#starting something

The bathroom was a warm, steam-filled sanctuary, the air thick with the scent of Michael’s sandalwood soap and the floral haze of your hairspray. The long mirror over the dual sinks was fogged at the edges, framing your reflection in a soft, hazy glow. You stood in your lingerie—a simple, elegant set of black lace—and concentrated on the delicate, frustrating task of putting on your tights.

“Honestly, who invented these things?” you muttered, wrestling with the sheer, clingy nylon. You’d bunched one leg up and were trying to ease it over your foot without snagging it on your toenail, a precarious ballet of modern fashion.

Michael, already dressed and impeccably so, stood behind you, adjusting the knot of his silver silk tie. He watched you in the mirror, a faint, amused smile touching his lips. He was a vision in crisp black, the suit jacket hanging perfectly on his slender frame, his hair freshly relaxed and falling in soft waves around his face. He looked like he was about to grace a stage, not host a stuffy industry dinner.

“Y’need help, honey?” he asked, his voice a low, warm rumble.

“I’ve got it,” you grunted, finally succeeding in pulling the tights up to your knee. You started on the other leg, your mind catching up on the past few weeks. “So, I finally finished that book I was tellin’ you about. The one about th’ Romanovs. God, what a downer. I cried f’a day.”

He chuckled, stepping closer to you, his presence a warm, solid weight at your back. “You always cry at th’ sad parts.”

“I know, I’m a sucker,” you said, shimmying the tight fabric over your hips. You smoothed the waistband, the sheer black material clinging to every curve. You met his eyes in the mirror, your expression deliberately casual. “N’ I stopped takin’ m’birth control a few weeks ago.”

You didn’t pause. You didn’t give him a chance to react. You turned slightly, plucking your simple black sheath dress from its hanger on the back of the door.

“Speakin’ of sad parts,” you continued, your tone light and breezy, “did I tell you Janet called? She thinks she might have a cold. She was goin’ on and on about how she can’t afford to lose her voice right now.”

But you knew. You knew he wasn’t listening to a word about Janet.

In the mirror, you saw it all. It was a glorious, silent, three-act play performed solely on Michael Jackson’s face.

Act I: The Freeze. His hands, which had been adjusting his tie, stopped moving. His entire body went utterly still. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of blank incomprehension. His brain, that brilliant, hyperactive, lightning-fast processor, had just crashed. The sentence hung in the steamy air between you, a handful of words he’d been waiting to hear for years, delivered with all the emotional impact of a weather report.

Act II: The Reboot. His eyes, wide and dark, darted from your face to your stomach and back again. A slow blink. His lips parted, but no sound came out. The knot in his tie, forgotten, slipped down an inch. The world outside this bathroom, the dinner, the guests, the entire city of Los Angeles, simply ceased to exist. There was only you, and the bomb you had just dropped into the quiet, predictable orbit of his life.

Act III: The Overload. A brilliant, blinding, incandescent joy exploded behind his eyes. It was too much, too bright, too big to be contained. A grin, wide and unchecked and breathtakingly beautiful, spread across his face, but he tried to fight it, to smother it. He pressed his lips together, but a little puff of escaped air, a half-squeak, half-gasp of pure delight, slipped out. He looked away, towards the tiled floor, as if the sight of your reflection would shatter his fragile composure. His shoulders started to shake, a silent, convulsive laughter that he was desperately trying to suppress.

“Janet,” he finally managed to say, his voice a strangled, high-pitched squeak. He cleared his throat, trying again. “Janet… uh… has a cold. That’s… that’s terrible.”

You slipped the dress over your head, the cool fabric a relief against your heated skin. You turned to face him, your expression innocent. “Isn’t it? I told her to drink lots of tea with lemon and honey. Are you okay, Mike? You look a little flushed.”

He couldn’t answer. He just stared at you, his eyes shining with a light so bright it was almost dizzying. He was vibrating, a tuning fork struck at the perfect, euphoric frequency. He looked like he wanted to scream, to dance, to lift you into his arms and spin you around this small, steamy room until you were both dizzy. Instead, he just stood there, grinning like a fool, a silent, glorious fireworks display of happiness.

