Part One: The Meeting/Jermaine

For quite some time now, I have been kicking around an idea for an erotica that seemed to scandalous, a part of me dared not to even write it. The reason my story is so alarming is that is does not use only Michael Jackson. Instead, I dreamt of crafting a story that included all six of the Jackson men. Yes, all SIX of them! It has taken a bit of time, effort and thought, but I am excited to bring to you this series. You see, working with that many men, could not be contained in one story. No. This is the beginning of a multi-part miniseries. I do you hope enjoy every minute of reading it. I certainly enjoyed every minute of writing it.

“The Lockdown”

Part One: The Meeting/Jermaine

 

A Jacksons Erotica By:

MJsLoveSlave

(Nonsexual Cameo by Joe Jackson)

　

Los Angeles, California

May, 1990

I was nervous…so nervous.

I don’t believe I could ever remember a time when I had been any more disturbed, than right then, sitting in that waiting room.

I was the only soul in that austere, overly cool, plain white box that sufficed as a room.

If my being in that little room, sitting on that damned uncomfortable plastic chair, hadn’t been so utterly important, I’d have leapt to my feet, hit the door and never looked back.

But I couldn’t just up and run. I couldn’t. Too much was riding on my being there.

I was out of work, in desperate need of a job. Bills were piling up sky-high and collectors of said bills were constantly ringing my phone in an effort to get what was due them.

God, if I didn’t get this job, I didn’t know what to do.

I had to have that job.

If I didn’t get it, I’d lose everything--my apartment, my car….I’d be homeless.

I needed this…I needed that money more than anything in the world.

A paying job.

I couldn’t have thought of anything more important.

There was no way I would survive on the streets of L.A. I was too young, too soft…too much of everything that didn’t belong there.

Too weak, Lord knows I couldn‘t fight--

“Miss Loni O’Malley?”

At the abrupt mention of my name, I stared up, startled and wrenched from my thoughts of poverty and squalor.

A woman, in a sleek plaid business suit had appeared in the door, smiling warmly at me.

“Miss O’Malley?” She repeated, lashes caked with mascara fluttering as she looked down at me.

“Yes--yes! I’m Loni O’Malley!” I stammered, rising to my feet, a feat, as my knees were knocking so had I could hear the bones clacking.

The woman grinned even bigger.

“Please follow me. Mr. Jackson will see you now.”

I’m not quite sure how I managed to follow her down that long, winding maze of checkered linoleum tile and turquoise walls, without passing out in my anxiety.

I was just so scared.

The feeling intensified as we rounded a corner, the two black lacquered doors of Mr. Jackson’s office coming into view.

And as we neared them, another sight made the butterflies in my stomach turn into a pack of angry hornets.

An older gentleman, perhaps in his early sixties, stood just outside the doors. A tall, lean, somewhat red-skinned Black man, with his short, curled hair, slicked back deftly.

Long before I reached him, I felt his eyes, a queer shade of crystal-clear blue, on me sternly.

He was dressed smartly in a black and grey pinstriped suit over a crisp white oxford and matching tie.

In his hands, adorned with several diamond and gold studded rings, was a pink, manila envelope.

The envelope containing my resume.

When the receptionist and I got to him, I noticed he didn’t extend his hand to shake mine.

Looking over my head at the receptionist, he wondered,

“Regina, is she the one?”

I automatically didn’t like him. He seemed the human embodiment of the waiting room I had sat in for so long--cold, unwelcoming and impersonal.

Nodding, Regina tried to smile.

“Yes, Sir. Mr. Joe Jackson, may I present Miss Loni O’Malley--”

“Save the gallantries for when I have the time for them, Regina!”

Mr. Jackson grumbled, his voice deep and rumbling like a clap of thunder.

“I’m a busy man with much more to attend to in my day than just this!”

“Yes, Sir!” Regina was humble as Mr. Jackson turned, opening the door to his office.

“Follow me, kid.” There was no kindness at all to his voice. But I was a beggar and couldn’t be a chooser.

I was swiftly reminded of that as I was led into Mr. Jackson’s office.

An office, decorated in more of the black and white and turquoise, was boasted several photographs of him with various celebrities--Barbara Streisand, Liza Minnelli, Harry Belafonte, just to name a few.

One entire wall glittered with awards, the largest portion of which being Tony awards.

It was no secret to anyone who could focus their eyes long enough to read a paper how important Joe Jackson was.

The man WAS practically Broadway itself.

Joe Jackson was one of the most successful producers of Broadway, and off-Broadway, plays at that point in time at the turn of the decade.

Starting in 1960, when he had, with a few of his college buddies, gone in on a venture to produce a play, The Black Man’s Blues and how nearly overnight, it had become a smash hit on the Great White Way, and helped cement Joe as a king among minions in the world of stage.

Now thirty years and over one hundred and fifty different plays, musicals and a movie of the week later, Joe Jackson was one of the richest men in the country. (I had heard rumors of him being worth somewhere near one billion dollars and at any point in time, he had a hand in nearly half the plays on Broadway, and few more in the theatric East End in England.)

The man was a living legend.

And I was in his office, hoping to work for him.

I took a seat in one of the black leather guest chairs as he sat in a turquoise leather office chair behind his big, black desk.

Mr. Jackson said nothing as he opened the envelope, removing my resume and starting to flip through it, skimming it in the barest sense of the word.

I looked on anxiously, that sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach never leaving me.

After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Jackson finally spoke, his words as crisp as the air in the room.

“You studied at the Cordon Bleu, Miss O’Malley?”

“Yes…Yes, Sir. Six years, under the guidance of Chef Hunter Burrell…” My voice cracked as I tried to control myself.

“I’m familiar with Chef Burrell…”Mr. Jackson trailed off staring at a page, seeming to scrutinize it.

“The advertisement you answered in the paper called for a personal chef, Miss O’Malley, but I must be honest with you--you won’t be cooking for me.”

Those steely, unnerving eyes came up and landed on me, seeming to pierce me like a sword,

“I’m currently putting together a new musical I hope to debut sometime in the coming year. Writing the music for my play, are my six sons. I’ve brought them out here, from New York so they can hunker down, concentrate and come up with the score to another sell-out play.”

A long, well-manicured finger was pointed at me.

“I’ve leased a property out in Spring Beach for them to stay at. They aren’t allowed to leave until I have a damn score on this desk, you understand? And if I left them to themselves, they’d else live on takeout and be forever constipated, or burn the place down attempting to do what they claim is cooking. That’s what your job will entail Miss O’Malley. Cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner for my boys.”

At the news that I wasn’t cooking for Mr. Jackson, but instead for his sons--six of them!--I was left a bit breathless.

It was already a challenge being the personal chef to one elite member of society with a discerning palate. Who knew what kind of struggles I faced trying to please six at once?

Any other time, in any other situation, I would have walked out of there.

But I was too deep in the red to walk away. I couldn’t say no.

I wouldn’t have survived if I had.

