His Personal Assistant (Michael Jackson)

Author's note:

For adult readers only. Graphic descriptions and sexual content. Please respect the 18+.

*********************************

"Ms. Jones?"

The lady asking was short, chubby and awfully charming. At least she thought so herself. Me? Not so much. But she wasn't the one I was going to work for anyway. That is,

if

I got this job.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Jackson is ready to see you now. Please follow me."

I felt an entire generation of butterflies running for take off in my stomach. This was... This was... Damn! The thought of meeting a man like him, made me both excited and heart attack terrified at the same time. Still, I gritted my teeth and straightened my shoulders, and followed her like a stray dog after food. Then the chubby chick literally pushed me inside an office and closed the door behind me, so it was only him and me in the room.

Him. The King of Pop. Michael Jackson, together with little, old me. And if you ask if he's as hot as he is on pictures? Hell no. He looked way better.

"Sit," he demanded in a voice much deeper than I'd expected.

"Well, hello to you too, Sir," I mumbled under my breath and raised an eyebrow, wondering if I should greet him or not. Wasn't he supposed to be the sweetest guy on the planet? I was so sure I'd read that somewhere. My thoughts got interrupted by his demanding appearance.

"Name?"

He scribbled something down on a piece of paper, totally ignoring my presence, expecting me to give him the answers he needed with a minimum of talking. Was I a robot? Hell no. Did I even try to act polite? Yeah, right...

"Beatrize Neptunia Bernadette Jones."

"Why do you have such a long name?"

"Rude much, huh? If you would've let me fucking finish, I could've told you that people in general call me Beanie. But since you don't seem to give a rats ass about listening to me, I'll just bloody leave..."

"Stay. We're not done," he interrupted.

"Jesus! What's with the fucking attitude?"

"Do you always swear this much?"

"Hell yeah! And if that's a problem, then shove it up your precious little ass."

He gave me no response. Absolutely no damn squint of a reaction to my insult.

"Why are you searching for a personal assistant anyway? Are you running late on the bills or something? Am I gonna file paper into folders and put it into some fancy archive of yours?"

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Hey, I'm just curious. If I get the job, it's kind of great to know what my chores will be, ya' know?"

"I'm searching for a new assistant because of

this

."

He moved away from his desk and came rolling towards me in a seating position.

"Are you a cripple?" I burst out.

"Why the hell are you in a wheelchair?"

"Do you never think before you speak?"

His voice sounded like thunder in the room and his eyes looked black in anger. Then it seemed like he bit his tongue, because his left eye twitched a little before he continued. And when he continued, he seemed slightly calmer.

"I believe that's none of your business," he said flatly, and I rolled my eyes.

"Okay, grumpy. Sheesh, I was only wondering, since it's gonna be my job to do... Well, whatever it is you want me to do."

Then I stopped and looked at him.

"What

am

I gonna do, exactly?"

Totally without acknowledging my question, he kept on interrogating me.

"How are your cooking skills?"

"Non existent. Don't you have some lousy maid for that? I didn't apply for no fucking chef job."

"What's your current job?"

"I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's none of your damn business, that's why," I reiterated his own reply.

"I ask again, and if you want the job, feel free to answer. What is your current job?"

His eyes were roaming me up and down, before they landed on my chest. Asshole. I tried to get away from men like that, but this idiot here was just like all the other stinking rabies dogs, drooling over two bags of meat. My two bags of meat. And I usually preferred to keep them for myself, neatly tucked into a nice bra.

"I'm a stripper."

He lost himself. For the longest brief moment in history, he lost himself to the point that his jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes turned large as dinner plates. Then he cleared his voice and pulled himself together.

"And why do you want

this

job?"

"I have no idea."

I shrugged dramatically, which was totally unneccesary, but still. It was kind of fun talking with him. It was pretty obvious that it was easy to pull his strings, and the devil in me grabbed that opportunity with both hands.

He made a rolling gesture with his wrist, wanting me to explain myself, but I couldn't care less. Then he cleared his voice again, as if he was struggling to stick to the point.

"Why do you want to quit your... Uhm.. Stripping... to become a PA?"

"Hah. PA sounds so cool. Much better than the whole title. 'Personal assistant' makes me feel like a goddamn cripple myself."

"Do you

ever

know when to shut your mouth?"

"What? What did I do wrong?"

I swear I could see steam coming out of his ears.

"Why do you want to quit stripping to become a PA? Speak up!"

He was almost yelling at me, and who could blame him, really? I didn't. Still though, it was funny as fuck.

"Chill a bit, Sir. Why the heck do you even need to ask why I want to leave that behind? Having stinking, drunk men clawing at you every damn evening? Can you even imagine what that feels like? Besides, it's not a good place to be when you're a former alcoholic," I answered, trying to act indifferent to his angry outburst. I could have added that I sucked at the job and was going to get fired anyway, but he didn't need to know that.

He frowned and chewed on his bottom lip, and the vein on his temple showed that he still was pretty damn pissed.

"And what makes you think that this job is any better?"

"Well, I... I don't have a friggin clue. You never told me anyth..."

He abrupted my stuttering.

"You're going to help doing everything I'm not able to do myself."

"Oh."

"That includes helping me to get things, help me move from place to place, help me getting into bed at night and out of bed in the morning. And..."

His jaw tightened and he swallowed a couple of times before he continued.

"That also includes help with personal hygiene and going to the toilet."

His eyes were locked at the floor while saying that.

"

Am

I

going

to

hold

your

dick

when

you're

taking

a

leak

?!

"

His face... I don't know how to describe it. He looked like Timon, when Simba meets up with Nala as adults, after she had tried to eat Pumba. You know, The Lion King?

He used what seemed like forever to come up with an answer, and when he didn't, he just grunted in irritation.

"Well? Am I? If so, I'm going from bad to worse if you think about my current job."

Then I thought about it.

"That is, not if you're as well equipped as they say you are? Then I might consider it."

I looked at him with mischievous eyes.

"I...Ieehh..." he stammered.

"You...?"

Then he coughed and rubbed his temples.

"Well?"

"Look. I'm paralyzed from waist

down

, not waist

up

! And no, hopefully you don't have to come near any of that...what you're insinuating. I just need help twenty four hours a day, and I need somebody to stay close enough to be my legs."

"Oh."

"Do you consider yourself as suitable for that job?"

"Well. You know where I'm coming from now, so I guess the answer have to be yes."

I didn't quite know where to look, and he seemed to struggle with the same thing. So the floor got a thorough once over from both of us.

"So, I'll hear from you, then?" I said, feeling quite a bit awkward. I already knew he wasn't going to call. And a bit disappointed I got up from my chair. I wasn't planning on greeting him since I didn't do it when I came in, so I just turned around and walked towards the door.

"No. You're hired."

"Fuck."

Silence killed the air in the room, and he obviously felt just as uncomfortable as me. He cleared his voice again, but nothing came out.

"You don't have any other applicants, do you?" I finally asked, and he stared at his hands.

"No."

"Hm.. I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted, but okay."

"Okay what?"

"When do I meet? Tomorrow?"

"In five minutes in the kitchen."

"WHAT?!"