heat bloomed instantly under your skin, bright and stinging. the force of it pushed you forward against the wall. a broken moan slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“beg,” he ordered.

“no,” you said, smiling back at him, teasing him by wiggling your hips gently, moving your soaked pussy over the tip of his cock.

“brat.”

the second spank came harder, right over the same spot. the sting sank deeper this time, making your thighs clench. you felt yourself drip down your own skin, the ache between your legs sharpening with every passing second.

he kept the thick head of his cock slipping through your folds, pressing just barely inside before sliding away again, his hand firm on your hip so you couldn’t take more than he allowed.

“you’re already shaking,” he muttered, voice dark with satisfaction. “you want it so bad, yet you’re still talking back. be a good girl and say please.”

you gritted your teeth, hips trying to chase him. “make me.”

he laughed once, low and almost mean, and spanked you a third time. the impact forced another sound out of you, half moan, half sob. your skin was hot and throbbing, every nerve lit up, and for the first time in weeks the intensity you had been starving for was finally here, sharp and undeniable.

then he finally pushed in halfway with one hard thrust and stopped, stretching you open around him while you cried out. he held you there, filled but not fucked, and leaned over your back so his mouth could reach your neck.

he sucked hard enough that you knew it would bruise, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, then sucking again until the blood rose under your skin. he did the same to the other side of your throat, leaving a matching mark, while his hips stayed perfectly still.

the feeling of being physically marked by him made you clench around his cock. it was exactly the feeling you’d been chasing, the feeling of him consuming you.

“this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he muttered against your wet skin. “you wanted me jealous. you wanted me like this. say it.”

“i wanted you like this,” you gasped. “i missed it so much. i missed you like this—”

only then did he give you the rest of his cock in one deep, punishing stroke. the stretch forced a broken cry from your throat. he fucked you hard from behind, one hand still in your hair, the other pulling you further down onto his cock before suddenly pulling out.

you barely had time to make a sound of protest before he spun you around to face him, shoved you back against the wall, and lifted one of your legs around his hip. he pushed back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust and immediately dropped his mouth to your chest.

he yanked the top of your dress down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and wet while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. his free hand cupped your other breast, thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles around the nipple before pinching just enough to make you gasp. he switched sides, mouth latching onto the other breast with the same focused hunger, tongue circling and sucking while his fingers kept teasing the wet, sensitive one he’d just left.

“look at you,” he growled against your skin, voice rough and filthy. “soaking my cock after disobeying me. you love this. you love it when i put you in your place.”

he kept his mouth on you, alternating between deep, wet sucks and the light scrape of his teeth. his hips never stopped driving into you, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet suite.

“you’re mine,” he said, the words punched out of him with every thrust. “say it again while i’m inside you.”

“i’m yours—”

“again.”

“i’m yours. only yours—”

“that’s right.” he reached down and rubbed tight circles over your clit, still driving into you without slowing. “cum on the cock that you belong to.”

the orgasm hit so hard your vision whitened out. your leg tightened around his hip as your knees buckled, the sudden weakness making you drop hard against him. he caught you immediately, one arm locking tight around your lower back to hold you up while the other stayed braced against the wall. he fucked you through it without slowing, short, brutal strokes that kept the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

“good girl,” he rasped against your mouth, voice rough and breaking. “that’s it. i’ve got you. look so pretty falling apart around my cock. so fucking tight when you cum for me.”

he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan, pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot waves. his mouth latched onto yours, tongue shoving in aggressively as he moaned into the kiss and kept grinding his release deeper into you, holding your trembling body upright the entire time.

for a long moment, the only sound in the suite was the two of you trying to catch your breath. he stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one arm still locked around your waist to keep you from sliding down the wall. your leg was still hooked around his hip, weak and shaking.

when he finally pulled out, it was slow, almost reluctant. you made a soft sound at the loss of him. he steadied you with both hands, careful and quiet, then bent and lifted you into his arms. one arm under your knees, the other around your back, he carried you the short distance to the bed like you might break and laid you down gently against the sheets.

he followed right after, stretching out beside you and pulling you into his chest with a tenderness that felt almost fragile after everything that had just happened. his hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing, grounding.

“are you okay?” he asked softly.

“yes. more than okay,” you whispered, tipping your face up to look at him.

the absolute adoration in your expression made his breath catch. he stared at you for a second; his expression was unreadable.

he leaned down and pressed his mouth to the marks on your neck. he kissed them slowly, one after another, whispering how much he loved you against your skin.

the next morning, you woke to soft gray light and the quiet sound of paper.

michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, shoulders curved forward. in his hands were the crumpled, torn pages from your journal. he was staring at them intently, thumb moving slowly over a ripped edge, eyes fixed on the ink like it might change if he looked long enough.

the pages were full of the entries that tried to name what you were becoming, the ones that admitted how much of yourself you had already given away. you had thrown them away. seeing them in his hands made your stomach drop.

“michael-“

you sat up. the sheet slipped to your waist. the cool air touched the fresh marks he had left on your neck, and you watched his eyes lift and take them in. he looked at the bruises for a long moment, then at your face. something in his expression fractured.

he set the pages down carefully on the nightstand.

“you should leave.”

the words didn’t make any sense. you stared at him, heart already starting to climb into your throat.

“what?”

“you should leave,” he repeated, voice low and rough from sleep and something heavier. “even if it’s just for the rest of the tour. go home. go back to your apartment or to your parents. we can find each other again when it’s over… if you still want to.”

the sentence hit like a physical blow. panic slammed into you so hard it stole the air from your lungs. your vision tunneled. for a second you couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in your ears. the room felt too small. the sheets felt too cold. you scrambled up onto your knees on the mattress, the sheet falling away completely, and reached for him with shaking hands.

“no. michael, don’t. you can’t say that.”

“look at yourself.” his eyes moved over the marks on your neck, then your face, then the torn pages on the nightstand. “look at what we’re doing. you tore pages out of your own journal because the truth in them scared you. you’re disappearing. you’re not happy.”

“i don’t care—”

“you should care.” his voice cracked on the words. “i’m trying to do the right thing for once. everyone leaves eventually. they always do. you should go before i make it impossible for you to.”

a broken sound escaped your throat. you shook your head hard, already crawling closer, both hands gripping his wrists like he might vanish if you let go. your pulse was so loud you could feel it in your teeth. the idea of a life without him- empty rooms, ordinary mornings, the absence of his gravity- opened under you like a drop with no bottom.

“i can’t.” your voice came out thin and frantic. “michael, please. don’t do this. don’t say that again.”

“you need to hear it.”

“no, i don’t.” tears were already burning at the corners of your eyes. “you don’t get to decide that for me. i’m not leaving. i won’t.” you grabbed his hand and pressed it hard against the ring on your finger, holding it there so he had to feel the metal.

“you promised. you put this on me, and you said we belonged to each other no matter how crazy things got. you don’t get to take that back.” your voice broke on the last word. you kept his hand locked over the ring, shaking. “you promised me. you can’t take it away.”

he looked down at where your fingers were clenched around his, at the diamond catching the gray morning light, and something in his face twisted. you could see the tears that were threatening to fall from his eyes. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost pleading.

“you’re allowed to want something that isn’t just me. you’re allowed to have a life that doesn’t disappear around me.”

“i don’t want a life that isn’t you.” the words tumbled out raw. “i tried. i had one before. it didn’t feel like this. nothing has ever felt like this. if you send me away, i won’t know how to be a person anymore. i won’t know how to breathe without checking where you are. you don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”

your hands were shaking so hard you could barely keep hold of him. the panic had nowhere to go. it just kept climbing.

“please,” you whispered. “please don’t make me leave. i’ll be better. i’ll stop pushing. i’ll stop needing so much. just don’t send me away. i can’t survive it. i won’t survive it.”

he closed his eyes. for a second, he looked like the words had physically hurt him. the resolve in his face wavered, then cracked. he reached up, cupped the back of your neck, and pulled you in until your forehead rested against his.

“i know,” he whispered, voice raw and tired. “i know you can’t. i can’t either.”

a broken sob slipped out of you. he held you tighter.

“i keep telling myself to let you go,” he said against your skin, “and then i look at you, and i can’t do it. i’m not strong enough. i need you. i need you so much it scares me.”

you felt the truth of it settle between you. heavy. irreversible. mutual. neither of you was under any illusion that this was good. both of you were choosing the cycle anyway, because the alternative felt worse than the damage.

you pulled him in for a frantic, needy kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. his hands slid up your bare back, fingers pressing hard into your skin like he was still afraid you might change your mind and disappear.

the kiss tasted like relief and surrender simultaneously. you could taste the salt from the tears you hadn’t realized were falling, the lingering heat of the night before, the quiet, devastating acceptance that neither of you was going to be the one to walk away.

in that moment, you closed the door on the version of yourselves that might have left.

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'd been driving for what felt like hours.

The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.

Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.

"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.

The silence settled around you almost immediately.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.

"...Huh."

You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.

Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.

A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.

"Oh, no..."

You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.

"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."

You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.

Your stomach sank.

"No, no, no..."

Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.

Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.

If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.

"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."

You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.

There was one problem.

Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.

The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.

You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.

The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.

No such luck.

With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.

There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.

You blinked.

"...Yep."

You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.

Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.

Beautiful.

Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.

Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?

The last possibility made you straighten slightly.

Morning.

You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.

You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.

You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.

No signal.

You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.

It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.

You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.

You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.

You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."

Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.

You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.

Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.

But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.

What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?

You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.

For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.

Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...

You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.

There it was again.

An engine.

Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.

For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.

Someone was coming.

You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.

It was an old pickup truck.

And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.

So you stayed where you were, waiting.

The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.

The engine remained running for a moment.

Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.

He wasn't what you had expected.

You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.

A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.

A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.

"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.

You gave him a small nod.

"Hello."

His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.

"Everythin' alright?"

There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."

He glanced back at it again.

"Out here?"

You nodded.

"Apparently."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.

"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."

The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.

"Been waitin' long?"

"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.

"Right."

He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.

"Name's Michael, by the way."

He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."

You shook your head, "'s okay."

He smiled softly.

"Well, I'm Michael."

He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.

"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."

The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.

"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"

The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.

You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."

"Alright."

He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.

There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.

Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.

"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.

"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."

There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."

You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."

"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.

"How long has she been actin' up?"

You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.

"Mm."

That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."

There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.

Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.

"She ain't overheatin', is she?"

"No. The temperature looked normal."

"Strange smells?"

"No."

"Any noises before this?"

You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."

He nodded again.

"Alright."

There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.

"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.

You shook your head.

"No. Just passing through."

"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.

"What gave it away?"

He looked up, a small smile appearing.

"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."

You laughed quietly. "Good to know."

"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."

"I figured that out."

That earned a small laugh from him.

"Yeah, I reckon you did."

He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.

A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.

After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.

You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.

"Well..." he started.

You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.

"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."

You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.

"That bad?"

"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."

He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.

"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."

You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"

Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.

"Means y' probably need a mechanic."

You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."

"Closest one?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment.

"About thirty-five, forty miles."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."

"Wish I was."

You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.

"Hey."

You looked back at him.

"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."

The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.

"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.

"'Course."

"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."

Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.

"Yeah, I did."

The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.

"I mean... anybody would've stopped."

You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.

"So what now?"

Michael looked back towards his truck.

"Well..."

He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.

"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."

You listened quietly.

"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.

"Especially not a lady."

The words made you smile slightly.

"Your mom sounds like a good woman."

"She is."

There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.

"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"

You shook your head.

"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."

He nodded.

"Alright."

Another pause. Then he looked at you.

"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.

"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."

He quickly continued before you could answer.

"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."

A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."

You looked down the empty road again.

Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...

You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.

"How far is it?"

Michael smiled slightly.

"Not far. Five minutes."

You considered it for another moment before nodding.

"Okay."

His expression softened with relief.

"Alright."

He stepped back towards his truck.

"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."

You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.

The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.

Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.

But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.

When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.

Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.

And Michael liked kind.

He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.

"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."

You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.

"You sure?"

He gave a small nod.

"Just thinkin'."

You looked back out the window.

"About my car?"

"That too."

There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."

You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."

"'Course."

The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...

Michael was very handsome.

Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.

"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.

"Not always."

You raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Nah."

You looked at him.

"Then why me?"

He thought about it for a moment before answering.

"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."

It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.

"That's a pretty good reason."

Michael shrugged lightly.

"Seems like the right thing to do."

The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.

Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.

"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"

You looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."

You smiled slightly.

"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.

"Just curious."

You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."

Michael nodded.

"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."

"What does?"

"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."

You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"

He smiled.

"Maybe."

"You've done that before?"

"Maybe."

You smiled at that.

"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.

"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."

"Oh."

He nodded.

"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.

"That sounds nice."

"It is."

The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.

At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.

Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"You alright?"

You looked over.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.

"Can turn the air up if ya need."

You smiled slightly.

"I think I'll survive."

"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."

You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.

The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.

The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."

You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."

You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.

Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.

He just wasn't used to this.

Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.

And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.

"Hm?"

"You said you live on a farm?"

He smiled.

"Yeah."

"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"

He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."

"You don't get tired of it?"

He thought about it.

"Sometimes."

You laughed. "At least you're honest."

"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."

That made you laugh.

"But most days?"

"Most days, yeah."

You looked out at the passing fields again.

"I think I'd like that."

"Farm life?"

"Maybe. It seems peaceful."

Michaels face softened.

"It can be."

He paused.

"But it can also be a lot of work."

"I believe that."

Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.

"You'll get to see it soon."

You looked back at him.

"The farm?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

A small smile appeared on his face.

few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.

"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.

"It's nice."

Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah. 's my home."

He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.

Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.

"I got it." You looked at him.

"You really don't have to carry my things."

He looked almost confused by the statement.

"I know."

The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.

"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."

You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."

That earned a quiet laugh from him.

"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."

"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."

Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.

"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."

You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.

The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.

"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.

"Don't worry about it."

The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.

"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."

You tilted your head slightly.

"A little."

He nodded, almost expecting that answer.

"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."

The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.

"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."

You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."

He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.

"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."

You nodded.

"Thank you, Michael. Really."

He flashed you a smile.

"You're welcome."

There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."

After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."

You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."

He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."

"Still."

"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.

"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."

"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.

A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.

You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.

You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.

The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.

You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.

Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.

He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.

So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.

He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.

"Hey, suga'?"

No answer.

Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.

"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."

Still nothing.

He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.

The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.

"Hey, I just wanted to—"

The words died in his throat immediatly.

You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.

His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.

Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.

He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.

Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.

God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.

You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.

Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.

He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.

He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.

He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —

Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.

Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —

He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.

He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —

Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.

He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.

His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.

Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.

He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.

Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.

Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—

The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.

You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.

You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.

The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.

And there he was.

Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.

"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."

A pause. He took a sip of coffee.

"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"

Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.

"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."

He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.

"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.

"Mornin', suga'."

"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.

"Sleep alright?"

"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."

"You didn't have to do all that."

"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."

You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.

"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."

"Think he can fix my car?"

"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."

"You'd do that?"

He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.

"Course I would."

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.

"You're really kind, Michael."

He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.

"Just doin' what's right."

He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.

"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."

You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.

And then he remembered.

It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.

He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.

"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head.

"You alright, Michael?"

"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."

You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.

"Alright."

He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.

You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.

"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.

Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."

"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."

His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."

"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."

You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"

"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."

A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.

"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"

Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.

"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."

You smiled. "That's cute."

"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."

You laughed. "He sounds like a character."

"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."

You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.

You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.

"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."

Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."

He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.

The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.

A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.

The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.

Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.

"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."

You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.

"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.

"Mhm."

He nodded toward the fields.

"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."

"You never wanted to leave?"

He thought about it.

"I did."

You looked over at him.

"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."

"And?"

He smiled to himself.

"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."

There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.

"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."

"I don't think simple's the right word."

"No?"

"I think... content."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I'll take that."

They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.

"Daisy," Michael called.

The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.

"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."

"Told ya."

He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.

"Easy now."

Watching him with the horse was... different.

He became even gentler somehow.

His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger."

"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."

You smiled. "I can tell."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You wanna pet her?"