I needed that money. I needed it more than the air I was sucking in.

Leaning back in his chair, the springs in it squeaking lightly, Mr. Jackson paid me a sweeping glance before continuing.

“My boys need three hots a day. Like I said, I cant’ have them going around filling their bellies with bullshit nonsense. Now I understand cooking for six is quite a lot and you will be paid handsomely for your work. The only thing I cannot give you an accurate figure on, is the amount of time you will be employed…” Mr. Jackson trailed off and I felt myself cowering under that sharp stare of his.

It was like he could see into my soul or something. He wasn’t much staring at me, as he was through me.

“It’s a creative process…those sorts of things can’t be measured. I only ask you this….” Mr. Jackson was stroking at the thin mustache on his upper lips I leaned forward, anticipating his next words.

“…are you involved in any way, Miss O’Malley? Boyfriend? Husband? Children?”

That inquiry caught me a bit off guard. I had interviewed for cooking positions before, but never had anyone ever asked about my personal life and relationships.

“No, Sir…” I replied tentatively. “I’m single--no children.”

For the first time since I had sat down, the man’s thin lips parted, exposing his bright white teeth. Teeth so white they were cartoonish.

“That’s fine…you see, Miss O’Malley, you’d be required to stay on the property, same as my sons, to cook for them as needed. And I wouldn’t want an angry spouse or neglected baby to interfere with the work that has to be done.”

I tilted my head, staring at Mr. Jackson curiously.

I may have been wrong, but in some quiet, underhanded way, had this man just told me I had gotten the position?

I was within an inch of asking, when I was given an affirmative nod.

“Miss O’Malley…” He stated seriously, rising from his desk and extending a hand to me.

Reaching and grabbing onto that piece of cool, bony flesh, my ears rang with his next statement,

“Please go see Regina at the front desk. She has all the information and address to the property for you. Please be there by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

The job!

I had the job! I was employed!

“Oh! Oh! Thank you Mr. Jackson! You don’t know how much I appreciate this, Sir!” I was so happy, just plain out of my head with glee, I almost kissed that old miser.

Almost.

So joyful, was I, that I didn’t walk back to Regina the Receptionist’s desk.

No…

I skipped.

Skipped like a character out of a Disney movie.

I had no idea, that the following days of my life would be so far down the spectrum from a children’s film that the FCC might have banned it.

The Following Morning

Spring Beach, California

From the moment I drove my beat up Chevy into the town of Spring Beach, I fell in love with it.

To me, Spring Beach seemed the kind of place you only saw in films and programs about the rich and famous.

Everywhere I looked, I saw nothing but the hallmarks of leisurely people with time to waste and money to burn.

Lining immaculately clean streets were rows and rows of mansions, each more extravagant than the last boasting well trimmed lawns and tirelessly attended to foliage, ranging from round rose bushes to hedges cuts into wild geometric shapes.

Many of the homes face out on a stretch of private beach, pristine white sand getaways right in their own backyard.

I saw so many girls in barely there bikinis and men in high cut, Lycra Speedos, I stopped counting them after a while. It seemed futile.

Did anyone wear real clothes? Did they need to?

No one seemed in a rush. Taking their own time, as they advanced down to the beach to bake themselves to a ripe, golden brown and twenty years down the line nurse a case of malignant melanoma.

I was already delighted at the hefty sum in which Mr. Jackson was paying me to cater to his six sons--a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for every week that passed, more money than I had seen in my entire life. I had more than enough to pay of all my debts with a great chunk of “walking-around” money for myself.

Hell, if his sons dragged on long enough, I might just have been able to afford a house!

The money was good, and this lovely, fantastical locale was only icing on the cake to me. I was dreaming and would killed anyone had they pinched me.

Rolling along, I glanced at the address, which I taped to the center of my steering wheel:

1958 Seawater Way.

Seawater Way. It sounded like an amusement park ride. But that was going to be my home for God only knew how long.

To an extent, I didn’t care. This was an exciting experience and I wanted to enjoy every bit of it. (Within professional reason of course. My main priority was cooking and excelling at my work.)

It took a bit of riding around, as I had never been to Spring Beach before, but after about twenty minutes, I located 1958 Seawater Way.

Pulling through the open, swirling and decorative wrought iron gate, it was clear the home was a Jackson property--a large “J” in gold glittered at me from the middle of the gate.

I drove in only a few yards at most before I had to slam on the breaks, bringing my car to a screeching halt.

I had to.

I was breathless .

The mansion…I had seen other impressive homes on the drive in, but they paled in comparison to the Jackson home.

Done in the a Mediterranean style, the home was a stunning villa, made of a light peach stucco with darker, brown tiled roof.

At the end of the drive, in front of the house, a huge fountain featuring a huge cream marble fish, was spouting blue water into the air.

Curling around the fountain was a double staircase leading up to the slightly sunken porch.

I could scarcely believe I not only got to work there, but live there!

In the lot on side of the house, I parked beside the only other vehicle there, a nondescript black van.

It took three tries for me to get over onto that porch.

Every time I had come within a foot of the door, my nerves had gotten the better of me and I had run back to my car trying to collect myself and calm down.

I had never had a job like that and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was mess up or serve a less than satisfactory dish!

Now finding myself on the porch, I discovered something else.

Made into the wall, was a mirror, I suppose for a person to check and see how dark and crispy they had gotten after a day in the sun.

Well other people tanned. I simply burned. I supposed that was the Irish in me.

Staring at my reflection, my complexion was nearly as white as the jacket of my uniform.

I had gone out and bought a dozen of the fanciest chef jackets I could afford. Made of thick and durable white cotton, it was decorated with tons of whimsical contrasting black stitching and rickrack.

With the jacket, I wore a simple pair of black trousers and sensible shoes, as I was going to be on my feet tending a stove most of the day.

I never did like wearing those big white, cumbersome hats that most of my colleagues plopped on their heads. They seemed to get in my way more than anything.

Instead, I had my thick, dark hair swept back into a low, braided bun at the nape of my neck.

My make up was minimal, black liner circling my green-flecked blue eyes, no blush at all and a dabbing of pink gloss on my lips.

Jewelry got lost in food, so I wore none.

Patting at my hair and exhaling loudly, I was ready for this.

Ready to tackle this job and everything it entailed.

Bing! Bong!

The bell chimed dully inside as I pressed the little crescent shaped button outside.

I stood there a few moments, inhaling and pleasuring in the salty kick to the air. Yes, I was going to really enjoy staying there and hope to get to the beach sometime. Even if I did come back looking like a boiled lobster, with sunburn.

I was expecting to be met at the door by the living rock, Joe Jackson.

The man who opened the door and leaned lazily against it was not Joe Jackson.

Not at all.

The man facing me, was much younger than Mr. Jackson.

He was quite handsome, with a smooth, light brown complexion. The man was about my height--five-foot-seven--with a kind of average build.

Although it was kind of hard to tell as he wore baggy, dark green sweats.

