Mikayla
“Do not call me that!” I shout as my eyes begin to cloud with tears. Is it from lack of sleep? Is it due to fear? Why the heck does he keep calling me… those words? There’s endearment in his tone when he does it. This man. This deranged psycho with his hair tied into a messy bun, fast as lightning hands, and muscular body scares the crap out of me. I also have the perfect view of the tattoo at his neck as a reminder that although I’m holding the power, I should be afraid. And by God, I am afraid.
I weigh my options. Jagger will have to run the length of the couch to remove this heavy ass gun from my shaking hands.
Instead of seizing the moment, the beast starts to unbutton his flannel shirt. I’m suddenly mesmerized by more muscles than I’ve ever seen in my life. He puts all the personal trainers at exclusive gyms to shame. There’s a dagger spearing straight into his heart; the artistry of the tattoo is perfect. Aside from this tattoo on his chest, his muscles are etched in gilded marble, without a single flaw. Jagger goes for his pants. The sound of his belt unbuckling is pure eroticism. The lips of my nether regions quiver.
“Are you going to rape me now, Jagger?” The words feel wrong coming from my lips. I struggle to hold the heavy gun steady on him with my right hand and wipe more tears with my left. “You stole me from my life. Do you believe you can blind me with a room full of trinkets? That you can screw me?”
“I won’t rape you, Kayla,” he says, seemingly sincere.
“Don’t call me that!” I nudge the gun outward. Although, Jagger has kept his distance he lets his pants drop. My eyes snap shut. I will not be hypnotized by this fool! And then I determine that I’ll need to see to shoot him. Just keep your eyes on the target… on the target’s gorg—dang! Keep your eyes on his tropical blue gaze—dang it, Kayla.
It’s too late! My gander dived into those lazy blue rivers, stopped and drooled over his thick lips, and continued to trek across the ridges of his abdomen and notice how each perfectly defined muscle descends to his chiseled waist and further down to boxer briefs— My eyes snap back up to his.
There’s a sock in his undies. Has to be!
Jagger takes a step forward.
CLICK. I cock back the hammer. The sweet, breezy gaze he was just offering this entire time brews into a deadly, silent storm. In the blink of an eye, Jagger has closed the space between us.
“I saved your life, tonight, Mikayla! And you’d shoot me down,” he grits out, pressing that steel chest of his against the barrel of his gun. Jagger searches my eyes, but I turn away. My index finger is nestled on the whatchamacallit. I’m too afraid to think straight.
“C’mon, Mikayla, what’s the number one rule?” he asks, gripping the barrel and placing it at his head. Jagger’s dark blue glower burns against my skin, as he slams his skull against his own gun. He barks, “What’s the number one rule?”
My breath hitches, I could have pulled the trigger!
The trigger!
That’s what it’s called. There’s no air in my lungs. I struggle to suck in oxygen, and with it comes the manly scent of him. Strength? Power? Pine trees? He smells of strength, power, and pine trees. It makes my mouth water with desire, while I continue to look at the lunatic who is daring me to pull the trigger.
“What is the number one rule, Mikayla!”
“Obey,” I grit out, pressing the gun straight between his eyes.
“Right now, sweetheart you have better luck sucking the barrel of my gun,” he grits out, “than shooting me. I would never rape you, Mikayla, but you are knocking at the door of death, baby! Knocking at the fucking door.”
Why are my bones shaking? I’ve seen what this gun can do. The bullets are different. Those machine guns that the other men had at the trucking company did not come near the extent of the power of the revolver in my hand. I blink and see an image of Ronald’s chest, that gaping hole, flashes before my eyes.
I have the ultimate power in my hands. If I hadn’t used the restroom a few minutes ago, there’d be urine trickling down my legs. It’s shameful, but true.
“Oh, I have better luck sucking a barrel,” I scoff. Picking up his gun was imprudent of me. I’m not a murderer. “What else would you like me to suck?” I ask from out of nowhere.
