Chapter Ten

The Very Next Day
Near Jackson Manor
Rainelle Parish, Louisiana






Monday, June 1^st, 1931 dawned as the first “official” day of summer vacation for most of the United States--Louisiana included.


It was the first day of the three month break so near and dear to the hearts of American children everywhere. A time when days could be spent leisurely.


Dirty-faced boys running around in packs to go fishing and/or swimming in Jamison’s pond.


Packs of prim little girls sat and mimicked the daintiness of their mothers, hosting tea parties for their baby dolls.


Older children could be found sprawled around radios or with their noses pressed into interesting and mind-bending books.


It was a time of great innocence. A time when youngsters only had the worry of what idle pursuit to take up next.


It was a time that was rapidly winding down for Vylette Meraux and Lorraine Devereaux.


That bright, hot morning, as the sun sat as a flaming ball of yellow in an azure, cloudless sky, the two cousins were slowly, and tentatively, picking their way up the path to the mansion on the hill.


Two very young women, one only a few days past her eighteenth birthday, and one a few days from hers. Both were demure visions in floral cotton dresses, with their long hair loose and flowing down to their waists; grimly eyeing the iron fence that circled Jackson Manor.


Unknowingly, the same thought pulsed through both girls’ minds--the contents of the so short note that had been written by Michael Jackson, but had said so much at the same time.




“Lessons. Tomorrow. Nine a.m.”
Lessons! The Love Lessons were finally to begin!


They were to begin their education in the delicate arts of intimacy--




“I’m frightened! I’m so very frightened!”
At the timid, hoarse announcement, Vylette stopped abruptly, just outside the open gates to the plantation. The gates that were always open for them.




“God help me--I’m frightened!”
Turning Vylette noticed her cousin for the first time, since they had departed from their home.


Lorraine, usually freckled from head to toe, had gone powerfully, harshly white.


So pale was she, she fairly glowed in the darker earthy surroundings.


Hands shaking and being clutched before her, Lorraine’s red head was lowered and she spoke downwards.


“I…I know I’ve been making big talk and saying that we have to do certain things with the fellas…to keep them interested and wanting us. But Vy…”


Green eyes, saucer-like and glazed with horror focused on her cousin and confidant.




“Vylette, I’m scared to death!”
Suddenly, Lorraine was in Vylette’s arms, hugged close to her, nearly crushing her ribs, and pressing her cold cheek to Vylette’s.


Holding that body, that now seemed so small and frail, Vylette nodded in concernment, admitting,


“I’m frightened too, Dear. I don‘t know what to do. I‘ve never done anything like this before--”


“Oooh!” Lorraine blubbered, squeezing tighter.


“But Michael and Marlon will teach us…”


Pulling from Lorraine, Vylette took hold of both those clammy hands and eyed her cousin with determination making her eyes go sapphire.


“We…we have to learn this sometime, Lorraine.” She stated, her lips barely moving. “What if we DO marry Michael and Marlon? If…if we want to start families, we have to do this. Babies don’t just magically appear.”


Lorraine’s head fell again.


“I do want to marry Marlon--terribly! It’s all I dream about!”


“And I‘d love to marry Michael one day…” Vylette put her arm around Lorraine and steered her within the gates and onto the tree-lined avenue.


“We’ll just have to be brave, won’t we?”


Brave, what a cursed joke.


Bravery was the last emotion Vylette Meraux felt at that moment. If she hadn’t been holding onto her relative right then, she’d have turned and fled, running as fast as her legs could carry her.


She was forcing herself along, not knowing what laid in wait for the two of them, behind the polished doors of the manor and the locked ones of Michael’s and Marlon’s bedrooms.


More to herself, than to Lorraine, Vylette said,


“Remember, we’re with men we love…and who love us. Not men we pretended with--not Steven and not Ulrich.”


Yes. Michael Jackson loved her. Michael had only wanted to protect her and treat her well.


He wouldn’t harm her, wouldn’t cause any hurt to come to her, Vylette was certain of it.


But this intimacy racket was doing nothing to calm her nerves. She should have been excited, not scared like a doomed woman on her way to the gallows.


The cousins walked in silence for several yards, before Lorraine put a hand on Vylette’s arm, bringing them to a standstill again.


Tapping at her wrist, she spoke haltingly,


“Vy…did…did Michael ask you…to shave…‘you know‘?”


Mouth opening a bit, Vylette bobbed her head, a breeze hiding her face in a sheet of black waves.


“Yes--did Marlon ask you--?”


“Yes, Dear…” The two resumed strolling. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. Not even in all my stories. But I reckon, since the fellas spent so much time abroad, maybe that’s what the European girls do.”


“Michael does speak of Vienna so frequently.” Vylette chimed in, a bit amazed that both men wanted to see “all” of them.


They were brothers who spent so much time together, Vylette reasoned to herself, perhaps it was only natural they would share the same tastes in some respects.


But Vylette, before that clandestine conversation with Michael, had never known of the shaving of…private areas.


Sure, she kept her legs and underarms tidy, and had since she was twelve years old, as it was required to be a well-groomed girl.


But to shave down ‘there’ was foreign to her, as she thought, naively, that all women, once the adult hair appeared, left it as is.


“…just the same…” Lorraine added as they started up the stairs of the massive porch. “I did what Marlon asked. I was scared I was going to cut myself--how on Earth would I have explain that kind of an injury to Uncle Almanzo though--but I got it done!”


Giggling, Vylette replied,


“I got it all off too--it feels strange.”


“Doesn’t it though?”


The two shared a laugh, a laugh that was needed to draw some of the tension from them.


Smiles left pretty faces and they were marked again with the worry of two girls taking their first steps into womanhood and they embraced tightly.


“We’ll be alright…we’ll be alright.” Vylette whispered, and her hand fell onto one of the brass peacock knockers.


