𓈒❤︎︎࣪˖ what happens in the bedroom doesn't always stay in the bedroom!
intro ✴︎⸝꙳.˖𖥔݁˖๋ ( 5.2k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader x bad!michael jackson ╱ after a long night of passion between husband and wife, michael mindlessly rips open his shirt onstage, forgetting entirely about the previous night’s evidence sprawled all over his back… now, that’s something for the public to talk about!
notes ⁺˚♪º·˚ 𝟏𝟖+ established relationship. husband n wife of 8 years. begins with transcribed excerpt from an interview together. reader’s transcribed dialogue is signalled by heart symbol. ;; softdom!michael as always. makin’ sweet love til the break of dawn! mikey is shy in the streets n sexy in the sheets. . . light dirty talk. being overheard in the bedroom. hot n passionate sex. he talks u through it. zero protection. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. kinda babymaking. allusions to pregnancy. aftercare. sleeping while cockwarming. markin’ up ur sweetheart. . .
𝟎𝟐/𝟏𝟑/𝟖𝟗: 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑜𝑝 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑦 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛 𝐴𝐵𝐶 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙.
BW: So, we're getting toward the end of our time together today, but I don't think I could've interviewed you both without bringing up a certain picture that's taken the media by storm in the last week.
MJ: Oh God... [shy laughter, holding wife's hand tight]
BW: I have to ask!
♥︎: Do you?
BW: Look, I think we're all just very stunned that your husband went out on stage like that. And he could've kept the shirt completely on to cover up the marks, but he chose to rip it open.
MJ: I didn't—no, I'd forgotten all about um... what was on my back. [grinning bashfully]
♥︎: Did you really? [smirks & nudges him, to which MJ nudges back] No, I'm kidding!
BW: Seems like you both had a great night prior to the, uh… display. Would be rather unforgettable instead, surely?
MJ: No, 'm serious. I get so lost in my performances that 'm not thinkin' about anythin’ else. I'm a gentleman—I don't intend to do anything dirty.
♥︎: Ha! [a quick, loud laugh] Who the hell do you think you're kiddin', sir?
MJ: No, baby, you know 'm a gentleman.
BW: Well, from the look of your back in that picture, 'gentle' isn't the word that comes to mind...
♥︎: Oh my— [trying not to laugh with MJ]
BW: You'd still describe yourself as a gentleman?
MJ: I think there's a time an' a place for everything. I'm gentle in most ways. I just never meant to bring the, uh... other stuff to the view of the public. But I also don't think it's the worst thing ever though, right? Think this reaction is a little dramatic...
BW: So, do you both think that sort of thing is okay? You're laughing it off like it's normal to be displaying the extent of your sex life in front of the eyes of millions?
♥︎: [rolls eyes w/ a sigh]
MJ: Uh, well, like I said I didn't inte—
♥︎: Okay, here's the deal. We're husband and wife. Married for eight years too, by the way. This isn't the 1950s—everyone knows what married couples do at home, and as long as we're not doin' that on stage, what's the issue? I mean, Barbara, you seem to love talking about it so much—you're obviously entertained.
BW: But you don't think that what goes on in the bedroom should stay in the bedroom? Man and wife do have sex, yes, but should the public be given access to such intimacy?
♥︎: I wouldn't really call it getting access. Unless anybody has our tapes from the bedroom, they have zero access. And that's why I don't think this is an issue. No matter how 'media trained' I might be, I'm not going to conform to what you guys want me to say on topics like these. I'm sure you'll ask the same questions to Madonna, and Prince, and all the other artists who are extremely sexual onstage, right? Way more explicit than anything my husband and I have done.
BW: You make a good point, however I think it's a little different when there are undertones of the artist's real sexual acts. To my knowledge, Prince hasn't yet gone onstage with streaks of scratch marks down his back for all to see. And you've seen the pictures, they were very harsh scratch marks. It was immediately evident what they were—especially when you then came onstage for the next song and ran your hands over them. We haven't forgotten about that part, and I'm sure someone back there has the video for us to play. What was the point of that? Were you trying to mark your territory? Prove how good the sex is to somebody in particular, or to the world in general?