I expect a cocky grin, but Jagger’s still a towering monster before me. “You aren’t safe, Mikayla! Listen to every word I tell you, uthando lwami, and I will keep you safe.”
Now, he’s back to spitting out words in a language I am unaware of. There isn’t a hint of lust in his eyes as he says them.
“Oh, yeah, Jagger, you are one crazy motherfucker.” I match crazy for crazy. “I was safe, Jagger. The instant you came into my life, my innocuous life ended!”
His minty breath is hard against my skin, as he orders, “Then defy me, Mikayla. Pull the fucking trigger.”
“And kill you?” Why am I questioning this? Murdering him at point-blank range was my goal, wasn’t it?
“Yes, do it. And guess what? My guns have been modified, Mikayla, you’re smarter than this! Think.” His index finger presses hard against my head.
“Ouch!” I yelp out.
“If my truck wouldn’t allow you to drive away, what makes you think my guns will work for your benefit. So, let me tell you what will happen to you, if you so desire to murder me with my own gun, Mikayla,” he says menacingly.
My index finger lets up from the trigger, but not enough for him to notice, at least I hope. He’s calling my bluff.
“The instant you squeeze that,” he argues. For a man so consumed with anger at the moment, Jagger places his hand on mine, and guides his thumb over my index finger, assisting me with the process of shooting him. “Your hand will be blown off and instead of a bullet firing at me, uthando lwami, that bullet you intended to take me out with will slam back and shot you. How does that sound as punishment for disobedience?”
A tiny cry burgeons from deep inside of my body. It blossoms into a forest fire of sobs as I crumple to the ground, with the gun in my hand. Slowly, I unclick the hammer. The magnificent revolver slides from my palm to the marble floor as tears rake down my frame.
Seconds past, and then I’m scooped up into Jagger’s solid arms. I look a hot mess, and my soul is in such despair that I allow him to carry me into the bedroom and then the adjoining bathroom. The amenities in this room blur before my eyes as I cry more tears than I have in my entire lifetime.
He places me on the marble countertop. Jagger plucks Kleenex from the counter and tries to hand it over. I rub the back of my hand on my cheek instead of taking what he offers. Tears are mingling with snot, and I am no longer an exemplary member of the Women of Color club, I no longer have the foundation of my undergraduate school education. I don’t have anything.
“Would you like to take a shower?” Jagger’s tone lacks depth. A moment ago, I was swallowed up by his emotion.
He only has a few. Rage is the primary one. Disappointment tags along at times. I cannot fathom why, but there was a sliver of disappointment in him during the instant I got into his truck and locked the door, and again minutes ago, the instant he noticed me holding his gun.
“No, I don’t want anything from you. You murdered my friends! You are deplorable!”
“Mikayla, take the fucking shower,” he grumbles and heads out the door. Moments pass and there’s a knock.
I muster as much animosity as I can to shout, “Oh, back so soon? You think you can break me, Jagger!”
The door opens slowly. There are garments bunched in Jagger’s hands. He walks over to me and presses them gently into my chest. “Mikayla, you’ll sleep better tonight if you bathe or shower. I won’t have you sitting on the bathroom sink all night long. Do it,” he insists calmly.
“So, will you fuck me here?” I grip his hand and bring it down between my legs. “My pussy is clean, Jagger. I promise. No matter how dirty I am, the vagina has the ability to clean itself. You can screw me here. No matter what, I won’t cry. That’s what you want, right? Power? I’m telling you know, fuck me all you want, you won’t get any power from me,” I say, hoping to unman him enough to leave me alone.
“Power,” he parrots. His voice is low and luscious as he repeats the word. He clutches at the apex between my thighs, prepared to call my bluff. Silence burns between us, yet it doesn’t mask the lust burning within him or the erotic fire burning between my thighs. His thumb caresses my clitoris. Ribbons of desire that I’ve never known before weigh heavily at the center of my body. “I will not rape you, Mikayla. I’m might be a monster, but that’s a line even I will never cross. Feel free to say ‘yes’ for real, and I will fuck you to heaven, uthando lwami.”