Twice, the weighted tail of it was lifted allowing it to slam against the wood of the door and thus signal someone to open it.


A moment later, the door was opened by Adelaide.


And the housekeeper, usually so cheery and vibrant, seemed withdrawn that morning--as if she knew what was going to happen under the roof, by her employers.


“Y’all come on in. Breakfast is sitting and waiting. Mr. Marlon and Mr. Michael will be down directly…”


Large warm brown hands touched the trembling white shoulders, and helped to guide them into the dining room.


On the table, in china platters were mounds of steaming, fluffy scrambled eggs, thick buttermilk pancakes, and a pile of crisp bacon strips.


Coffee percolated in it’s pot and orange juice sat sweating in its crystal pitcher.


Vylette and Lorraine sat, staring at the generous offering.


The plates before both, remained empty; they were just too frightened to bring themselves to eat.


And bacon was greedy Lorraine’s most favorite breakfast meat!


Minds were too cluttered, too occupied.


It didn’t help matters any that the home was silent as a cemetery.


Typically, the radio was on, playing some form of music, but this morning, it was shut off on the sideboard.


Vylette’s eyes stayed on her plate.


Oh where was Michael? What was he possibly doing? Didn’t he know how scared and upset and slightly nauseous she was?


How could he make her wait like this? Today--on what was most likely the most important day of her young life?


Why, it was horrendous--




“You ladies should be eating…you’ll need your strength today…”
A mild, cautionary voice pointed out, and both heads, red and brunette, came up with a start.




“Oh!”
On either side of the sitting girls, a man stood.


Looming over Vylette, like a grand oak over a ladybug, was Michael Jackson.


“Mike…” Vylette murmured, eyes getting larger as she looked up at him.


He looked…so different.


Michael’s slim frame was draped in an elegant, black silver brocade robe, cinched at the waist with a twisted rope belt. the satin in which it was trimmed around the lapels and ends of the sleeves, shimmered in the early morning light, streaming through the windows.


On his feet, were his velvet, monogrammed slippers.


Beside Lorraine, Marlon stood, his thicker, stockier form clad in a stunning, navy blue satin robe, embroidered all over with “M”s in white. His feet bore plain, blue suede slippers.


They weren’t dressed.


On a day like today, they didn’t need to be dressed.


There was something strange about them. Something off and odd.


Their hair, usually slicked back, seemed poofier than usual, curls falling into both their handsome faces, and framed their heads like lush halos.


They seemed manlier than normal. Pure testosterone seemed to ooze from the brothers.


They were their sex, in the most undiluted form.


And to girls raised in a home that was mostly estrogen fueled, it was terrifying feeling to be outnumbered and overwhelmed.


This…this rawness to the Jacksons, that only the advent of dalliances unspeakable inspired.


Without provocation, each man pulled out a chair and sat beside his girl.


Food began appearing on the plates--mountains of eggs, several strips of bacon, and tall stacks of pancakes, being smothered with pats of butter and rivers of maple syrup.


More food than either girl would have taken, even on their hungriest days.


“Eat…” Michael urged deeply, as he leaned closely to Vylette, his lips speaking through her hair and into her ear.




“Clean this plate. You won’t see food until dinnertime this evening. You are staying for dinner--a messenger has been dispatched. We will not be taking lunch this afternoon…”
Chills electrified the poor girl when she realized he intended the “lessons” to take that long.


So long…lunch would be missed!


“You will not be fainting on me today…you eat.” Marlon was barely audible, as he held onto Lorraine, speaking at her.


Reaching onto the table, a gold-plated fork was lifted, and held out to Vylette.


“Don’t let it get cold, Baby. It’s better…HOT.” Michael hissed and smooched her cheek.


“Oh my God…” Lorraine was whimpering as Marlon poked a bacon strip into her mouth.


Hesitantly, the girls dipped forks into plates, and began scooping food towards their quivering lips.


Neither tasted it, and only consumed what had been portioned for them to appease the men watching them.


And how they watched.


So intently, so unwaveringly, so deeply, as if watching a convict take their last meal, before being escorted to the firing squad.


It took over half an hour for the plates to be emptied, and left with nothing but grease stains and pools of syrup.


Cutlery was set aside and as if on cue, the robed Jacksons rose, idling next to the chairs.


Vylette, eyes down on Michael’s slippers, stated more than asked,




“It’s time, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”


The brothers chorused in unison.


How quickly time passed, when innocence was being lost forever.


Chairs were pulled out and on shaky legs, a pair of girls stood.


Blood pulsed, breaths quickened, bosoms heaved and vision blurred.


“Oh Vylette!” Lorraine’s hand clutched her own.


That clammy cold hand.


They weren’t women. They may have been pretending, putting on an elaborate show to impress these men, but they were only upset children in that moment.


The last fleeting moment of true childhood they’d ever know.


“Lorraine!” Vylette whispered, as Michael took her free hand and Marlon took Lorraine’s.


The girls, doe-eyed and whitening as the seconds passed, were half-pulled, half-led back through the front hall and up the steps of the grand staircase.


Up towards the landing where the portrait of Michael and Marlon’s mother stared down upon the four of them.


The woman who had given life to the men destined to change theirs forever.


At the split in the landing, two couples struggled to part.


The white hands gripped each other more fiercely, and as the men pulled on the girls, each refused to let go of the other.


Eventually, Michael and Marlon, had to carefully pry and loosen the fingers of each girl to separate them.


Though it was done without anger, there was a sense of urgency, as each placed hands on their girls, and began to steer them towards their prospective wings of the mansion.


The last Vylette saw of Lorraine, was her deathly pale face, eyes consuming it, staring back at her as each disappeared upstairs.


Vylette noticed the contrast of atmosphere immediately.


Downstairs, all had been bright and warm and perfumed with the scents of rich breakfast vittles.


Upstairs, it was dimmer, the air cooler.