"I don't know if she'll like me."

Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.

"Daisy likes everybody."

He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.

"Come here."

You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.

The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.

"Oh."

Your face lit up.

"Hi."

Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.

"See?"

You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.

"She's beautiful."

"Ain't she?"

You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.

"I think she likes me."

"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."

The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.

"I—I mean—"

His ears immediately turned pink.

"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I know what you meant."

"...Right."

He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.

You bit back a laugh.

The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.

Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.

You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.

You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.

And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.

He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.

Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.

"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"

Michael looked up from fastening the latch.

"Hm?"

You pointed at him.

"The hat."

He blinked.

"I've been wondering all morning."

His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Yeah, I take it off."

"Hmm."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What?"

"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."

He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."

Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.

"What?"

"You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did."

He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.

"You're somethin' else."

"That's not a denial."

Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.

Michael went still.

Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.

"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"

Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.

And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.

"Michael?"

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.

"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."

You blinked.

"What?"

"The hat."

You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."

"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."

He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.

"What?"

Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.

Finally, he sighed.

"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."

"About the hat?"

"About what it means when somebody takes it."

You frowned slightly.

"What it means?"

He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.

"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.

"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.

The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.

You stared at him.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"Oh..."

His face somehow got even redder.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I know."

"No, I mean—"

You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"

"I know you didn't."

"I was literally just messing with you."

"I know."

He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.

"I figured."

The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.

The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.

You looked at it, then held it out to him.

"Here."

Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.

His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed.

"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."

You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.

"Y' did look good 'n it."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Thanks."

He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.

"Y' welcome."

Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.

Michael looked away first.

And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.

"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.

"Right." Another pause.

Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.

"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."

You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.

Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.

Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.

You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.

"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"You were staring."

"I was not."

"You were."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."

Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.

"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.

"Yeah."

And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.

Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.

Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.

"Y' alright?"

You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."

He studied you for a moment.

"Well..."

He looked toward the house, then back at you.

"I should probably start on dinner soon."

The thought of him cooking made you smile.

"You cook every day?"

"Most days."

"By yourself?"

"Mhm."

"That's actually kind of impressive."

He laughed softly.

"'s nothin'."

"You always say that."

"What?"

"That everything you do isn't a big deal."

Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.

His expression softened.

"Y' would've done the same."

The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.

There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.

You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.

It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.

After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.

"You like storms?"

You sat on the couch, watching him.

"Sometimes."

He glanced over.

"Sometimes?"

You smiled.

"Depends where I am."

He nodded like he understood.

"Yeah. I guess it does."

The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.

"Well."

A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.

"That figures," you said.

Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.

It was strange.

A man you'd met yesterday.

A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.

Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.

"You know..."

Michael looked up.

"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."

His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.

"And now?"

The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.

"Now I'm not so sure."

The silence that followed felt different. Just full.

Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.

"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."

Your eyes moved back to him.

"Why?"

Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.

Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.

"'cause..."

He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.

"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."

Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.

"I know 's probably ridiculous."

"It's not."

His eyes returned to yours.

"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."

He looked down again.

"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."

Your throat went dry.

"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."

You nodded.

"I know."

"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."

You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.

"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."

Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.

"No?"

"No."

You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.

The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.

You reached up.

Slowly.

Giving him every chance to move away.

His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.

"Can I?" you whispered.

Michael's eyes searched yours.

He didn't ask what you meant.

He already knew.

"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."

The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.

"Michael—"

"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."

He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.

His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.

You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.

His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.

You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.

"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."

You laughed, breathless.

"Glad you lied."

He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.

The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.

"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.

His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.

"Michael─"

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."

The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.

"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."

He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.

He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.

"Wanna taste y', suga'."

You didn't have words. You just nodded.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.

"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."

And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."

"Oh fuck!—"

He repeated the action.

He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.

"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."

He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.

"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"

"Please what, beautiful?"

"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.

"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"

"Want you inside me."

A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.

"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."

He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.

"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."

And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.

"My turn."

He caught your wrist.

"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."

The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.

He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.

"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.

He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.

"Come here, honey baby."

You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.

"You sure?"

"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.

The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.

"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."

His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.

"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."

You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.

"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."

You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.

"My perfect, beautiful girl..."

You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.

"Turn around, sweetheart."

You blinked, breathless.

"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."

He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.

"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."

You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"

And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.

"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."

You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."

"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.

"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"

"Yes—"

"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"

"Yes, Michael, yes!—"

"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."

You shattered.

Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.

"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."

He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.

"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."

You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.

"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."

He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.

"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," you whimpered.

He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."

He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."

He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That feel good, beautiful?"

"Yes—"

"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"

"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."

He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.

"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"

"Mhm!—"

"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."

You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.

"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"

He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.

"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."

After four months of constant hesitation and anxious overthinking, Michael Jackson had finally decided that the night of September 1st, 1978, would be his very first time making love. It would be the night he’d lose his virginity to the girl he’d loved since he was eleven years old.

Having grown in comfortability and confidence surrounding sex unlike the sheer disdain he’d felt toward it previously, he was still certifiably terrified—so excited to take this next step with the woman he adored more than anything, but so incredibly nervous that he would do something wrong, paired with the intense guilt that what you would be doing together was also much too sinful. He'd pondered over the question of religious purity relentlessly since you'd first told him in July that he need not take the overly strict rules so seriously, but even while he had calmed down his vehement religious adherence, it still nagged at him. He really hoped that once tonight was over and done with, he'd feel differently. He prayed that he wouldn't feel any worse—that the guilt wouldn't instead increase after the fact, because really, that was more likely—and then he remembered that the God he was praying to obviously condemned the act out of wedlock in the first place. So, again he was stuck, relying only on your insistence and his own self-assurance that the act wouldn't be the disgusting thing he'd always perceived it as. He was an adult now—freshly twenty years old—and he needed his girl so badly. There was no fighting it anymore.

He even began to wonder, if God permitted sex within marriage, surely it couldn't be that sinful outside of it? He knew from you, from his brothers and from his father how rough and aggressive it could be (that particular knowledge existing as part of the reason why he'd been so disturbed and deterred from it in the first place) but he also believed in just how beautiful and gentle it could be. He knew you'd been victim to sex that was on the more aggressive side as you'd grown into adulthood, and he was ever determined to show you that the opposite could also be true in this domineering, patriarchal world. He wanted to love you, not just fuck you; to display to your body his eternal devotion, each touch a promise that he would never, ever hurt you like you'd been hurt before. He'd always known that you were destined to be with him, that even when he was beginning to give up hope because you weren't seeming to show him any romantic interest despite knowing him for so long, something inside of that boy still screamed, "she'll be mine one day."

Michael had planned tonight extensively, down to every last detail of which he was in control of—but of course the specifics within the evening would be instructed by your expertise. He'd decided that it had to happen at your place (even though he would've preferred to take you in his childhood bedroom) because if he did attempt the latter option, precisely it would be a mere attempt and nothing more. His brothers would hear, they'd tease and ruin the moment just like they did with your first shower together; and aside that, there was also the terrifying possibility of Michael's mother finding out.

You lived in a mansion too, with a family half the size of his, and the rooms were all so far apart that you didn't really need to choose a night where the house would be completely empty. But Michael still requested that you did, because for his very first time with you he needed it to be absolutely perfect. The pressure for perfection carried him through his entire life in every sector, and while such pressure helped him to acquire greatness in his creativity and in his career, Michael was mistakenly applying it to something that in fact required zero pressure in order to survive successfully. The more he focused on being the best you'd ever had, and the more he desperately needed every little thing to fit the dream he'd been having for years, the higher the likelihood that he'd be too awkward and unable to relax.

As he walked over to your house, he began to understand that to some extent; but not fully, because even while he tried to calm down through deep, controlled breaths, the underlying yearning for perfection still didn't leave. And to make matters worse, nor did the religious guilt, and the childhood trauma. Every thought—tiny or huge—was piling on top of one another, making his chest constrict so much that he felt he might have a literal heart attack on Encino Avenue. When your family mansion came into view, his head was spinning.

Walking closer, he saw you out on the porch talking to a neighbour, clad in a tight hot pink tank top—the hem riding up to show a glimpse of your stomach—with Daisy Dukes to accentuate your ass, and Converse Chuck Taylors on your feet. Michael tried to stroll normally, but really he felt as though every step he took was mechanical, as though he was dreaming and the freshly-mowed grass would soon transform into quicksand.

You knew he was supposed to turn up around seven, and the time was indeed right on seven o'clock, but you hadn't been paying attention, because you figured he probably wouldn't turn up exactly at the strike of the hour. 

Seriously? Did you even know your boyfriend at all? When it came to you, Michael would be nothing short of punctual—especially when he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all day before finally allowing himself to leave at 6.30. In truth, he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all week.

You didn't notice him walking over at first, because you were busy engaged in a conversation with one of your girlfriends about your upcoming single. It was her that spotted Michael first as he came up behind you. She'd started grinning all of a sudden.

"What is it?" you chuckled. "Have I got somethin' on my face?"

"No—your man's here, girl."

"Hi," Michael said shyly, wrapping an arm around your waist. He was wearing a half-buttoned cream linen shirt that exposed part of his chest, with light blue high waisted bell bottoms, fixed tight on his hips by a thick brown belt.

"Oh, hey baby," you beamed, turning to the side to face him, then pulling him into a quick greeting kiss. Your face nestled into his shoulder, and the girl beside you cooed in adoration.

"I'll leave you two lovebirds," she laughed, giving you a short hug. "See you tomorrow, babe!"

Then she was heading back inside her house next door, and so you turned properly now to face your sweetheart.

"Mm, been waitin' for you all day," you murmured against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed kiss after kiss onto his facial features.

"Yeah?" Michael's eyes lit up a little, as if some part of him was believing that only he was excited for tonight. You'd had sex several times before with other men, so surely this wouldn't be anything special on your end, he thought, and he imagined you'd probably forgotten all about the appointment he'd made before you'd found him standing right next to you.

And yet, he couldn't have been more wrong, where it seemed the memory of your sexual cravings regarding him had since slipped his mind. He was also yet to be aware of just how deeply your love for him ran—how despite your avoidance (of which you were slowly recovering from) you were treating tonight with just as much care and anticipation as the boy who'd never made love before.

"Mhm, let's go upstairs," you smiled, kissing his cheek and taking hold of his hand. 

"Nervous, huh?" you asked while the two of you walked up to the front door and into the foyer. 

Michael's breath caught in his throat. He'd hoped you wouldn't notice.

"Uh—a little. I guess."

You linked your arm with his and squeezed his hand tighter, leaning comfortably into his side. "You're shakin', honey. You have nothin' to be worried about—really—but would you wanna maybe watch a movie before we, uh—?" You started to giggle, feeling a little shy yourself. "Just to loosen you up a little."

"Um," Michael smiled bashfully, "yeah, that would be great."

"Okay, let's go to my room, Mickey!" you sung with his Disney nickname, reaching the staircase.

"After you, Minnie," Michael chuckled in response.

You both took off your sneakers, and then in an attempt to replace anxiety with playfulness, he sped up as you walked, now skipping up the stairs after you and chasing you into your room while you squealed. As soon as you rushed inside, he wrapped his long arms around your waist from behind and lifted you with surprising ease, then shifted you into a bridal carry as you still continued to whine happily. 

"Mike," you sighed, cheeks aching already from how much you'd been smiling. You wrapped your arms around his neck like a koala seeking refuge in its mother.

"Yes, honey?" he smiled back down at you, stroking your thigh as he walked your figure over to your huge champagne-pink king-size bed, enveloped in silk. You'd spent half of your relationship thus far here, and the other half at Michael's place. Really, your bedroom was much more appropriate—with the likelihood of outside intrusion much less—but as stated previously, Michael always thought it was more romantic and more gentlemanly to bring you to his home, rather than to rely on yours.

You were looking up into his eyes now, getting so effortlessly lost in the shining brown orbs, how the pupils dilated the more they locked onto your own, and you'd forgotten what it was you wanted to say.

"Tink," he whispered, urging you to continue your sentence with a kiss to your nose. He was doing something he did quite a lot—standing in the centre of somewhere, carrying your waiting body, entirely lost in the feeling of the holding, so much so that he didn't want to let you out of his grasp. Silly in this circumstance however, because you'd be in an even closer grasp once you got comfy under the sheets and entwined your bodies.

"I forgot what I was gonna say," you giggled. "Um... but somethin' else just came to mind, too. Y'know... the three words..."

You were always too shy to say them, still only four months into dissecting and overcoming your deep-rooted avoidance, but at the same time you often had a strong need to make clear to Michael that you felt the words, no matter how difficult they were to leave your lips.

Michael's smile grew ten times wider, and he leaned his face down to kiss your forehead, rocking you absentmindedly in his arms as though you were in your very own Disney movie, saved by the handsome prince. 

"Can I say 'em for y'?"

"What, about yourself?" you joked, reaching up to play with his afro. "Wow, Michael, I never knew you were so self-absorbed."

He chuckled, and upon staring deeper into your fluttering eyes, almost lost his train of thought again.

"Mikey, take me to bed—I don't know what we're still standin' here for," you laughed, suddenly a little shy. He was looking at you too closely, and sometimes you wished he wouldn't be so intimately attentive.

"’m admirin' y', Minnie," he whispered, but now without a smile at all—just an expression that would appear so plain if it wasn't for the heavenly intensity in his eyes, that which gave an eloquent display of his aching emotion. "My Minnie Mouse..." he whispered some more, pairing the words with soft kisses over the crevices of your face.

You had literal goosebumps now, breath hitching imperceptibly at the insane effect he had on you. Michael was just being sweet, like always, but you weren't used to such close attention from anybody, let alone from the gorgeous, soft-spoken man with the sexiest voice. He didn't seem to understand just how sexy he was, and in fact he'd never even thought of himself in that way before—which was yet another reason why he believed the events of tonight would be difficult.

"Michael..." you whispered back, almost gasping in your sheer surprise at just how passionately he was looking at you. His arms stayed holding you so protectively, tucked under your legs, and he still kept pressing his lips over your face and to your jaw, while you shut your eyes and relished in the gift of his affection, no matter how nervous it was making you. 

You'd never been this kind of nervous before. Even though Michael had treated you in this way many times over the last few months—where you became slightly more comfortable with it as the time passed—the tenderness had never before contained the subtext of sexual intercourse. Previously, sex and softness had been a separate subject in your mind, unfortunately having never dealt with a man who saw that the two could coexist, but tonight your first boyfriend would be finally combining the two. As opposed to all your other men, Michael Jackson couldn't conceive of performing sex in any other way. From foreplay to the act itself, he would be oh so gentle...

And though he hadn't said that aloud to you, it was clear nonetheless that he would be that kind of lover. The knowledge was what had made you so anxious when you stepped into that shower with him two weeks ago, and as he'd proven himself then to be so thoughtful and tender with your naked body, it had only confirmed further what you'd be experiencing on your first night together.

You were thinking about that now as he swayed you carefully in his arms, somehow his shyness dissipating whenever he could lose himself in your eyes just strongly enough for every other thought and emotion to momentarily pause. As he loved on you, your mind was thinking about later tonight; and not because you were desperate to cut to the sex, but because of that same anxiety surrounding how beautifully he'd treat you. Many girls would deem you crazy for actually worrying about a man treating your body with reverence, but you'd spent so long stuck in an intense fear of vulnerability, feeling so unworthy of a soft love, that now even while you'd made progress, the severity of tonight made you feel as though you would be losing your virginity all over again. Michael might have been the only virgin in the room, but you might as well have been, and therefore just like your boyfriend, you too would be experiencing something so very new. 

What you weren't yet aware of in that moment, as you shut your eyes tight, too scared to look into his adoring eyes as he kissed you with more innocence than anybody ever had, was that the night ahead would be the single most beautiful (though equally heart-aching) experience of your life. You could have awarded the birth of all your incredible children the top spot on that list of experiences, but really, those children would have never come to see the light of day had it not been for the man who taught you how to be loved.

"I love you, honey..." you heard him say, snapping you from your daze as your eyelids finally fluttered open. 

