#michael jackson

Your body has changed. After three beautiful babies, it was bound to do that. 

And Michael loved it.

Especially right after you had Paris. 

Prince and Paris were born so close together, that your body had no time to recover much, it only got thicker. Your hips thickened up, your ass became even more plush, and your tits had just about doubled in size. 

Your husband was an absolute fein for it, and everybody around him knew it. He wasn’t exactly subtle with his adoration. Michael would stare at you across the room. If you were near him, one of his hands always found its way onto your hip, softly groping the flesh. He also loved slapping your ass with a boyish grin whenever he came up from behind you. 

His family would constantly make jokes and tease him about it. 

One time at a family function, Michael just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, even when you were on the other side of the room. Janet had noticed it, coming up behind her brother and putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Y’know, I think y/n thickening up has broken you.” She teased with a smile.

Michael just looked at her, huffing out a laugh and shaking his head, before glancing back over at you. He didn’t deny it, because Janet wasn’t wrong. It had broken him, it plagued his mind constantly.

As a couple years passed, you lost a bit of the weight. You still had all the assets, and they were still all definitely bigger than they were before kids, but they were not as plush as before. It was honestly bound to happen with how much you had to chase Prince around, he was one handful of a toddler, always into something. It had saddened Michael a little bit, he missed it. Of course, he would never tell you that, he thought you were beautiful regardless, and he didn’t want you thinking otherwise. It actually physically pained him when you thought otherwise.

Luckily for him though, in 2002 you welcomed your third baby, Blanket. And with that, came all that plushness back. With that also came more jokes from Michael’s family about his obsession with it, but he didn’t care.

You had just put the two month old to sleep for the night, laying him in his crib. For a moment you just stared at him in awe, he truly did look so much like his father. Those darling black tufts of curls on top of his head, dark eyebrows that strikingly resembled Michael’s, even now as just a newborn. Though you couldn’t see them right now, he had those same big doe eyes like his father’s. That might’ve been your favorite part, you found yourself getting lost into Blanket’s eyes all the time. You smiled softly, smoothing down his hair, and murmuring an “I love you”.

When Michael found you, you were in the bedroom. You didn’t notice him come in, too occupied with folding tiny baby clothes on top of the dresser. He came up behind you, pressing into your back, his hands found your hips. You jumped slightly, startled by his sudden appearance. “Jesus, you scared me.” You huff out a laugh. 

Michael hummed, pressing kisses from your neck, down to your shoulder, “‘M sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to scare ya’.” 

“Any trouble getting Prince and Paris to sleep?” You ask, continuing to fold another onesie. 

Michael shakes his head, “Nope, read ‘em a bedtime story, and they were out like a light before I even got halfway through. What about Blanket?” 

“I nursed him and he was out.” You smile softly. 

There’s a beat of silence.

“He’s a lucky lil’ thing.” Michael sighs, his breath fanning over your neck. 

You snort, “What?” 

Michael brings his large hands up to cup your breasts through the material of your shirt, “He gets these pretty things all to himself.” 

You laugh, “Are you serious right now?” 

He nodded against your neck, “Absolutely, you’re just so gorgeous. S’ full in all the right places.” 

“Michael.” You murmur bashfully.

You knew your husband loved how much thicker you had gotten since having three kids. He wasn’t good at hiding how much he loved it, at all. Michael wasn’t inconspicuous with it in the slightest.

“You’re just so soft and pretty right now, mama.” He smiled, one hand splaying across your tummy, which was now soft as one normally is during postpartum. 

“This body gave me three perfect babies, and it still looks as beautiful as ever.” Michael whispered, his tone soft and smooth like always.

You turn around in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck as you face him now. You press a kiss to his lips, “I love you.”

“I love you too, forever.” Michael whispers, resting his forehead against yours. 

You feel his hand squeeze your ass, “You’re insatiable, Mr. Jackson.” You shake your head, smiling.

And you? You… feel like a wolf. A drooling, cartoonishly hungry wolf.