The only scent teasing Vylette’s nose was that of Michael’s cologne.


She was alone. Alone with Michael.


Lorraine was on the other end of the floor, Vylette knew not where Marlon’s bedroom lay among all the closed doors, and Adelaide…who knew where she was, an entire floor below them.


She was alone with a man…a man who had the intent of making a woman of her that day.


Vylette had never felt fear like that before.


And yet…and yet…as she was guided to the closed door of Michael Jackson’s bedroom, from somewhere within her, she knew she wanted this.


She wanted to be with Michael in this way--be intimate.


To learn to please him, and be pleased BY him.


Maybe this was the way it was supposed to be--this befuddling mix of emotions.


This fear and eagerness.


“Here we are…” Michael was in her ear again. “Are you ready? Because once we go in…you’re not coming out until the lesson concludes. Do you understand?”

“Yes…” Vylette watched as his hand gripped the brass knob. “…and yes.”




“Very well.”
The door was opened and hardly able to remain upright, Vylette ventured inside.


Her hands wrung. Behind her, she heard the door close, and the lock click.


The room seemed as it had, only a few days before, when they had made the trip into New Orleans.


It was neat and orderly, the glass screen still standing in the corner.


The bed was made and everything seemed in its place.


A cigarette butt smoked in the ashtray on the table a few feet beyond the bed, where a magazine had been left open.


It seemed Michael had come down right in the middle of reading an article.


“Please Vy, have a seat.” He instructed from behind her, hand patting her backside ever so gently. “I’d like to have a few words with you.”


“Yes, Michael.”


Stiffly, woodenly, Vylette crossed the polished floor and bright rugs to the sitting area and dropped down onto the long bench running lengthwise along the table.


Slowly and deliberately, Michael was passing behind her, towards the three windows that were bringing light into the room.


Each set of French doors were shut, and the velvet curtains drawn, bringing a darkness to the room, only interrupted by the lamps on the side tables and the two valances above the mantle.


Near the bed, Michael flipped on the radio and softly, piano music was heard.


“Ahhhh…” Michael was nodding as he took a seat in the armchair closest to the fireplace. “Mozart. Piano Sonata Number Twelve…in F Major, if I’m correct.”


At such a trying and nerve-wrecking time, he was flaunting his immense knowledge of classic concertos.


That was just like Michael…


Reaching into the front pocket on his robe, Michael removed his peacock cigarette case and set it on the table.


“Sit there, Vylette.” He pointed across to the armchair opposite him. “I want to look directly at you.”


There was a frank coldness to his voice, but given the gravity of the situation enfolding them, Vylette overlooked it, and moved to the other chair.


A cigarette appeared in Michael’s hand and there was a tiny blaze of yellow from the struck match that lit it.


Blowing a perfect smoke ring, Michael regarded Vylette.


His eyes swept over her, before locking with hers.


He said nothing, but managed to speak volumes with his manner, setting the cancer stick down in an amber glass ashtray, and crossing his thin legs.


Seeing, as the black brocade fell back, exposing quite a bit of fine, brown thigh, it came to Vylette that he wore nothing beneath that robe.


Michael Jackson was naked as the day he was born, and the only thing keeping him from showing all was that robe.


“Oh God…”Vylette’s lips moved but the phrase went unheard, as a flash of heat took her.


Reading her thoughts in her face like that article in the opened magazine, thin, arched brows flexed attractively.


He flicked ashes.


The brows bounced a second time, and Vylette felt she would faint dead away when he spoke.


“Vylette, today, you will begin your ascent into the realms of physical pleasure…”


She was going to faint or have a heart attack. She could feel it. Her heart was beating much too quickly and erratically to sustain life for very long.


“…but before I lay a single finger on you, I want to evaluate you first.”


Ignorant to what he meant, Vylette grasped at her throat and blurted,




“Evaluate--but, I’m not ill, Michael!”
In spite of himself, Michael’s serious demeanor broke, and a smile turned the corners of his mouth.


“No…no, Darling…I mean, I want to know how advanced you are.”


Dark eyes intensified and Michael elaborated,


“I know you were ‘with’ that big bear of a bastard for three years before I tried to kick his heart out his back. Did he do anything to you? Try to touch you?--”


“No.” Vylette shook her head violently. “Steven never touched me that way. Never even kissed me!”


“Oh.” Michael’s mouth rounded and he rubbed at his chin, nodding in understanding.


“Never thought that son of a bitch would act like a gentleman--pardon me.”


(Not that he didn’t try, just Vylette had pinched Steven purple at his advances.)


Arms crossed and his foot wagged.


And, straightforward, he requested,


“Tell me what you think intercourse is, Vylette.”


Cheeks reddened and Vylette stammered, as to occupy her hands, she picked at the diamond tennis bracelet on her right wrist.


A sigh was exuded and unevenly she gave him the barest definition.




“A…a man and a woman…they lie down….the man gets on top of the woman…and he…he….penetrates her.”
More ashes flicked and a puff taken.


Only one brow went up this time.


“I assume you got that from your father’s medical journals.” Smoke trailed from his mouth.


Feeling silly, Vylette nodded, hating to be so stupid in front of him, and tried to save face.


“It’s not really supposed to be spoken of…um, sex.”


Michael Jackson laughed.




“Hee-hee! Hee-hee!”
He laughed so hard the cigarette fell from his mouth and onto the magazine.


Picking it up to avoid setting a fire, Michael snorted like a hog.




Oink!
“No one talks about it, and yet so many do it--have sex. Children don’t just appear out of thin air, or maternity wards would go vacant. Storks delivering babies are a myth.”


The butt was mashed into the ashtray.


“You’re just as I thought, Vylette…” He smiled warmly as she gazed at him curiously. “Innocent to nearly a fault. Unknowing of adult matters. A virgin in every sense of the word.”


