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The Jackson family compound sprawled across Hayvenhurst like a fortress of music and money and beautiful, complicated people. The pool out back was a turquoise jewel glittering under the July sun, surrounded by lounge chairs and umbrellas and the distant sound of someone practicing vocal runs in the guest house. You'd spent the afternoon splashing around with Janet and La Toya, the three of you laughing until your stomachs ached, braids wet and heavy against your shoulders, skin slick with sunscreen and chlorine. The California heat was relentless, the kind of dry, oppressive warmth that made the air shimmer above the concrete and turned the pool water into the only tolerable place to exist.
Now you were inside, padding down the hallway toward one of the many guest bathrooms, a towel wrapped around your body and another twisted around your hair. The air conditioning kissed your damp skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. The hallway smelled like lemon polish and whatever Mrs. Jackson was cooking in the kitchen, something with onions and bell peppers, something that made your stomach growl even though you'd eaten lunch two hours ago.
The bathroom Michael had directed you to was the one attached to his bedroom. "It's the only one with good water pressure," he'd said, those big brown eyes of his soft and earnest. "The others take forever to heat up. You'll freeze before you get the chlorine out." You'd hesitated—something about going into Michael's private space felt like crossing a line—but Janet had waved her hand dismissively. "Girl, just use it. Michael doesn't care. He's probably in the studio anyway."
So here you were.
The bathroom was bigger than your entire apartment, all marble and gold fixtures and soft lighting that made your brown skin glow. There was a sunken tub in the corner that could have fit four people, a glass-enclosed shower with multiple showerheads, and a vanity that stretched the length of the far wall, covered in bottles and jars and the kind of expensive skincare products that cost more than your monthly rent. The whole room smelled like sandalwood and something else—something distinctly Michael, that mix of cologne and powder and the faint, sweet undertone of whatever candy he kept stashed in his pockets.
You locked the door. Or at least you thought you did.
The shower was heaven. Hot water beat down from three different directions, sluicing the chlorine from your braids, washing away the sticky residue of sunscreen. You stood under the spray with your eyes closed, letting the heat work the knots out of your shoulders, not thinking about anything in particular. The steam rose around you in thick white clouds, fogging the glass walls of the shower until the outside world disappeared entirely.
You didn't hear the bathroom door open.
You didn't hear the soft, almost silent footsteps crossing the marble floor.
You didn't hear the barely-there slide of fabric as Michael Jackson picked up your panties from where you'd left them folded on the sink counter simple black cotton, nothing fancy, and slipped them into his pocket.
You didn't hear any of it.
The shower turned off.
You slid the glass door open, reaching blindly for your towel, still half-lost in the warm haze of a shower well-taken. Your fingers found plush cotton, and you wrapped it around yourself before stepping out onto the bath mat, water dripping from your braids onto the marble floor.
And then you saw him.
Michael was leaning against the vanity, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other like he'd been there for hours. He was wearing black slacks and a red button-down shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal the smooth brown skin of his chest. His curls were loose around his face, still perfect despite the summer humidity, and his lips were curved into that shy, boyish smile that had charmed millions of people around the world.
You screamed. Well you tried to. What came out was more of a strangled yelp, your hands flying to clutch the towel tighter against your chest.
"Michael! What are you— what are you doing in here?!"
"Shh, shh, shh." He held up both hands, palms out, the picture of innocence. "It's okay. It's just me. I'm hiding."
"Hiding?" Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. "Hiding from what?"
"Jermaine." Michael rolled his eyes, pushing off the sink counter and taking a step toward you. "He wants me to go over some tracks with him and I've been in the studio all day. I just need five minutes of peace. You understand, right?"
"I—" You clutched the towel tighter. "I'm not dressed, Michael. I just got out of the shower."
"I know." He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment it didn't register. "I didn't mean to walk in on you. I was already in here when you came in. I was in the closet, looking for something, and then you started the shower and I didn't want to embarrass you by coming out."
"In the closet?"
"Mmhm." He took another step. His eyes never left your face. They didn't dip down to your body, didn't linger on the way the towel barely covered the tops of your thighs, didn't betray even a flicker of anything inappropriate. "I didn't see anything, if that's what you're worried about. The glass was all fogged up."
You should have been relieved. You should have been furious. Instead, you were just confused, standing there in a towel in Michael Jackson's bathroom while Michael Jackson stood three feet away from you, telling you this was all perfectly normal.
"I should get dressed," you said.
"Of course. Of course, go ahead." He didn't move. "I'll just... turn around. Give you privacy."