Eyes, the color of clover honey, widened at me and pouty, plump lips, adorned with a pencil-thin mustache, parted in a friendly smile.

Before I could put it out, the man had grabbed my hand and was shaking it so hard I bounced.

“Hi, there!” He greeted in a mild yet, enthusiastic voice. “You’re Loni, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I was still bouncing as he continued shaking and patting at my hand. “Mr. Jackson?”

The man threw his head topped by a tall, flattop hairdo, back and crowed.

“Jesus Christ, lady! Don’t call that name in this house! You go, “Mr. Jackson” six guys will answer, ‘Huh’? HA! You can call me by my first name, since you’ll be feeding me! The least I can do. You make a man’s food, you call him by his name. I’m Marlon! Marlon Jackson!”

Feeling more at ease than I had all day, I smiled back at the man.

“Nice to meet you, Marlon.”

“You too!” Marlon was draping an arm around my shoulders and leading me into the foyer that featured high ceilings a cool, calming color scheme of peaches and cream with hardwood and golden accents. “We were just eating breakfast. Nothing fancy--cereal and instant coffee. It’s the only thing our father would let us have, he was so scared we’d tear this place down to the foundation! Ha!”

From the foyer I was led down the hall, past an unused living room and formal dining room on through a swinging door into the kitchen.

My true home for the next week, at least.

A wide open space with an island in the middle, everything covered in mosaic tiles of varying shades of beige, with stainless steel appliances.

In the far corner of the room, four men sat in a breakfast nook around a wicker table and a fifth stood at my island, pouring Fruity Pebbles into his bowl.

All of them were busy chatting amongst themselves and didn’t seem to notice that their brother had brought in company.

“Fellas….Fellas…Hey!” Marlon called with a wave and was promptly ignored as the man with the Pebbles when and stood over the other, joining in their conversation.

“I’ll be damned….” He grumbled to himself, before removing his hands from me and hooking his pinkies in his mouth.

Marlon whistled a toot so shrill, it made my ears ache.

And appeared to scare the hell out his brothers, all their heads flying up to peer at him in wonder.

“It’s like you skunks go deaf when I’m trying to talk to you!” He scoffed and threw his arm around me again. “Look what I found out on the porch--a chef!”

Bowls were instantly set down as the quintet rose from the table, forming a line, shoulder to shoulder facing me.

“Marlon, she got a name, or do we just holler “Chef!” when we need her?” One of the men, the tallest of the bunch, with rugged face and hair arranged in an S-Curl, questioned and the rest of them were hanging onto each other laughing.

“This is Loni O’Malley, gang. Loni, these are my brothers--”

He pointed to a tall man on the end, though not as tall as the one who had joked.

“Jackie…”

Jackie was a handsome man, a bit on the thin side, with brown skin and dark eyes, with his hair, arranged in short curls, falling across a high forehead. On Jackie as well as the rest of the men, each possessed cheekbones so sharp, I knew I could have cut glass with them.

“How ya doing, Loni?” Jackie kindly shook my hand.

“Tito…”

Tito was closer in height to Marlon and a bit chunky, with serious eyes, that glowed with friendship as he reached and patted my shoulder.

“Randy…”

Randy, wearing a tank top with his sweatpants, was clearly the most fit of the bunch, as his arms were thick and swelled with muscles.

He also about broke my hand, his grip was so strong.

“Michael…”

Michael Jackson’s appearance differed quite a bit from that of his brothers. He was incredibly thin, possibly the slimmest man I had met, with skin much lighter than the rest. His angular face was off set by a very streamlined nose and I remember wondering up on meeting him if he’d had any “work” done.

He also had a cleft in the base of his pointed chin that the other lacked.

His face was halfway hidden by the long waved hair falling into it as he stuck out an inhumanly large hand and shook my hand so timidly, it seemed he was afraid of me. Dark eyes, rimmed in more liner than mine were downcast and never came up.

Michael was also the only brother in sweats with a cartoon character on them: Bugs Bunny danced up and down his legs.

“And Jermaine….”

The rugged faced man who had asked about my name earlier nodded at me as he winked.

Something about that man didn’t quite set well with me. I was getting a strange, unsettling vibe off of him, I was getting with the others.

A feeling that told me to watch how I stepped around him.

We spent an awkward moment of silence, before Marlon spoke up again, demanding,

“Well, goddamn it, you guys gonna offer to get a lady’s bags or what?”

The brothers Jackson instantly jumped to life.

“Right! Her bags!”

“Sorry, Loni, we’ll get them for you!”

“Getting them now!”

“Just a minute!”

A minor stampede ensued as the men were all racing around me, heading for the front door.

“It’s not so much stuff. Just my uniforms and some pajamas…” I called after them, but they were already gone.

Seconds later they returned, Jackie, Tito, Jermaine and Marlon each carrying one of my bags.

Randy and Michael, empty-handed brought up the rear, with Randy rushing to me and grabbing my arm in his so powerful hand.

I winced; I don’t believe that man understood his own strength.

“Come on Loni, we’ll show you your room!”

Randy yanked me so hard, my feet left the floor.

I didn’t feel the flooring again until we had begun climbing the winding, spiral staircase up to the second level.

“We saved the best room for you, being a woman and being brave enough to cook for us!” Randy joked leading me just off the top of the stairs where a finely carved wooden door stood open.

My room.

It was Xanadu.

Better than any room I had occupied.

The room was fairly large, and, probably the men’s doing, was decorated in shades of light pink and fuchsia, from the bedding to the curtains, to the rugs on the hardwood floor.

My bed, made of a lovely oak wood was draped in satin sheets, and had an organza canopy draped over it.

“It’s so beautiful…” I whispered, awed that I was going to sleep there.

Not banished into some corner like the help generally was.

But in a real room, like I was more of a friend than an employee.

It was almost too much.

“We figured you would…it’s the only pink room in the house.” Tito explained and worried I was intruding, I asked,

“Do you have sisters? Is this one of their rooms?” Did they have sisters and they had moved out leaving such a space behind.

“Yeah, this room was for our sister, Latoya. But she decided when she was thirteen she wanted an all white room, and never used this--” Randy started and Marlon snapped,

“That girl always been stuck up as all Hell. Room been here all this time. It’s perfectly fine and never used--”

“Quit rehashing old shit.” Jermaine lamented, absently rolling up the short sleeves of his orange t-shirt, so that they hugged his biceps. “Loni don’t care about that sort of thing.”

Marlon cut his eyes in aggravation at his brother, but said no more about Latoya.

A very light, almost feminine voice from behind me, suggested,

“Maybe we should leave Loni for a while, let her get settled, guys? She can’t put her unmentionables away with an audience.”

Looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a woman, I found Michael pushing his hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ears.

Had that high-pitched voice really come from his little glossy mouth?

Agreeing five of the six brothers began streaming around me, patting at my shoulders and back, saying they were glad to meet me.