Your cheeks heated up in an instant. Why were those words still so difficult? It made you even more anxious to think that Michael might be feeling self-conscious at the fact that you'd only ever half-said the phrase (an instance where you'd almost said the 'you' in the middle of a makeout, but had instead craftily cut yourself off with a kiss). You hoped he never took it personally, and truly he didn't, because he could empathise with your situation. While it was so different from his own, as somebody who craved affection and reassuring words, he understood that you operated in the opposite way.

"Take me to bed, baby," you whispered, although feeling guilty for not reciprocating his declaration. 

"Mhm," Michael muttered quietly, nodding. "Got distracted." He huffed a laugh.

"I can see that," you giggled, as he began to set you down oh so carefully onto the silk sheets, treating you like a fragile object of porcelain. 

Sitting down beside you, he immediately outstretched his limbs for you to crawl in between them, settling comfortably at his chest with his arms wrapped tight around you, and with your smooth bare legs brushing against his pair. You entwined them together, sighing in content into his warm neck. 

Then the two of you were sitting in lovely silence for a few moments, before you remembered that you were supposed to be watching a movie together. 

"Y'know we need to actually pick the movie, honey,” you pointed out. “One of us needs to get up again to put it on."

Michael groaned theatrically, throwing his head back at the mere idea of separating from your warmth again. "I'll do it," he sighed.

"Okay, what about Bambi for my Bambi?" you grinned, taking his hand and kissing his wrist.

The film had always been one of your favourites, and partly because it did indeed remind you of Michael. Bambi's pretty doe eyes reflected him so much, a mirror image of your sweetheart's own pair, and that similarity had influenced one of your nicknames for him.

Michael blushed, lips pressing together in shyness, and you nudged his cheek with your knuckles.

"Baby, you know you can't be this shy when you're buried in me later," you teased, and Michael's fluster only grew even deeper.

"Minnie," he glared playfully, but there was really nothing playful about the intense tachycardia-like symptoms of his heart.

"I'm just playin', Mickey!" you laughed more, with a soft peck to his nose. "Now, do you wanna watch Bambi or not?"

"Mhm, Bambi's fine," he muttered, a smile growing on his pretty face as he reluctantly stood up from the bed that he'd only just gotten comfortable in, and walked over to set up the chosen film. 

"Darlin', where is it?" he called back. "Y' have so many here—which drawer is it in?"

"Oh, the second on the left!"

When he found the cassette, he slid it into the VCR beneath your television, and the screen flickered to life with the opening credits. Eagerly, with the spirit of a child, he rushed back to where you laid in the centre of your sheets, and as before, you were cuddled up so close; cheek-to-cheek, his arms around your waist. Michael always insisted that he be practically glued to you whenever you cuddled, so attached that you could feel his warm breath each time he murmured a soft word to you. As the film settled into the opening scene, he took hold of your hand and interlaced your fingers, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles—though unlike most, with zero absent mind. Every slight touch was deliberate, so deeply thought about, and for Michael, handholding had always been what he deemed 'magical'. He never really needed much more, for he believed that and kisses were celestial in themselves. 

With such in mind then, it would've been easy to predict just how insatiable the young man would become after simple physical touch had been elevated to the realm of bodily entwining. He'd never be the same.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒕, 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒆. 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆

But despite Michael's comfort, there was a lot on your mind that evening. Much of the sex you'd had since you'd turned sixteen three years ago had been coercive and at times literal rape—where you'd been so intoxicated and vulnerable that you believed it was all okay, because you'd kissed him back, hadn't you? You'd let him take you to his bedroom, so hadn't you consented to being treated that way? No one had taught a vulnerable girl growing up in both the music industry and the 1970s that real consent wasn't black and white. 

Your very first time had been aggressive, where the man four years older hadn't taken a care to the fact that it hurt so badly. He just kept forcing himself in harder. Afterward, you had immediately rushed over to Michael's house and cried yourself to sleep in his arms.

Indeed, Michael then went on to learn of those who came after that horrible first experience, none any gentler or more careful. But you hadn't been a virgin anymore, and you had wanted sex, so at the time you believed that you were an equal participant to the men you engaged in it with. Oh, how wrong you were—but as a young, naive girl with domineering men surrounding her career and personal life in every which way, how were you to be blamed? Objectively, you didn't hold a fraction of the blame of course, although it would sadly be years until you would finally let go of the self-deprecating shame you carried beneath your confident exterior.

And there had been something else, something Michael hadn't known about—a memory you hadn't even registered yourself until just less than two weeks ago, when the realisation had triggered you to projectile vomit in your en-suite. Because while Michael had spent the recent weeks in a both happy and nervous anticipation for your first night together, you had been spending those same days alternating between the studio, the stage, and your bedroom, uncovering the repressed event that your brain was now relaying back to you unsolicited.

It had been a memory from January of that year—almost eight months ago now—and the only reason you could remember the month was because you were beginning to recall the date of the Motown dinner you'd attended on the night. Michael had been there too, with all the Jacksons, alongside most of the record label and a few others. But from what was in the beginning such a peaceful, ordinary get-together, you failed to understand how it had produced such a horrific thing as what you'd come to remember. It was all coming back to you in fragments, and you could only surmise that you had been plied with drugged alcohol throughout the evening, to lead into a dark night of defencelessness. Your brain hadn't yet unpacked the build-up, those missing pieces of information terrifying you further, but indeed you had deliberately been made weak, then at some point taken into an obscured backroom and mercilessly raped. You hadn't the slightest idea who by, because there were so many people at that dinner who you didn't know beyond professional conversation—and you guessed that if you were ever to see the man again, the sight would trigger a horrible panic. He had likely been an executive from another company, perhaps living elsewhere. Hopefully. It terrified you that you might run into him again. In your flashback, he was a mere dark shadow.

After thinking it through some more, you'd realised it must have been the cause of that winter morning in which you'd woken up with zero memory of the night before, attributing the mindlessness to 'what must have been a really good night'. But you'd had bruises on your thighs and on your neck, and for those you fitted the reasoning that you must have had a makeout session with somebody, and that you might have banged your thighs into the edges of a chair or some object similar. Or maybe you'd had sex, but it wouldn't have been your first time indulging in drunken intercourse with no memory of it the morning after. So, with those possible conclusions in mind at the time, you hadn't given it any more thought, despite how deep down it did unnerve you whenever your memory would fail you in that way.

When the attack had first returned into your consciousness, you'd been falling asleep, and therefore had initially hoped that perhaps it was just your very vivid imagination playing tricks on you—that you'd had rough, supposedly consensual sex in the past, so while your mind slipped into slumber, wasn't it reasonable to assume it had been merely a disturbing amalgamation of images in the purgatory of the dream state, stemming from sex’s rougher elements? Perhaps the violence hadn't been real?

But in truth, the feeling had been too deeply visceral. Your body knew what had happened to it as soon as the image had entered your brain, and even after your stomach had emptied its contents, you then spent the rest of the night lying wide awake in nausea, completely drained of all melatonin, unable to process anything deeper than your sheer disgust and terror.

By the next morning, you had forced yourself to do what you did best, and that was to perform. Not on stage, not that day at least—instead enacting a performance of personality, of poise and class and grace despite the shame and repulsion that filled your tormented, shattering spirit. You forced yourself to push through, trying to put yourself in the mindset of the girl you'd been twenty-four hours before, the girl who hadn't yet remembered, and who could stay in blissful ignorance. But that girl had been hurt whether she could remember it or not, and she had been raped and coerced even prior to that night in January. The intoxicated, blacked-out night had been the most traumatising, violent form, but rape didn't look the same every time. Its brutality enfolded in various ways; and really, America's golden girl had experienced each of those even before she had turned nineteen.

Despite the memory only having come to the forefront of your mind a mere two weeks ago, so insistent in its vehemence, you were confident tonight in Michael's presence that you had successfully pushed past it, that it no longer affected you because you would move on and smile through life like you always did. That was what the industry had taught you: to keep on going no matter what might happen, because your very existence as a performer depended on the capital you made, not merely for yourself, but for the industry men who controlled you, and who could drop you without remorse if you put a foot out of line. These men were why you could do what you loved in the first place, but the financial and oftentimes sexual control was what came with it. In your youth, you hadn't realised how deeply it had repulsed your inner being, because in your immediate conscious you received each bit of attention gladly, and enjoyed your career as Michael did even in the forceful nature of it, with no idea you were being taken advantage of.

Deeper than that however, all you truly craved and desired was real love and comfort, from somebody whose intention wasn't to use you for your body and your talent. You just hadn't confronted that part of you before Michael had begun to demonstrate to you his love, and even afterward, you still struggled to believe you deserved it.

It was really no wonder you'd repressed so much of your past, because your very nervous system while growing up in the spotlight had encoded the philosophy that one should repress and quieten the things that weren't so pretty. No, tonight you hadn't simply 'gotten over it'—you were just in the phase of forced ignorance. If you could have been completely true to yourself at the time, you would've understood that your anxiety about the night ahead stemmed not only from the unfamiliarity of the sweet lovemaking Michael would give to you, but from the shame and guilt over how you had previously taken the direct antithesis: that you'd been fucked so aggressively in the past, and that you'd allowed such aggression to take place. That was your standpoint, but in truth it had never, ever been your fault.

Michael was littering kisses all over your face again—sweet, playful kisses that the beat of his innocent heart swam with. He was hardly watching the movie, ready to initiate a makeout session, but your eyes were fixed hard on the flickering scene, pupils following Bambi and his friends. Bambi was so innocent... Oh, how you craved to slip into a sweet Disney film and never come back. 

But there was one cherished element: that at least in this reality you had the closest thing to Bambi himself, and the sweetest lover one could ever wish for.

Michael knew you'd had a lot of sex, and he spent a lot of the early days trying to convince you to stop being taken advantage of, yet you never believed in what he said, so you stopped telling him the details. That way he couldn't comment. 

But what concerned you was that now, if he found out that such a disgusting thing had happened to your body, would he have still wanted to make love to you? Would he have thought you less an angel and more a whore, a site of nothing other than the most shameful, immoral act? Surely, in his religious ways, he would dismiss you in a heartbeat. He'd waited so long to lose his virginity to a girl he deemed worthy enough, and you almost felt guilty that he'd chosen you. Some days you experienced gratitude over the fact, and others you ruminated over how downright filthy you were, believing Michael deserved way better.

So, you had to make sure he never found out. If you were going to attempt to rebuild your life with this beautiful boy, to hopefully rid your avoidance entirely and live somewhat happily ever after, you were going to have to force your oppressive mind to start afresh. It could no longer keep dragging you into the past—it must belong to only the present, with no influence from who you had been, and what you'd been through. But of course, psychoanalysis had proven long ago that unfortunately one couldn't simply remove the influence of a memory on the present. You had been too young to know.

"Tink," Michael whispered against your cheek, with another kiss to it. "What y' thinkin' 'bout?"

"’m watchin' the movie, baby." You giggled to conceal how your mind had wandered into a dark place.

"Can we kiss instead?" he asked with a slight pout.

You smiled, heart melting at how Michael would always ask and never take based on mere presumption, even with something as small as a kiss. Suddenly, you felt tears well up in your eyes, before you blinked them back harshly, quicker than he could notice.

"Of course, honey," you grinned, moving to straddle his waist while the movie played on. The sweet, happy sounds of childhood sounded behind you both, and you realised right then just how painful it would feel if anyone other than you had taken Michael's virginity. It needed to be you, whether you felt 'worthy' or not.

Settled on his clothed crotch, he wrapped his arms around your waist while pulling you downward so that your lips could meet his. The makeout started off soft and slow, but it grew quickly into one of pure heat, and the denim of your Daisy Dukes slid up your ass each time you ground your hips over him with deeper fervency. 

You stayed wrapped up in each other like that for over half an hour, and as the time passed on, the pinks and oranges of sunset bleeding through the half-open Venetian blinds, you began to wonder if Michael was stalling. He somehow was barely hard beneath you, and you put that down to anxiety.

Breathlessly you pulled away, lips slightly bruised with his kiss, gloss smudged everywhere. He chuckled as he looked up at you, and you stroked his cheek.

"Mike..."

"Mhm?"

"How ‘bout that bath now, huh?"

Immediately, Michael's cheeks heated up, and his grip on your ass tightened instinctively. He looked away, then looked into your eyes again, with so much shyness you thought he might burst.

When Michael had asked you last week how you thought the first night should be structured (to which you'd laughed at his mechanistic wording), you'd suggested a bubble bath to begin, before then taking the lovemaking itself into the bedroom. This time you wouldn't be so nervous at something so intimate, because the purpose of the bath would be sexual, not purely romantic like the shower had been.

And Michael was a very big fan of that idea, immediately becoming flustered at the mere suggestion of it. He'd even happily offered to bring over the luxury oils he bought for you, but you assured him you had some of your own. You'd cracked up laughing at his offer, knowing that in his innocence he just wanted to make things as perfect as possible, but how typically boyish was he to offer to douse you in oil so excitedly, with so much eagerness? Your shy baby was planning to rub oil all over your bubble-covered curves, and your own heart started to speed up very quickly once you recalled just how perfect he had been at giving you that unexpected breast massage. God, he really had nothing to worry about if he'd gotten that right on first try. It had been the most perfect sensation a man had ever given you in the field of foreplay—or in the field of anything—and his attentiveness had contributed a great deal to achieving that title.

But then, he'd raised a question. "Honey, how am I gonna eat—uh," he cleared his throat, "y'know, how am I gonna… pleasure y'… down there, with my mouth... if the foreplay’s in the bath?"

You'd giggled and poked his cheek. "That can come after. But don't overthink it now, Mikey—on the night I'll show you everythin' that makes me feel good."

In the present day, you were very amused by his sudden fluster at the simple mention of said bath.

"Michael..." you laughed, feeling over his fro. "You chose tonight; and, may I remind you, were also very eager about this when I first suggested it."

"I know, and 'm ready, I just..." He sighed, pressing his thumb into his temple. "’m just nervous, darlin'. I didn't wanna be and y'know, I've had long enough to prepare, but..."

"Hey," you cut him off gently. "Seriously, baby, there's no pressure. I don't expect anythin' of you 'cause I know it's your first time. And you can be as anxious or as confident as you want, because no matter what, I know we're gonna have a good night."

He began to smile, eyes lighting up. There was something about the way you spoke to him that could always reassure him of anything, at least temporarily.

"You hear me? We're gonna have such a good night..." you whispered sultrily through giggles, leaning forward to say the words into his ear.

Michael shivered, smiling wider, and feeling a rush of blood to his nether region. Now he really needed to get on with things, because he had no intention of ejaculating before you'd even touched him. 

"Alright, 'm gonna go run the bath," he chuckled, kissing your shoulder. "I guess you should... y'know... undress... Uh, before we get in."

You scoffed playfully. "Yes, I think that might just be compulsory for a bath, honey."

To that he smiled awkwardly again, and you lightly smacked his cheek, so he clarified. 

"I meant... d'y' want me to undress y', or...?"

You bit your lip with a grin, trying not to laugh at how adorably innocent he was, but again it also caused a weird, sad ache inside your chest. 

"Of course I do, pretty." You took his hand and kissed it. "And I wanna undress you too. 'N then kiss you," you leaned forward into his ear again, "everywhere... real slow..."

Michael clamped his eyes shut momentarily and exhaled a shaky breath. With more teasing laughter you hopped off his lap, allowing him to stand up and make his way to your bathroom.

He spent the next ten minutes preparing the romantic bath he'd been anticipating for a week straight, and he was grateful that you had a countless array of candles available in the room, because candlelit decor was the final component needed in order to elevate the intimacy to its highest degree. The sun had set, therefore the deep fuchsia and apricot sky would soon be descending into the black of night.

Michael stood staring at the bubble bath for at least three minutes after it was ready, trying to control his breathing and getting fixated on the sight of the various bottles of body oil that decorated a shelf beside a corner of the tub. He couldn't wait to douse your entire body in the scent of your choice, to squeeze the product into your breasts while he sucked on that sensitive spot under your jaw…

"Honey!" The sound of your voice broke him out of his daze. "Y'okay in there?" You were confused as to why he hadn’t invited you in when the water was no longer running.