He turned around. Faced the wall. His shoulders were relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back like a gentleman. You stared at him for a long moment, waiting for the catch, but there didn't seem to be one.
Your clothes were folded on the vanity. You reached for your bra first, then stopped. Your panties weren't there. You'd folded them, set them right on top of your shorts, and now they were gone.
"Um."
"Yes?" Michael didn't turn around.
"I can't find my..." You trailed off. You couldn't say panties to Michael Jackson. You couldn't say underwear to a man you'd known for years, a man who was practically family, a man who was currently standing with his back to you like a perfect gentleman.
"Can't find your what?"
"Nothing. Never mind." You'd just go without. It was fine. The shorts were denim, nobody would notice. You reached for your bra again.
"You know," Michael said, his voice soft and conversational, "you don't have to be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed."
"You're blushing. I can hear it in your voice."
"I'm not—" You were. You absolutely were. Your cheeks were on fire. "I'm just not used to people seeing me like this."
"Like what? Like a human being?" He turned around. Just his head, looking at you over his shoulder. His expression was gentle. Understanding. "Bodies are just bodies. There's nothing shameful about them. We all have one. It's perfectly natural."
"I guess."
"Here." He turned around fully, and before you could react, he was reaching for the edge of your towel. "Let me help."
"Michael—"
But he'd already tugged. Just slightly. Just enough that the towel slipped, the tucked corner coming loose, and suddenly you were standing there in nothing but your skin, the damp air of the bathroom kissing every inch of you. Your breasts were bare, nipples pebbled from the cold. Your hips were bare, the curve of your waist bare, your thighs bare, the dark triangle of hair between your legs bare.
You froze. Your brain short-circuited. You couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except stand there while Michael Jackson looked at you.
"There," he said softly. "See? It's just a body. A beautiful body, but just a body. Nothing to be ashamed of."
He wasn't leering. That was the strangest part. His gaze was steady, appreciative but not hungry, like he was looking at a painting in a museum. Like this was all perfectly normal. Like friends stood around naked in bathrooms all the time.
"My towel," you managed.
"I'll give it back. I just wanted you to see that it's okay. That I'm not judging you. That there's nothing wrong with being naked." He set the towel aside, draped it over the edge of the vanity. "In fact—" He tilted his head, that shy smile returning. "It's not really fair, is it? That I've seen you, but you haven't seen me."
"What?"
"Equality. That's what friendship is about, right? Give and take." His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. "Let me show you. So we're even."
"Michael, you don't have to—"
"I want to." Button. Button. Button. The red shirt fell open, revealing the lean plane of his chest. His skin was smooth and brown, dotted with a few stray moles, his collarbones sharp and elegant. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. "See? It's just skin. Nothing scary about it."
"I'm not scared."
"I know you're not." His hands went to his belt. The leather slid through the buckle with a soft hiss. "You're brave. You've always been brave. That's one of the things I like about you."
The belt came loose. The button on his slacks popped open. The zipper slid down.
"Michael—"
"Shh." He pushed the slacks down over his narrow hips, and they pooled around his ankles. His briefs came next—black boxer-briefs that hugged his thighs and did nothing to hide what was beneath them. "Almost there."
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled.
And then he was naked.
Your eyes dropped before you could stop them. His cock was long, impossibly long, the kind of length that seemed like it shouldn't be physically possible, curving slightly upward toward his flat belly. It was already hard, already straining, already slick at the tip with a bead of moisture that caught the bathroom light.
"Michael, you're—" You swallowed. "You're hard."
"It's a natural reaction." He stepped out of his clothes, completely unselfconscious, completely at ease. "It doesn't mean anything. Bodies just do that sometimes. You don't have to be worried about it."
"I'm not worried."
"Good." He took a step toward you. Another. Close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Because I was thinking... since we're both already here, both already comfortable... maybe you could help me with something."
"Help you with what?"
"It's a little embarrassing." He ducked his head, looking up at you through his lashes. That shy, boyish expression. That practiced vulnerability. "I've been so stressed lately. The album, the tour rehearsals, the interviews. It builds up, you know? All that tension. And I've found that... releasing it... helps. But it's hard to do by yourself. It takes forever. And I was just thinking..." He let the sentence hang, let you fill in the blank.
"You want me to..."
"Just let me be inside you. Just for a little while. Just to help me release the tension." His hands came up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Friends help each other. That's what friends do. It's perfectly normal."
"Is it?" Your voice came out small. Uncertain.