♥︎: [laughter] ‘Mark my territory?’ No, I was definitely not doing that. I'm very secure in my marriage, I can assure you. I don't need to prove to everybody how incredibly my husband makes love to me—
MJ: No, honey, don't say th—
♥︎: [shoos him with a hand] Oh, whatever, Michael, who cares? [laughs under her breath] As I was saying, we're way too secure to have to rely on showing the public 'proof' that we're sexually active—or whatever it is that you're getting at here. I obviously can't speak for Michael and confirm that he truly did forget about the marks, but I don't appreciate the suggestion that he or I would ever wish to prove the reality of our marriage to the world. We really couldn't care less about what the world thinks. As you've shown us throughout this entire interview, and as we've experienced in every other interview we've ever done, everything is always misconstrued, either deliberately or just because you want to be ignorant.
BW: I do understand that. But we have to ask these questions so that the misconstrued narratives can be corrected, don't we? And with that, we also don't have to agree with everything you state. I personally believe, along with many others, that a married couple bringing the privacy of their bedroom onto the stage is a very uncouth thing to do, and that in doing so, whether unconsciously or not—maybe it was just unconsciously—you have both garnered the controversy that's often necessary to keep your names in the headlines.
MJ: [scoffs]
♥︎: You think we need to try to keep our names in the headlines? Don't be silly, Ms. Walters.
BW: Listen, I know the two of you are always in the media no matter what, but it's not hard for us to believe that you would intentionally do something to further that attention, right?
MJ: Listen, Barbara, we can't leave our house without being mobbed by fans and paparazzi. We could try to disappear entirely from the public eye for months, or even years, and still they would attack us from all ends.
♥︎: [rubbing her thumb over his knuckles] Honey, there's no point. You know they always decide on their narrative and then they run with it, no matter what we say.
BW: Is that how you both feel? That as journalists we'll never truly understand?
♥︎: [speaking solemnly] Are you seriously asking us that question? None of you could ever understand even slightly. I would hope that at least some of our fans might try to, but me and my husband live such an insanely complex life that really, all you can do is continue to only attempt to examine it through your biased lens, poking holes in the tiniest of things. We rarely do interviews for that reason.
BW: I do understand that.
MJ: Y' sure?
BW: Yes, but if there were no journalists and paparazzi to help promote you guys—and the same goes for all the other celebrities out there—you wouldn't be half as celebrated and as widely known as you are now.
♥︎: Well, we can agree to disagree. Now, would you excuse me and my extremely explicit husband while we go off and fornicate in the corner? He needs some inspiration for his next song.
MJ: [squinting shyly & laughing, averting eyes]
BW: Oh, very funny.
♥︎: And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear my sex noises in the background of the next single!
MJ: [eyes widen] Uh, I think we’re done. Thank you for having us today, Ms. Walters.
BW: It was a pleasure…
TWO WEEKS AGO ; 𝓲𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝐨𝐟 𝓳𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝟐𝟕, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗...
"Oh, fuck yes, baby!"
"Honey, don't curse... 's okay, y' close again, huh?"
Michael cooed in your ear as he rocked into you with harsh abandon, slamming his hips against yours with each thrust. His thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit as he had you practically folded in half, your legs spread wide in a V-shape, and pushed up between where his body was a protective cage above you. They'd been up on his shoulders a moment ago, and you were so fucked out that you hadn't even registered the position he'd guided you into, only able to focus on the euphoric pleasure hitting your sweet spot every other second.
"Mikey, y'hittin' it so good, ohhh—right there, baby, keep goin'—"
The two of you had been at it for several hours, impossible in your haze to pinpoint an exact number. You'd lost count of how many orgasms you'd had, and you were honestly beginning to wonder if your body had any left in you. Biologically, how many orgasms could a woman actually produce in one night? You surely were breaking some sort of record here. Almost eleven years together, and while in those years you'd had many a night filled with sex, you were certain it had never been to this extent.
Tonight had been the night prior to Michael's final performance of the Bad world tour. You'd been touring throughout Europe yourself since Christmas, so before now you hadn't indulged in a night together in an entire month. The tour was concluding in Los Angeles, and therefore that meant that Michael had been back home in your shared mansion for the last eleven days during the residency.
Your three kids were currently being looked after by Katherine at Hayvenhurst, because she guessed that you and Michael would want your first night back together to be spent alone. So earlier on, you'd surprised him backstage as soon as he finished his second-to-last concert, and then immediately you were whisked away, nestled dreamily in your silk-laden king-sized bed, draped in pale pink, waiting almost no time at all to be filled to the brim with what you’d been craving since the last time you had the privilege of being fucked into the mattress by your husband. That last night had felt like a century ago now.