At the mention of herself being a virgin, Vylette shifted uncomfortably. This was more than she could take. She’d never been party to such coarse talk.


Leaning over his crossed legs, propped against one of the arms on the chair, Michael waved his hand carelessly and informed her,


“Merely lying down is not the only way to have sex. With the man mashing and smothering the woman. There’s plenty of ways, and positions and forms of sex. I’m going to teach you, Vylette, and you’re going to learn about one form today.”


Michael was on his feet and a hand pressed to his hip.


“I have something for you, Violette Blanche.” He told her, and was moving away.


He had something? Again? What?


Normally Vylette would have been begging and pleading to know what her gift this time was, but apprehension prevented her from speaking.


Passing along behind the chair, Vylette stiffened when he pressed his large hand onto the top of her head and ran his fingers down the length of her hair.


The few hairs left on her arms stood at attention as Michael’s fingertips brushed the nape of her neck.


Quietly, he walked to his closet, where the door stood ajar and vanished inside.


Vylette prayed he wouldn’t jump out nude and stop her reckless heart.


There was a bit of scuffling, and moving of items, with of all things, a baseball, rolling from the closet. Michael’s hand came out and snatched it back.


There was more scuffling and what sounded like items falling to the floor.


“Are…are you alright?” Vylette called, shearing the first layer of skin from her hands as she continued wringing them wildly.


“Yes Darling…” The door opened, and Michael exited, a long, yellow box tucked beneath his arm.


The closet door was closed and he ambled towards Vylette.


His face seemed drowsier than ever, his dark eyes half-lidded.


“Here you are.” The box was placed in her lap.


Black script showed the name of the shop it had been purchased from--Giancarlo’s, Paris.


Paris…he’d ordered whatever this was all the way from France!!!


“What…is it?” Vylette was barely breathing, staring down at the box.


“It’s what I said--a gift.” Michael clutched the back of the chair. “I want you to go off into the bathroom, and slip this on. Only this. Nothing underneath. No brassiere, no step-ins, no slip. Just this.”


More lingerie. He’d purchased more lingerie for her.


Pieces of sheer nothing that were meant for his eyes only.


Her shoulder was tapped.




“Go on.”
When Vylette idled a bit too long, her head swimming over what was taking place, and out of her control, the large hand was gripping her bicep.


Forcing her to stand.


“Vylette…please.” Michael urged and pointed towards the bathroom.


“I’ve waited weeks for this. A very, very long time. Don’t make me yearn any longer.”


Yearn.


Michael Jackson yearned for her.


Vylette, a simple, naïve country girl.


“Go, Baby.”


She was given a gentle, albeit firm, push towards the door.


Her feet turned to lead bricks, seeming heavier than her entire body weight, and Vylette struggled to walk a straight line.


Impatiently, Michael was swiftly past her, the door being held open for Vylette.


His face clearly showed his urgency, the bugged, frog eyes, the tight lips, the set jaw.


That one, strange vein popping out the center of his forehead and throbbing.


It was a difficult task for the panic-stricken teen, this walking to the bathroom.


She wanted to run.


How desperately, she wanted to drop the box and sprint away. Away from Michael. Away from his intentions.


So suddenly away from everything that screamed adult.


And then, as she started through that open door, Michael Jackson said something that changed her mind.




“I love you, Violette Blanche.”
He said it so warmly, so truthfully, so sweetly.


The door was closed behind Vylette and she leaned against it, cherishing the most important sentence in the English language to her.




“I love you, too…”
Vylette whispered, her head tilted back against the cold wood of the door, clutching that yellow cardboard box to her chest.


For a moment, her worry was overridden by curiosity, as always won out with youngsters when a present was in their hands, and she rushed over to the inner-bathroom vanity table.


She paused, surprised to see exact duplicates of her comb/brush set and a bottle of the Exotique perfume on the table for her.


Michael did want her to look her best and smell of that heady, piquant and musky scent.


He was truly spoiling her…and she was getting to like it.


The lid came off the box, and as she pushed away the white tissue paper, her mouth came open.




“My Lord…”
Vylette’s heart was threatening to leap from her chest and ricochet across the room as she reached in removing her gift.


In her hands, was a dressing gown.


A stunning, dressing gown made of the sheerest, wispiest black silk mesh.


All along the front, down to a scalloped-edged hem and matching bell sleeves, was embroidery, featuring pale pink, and white flowers, thin green foliage and intricate, gold lame threading.


The robe Michael Jackson wanted her to present her body to him in, was on par with something for royalty.


It was the perfect balance of what Vylette truly was. A bit sexy--hence the mesh--but sweet and ladylike, like the flowers and gold work.


Setting the robe back in its box, before she was really aware of it, Vylette was undressing.


Her dress came off, along with her silk undergarments and garters.


Completely nude, Vylette stopped and stared at herself.


Really stared at herself.


And saw ‘Vylette’ for the first time.


The pristine, obsessively cared for, clear, white skin, her plump, healthy figure.


The rounded, proud, fleshy globes of her bosom hanging perfectly, the darker pink nipples going erect in the chill of the room.


Her smooth, dimpled abdomen, by no means fat, the gently curved hips and longish, shapely legs.


The tender “V’ with a small slit at the bottom, freed of superfluous hair, the problem eradicated, naked and clear to the eye.


Turning to the side, she observed her backside, just the right amount of heft, no too big, nor too flat.


Trim ankles and small, nicely-formed feet.


Turning back, she stared into her face.


Scrutinized it.


The fine features, the lavender eyes, the black waves a contrast to all.


Vylette was beautiful, and her beauty attracted and held Michael, just as his beauty attracted and held her.


She saw it, was startled by it, and began to revel in it.


She wasn’t going to be cocky like Lorraine, that wasn’t in her spirit, but she was appreciative of how she had been blessed by the perfect arrangement of genes to produce her haunting looks.