Hanging around the doorway, Jermaine smiled at me, in that same odd way he had down in the kitchen.

“If you need any of us, Loni, we’ll down in the living room having a bull session. You know brainstorming songs and such.”

He informed me, eyes shifting.

“Okay, thank you.” I turned and started to open one of my bags to begin putting my things away. Jermaine was starting to make my skin crawl.

Lifting one of my neatly folded chef’s jackets out, I admired the stitching on it, my mind already down in the kitchen.

“Need any help unpacking?”

My jacket tumbled to the floor as I spun around.

Jermaine was still in the doorway, watching me.

“No…I’ve got this, thank you very much.” I went to bend to get it and saw that Jermaine was still loitering.

“Do…do I dismiss you or something?” I wondered snidely, dusting my jacket off. God, I was wearing that man like wet underwear.

“Nope.” Jermaine had an odd way of smiling, instead of a smile in the traditional sense, he looked as though he was baring his teeth, like something of a wild animal.

I was winked at again, and Jermaine turned, leaving me alone.

Shaking my head, I sighed. Jermaine Jackson was nice enough I guessed, but if he continued to be weird like he was doing, I just might have ended up stabbing him with a metal kabob.

And it wouldn’t have looked too good murdering my client on Day One.

* * *

A half hour later, I was ascending that spiral stair, heading for the first floor to find the Jacksons, and get an idea of what they liked to eat so I could go into town and purchase groceries.

Coming off the stairs, I made out the sound of classical music playing faintly.

Following it, I heard one of the Jacksons complaining,

“Man, I hate watery music! Can’t you play something jazzier?”

Another Jackson replied as the music immediately stopped,

“Hell no, I can’t! We gotta compose music for the play. And the play is set in Mozart’s time--the eighteenth century!”

“I can’t stand this shit! I can’t be doing this for the next week or two weeks!” Randy was up and pacing the length of the hooked rug in the center of the room, shaking his head with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

The rest of the Jacksons, were lounging lazily on the overstuffed couches and chairs, except for Marlon, who was seated at the grand piano on the opposite side of the room, near a bay window, that was open and letting the sea-tinged air in.

“You better learn to stand it.” Jackie pointed out. “You know writing the scores to Dad’s musicals and plays are how we keep the lights on. Quit your damn bellyaching!”

Lips puckering stubbornly, Randy shot back,

“Nah, he better learn to come up with some more contemporary stuff. Who cares about Mozart? It is 1990, fellas! We need to be playing some good stuff, like Guy, Prince, Madonna--”

At the piano Marlon doubled over hooting.

“Madonna? N(bad word) did you just say Madonna? I always wondered about you! This explains so much--”

Spinning like a top, Randy shrieked,

“Marlon, fuck you!”

Guffaws shook the room at the silly argument.

Sticking his tongue out, Marlon waved his middle fingers at his brother arrogantly. “Kiss my ass Randy and quit bitchin’! It ain’t helping to get the songs written! We got seventeen songs to write from scratch…”

“Man, don’t remind me…” Tito was pulling the brim of the New York Knicks cap on his head over his eyes as he slumped in his seat. “Why don’t Dad hire professional songwriters to do this sort of stuff?

“Because every play we ever made music for has been a hit and gotten a Tony--” Jermaine put in, giving his brother’s knee a playful shove.

“We’ve scored over a hundred shows, Man! You hear me? A hundred. Not one, not ten. A hundred! Damn well gotta run dry sometime.” Tito spoke around his hand, still holding the brim.

“Not today it don’t!” Jermaine retorted and as Tito mumbled something obscene, Michael, seated in a chair with one leg hanging over the arm, took notice of me.

“I helped with a hundred…”

“It’s gonna be a hundred and one, Son…”

As Jermaine and Tito went in circles Michael asked meekly,

“Did you need something?”

“Need a hit play!” Jermaine butted in and Michael groaned,

“Not you, dumbass--I think Loni wants to say something!”

Again I had an audience of six as I timidly stepped into the room.

It wasn’t until that exact moment, I realized, I was the only female in the house.

In a house crawling with twenty- and thirty-something men who appeared very virile. And it didn’t really help matters that none of the men were ugly.

A part of me was glad that I had brought several cans of pepper spray. If all else failed, I could blind myself to them.

“Um…” I was wringing my hands. “I don’t mean to interrupt you while you’re busy, but I was planning to go make groceries to get a jump on dinner tonight…I need to know what you gentlemen prefer to eat.”

“That’s okay, we ain’t getting anywhere, anyway.” Randy threw his hands up.

“We would if you quit bitchin’!” Marlon called across the room and shaking a fist Randy warned,

“You about to be a hurt bitch if you don’t leave me alone!”

Lifting his leg, Marlon indicated his backside. “Here’s my ass, take the week and kiss all of it!”

“Don’t mind them, they’re retarded.” Jackie was snickering as he shifted on the end of the couch. “You wanted to know about us…”

He looked his brothers each in turn, pausing to scoff at Randy and Marlon, now standing toe to toe by the piano, with Randy telling Marlon just what part of his anatomy he could suck.

“Michael’s a vegetarian. He only likes organic produce. No meat for him at all. Not even beef broth in his vegetable soup, he’ll freak.”

“Sitting right under your crooked nose, Jackie, damn.” Michael’s cheeks glowed red with embarrassment. “I’m just particular about how I eat.”

“That’s why if you turn sideways, you disappear! Skinny ass!” Tito snorted and Jackie choked, falling against one another..

Across the room Marlon and Randy were still going at it.

“Go to Hell!”

“Kiss my ass!”

“You say that one more time and I’m gonna kick yo’ ass!”

Michael clearly upset, drew his knees up to his chest pouting like a child.

That’s really what they all were, overgrown children.

It didn’t matter if they were adults, they were kind of just big kids.

Especially Michael, in those cartoon pants.

Jackie regaining his composure, continued,

“Jermaine is a Muslim, so he doesn’t eat pork or drink alcohol. Still don’t know how a Black man can give up bacon.” He shrugged and jerked a thumb at Tito. “He likes seafood, since we are right on the water. The rest of us don’t care as long as we see a grilled steak every few days.

“Motherfucker, I’mma bust your jaw if you don’t get the hell out my face!” Randy had his hands in his hair trying to control himself. “Someone get Marlon’s loony ass away from me before break the tip of my Nike off in it!”

“I’ll…uh…start cooking once, I come back from the market.” I announced, my voice losing steam as Marlon and Randy began shoving each other. Marlon slammed against the piano, knocking the Liberace-esque candelabra on top over.

“OW! I’m gonna kill you!” Marlon whined picking up the fallen candlestick and hurling it at Randy, just missing his head. It hit the wall and the glass balls that hung from it, shattered in a shower of shards.

“Yo! Cut that stupid shit out!” Tito was up and running attempting to break it up. “Fighting in front of Loni!?! She’s a lady! We got company--act right, you crack heads!”

