Mikayla

 

 

Ever had a dream that was so titillatingly erotic you never wanted to wake up from it. And then, when you did, you contemplated on said dream, grasping at fragments, and clinging to every last bit until each piece you craved slowly disappeared. I’m submerged in the perfect dream, it’s like swimming in flawless diamonds, and I never want to wake up because in it, my hitman has a heart and he’s gentle…

The only rough side Jagger shows is when his hands grip the collar of my shimmery tiny shirt and shreds it with his bare hands. The silky material is so soft that it burns against my skin, leaving my body aching for his touch. I moan and wriggle around in the center of the bed, like before when he ate me into a confused, feigning mess. And all of his attention is now on my short crocodile skirt. Instead of tearing the tight material from my body, he glides it over my left hip, and then my right. He stops to paw at my shapely figure before he finishes removing the skirt.

“Jagger, touch me,” I moan, needing to feel him all over my body.

He’s on his knees, glancing down at me like a shiny gift, perfectly wrapped in a bow, and all for him. My nipples harden beneath the bra I’m wearing. He cups a hand over it, bends down, and, through the lace, I feel warmth and wetness as he sucks. With the love he gives my one breast, I reach down and tweak my other nipple needing the pain to control my lust. His teeth graze over my bulb sending showers between my thighs.

I rub my hand through his hair, and tug. My throat is so swollen with desire I can’t scream or beg as his tongue slithers back and forth across the lace.

“Off,” I finally bite out the word.

“But I’m still going to demolish you slowly, softly, right?” he teases, planting kisses over my heart.

I tug at Jagger’s hair, and he pulls up somewhat. He goes in for my lips and tastes them leisurely.

“I can’t, I can’t…wait…” Now, I’m pulling at my hair as he moves his way back toward my breast. “I won’t make it.”

“Beautiful,” he laughs at me, continuing to survey my breast and down my waistline with his mouth, “you have nowhere to go. Besides, I own you.”

He will break me slowly. Jagger undoes the front clasp of my bra. He nips at my now bare breasts. Another groan erupts from my lips, and he kisses the pain away instantly. Then he takes my hand and guide it down to the thickness of his shaft. My eyes pierce out. It’s heavy, silky, and hard. While Jagger and I kiss, my soft hand begins to glide back and forth, enjoying the veins and thick ripples of his glorious, thick meaty cock.

He pushes my hand away. The sadness I harbored earlier when Jagger shot down my flirtations in Trick’s bathroom overwhelms me. I feel myself ready to cry.

“Mikayla, you’re so soft, baby. But I want to cum for the first time with you, deep inside your pussy, not in your hand.”

“Ohhhh…” I lay my head back, with a grin. He says all the right things. A seed of awareness that this is a dream ribbons into my mind but is quickly erased by Jagger’s lips feathering my clit. I press my hips down ready to throw my pussy in his mouth, but he continues to flick softly at my pearl. This very act causes my legs to shake. My eyes are pleading, begging. I’m hypnotized by this sex, clutching the sheets, and finally I find my voice enough to beg again. “Jagger…”

His amazing, muscular body stretches on top of me, filling me with even more sensations, as the mushroom of his cock glides along my walls, gathering up my juices.

I stare into the depths of his beautiful eyes as Jagger begins to enter me. My hips begin to rock as my body yearns to fuck him, too. Jagger feeds his dick to me slowly, slower and slower until I’m ready to pull out my hair. I can’t believe the Hitman is so gentle. As he strokes my pussy with his cock, I begin to spasm. Jagger pulls out to glide that impeccable crown along my clit before sliding down my body, to taste my creamy, soaking pussy again.

“Jagger!” I scream out as his tongue slides from pussy to ass. My shock fades at the amazing, intense feeling. It’s so good that I momentarily forget my own name!

“Let me fuck you, Mikayla, hard. Beautiful, you want it rough…” he says, his hands stroking up my stomach as he gives my pussy hard flicks of his tongue.

I whimper with desire, working my hips around this time, when I finally thrust them against his mouth I’m met by an even stiffer tongue. “Fuck me, Jagger.”

“Gentle or hard, Kayla?” He leans up on his elbows, blue eyes twinkling as I die inside without his touch.

“Hard…” I beg for the pain. His tongue starts to stretch out my tiny asshole. My skin is hot with need. I work at my breast with one hand and find myself stroking my own clit as he widens me out.

“Jagged…” I moan.

“Don’t worry. This ass is pretty and tight.” His stiff tongue works me so hard that I orgasm, in ways I didn’t think possible, from both holes!

Then Jagger is on his knees, placing me in his lap, he reaches down to rub my back as I straddle him. My arms twine around his neck and I moan against him. It feels like I’m riding a stallion, he’s so big and strong.