Her hands shook a bit, as she lifted the bottle of Exotique, spritzing after all of her pressure points, and especially down on that naked slit.


Not once, did it cross her mind she was foraying into something typically reserved for only wedded couples.


She was going to marry Michael Jackson.


It would come.


Her woman’s intuition kicked in and was saying so.


Sometime later, when she was a bit older and experienced.


Vylette was just now eighteen.


A girl wasn’t considered an ‘old maid’ until she was still unwed at about twenty-five.


She had plenty of time to become one of the two Mrs. Jacksons.


Smelling wonderfully, Vylette pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring color, before slipping the dressing gown on.


It was so light, she felt as though she wore nothing and gazing on herself, it still seemed she was nude.


The embroidered panels were strategically placed and managed to conceal her nipples and that little slit.


Everything else, the roundness of her breasts, and her entire buttocks were on display.


Chill bumps broke out on her as from the other side of the door, Michael called,




“Vylette….”
Closing her eyes, Vylette sent a prayer straight to God, begging for bravery and begging to please Michael.


She wanted to make him happy, as it seemed he tried so very hard to make her happy.




“Vylette….”
Crossing herself, Vylette straightened, tried to feign no fear, and went to the door.


And let herself out.


Across the room, Michael Jackson stood at the table, messing with and arranging his prized pink roses in a painted vase, covered with what looked to be little angels and cherubs. It was painted pink and gold.


Dizzy, Vylette touched her throat.


It was for her. He’d gotten the vase and flowers for her.


Head still down, concentrating on the blooms, Michael called.




“Vylette….”


“I’m here, Michael.”
At the announcement, Michael completely tore a rose from its stem and it fell to the floor at his feet.


He turned and started for her, only to stop after a few steps.


His eyes dropped to the floor…and slowly, slowly started upwards.


As his dark eyes met her lavender ones, his mouth parted ever so slightly, just enough for a bit of white of his top teeth to show.


His gaze was hungered, so frenzied, so wild, it should have scared Vylette.


But brashly, she met his gaze, unblinking as Michael stalked over to her.


So closely they stood to one another, his face was nearly colliding with hers.


“Christ…” His speaking was hushed, and his eyes ran down her again.




“You…are…perfect, Vylette.”
Perfect. Michael thought she was perfect and Vylette’s heart pounded.


Gingerly, he felt at the embroidery above her bracelet.


Staring down at it, he confided, voice husky,


“I spent two hundred and twenty-five dollars on this…it will only be on you, for a short time longer, but its well worth it for the blessed image its afforded me to treasure the rest of my natural life.”


Large hands cupped the heart-shaped face and Michael’s eyes were in hers a split second.


Wide, stormy, lusty.


And then his mouth was pressed to hers.


His tongue easily in her mouth, meshing with her tongue, flopping and dancing. Tasting of mints.


Young body starting to flame, Vylette’s first, natural instinct was to pull back, though, truly she didn’t want to.


She wasn’t allowed to either.


Michael’s arms wrapped her, the kissing becoming much more insistent, his intent not to let her go.


“Mmmm-mhmmm!” Vylette mumbled, her lungs screaming for air as Michael’s head began waving back and forth, his lips crushing hers and causing them to ache.


Michael shifted, and the two of them were propelled backwards against the door of the bathroom.


The back of the sheer robe was raised and Michael’s hands were on Vylette’s backside.


At the flashback of the exact same movement he’d performed in his office, when he’d lost control, Vylette found her voice.


Her whipping to the side, she cried,




“Michael-Michael, please!”
His face was buried in her throat, with him nibbling away, hands kneading that flesh behind her.


“No--” She tried to push him away.


This was going to fast. Too swiftly. She needed to catch her breath.


Dark eyes narrowed as Michael huffed into her face, his chest bouncing up and down.


“Such a good girl.” He stated darkly, grip loosening. “My good girl.”


There was a tugging on the front of Vylette’s robe and by the time she realized what he was doing, the four buttons that had been holding that teeny bit of modesty closed, were undone.


“Oh Michael!” Defeated, she whispered, as the fabric was pushed back.


Off her shoulders and fell to the floor with a sigh.


She was naked, absolutely naked in front of Michael Jackson.


There was so no way to hide. No way to cover herself.


Her eyes closed as she could feel his gaze on her. Taking in every ripple and bump to her.


Seeing Vylette as no other man had ever had the satisfaction.


There was a long moment of silence, and Michael’s hands pressed her shoulders.


“Never in my wildest dreams…” He was breathless. “…did I imagine you looked like this, My Darling. You are gorgeous! Breathtaking! Your complexion, your breasts--such fine, ripe, large breasts for so young a girl!--your hips, your legs!”


For once, at the ardent praise, Vylette didn’t look or shy away.


Hand cupping the reddening brown cheek of her lover, grinning, she snickered,




“Thank you.”
Leaning upwards, she pressed a hand to Michael‘s chest, lips engaging.


His heart was beating rapidly at her touch…he was as excited and turned on as she.


“I…I c-can’t believe th-this is…hap-happening.” Michael stammered and shook his head.


“I haven’t stuttered since I was seven years old!”


He laughed, hand groping after Vylette’s bosom, squeezing at the firm flesh.


“Mike--” Vylette sighed, head being thrown back, Michael’s lips, warm and moist, pecked at the tender breasts.




“God…”
Lightheaded, Vylette ran her hands through his slick curls, as he hugged her tighter to him.


His touch, his scent, the feel of him was so good to her.


Growing pinker the longer his hands were on her, as he buried his face in her breasts, tongue licking after her nipples, Vylette bent over him and kissed the back of his neck, goose pimples covering both.


Michael smooched her mouth again, sucking at her bottom lip.


Fingers brushed her chin playfully.


Briefly, Michael looked away from Vylette.