Deciding it was in my best interest to be gone by the time blood was shed--as strong as Randy Jackson had seemed, I was sure Marlon would have emerged injured in some way, I made a speedy exit, my car keys in hand.

“…if I get dookie on my shoe, it’ll be your own fault, you stupid bastard!”

That was the last threat I heard as I reached my car and bent to unlock the door.

From what I had seen of the Jackson men, aside from being incredibly spoiled their entire lives through, when they had to work together, it was just a mess.

The brothers, with exception of Michael, seemed to have particularly strong personalities and clashed horrifically.

No one had wanted to be in the wrong, or back down.

It was a wonder to me how they’d managed to do the scores for one play, let alone a hundred, with out murdering each other, and leaving corpses decomposing everywhere.

Unlike them, at least I was able to leave at will, even if it was just to go to the grocery store. I needed to clear my head after that scene.

A nice drive, alone, was what I wanted.

“Loni! Hey, Loni--wait up!”

I had company.

Jogging down the steps towards me, and around that ostentatious fountain, was Jermaine.

Was he really bothering me? Now? When I was trying to work?

He was starting to get on my nerves.

“Hey…do you mind if I go with you? It’s getting ugly in the house. All that screaming and mess. We already been in there four days and starting to go stir-crazy. Whenever we’re on lockdown like this, nothing gets to rolling until someone has a black eye--”

“You short stubby son of a--” Jermaine was cut off by, of all people, Michael Jackson screaming as he came flying through the open window to the living room, landing out of sight in the decorative bushes onside of the house.

I had my hands to my mouth in shock, I had never seen behavior like this!

A man had just been tossed from a window, for crying out loud!

Jermaine on the other hand, was so reserved, it scared me.

He didn’t even seem to mind and was patting at his hair.

Did this sort of thing happen, daily? It didn’t stir a reaction from him at all.

I was a chef, not a referee at a boxing match! I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. I liked my face!

Marlon, appeared in the window, his green sweatshirt torn at the neckline.

Pointing out the window, where Michael was staggering to his feet he admonished,

“I told you not to come between me and Randy, Mike! I told you!”

“Kiss my freckled ass--Donkey Lips! ” Michael blew a raspberry and enraged, Marlon leapt out the window, others yelling, still in the house.

Why the police weren’t called in for the disturbance, will forever be a mystery to me.

As Michael and Marlon came rolling out onto the pavement, curled fists flying, I turned to Jermaine.

This was insanity. It had to be insanity to accept his offer of company.

“Know any good markets?” I asked, and baring his teeth happily, Jermaine nodded,

“I know a great place!”

Throwing him the keys, I suggested,

“You drive. We gotta get out of here before we become a part of the WWF!”

Crowing, Jermaine opened the car door and I rushed around to the passenger seat, destined for a market.

Any market!

Fifteen Minutes Later

Keller’s Market

Spring Beach, California

As Jermaine steered my car into the parking lot of Keller’s Market, I had a nagging feeling of what had to be awe, tugging at the back of mind.

I had taken Jermaine to be much like his brothers, an overindulged young man, and when he made mention of knowing a good grocery store, I assumed he would drive me to something that was little more than convenience store, that had more candy bars and popcorn than actual, real cooking food.

I was quite surprised, when instead of a tiny hovel housing bags of Lay’s well beyond their expiration date, an expansive, white brick building lay sprawling before us, against the backdrop of the bright blue ocean.

The name Keller’s, rose above the building in green lighted letters with a big, colorful plastic toucan hanging onto the “s”.

“How’s that for a market?” Jermaine questioned, those teeth being shown again, as he slid my car into a slot near the entrance, where people were trotting back and forth with baskets of groceries.

Unfolding from the car, I was all smiles. If there was food to be bought for Jermaine and the rest of the Jacksons, this was probably the best place to do it.

Side by side with Jermaine, we went up to the door, stopping long enough to get one of those metal carts, and passed through the sliding doors of the place.

Almost immediately, I was bombarded by the aromas of fresh pastries as right inside the door, a bakery was jumping, a long line of people poised to buy things.

“Now what do you have in mind to buy, so I can tell you what aisles to go on.” Jermaine was speaking at me, but inspecting a bag of pita chips.

“I think, since we’re so close to the water, I’ll make a shrimp pizza with a béchamel sauce, and some arugula salad on the side…and a tiramisu for dessert.”

“Damn, that’s some fancy cooking. Beats the hell out of Pizza Hut and McDonald’s for sure!” Jermaine clapped his hands and tossed the chips into the basket.

“The flour and baking stuff are on aisle five.”

Looking up at the signs as I went, I quickly found the aisle and began loading things into my basket preparing to make the crust for my pizza from scratch.

Finding the salt way over my head, I casually asked,

“Jermaine, will you reach that Fleur De Sel for me?” (Author’s Note: It’s a fine sea salt)

When I received no response, I turned in a complete circle.

Jermaine was nowhere to be found.

In fact, the only person in the aisle was a little girl, wandering aimlessly as she sucked on a Ring Pop.

“Jermaine?” I called out and briefly felt like a mother who had misplaced their child.

Much to my relief though, Jermaine turned the corner, passing the little girl, walking briskly. A small paper plate was in his hand.

“Sorry, there was a dude giving out samples, and I had to get some. I’m starved.” I was told as he lifted a cracker, with some kind of orange goop piled on top.

Holding out the cracker to me, he urged,

“You gotta try it. It’s an green apple-apricot chutney, with some aged cheddar underneath, on a club cracker. Here.”

Jermaine’s eyes were dancing in his head and I have no idea why, I did it, but I didn’t take the cracker from him.

Leaning forward, I bit abut half of it, my lips brushing his fingertips.

Sniggling, Jermaine popped the rest into his mouth, finishing it.

The chutney did taste pretty good, sweet and spicy, but given time I could have made something more flavorful.

Advancing over to the produce where I began filling a bag with spinach and arugula, Jermaine was pilfering grapes and munching on them.

As I picked out raspberries to make a dressing for the salad, I noticed my eyes kept drifting to Jermaine, who stood a few away, still eating grapes.

In spite of myself, I was feeling a twinge of attraction for the man.

He as quite easy on the eyes and had been exceptionally nice to me. Even if he had been a bit of a nuisance to start with.

Jermaine began putting bunches of grapes in a plastic baggie, and I had to be blind not to see how his thighs, so strong and toned flexed underneath his tight black sweatpants. A bountiful booty was contained in those pants.

Not to mention those biceps accented by the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

Returning to the basket and depositing his grapes, something made me inquire,

“Uh…how’d you come to be a Muslim, Jermaine?”

