CONCETTA. “On the bed,” he says. “On your back.” I lie down and watch him check the chamber, eject the magazine, verify it’s completely empty. He sets the magazine on the dresser and works the slide to make sure there’s nothing in the chamber. Then he climbs onto the bed between my legs with the unloaded gun in his hand. “Spread your legs wider.” I do, and my heart is racing but not from fear. From anticipation. From the dangerous thrill of what he’s about to do. He runs the barrel of the gun up my inner thigh slowly. The metal is cool against my heated skin. “You like when I’m angry,” he says, watching my face. “Maybe.” He presses the barrel against my clit and I gasp at the sensation. Cold metal, hard and unyielding. “You’re already wet,” he observes. “You like this. The danger of it.” “Yes.” “Say it properly.” “I like it. I like the gun.” “Good girl.” He slides the barrel lower and presses it against my entrance. “You’re going to come on this. And you’re going to thi
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