The twisted rope belt on his robe was being loosened, and Vylette glanced at it, before bringing her eyes back up to his face.


His eyes, they burned hers.


They burned into hers like flaming coals, as the black brocade was opened.


And dropped from his svelte body.


Unwillingly, as a knee-jerk reaction, Vylette’s eyes, wider and breaths shallow, descended.


Seeing Michael Jackson in the nude, for the very first time.


Her first time seeing a man fully nude--ever.


Michael’s gaze remained on her, as Vylette’s gaze cascaded downwards.


Over his bare, brown shoulders…


The sculpted, toned, yet wiry chest and arms...


The thin hips and smoothed abdomen…


Her breathing stopped.


Just below the abdomen, an immaculately trimmed and sparse darkness was visible, tapering down into a triangle.


Michael Jackson’s pubic hair.


And springing from the base of the blackened hair, was his penis.


At the moment, arousal had not engorged him; he hung flaccid.


It was a thick, dense, long mass, falling near his knees.


He was uncircumcised, the very pink tip, hidden by a flap on folded foreskin.


“Now…” Was all Michael said, taking Vylette by the arm and placed it around his neck.


Holding her close, he lifted her easily.


Gently, as caring for a baby, Vylette was set atop the fine burgundy bedding, nestling her head in the pillows.


Lovingly, her hair was brushed out the way.


Standing over her, Michael rested his hand on the strip of flesh between her breasts.


Vylette eyed him, ready for his next move, any move.


She was his to do with as he liked.


She was completely surrendered to the will of Michael Jackson.


“So long…” He sighed hotly, his brows flexing. “So long I’ve waited for this moment, Vylette. To have you with me, in my bed, unclothed…how I’ve dreamt and fantasized of it.”


Vylette’s nipple was plucked.


Michael’s eyes drifted upwards and he confided,




“So many, lonely, unwanted nights I’ve sat in my bathtub… thinking of you… and pleasuring myself…”
Though the rest of her didn’t move, Vylette’s eyes gauged her reaction to this information, by swelling and taking up the greater portion of her face.


Was Michael telling the truth? He…he had been touching himself, as he thought of her?


Reading the unasked question in her lovely face, Michael answered,


“Yes, I have masturbated…frequently. It’s the only thing that’s kept my hands off you all this time. I’ve jacked-off to keep from wrecking your body; Marlon’s jacked-off to keep from doing the same to your cousin. Sometimes, at night, even on the other side of the house, I could hear him. He likes to scream.”


His eyes flicked around the room and his small chest rose and fell with a deep breath.




“It is so difficult for a man to remain a gentleman, when passion threatens to make a beast of him.”
The bed gave and squeaked lightly as Michael crawled into it, lying atop the covers next to Vylette.


Resting on his side, his head propped up with one hand.


The other hand brushing at her thigh.


And very pointedly, without any sort of warning, he inquired,


“Have you ever masturbated, Vylette? Tried to touch that little bit of splendor at the base of your torso? Had an orgasm?”


When he was met with only big lavender orbs and silence, Michael chuckled, grinning devilishly.


“Women can have orgasms you know--”
He instantly recanted. “No…I’m sure you didn’t know, my Little Nymphet.”


Vylette was kissed again, and Michael’s tongue was down her throat.


“MMMMM!” She cried as she felt his fingertips bump against her forbidden triangle and Michael was shoved away promptly.


Curls falling into his face, he laughed.


“When rubbed in just the right way--I’ve learned this on my travels through Europe--women can ejaculate…”


“Oh!” Vylette’s thighs were parted, fully displaying the little pink slit to Michael’s vision and his eyes danced at the sight.


“…something deep inside opens up, and you spray fluid, usually while screaming like you’re being murdered--”




“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
In the distance, a shrill shriek resounded.


Biting his bottom lip, Michael chortled.


“I do believe that is Lorraine.”




“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
Alarmed, Vylette shot up bolt upright in fear.


“What is he doing to her?” Vylette demanded, going snow white, scared Marlon was hurting her cousin.


She was pushed back against the pillows.


“Marlon is only doing to her what I plan to do to you…” Michael’s voice was cooler than the room.


“Perhaps a bit more--knowing Marlon.”


Michael’s head was tossed and his hair flopped wildly all over.


“Today, Violette Blanche, you’ll learn…how with just the right amount of rubbing and fingering from me…you will become wetter than Niagara Falls!”


Pressing her legs open further, Michael sat, his slim buttocks pressing into the bed, and started to touch after the small, hooded clitoris revealed to him.


“No--” Vylette’s hand were wrapped around his wrist.


She wasn’t ready! She wasn’t ready! Not yet! Not yet!!!!!


But Michael Jackson WAS.


He peeked over his shoulder at her.


“Fine, hang onto me, Sweetness. Because as soon as I’m done making your sweet little pussy do things you never imagined, I expect you to grab my dick like that!”


With his free hand, Michael was pushing the warm, moist folds of her vagina out of the way.


“Ugh…” Vylette stared up, at the pin tucked canopy of the bed overhead.


He was touching her. Michael Jackson was touching her!


“Yes…look at that. So pink and sweet. Like candy. Goddamn…” Came Michael’s hushed whisper, as he pulled his other wrist free of Vylette’s cold hands and put his middle finger into his mouth, dampening it.


A jolt went though Vylette, causing her to physically rise off the bed about a foot, as Michael’s finger was jammed against that sore, little bud, just above her opening.


“Ah--ah--ah, Michael!” She grunted, a wave of emotions she’d never thought existed starting to rampage through her.


“What are you doing?” She wailed, trying to grab at his arm, as his touch quickened.


“Playing with your little pussy, Baby.” Michael informed her matter-of-factly, tongue darting out as he licked the palm of his hand.


“No! No! NO! OH!” Vylette yelled as the palm was applied, and rubbed mercilessly on her clit.