But then, standing at the doorway, leaning on the side of the wood, Michael appeared. He took one final deep breath and outstretched his arms, grinning. "C'mere, princess."

You laughed gleefully, skipping over to him with hearts in your eyes, and then before you could even process it, you were up in his arms again, in the same bridal carry as earlier, pressed flush within his embrace. He nudged the door open wider and stepped over the threshold with you, before setting you down.

"I don't think I needed to be carried from the bed to the tub," you pointed out with a grin, wreathing your arm into his and leaning your head on his shoulder. 

"I just like carryin' my girl," Michael smiled. 

You got to work taking off each other's clothes, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all over the revealed skin—before the final layers were in the process of removal, and at that point Michael was looking away again, as though he hadn't already seen you naked.

"Mikey," you laughed, gripping his jaw so that he'd face you. "Stop lookin' away—and you need to get in first."

"Oh," he huffed a laugh, his entire body burning with nerves and anticipation. "Oh, right, yeah, I'll—mhm."

You couldn't stop smiling as you watched him get in and get comfortable, resting up against the back of the stone resin. His soft dick immersed itself beneath the bubbles, and your heart beat faster at how you knew it would soon poke up hard over the surface of the water, pressing against your back...

But first, before you were to sit between his legs, you needed to demonstrate what he must do. The next few minutes would be a masterclass in female pleasure, taught by a woman who had never even experienced an orgasm outside of her own doing, and who had an inkling that the man before her just might be the first to give her one.

So, you straddled his hips as you'd done before, except now completely naked, bare thighs hitting bare thighs, hands steadying themselves on a gorgeous bare chest. But you weren't in the water for longer than five seconds before Michael had hooked his arms under your legs and pulled you into him sideways, while you giggled in surprise at his confidence.

"Michael! I need to show—"

"Yeah, ma, I know, but I wanna..." His voice trailed off as he began to press the most gentle kisses from your earlobe to your collarbone, holding your body tight to him. "So pretty..." Another kiss. "’m still nervous, honey," he muttered under his breath, as if he didn't want you to hear despite choosing to say the words aloud.

You leaned back and cupped his cheek, moving to straddle him again. "I know, baby," you whispered, smooching his lips, "but you can't keep stallin'."

"Mm." Michael nodded shyly and slowly, pupils dilating further than they already were as he took in your plump breasts before him.

You laughed, cheeks heating up at how reverent his gaze, void of the typical hunger that most men consumed you with.

Gradually and sensually, you brought both hands up to what had Michael so entranced. Shutting your eyes, kneading your palms over the flesh, you began to rock ever-so-subtly back and forth on his thighs, arching your back a little, performing the image of a real-life goddess before him. Michael's jaw was slack, in disbelief at the sight, and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried desperately to calm the ache between his thighs. This part was supposed to be slow—he simply couldn't embarrass himself by disrupting the pace with something so boyish.

"Oh, mama... Y'like an angel..."

Without comprehending what he was even doing, he began to grip your hips, hands guiding your movements further, although your speed stayed painfully slow. You wanted to perform for him a little, before getting into the sexual lesson. After all, this was what you knew. Men loved to see you play with yourself, the object of their desires, their living and breathing sex toy—you had essentially existed as the oxymoronic liberated prostitute. Seemingly so free, but in reality deemed to have only one bodily purpose. In the water with your boyfriend, you kept forgetting that he didn't request or expect what those men always had done.

After some moments of solitary foreplay, you opened your eyes again, and started to giggle. Michael had been your best friend long before he'd become your boyfriend and best friend in one, so the fact that you were about to do it with him still made you so nervously shy like a teenager.

"What?" Michael furrowed his brows.

You smacked his cheek lightly, heart racing faster but trying not to let it show. "You look so cute."

He only squinted, looking irritated by your choice of wording. "Cute?"

You rolled your eyes. "Michael Jackson, it's just semantics. I could go on."

"Could y'?" Michael asked anxiously, still squinting. "I don't wanna feel all childish here with y'... if y' sayin' 'm just cute."

"What?" For the second time you gave an eye roll, with a confused laugh. "C'mere."

Cupping his jaw now, you leaned a little downward so that your forehead met his, before giving him the most passionate French kiss you could muster. And then you began to whisper phrases all over his soft skin while he shut his eyes, immediately regretting what he'd asked of you, because he could never behave like a normal person whenever you started praising him.

"So, you're very cute," you began, smirking as your lips brushed his and then endeavoured to brush his every feature, "equal parts sexy... equal parts handsome... and oh so gorgeous..."

Michael was blushing profusely, biting his lip hard. "Minnie, tha's okay, I get the point..."

You chuckled, pulling away and taking his hands in yours. "Michael, you really can't expect to love on me so vocally without letting me do the same to you. And you did just ask me to expand on the list of adjectives."

"Whatever," he sighed, though a small smile betrayed him. "Um, so what do y—?"

You took a deep breath, beaming as you did, and slid your hand below the bubbles, a sight at which Michael almost cursed at. Your sex was invisible to him where the height of the water lay, so you shuffled forward, now hoisted in a straddle over his abdomen, and the moment your glistening pussy came into view—decorated with two manicured nails spreading open the labia—your boyfriend felt like he was going to faint.

"Oh my G—" He shut his eyes tight again, for the millionth time already, and you laughed again softly.

"Aht—can’t say the Lord's name in vain, honey, don't be a hypocrite," you joked, but immediately switched the subject when the boy with the crucifying religious guilt looked up at you with immense anxiety.

"Okay, so—" you moved on, but cut yourself off again because he still looked ridiculously flustered. "Wait, Mikey, seriously—chill."

"I can't, honey, I feel lightheaded."

"Well, maybe you made the bath too hot. I think it's fine, personally, but—"

"No," he exhaled. "It's you, I can't... I can't look at y' without my whole body burnin' up. It's bad enough when y' fully dressed, but now..."

Your own cheeks began to heat, and the air seemed to be full with only the sounds of deep breath after deep breath from each of you.

"You were fine in the shower with me, though?"

"I was forcin' myself to seem fine," he blushed, "but anyway, this is a whole other thing, 'cause y' naked on top of me now. And I can see everythin'..."

"Well, yes, that's kinda the whole point," you chuckled, and that brought a little smile to the cheeks that you then squeezed on impulse.

"Alright, take a deep breath," you advised, performing a slow inhale and an even slower exhale with him, in the comedic tone of a yoga teacher.

But once you'd breathed out together, you both burst into a fit of giggles, with you falling forward onto his chest, splashing the surrounding bubbles into his face.

"Hey!" Michael exclaimed through laughter, already feeling a degree calmer as he splashed you back. This fight went on for about three minutes, hits of jasmine-scented foam flying back and forth, until alas you were both still and catching your breath again, skin decorated in the effervescence.

Now, you finally initiated the evening properly. "Okay, you ready?"

"Mhm," he nodded, but he was mostly still going insane inside.

"Alright, Mr Jackson," you said playfully, "this is your lesson in female pleasure 101."

"’m lookin' forward to it," he smirked boyishly, but his face then assumed the appearance of somebody who just remembered the inner state of their emotions. "As long as I don't... faint first."

You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, then held his chin. "Okay, eyes—down here." You gestured to your soft, already-weeping pussy again, fingers smoothing over the small strip of hair over your pubic mound. "Not at the ceiling, not at the faucets—down here. Yes?"

Michael nodded eagerly, lip between his teeth again as he fixed his gaze where you'd asked him to. Your fingers now slowly ran up and down your folds, stopping momentarily at your entrance to drag slick from there and up your slit.

"So beautiful..." he whispered without even realising, and somehow looking at the thing that made him most nervous actually helped rid the nerves entirely. That was because all he could think about when he stared at your leaking sex was just how desperately he wanted to touch and devour it.

You giggled at his admission of your beauty, now running your fingers up and over your pussy a little more insistently now, but intentionally ignoring your clit—because that was the most important part.

"Alright, so," you started, "I'm not gonna lie, no man has ever brought me to an orgasm before."

Michael flinched at how easily you said such allegedly 'vulgar' words, but then remembered he had to be neutral and normal about all this. More than anything, he was stunned that you'd had so much sex and never achieved release. What had been the point?

"Wait, you've never—?"

"No, I have, but only alone. Um, just when I touch myself."

"Like... like you're doin' now?" His mind was running wild with the image of you nestled privately in your sheets, back arched, fingers dipping in and out of your sex as you writhed...

"Just like 'm doin' now, baby," you grinned, still smearing your slick all over your outer lips. "But 'm not doin' it exactly how I do it alone. And this is the first thing I wanna say. Most men—well, every man I've ever been with—"

Again, he flinched at the mention of the 'other men,' even though he already knew of their existence.

"—has stupidly believed that just mindlessly running his fingers up and down here, is what brings a woman to the euphoric sensation of climax. No, it's more complex than that, because there's one component that changes everything."

"When you… put y' fingers inside?" Michael asked shyly. "And there's somethin' called the... j-spot, or? I can't remember—Jackie was tellin' us all about it..."

You chuckled, the misuse of the term tickling you greatly. "First of all, that's the g-spot, baby," you corrected, free hand playing with his slightly wet afro.

"Oh."

"And that's not what I'm referring to yet. I'm talkin' about just outer fingerin' for now, honey. So, look closely..."

That particular instruction wasn't necessary, for Michael hadn't taken his eyes off the pretty flesh in two whole minutes.

You spread your labia even wider now, and his breath quickened, fingers inching closer along your inner thigh.

"So, you see this right here?" Your thumb brushed lightly over your clit, the focus of the current tutorial, and your breath hitched with his. Michael hadn't even been properly touched yet, beside your legs over his, but every nerve in his body felt alight. He could really feel his member begin to grow now, and he knew that in its size it would soon be pressing up against your lower back. The thought alone made him equal parts anxious and excitable. He hoped you'd be pleased with the sight of his erection.

"This little nub..." you continued. "Feel it..."

His head shot up. "Y' want me to...?"

"I do, honey. Go on. Just take two fingers—your index and your middle... And place 'em just over here... over my clit..."

"Oh, y'know, Jackie mentioned that too—"

"Michael," you laughed, finding it incredulous that he was bringing up the expertise of his brother during such intimacy.

You took his wrist, and slowly brought it down to where you needed him most. Even slower were the moments he took to finally settle the two fingers over your pearl, and he almost choked on nothing when, with hardly more than a slight rub, you let out a soft moan, steadying yourself on his weight. God, this was going to be a real good night...

"Right there?" he whispered, to which you nodded. "And what do I—? How do I make y' feel amazin', mama, tell me..."

"Okay," you breathed out shakily in anticipation, "you're gonna wanna keep pressin' down, but not too hard—ah, Mike, slower—" He had been quietly experimenting, and had provided a beautiful mode of pleasure that was just a little too harsh and overstimulating to begin with. "Just with a light pressure... so pressin' firm but not hard..."

"Like this?" He decreased the strength of the two fingers, moving them up and down, still unsure of what to do.

"Mhm... Alright, so, what I was also gonna say is—mm—"

"Tink, I thought y' said this part didn't really make y' feel nothin'? When the fingers just go up 'n down..."

"Nngh—no, that's what I'm 'bout to say... I think it matters whose fingers—oh—they are, 'cause when I do it it feels real good, but with men it never—"

Now Michael had confidently swept up some of the sticky substance that sat lower, and was rubbing it up and down your folds, while he waited to be told the specifics of your clit.

"Oh, Mike—how are you doin’ th—?"

"Is this right?" he asked, those pretty doe eyes meeting yours for a moment while he continued to smear your slick everywhere. "Y' really makin' a mess down here, mama..."

You smirked, but now you were rocking over his thighs, the water swimming around you and making light splashing noises. "That's what's gonna help me to take you later."

Michael's brows furrowed, and then he understood. "Oh, like a lubricant? Shit!" He shook his head in frustration, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, um, shouldn't have cursed—Uh, no, I forgot to bring the lube..."

He was continuing to play with you as he spoke, and you marvelled at how quickly he was getting the hang of things despite having never touched a woman's genitalia before a few minutes ago.

"’s okay, honey," you said through another shaky breath. "I'll be o—okay."

In all honesty, you weren't sure if you would be after the glimpses of his soft dick you'd seen in the shower two weeks ago, and it was at the exact moment the thought appeared into your mind that you suddenly felt the hard weight of something up against your ass.

You gasped—louder than just as a result of his fingers—but you still hadn't shown him what magic he needed to direct to your clit. So, you tried to ignore the very insistent thing behind you. It was evident on Michael's face that he was struggling to contain himself already, but all you could think about was how, if he was this good with no idea what he was doing (and touching mostly your inner labia) imagine how incredible he'd be in just a few moments, once he'd been instructed of the workings of a woman's clitoris?

It was a known fact that Michael Jackson could learn dance moves in an instant when the move was presented before him—no additional practice necessary—so it logically followed that the same might apply with bedroom activity.

"So, um, with the—mm—with the clit... Go back up to it, baby, and stay still—just pause a minute while I tell you how I like it..."

Michael paused, ever so attentive, and even just the feeling of his unmoving fingers on your nub made you want to start rocking on him again.

"So over here, I need you to rub slow circles. You could go up 'n down—it wouldn't be wrong—but it feels best when you take the pads of your fingers 'n rub round 'n round in small circles... Watch me first."

You gently removed his hand and replaced it with your own, dragging up more gooey slick and playing with yourself the way you'd described. Your head was thrown back slightly, back arching subtly and hips moving over his abdomen that you were leaking translucence all over—all while you rubbed and rubbed at your aching clit, wrist flicking with each movement.

Michael watched on in awe, taking in each of your whines and moans, so excited now to be the reason they elicited from your eager throat.

"So sexy, mama..." His voice went a little deeper now, and at the praise your clit throbbed further. Reluctantly you paused, reminding yourself that you had to in order for your man to continue the pleasure and show you his yet to be uncovered talent.

"Okay, your turn, handsome," you smiled, whole body entirely alight now, and you really had never felt so embarrassingly horny.

You kissed his nose to initiate movement, and the two of you truly unlocked heaven right there.

Michael had his lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared down at your pretty pearl, so determined to get this right. No man had ever made you cum this way. How dare they be so careless?

With the slowest, most direct precision, he began to rub the tight bundle of nerves just as you'd demonstrated, brows always furrowed in his ensuring that he was doing it correctly. The way your body responded told him everything—your hips stuttered, lower body grinding over his abs, hands immediately steadying themselves on his chest as whines spilled from your mouth.

"Oh, Mikey—"

"Yeah, is this okay, beautiful?" he whispered in that gorgeous voice of his, and your brain almost short-circuited.

"Yes, yes—oh, so good... Keep talkin' to me, baby, talk me through it, c'mon..."

"Y'—y'want me to say stuff?" he stammered, fingers still rubbing so effortlessly perfect, and as you rocked harder you nodded eagerly.

"Like, talk dirty?" he said almost under his breath, in disbelief of the situation he'd found himself in, even though it should have happened a long time ago.

"Mhm, try it, honey..."

"Uh, okay..." He squinted, trying to think, but you shook your head.

"No, let it come naturally. 'm sure there's some stuff you wanna say to me, baby... Tell me what you think about when you play with yourself."

"How do y' know I—?"

"Michael," you giggled through another moan. "Was I supposed to believe you were sat politely with your legs crossed while you looked at those Playboy bunnies?"

"Um, well I did sit like that sometimes..."

"Sometimes." You sighed in amusement, but again he had your eyes rolling back with more firm, circling pressure.

"Uh, most of the time, when... when 'm playin' with my—y'know—uh, it's not when 'm lookin' at the magazines... It's usually when 'm thinkin' of you."

You almost drew blood from your bottom lip at that comment. Grinding down harder instinctively, you squeezed his bicep to tell him to keep going. The entire time, he managed to both talk and keep up his movements perfectly.

"I look at pictures of y'... ones I keep in the box underneath my bed... and there's this, um, this particular one... Y' wearin' a bikini... sittin' on my lap by the pool at—at home..."

