Bad Attraction | Chris Motionless x Michael Jackson

CHAPTER 11

The line had blurred.

The line had blurred, and Michael had no idea how to sharpen it back, so to cross it would be as painful as stepping over razors, instead of seemingly as natural as to get back on his feet once one stumbled forward.

He didn't know.

However -- not that anyone was asking, or would ever be -- he could pinpoint the exact time, the exact reason everything had gone south. As usual when Chris was concerned, it involved sex. Of course it did. But, more precisely, it involved Michael's own orgasms.

He knew he should never have allowed Chris to make him come, during their daily meetings.

Sighing and shaking his head for the umpteenth time, Michael berated himself for making that stupid decision. For ever thinking his own pleasure couldn't possibly mess everything that was the clear line between sexual gratification and... Not affection, because he wasn't that dumb but... Let's call it impatience.

Impatience wasn't that bad to the ordinary people. After all, it was just a body, a reaction coming from his dick and not involving anything else. But to Michael, it was dreadful. Dreadful and frightening.

By allowing Chris to make him come, Michael had unleashed a monster.

Ever since that night, that very same night he couldn't think about without gulping and a flutter in his gut, the situation had truly started to slip from his tight grip.

And he loved it.

That night, when Michael had thought he would die from the overwhelming pleasure pumping into his body and straight to his brain -- and rending it useless, he was sure. Fuck. Shivers never failed to erupt all across his body whenever he thought back on that night.

It wouldn't have been that bad, Michael still thought, if it had stayed that night. But it didn't. Following his promise, Chris had incorporated the 'make Michael come more than what is humanely possible and fuck up his sanity at the same time' to what Michael had started considering as their routine.

It didn't happen every night, thankfully. A couple of times a week, however, Michael would come twice, or even three times in a single evening meeting and struggle to remind himself this wasn't nice, that this wasn't hot. That this was just a way Chris had found to get under his skin, and make him whatever Chris wanted to make him. Crumble, submit, whatever.

That was crystal clear.

And it worked, the monster in Michael's chest steadily growing and settling itself into a nice corner, weighting down on his lungs and making it hard to breathe when Chris was around, or when the walls were slightly lowered as they discussed about this or that.

Fuck, Chris even managed to arouse him with a single thought -- admittedly heavily associated with a couple of memories -- when he wasn't even in the same room. Michael surreptitiously shifted on his seat and crossed his legs, glancing around the yard to check no one was paying any particular kind of attention to him. They weren't.

Was it possible to die from too much pleasure? Before he came here, Michael would have scoffed at the mere question, just like he'd have scoffed at the idea that someone could feel this good even when the fucking obviously wasn't meant for him, but now he was genuinely concerned about the possibility. It was a shame, really, that he didn't have access to the computer room because he was officially here for drugs. At least internet could've soothed his worry.

Because not only was Michael loving it -- privately, at least this was something he could be grateful for -- not only did it work, it was also worsening. Every single night was better, pushed him deeper, further than the precedent. Chris, and he had discovered the existence of buttons he had never known he had, and which Michael struggled on remembering weren't meant to work for the long term.