Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
Request are optional, send them to @/mjswhisperer on Twitter.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
☘︎ May Twenty fifth •1995 Neverland Ranch Word Count: 13.1k
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For seven years, you had been the perfect maid. His perfect maid, at least. Seven long years spent adhering to Mr. Jackson's strict, almost suffocating rules. Every single member of staff was held to his exacting standards-no exceptions. Speak only when spoken to, never step foot in his room without explicit permission, the library was off-limits unless granted entry, and his private quarters were sacred ground. Mondays? A day of silence. On those days, he wouldn't speak, and you weren't to say a word. When you did address him, you were to meet his gaze directly. Appearances, too, had to meet his meticulous approval-flawless and professional at all times.
But something shifted about four years ago. The rules, those ironclad restrictions, began to change-but only for you. It started with a single encounter that redefined everything. That day, it was just the two of you. No staff. No distractions. Just you and the boss, Mr. Jackson.
He had returned from a meeting, tension radiating from him in waves. He was livid, something entirely unlike his composed day-to-day demeanor. You were in the kitchen, methodically cleaning when you felt his eyes on you-burning, intense.
You had always found him attractive-who wouldn't? His presence commanded attention, and every woman in the house, perhaps even in the world, knew it. But this time, there was something different. His stare was sharper, hungrier. Slowly, he approached, each footstep echoing in the quiet room. His breath was hot against the nape of your neck, ragged with frustration. Then, his hands-those large, capable hands-gripped your waist, the force of his touch pulling you closer to his solid frame. You could feel him, every inch of his body pressing against yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"Lift your dress, doll," he had whispered, his voice rough with an edge of command.
Without hesitation, you obeyed, the fabric of your dress sliding up, exposing yourself to him. He pressed even harder against you, his erection straining against his trousers, making you breathless. He was so hard it almost seemed impossible.
