Page 43 of Can You Take It?

Instantly, fear grips me. I haven’t been forced in a while, and I would like to keep it that way. I quickly overturn my expression and laugh, trying hard not to sound nervous, but I’m failing at it.

“Your shiny badge won’t allow you to force me, Agent Reynolds,” I berate, hoping to steer the conversation away from this perilous path.

His grin widens, and he whips his gun from his back pocket. He moves the gun from my waist to my chin, and my eyes follow its path until my chin is lifted by the cold steel.

“I like to consider myself a decorated criminal.”

He forces the gun inside my mouth, shutting me up. The taste of metal fills my senses, and I try to pull away. He starts pushing the gun in and out of my mouth.

“Silence suits you,” he murmurs, the gun moving rhythmically, making me gag. “Makes you so much more manageable.”

I glare at him, tears stinging my eyes as I try to breathe around the invasive barrel. I’m powerless, trapped by the combination of fear and unwanted arousal. He eases the gun out slightly, allowing me a moment to gulp in a desperate breath of air before plunging it back in. Each time it presses against the back of my throat, I fight the urge to gag.

“I’m not scared,” I garble around the gun.

“You don’t have to be scared.”

I want to believe him, to trust that he won’t hurt me, but the weight of the gun against my throat is a constant reminder that he is capable of hurting me.

“Unless, of course, you’re hiding something,” he continues as he presses the gun harder, forcing it deeper into my mouth, and I can feel the sharp edges digging into the tender flesh of my throat.

“Are you, Izel? Are you hiding something from me?”

Yes, I’m hiding a lot of things, but he can’t know that. The gun remains wedged between my teeth as he shifts slightly, and I feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against my hips. The heat of his body, the roughness of his jeans—it’s all too much.

Finally, he removes the gun, and I gulp air like a baby bird eagerly swallowing its first taste of freedom. The relief is overwhelming, but my respite is brief. I pant heavily and manage to choke out, “I’ll report your ass, asshole.”

My words are punctuated by harsh coughs, each one a struggle against the lingering sensation of the gun in my throat. He doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, he holds my chin with the gun again, forcing me to look into his eyes.

“Report what?”

“This,” I point between us. “You... forcing me.”

The accusation in my voice wavers, but I hold his gaze, refusing to show fear.

He trails the gun lower, and my body tenses as he brings it dangerously close to my pussy. He traces the outline of my panties with the barrel.

“Who do you think is going to believe you, baby?” he murmurs almost tenderly. “Who’s going to believe the girl who was moaning my name with her fingers deep inside her sweet little pussy?”

The words cut deep, and I can feel the shame burning in my cheeks.

“You think anyone’s going to take your word over mine?” he continues. “You think they’ll believe you weren’t begging for it, that you weren’t desperate for me after you came withmyname on your lips?”

I shake my head, dispeling the doubts he’s planting in my mind. But it’s hard to think clearly with the gun so close, with the memory of its cold, hard presence still fresh in my throat. Regret floods through me, bitter and choking. Yes, I had lost myself thefirst night I got here after I saw his physique. Yes, I had been desperate. But that was a mistake. A lapse. Not an invitation for this. Not an excuse for what he’s doing now.

I try to focus, to push past the fear and the shame. But wait—How does he know? How does he know what I did in the privacy of my own room? Well, his room, but temporarily my room.

“How did you—?” I start. “Are you stalking me?”

He smirks, a cruel, knowing smile that makes my blood run cold.

“I’minvestigatingyou.”

Confusion clouds my mind. Investigating me? It’s hard to hide the bewilderment on my face.

He hooks the gun in the waistband of my panties, the cold metal brushing against my skin, making me shiver involuntarily. “You’re living in my house,” he explains. “I need to know everything about you.”

His words feel like a coverup, a flimsy excuse to justify his violation. My mind races, trying to piece together his motives, but when the gun brushes against the folds of my pussy, all coherent thoughts flee.

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