"Mhm, and how does the picture make you feel, baby?"

"Uh," he gulped, never taking his eyes off your gleaming sex. "Real good..."

"Tell me how you play with yourself..."

"Minnie."

"Hm?" You didn't bat an eyelid, losing yourself in the pleasure.

"It's too dirty."

"No, it's not, Mikey," you chuckled, fingernails digging into his arms now to make crescent moon shapes. "I showed you how I touch myself, 'n now I wanna know what you do when you're all alone..."

"Okay..." Michael breathed, eyes flicking now between your pussy and the beautifully erotic expressions on your face. He wondered if this was all a dream—but the reality was that you'd been his for months now.

"Um. So, I squeeze, um, my..."

"Your dick," you happily finished the sentence for him, eager at the mention of what you could still feel pressing harshly against you.

He flinched, but continued. "Yeah..."

Then you leaned over to whisper in his ear, still grinding your hips. "Your big dick, yeah, baby?"

Michael was nearly rendered speechless. "Oh—uh, I guess it's..."

"Well, I haven't seen it hard yet, but d'you know I've been feelin' it against me for the last five minutes?"

"Wh—? Oh, yeah, 'm sorry, darlin'... Y' jus' too beautiful..."

"Hey, don't apologise, pretty baby," you whispered against his cheek, moving slower and sensual now. His fingers had paused their movements, and you frowned, so he continued.

"Mikey, keep talkin', sweetheart, we're gettin' somewhere..."

"Mm," he hummed, gripping your ass with one hand to guide you, trying desperately to be more confident. "So, 'm pumpin' myself up an' down, lookin' at the pictures... Pictures of my beautiful girl—I don't need no Playboy models..."

Suddenly your heart ached a little. This was the way Michael would talk dirty—and really, 'dirty' wasn't the correct word to describe it. Each word turned you on just as much as it made you want to cry with profound emotion.

"And what do you wanna do to me when you're tuggin' on your dick, honey?"

"Well..." he began, unsure how much of his imagination to reveal. "First I think about—oh, this is so bad, Minnie—"

"No, go on, tell me..."

"Um, I think about y' mouth..." he murmured. You were feeling giddy now, for he was finally getting more comfortable, and there was nothing sexier and more adrenaline-inducing than your shy, sexually inexperienced boyfriend telling you about the filthy images he'd conducted in his mind.

"Ugh, it's real dirty, darlin', but when my hand goes... up 'n down... 'specially when I put my thumb right over the top of my, um, my dick... I pretend it's your tongue... Lickin' and suckin' me..."

"Yeah?" you beamed, moaning deliberately louder in his ear.

"Mhm," he uttered quickly, "but—that's nasty, mama. A lady shouldn't... her mouth shouldn't be, um," his voice lowered to a tiny whisper, "down there."

"No? Shouldn't she?" you teased sultrily, cupping his jaw again and rubbing over his smooth complexion.

"Definitely not, darlin'," he insisted, eyes still darting from your face to your pussy while his fingers continued to work their magic.

"I think many women wouldn't agree, baby... Sure, we like receivin', but that doesn't mean we don't like givin' too..."

He audibly groaned. "Oh, Tink—don't say stuff like that..."

You chuckled with a tone of sheer tease. Michael's voice was shaky now, and you felt he could be close to orgasm, so you removed his hand and repositioned yourself. At first he was a little confused, but when you gestured him to widen his legs a little more (to the width of the tub), he understood.

But your mouth shot open in surprise, eyes widening with it, when you saw the sheer size of what laid between your man’s legs. He was quite literally enormous. Now fully hard, standing up proudly above the surface of the water, you saw the beginnings of the thick veins running up and down the girthy, dark brown skin, and couldn't help but instantly notice white precum leaking from the mauve tip. Most of his length was obscured by the bubbly sea of water, but the fact that it poked up so high had you stunned.

"Oh my... Baby, are you for real?"

"What?" he asked anxiously, shuffling in his seat as you sat kneeled before him, staring at his major asset.

"This has gotta be like nine fuckin' inches, what?"

"Tink, don't curse," he said firmly, rolling his eyes.

"And it's so..." You gulped in your shock. "So thick..."

Michael suddenly looked panicked, and tried to cover himself with an amalgamation of bubbles, but he wasn't so successful, because they kept swimming away. He felt as though he was an animal in a zoo, on display for all to see and comment on—but you hadn't intended to make him feel like that.

"Honey, I've been real scared that this was gonna be a problem... I don't know how big most guys are, 'n... well, there was no way I could ask my brothers..." He grimaced at the mention of them.

You chuckled. "Yeah, let's not talk about them right now. And don't worry..." You placed a hand on his warm thigh, craving desperately to hold what rested right beside it, but pacing yourself for now. "’m gonna be fine, Michael. You're not gonna hurt me. I just... well, I was taken aback, that's all."

Michael still didn't look too pleased. "I want tonight to be perfect."

"I know you do, baby." Now you positioned yourself between his legs, back against his bubble-clad chest. Comfortably settled, much of your torso submerged itself into the water, and you sighed in content, shutting your eyes happily. "It is going to be perfect."

Michael wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck, before talking lowly into your ear. "But what if I really hurt y', baby? You've obviously never taken anyone as big as me before..."

You started to giggle, despite Michael's genuine anxiety, because the way he worded that line was very amusing. "Oh, look who has an ego 'n we've not even started!"

"Angel, 'm serious," he pressed on, holding your waist tighter, and you clenched your thighs together at the feeling of his hands.

You turned your head a little to press kisses into his neck. "And I'm serious when I say that everything's gonna be fine. The only thing that might ruin it is your anxiety, honey." You picked up his hand and smooched his palm several times, but you smelled your cum on his fingers and blushed to yourself.

"Okay, I'll shut up now," Michael chuckled shyly. "I hope you're right."

You smacked his bicep playfully, cuddling deeper into his chest and stretching your legs out. "Positive attitude, please. You seem to have one with everything else."

"True," he whispered, shaking his head of the worry.

You shuddered even in the scalding heat as you felt his thick member pressing up and twitching against your skin, and to that your voice dropped an octave, resuming the moment.

"Make me feel good, baby... I want you to make me cum..."

"I'll do whatever y' body needs, mama..."

Michael's whole body ached with desire, and as before, his anxiety didn't take too long to dissipate. Fondling your waist, your hips, and then your thighs, one hand crept to where it had previously been, and below the bubbles he resumed the earlier pace, rubbing in sweet circles.

"Mmph—oh, baby..." Instinctively, your hand reached back to his jaw, then up further to his afro, playing with the wet coils at the ends. "Keep rubbin' just like that..."

It was at this moment that Michael decided he would set aside all hesitation and display his entire devotion, unrestricted.

"Yeah, y'like that, pretty mama?" he whispered into your ear, warm breath and his beautiful tone coursing through your veins.

You were stunned that such confident words could be born of your Michael, and he only kept on going.

"Yeah, tell me, baby, I wanna know..." His fingers slid down your folds again, before dragging back upward, and then—to your pleasant surprise—he used his palm to direct three sudden smacks to your clit. Gentle of course, but he'd wanted to experiment with the movement because he expected that it would arouse you to jerk and shake in his arms. And that you did.

"Oh! Mikey—you're doin' perfect, baby, you're so—mmphhh—"

"Thank you, honey," he whispered, tilting your chin up so that your head could turn slightly and your lips could meet his. Immediately, he engaged you both in a hot makeout, as steamy as the bath itself. Your tongues wrestled, lips smacking into each other's over and over, throats swallowing moan after moan; and just as the kiss began, Michael slipped the first of his slender digits into your entrance.

"Mm, honey—" you whined against his lips, but he silenced you with more lewd kisses, the pleasure of which met with the thrust of his middle finger against your inner walls. He kept slightly hitting your g-spot (where it wasn't difficult given how long those gorgeous fingers were) but then on the next thrust he'd inch a little distant from it, and repeat; so after a minute or two you gently broke from the kiss.

"Baby," you gasped for breath. "Lemme show you somethin'."

"Hm?" His doe eyes widened in intrigue, but also in the worry that he was doing something wrong.

He removed his finger from your sopping entrance, and you smiled, before taking hold of his wrist and bringing the digit up to your lips. You sucked down the length of it, drinking it clean, and Michael's mouth dropped open.

"Minnie, tha's nasty..." were the words that came from his lips, but his cock—leaking still against your back—twitched at the sight.

You giggled in your mischief, and then, bringing his hand back down under the water, went on to teach him another lesson in female pleasure. "Okay, so you reached my spot perfectly," you began.

Michael grinned, very pleased that he'd gotten something right on first try, without even needing your instruction.

"But—"

He started to frown.

"—There's a specific way of doin' it. People often describe the movement of the fingers as a sort of 'come hither' motion. See?" You demonstrated what you meant with your fingers, and instantly he nodded.

"You have to do it that way so that when you thrust in, it's hittin' my spot each time, not just half the time," you explained. "Yeah?"

"Mhm, I get it."

"Okay, try again, honey. But I can't keep kissin' ya 'cause my neck is gonna break in this position," you laughed, sadly having to refuse any continuation of the makeout session.

Michael frowned again, but understood, and he was much too pleased already with your soft body in his hold, feeling your tight walls clench around him as you sighed; and he could still kiss your neck even if he didn't have access to your lips...

To your surprise, he now slipped in two fingers at once, stretching you out perfectly. You were incredibly wet, so it was no trouble, and as soon as you felt the sweet intrusion, sure enough the digits were up at your g-spot, curling exactly as you'd taught.

"Like this, ma?" Michael whispered, pressing wet kisses along your neck and up to your jaw.

"Yes, Mikey—just like that, oh baby, hittin' my spot so good..."

Michael was beyond ecstatic. "Yeah?!"

"Yes, honey, it's perfect, oh—"

"You're so pretty, angel girl..." he murmured against your skin. "Love hearin' y' moan for me. Don't hold nothin' back, oh baby, I wanna hear ya..."

Your moans naturally did increase in volume, loud whines hitting the air while you writhed in the tub, lower back rubbing against Michael's hard cock each time you moved, only adding to the white-hot pleasure coursing up your spine.

Now you began to tug at your breasts, kneading them the way you liked—the way Michael had so miraculously been able to knead on first try. You rolled your nipple between your fingers, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your boyfriend never let up the pace and careful direction of his fingers. He was speeding up now, knuckle deep, and the squelching noises were mixed with the continuous ripple of water sounding with each movement. You were feeling a sensation that before tonight only you had been able to give yourself.

"Pretty baby, let me," Michael urged, removing one of your hands off of one of your breasts and replacing it with his own. You sounded like a pornstar now, unable to speak coherently as Michael somehow managed to talk, thrust his digits, and massage your breast at once. It seemed he really was perfect at absolutely everything.

"Mm, they're so full, mama... Love feelin' em... Is this good too, huh?" He kissed your temple so gently, so contradictory to the supposed 'dirtiness' of the scene by Michael's estimation, and your heart felt that strange ache again.

"So good, baby... so, so good... oh, I'm close, Michael—"

"Yeah, y'are?" His voice lit up with hope and happiness, eyes widening as he anticipated an event he never comprehended would be his reality.

"Mhm—rub my—oh, mmphh—now rub my clit with your thumb while you keep thrustin', honey..."

Michael internally cursed himself for not thinking of that without your advice, and then, insanely he was doing four things at once. The previous list, now including clitoral stimulation too.

"Oh, baby!" you whined.

Michael strangely felt just as emotional as he felt aroused. He'd waited so long to hear these sounds spill from your lips, and he had been every bit satisfied. The fact that so many disgusting men before him had experienced the very same made his blood boil with both jealousy and a bitter sadness.

But in truth, they hadn't experienced the 'very same.' As you'd told Michael, no man had ever made you cum, therefore no man had ever heard your real, unfiltered, natural moans, nor felt the way your body now shook and trembled in Michael's grasp as you approached climax.

And another necessary thing to mention, was that you were also secretly experiencing that same fusion of arousal and emotion, close to literal tears even—and not just from the sexual pleasure.

No, you were close to tears because of the man providing you that pleasure. Michael loved you so much—you could tell, and of course you hadn't needed tonight to understand the extent of his love, but what struck you forcefully was how entirely different each touch and each whisper was to all the other men. You didn't even like that the comparison was appearing in your mind, because you wished that in this timeline it had only ever been Michael—only ever your sweet angel boy, who loved you more than anything, and would do anything to keep you safe...

"Baby girl, hold my hand," he murmured so softly.

Still squirming and moaning, you took his free hand, and even though the force of his fingers was relentless now, speeding faster and faster, he interlaced your digits with the most gentle nature.

"That's it, honey, cum for me..."

He was testing the waters with each phrase that left his lips, and because it was all coming so naturally in his adoration and aching arousal, he was doing perfectly.

"Oh, Mikey, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, I gotchu..." he whispered, pressing feather-light kisses over your neck.

"Ugh, baby! Ohhh—"

Finally, you squeezed your boyfriend's hand tight as the coil in your lower abdomen broke, the pleasure building to its peak, before crashing down while you trembled against his chest. You shuddered and shook with the force of it, and certainly it was the very best release you’d ever had.

Except, something strange had happened instead. Rather than experiencing a normal orgasm as you usually did, you saw before you spurts of thin, translucent liquid—similar to... pee?—shoot up from beneath the water. Too fucked out to speak, your head lolled back onto Michael's shoulder in exhaustion, trying to catch your breath against the strength of your orgasm, but you were beyond confused at what had just happened.

Michael, not understanding a thing about the female body before tonight, had no idea that anything was unusual. He thought he'd just made a woman cum as many men did; but much more than that, he'd actually produced something of a woman that only a very small percentage of those men ever could.

"Wow, mama, that was amazin'..." he gasped in shock, taking his fingers out of you and discreetly wiping them on the bottom of the tub. Never before had he seen such a beautiful sight as his sweet girl getting an even sweeter release.

"You were amazin', Mikey," you said through erratic breaths, playing with his fingers. "But I don't know what just happened..."

"What do y' mean, Tink?" he asked in confusion, kissing each one of your fingers absentmindedly. He blinked hard at how painful his cock was now, shuffling again to relieve the ache, but only orgasm would do it. And it didn't help that you kept unintentionally moving around against him—he really thought he might cum in a moment.

"The... the liquid—that's not... normal..." you tried to explain.

"Huh?"

"No, that's..."

And then suddenly you understood. "Oh my God. This is what Whitney was tellin' me about a couple months ago... I just squirted?!"

Michael was even more confused, but in all honesty he couldn't think about much outside of his twitching, leaking dick that was really about to embarrass itself if he wasn't careful. "Uh, Minnie... I—"

"No, Michael, listen." You turned your head to look up at him. "I just squirted. Most men don't even know how to make a woman cum, let alone squirt."

Now, he was intrigued. Still shuffling and biting his lip out of frustration, his eyes had widened. "For real?!"

"For real," you beamed, kissing his cheek. You were still consciously aware of the weight of his member behind you, and you did wonder how he was holding on so long. You'd have preferred to linger on the incredible moment for longer with him, but it took one close look at his expression to see that he was struggling.

"Michael, y' holdin' on really well for a first timer..." you giggled, writhing your hips back on him deliberately now.

"Yeah, well, it's not easy, girl... Please—um..."

"Please, what, baby?" You batted your lashes.

"Uh... I can't—No, I shouldn't ask..."

"Oh, but your girl thinks you should."

"No, Tink, I don't think it's worth it anyw—I'm gon—ohhhh—"

Your eyes shot wide open in complete and utter astonishment as Michael's face contorted into the most gorgeous expression of sheer pleasure. His eyes were clamped shut, face scrunched together, harsh while soft moans eliciting from his throat... And in equal timing, you felt several hot spurts of liquid hit your lower back.

Michael had climaxed unwarranted; prematurely but in truth he should've been proud for getting through the evening so far without succumbing to orgasm earlier—although of course he was incredibly embarrassed about it. His cheeks were burning now, eyes so anxious. How could he have been so dirty? He was only supposed to cum in a condom, or in his hand or on his own stomach to wipe it off immediately after. Never on a beautiful lady's skin. He felt he had tainted you.