Coming up with a handful of stolen, pitted cherries, Jermaine tossed one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before responding,

“Well, me and the brothers raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses, you know? But my folks were so lax about it, we didn’t really get so religious. Back in ‘87, I divorced my wife, Hazel, because we just didn’t get along anymore…”

Sighing he grabbed onto the basket and started pushing it towards the fish counter. “…for two years, I was kind of lost. I didn’t know what I wanted from life. Didn’t even know if I still believed there was a God. Had a string of relationships that didn’t mean anything. Just kind of bullshitting through my days. Then last year, out the blue, something told me to go to India. I had never been but something told me. I spent five months in and around New Delhi. Found myself in temples with the people there…I got engrained in the culture. I loved the culture. How mystical it was. I walked around in the traditional clothes, worshipped in temples. ”

Jermaine stopped and peered into a tank teeming with moving lobsters.

“It brought me a peacefulness to my life that I needed. I converted to Islam in India and brought it home with me…it seemed like the right thing to do with myself. Even picked up a Muslim name: Muhammad Abdul Azziz”

I was fairly impressed with this side of Jermaine. He was calm, not clowning and those teeth were hidden.

“That’s admirable…” I touched his arm before going up to the counter and asking the monger for a pound of peeled and de-veined tiger prawns.

“Can I ask you something?” Jermaine’s hand came down on my shoulder. “I hope you won’t think it’s rude.”

“What--thank you.” I took the wrapped package of shrimp from the monger and placed it into the buggy.

Hands on hips, Jermaine looked me up and down.

“Are…are you mixed with anything? You got kind of an exotic look going on.”

That wasn’t the first time I had heard that comment.

Chuckling to myself, I nodded. “Yeah, my father is Spanish, from Madrid and my mother is half-Black and half-Irish.”

“Cool combo.” Jermaine was rubbing his chin. “Never heard of something like that. You’re really pretty, Loni.”

Ducking my head at the compliment, and trying to disguise my rosy cheeks, I grabbed onto the basket.

“Come on, I still need to get some cheese for the pizzas…”

Pushing the cart, I looked up at Jermaine as he fell in stride beside me.

Seeing he was giving me that goofy grin, I smiled back.

* * *

“…olive oil…where the hell did I put the olive oil?” I whispered to myself, as I stood at the island in the kitchen, mashing some raspberries over a fine sieve to extract the juice and leave the seeds behind, starting on the dressing for the spinach-arugula salad that was to be the first course to the dinner for the Jacksons.

Spying the small bottle on the counter behind me, I abandoned the berries and retrieved it, popping the cork off and preparing to add it to the raspberry juice, to make a vinaigrette.

Whisking the oil in to create an emulsion, the door to the kitchen swung open and Marlon, noticeably sporting a small bruise to his right cheek came sauntering in.

(While I was at the store, two separate brawls had broken out, one between Marlon, Michael and Randy and the other between Jackie and Tito when they had tried to break up the first. From what I knew the men had grappled until they had gotten tired. Then they had returned to their composing as if nothing had happened. That bruise was Jackie’s handiwork, to silence Marlon when he wouldn’t shut up. Jermaine was right, they couldn’t work until someone got hurt. Indeed I had seen rotund Tito with his shirt off, looking like a leopard he was dotted with so many bruises to his midsection.)

“Hey Loni, I gotta tell ya…” He was laughing as he went over to the fridge and came out with a can of Pepsi, popping the pull tab and taking a swig from it. “You and Jermaine were gone so long today, I was scared you all had run off to Vegas or something.”

“No--” I was using a mitt to peek into the hot oven where the pizzas were slowly cooking, so as not to make the shrimp tough.

“…Cause you know that’s how he and his first wife hooked up anyway. At nineteen, he and the girl eloped to Vegas. Dad had told Jermaine to wait till he was older--Jermaine was hardheaded as Hell and took off the same night. He always been like that. Impulsive bastard--pardon my French.” Marlon laughed some more. Did he ever stop?

“We…we weren’t eloping. It just takes time to get enough groceries to feed six grown men and stock an empty kitchen.” I said absently, still kind of whirling from the idea that Jermaine had simply run off with his now ex-wife.

It was kind of romantic actually. To me anyway.

“I hear that…it’s hard shopping for myself…” Marlon took another drink as the door swung open a second time. “Speak of the devil…”

Jermaine, finger pointing at Marlon, told him seriously,

“Man, the brothers are looking at your lyrics. They need you to come play the piano to get the melody right.”

Setting his empty can on the counter, Marlon shook his head,

“Composer’s work is never done. That food smells good Loni, shout when it’s ready! Ha!” He cackled as he left the room.

Jermaine lingered just inside the door.

“Everything going alright? Food coming easy?”

He was baring his teeth at me again, thick brows rising and falling as he spoke, coming closer to the island.

His smile was making my heart flutter. And I tried to focus on my salad dressing to avoid looking at him.

“Yes, it’s fine--”

Ding!

Behind me the timer on oven suddenly rang, letting me know the pizza was ready to be taken out.

Jermaine was still smiling at me, I noticed, and I was distracted as I found myself meeting his eyes.

Those, soft dark eyes, the only softness to his hard face.

I should have been watching what I was doing.

I came back down to Earth in half a second as my bare hand came in contact the screaming hot door of the oven.

“Ouch! Oh, shit!” I recoiled in pain, crumpling over, gripping my hand to my chest.

Instantly, Jermaine was at my side, tugging me to the sink, and turning on the tap, running cool water onto my hand, which was had turned a bright red.

“That’s okay. You’re not hurt. It’s not a bad burn. Ain’t even blistering.” He cooed at me soothingly, showing me my dampened hand.

I went to thank him for helping me, when I realized Jermaine wasn’t releasing my hand.

“Jermaine!” I gasped as he brought my tender hand up to his mouth and began kissing the sore spot on it. Eyes directly on me as he knew just what he was doing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, snatching it away, and punching him in the shoulder, momentarily losing myself.

Remorse set in when I realized I had just struck my employer.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Jermaine said nothing, his lips curling smugly.

“I told you, it was smelling good up in here--did I lie? This girl been throwing down in here!” Marlon Jackson, leading the rest of the brothers came charging into the kitchen and foodstuffs began disappearing as Marlon grabbed the dressing and bowl of greens, Tito picked up the tiramisu that had been cooling on the counter across the room, and rest were raiding the fridge coming up with bottles of beer and cans of soda to drink with their meals.

Like a hurricane, the men and food were gone, leaving me and Jermaine behind again.

Still painfully silent, he picked up the mitts, slipping them on, before opening the oven and removing the large shrimp pizza , heading to the door with it.

At the door, Jermaine paused, and gave me a long, terse, up and down look, before leaving me.

Weakened by the look, heart fluttering, I gripped onto the counter.

Just what the Hell was going on…and how was I supposed to handle it for perhaps weeks at a time?

I didn’t know what to do.

I did know one thing though: I did like Jermaine Jackson.

I liked him an awful lot.

* * *

A Few Hours Later

Dinner had gone off without a hitch.

The Jacksons had all liked my shrimp pizza so immensely, that they spent a good forty-five minutes raving about it and begging me to make more the next day.

For the most part, Jermaine has graciously left me alone. He didn’t say much to me, other than to ask for a second helping of spinach and arugula salad.