Something ancient and primal claws at you from the inside-out with every single move he makes: the way he’s rubbing his thighs with both hands, probably nervous and clammy. Mmh, fuck… Or, the way his eyes dart between you and the big screen like pendulums, the corners of his mouth twitching. As if making sure you’re actually ignoring the movie in favor of watching him, and that he’s not crazy for thinking as much.

“You don’t like it?” he whispers, even though there’s no reason to. You’re cooped up in his car, not in a theater. He’s so sweet. “The movie?”

“I think my view’s better…” You grin slyly, bottom lip getting caught by your teeth. You’re facing him over the console, one leg bent under you. Your idle hand drifts to his nape, toying with his curls, and you have to bite your lip harder when you feel him shiver.

He laughs, a bashful little chuckle. His big, beautiful, mouth-watering palm comes down on your thigh and gives you a squeeze before it settles there, rubbing absentminded patterns. Oh, you’re going to eat him the fuck up.

“Hey, Bambi?” you whisper too, because it’s more fun that way. Like you’re sneaking around.

“Hm?” He turns his head, lips pursed. (When you’re with other people, calling him Bambi would’ve had him clowned ‘til kingdom come. Especially by his brothers. You’d never do that, even though you’ll very easily tell them to fuck off in the same breath. But, when you’re alone? Well, that’s another conversation entirely.)

And, fuck, that little stache he’s grown out…? May God help him because he’s going to fucking need it, that’s all you’re saying.

You make a point of looking around the open space outside the window, the few other cars currently attending scattered around like crumbs. No one next to you, or in front, or behind. The loudness of a doomed summer camp echoing off the screen, everything else perfectly dark and all sounds perfectly muffled.

Just… perfect.

“Isn’t it nice?” you ask, fingers rubbing the bottom of his scalp with more gusto, more intention.

“The movie?” he smiles. “Baby, I don’t think you’ve watched anyth—”

“No, no, not the movie,” you giggle. “Just… this.”

His hold on your thigh tightens, and the fiend inside you rejoices. “Everywhere’s nice with you.”

There he goes, saying shit like this and making your heartbeat pick up. As if that face wasn’t enough.

“Doesn’t it make you wanna, I don’t know…” You take a breath, fingers twirling a curl around the way you know causes him goosebumps. “…Fool around?”

If possible, his eyes widen even more. He adjusts in place, gaze shifting around as if he’s about to get caught like a teenager in a liquor store. You need him so bad. It’s fucking ridiculous. And he smells so good…

“Here?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound half as nervous as he looks. If anything, he sounds… Hm. You can’t really pinpoint it yet. But he’s sounded that way more and more since Sunday; like a reinvention, a sudden spurt of confidence. 

(You wouldn’t be surprised to find out your pussy’s just that good. Nothing you haven’t heard before, thank you!)

“Do you give a shit about Sleepaway Camp, Mike?”

“Not one,” he shakes his head, running his tongue over the front of his pearly whites. That sly smile is creeping up his lips, making the apples of his cheeks just ripe enough to bite.

“Then kiss me.”

Who is he to deny you?

His mouth tastes faintly of the vaseline he uses on his lips, and the strong tang of Big Red’s cinnamon flavored gum he loves to chew on. It leaves you tingling with each hungry swipe he gives you, both of his palms now anchored on the base of your neck, his fingers splayed over your jaw and cheeks. So, so big. So pretty. So Michael.

You kiss him like you want to eat him down to the bone, because that’s exactly what you want. It’s open-mouthed almost from the get-go; he lets out a surprised yelp and you swallow it immediately, tongue licking over his soft and glistening lips before making its way past his teeth. He shudders.

Fuck.

You moan into him. And—like the hungry wolf you are—you break the kiss and grin evilly when he chases after it. You don’t let him process it before you’re messily climbing over the console, house keys jiggling as you land on his lap. He’s looking up at you with those big, wide, Bambi eyes; looking up at the wolf’s maw with nothing but awe.

(Don’t get you wrong. He’s still a man. Not the most experienced or macho or… whatever else the majority of your friends seem to be chasing after. But a man, nonetheless. He has a presence about him. And, you’d seen the way his brothers teased him the first time he brought you out with them and the rest of their women, acting like he was a little boy.