“Oh, M’ fine,” he said, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. “I’m… M’ just… really… really happy about your book.”

The dinner was an exercise in professional torture.

Michael was a master of social grace, a virtuoso of public charm. But tonight, he was a mess. He sat beside you at the long, gleaming table, a perfect picture of elegance in his black suit, but under the table, his knee was bouncing a frantic, non-stop rhythm against yours. He had one hand resting on your thigh, and his thumb was stroking a small, insistent circle through the thin fabric of your dress, a repetitive, obsessive motion that was driving you quietly insane.

“Michael, darling,” said a woman in a sequined gown and too much perfume, leaning across the table. “Teddy was jus’ tellin’ us about th’ new video. We’re all s’terribly excited.”

Michael blinked, dragging his gaze away from you with a visible effort. “The video,” he repeated, his voice a little hoarse. “Yes. The video. It’s… it’s goin’ t’be great. Lots of… light.”

He smiled, but it was a strange, distant smile. His eyes were glazed over, focused on some inner, private paradise. You could practically hear the gears in his head turning, not about music or choreography, but about baby names and nursery colors.

You decided to torture him a little more. Under the table, you placed your hand over his, stilling its frantic stroking. You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. “Are you enjoyin’ your steak, honey?” you whispered, your voice a low, sultry purr. “It’s very… juicy.”

He jumped, nearly knocking over his water glass. He shot you a look that was a wild mixture of sheer panic and raw, unadulterated lust. “It’s… ‘s great,” he choked out, turning back to his dinner companions with a pained, tight-lipped smile. “Very… juicy.”

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of meaningless chatter and Michael’s barely concealed impatience. He was like a racehorse in the starting gate, every muscle coiled and ready to bolt. He answered questions with monosyllables, laughed at jokes a second too late, and kept his other hand, the one not on your thigh, clenched into a white-knuckled fist on the tablecloth.

You, on the other hand, were the picture of calm. You sipped your wine, discussed politics, and laughed at the producer’s terrible jokes, all while feeling the frantic, hopeful energy thrumming off the man beside you. The secret you shared was a electric current running between you, a live wire of possibility and promise.

Every chance you got, you pulled the wire.

When the waiter refilled your wine glass, you placed your hand over Michael’s on the table and drew idle circles on his knuckles. “You have such beautiful hands,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll bet they’d look s’good holding my baby.”

He made a sound like a deflating balloon. He snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned and immediately shoved it in his lap under the table, where you knew he was gripping his knee so hard his knuckles were white.

Later, a toast was made. As everyone raised their glasses, you turned to Michael, a serene, smiling angel. “To the future,” you whispered, clinking your glass against his. You held his gaze, letting the words hang in the air, a deliberate, pointed promise.

His grip on the crystal stem was so tight you were afraid it would shatter in his hand. He took a long, desperate swallow of champagne, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He didn’t look at you again until the final toast of the night.

He was practically vibrating by the time the last guest said their goodbyes at the front door. His smile was a rigid, painful-looking mask. He nodded and shook hands and murmured polite pleasantries, but his eyes were locked on you, following your every move as you said your own goodbyes with a calm, graceful ease.

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut, the silence that fell over the house was deafening. The air crackled. Michael stood frozen for a second, then he spun around, his face a thundercloud of need. He took a step towards you, a predator finally unleashed.

But you held up a hand, a single, elegant gesture that stopped him dead in his tracks. “M’ exhausted,” you sighed, a masterful performance of feigned fatigue. “I think I’ll jus’ go on up t’bed.”

You turned and walked away, not running, but with a deliberate, swaying gait that you knew was driving him insane. You climbed the grand staircase, your heels clicking softly on the marble, feeling his burning gaze on your back the entire way. You didn’t need to look to know he was following, a silent, prowling shadow.

You entered your bedroom, a large, opulent space dominated by a king-sized bed piled high with velvet pillows. You walked to the foot of the bed, your back to the door. You reached behind you, your fingers finding the tiny zipper of your dress. You pulled it down, the sound a long, slow, metallic hiss in the quiet room. You let the dress pool at your feet, leaving you in just your sheer black tights and lace bra. You heard a sharp, ragged intake of breath from the doorway.