You knew exactly how lucky you were, but still you couldn't fathom that this was your reality, especially because you often looked to those days back in the seventies when Michael was the most inexperienced virgin in existence. You'd shown him the initial tips and pointers regarding sex, particularly with demonstrating how his eager mouth should perform oral, but over the years he'd exceeded performing the mere basics. And now you wondered if it was even possible that there could be a man on this earth more sexually skilled than Michael Jackson, because he gave you everything and more. It couldn’t be put into enough adequate words how perfect he was. Each roll of his hips felt like an ascension to the heavens, and my God, had you ascended tonight...
"Yeah, right there, mama?" he whispered through high groans, kneading your breast now and taking the hand that was rubbing your clit up to your thigh to hold it in place. "I know, baby girl... been hittin' it jus' right since we got home... whatever my girl wants..."
"Mhm, oh angel, 'm gonna cum—" you whined, hands gripping at the sticky sheets beneath you. The room smelled entirely of the warm musk of sex, with a hint of the clean sweat scent dripping from Michael's face and upper body; and of course where the element of sound was concerned, such was an amalgamation of moans, loud creaking, and the rough hit of the headboard banging against the wall with each thrust. Surely this piece of furniture would soon break, you thought; but you wouldn't say the concern aloud, because what kind of crazy woman would you be to say something that might have the potential to disrupt such mind-numbing pleasure?
"Ugh, God—rub y' clit, baby, I can't do everythin' at once," he murmured into your neck as he licked and sucked the most sensitive inch of the skin.
You did as he asked you to, bringing two fingers to your incredibly sensitive bud and massaging over it fiercely, desperate to reach your millionth orgasm of the night. Michael's strokes were getting erratic now, and he grunted profusely in your ear, big hands roaming everywhere. You took hold of one, interlocking your fingers, and you felt him smile against your ear, before pulling back to kiss you sloppily.
"Mm, tha's it, angel girl, yeah... keep holdin' my hand, 'm gonna get y' there..."
"Oh Mikey... baby, 's too much, I—ohhhhh—"
Your other hand now felt strangely limp, adjacent to a muscle cramp that made the movements over your clit virtually useless. So aggressively horny, you realised you were rubbing so hard that it was making the twist of your wrist uncomfortable, so with that hand you now instead wreathed that hand through your baby's curls, damp with sweat. You tugged on the lower ends of the strands, dragging his face down by his jaw to lick your tongue into his mouth, humming profanities that he always condemned.
"What did I say, hm? Pretty honey, I don't like when y' curse—oh—"
"Michael, you're—ughhhh—fucking me so—mm—dumb right now, I don't even know what I'm sayin'—"
"I know, I know..." he grinned, as he lifted your leg impossibly higher now, and drove into you with somehow even more force.
"Shit, baby—ohhhh my God—oh, 's so good! I can't believe this is real life..."
Your head lolled sideways onto the pillows, back arching as he fed an unbelievable degree of white hot pleasure into your aching body. Surely you wouldn't be capable of walking tomorrow, but you were an incredibly athletic dancer after all, and needed to be onstage for two duets to conclude Michael's tour, so unfortunately you'd have to grin and bear it.
"Been fuckin' you like this for years, honey... Not doin’ nothin’ different…” Michael moaned, head thrown back in euphoria, though pressing forward again to watch the sight of your breasts and the milky white ring around his cock that appeared each time he pulled back to thrust deeper.
"’n I never—shit—I never get used to it, babyyyyy, oh my—"
"Cum for me, beautiful... aw, my perfect lady, need t' feel it, c'mon..."
Your husband's forehead was now settled against yours, his sweat dripping into the beads running down your own face, and he'd never looked so fucking beautiful. The liquid appeared like glistening holiness on a face and an expression so inconceivably angelic, and his hand moved to cradle your jaw as he smiled through the ecstasy.
Your own face felt as limp as your hand had done, where it felt near impossible to say anything with intention; and Michael understood, knowing just how delirious you were after so much mind-blowing sex. And it wasn't merely the act of sex that was exhausting after so many rounds—it was Michael himself, the way Michael performed sex. He did nothing by halves, as was obvious in the way he produced his art, and in his eyes lovemaking was without a doubt the most meaningful, celestial art form in existence, no matter how filthy he had a tendency to make it.