So, you’d played it up for their eyes; shyly asked him for permission to have another drink, like the most natural thing in the world. Cuddled up next to him on the booth, his arm around your shoulder, his legs spread like he owned the place. You swore too much in the exact way you knew he disliked, just to make him click his teeth at you in reprimand, make him tell you, “C’mon now, why you cussin’ like that?”

Just to purposefully look apologetic, batting your eyelashes and saying, “Sorry, baby,” over the rim of your glass. The looks exchanged meant you’d hit your goal; a mix of brotherly humor, combined with the dick-measuring sort of respect men have with each other.

Even though you’ve got a firm metaphorical grip around his leash. Even though you are the wolf, spit glistening just at the thought of tasting him. You like him enough to play the lamb. No other man’s ever made you do that for them, but then again, no other man is Michael.)

So, yeah, point is? You might’ve been his first, but you certainly aren’t the first to fall victim to those eyes. He knows exactly how to wield the dual weapon. Exactly how.

“Open your mouth,” you say suddenly, arms wrapping around his neck to bring him close. You’re already heating up under your jeans, heart fluttering in tandem with his goddamn lashes.

You dive into him the second he does, biting on his bottom lip because you just can’t help yourself. But then your tongue is swirling against his, sighing into him, grounding yourself against his lap. He gasps deep down his chest when you do, palms tightening on your hips, tongue helpless against your onslaught.

“Mmh,” you murmur against him, hips giving a small experimental grind. He pushes up against you, adjusting his grip and legs, pushing them out further in a way that has your pussy almost dancing. You both smile against each other’s mouths.

But then, just as his and your lips are coincidentally opened, sucking in a quick breath together… You dive back in. Lips locked, you find his tongue and suck.

The way Mike shakes, you’d think he’s gotten a fucking fever. 

He lets you nibble on his tongue for just a moment more before he’s breaking the kiss, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon, eyes hooded and clouded when they meet yours.

“Why’d you do that for?” he asks, brows scrunched in a painfully pretty and disbelieving frown. He looks so… frazzled. Like you just shook his world.

You pout playfully, playing with the curls around his nap again, laying your weight on him. “It’s French kissing. Don’t you like it?”

He swallows, and when he speaks, his breath smells of cinnamon and blackberry. Your chapstick. “What type of Frenchmen have you been kissin’ like that, huh?”

You laugh. He breaks into a smile when you do, like he was waiting for it. His thumb is rubbing you softly on the hip, inconspicuously trailing up your blouse hem.

“Well, d’you like it? ‘Cause, I, um, wanna do it again…” Your hold on his curls tightens, sharply, and he bares his teeth in a smile. “Like, real bad…”

“You can do whatever you want to me, baby…” He suddenly brings you down against him, the abrupt show of strength shooting a painful pang between your legs.

It’s all the incentive you need.

You kiss him again, tongue-first, and he mirrors you immediately. Somewhere from the back on the big screen a girl screams, but it’s all drowned out by the feeling of his mouth falling slack-jawed as you take his tongue into you again. You suck it softly, moaning at the feeling of it twitching, at the taste of his spit, the way he starts bucking his hips against you helplessly. 

Your poor baby, oh, he’s so hard… It must be aching…

The thought shouldn’t feel as evil as it does.

You let go of Michael’s tongue with a tiny pop, inhaling a breath before tutting disapprovingly at him for closing his mouth. You sigh: “Nooo, open up, c’mon, wanna see it…”

He does. That tiny adorable furrow of his brow is back again, his mind probably running a hundred miles per minute, hips so cutely grinding up against you with absolutely no help.

With the biggest smile ever, you give his tongue a lick; a shiver shoots straight down your spine when he cries a broken, “A–ah…”

You continue like that. Kitten-licks on his warm tongue, moaning every time it twitches and he instinctively pulls it back before muttering an apology and giving you a peck. After a minute or so, you shift your technique; sliding the tip of your tongue across the entire sensitive underside of his, smiling when he shakes, puckering your lips and sucking it softly again…

Michael’s grown desperate. He’s set an almost-steady rhythm with his hips, grinding and moaning and squeezing your hips down because you’re making no moves whatsoever. If he wants help, he has to help himself.

