[M4F] [First Debut] The Godfather is Dead. Long Live the Goddaddy.

Five days after a victorious election, New York’s newest mayor was summoned to an impromptu private dinner date with his largest, yet anonymous donor. Although eager to offer his gratitude, Giorno trepidatiously expected to dine with a Wall Street tycoon, offshore manufacturer, or perhaps a young CEO from an AI startup eager to curry favor with him. During the limo ride, he contemplated how to navigate such a politically dangerous scenario that could upend his career before it’d even started. But instead, he found himself in a luxury penthouse overlooking Manhattan, sitting across one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. Besides her, there was only a private chef (who Giorno recognized to be the owner of a 3-star Michelin restaurant) and a butler serving them.

Halfway through dinner, Giorno’s host, Devin, admitted that she was the head of a mafia family: a donna. Alongside several others whose lineages traced back to the Prohibition era and their foreign associates, they had divided the entire Northeastern United States amongst themselves. They were not only involved in smuggling contraband, but also legitimate industries such as hospitality, construction, finance, and commerce to the point that their corruption had roots deep enough to rival the Mexican cartel’s. The years come and go, blue fights red, and the donnas keep on peddling.

A pit formed in Giorno’s stomach as his benevolent campaign promises dissolved into dust before his very eyes. “So, my predecessor…”

“-was in our pocket too.” Noticing Giorno’s discomfort, Devin added sympathetically, “Don’t fret: we’re not dissuading you from pushing for higher corporate taxes or expanding social welfare programs. In fact, your predecessor played the game quite nobly, or as nobly as one could in that position. He never lined his pockets, regardless of the opportunity. We treated him quite well.”

“And in exchange, I’m expected to turn a blind eye to your business?”

“That, and fuck us.” Devin said matter-of-factly.

Giorno blinked. “Come again?”

“You’ll fuck the shit out of us. Whenever and however all of us, you included, want. Don’t blush; I’ve seen you looking.” Devin gestured toward ample cleavage displayed by her plunging neckline. “By day, you’ll be amongst all those you’re already familiar with: politicians, economists, businessmen. But by night, you’ll be between our legs and vice-versa. And truth to be told,” Devin’s fingernails clicked restlessly against the tabletop. “Your input on policy is trivial compared to what you put inside us and how you do it.”

According to Devin, the family heads were predominantly male until the turn of the millennium, at which point it slowly shifted to the all-female ensemble today. Until a year ago, each of the donnas had personal lovers, but their male consorts routinely became arrogant, overestimated themselves, and recklessly disrupted operations to satisfy their narcissism before all of them were quickly disposed of. To the donnas, only men who could use both heads correctly were necessary. But this left an insufferable, gaping vacancy among the donnas, a primal ache that could only be satisfied with one thing. And throughout the feverish, dissatisfied discussions that followed, the Northeastern queens came to a unified conclusion.

1. A single lover shared between all, as each additional man would add exponentially more points of vulnerability. If an incident occurred, dispose, then start over.

2. He must have as much to lose as the donnas, whose fate could be entwined with theirs. Someone who would prefer peaceful (or chaotic) equilibrium, both in and out of sack, over mutual destruction.

3. Tall, handsome, and with a throbbing cock more like a human bazooka than a penis.

Indeed, backing Giorno wasn’t based on his fiscal policy, immigration stance or amenable character. No, a male in his early to mid-30’s was just simply a better romp in the sack than some wheezing 50 geezer. (Bonus points for having marathon pictures on his Instagram.)

“And of course, we know everything about you. Medical history, all previous employment, even that ex-girlfriend of yours who’s been trying to reconnect with you since the election. Have your staff answer her calls.” With a dismissive hand wave, the Italian sighed, her eyebrows furrowed with the air of a teacher patiently (or rather, impatiently) waiting for a student to understand a lesson. “Listen Giorno, something will get hard. Whether it’s you or your tenure as mayor, that’s your decision.” Her tone and expression softened as she then winked at him, “But I know what my girls and I would prefer. Believe me, there’s a happy ending here for everyone.”

Giorno jolted in his seat as a lacquer-coated leather toebox gently pressed against his inner thigh, inciting a girlish giggle from his host, though she did graciously remove her foot. With a snap of her fingers, their table was soon cleared and moments later, there wasn’t another soul within eyeshot.

“Do you want dessert?” Devin inquired.

“No thank you.”

“Good. I’ve been waiting.”

The chair’s wooden legs scraped against the dining room’s floor as Devin suddenly stood up. She briskly walked over to Giorno’s side, twisted his chair towards her with a flick of the sole, removed her cashmere cardigan, hung it off the seat’s back, and unbuckled the thin leather belt around her skirt which then immediately clattered against the dining room’s floor. As the show continued, Giorno could only reconcile his trepidation and arousal by remaining frozen in place as his manhood swelled to a girthy monstrosity underneath his pants.

“You know, we drew straws to decide who would get to be the one to tell you.” A zipper announced the unraveling of the lady’s skirt, which descended into a pool around her Louboutin heels. Stepping out of the fabric, Devin planted her foot between Giorno’s legs, a sultry smile twisting her lips. “I guess we’re both quite lucky, wouldn’t you agree?”

---

Ideally, my partner and I will write a series of dramatic, campy, smut-focused, and loosely connected vignettes within this universe where NYC’s newest mayor struggles to balance his professional life with sex-starved criminal bitches who want WMDs more than the Bush administration. Notes:

1. Backshots don’t need bullets.

2. Paint not the streets with blood, but the faces with cum.

3. Bargains made in bed are preferable to those over a desk, unless the latter also involves being naked.

4. The real crime is for both parties to leave unsatisfied.

5. Bend the donnas’ heels behind their heads before they decide you’re in over yours.

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