“Yes! Yes--you holler for me. I like it…” Michael sneer, hair being tossed, with him leaning in closer over her quivering thigh. “Your scent is intoxicating, Vylette.”




“DADDY!”
Across the mansion, Lorraine was audible again.


“Oh my God!” Hands in her hair, pulling at it and ripping some out by the roots, Vylette jerked.


Again, Michael sucked on his finger…


“MICHAEL!” Vylette shrieked at the top of her lungs as slowly, he was forcing his finger inside of her.




“You, bastard!”
At the swearing, Michael Jackson stiffened.


Vylette, worried she’d offended him, pressed her hands to her mouth, too late.


“Curse me out, I don’t give a damn.” Michael was flippant as he began to slide his finger back and forth and back and forth within in her folds.


“I like the dirty talk…I like to hear a nice girl like you say such bad things…Turns me on, makes me hot!”


“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” Vylette whimpered, grabbing onto a decorative, cylinder shaped pillow and clutched it to her chest, hugging it tightly.


“Yes, Baby…I know…” Michael was nodding and blowing air down into the little opening, still plugging away at her.


“You’re tight, so tight, Honey. In time…when I make love to you…I will enjoy the feel--”


Vylette bucked again.




“--the feeling of being inside of you! But that‘s another lesson!”
It was frightening how truly calm Michael Jackson was remaining throughout the entire ordeal, as it seemed everyone else in the house was going wonky.




“DADDY--MARLON!!!”
Lorraine howled and shrieked.




Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Rapidly, Michael’s finger was slipping in and out of Vylette and clawing at the pillow, Vylette tore a tassel from it and threw it at her lover’s silky back.


“I know…” Turning, still fondling and fingering at her, Michael was sucking along her breasts and kissing at her face.


“Mike! Mike, please!” Frenzied, Vylette was tugging at her hair once more, as Michael removed his finger from her, sucking on it.


“So sweet, you taste so good to me, Vy.”


Michael stood and his right arm began flapping.


His hand wrapped that mass dangling from him and as he tugged, it began to swell and grow.


Before Vylette’s naïve eyes, Michael was achieving a violent erection, his penis enlarging to what appeared to be a foot long, stretching skywards. Below the shaft, his testicles, soft brown and hairless swung.




“Sweet Fancy Moses!”
He was so large…too large and Vylette wanted to crawl away.


Was he going to try to put that inside of her? He was going to kill her!


Hardened, Michael jumped back onto the bed.


“Oh yes! Hell Yes!” Michael shoved her legs back open and made Vylette hold them out the way, by grasping herself under the knees.


She was fully opened to him.


“Michael--Michael! No, no! Michael stop!” Vylette begged as it seemed Michael was going to shove this freight train into her and split her in two.


“I’m not going to fuck--penetrate--you.” Michael snorted, hand rubbing after that mass and revealing the hot pink tip.


“You’re not--OH!” Vylette’s mouth fell open as the tapping began.


Against the battered clit, Michael was slapping his penis.


“You like that? You like that? Yes you do! Yes you do!” Michael growled through grit teeth.




“WHOOPEE!!! OH YEAH! OH YEAH!!!”
For the first time, Marlon Jackson was heard.


“I want you to come! Do you hear me? I want you to squirt for me!” Michael demanded, slapping against Vylette harder, her pink slit turning red from the beating.


“Mike! Mike, oh Mike! Michael! AH!” Vylette trembled, as Michael, using both hands, plunged two fingers on one hand into her and with the other rubbed frantically at her little bulb.


Quite suddenly, a foreign feeling began to take Vylette.


She was tingling all over, from head to toe,


“Come on Vylette! Come on!” Michael was growling.


Eyes squinching, the pillow on Vylette chest was ripped apart, down feathers flying, as she arched,




“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”
And from the depths of her a wild, hot torrent blasted.


“Oh shit! A-ha-ha-ha! YES!” Michael cried as the warm liquid skeeted forth, flying over his hand and up his arm, and drenching the most part of the bed.




“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”
Convulsing with sexuality, Vylette reached, with a newfound, lust fueled power and managed to push Michael Jackson clean off the bed.


“Ow!” He exclaimed, tumbling in a nude heap on the floor.


Unable to comprehend what had just conspired and happened to her body Vylette did the only thing she could think of.


Red all over, she flopped onto her stomach and commenced sobbing into the rest of the pillows.


What happened? What did this man do to her body?


Was this real? Was it normal?


Calmly, Michael picked himself up off the floor and placed a hand on Vylette’s back as she continued to cry.




“Don’t do that…please. Don’t do that, it’s alright.”
Her backside was smacked.


“That was supposed to happen--I wanted that to happen. You were wonderful, my Pretty Young Thing…”


Hiccupping, Vylette turned a wet face to Michael’s.


And saw nothing but kindness and love in his eyes and smile.


He was happy with her!


Sniffling, she questioned childishly,




“Is…is that supposed to happen every time?”
She was raw, and sticky, and sore.


“If I do it right, it is!” Michael winked and his lips bumped hers with a smack.


“Catch your breath, I’ll be right back.”


He walked away, slim ass cheeks flexing, and disappeared into the bathroom and out of sight.


Catch her breath? Would she ever breath fully again, Vylette wondered.


This hadn’t been intercourse, not fully, but if real intercourse was like this, what on earth would happen.


Lying there, counting the pin tucks of the canopy--there were seventy-two--she wondered if Lorraine had done this.


This squirting thing.


She could no longer hear her cousin or Marlon.


She hoped Lorraine was alright and that Marlon hadn’t harmed her.




“Here we are…”
Michael returned carrying three items, a glass of water, a warm, damp towel, and a glass bottle of a clear, viscous liquid.


The clean scent of Lifebuoy soap was evident as Michael took the time and care and started to clean the wetness from Vylette’s body.


The towel was discarded onto the floor.