The turquoise pools of water that are his pupils slide over my face and seek out my eyes. Jagger’s fingers glide through the curls of my hair. In one of my sociology courses, I learned there a few ways that may deter a rapist from sexually attacking you.
The first was useless because I don’t have to pee, and even if I did I was too scared to.
Second, make him feel small. He might beat the hell out of you, but raping you is something he may or may not chose to follow through with.
Third, tell him from the start that regardless of what he believes he is taking from you, he can’t have it. My …. The rest of my thoughts leave my head in a hurry.
The air in my lungs dies as his large middle finger follows the path into my pussy.
I’m growing wetter by the second, and the defense mechanism that I just banked on is washed right away from my mind. I lay my head back against the mirror. The only sounds in the room are of my sharp breaths. Tears begin to fill my eyes. I hate myself for desiring and enjoying this feeling. Cree and I have only done a few things, mutual masturbation is one of them. My main regret is not giving him myself fully. If I knew I’d end up having my virginity stolen, I might not have cherished it so much…
Unable to help myself, I grip Jagger’s hand, and help him catch a rhythm. Fuck, my walls are glossing, dripping and widening by the second. His fingers are so huge; he must have three, no four of them inside of me. I try to tell myself to hate him and not to concentrate on the wonderful feeling of this big, strong man screwing me with his fingers.
He rubs his other hand across his bristled jaw as if fighting the animal in him; the animal that wants to leap out. Screw me hard.
The tears in my eyes are now streaming steady down my cheeks, and my mouth is parted on a silent gasp.
Shit, did I moan? Did I just fucking moan? And my hips, they’re grinding along the marble ledge, I am fully helping the devil screw me!
“You’re crying.” Jagger pulls his hand away from my hiding sweet spot. I clutch at him.
“Just do it! Screw me, have your power,” I order, my face awash with humiliation. Though internally, my body is begging for so much more. My pussy is wetter than my cheeks. It’s crying out for the danger, not in fear of it.
“Just screw you, huh?” There’s a cocky grin on Jagger’s face, but he shakes his head. He presses two large sleek fingers—I guess I miscalculated thinking the girth to be that of at least three or four—against his nose to take a big inhale, which causes his thick chest to broaden. He rubs those fingers over his thick mouth. “Doesn’t smell like fear to me, Mikayla. Scents of saccharine. Malva.”
“Malva?” My eyebrow perks.
Jagger’s tongue dips out and drags up and around his fingers. “Fuck yes, Malva.”
His lengthy limbs have him at the door before I can utter a single word.
“Now, shower, Mikayla. There’ll be no fucking tonight.”
The door slams behind him. I tell myself that I just want this all to be over. I know sex isn’t the conclusion to my story, and I’m certain that beast of a man has certain requirements that I wouldn’t even consent to in my marriage.
But I continue to tell myself that getting it over with, allowing him to strip me bare and shred the remainder of the variables which makes me, me, is inevitable. There’s a Band-Aid over my heart.
Pull it off.
Ruin me.
And then when you’re done, slam a bullet into my skull or give me to a pimp to turn tricks. That’s the only course of action in these scenarios, right? A woman is kidnapped, raped, murdered and tossed into a ditch. Or the sociopath, in Jagger Johansson’s case, sells the girl off…
I hop down from the counter with that thought. I’m being sex trafficked! Jagger said he won’t rape me. With my virtue in tack, he’ll sell me to some fucker in South Africa.
Jesus, you are my Rock. My Hillsong worship, which I would listen to while guzzling energy drinks and studying in college until my eyes felt like they’d bleed, does nothing for me as I shower and dress. When I exit the bathroom, the bedroom is dark.
“Get in,” Jagger orders.
My eyes are puffy and burning from all the tears that have fallen today. I climb into bed and begin to grab pillows to place between us, when something cool and steel slams around my wrist.
Jagger just handcuffed me to him.