But Michael believed nothing could be filthy that had you at the forefront, and he had carried that same sentiment into this night, a night complete with the sort of thing his mother had spent his entire youth deeming as pure sin. His most cherished sight was to see you reach your climax, and as you came undone yet again in his arms—in equal timing as the spilling of his seed into your welcoming heat—he held you so tight, rubbing his warm thumb over your cheek, gripping your shaky hand with his protection while your body seized and unraveled. He talked you through the comedown, as always, and now the sun was just beginning to come up—dawn was breaking through the silk curtains—so hints of gold and purple shone down all over your body.
In Michael’s eyes, that drapery of colour rendered you the most divine goddess he had ever laid eyes on. He understood in that moment—in the presence of the universe's morning light entwining with your natural, inherent beauty—that this was the most perfect experience involved in last night’s decision to make love until day began.
"So beautiful f'me, baby..." he whispered with the utmost sincerity, slowing his thrusts as he peppered the softest kisses all over your face and returned to knead your tender breasts, one at a time while you caught your breath. That was a specific thing Michael did a lot, providing a gentle massage that although didn't feel gentle in your overstimulation, always worked to calm you.
"Yeah, feel me, sweet girl... love y' so much, mama... my perfect angel..."
As gentle and tender as he never could retreat from, Michael adjusted your overexerted body so that you now lay on your side, with him also sideways, nose to nose with you. He didn't pull out, because he knew you'd whine, and of course he'd always rather stay with his body merged into yours. He kissed you softly, and continued to stroke his hands up and down your body, squeezing your ass, your thighs, and again your breasts, of course. Both of you had impeccable stamina because you were top-quality performers, but it was often the case that even just one orgasm could make you sleepy, let alone as many as Michael had given you in these last few hours. And you hadn't stopped for breath throughout each, so he assumed that now you must surely be done, therefore deciding that he'd give you aftercare until you drifted off into a slumber.
And yet despite all that, miraculously you felt in your heart and in your lower abdomen that you still weren't finished with him.
"Y'want me to run a bath for us, mama?" Michael whispered, pressing soft pecks to your nose and lips as his slender fingers caressed your torso and pulled you close to him, gently dragging your leg over his thigh, before running his hand up and down its softness.
You hummed in content, not even registering his question.
"Y' all spent now, hm?" he tried again, with a small smile at how completely blissed out you looked in front of him.
"Don't want you to pull out, baby..." you sighed deliriously, wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with his curls.
"Oh, but I need to, honey, if you want that bath..."
You did want a bath with your husband, but the mere thought of how it felt to sit between his legs in the water, back against his naked chest, soft member certain to rise against your lower back... it only made your arousal return close to violently. What had gotten into you tonight? Ovulation, probably. But absolutely no protection had been used, so that might prove to be a problem.
"I don't know what I want," you whined. "I want your dick..."
Michael's eyes widened in surprise, and he answered with a chuckle. "Y'want it some more? For real, mama? I don't wanna break this bed. Or you..." He furrowed his brows with genuine concern about your comfort. "Think you're way too sensitive right now, girl—aren't ya?"
"No, Mikey, 'm fine... Want it again... Love how you fill me, baby."
Now you were really just babbling nonsense, but you had to make him see that you were totally serious—unfortunately for your body and its inevitable incapabilities the following day.
"Alright, if you're sure," Michael laughed, kissing your nose. You felt him twitch inside you, and on instinct you bit your lip and shut your eyes tight.
"The sun's comin' up, mama. Been deep in this tight pussy for hours 'n hours..."
Playfully, he delivered a sudden thrust into your sweet spot, and your nails dug into his biceps with a sharp sigh. "Honey, don't... Don't tease."
"Just messin' with y', sweetheart. But first I need to get y' a glass of water, 'cause you’ll be dehydrated. I really put y' through that mattress." He chuckled softly, still gazing into your tired eyes.
"Nooo," you protested, squinting in frustration as you pawed at his upper back.
"Yes. Don't argue w' me—I'll be back in just two minutes, okay?"
"Whatever," you nodded, visibly irritated, but you knew he was right. Having gone the last few hours without water was akin to doing a several-hour workout without a single sip. You definitely needed to replenish your electrolytes, and you knew Michael would make the relevant decision to mix in Celtic sea salt too, to serve that purpose.