Then you felt him. The air shifted behind you, growing thick and heavy. He didn’t touch you, not yet. He just stood there, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer, desperate force of his presence. He was a dam about to break.

“Mama,” he breathed, the word a hoarse, reverent prayer. It was the name he only ever used in moments of supreme, overwhelming emotion. It was a plea, a praise, a surrender.

You turned slowly to face him. His face was transformed, stripped of all its polished, public grace. It was raw, vulnerable, and etched with a need so profound it was almost frightening. His eyes were dark pits of fire, burning with an unholy light.

He closed the distance between you in a single stride. He didn’t kiss you. He dropped to his knees.

The sight of him, Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, on his knees before you, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated power through your veins. He pressed his face against your stomach, his hands gripping your hips, holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control.

“You did this,” he whispered, his lips moving against the lace of your bra. “You’re givin’ me… everythin’.”

He kissed your stomach, soft, worshipful kisses that made your skin tingle. He looked up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You’re gonna b’a mama. My mama.”

You threaded your fingers through his soft hair, your touch a gentle, possessive caress. “I am.”

A choked sob escaped his lips. He buried his face in your stomach again, his whole body trembling. And then, he began to worship you. He kissed a path up your body, his hands roaming restlessly over your curves. He reached back and unhooked your bra, his fingers clumsy with urgency. He peeled the lace away, baring your breasts to him. He took one in his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the nipple with a desperate, hungry need.

“Milk,” he murmured against your skin, the word a dirty, beautiful, sacred thing. “Gonna make milk f’our baby.”

Your head fell back, a moan escaping your lips. The sheer, primal filthiness of it, combined with the profound tenderness, was a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail. He lavished the same attention on your other breast, his hands hooking into the waistband of your tights.

He stood up, lifting you effortlessly. He carried you to the bed and laid you down on the silk sheets. He knelt between your legs, his gaze locked on the sheer black fabric covering your core. He hooked his fingers in the nylon and ripped.

The sound of the tights tearing was a gunshot in the silent room. He didn’t care. He was an animal, driven by a single, all-consuming instinct. He tore the fabric away, baring you completely to his hungry gaze.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “S’perfect. Made jus’ f’me. Made f’our family.”

He lowered his head, and then his mouth was on you. He didn’t tease. He didn’t build up to it. He feasted. He licked and sucked with a wild, untamed hunger, his tongue delving into your folds, tasting you, claiming you. He was like a starving man at a banquet, and you were the only course.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed. Your hands flew to his hair, holding him to you, your hips bucking up to meet his ravenous mouth. “Michael… oh god, Michael…”

He growled against your clit, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them, finding that spot that made you see stars. He pumped them in and out, his tongue working your clit in a relentless, demanding rhythm.

You were so close, the pleasure coiling in your stomach, a tight, hot knot of need. “Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice a ragged whisper. “Please, don’t stop…”

He doubled his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth, his fingers fucking you harder, faster. The knot inside you snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you, a violent, blinding wave of ecstasy. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.

He didn’t give you a chance to come down. He kissed his way back up your body, his clothes a rough, abrasive friction against your sensitive skin. He was still fully dressed, a fact that was suddenly, maddeningly, incredibly hot.

He fumbled with his belt, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t get the buckle open. “Need t’be inside you,” he panted, his voice a raw, desperate plea. “Need t’fill you up, Mama. Need t’put a baby in you. Right now.”

He finally got his belt undone, then the button and zipper of his trousers. He shoved them down, along with his briefs, freeing his dick. He was hard, so hard it looked painful, thick and heavy and leaking precum. He took himself in hand, stroking once, twice, a desperate, needy motion.

He settled between your thighs, not even bothering to take off his shirt or jacket. He was a desperate, glorious mess, his hair disheveled, his lips swollen from your kisses, his eyes dark with a feral hunger.

He guided the head of his cock to your entrance, not pushing in, just letting it rest there, a hot, heavy promise. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, growly order.

You opened your eyes, your vision blurry with tears of pleasure. You looked up at him, at the wild, possessive look in his eyes.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice a raw, possessive growl. “This body is mine. This womb is mine. N’ M’ gonna fill it. M’ gonna put my baby in you tonight.”