Flipping her over lightly, he handed her the glass.


“Sip it slowly. After that exertion if you drink fast, it’ll make you sick.” Michael advised, taking the cap off the glass bottle and smelling it.


Doing as told and taking small sips, Vylette asked,


“What’s that?”


“It’s coconut oil…” Michael slipped into the bed. “…for you to rub me with.”


With the water only half-consumed, the glass was set aside on the bedside table.


Taking her hands, a small amount of the highly perfumed oil was poured onto her palms and she rubbed them together, making them slick.


Michael pointed out his engorged member, standing at apt attention.




“WHOOPEE!!! HOT DAMN, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!”
From silence came Marlon’s scream across the house.




“I’m…I’m very close to the end…but I wanted to see you come first before I…I…I…”
Michael’s sentence went unfinished, and he quickly guided her hands around his shaft.


“Do it slow. Do it slow. Take your time…” He instructed, and a bit shocked at the hard, hot, trembling flesh in her hands, Vylette slowly started to stroke her lover.


“Mmm! Yes…yes, Baby! Like that! Like that!” Michael murmured, eyes closing and collapsing against his padded headboard. “Oh my God…”


Vylette mashed her mouth to Michael’s and tongues danced, as she continued rubbing, watching the little flap of foreskin hiding and revealing that pink tip to her.


“Holy shit…” Michael’s fingers intertwined above his head and he gave a sharp intake of breath.


“Vylette…!”


She was masturbating Michael…and it seemed as natural an act as breathing air to Vylette.


She wasn’t turned off, or disgusted by what she was doing.


Vylette was enjoying this. This pleasuring of her Michael in so intimate a fashion!


Yes, she finally understood.


This had to be done.


Things like this--to tame the animal in men.


“Oh Baby…” Michael’s eyes fluttered open and a large hand patted her cheek. “What you’re doing…Sweet Christ!”


Wordlessly, Vylette smiled as Michael rested his head on her naked bosom, lips curling around a nipple and suckling.


Absently, his other hand was slapping at his rounded balls.


“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Michael was at a soft whisper, his brow furrowing and beads of perspiration starting to appear on it, sparkling like diamonds on his skin.


“Oh God, here it comes! Here it come. Vy…I’m gonna….I’m gonna…”


His teeth clicked and he shook his head.


“I’m gonna come! Aw, shit!”


His head wagged again, hair all over the place.


“Fuck….fuck….fuck….” He whimpered weakly, as finally, from the dimpled orifice in the tip of all that rude pinkness, a thick, hot, whiteness began to ooze.


He was ejaculating.


Michael Jackson was ejaculating.


“Oh…oh, mercy. Mercy me!” His hand clutched his throat as Vylette continued to rub.


Milking him.


Getting all of that forbidden liquid from him.


It dripped and ran down, over her hands, and pooled on Michael’s crotch.


Above it, his abdomen heaved.


“I love you…I love you….” Michael hands held that pale, pretty face and he smothered it with his lips.


“I love you too…” Vylette giggled, letting go of him and wrapping her arms around him.


Michael leaned back, dark eyes brimming with unbridled and true affection, swept over her.




“Vylette, I love you, most!”
And his lips crushed hers.




Sometime Later


“…and did…did you enjoy yourself, today?”
Michael questioned, helping Vylette from the passenger seat of his sports car.


Staring up at the thin form, in the waning twilight, as night was starting to set in, Vylette nodded.


She felt rather tongue tied, as words could not fully express her emotions and feelings at that moment.


Vylette seemed more in tune to Michael than ever, what with, how they had shared their bodies that day.


It had been a charming afternoon spent in his bedroom, in his bed.


Following the initial “lesson”, the two had dozed off to sleep, napping for about an hour, before waking, only to play with one another in that so private way a second time.


Both had been wet, cursing, reddened messes and had sank into a hot bubble bath, where one had bathed the other and both attempted to look presentable by the time Adelaide had shouted dinner was ready.


At the table, she didn’t even notice her cousin and Marlon across from her and Michael.


Each couple were in their own world, where their lover was the other inhabitant.


Why, right then, only about ten feet away, Marlon’s coupe was parked behind Michael’s car, and Vylette didn’t see them.


Didn’t see the happy couple, a tangle of arms and legs, hugged up in the front seat, kissing sloppily.


No.


She only saw that happy brown face, with the curls on the high forehead. The smile on lips she enjoyed to kiss.


The eyes that were an open window clear to his heart.


She saw Michael and only Michael.


Her Michael.


Getting up onto the porch as the light came on, Michael took hold of both her hands in his.


Leaning down his lips touched her forehead.


“When may I see you again?” He whispered, making the hairs on her head rise.


Drunk on Michael, on his entire being, Vylette snapped,


“Tomorrow!”


“I can’t Pretty Baby…” Michael declined, a piercing sadness to his eyes. “Interior painting on the Palace begins tomorrow, and I have to be there. I have to go to the city…”


Deflated, Vylette’s head lowered,


“When will we have another ‘lesson’? The day after?” She questioned and Michael chuckled,


“No--one a week, until you’re used to what happens. I still want to take my time. Not rush things like this.”


Vylette bobbed her head in understanding. He could take all the time he wanted, for taking her breath away like that.


“I will be in touch, you know that Vylette. I…I love you so much.”


Gripping her shoulders, Michael smooched her.


“You have a good night…go in, so I can make sure you’re safe.” He winked and Vylette’s knees wanted to buckle.


“Good night, Michael…”Vylette opened the door to the small cottage and let herself in.


Through the crack, Michael’s hand stuck in and she grabbed it.


And slowly, his fingers slipped from hers.


The door shut and through it, Vylette could hear him humming brightly and happily.


He was humming Dixie.


Leaning against the door, Vylette began to whistle the tune too.


She was in love and it was the best, blessed emotion God had ever created.