"Oh, mama, oh no, 'm so sorry—lemme, uh—lemme get the soap," he stuttered, reaching forward to pick up the bar. "Oh no..."

But you only giggled—mouth still open in shock of course, but you were only both amused and aroused. You shifted slightly to cuddle into his chest, then looked up at him.

"Mikey. Calm down."

"Huh? Um, honey, y'need to move so I can wash, um... wash it off." He was feeling lightheaded again, so overcome with embarrassment and shame that he almost didn't want to continue.

"Shut up, silly," you scolded playfully, with a light smack to one pectoral muscle. "Are you gonna actually ask me how I feel about what just happened? Rather than make assumptions and give yourself a panic attack?"

"No, darlin', that was so dirty," he squinted, scrunching up his eyes in disgust, as if willing the memory to exit existence. "Just lean forward so I can wash y'. 'm so sorry..."

"Michael."

"What?!"

"Let me speak," you said firmly.

His voice quietened, but his whole body was still tense. "Okay."

Now you grinned wide, peppering light kisses all over his neck and collarbone. "I liked it," you murmured against the skin.

"Huh?" Michael's brows furrowed instantly, in complete confusion.

"It was sexy, honey," you murmured again, licking over an erogenous zone before biting down with suction to create a hickey.

Michael got a little lost in the feeling, leading him to moan softly, and you smiled over the soon-to-be-bruise. You were so good with your mouth that it had distracted him from your words, even though that wasn't your intention.

But then he came back to earth, and his head shot back in surprise. All of a sudden you actually grew a little self-conscious yourself, concerned that Michael, in his reserved nature and religious guilt, might have a problem with what you’d found sexy.

Truthfully, that was to an extent how your boyfriend was feeling. You couldn't blame him or yourself, for he was incredibly new to all this, and the fantasies he'd naturally been dreaming of always carried immense shame if they crossed into the territory of anything he deemed 'too dirty'. So, while you were by no means kinky, to Michael most sexual things appeared that way. If the specific act didn't involve a reverent display of love to your body, he wasn't interested. You decided that at this early stage in your relationship it was pretty futile to convince him that not everything needed to be delicate, because you felt that he'd understand in time, the more comfortable he became with sex.

"Michael," you whispered, looking up into his eyes and playing with his wet frizz. "It's okay if... you're not into stuff like that. Y'know, doing that on my—"

Michael cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can we jus' move on, baby? I don't know how it can be sexy that I came on y', um... uncontrollably."

Oh, he had no idea.

You bit your lip. "But don't you wanna know why I found it sexy? I think it would make sense to you if I explained."

He raised a brow, but allowed you to continue.

"I feel that way..." a kiss to his lips, "because you coming apart so unrestrained for me, shows me exactly how I make you feel. And I love that a lot. You might think it's embarrassing, but honey, I'm just surprised you lasted this long, seriously."

A small smile etched itself across Michael's lips.

"You get it a little more now?"

"Mhm," he muttered, and there was a pretty twinkle in his eye. "A little."

You giggled and brought him into a deep kiss; then when it ended, you had to remind him of something.

"Mikey..." you pouted. "Aren't ya gonna use any of my oils on me?"

Michael's mouth widened, surprised that he'd somehow forgotten. It had slipped his mind during your enticing tutorial of female pleasure.

"Oh—uh, the oil..."

"Mhm," you nodded. "I like my body to be nice 'n moisturised, baby," you sighed, bringing your hands up to your breasts again, where your nipples were still erect. You rubbed your palm over one of them, moaning as you began to rock yourself back on your sweetheart again.

As intended, you quickly began to feel his milked cock re-stiffen against you, and the feeling made you grind down harder, kneading your breasts with an ever-increasing ferocity. Michael wrapped his arms around your waist slowly, so enthralled by you that he almost forgot your request, and what he so badly wanted to do too.

"Pick up the vanilla and almond oil for me, handsome..." you whined, still kneading your soapy breasts, head thrown back against him.

Michael nodded eagerly, reaching forward to select the correct bottle. He screwed off the lid faster than he'd done anything all evening, and you chuckled through another whine at his enthusiasm.

Before you could register it all he was squeezing the liquid out into his palm, and then both of his hands were slick with the oil. You took a deep, excited breath as you rested further back into his chest, and a moment later you felt both hands steadily, leisurely make their way down from a short massage of your shoulders, to the plump shape of your breasts.

As soon as he made contact with them, you both shuddered with a shaky exhale. Night had fallen now, and the candles lit you both up in a golden shine, highlighting the erotic look on your face and the attentive, mesmerised look on Michael's. His mouth was half-open, studying your every response to each touch, and he realised he was actually fairly confident at this part, because he'd received such a positive response last time.

"Oh, that feels so good, baby..." you gasped softly, reaching down to rub your clit, because Michael could no longer do it for you with two hands full.

"Yeah, mama?" he whispered directly into your ear, and that warm cadence shot a hit of pleasure right to your throbbing bud.

Taking his eyes off your breasts for a moment finally—while still massaging with perfection—he noticed your hand moving beneath an expanse of bubbles, and audibly moaned at the realisation that you were rubbing yourself.

"Oh, Minnie—does it turn you on when I touch y' like this?"

"Mhm," you murmured, eyes clamping shut in disbelief at how magical his hands were. "Love how you touch me, oh Michael..."

This moment was the perfect example of something that simply couldn't be done at the Hayvenhurst household. Had you been moaning your boyfriend's name like that in his own ensuite, there would have been close-by mock-echoes of the sounds by at least two other Jacksons. You were both so grateful now that you were completely alone together, cut off from the outside world in what rare chance you got; and really it was as though nothing else existed but your passion in that bathtub, under the twinkling moonlight.

Every minute or so he gathered more oil, relishing in the scent and the sight; spreading it up and down your arms, your neck, your stomach down to your navel, back up to your breasts, and then...

"I wanna rub y' clit too, ma," he whispered. "Let me..."

Already growing again in confidence, he swiftly removed your hand by a hold on your wrist, and replaced it with his own that had run down from your breast and your torso to your swollen pussy.

"Oh, Mike—"

With the precision of an expert, Michael began to massage circles over your bundle of nerves, while kissing your neck and murmuring sweet nothings that vibrated against your skin, and still he somehow managed to keep running his oiled hand over your upper body.

"Honey, y' so pretty for me... Wanna make you feel so, so good inside..."

"You're already makin' me feel perfect, Mikey, mmphh, keep rubbin' it just like that..."

"Yeah, jus' like that? Want y' to cum for me again, baby, y' looked so beautiful the first time... So wonderful, I wanna get y' there over 'n over..."

Now, you shuffled a little so that you could reach behind and return the favour. You'd been in this bath together for so long already and somehow your hand hadn't even brushed his cock yet. You'd been saving that for the bedroom, but your brain had just reminded you of how fucking gorgeous and well-endowed he was down there...

Squeezing his shaft and running your thumb over the head, your hand had dipped beneath the water so discreetly that it rendered the action a complete shock to Michael.

"Ah—Tink!" he whined, stopping his movements and almost taking his hands off of you in surprise. His thighs and his dick twitched in tandem, and you giggled, tapping the hand of his that had paused over your aching clit to get him to continue.

"What, baby?" you asked with faux-innocence, stroking up and down his fully hard member, gladly feeling over every thick vein and ridge. "Couldn't wait til the bedroom to play with your pretty dick, 'm sorry..."

"Nngh—tha's so good, baby... Just how I—oh—no, better than I ever imagined... Mm..."

"Yeah, baby boy?" you teased, pumping slowly, and your own body twitched in pleasure when Michael slipped his middle finger inside you again, curling it up to meet your sweet spot instantly.

"Oh, honey—" you moaned loudly, free hand holding his thin wrist tight.

"Girl, I love how warm y' are in here..." he whispered, sliding in his ring finger now too. Every single time the digits thrust in they'd hit your spot with ease, and you were writhing and gasping like a whore against his body, hand faltering over his slick cock.

"Honey, I just wanna... mm—wanna feel this sweet pussy all night... Forever, baby, I need to feel y' like this forever..." Michael was already committing eternal loyalty to your sex and he hadn't even felt what it was like to be inside of you yet.

"Oh, Mike, we need to get out of this tub, baby..."

"Why?" Michael frowned against your shoulder, squeezing more oil onto your chest, before going in again with an eager hand; gripping, grabbing, squeezing, kneading your sensitive tissue, all while his two astonishingly long fingers curled up inside your tight walls, over and over again.

"’Cause—oh, mmphhh, Michael..."

Every time you moaned his name like that he felt he had ascended to heaven. How was he this lucky? So much else in his life was troubling, but to be able to have the most beautiful lady on planet Earth wrapped up in his hold, squirming and whining for his touch... He had been awarded such a blessing.

"Wait, honey, I wanna..." He cleared his throat, slowing the pace of his fingers before pulling them out. "I wanna taste y'," he whispered against your cheek, where he pressed a kiss.

"Yes, that's what I was gettin' at," you laughed, ceasing your movements over his dick. "I was tryna say we need to get out of the tub 'cause I won't let us have sex before I've had your head between my thighs."

Michael's cheeks heated up for the millionth time that night, and his entire body was consumed with a giddy excitement. "Okay," he grinned.

You turned your head, giggling into his neck, and then in an instant you were up in his arms for the third time, swept up off the stone resin, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck while he held you protectively.

"Mikey!" you squealed, the water splashing around at your sudden exit. His dick poked up hard against your ass, and God, you needed him so badly…

"C'mon, mama," he laughed warmly, leaning down ridiculously to blow out the candles, then kissing your nose as he stepped out over the edge of the tub, taking you with him. He quickly brushed his feet against the plush rug, then began to skip in the direction of the door, without a thought other than how much he desperately wanted to taste his girl for the first time, and then make sweet, sweet love to her and let the night chase all his fears away...

But he was made to stop before he could reach the doorknob.

"Boy, are you crazy?! We need to dry off first! 'm not gonna let you drip water all over my bedroom!"

Michael sighed, chuckling to himself. "Oh, right, yeah, I got a lil carried away. Let's..."

And so he carried you back over to beside the tub, where fresh cotton towels were lined up. He set you down gently, before taking a body-length towel and running it over you, drying each droplet of bathwater and every glisten of oil.

Your heart raced as you watched him. Of course you were already so horny, but this was a different feeling—a stronger version of what had been underlying everything else all evening. He was so tender with the way he rubbed the towel over your skin, so slow and careful even though he had no reason to be, and even despite how his nine-inch dick was pressing up proud against his navel.

You stroked his afro when he leaned down to dry your legs, and then after he'd dried himself, you kissed him so softly.

"Baby, 'm so excited," you whispered, holding his jaw. Michael tentatively held your ass, and then decided to hold it firmer in the remembrance that you were his girl and you wanted his firm touch.

A huge smile spread on his face at your expression of excitement; and really, the two of you were as enthusiastic as two children exploring a candy store.

"Let's go, Minnie Mouse," he whispered, outstretching his arms so that you'd jump up into them. You grinned, letting him hoist you up so that your arms and legs were wrapped tight around him—that insistent weight between his thighs still so prominent against you—and then he was off, skipping again to the door and out of it into the dark room ahead, while you squealed and you each giggled.

He let you fall gently onto the silk sheets, and immediately you found yourself wrestled in a tickle fight, Michael's hands lightheartedly exploring your torso, so effortlessly able to switch from sensual to playful from one moment to the next.

"Baby, stop it!" You laughed until your chest and your cheeks hurt, after having rolled over each other's bodies to win the silly fight. Neither of you won in the end, because you both stopped in the interest of desire.

"Tink, wait," he said breathlessly through more laughter, lying beside you now, trying to return his breathing to normal.

You both laid in silence for a couple of minutes, content smiles on both your faces in the excitement. Momentarily, it hit you again how intimate this was about to be, after the oral sex (which in fact would likely be just as intimate given the way Michael had been with everything else so far), and so of course that same underlying worry and strange discomfort regarding the unfamiliarity hit you again.

But you brushed it off. You physically shook yourself of the thought, then turned to your beau and slowly interlaced your fingers with his.

Michael smiled softly, heart beating faster when he felt your fingers initiate handholding with his much larger ones. It confused you how he could take things so slowly despite his erection, how he could be so erect but willingly spend time tickling you and then choosing to lay side-by-side in an embrace of only hands. Every other man had always jumped on you as soon as they got the chance, with no room for romantic pause.

"Tonight's been so beautiful already, honey," he whispered into the dark.

"It has," you nodded with a smile, playing with his pinkie.

Some more silence, and you watched as Michael looked to the ceiling, with the most adorable smile plastered on his face. Your heart melted, even though you were still left confused about why everything had suddenly paused, past the necessary point of catching your breath.

From Michael's perspective, yes, his dick was currently throbbing like crazy, but his love for you was so passionately deep that he really had no urgency to speed past the quiet romance of it all.

"I can't believe you want me like this, Minnie," he spoke again, but despite the sad statement, he continued to smile in both gratitude and happy disbelief.

You frowned however, and squeezed his hand. "Why wouldn't I, baby?"

"Well, 'cause there's so many others y' could have chosen to be with. I'm so inexperienced 'n shy, 'n... uh, 'm not the best lookin', either."

"Oh, shh. Don’t talk that way around me, I’ve told you so many times," you scowled playfully, leaning on your elbow to face him. You pinched his cheek, before speaking sultrily again.

"Don't you want your dick sucked, honey baby?"

Michael's breath caught in his throat, and his head snapped in your direction. "What does that have to do with what I just said?"

"It has to do with the fact that you've been hard for like ten minutes, 'n you obviously need a release." You began to stroke his thigh, inching closer and closer to his throbbing member.

His eyes widened, and he stuttered in his response. "Um. Honey, I don't... I don't think y' should do that."

"Why not, Michael?" you pouted, climbing on top of his body to plant kisses onto his torso and grind your leaking pussy over his leaking dick.

"Oh—" Michael whined. "Um, well, 'cause like I told y' before, baby, it's way too dirty. A lady's mouth shouldn't be down there. It would be real bad... I mean, 'm already committin' sin by makin' love to y' in the first place, but that—"

You cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Shh. What if the lady would like to have her boyfriend's dick in her mouth?"

Immediately, Michael squinted at the filthy wording. "Oh, mama, y' can't be sayin' stuff like that, really..."

"Well, honey..." you began, as you leaned down and started to lick and kiss down the expanse of his body, from his chest to his happy trail, to the mound of dark pubic hair. He lay pliant beneath you, lip between his teeth, eyes shut tight.

"...It's either I give you a blowjob..." Another shy squint from the boy below. "Or you deal with accidentally climaxing too early again, on my expensive silk sheets while you eat me out."

You sat back up on his thighs again, smirking happily. "So, what's it gonna be?"

There was a pause, some hesitation, and then you got your answer.

"Um... You can..." Michael gestured down to his cock, taking it in his hand for a moment, and you didn't have to be told twice.

"I thought so," you grinned. Instantly you were on your knees before him, hand squeezing his shaft, rubbing the leaking tip against your cheek.

Michael was in utter shock. "Oh my—"

Even in the darkness, there was a very clear stain of his precum on your face, and he barely had time to register that before your mouth was on him, applying perfect suction over his tip.

"Oh, mama, nngh—!" His hand flew to your hair, gripping your head tighter than he meant to, hips bucking upward.

"Yeah, baby, that feels good, huh?" you murmured as you licked along the veins from base to head. "Such a pretty dick, Mikey... Been hidin' it from me for so long..."

The prettiest noises were spilling from his throat endlessly, filling the quiet air beside the filthy schlick-schlick sound with each pump of your hand, or suck of your tongue. And you knew that moaning around his length would increase the pleasure, so you did that too, exaggerating each to create the perfect vibration. Michael had never felt such ethereal pleasure. He wondered if he was still existing here on earth.

Licking one long stripe upward before kitten-licking the mauve tip and sucking his sweet 'n salty cum, you counted an estimate of his measurements.