One of his hands, trembling, sneaks up the line of your spine and buries itself in your nape, bringing your head back. You both gasp breathlessly, and for a second, the only thing connecting you is a string of saliva before it breaks.

“I can’t, I,” he stutters brokenly, “mama, you gon’ make me—”

“Mhm?” you hum in encouragement, hips rising to hover a bit, mouth trailing up to his ear and giving it a soft kiss. He whines at the loss of contact, and you don’t fight against his hands when they bring you down again.

You’re so wet. Like, unfairly, panty-ruining, on-the-verge-of-a-handfree-orgasm wet. You have been for a while, but the actual friction through your jeans is minimal. Though the inseam is currently working wonders for your predicament, it’s still not enough. But that’s okay. You don’t mind.

“I’m serious, girl,” he punches out. “You keep goin’ like that and I’ll, I’ll—”

“Will you?” you whisper. Your cheeks hurt with the way you’re beaming.

“Stop,” he says, sharply. Resolutely.

“Really?” You pout. (No, not really.)

His eyes crumble at your face. He shakes his head, clenches his eyes, neck falling back and revealing its gorgeous expanse to you. His throat bobs, and it looks mouth-watering.

“No, honey, no… Not really…” he sighs, eyes falling shut before he’s connecting your lips again.

“Fuck, you taste so good…” you murmur between breaths.

“Thank you, pretty baby,” he sighs into you, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a pull as he breaks the kiss. He sucks in a nervous breath before he breaks out into his most money-winning smile. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Do it again f’me?”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

You could suck on his tongue for hours if he’d let you. It tastes sweet; a bit salty from the popcorn, deep in a way that reminds you of the cinnamon spice syrup you grew up eating in everything your mother baked. 

Fuck, he’s so responsive, bucking against you and straining against his jeans, the muffled friction through the denim dizzying. You twist and turn your head, almost making out with just that part of him. But you kiss him too, small pecks to cut it up, and he melts into you each time.

When you lick on the underside of his tongue again, his hips stutter, and he clutches you against him like a vice.

Aw, wait. Did he just…?

Aww—

“Nonono…” he cries, forehead falling against yours. He’s still twitching, and when you selfishly ground your hips against the tent in his jeans hard, he jumps like a spring. “Stop, stop, I’m—”

“What happened, Mike?” you ask, not even trying to sound convincing.

“Stop playing,” he groans. “Somebody dyin’ back there—”

You cut him off, giggling: “I don’t give a shit about the movie, baby! Did you just…?” One of your palms drifts down his shoulder to his belly, dangerously close to the quickly-spreading darkened patch of denim.

He grabs your wrist, not that you had any intention of going down farther. (That’s a big fat lie. You’d love nothing more than to get a little taste, but you’re scared it’s going to send him into cardiac arrest, or something. Some other time, ease into it). He brings it up his mouth, kissing the side of your hand, doe-eyes locked onto yours.

“It’s embarrassing…” he lilts. His facial proportions are, like, 90% straight eyes. Staring a hole into you and tempting you to further violate public decency.

“It’s flattering,” you counter. “And sexy. D’aww, baby… You have no idea what it does to me…”

Sneakily, you bring your other hand down, shaking your head in a cooing motion when he twitches in anticipation. But you don’t touch his aching dick, no matter how much you need to. Your palm just glides under the hem of his soft sweater, rubbing comforting circles on his belly as he sighs.

Mmh, you can feel the tiny curls of his happy trail… Fuck. Fucking fuck.

“Gotta,” he kisses you, breaking apart, “make it up,” another kiss, “to my baby now,” another on your cheek, “don’t I?”

“I guess you do, huh?” you grin, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “How d’you plan on doing that exactly, Mr. Thrill-her?”

There it is again; that million dollar smile. Paired with the playful but stinging—delicious—smack he lands on your ass, it’s downright lethal.

“Get in the back.”

And, who are you to refuse?