To your dissatisfaction, he finally pulled out, the wet pop sound serving as a serious bother to your desperate nervous system, despite how you knew he would be back inside you in under five minutes. A filthy stream of his release slipped out in slow drops between your thighs, coating the sheets beneath, and you made a mental note to make sure you cleaned that up in the morning before the maid unfairly had to.
The whine that left your throat as he disconnected made him shake his head with an amused laugh. He tapped your cheek and kissed your temple, before jumping up out of bed and shrugging on some sweatpants.
Your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head at the sight before you. First, there was the quick glimpse of his ever-hard, aching cock standing up against his stomach, decorated in veiny ridges, the glistening tip resting against his belly button before he tucked it into the grey cotton. Second, there was the view of that same beautifully enormous cock now poking up so harshly against said fabric that his decision to even slip into the sweatpants was rendered useless.
But thirdly, there was the wildest sight of all. Now, to preface, this wasn't the first time that the following had occurred after a passionate night, but you'd never seen it so starkly feral before. That third sight being, of course, the existence of seemingly never-ending bright red streaks of scratch marks running down the plane of your husband's back, and in their depth it felt surprising that you hadn't accidentally drawn blood. He looked as though he'd been mauled and attacked by a wild animal, and that wasn't all too inaccurate, really, as you'd certainly spent tonight behaving like such an animal, so savage and undomesticated with the way you grabbed and pawed at your man relentlessly. You couldn't help it.
As Michael stood up, adjusting the waistband of his sweats, he muttered something to you with a grin. "My entourage are gonna be sick of us..."
Immediately, your face squinted into something of concern. Aloud you gasped as you suddenly learned what you had unfairly been left unaware of.
Indeed, Michael's entire entourage were staying in your house. They were sleeping in various rooms, from the top floor to the bottom, and had been doing so all week of the LA shows. But of course since you'd only just returned to California this afternoon right before the show, and had jumped on your husband with so much aroused aggression immediately upon the show's closing, you hadn't paid attention to anyone else. Michael had made the generous offer to allow his team to stay with him rather than book hotel rooms, since your mansion was more than big enough, but it definitely would've helped for him to have told you so! Clearly it hadn't slipped his mind, and he didn't seem at all bothered by their presence, despite having spent literally all night ploughing into you as loud as ever. He stunned you the way he could be so shy in so many circumstances, and so the very opposite in others.
"Wh—? Michael? What do you mean, your fuckin' entourage?"
He only shook his head with a smile, strolling up to the door, dick still pressing up very visibly against his pants. The early sun was shining perfectly over the print, and it made for the most delightful image.
"Shh, 's okay; y'know they're used to it from whenever we've been with 'em in hotels."
"Michael, we're never that loud in hotels. We were insane tonight, what the f—?"
"Aht," he quietened your cursing before it had a chance to leave your lips. "Whatever, baby. I'll be back in a minute. Play with your clit f'me while y' wait."
You laid there in sheer disbelief, heart hammering with the embarrassment of having sounded like such a filthy slut for hours on end, and with the guilt of almost definitely disrupting their sleep. How would you face them all tomorrow? Michael could be such a mischievous dick sometimes.
Biting your lip in frustration, you pictured his naked image again, how excited you were for him to come back and give it to you all over again—a little quieter this time, or an attempt at quieter—and with a giddy, ditsy smile, you reached a hand down to prepare yourself for what would have to be the final round. Surely.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Michael had come face-to-face with Bill, who had also opted to hydrate, although for the opposite reason.
"You guys finally stopped now?" Bill asked, a slight despair in his tone, but amused all the same.
"No," Michael smiled bashfully, pouring a glass of pure filtered water for himself first. For the duration, he maintained a stance in the corner by the wall that concealed the monster he was packing beneath. Of course privacy had been a foreign word to Michael tonight, but nevertheless, it disturbed him that Bill of all people might see his erection so up close.
"What, is this just a short pause for refreshments before you resume with round one hundred million? How many times, kid? Jesus! I knew you had great stamina but... shit, man."
The younger man shrugged, still smirking as he downed the glass. But then Bill walked from where he'd been standing at Michael's side, to behind him, just to put back his glass on the counter, but with that, encountering something that had him almost speechless.
The marks.