Several times I had caught him staring boldly at me, and even when caught, he continued to look, but did no more than that.

I stood, gazing at myself in the lighted mirror over the washbasin of my marble bathroom, as I readied myself for bed that night.

Reaching into my hair, I pulled six bobby pins loose, my braided bun tumbling down over my shoulder.

Undoing the braid, I ran my hands through the loose waves that shrouded me.

Picking up a brush and starting to smooth my mane, I studied myself.

Not to be conceited, but I supposed it was kind of normal that Jermaine be attracted to me.

He’d said it himself, I was pretty.

Though I was a chef and spent the bulk of my time around food, I had maintained my slim figure. I observed my lines, by pulling my oversized nightshirt taught.

Yes, the trim shoulders, the small, yet perky bosom and slight hips that fed into long legs.

The way my hair made my pale skin and eyes stand out.

Delicate features that showed a strongly European influence, tiny, ski jump nose, hallowed cheeks and thin, cupid’s bow mouth.

And I was young, only twenty-five.

Why couldn’t Jermaine Jackson take a liking to me?

Running a hand through my hair, my stomach flipped as I knew WHY.

Jermaine was my employer. My boss to an extent.

I was hired to cook for him, not consort with him.

I had to keep it professional at all times.

I couldn’t give into strange, sordid desires.

Even if Jermaine was handsome, and kind and had a laugh that sounded like he was singing.

It didn’t matter how well sculpted those thighs were and even if he could crack walnuts, probably, with them.

I had to leave him alone.

Giving myself one last look, I started back into my room to turn down the bed.

“Aw, Man…” I groaned as I caught sight of my bed.

The covers had been flipped back, a bouquet of some of the tiger lilies that grew out back, along the patch that led to the stretch of private beach belonging to the Jacksons, and a small, handwritten note had been pinned to my pillow.

“If you like me, the way I think you like me, come to my room--now!

(I’m right across the hall from you, by the way.)

--Jermaine
”

My jaw was flapping in the wind.

I was stunned speechless. Utterly stunned.

Jermaine Jackson had more nerve than a fox in a henhouse!

I couldn’t get over him. Was that damn man really trying to entice me with a little simple notes and a few red-orange weeds he’d plucked from the yard?

All the flash, trash and money he had wasn’t going to make come running to him with open legs.

Jermaine was in for a rude awakening.

You didn’t get Loni Catalina O’Malley like that. Not that quickly.

Jermaine was going to get a piece of me that night. A piece of my mind and fist.

Tossing my hair flagrantly, I stormed from my room and across the wide hallway to the closed door of Jermaine’s bedroom.

Without so much as a warning knock, I flung the door open, revealing a room dressed in shades of purple and black. (was he having a secret affair with Prince or something?)

Jermaine sat under the covers on one side of the bed, wearing a plain, white tank top and flipping through a guitar catalogue.

Calmly and causally, like he hadn’t sent an inflammatory note to me at all.

Forgetting that my place to Jermaine was as that of “the help”, I stomped over to his bedside and exclaimed,

“Have you lost your goddamned mind? I mean, are you really crazy, Jermaine? You’re my boss! I can’t be carrying on with you--especially on my first day here! You must be outside your mind! What kind of a girl do you take me for?”

Jermaine took his own sweet time, dog-earing the page he was reading, before closing the magazine and setting it on his bedside table.

Throwing the sheets covering him, back, Jermaine gazed up at me, a brow raised.

“Just what kind of girl are you, Loni? You tell me.”

My breath came to a halt in my lungs.

Lying there, on that bed Jermaine wore a tank top…

And that was all.

I could feel my pupils dilating and my eyes growing as they fell down on Jermaine’s exposed lower half.

His thighs, those same, toned, appendages I had admired in Keller’s, framed his crotch gracefully.

(Author’s Note: Laughing hysterically as I envision Jermaine, naked.)

His crotch graced by a light bush of black curls, that fanned off his thighs were truly a wonder to me.

Springing from Jermaine’s loins and draping over his right thigh, out for anyone looking on to see, was…a massive hunk of flesh.

The same fine brown as its owner, Jermaine’s dick, even in its flaccid state was one of the largest I had ever laid eyes on.

Barely breathing, I began to back away…ready to take flight as he slipped from the bed and was rapidly approaching me.

Indicating the shaft swaying between those thighs, Jermaine bared his teeth at me, hissing,

“Loni, if you can honestly, look at this and walk away, I promise I’ll leave you the fuck alone…

Reaching past me--God that cock bumped my thigh!--he pushed the door closed.

There was a tiny click, as he locked it behind me.

A look of hunger, and not for the food I cooked, came to Jermaine’s eyes as he forced them into mine.

“…or you can just let me fuck you…”

A hand clamped down on my forearm, and Jermaine’s face came closer, him puffing breath laced with spearmints into my face.

“You want to be here; cause if you wanted to leave, you’d have knocked my ass down to get out the door before I closed it. You wouldn’t even be here--you’d have torn my note up and acted like you never saw it.”

I was pulled to him and unwillingly let him put his arms around me.

As I struggled against him, in a fruitless battle to free myself, Jermaine declared.

“I really don’t care that this is your first day, Loni. When I see something I want, I go after it. Just like I went after my first wife, and divorced the bitch…just like I took off and backpacked around India. I’m Jermaine Jackson, and I do what the Hell I want, when I want…”

Peering at me devilishly, teeth bared at me wickedly, he added, in a deeper tone,

“And I want you, Loni.”

“You’re my boss…you can’t do this…stop it…!” I begged as his face bobbed near mine again. So dangerously close.

A sliver of pink tongue came out, dampening Jermaine’s lips, and then they were mashed to mine.

Kissing me hard, feverishly, achingly.

It seemed as if all the emotion Jermaine had been holding back for me, came forward with that one, singular kiss.

I was braced against him, knees buckling from the force of feeling his tongue sweeping past my lips, and down my throat, swirling several times.

I was cradled, as Jermaine buried his face in my throat, sucking at it so hard, I knew hickies had to be forming.

How to cover such marks were far from my mind as I held onto the back of his head and neck, as his hands gripped my backside, squeezing lightly and sending chills up my spine.

Unconsciously, I was mimicking him, holding onto to his large ass, rubbing and plying it to hearts content, becoming more and more drunk with arousal the longer I touched him.

A bit of the greasy dressing of Jermaine’s hair came off on my cheek as he pecked at my shoulder through the cloth of my nightshirt, before leaning back from me,

Eyeing me through long lashes.

There was the sound of fabric ripping, and buttons hitting the hardwood floor, as Jermaine, as simply as tearing a piece of paper opened my nightshirt, and was shoving it off my shoulders, to the floor.

I stood there, drunker with a rush of emotions and urges that were foreign to me, wearing only a pair of white lace panties.

I shouldn’t have been doing this! I shouldn’t have been there. This was all kinds of wrong, and for the life of me, I couldn’t stop.