He pushed inside you, a slow, deep, deliberate slide that stole your breath. He filled you completely, stretching you, a claiming so possessive it made your head spin. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours.

He stayed there for a long moment, just looking at you, his eyes dark and intense. “Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s me. That’s where I belong. And I’m not leaving. Not until you’re full of me.”

He started to move, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that was designed for one purpose and one purpose only. Every thrust was a statement, a claim. He was marking you from the inside out, branding you as his, forever. He was no longer making love to you. He was breeding you.

And it was the most beautiful, filthy, perfect thing you had ever felt.

He reached down, hooking your legs over his arms, opening you up to him completely. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, and with every thrust, the head of his cock brushed against your cervix, a deep, aching pleasure that was almost too much to bear.

“You gonna take it all, Mama?” he panted, his rhythm growing faster, more erratic. “Gonna take all my seed? Gonna let me give you a baby?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the expensive fabric of his jacket. “Yes, Michael. Give it to me.”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face. “My perfect girl. Gonna be such a good mama. Gonna be s’full with my baby.”

His words were your undoing. The image he painted, of you pregnant with his child, was the most potent aphrodisiac you had ever known. The pleasure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy knot of need.

“M’ close,” you choked out, your back arching off the bed. “Michael, M’ so close…”

He slammed into you, a hard, brutal rhythm that was designed to push you over the edge. “Come f’me, Mama,” he commanded, his voice a raw, desperate shout. “Come all over me. Let me feel you squeeze me. Please.”

You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, blinding wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound that was swallowed by the room’s opulent silence. Your body convulsed, your gummy walls clamping down around him like a vise, milking him, demanding everything he had.

He let out a hoarse, guttural cry, a sound of pure, unbridled release. He thrust into you one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt as he came. You could feel the hot, powerful spurts of his seed painting your insides, filling you up, just as he promised. It was a primal, life-giving flood, a tangible symbol of the future you had just created together.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the mattress, but you didn’t care. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him tight, wanting to feel every ounce of him, wanting to keep every single drop inside you.

For a long, long time, you just lay there, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the frantic, slowing beat of his heart against your chest.

After an eternity, he stirred. He didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around your waist and, with a surprising show of strength, he rolled you both over. You ended up on top of him, your legs straddling his hips, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. You were a tangle of limbs, his suit jacket a wrinkled mess beneath you, your bodies slick with sweat and sex.

He looked up at you, his dark eyes soft and hazy with a profound, sated bliss. He reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy whisper. “Don’t move. Wanna keep it all in. Every last drop.”

You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him. The feeling of him still inside you, warm and heavy, was a comforting, intimate presence. You could feel the sticky evidence of his release leaking out around him, a warm trickle on your thighs. He brought his hands up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His gaze was so full of love and adoration it made your heart ache.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. “My beautiful girl. My beautiful, sweet, filthy girl. You let me have you, didn’t you? Let me use this perfect pussy t’make a family.”

You blushed, a hot, pink heat creeping up your neck and across your cheeks. His words were a dizzying mix of sweet and vulgar, a beautiful contradiction that was so uniquely, perfectly him.

“You’re gonna b’th’ best mama,” he continued, his hands sliding down to rest on your stomach, a proprietary, possessive touch. “Gonna be s’beautiful, all round n’ glowin’, carryin’ my n’. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to. Gonna see my baby in your belly and know you’re mine.”

He flexed his hips, a small, shallow movement that sent a jolt of pleasure through you. He was still semi-hard, and the feeling of him shifting inside you was intoxicating.

“God, you feel s’good,” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “So warm and wet. Made jus’ f’me. Your cunt was made to take my cock, wasn’t it, Mama? Made t’be filled up over and over again until you’re swellin’ with my baby.”

You leaned down, resting your forearms on his chest, and kissed him. It was a slow, deep, possessive kiss. “Yes,” you whispered against his lips. “It was.”

He smiled, a slow, lazy, triumphant smile. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down for another kiss, one that was full of promise and the quiet, certain knowledge that your life had just changed forever.

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