"Of course it is." His hands settled on your hips. Warm. Gentle. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't. You trust me, right?"
"Of course I trust you."
"Then let me help you help me." He turned you around, gently but firmly, until you were facing the vanity. The mirror was fogged around the edges but clear in the center, and you could see yourself—naked, wide-eyed, your braids dripping water onto your shoulders. And behind you, Michael, his hands on your hips, his long cock pressing against the curve of your ass. "Bend forward, just a little. That's it. Perfect."
You bent forward. Your hands braced against the cold marble countertop, your breasts swaying with the movement. In the mirror, you watched Michael's reflection step closer, watched his hand guide his cock to your entrance.
"This is normal," he murmured. "This is what friends do. I'm just going to slide in, and that's it. Nothing weird about it."
"But I'm not— I've never—"
"I know." His voice was so gentle. So patient. "I'll go slow. I promise. You're doing such a good thing for me. Such a good friend."
The head of his cock nudged against your folds. You were wet from the shower and he slid through them easily, painting himself with your slickness.
"Ready?" he asked.
"I don't—"
"Shh. It's okay. Just breathe."
He pushed in.
"Oh god" A sound that tore from your throat was halfway between a gasp and a moan. He was so long. So impossibly long. He kept pushing, inch by agonizing inch, and it felt like he was never going to stop, like he was going to split you in two.
"There." He bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. "See? Perfect. You took all of me. You're such a good girl."
"Michael—"
"I'm going to move now. Just a little. Just enough to help me release all that tension." He pulled back, slow and controlled, then pushed forward again. "That's it. That's perfect. You feel— you feel incredible."
He set a rhythm. Slow at first, almost lazy, his hips rolling against you in a steady, hypnotic cadence. Your body was still wet from the shower, and he slid in and out of you without any resistance, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him.
"This is okay," he was murmuring, his lips brushing your ear. "This is normal. Friends help each other like this all the time. You're helping me so much. You have no idea how good this feels."
"It feels— unnnnh— it feels—"
"Good? It feels good, doesn't it? That's okay. It's supposed to feel good. There's nothing wrong with feeling good." His hips picked up speed, slamming into you harder now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the marble walls. "You're so tight. So wet. You were made for this. Made to help me."
Your hands scrambled against the countertop, looking for purchase. Your reflection stared back at you with glazed eyes and parted lips. The words didn't make sense, friends helping friends, nothing wrong with feeling good, this is normal but they wrapped around you like a warm blanket, muffling the alarm bells ringing somewhere in the back of your mind.
"I'm getting close," he breathed. "So close. You're doing so good. Such a good friend. I'm going to pull out and release on your back, okay? That's the normal way to do it."
"O-okay."
"Good girl."
He pulled out, and his hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping furiously. You stayed bent over the sink, your body trembling, your cunt aching with a sudden emptiness.
And then hot spurts of cum splattered across your lower back, your ass, dripping down the curve of your hip. It was warm and thick and there was so much of it, pulse after pulse, until you felt like you'd been marked, claimed, branded.
"There." Michael's voice was breathless, satisfied. "There. That's so much better. You helped me so much. I can't thank you enough."
You stayed there, bent over the vanity, cum cooling on your skin, as Michael reached for a washcloth and began to clean you up. Gentle. Methodical. Almost reverent.
"You're such a good friend," he said again. "I'm so lucky to have you."
Michael got dressed first. Slipped his briefs back on, then his slacks, then his red shirt. He buttoned it up slowly, catching his own reflection in the mirror, adjusting his curls until they fell just so.
"I'll leave you to finish getting ready," he said, turning toward the door. "Take your time. And don't worry about Jermaine—I'll tell him I was in the studio."
"Michael?"
He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
"I can't find my panties."
"Your panties?" His expression was perfectly blank. Perfectly innocent. "I haven't seen them. Maybe they fell behind the vanity? I can help you look later. Or maybe Janet borrowed them—you know how she is."
"Maybe," you said, but you didn't sound convinced.
"Don't worry about it. I'm sure they'll turn up." He smiled that shy, boyish smile, the one that had charmed the entire world. "Thanks again for your help. I feel so much better."
He slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
In the hallway, Michael Jackson reached into his pocket and felt the soft cotton of your panties still nestled there. He didn't take them out. Didn't need to. He just smiled, smoothed down the front of his shirt, and walked toward the studio to tell Jermaine he was ready to work.
Behind him, in the bathroom, you stood in front of the mirror, still naked, still confused, still wondering where the hell your underwear had gone.
You never did find them.