Somehow, I was compelled to stay there with Jermaine. And to do his bidding.

I wanted to be there!
Jermaine’s smile seemed to wrap his entire head as he ogled my breasts, thumbing at one of my nipples.

“Damn it all to Hell, if I knew you had all that going on under that stupid uniform of yours I’d have stripped you naked this morning when Marlon brought you in the kitchen. Hell’s afire!”

He spoke in a hushed tone as he pulled his tank off and dropped it at his feet.

Taking my arm, he steered me towards the bed.

“Go, lie down…before I lose my mind…go, girl…”

I jumped as Jermaine swatted my ass to hurry me along.

Obeying, I started over to the bed, the overhead light going out as I started to stretch into the soft bed, discovering the sheets were all silk.

The only source of light in the room now, came from a small, bedside lamp, that cast a shaft of light over my.

Out of the darkness beyond the bed, I heard Jermaine sigh lustily.

All the feelings of how I was doing wrong and sorely breaching my work contract dissolved as Jermaine came strolling back into my eyesight.

One hand pressed to his tight hip, the other wrapped around that cock, swiftly running up and down it, as he was stroking it awake, causing it to rise and stand at attention.

Only one thought coursed not only though my mind, but all through my entire being from the roots of my hair, down to the nails on my toes.

I wanted to have sex with Jermaine Jackson!

The bed squeaked as Jermaine, still playing with himself, and slapping at his fuzz covered testicles was slowly inching his way into the bed beside me.

“Shit…” he momentarily released himself, clamping onto my breasts with both hands, and rubbing them in circles. “Nice little jugs, Loni…damn.”

I ran a hand over his sculpted pecs and abdomen, feeling how rapidly his heart was beating beneath my hand. Was he able to feel my heartbeat as well?

Was it beating that fast too? It certainly felt like it.

Leaning over Jermaine began planting kisses between my breasts.

Oh the sensation…I bounced underneath that man I was so thrilled and clung to his shoulders, only wanting him near me.

“What is that perfume? You smell like a cupcake!” He mumbled smooching around my abdomen.

“Va…Vanilla Musk…” I whimpered as with his teeth, Jermaine was tugging my underwear off.

So that my nether regions shown plainly to him.

They dangled from his mouth a moment, as he ran those rough hands of his down my thighs, before parting them.

“Oh…now that is a pussy!” He spoke, my underwear falling onto the sheet, staring down into me.

His eyes widened with greed and I held my breath, anticipating what was to come.

Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he dampened them before starting to rub at my clit.

“Oh…don’t do that…please…don’t…” My whines were muffled as Jermaine began kissing at me again.

Long fingers pushing roughly inside of me.

“OH--Jermaine!” I cried out as he got knuckle deep, wiggling his fingers to get a rise out of me.

“You…can shout all you want, Loni, Baby…” Jermaine was kissing at my shoulder, eyes glowing as he stared at me. “My brothers are all out swimming in the ocean, and besides…my walls are soundproof. Make all the noise you like.”

“Aw…aw…aw….” I was grunting as that man slowly withdrew his hand from me. Licking at his fingertips.

“Should have figured a chef would taste good…” Jermaine gave me a wink and I became aware of him starting to bend my legs up and back, leaving me open to him.

Falling forward so that his chin rested on my shoulder, he assured me,

“I’ll be good to you--”

A hand came up and covered my mouth.

“No--Aaaaaaah!” I shrieked as Jermaine’s girth, around eight or nine inches came blasting into me.

Forcing me to spread around him, hardly containing him he was so large.

“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! You like that girl? Ugh!” Jermaine began popping those hips against me, driving himself in and out of me rapidly.

Clinging to him and digging my nails into the supple flesh of his back, I knew I was scratching him to ribbons.

“Jermaine…Jermaine please….” Raising up off of me, Jermaine was mashing me down into the pillows, his hands firmly planted on my shoulders.

“Ugh…oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” I pressed my hands against his chest, trying desperately to get him off of me. He was too large…to much all at once.

The feeling he giving me….I was hot all over and knew I couldn’t last very long with him banging at me like that.

“Damn it! Fuck! You’re so good Loni…you’re good! AH!”

Jermaine cried before falling on me again, grabbing my hands and placing them on his rather large ass, as he continued to plow into me.

Mouth on mine, he was pushing his tongue into my mouth as he flapped against me.

Yanking my mouth from him as I started to feel myself reaching my peak, I fairly screamed,

“Stop it! Stop! I’m gonna come, stop! Jermaine--JERMAINE!”

No sooner had the warning left my mouth that I did, indeed come.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! AH! I hate you! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” An innumerable amount of sharp cries left my mouth as I arched my back, the front of my body completely colliding with Jermaine’s, as I felt an excited dampness flowing for me and around that chunk of rock-solidness that was going deeper and deeper into the depths of me.

“Yes! Ha! Ha! That’s what I like…a girl who can get wet! Woo!” Jermaine rejoiced, putting his hands in his hair as he threw his head back.

“That’s what I’m talking about Loni, Baby!”

Hands falling and grasping my hips, Jermaine’s rhythm changed abruptly.

Holding onto me, Jermaine’s pace quickened dramatically and he was having at me with such force, I couldn’t make a sound.

All I could go was hold my breasts, which had begun to hurt that were rocking and swaying so hard.

“Shit! Ahhh-shit!” Jermaine was bearing his teeth, not in a smile, but as the final throes of our obscene act were drawing to a close. “Aw, shit, here it comes! Here…it comes…Loni….”

With a soft pop, Jermaine withdrew himself and was tugging at his dick like he was going to pull it completely off his body.

“Ahhhh! Ahhhh!” He was starting to wail through gritted teeth, that rounded tip flopping up and down against my thigh as he manipulated himself.

Bringing himself on home.

“DAMN! DAMN! OH! OH! OH! WOO!--UGH!”

Gasping, I watched as the first droplets of white lust began spurting from his mushroom-tipped cock, a tip which had become darker it was so engorged and struggling to shoot.

“Fuck! Come on!” Jermaine tugged at himself once more and his head fell back, body trembling, mouth open as he shrieked,

“YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! AAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

A long stream of that hot whiteness, flew and splashed against my abdomen.

“Holy shit…” Exhausted Jermaine collapsed onto me, holding onto my face, lips mashed to mine.

“You’re good Loni….so damn good….” He whispered, as he slid off me and snuggled against me, pressing his rough, dimpled cheek to mine.

Seconds later he dozed off.

I laid for more than an hour, staring at the ceiling and his peacefully slumbering face.

If I was “so damn good” as Jermaine had said, why did I feel so damn bad?

End of Part One.

Wow, Loni is in the Jackson compound for one day and already hooked up with Jermaine? Really? Wow, talk about a speed demon. This can’t be the greatest of starts. I can’t help but wonder, just how is this relationship--if it can be called that--is going to work with five other men buzzing around the same woman like the only rose in the garden?