Tonight—or this morning, rather—Michael was a walking picture of sex. His now-frizzy curls had been tugged in all different directions; the bottom half of his face was wrecked with faint lipstick stains; his neck was savagely adorned with deep, bordering on unhealthy-looking lovebites; and aside from the boner he’d done well so far to hide from Bill, there was also another element that you hadn't yourself noticed in the bedroom. The newborn light hadn't been gleaming brightly enough over every area of Michael's body, so while it had shone the perfect spotlight over the marks on his back, it had failed to portray to you the product of your gnawing nails all over his chest. There were faint marks on his biceps, but they were surprisingly not a match for how intense the ones on his chest were. They matched those of his back profile, which Bill was staring in astonishment at.
"Michael, what in the name of—? Damn, what are you doin' to her up there that's got her markin' you up like this?"
Michael's eyes widened upon hearing that Bill had seen the extent of your vicious attack, but he turned casually and laughed, now having poured a second glass for you. He opened up a cupboard and took out the salt.
But now Bill had noticed the other thing. Michael was incredibly naive to assume he could've really hidden a whole erection throughout this entire conversation all the way to his journey back up the twisted staircase. For most men it was a struggle to cover up, but for Michael it was just impossible to. He was insanely huge.
"Oh God," Bill groaned at the sight of what couldn't possibly be obscured beneath Michael's sweats. "Well, I didn't see that when you first walked in. That why you won't look at me properly?"
Michael's head whipped to the side, to look in confusion at the man who he deemed his literal father figure.
"Huh?" he squinted, before seeing where Bill's gaze went. "Oh—uh, oh my God, yeah, I didn't want y' to see that, but y'know I can't really help it, so..."
Bill chuckled, shaking his head as he turned from him and walked over to the centre counter. "You're crazy, kid. You plannin' to go 'til sunrise or somethin'?"
"Whatever my lady wants," Michael hummed as he stirred the salt into your tall glass. "What time is it now? The sun's already comin' up a little."
"It's," Bill checked the watch on his wrist, "5.22."
"For real?" Michael snapped his head around, then snapped it back forward immediately afterward when he remembered he'd rather not be looking at his second father right now.
"Yup. But you didn't get back 'til around eleven thirty, so six hours you've been goin' at it for."
Michael's mouth dropped open. He knew he had excellent stamina, and that you did too, but he couldn't believe that neither of you were ready to go to sleep yet. This night was certainly one he'd title as magical, although it never took much for Michael to class a night with you as part of that category of experience.
Now done with preparing your glass, he began walking back over to the door leading out into the hall, and Bill kept his distance, refusing to look ahead.
"Is there another baby on the way, Mike?"
"I don't know—we'll have to wait 'n see. We're not plannin' on it but we also aren't tryna prevent it either."
"Man, you sure sound like you're plannin' on it, goddamn."
Michael only laughed, leaving the room to make his way back upstairs and into your arms.
He sat you on his lap, let you rock over his heavy, clothed bulge while you sipped the water, refusing to resume the sex until you were properly hydrated. And then you bounced on his cock for what felt like another beautiful lifetime, even more ethereal now as your body glowed with the rise of the sun while you worked your dancer's hips, movements always guided by your man. How you had the energy to ride cowgirl after all those hours was beyond you, but it was one of your most favourite positions, and when you did inevitably begin to falter and feel a little dizzy with the overexertion as you neared your climax, Michael took over, ordering you to now do nothing but rest over him, while he thrusted upward in long, deep strokes. Alongside that provision of pleasure, he murmured sweet nothings in each ear, squeezing your breasts, expressing all his devotion.
Yet again, his hot seed hit deep into your womb, and you fell asleep the way you'd missed so much—with him still inside you, the milky substance having more than enough opportunity to explore your walls and keep its place there for conception.
Neither of you had spoken seriously about having another child, and it really wasn't practical for your careers at this stage; but the idea of a fourth baby had always existed in the background of your conversations, in the subtext of Michael's excitement whenever he would see you hold someone else's newborn, or how you would both gush over the adorable sight of the tiniest clothing; or even in the sadness you both expressed at how quickly your children were growing.
If you did happen to have conceived a child sometime during this passionate night, it was doubtful that either of you would regret such reckless, continual insemination.
angelcrescent © 2026 ˖ ࣪🥡🥢⁺˖꙳◦🐚 ╱ inspired by this thought and the picture that accompanied it… ;)
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