“Kayla, I’m going to fuck that pussy,” he tells me, while lining the head of his cock against my entrance. “You ready?” he questions.

I taste his lips and nod my response. Jagger grips my hips and slams me down to the hilt. The pain is so fucking good. He hadn’t gone this deep before. My nether regions rain down on his cock. His biceps curl as he screws up into me again, stretching my super tight core even further.

I cry out to the overwhelming sensations of pleasure and pain.

“I don’t fucking do gentle, baby, I told you. This is my pussy now, Kayla,” he declares, balls deep inside of me. His breath is against my face. Tasting the sheen of sweat mixed with the tears running down my face as he kisses them off. “You belong to me now,” he declares, leaving no room for disagreement.

My body curls into him. Our beautiful skin entwined as he fucks me down on his cock, using more force with each drive hitting my g-spot.

He reaches between us and roughly rubs my clit.

Gone are the gentle touches.

Gone is the sweet, soft lovemaking Jagger started with. I grind my hips down on his dick, moaning as he tweaks my bulb. He pumps me up and down until I’m screaming his name, my voice now completely raw.

“Fuck me, Jagger. Yessss!” I cry out as he claims this pussy. With each assault along my walls, more rain gushes down on his cock.

“Who owns you?” His hand skims my throat, softly clamping until I twirl my hips and meet his thrusts.

“You own me, Jagger…” I feel my body tighten around his cock as a climax to end all climaxes, starts to build up.

He thrusts me down on his shaft again. My nails dig into his shoulders. Jagger’s rock-hard body is molded to mind and yet I feel he can’t be close enough as I begin to shutter and stutter that he owns me. Always and forever.

I awaken, uncuffed, and alone, and the dream is slipping away from me like sand between my fingers. Did we have sex in my dream? I’m unable to recollect, but I beg my mind for the opportunity to reminisce on any crumb, any hope of Jagger having the ability to be tender. And then I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

It’s day three of me as his abductee. Cree is dead. Ronald and I were always cool, we were in a few honor classes together in high school, but I could always tell that he didn’t believe Cree and I meshed. Terry was such a good guy. How could I play myself for Jagger Johansson over and over again?

“What’s wrong?”

My gaze tracks toward the door to the bedroom. Jagger is leaning against the door frame, wearing an A-shirt, which stretches across his muscles, and military fatigue shorts. I’m not sure if I should be afraid of all the various compartments and places his psychotic ass can hide weapons or … or… my mind goes blank as the scent of him travels toward me. He’s freshly showered, and the fragrance blows away the memory of the welcoming aroma from my usual morning coffee addiction. Why do I admire his rugged beauty as if it’s new to me every morning? I’m back at Gianni’s Café and falling in love at first sight, all over again.

Hate him… the thought is whispered to me. My subconscious attempts to save me. “Nothing,” I respond.

My eyes roll toward the digital clock. It’s almost noon. The last time I slept so long, it was after finals week.

“Kayla,” his voice is heavy with base, “What is wrong?”

What’s wrong? Let’s start with you murdered my friends. Stole my past, dictate my present, and wiped away my future. Then you made me toss all my inhibitions last night! I never gave it up to Cree, and I desired, desperately, to offer myself to you! Fuck you!

“Mikayla, you are a virgin, and I’m no fucking angel, Uthando lwami. I’m not gentle and have no idea how to be. I’d slaughter that pretty pussy of yours.”

His hard words cling to me, and my face sets into a frown.

“One time, you’re going to call me Kayla in anger or Uth… Uthando lwami in… whatever frame of mind you are in while saying those words, and I’m going to attack you. I promise, you won’t like it.” I pause the threat for effect, yet his demeanor never hardens. Why isn’t my petty “petty” enough to dig under his skin? My gaze narrow as I ask, “So tomorrow you murder William Freedman, and then transport me to Africa?”

“Something like that.”

Pulling the covers up, due to suddenly being self-conscious, I add, “I can’t wait to be away from you! Maybe I’ll tell my royal subjects to lock you in a tower.”

He starts to leave the room, and then shoots over his shoulder, “You don’t have a tower, Mikayla. Your country is desolate.”

“Yeah, well I still have to have royal subjects, can’t be the princess of no people! We’ll see how strong you are fighting off all of my people.”

He doesn’t argue with me. I climb out of bed and head into the living room. Jagger catches my hand just as I reach out to slap him.

“Stop. Or there will be consequences.”

“Please elaborate, Jagger.” I wrestle for my wrist but it’s no use. “What consequences, Jagger? Will you murder me in cold blood like you did to my friends? The love of my life!”

“I did what I had to do, Mikayla!” He quickly catches my left wrist as well as I begin to fight against him in earnest, kicking and attempting to inflict any pain that I can. “They were your boyfriend’s two friends, not yours who died.”

My eyes are suddenly clouded with tears. I try to strike, but it’s thwarted as usual. “Oh, that makes it okay?”