"’m thinkin' it really is nine inches, honey. Eight at least... but 'm really thinkin' nine..."

Michael could hardly speak in the immense euphoria—not that he would know what to say to a comment like that even if he was able to. All he knew was that you seemed to be very pleased with what you were passionately fondling.

"Oh, Mikey, my pretty, pretty boy..." You enveloped as much of his dripping length in your mouth as you could, until you felt the thick head at your throat and gagged far from quietly. Your eyes brimmed with tears.

Michael's hips bucked up harder in both shock and arousal. "Baby girl, be careful down there." He reached a hand down to stroke your cheek, wanting to influence you to pull off of him, but you wouldn't, still attempting to draw him in further, therefore still producing those choking noises so insane to Michael's ears.

And so he pressed on. "Mama, stop chokin'—y' can just lick 'n suck the tip, 'm okay. I don't need y' to go all the way down it."

You finally came back up for breath, saliva dripping in a lewd mixture with his gleaming precum, scattered all over every inch.

"’s okay, baby, 'm fine," you murmured, tongue tracing the upper half of him while you twisted your wrist to pump what you couldn't reach. "I love doin' this, it's okay..."

A pang of horrible jealousy hit Michael's chest as he remembered all the other men you'd done it with. They were probably the ones who'd taught you how to deepthroat, who'd encouraged you to go further and further until you could barely breathe. Sure, the sensation felt great, but Michael would never want you to go that far just for his pleasure.

And what he surmised about your past experiences hadn't been too far from the truth. You had been pushed too far before, been made to feel like you should do anything and everything to pleasure a man, so over time your body had accepted the act as something normal, even though nothing was normal about being involved in aggressive sex with men who treated you like shit. You felt completely safe with Michael, so a breath-restricting blowjob didn't feel the slightest bit dangerous like you had to admit it had felt with other men, but even if you were enjoying it, the point persisted that the reason you'd even become used to such ferocity in the first place had been due to coercion. Michael wanted you to unlearn the harsh parts—to perform passion with him but in a romantic interpretation, rather than the roughness you always equated it with.

So, when you pushed your head down again to take as much as possible, Michael tapped your cheek and gently pulled you off. You swallowed quickly, and furrowed your brows in frustration. "Michael?!"

The boy was chewing the inside of his cheek. He sat up against the headboard now, cock still painfully hard and twitching, but he was thinking mostly about something else.

"Angel, I don't want you to do that."

You sighed.

"Um, I don't... I don't know what those other guys had you doin' but, you're my girl now 'n I just want y' to do it gently, okay? I don't get off on seein' y' strugglin'."

Biting your lip, you leaned down to rest your head on his thigh, and started stroking slow circles. "I didn't... I don't think they meant it that way. Uh, I never considered that, actually."

"You didn't?" Michael whispered.

"No, I... um," you shook your head, "y'know, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'm here with you now and I just wanted to make you feel good. It wasn't any sort of power imbalance thing. Um, not with you, at least."

He took a deep breath, cradling your cheek in his hand. "Pretty girl, it's real sexy to watch y' take me, but I'd feel much better if y' didn't push y'self. Please? 'm gonna feel y' warmth when we make love—I don't need y' to suck every inch too, just to make me feel good."

Suddenly, you were beginning to understand something very crucial, and it influenced a question that you'd never before asked yourself. How much of sexual activity did you truly want to do? You'd been so accustomed to the rougher, more meaningless kind of sex since the age of sixteen, that you hadn't considered if perhaps you'd actually been conditioned to only enjoy it that way. Tonight's sensual bath had been a big indicator of that, because you never expected to enjoy something so romantic and slow, but indeed you had enjoyed it very much, and very easily—instinctively even, as if it was all you ever truly needed.

But that was too much to unpack right now, so you simply nodded, and kissed his inner thigh. "Okay. No, I understand."

"Y' do?" He furrowed his brows hopefully. "I don't wanna spoil y' fun or nothin', but I really just like to be gentle with y'."

That pressing anxiety of the unfamiliar had returned again, but you masked it with a smile, jumping up on your knees to kiss his soft lips. "I know. Thank you, baby."

The next couple of minutes were spent with Michael in total ecstasy, laid down against the silk again with his head thrown back against the pillows, squirming, groaning, gasping... And as you loved on his pretty cock, relishing in how effortlessly you could draw out those beautiful sounds, for the first time in your life you weirdly saw the romance in oral sex. Strangely enough—but it made sense, because you'd never before given a blowjob to a man who you loved. It had always been in return for something else, or because you felt like you had to, and since you didn't mind the act you'd performed it without thought. But with Michael, nothing could be thoughtless. Care and reverence was woven into his veins.

"Oh, honey, 'm gonna—mmmhhh, 'm close—" he suddenly groaned, thrusting a little, but without intention.

"Yeah, handsome?" you moaned over his slit, before continuing your expert suction. His hand had never ceased to thumb your cheek, in awe at how beautiful you looked doing something so inconceivably dirty. He'd heard his brothers talk about blowjobs before, and he'd vowed to himself that he'd never allow his girl to be on her knees that way. Of course, there had been many purity vows broken tonight.

"Aw, baby girl, pull—mmph—pull off of me, honey, I don't wanna dirty y' pretty face..."

You only giggled as you continued to suck and pump him, ignoring his protests.

"Mama, 'm serious," he gasped quickly, hips bucking ferociously, hand moving to the back of your head to try to pull you off—but Michael could never be anything other than gentle, so his attempt failed.

"Nuh-uh, honey, 'm good right here," you muttered into his flesh, and then, as one final trick you'd been saving for his climax, you dragged your eager tongue down to his heavy balls, still playing with his shaft as you did.

As soon as that warm lick registered in his system, Michael let out the most unrestrained, ecstatic half-moan half-groan, somehow both high and low in tone at once. "Oh, mama, 'm really 'bout to—oh, baby, mm, keep doin' that, but I need y' to get y' mouth off of m—"

You only smiled, sucking his balls into your mouth one by one, never letting up the pace of your hand over his slick length. "Cum for me, Mikey... All down my throat, c'mon..."

"No, baby, I can't—oh, y' can't let me..." he whined, writhing senselessly, one hand tightening in your hair and the other gripping the sheets.

"Your body wants it, my love," you whispered, and then, with two more pumps, your mouth back over his ever-twitching member, he was there, gasping louder and stuttering further, body shaking with the effects of orgasm. Several hot jets of salty-sweet cum shot down your throat, and you swallowed greedily, still stroking the flesh but slower now as you brought him through it.

"Oh, that's it, honey... So beautiful..." you cooed to him, speaking the way he loved to speak to you. After kissing over his thighs, you licked your lips and wiped your cheek to rid the excess of his release.

Michael was motionless against the sheets following his very intense climax, and you shuffled up the bed to meet his body with yours. Lying on your side, propped up by your elbow, you turned his face to yours with a finger on his chin. His expression was dazed, hairline decorated with a sheen of sweat, mouth half-open in amazement.

You giggled, kissing his nose. "How was that?"

He shook his head slowly, in disbelief. "Incredible, baby... More wonderful than I could've ever imagined. I can't believe y' let me do somethin' so nasty with y'..."

"Mm, well..." you chuckled, bringing his hand up to your mouth, resting the knuckles against your lips as you played with his fingers. "Are you excited for the next part?"

Michael bit his lip again, soft doe eyes brightening. "Mhm."

You beamed, probably looking forward to this part more than anything, and so you rested up against the headboard, getting comfortable. Now, as Michael stood up from the bed and repositioned himself between your thighs, your entire body was on display right in front of him, stretched across the silk like a modern take on a Renaissance painting. He couldn't believe his eyes, almost cursing at the sight.

"Wow, honey. Y' really such a goddess, I swear..." he praised in awe, settling himself on his forearms and then wrapping them around your thighs. "These thighs... ugh, baby..."

He was unashamedly yearning for you, leaning his head on the soft vanilla-scented skin of one inner thigh, gazing at the glistening organ that lay between it. Your heart was fluttering in your chest, and the more he stared into your intimacy the more flustered you became. You shook your head, trying to appear normal, because you were supposed to be doing the teaching; but then it suddenly occurred to you that perhaps Michael wouldn't need any more teaching. He knew where the clit was, he knew how to reach the g-spot... He had a perfect tongue that was extremely skilled where makeouts were concerned, and a perfect nose that would feel amazing if he...

"This is the part I've been real nervous about," he murmured, still taking in the sight of your swollen folds, running his fingers up and down them for the second time that night.

You chuckled, with a light smack to his head. "Michael, you've been nervous about every part."

"True," he admitted, smiling as he pulled your thighs further apart, looking up into your eyes now to ask for permission. "Sweetheart, can I?"

"Yes, you can, baby," you laughed, reaching down to play with his fro. "Please do, actually. I'm achin'..."

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"Tell me if 'm doin' everythin' right, please..."

You were noticing that Michael's voice, while always soft, became quite a bit deeper during intimacy, and that made you feel even more insane over him.

Having been given the green light, he dove right in, with first a gentle kiss to your clit—at which you shuddered—and then he licked one long stripe from there to your entrance, before dragging his tongue back up and enclosing your pearl in his lips. He figured that it was best to follow the structure of using his lips and tongue in the same way he did during makeouts, with the added component of paying particular attention to your clitoris, since that part of your anatomy was what you'd emphasised earlier.

"Taste so good, baby…" he groaned into you. "Heaven on earth…"

Even though he'd asked you to let him know if he was doing everything correctly, you'd completely forgotten about that request, so lost in the pleasure from that very first kiss to your clit. He was perfect, and you'd been right; there had been no need for specific instruction. If the foreplay hadn't been going on for so long already, your only extra advice would've been that he should kiss over your thighs before beginning, but you figured he’d do that himself the next time you were intimate, given how much he loved your curves.

As soon as he began he had you moaning and squirming exactly how he'd craved, and he took that as a positive sign, thinking himself silly for how nervous he'd been about it before.

But of course, Michael still requested verbal praise, confirmation that he was up to standard.

"Am I doin' it right, mama?" he asked, licking another stripe up to your clit, before sucking again. You arched your back instinctively, gripping his fro, grinding your sex over his face. The pleasure was everywhere, and his big hands always kept their place on your thighs, as though he were a seasoned expert.

"Don't doubt yourself, baby," you whined, hand tightening in his hair. "You're doin'—oh—amazin'... I can't believe—mmphhh—this is your first time—God, I told you..."

Michael tapped your leg in a scolding manner. "Y'shouldn't use the Lord’s name in vain, honey."

"Shut up, hypocrite," you giggled, smacking the back of his head.

Michael didn't appreciate that, but it made him laugh into your pussy, and the vibration had you whining louder.

"Baby, I like it when you talk to me while you do it..." you whispered.

"Mm?" he hummed, spreading your labia wide with his fingers before diving back in.

"Yes, please talk to me, Mikey..."

It didn't take long for him to decide what to say. So overcome by the incredible cosmos of your beautiful body, so in love with every tiny element, he didn't think he'd experienced a better indulgence in his entire life. He lapped at you like a man starved, slurping up the incessant juices that swam from your entrance to your inner thighs.

"Thank you—thank you so much, baby, for treatin' me w' this..." he whispered between sucking your clit, lips carrying a string of saliva and slick each time he pulled back. "’m gonna cherish y' body this way forever... mmph..." He licked another stripe up the expanse of your sensitivity. "My baby girl, y' so, so unbelievably beautiful... 'm sorry we waited so long. I need to pray when 'm home 'cause this is all so bad but I can't get enough... I can't wait for us to make love..."

Your tense nervous system was in complete disbelief at how a man could say such words, and about you of all people. Michael had made it so clear over the months just how much he treasured you, and why he did, but it still seemed so unreal, especially now that he was between your thighs, speaking each word thoughtfully into your weeping cunt. For some reason, you wanted to cry, and it wouldn't be the last time you'd feel that way tonight.

"Um, can we now, honey?" Michael asked, but you'd forgotten what he was referring to.

"Can we what, baby? Ohh, right there! Mmmm..."

Now he had plunged his middle and ring finger inside your entrance, gently but with a desperate pressure, and he was thrusting them in and out as he lavished attention on your clit. Using what you'd loved earlier, he was experimenting through educated guesses.

"Um, I mean can we make love now?" he asked shyly, still curling his fingers while you writhed. His pretty doe eyes looked up into yours, but you could barely look at him without wanting to cry and orgasm at once.

"Minnie, it's 'cause 'm really 'bout to cum again, 'm sorry. I wanna keep eatin' y'—I wanna get y' to cum again like this—I mean, I could do it for hours 'n hours, I promise, but um... 'm just really achin' down here 'n I don't wanna dirty y' sheets by accident."

"Yeah, you need to be inside me now?" you smiled through the insane pleasure, taking his hand and trying to take deep breaths.

"Mhm," he hummed, a little absentmindedly, pulling out his soaked fingers. "Should I get the—? Uh, well, are y'... um, wet enough first?"

"Michael." You raised your brows in amusement, speaking flatly. "My cum is dripping down your face, and you’re asking me if I’m wet enough?"

He brought a hand to his cheek quickly, and felt his whole body heat up in a flush as he realised how your wetness had very much completely adorned the lower half of his face. "Oh—um. Oh yeah." He started to chuckle in his awkwardness, wiping the glistening liquid with the back of his hand. "Yeah, but I was just... makin' sure, y'know. 'm real nervous about," he visibly cringed, "ugh, y'know what I mean. I don't want y' to tear down there, 'cause I've heard that can happen when girls aren't prepared enough."

You smiled, heart aching evermore. "No, trust me, baby. This..." You ran your fingers down your slit and dipped them into your sopping cunt, before drawing them out to display how they dripped with endless slick. "...is as wet as a girl can be. You have me soaked; 'n I'm not gonna lie, the only thing that could make me dry up is if you continue to take forever to touch me. My body couldn't be more prepared, I promise."

Physically, you were correct. But mentally, emotionally, you couldn't have been any less prepared, and deep down you knew that.

Michael laughed softly. "Um, okay, so I'll... 'm gonna go get a condom, it's in my jeans..."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Mike. I'm on the pill."

"You are?" His brows furrowed at this new information.

"Mhm—I've been on it for a while, so, we don't need any other protection," you smiled.

"O—okay," Michael stuttered, even more excited now, that revelation being the last thing he expected tonight. He took two deep breaths before standing up from the bed, but then proceeded to walk off into the bathroom, much to your confusion.

"Michael—?"

Thirty seconds later, he returned. In his hands were the candles from the romantic bath, and you felt a strange pang in your heart again.

"I wanted to make it special," he smiled awkwardly. "I know it's not your first time, and it's not even about it being mine... It's just that I like to make things special for you."

"For my beautiful girl..." he hummed to himself under his breath as he began organising the candles around your furniture.

Now, a tear did slip from your eye while you watched him prepare everything, his soft face portraying how important this all was to him. You brushed the salty liquid away before it had a chance to be recognised, and soon enough your honey was back between your legs.

Except, he did notice one thing, and that was the visible change in your eyes.

"Why d'y' look so sad, Tink?" he asked anxiously, guiding you to lay back while he positioned himself over you.

"’m not sad, silly," you played it off. "My eyes are a little watery 'n I probably look a little dazed 'cause of what you've just done to me... You’ve been amazing."

You squeezed his arm comfortingly, bringing him into a soft kiss. The room was candlelit now, illuminating the two nervous bodies on the king-size bed, playing their part in a scene that would be the most intimate either of them had ever experienced.

"Okay," Michael giggled, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Um, what position do y' want? I was thinkin' just... missionary, like this. But I wanna make sure you're as comfortable as possible."

"Um, yeah, either this or cowgirl is best," you answered, playing with his fingers. His other hand came up to hold your jaw, and your eyes flickered down to it nervously, before you forced your expression to retain neutrality. "You're real big—you know that," a small laugh, "but I think we'll be okay like this."

"You think?" Michael asked anxiously. "You don't know? You sounded certain earlier."