3leni © 2026 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

A fresh, hot shower was just what you needed. Your skin lets off steam from the temperature of the water as you let out a relaxed sigh. The smell of your body wash filled the room like a concentrate, seemingly sticking to every bit of fabric in the room as your fingers intertwined with the soft fabric of your robe, slipping it around your body before tying it tightly around your waist.

The gentle sounds of the TV playing some random show in the background as laugh tracks spilled from the speakers. A single light from the bedside table veiled the room, illuminating half the room, leaving the other half in slight darkness. The sound of the door clicking shut snapped you completely out of your daze; the sound of shoes against the softness of the carpet caught your attention, a familiar figure coming into view.

“Hey, baby,” his voice was exhausted, like he could collapse at any moment. His eyes were heavy as he slowly blinked, as if his eyes were being held down by miniature weights, yet the first thing he did when he walked through the door was smile at you. The sweat from his forehead had long disappeared, and the adrenaline from the hours-long show finally wore off, now turning into pure fatigue.

“How was the show?” Your arms connected around the back of his neck as you pressed a longing kiss to his lips, engulfing his warmth, letting your lips move rhythmically against his. It felt almost unfamiliar after so long of not kissing him, hours of not feeling his hands around your waist, hours of him not lying next to you, arms wrapped around you, keeping you close.

“Mmm, it was perfect,” he took a second to let his nose adjust to your recognizable scent. “They were really energetic, lots of screaming. I had fun, but I've been itching to get back to this hotel room.” His hands ran down the sides of you robe before stopping. A drawn-out yawn slipped from his mouth, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, making you giggle at the sight.

"Maybe it's time to get you to bed," you laughed, pulling away from him before he pulled you back in, those pretty, doe eyes sucking you in like a tornado.

"I don't wanna go to bed, I need you." His head got comfortable in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath tickling your collarbone.

“Mikey, c'mon” you whined as he pressed his lips towards your collarbone.

“Hm? Lay down for me,” he guided you towards the bed until your back when your knees hit the edge of the bed, making you sit down onto the soft sheets with a soft gasp.

“All those fans tonight and the only thing I was thinkin’ about was you,” he cooed, dropping to his knees. His eyes full of desire, like he could just devour you whole. His finger tangled gently around the knot in your robe, pulling at the longer end as it fell apart. The fabric revealing your bare chest as he slid it off, the heat of his hands warming up your whole body as you laid back, your legs instinctively parting, revealing your already leaking core.

“Mmm, so pretty ma,” he spoke, his large hand wrapping around your thighs, keeping you locked in place as he stuck his tongue out, flicking the sensitive bud before his mouth latched on, sucking at it, making you gasp.

His tongue worked magic, sloppily lapping up every bit of his sweet juices that filled his mouth, eliciting lewd moans from his mouth as his fingers naturally tangled in his curls, still feeling some of the dampness that came from performing. Everything you were feeling too overwhelming, your senses were consumed by the feeling of his tongue licking long strips on your soaked cunt before letting his tongue draw circles around your entrance.

“Fuck, it feels s'good” you whimper, your legs threaten to close, yet Michael didn't let them, his hand only gripping tighter as he pulled you impossibly closer to his face.

“Yeah? You taste so good, baby,” he murmured against your sex before diving back in. His face was dripping, but he didn't care. Why would he when you tasted this good?

Your back arched, your eyes fluttering shut as your mouth hung open. You tried your best to push him away because of the simple fact that it was too much to handle, and your body felt overly hot. The knot that was in your stomach slowly coming undone as your breathing got heavier, and your whines only got louder, filling the room with your sounds while Michael let out a pleasant hum. The sloppy sounds of him devouring your cunt like it was the last time he'd ever eaten.

“I can't… Michael,” you panted, body lurching forward uncontrollably.

“Yes you can, I know you can, c'mon”

God, that seductive, playful tone sent you over the edge as you tossed your head back, sinking your fingers into the hotel comforter as you arrived. Hips bucking in attempts to get that last bit of friction.

“I don't think I'm tired anymore.”

Oh, this was going to be a long night.

©angelfacediary

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