“Cree is alive. Mikayla, I could’ve shot him between the eyes while riding my motorcycle with my fucking eyes closed!”

“Oh, you are a cocky, disgusting–” my voice is cut as Jagger grips my arms and snatches me to his chest.

“Cree is alive.”

A plethora of feelings rush through me.

Guilt for wanting Jagger.

Guilt for not mourning enough.

Sadness that Cree is in the hospital with no idea where I am. Two of his good friends are dead.

Relief that Cree … is… alive.

Shame because I don’t understand this hold Jagger has on me. I’m afraid. Then I’m submerged in lust. My conflicting emotions are on a never ending revolving cycle.

I lick my lips and ask, “Cree’s not dead?”

Jagger shakes his head. My legs cave beneath me, and Jagger scoops me up into his arms. I’m placed on the edge of the bed. Memories flood through my body about how he laid me down like a jewel in my dream. He turns away from me, and my heart clutches. Why? Because my heart is a conspirator to me wanting this evil, vile man.

Jagger returns to my side, he sits next to me with a remote in his hand that controls the entire room. The television comes on, and he flips through channels, stopping on a news broadcasting.

“It’s morning three, after the double homicide and abduction of Mikayla Bryant…” The news reporter’s voice continues to drone on and I clutch my chest.

“Just the other two, Mikayla. I shot Cree in the arm, he spun out due to the impact.”

“Why didn’t you kill him?” I scoff, those were the wrong words. I’m baffled. These last few days have been astonishing.

“You love him.”

I search Jagger’s eyes. It’s on the tip of my tongue to thank him for this, yet I bite back the words. No, Stockholm Syndrome for me. “Can I call my parents, tell them I’m … okay?”

“No, not until I drop you off.”

“When will that occur? Who are you leaving me with? Never mind, you have no heart. You took me and dropping me into a world I know nothing about, doesn’t concern you.”

My breath catches. It appears Jagger is considering how to respond. The usual flippant reply would break my heart right now. He touches a hand on my leg and opens his mouth.

There’s a knock at the door.

My heart implodes as Jagger rises instead of telling me that he cares. That he’s not selling me … or… maybe to explain to me why I have no idea I’m a princess and why he’d need to steal me in the first place.

“Get dressed there’s a stylist here to do your hair. Although, I don’t expect we’ll have a problem with anyone noticing you, I don’t want to take the chance.”

***

On day four, the connection that Jagger and I had is gone. I haven’t said much to him since the beautician came into the hotel room and enhanced my looks. She dyed my hair a chocolate brown, then evened out the look with low lights. Jagger growled at the woman when she suggested cutting it. The moment he left the room, I told her I wanted a blunt cut. Something badass to go with my new worldview. Hell, if Jagger was dropping me off into a land I didn’t know, with people I had no clue about, at least I could look a little more authoritarian.

My innocent face and soft cheeks ruined an otherwise cute style. Besides a few more grunts, barks, and growls from Jagger, we spent the remainder of the day barely tolerating each other.

This morning, Harry placed fresh cut flowers onto the table on the balcony for our breakfast. He attempted to strike up a conversation about our plans, but Jagger glared him into leaving us.

Now, I’m seated with a perfect view of the Mandarin Oriental across the way. The picturesque view would’ve taken the air right from the lungs of all my girl cousins, had we ever been able to afford a hotel room so high in the sky.

I sip my orange juice, wondering if Brittany is crying harder over Ronald’s death or my disappearance.

An iPad is placed onto the table before me. At first glance, it appears to be a blog with biography for William Freedman. But he’s not worth 3 million dollars, more like add a gaggle of zeros and double down.

Then I gasp. “You’re being paid $3 million to murder him?”

“Yeah.” Jagger’s thick shoulders give a fraction of a shrug.

“That’s a lot of money…” I scoff.

His expression never registers an agreement.

“Look, African Americans are being rezoned to places like Barstow and Victorville. Those places we passed through on the way here. They’re given vouchers to move from the projects in Los Angeles to those places. Men like Freedman, an awful name for what he represents, become richer and couldn’t care less about the impact of gentrification. All he sees is more expensive shopping centers or ritzy apartments with plenty of amenities, while the people he’s displaced live in locations where it’s hard to find a good paying job. Something tells me that you’re not murdering him as a play on ‘Robin Hood.’”

He shakes his head. Picks up his coffee and drinks it.

Two days ago, while at the buffet, I felt so uncomfortable in my quest to prove that he was diabetic. And then I had forgotten my primary goal while engaging in a simple conversation. My eyes narrow, he needs to stop ignoring me and respond. I don’t expect to connect with the hitman over his next kill, but I have to know why.

“So why, Jagger?”

“The money’s good.”

“Obviously.” I glance at the price tag on William Freedman’s head again.

