#devoblurbs

Michael absolutely hated the way his glasses looked on him, said they make him look old. You'd walk in on him reading something in private with his glasses on & as soon as he'd see you, he'd take them off.

You'd always tell him how sexy he looked with them, attempting to put them back on his face as he'd try to pry them off again.

"Makes me feel like you're dating a grandpa, I don't like it." He'd complain.

But of course, anything you begged or pleaded for him to do, he'd do in a heartbeat. So when you told him you wanted him to keep them on while he fucked you, he had no choice but to go along with it, anything for you — he was a gentleman after all.

He'd be gripping onto your fleshy hips a little rougher than usual as he fucked into you on his king sized mattress, having you on all fours. His frustration with your request showed through the way he handled you. You felt the shift, he's never usually this rough.

Yet you weren't complaining, you were in pure ecstatic joy. Your eyes would slowly roll back to your head as you mewled & cried like a slut. You'd try look back at him through forceful thrusts, your eyes half lidded n' your lips pouty as you tried to get a glimpse of how he looked, the reason you're here in the first place. His glasses seated neatly on his nose, his hair down & damp, sticking to his temples. He looked as if he was trying to appear angry, yet little did he know his own guttural groans would betray him.

He'd lean over you, cupping one of your breasts as he'd drop his head on your shoulder, drowning in his own pleasure as he'd continued to abuse your pussy from behind. His glasses would start to slip down his nose more & more with each searing thrust.

You'd push them back up, giving him a little light kiss on the lips.

"Grandpa's don't fuck you like this, baby."

Ever since you let michael go down on you, it’s all he’s wanted to do. In the studio while producing music, after a hard day, even on the phone.

He’d be on the line to his mother, filling her in with information about work, tours etc. All the while he’d have your legs spread wide open on his king size bed, phone propped between his shoulder & ear as he let his feet hang in the air giving your cunt all the love & attention it needs as he strokes your inner thighs. You’d always tell him to stop that, saying it’s disrespectful — he never listened to you.

He’d give you one straight lick up your slit, lapping & sucking on your clit, eyes shut in pure bliss — right where he wanted to be, absolutely pussy drunk.

You’d let out little whimpers n’ squeals as he’d rub your clit occasionally.

“Shh,” he’d hiss, covering the phone with his hand.

“Michael? What’s that noise?”

“Just bubbles, mother.”

𑣲⋆

There’s something almost unfair at the confidence age gave him. His shy sweetness from years ago drove him to only make love to you in missionary. Love making he called it, nothing else.

You’d revel in his shyness, finding him even more beautiful— it was never an issue. He’d bury his head in the crook of your neck as he came, too shy to show his face. You’d always try to make him to stop that.

But Michael now, a decade older, it’s almost like he knew the effect he had on you & he loved to play off of it. Sure, you had a soft spot in your heart for when he was timid & shy, but you’d absolutely love spreading your legs a little wider from the back like a slut as he tantalised you with slow deep strokes that made your eyelids squeeze shut.

His calloused hand groping your ass as he gave it a little spank & watched it recoil — he loved doing that. “That’s it girl,” he’d coo. Pushing his cock into you deeper, forcing another unexpected orgasm out of you. You’d look over your shoulder afterwards & he’d just smile at you, biting his bottom lip.

He’d always caress your head like he hadn’t just fucked you dumb, black strands of his hair collecting on his forehead. You wonder if it came from years of being exposed to millions of hungry hands & flashing cameras from tabloids turning him into something sharper, or just age settling in his bones? You’ll never really know.

He’d try to listen intently to a song he’s wrote, but he’d always end up a whining mess as you lapped & bit on the sides of his neck. He always smelt like sweet vanilla & soap, so addictive. You’d love teasing him knowing he’s trying to focus, trying to ween him away from hours of work & into your company.

“Stop that,” He’d whine, yet his eye rolling would set him back, just spurring you on even more. You’d be behind him while he sits on his chair, gently massaging his shoulders.

“Take a rest, baby.” You'd purr. He’d be convinced, but he’d never let up. But as soon as you'd travel your hand down his stomach & gently give his bulge a stroke, he’d let up instantly, pulling you onto his taking lap n' taking his headphones off.