"Mikey," you sighed with a lighthearted eyeroll. "How can I know for certain when you've never been inside me before? We'll just have to try it 'n see."

But somehow, he only looked even more anxious. "Minnie, don't mess w' me—I thought you were wet enough."

"I am, Michael!" you giggled, flicking his forehead. "I'm just bein' realistic, 'cause you asked me, so..."

Michael bit his lip and, following a silence, spoke quietly, in a tone more gentle than ever.

"Baby, 'm gonna be so careful, I promise."

More emotional silence, and you felt your heart split into two, despite the moment being nothing but beautiful. All you could do was think back to the other men, how they always treated you the exact opposite. Suddenly it occurred to you that it wasn’t only Michael who was learning the inherent beauty and innocence of sex, outside of its commonly rougher and vulgar connotations. You too had never understood until now that sex didn’t have to be a filthy dopamine hit to feel ashamed of immediately after. It was likely that you wouldn’t have discovered that understanding with anybody else.

Your voice almost cracked audibly with the intensity of your emotion, and he hadn't even started making love to you yet.

"I know you will," you whispered, looking into his sweet, sweet eyes.

He began to smile, and you did too, trying so hard not to let any more tears fall. It was a seriously difficult endeavour.

“Okay, ’m gonna… uh, I want us to be skin-to-skin, is that alright?” He kissed your collarbone, running his thumb over the side of your neck.

“I’d love that, Bambi,” you smiled softly, bringing your arms up around his neck. 

Michael grinned wide, then returned his concentrated demeanour as he carefully dropped his body downward so that he was pressed flush against you; chests held against each other, foreheads touching. His hand immediately took its place at the back of your head, where it would remain for the duration of the session.

“Like this?” he whispered, kissing your nose and your lips. “I want us to be as close as possible.”

“Mhm, me too,” you whispered back.

“Uh, okay, so I guess I should…” he uttered bashfully.

You nodded, taking two more shaky breaths. Michael didn’t notice your nervousness, because he was way too nervous himself. He couldn’t believe he’d finally reached this point, and with you, his dream girl.

He leaned back just a little, enough to stroke himself a few times, before sliding the weight of himself up and down your soaked folds. You gasped, holding his bicep, and slowly, eyes on you the entire time, he finally inserted the tip.

“Oh my—nnghh—” you moaned at both pain and pleasure, his thick girth beginning to stretch you out. 

Michael’s brows were knitted in pure anxiety, unable to relish in the pleasure just yet, but already knowing that your tight heat would be the best thing he’d ever feel. 

“Does it hurt, baby?” he asked, rubbing your lower abdomen with his thumb to soothe you.

No man had ever asked that thoughtful question before, and you gulped at hearing it now.

“Um, just a little. Keep goin’. It’s just—she’s takin’ a little longer to get used to a size so foreign,” you chuckled softly, to break the ice.

But Michael was still concerned. As he pushed himself further and further inside, he watched your face intently, and your fingernails were digging into his bicep now. You gasped and groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. 

“Mm, Mikey, you’re so big—mm, ugh—“

“Is it feelin’ any better?”

“Yes, oh God yes it is, push in a little deeper…”

Michael gave you a quick look of disapproval at the blasphemy, and then finally, he bottomed out in one go. You nearly screeched at how good he felt, and he let out the most animalistic groan you’d heard from him thus far. Your eyes rolled back and so did his, and then before you knew it his chest was flush against yours again, forehead to forehead as before, so close you could feel his breath with every exhale…

“Hi,” he whispered shyly, taking your hand in his, while his other stayed holding your head protectively. This was how he’d always envisioned it. 

“Hi, pretty face,” you giggled, hooking your legs tighter around him, your free hand moving to play with the coils of his afro.

“Feel like ‘m in heaven, mama,” he whispered, and in response you initiated a passionate kiss, tongues exploring each other’s mouths while you both hummed into the warm and wet expanse softly.

“Me too, baby… You feel amazin’ inside me…”

“You feel the best,” he argued.

“Nooo, you.”

“Shh…” he sighed with a teasing smile, resuming your kiss. He remained resting still inside you for the next two minutes, despite how much he ached to move, because he wanted to ensure you were definitely comfortable enough.

So, in those two minutes you kissed and gazed at each other in silence, a silence so vulnerable you felt slightly lightheaded, heart pounding. And then your faces were brightening at each other, beaming; Michael began to kiss all over your face while you sighed in content, his lips sucking marks from your jaw to your neck.

“Oh, Mike…”

“You want me to start movin’ now, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nodded quickly. “Mm, please.” You pushed your heels down where your ankles met at his back, urging him to begin his thrusts, but first, he interlocked your fingers carefully. After pressing a sweet kiss to your knuckles and then your lips, he nudged his hips forward, and hit your sweet spot in one clean stroke.

“Mmm,” you whined high and soft, squeezing his hand hard. 

“You feelin’ good, honey?” Michael whispered against your lips, before capturing them in his and thrusting deep again.

“Uh-huh, yes baby, feels so good…”

At your confirmation, and upon seeing how your eyes rolled into the back of your head with each movement, he set a slow and steady pace, rocking his hips into you in the most passionate dance. Admittedly, since you knew how talented Michael was with his hips onstage, you’d expected him to be just as naturally skilled in the bedroom too, and my God were you pleasantly satisfied.

“Oh, this is amazin’, mama, y’ so tight around me…” 

Everything was so, so beautiful. You were both cuddled up, snuggled into each other’s warmth, as close as two people can be, and despite the coziness, each thrust nearly knocked the wind out of you. The sounds you produced were celestial to Michael’s ears, and the way you tugged at him and kept trying to pull him closer (whether by his hand or his hair) had his heart aching with happiness.

Meanwhile, your own heart was aching with both happiness and sadness, still for those same reasons previously discussed. He kept asking how you felt, if you were comfortable, overall portraying to you exactly how much he wholly adored you with every fibre of his being…

“Pretty baby, I love you so much,” he moaned against your lips, aside another deep, tender stroke, and as your eyes rolled back again, you kissed him hard, trying desperately to push away the tears that still threatened to emerge. You absolutely couldn’t let him see you cry during sex. He’d either think you were in pain, or think you were plain crazy.

But as you kissed deeply, tongues swirling over each other’s, hums vibrating into each other’s mouths, you were so immersed in each other that you didn’t realise what was happening on Michael’s end. You didn’t want to pull away from his lips because you wanted him to stop triggering your tears with his sweet nothings—way too difficult to deal with when paired with the most sensual thrusts—but all of a sudden, you felt something wet on your cheek, where your face was just below his.

Immediately, your eyes shot open in confusion, and sure enough, the wet droplet was a tear—not from one of your eyes, but from Michael’s. He was crying as he moaned, as he displayed his bone-deep infatuation and devotion to you with each heavy stroke, cradling your head in his hand, decorating your lips with his hot kiss. This moment all seemed so surreal for him—that he was truly, in this present moment, sinfully losing his virginity to the girl he’d wanted for so, so long, but in the most innocent, most serene way. Religion might have previously permitted him against the decision, but the universe itself was surely compelling you both, encouraging this cathartic meeting of your bodies. Somehow Michael had overcome fears that he never expected to, and as a reward he got to love and dote on every inch of the girl that had always needed a soft love so badly. She hadn’t known before, but it was all so very clear now.

“Mama, ‘m sorry, I’m—‘m an idiot…” he chuckled self-consciously, wiping at his eyes while his pace never faltered.

You gasped and whined, biting your lip very hard to keep your own emotions in check. Then you reached up to cradle his jaw, and whispered softly.

“Honey… Don’t—oh—don’t apologise… I know. I understand.”

“I just love you so much, my angel girl…” 

“I know, baby, I know…” you moaned, eyes brimming with more of the annoying liquid that you continued to force back, hoping that your watery eyes would appear nothing more than a product of pleasure.

And still, you couldn’t say those three words back to him. It was all too much intimacy at once. You loved it, while equally you feared it. How could that be?

“My beautiful lady, I just wanna protect you forever…” Michael continued, rocking into you with the softest fervour as he did, chest so warm and comforting against your bouncing breasts. “Wanna keep you so safe… Always wanna hold you… just like this, forever… Or not even in a sexual way, I just… mmph—Oh, baby girl, you deserve everythin’ wonderful…”

“Michael—” you gasped, unable to take such attentive words.

“Yeah, honey?” he exhaled into your ear, kissing your cheek.

“No, I—I’m just—ohhh—I can’t believe you see me that way…”

“Oh Minnie, I think you’re the single most precious thing on this earth…” he groaned, eyes clamping shut in pleasure and emotion as he began to speed up, while still prioritising careful sensuality.

“Baby,” you cried out, “I’m really nothin’ specia—“

“Shhh…” He kissed away your speech, hitting your spot faster now, and nearly reaching your cervix. The sound of the headboard banging against the wall with the other lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and you were very grateful Michael had demanded you choose a night where not a soul would be around. 

“You mean so much to me,” he continued. “Nobody gets me like you do… and I don’t think anyone ever will… ‘m so lucky…”

You were lost for words, and all you could do was emanate pornographic noises that Michael only interpreted as angelic.

A few moments passed, but finally you decided you must say something. You needed to. If not now, then you’d feel so guilty for allowing the exhibition of love to be so one-sided, Michael as the only giver.

And what was more, you had surprisingly started to actually want to say something. Despite your avoidant nature, in this very moment you absolutely had to let your baby know how much he meant to you. He was reconstructing the arrangement of your nervous system in real time, with every push of his sex and every word from his lips.

“No, you don’t understand, Michael,” you moaned out, voice breaking. His hips were snapping ferociously now. “I’m the lucky one… Me falling in love with you isn’t—mmph—isn’t as insane as you think it is… Because—oh—“ He was gazing deeply into your eyes now, smoothing his thumb over your lip. “Because I—nngh—I swear to you, you’re the most beautiful boy I could ever dream of. You’ve shown me the softness I’ve never known…”

“Oh honey…”

“You brought light into my life. I need you way more than you need me, and I—mmhh—resent that it’s almost always only you tellin’ me of your love. Oh, Michael—” you cried out, digging your nails into his palm, your other hand scratching at his shoulder. 

“Sweetheart…” His face was contorted in pleasure, another tear falling, and he let it drip onto your cheek again.

“I love you, baby,” you gasped. “I love you, I love you… There, I said it—‘m sayin’ it…”

Michael almost choked on his own saliva, pupils so dilated as he took in the sight before him. You were completely undone, almost crying over him, hair and makeup a mess, lips and neck bitten, and finally, you had said the words.

“Tink, I—oh, I love you, my baby girl…”

“Mikey,” you giggled, a tear finally slipping but you knew he’d think it was only induced by arousal. “You’re puttin’ me through the mattress ‘n still callin’ me Tinker Bell.”

Michael smiled wide, pressing a soft peck to your nose, strokes slowing momentarily while you both laughed. 

“You don’t stop bein’ my Tinker Bell just ‘cause we’re makin love… In fact, y’ more magical than ever right now, honey…” A heated kiss. “’s never been more appropriate, really…”

You couldn’t help but smile at him, but your face instantly began to contort as before when the thrusts sped up again. The bed was creaking like crazy beneath you, and you were both so close to climax now.

“Baby, ‘m close,” Michael groaned, followed by sounds resembling whimpers. 

“Yeah, me too, I’m—mhm—baby, I’ve never felt this good in my life…”

With every word you uttered, Michael was even more utterly astonished, and overall so wholly glad that this night had gone the way he wanted it to. It truly had been perfect—even in its little imperfections, too.

“Honey, can I, uh—inside?” he asked hesitantly, soft grunts hitting your ear as his thick cock pounded your gummy walls over and over.

“Yes, mhm, please baby…” You let out a pornographic moan as his strokes began to take on an erratic force, but still hardly faltering in rhythm.

“Oh, I gotchu baby girl, ‘m gonna get y’ there… I love you…”

“Mm, Michael, I love you,” you whined again, licking your tongue into his mouth. You engaged in a passionate embrace of locked lips, interrupted only a few times momentarily to murmur a sweet nothing.

Your orgasm came crashing over you suddenly, having built to a perfect peak, and the unfamiliar sensation of experiencing one at the hands of penetration was otherworldly. Your body went taut, muscles tensing, and before you could try to stop yourself, there were tears streaming down your face. Michael had talked you through it all, cooing at you through the comedown, although he looked entirely perplexed at the realisation that you were crying all of a sudden.

“Minnie, wha’s wrong?” he asked gently, stroking your cheek and slowing down a little despite how he was so close to his own orgasm.

“No, nothin’, Michael—it’s just…” you sniffled, wiping your face rapidly, “um, this happens to us women sometimes… An orgasm is like an emotional release as well as a sexual one, y’know, um…” That wasn’t an incorrect statement to make, so you hadn’t exactly lied, but you felt silly nevertheless.

“Okay, yeah, I thought you were hurt or upset, but I get that. It was beautiful anyway,” he smiled, kissing you and rocking into you fervently, a little harder again to approach his release, but he also didn’t want to overstimulate you so he tried to keep it not too distant from slow and sensual. 

Your eyes rolled back with erratic inhales and exhales as he thrust a few more times, before you suddenly felt the gorgeous heat of his cum gushing through you, painting your walls with his seed. Thank God you were on the pill… And oh, Michael looked so beautiful when he came…

His groans continued as his head fell forward on your chest, cock gradually going limp while still nestled inside your core. 

“Oh, you’re so wonderful, baby… I’m so happy,” he whispered into your neck. 

“I’m happy too, pretty boy,” you smiled back, playing with his hair again.

But Michael wouldn’t let himself linger too long, already pressing up on his elbows. “Need to clean y’ up, honey.”

You both groaned in frustration as he slowly pulled out of you, and you stayed lying flat while you watched him blow out the candles and head off into the bathroom. He returned with a cloth, and with the most gentle touch and the most gentle expression of concentration, patted over your sex and your inner thighs. You lifted your hips to let the liquid ooze out into the cotton so that it wouldn’t sink into the sheets later, and Michael felt incredibly ashamed at how the sight made him feel. That alone was the first glimpse of a kink that would follow the two of you through the rest of your lives.

When he was done, you cuddled up on your sides facing each other. Michael wrapped the comforter around your body protectively, burying your bodies beneath it, tightly bundled; and then he wouldn’t stop staring at you, so you covered your face shyly.

“No, don’t do that, baby,” he giggled, trying to get you to move your hand.

“You’re makin’ me shy!” you exclaimed, but when he tried to get you to drop the hand again, you obliged, and rushed a little further forward into his embrace, nestling your head in the crook of his neck.

Some comfortable silence, and then Michael was whispering to you again, playing with your hair and drawing circles over your skin.

“You told me y’ loved me. Multiple times, y’ said it.”

“I did,” you whispered back, with certainty. Saying the words so ardently had really highlighted to you how much you never needed to hesitate ever again.

“Minnie?” Michael said into the quiet, intertwining his legs with yours, and resuming the handholding that had carried you through most of the night.

“Yes, Mickey?” you hummed into his skin.

“Tonight was the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” you smiled. “I’m fallin’ asleep, honey, I’m sorry, but I promise we can talk all about it tomorrow. Orgasms always knock me out.” You yawned with a quiet laugh, tugging him impossibly closer, and he repositioned the comforter around you again, so delicately. 

“Yeah, ‘m tired too.” He kissed your forehead several times. “Sleep tight, I love you.”

“I love you, baby. So, so much…”

You fell asleep only minutes later just like that—warm bodies merged, hands interlocked, your ear pressed directly over Michael’s steadily beating heart. For once tonight, it had calmed. Finally you had both crossed that monumental line, the feeling different for each of you—emotional in unique ways—but born of the same bone-deep, eternal love.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ omg this has taken me approx 3 weeks to write n i had no intention to make it so long but !!! in order to really emphasise the passion and to have michael experience all his firsts , i wrote it as descriptively as possible. i've exhausted myself writing so much smut lol n i was even anxious posting this because i don’t know if it flows as ideally as i wanted it to?!! i put too much pressure on myself but anyway i hope u guys enjoyed :D !

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