“I like to travel.”

“But did you request this assignment or was it given to you.”

He offers a tensed laugh, rubs his thick eyebrow and says, “Damn, I’m not even supposed to show you this.”

“What’s the number to member services? I should snitch.” Crap, I even grin with the joke. “So, is there a case manager that delegates who murders who? This profile makes me wonder if you or… the people you work with aren’t as barbaric as they seem.”

“As barbaric as me? That’s what you’re inferring, Mikayla, right?” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “We are a diverse lot. There are lower level cases.”

“Meaning money?”

“Yeah, less money. Those go into a pool, and the newer assassins are vetted for them. There are higher level cases,” he nudges his chin.

“Like me?” My bottom lip drops.

“You’re a beautiful, black queen—”

“You said I was a princess.”

He shrugs again, “You’ll be a queen soon.”

My heart clutches. Something tells me that the brute sitting across from me is far from royalty. “How?”

Jagger gestures for me to wait. He removes the iPad from my clutched grip as I wonder exactly how I will go from a ‘regular’ confident, black young lady, to princess… to a bonafide queen. Coronation pops into my psyche. “Will I have a coronation? I’ll be crowned as queen?”

“You might, but there’s a little more to it.” He uses his thumbs to type onto the screen.

“Then how, Jagger, tell me how?” I sit forward.

He hands over the iPad again. I grab at it, scanning the words faster, and speed reading them. There’s a chubby man with three sticks poking from his hair. He’s in a tribal costume, there’s also another photo of him in a suit. My eyes bug out as I continue to read.

“What! This man is the same age as my father! And his daughter, HRH Princess Sikhanyiso of Swaziland is the eldest daughter of King Mswati III of Swaziland. She is the first of his thirty children, and her mother is the first of King Mswati's ten queens. You want me to be one of this man’s many queens!”

“No, Mikayla. Scroll down, your thumb must have moved the location. Read about the Zihula nation.”

“Oh…”

My thumb glides down until I see a title heading for Kgosi (King) Fari Damba of the Zihula nation. The first photo I see, blows me away. It’s an aerial view of a tropical island. It looks like it would make a beautiful place to live.

“Not King Damba, he’s sick and dying, but his son Prince Fari, you’ll marry him.”

I don’t even hear Jagger’s words as stare at a photo of Prince Fari in a tailored royal blue suit. His eyes are sultry dark brown, and he holds himself with an aura that seems… fair. Not rough and vicious like the man before me. He is really handsome, similar to a young Djimon Hounsou. I scan over his background. Fari holds a university degree in Architecture and Urban Planning from Natal University, in South Africa. Even though I’m not aware of Jagger having any advanced education, I’ve determined already that he is incredibly intelligent. All the modifications he completed on his truck, heck, I’m afraid to touch his Magnums, and even though his motorcycle went haywire, I cannot see myself outsmarting him in that capacity, either, anytime soon.

And here I am, comparing the life this barbarian has thrusted me into to life with him. Seems like the perfect life. Um… the tropical island.

“How much will you make from giving me to Prince Fari, Jagger? Just so I have a ballpark figure of his wealth?”

“You’re not a gold digger.”

“And you’re no saint.”

He’s silent for a moment. Of all my Queen Petty attempts, this one seems to set roots. Did I make him jealous?

Jagger finally says, “Triple the amount, Mikayla, and a car.”

“A car?” I scoff. “So, I’ll be agreeable and say that Freedman, although doesn’t deserve death, he may very well deserve to have been placed in your path, all the lives he has discarded for his own gain. But Prince Fari? What’s the aim here? Huh, asshole?”

“You see me as an asshole?”

“Yes.”

Jagger leans back in his chair, his beautiful golden skin basking in the sun as he chuckles. “An evil, disgusting - shit, you’ve called me disgusting enough - devil, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then why can’t I just sell you to the prince for money?” He grits out, sitting forward to look me in the eye. He thrusts a stiff finger to his brain. “See, Mikayla, I know those lovely thoughts churning through your mind. You ask me your questions. Want to know this and that. The fact remains, you will marry Prince Fari, and I’m no fucking saint, nor do I have a reason to be.”

I scoff. “I like how you haven’t called me Uthando lwami. My threat must have penetrated. You use it to manipulate me when I’ve gotten the upper hand and you’re stuck in your emotions! Oh, and I haven’t forgotten. You’re not gentle…” the erotic dream I had yesterday morning floods my mind. It’s the wrong damn time. So I grit my teeth and continue, “You are a greedy, disgusting, devil—you added that yourself. Nevertheless, I agree, you’re a devil, who will sell me like a possession, like something you own because you are…” My cognition is working in overdrive, to slur curses and hurt him the only way I can, with words, but I’m stuck on how to end it, so I settle for a sneered, “Evil!”