“Goddammit.”

You notice he'd take glances at you a little too long to make sure you're in time with the music.

He'd always make excuses that your positioning is wrong just to guide your taught little waist, or slide his hands across your toned n' tanned thighs to direct you.

"There you go, girl. See that one was perfect, do that one again." He'd tell you.

He'd shout at the audio crew to start from the top, watching you intently, bobbing his head n' biting his lip.

He'd give you a little wink from afar when you did it perfectly for him, you always wanted to show off.

"That girls gonna be trouble I'm telling ya."

I love this idea because it’s so him — having an innocent little crush on the pretty lead singer,

Brittany Ives was the kind of girl that demanded attention every time she was on stage, even off. You were the ringleader of the girl group "Pretty Committee". 5 beautiful petite girls with voices just as hypnotising as their looks.

They were dominating the charts in the mid-70's with their glitter & glam, their albums selling like hot cakes. Though without Brittany, they wouldn't be where they were; producers adored you, even experienced performers found themselves drawn into your orbit, you were a money magnet.

At the time, the Jackson's were also sitting on the same level of fame as the Pretty Committee, you could say they were quite literally the boy version of them. Same charisma, stage presence, & looks. The Jackson brothers were deliciously handsome, & that sells. The moment they appeared on stage, young girls went absolutely crazy. Throwing scrambled papers with their numbers, blowing kisses etc. People wanted a piece of the magic they gave out.

At the centre of all that was Michael Jackson. Too young & innocent to understand the effect he had on his audience, but so damn magnetic. Producers knew the collaboration would work before either groups had even met, no time was wasted in making it happen. They'd be television gold.

As soon as rehearsals commenced, Michael's eyes immediately stayed on Brittany like glue. He was no better than any other guy, you were pure sultry class & Michael was easy. The way you'd look during those dance rehearsals — he couldn't get anything done. You'd be wearing a baby pink cropped ripped tee paired with white capris, your luscious chestnut curls thrown into a messy pony, clammy n' wet.

He'd panic a little more when he had to dance with you face to face, holding your waist briefly as the director said, even though he protected against it. You'd notice pink starting to creep up his cheeks as he'd hold his gaze on you for the purpose of the performance.

"You okay there Michael? you're red," you'd chuckle, the two of you still moving your feet in the rhythm go the music, his trembling hands on your waist.

"It's just hot in here, the heating — I think it's getting to me."

"The heating isn't on, you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah I'm okay, just gonna go to the restroom real quick."

"Mike! where you goin?" The director would call out.

& he'd rush off. You knew he had a crush on you, it wasn't a surprise being who you are, you found it cute. His brother's would always tease you with,

"Mike has a lil thing for ya, did y'know?"

"You see the way he gets all giddy around you?"

When the time would finally come to perform on stage in front of a live audience, Michael couldn't tell whether he was nervous from screwing up, or the way the team had dolled you up. Your hair dramatically high, your legs slender & smooth beneath your plain white midi dress paired perfectly with some kitten heels. You could see glitter everywhere on you, everywhere. He never noticed the other girls.

You'd give him a little hug before performing,

"You ready? you excited?" In your candy sweet voice, hands rested on his shoulders.

He'd nod, a chester cat smile plastered on his face as his hands remained on your waist a little too long after the hug.

"Im excited, you'll do great out there, you're great." He'd laugh nervously.

He found it so hard to focus on choreography when you were singing & dancing next to him, all the lyrics threatening to leave his brain anytime he's singing face to face with you. He knew that every performance after this one would be a challenge. The audience was already rooting for you two noticing the chemistry on stage, interviewers constantly asking,

"So what, are you two a thing? are you dating? cause' your chemistry is just amazing,"

Just for you & Michael to brush it off, giggling from silly little nerves.

"No we're just friends." He'd say.

Whether you two were sharing a stage, standing shoulder to shoulder during MTV shows, or sharing laughter backstage, he'd could never manage to take his eyes of you, he had his nose wide open for you.