Top&Dom Reader

Lonely nights lead him to yet another bar. different than his usual hang outs, but so long as they could read a drink recipe, he’s golden. 

His feet don’t reach the ground on the barstool, nor the bar around the legs meant to rest your feet on. And when he sits next to you without any thought, you notice…everything about him. His head, his stature, the way he smelled of copious amounts of cologne overtop bodily odor. And the drink he orders. Egg? Really? 

You’re not a sex worker. You’re not one of his pretty little whores. But when his lazy eye slowly drifts a little more to the side, and he gets a look at you…the way he talks to you would have you guessing otherwise. 

“How much?” He asks, and you fight the urge to slap him across his face. But you’ve heard tales of the big headed bambino. How he kills and conquers. 

Still, you turn your nose up at him, declining his offers until you feel one of those small hands on your thigh. 

And then you do slap. 

You slap him hard across the cheek, a loud crack that has the bartender wincing. 

Now Franco is no stranger to a good whooping, but something about the way you do it, the force behind your hand has him feeling some kind of way. 

“Five hundred,” he gasps, blotchy red from your hand. “Five hundred if you keep that up.”

You scoff, but the thought doesn’t immediately sour your stomach. You could use the money. It sounded like a good chunk, after all. And what’s just one night of beating the spunk out of this little guy? 

So you do. You go to a seedy little motel room with him, listen to his delighted squeals and wails when you smack him silly. He offers more if you’ll bend him over your lap. It’s the first time he’s felt genuine thrill since terrorizing some poor soul with his lupara. 

But don’t think you’ve gotten away after he hands over that money. You’ve beat him, but oddly enough, you haven’t degraded him. Just grunts of exertion and strength. Never before has he felt so normal. Like any other shmuck under your heel. 

He needs more. He’s gotta have more. He starts stalking the bar in case you return, having most trusted of men try to get any lick of info from you. And when he finds you again? Ohh, he’s not letting you go. 

What do you want, huh? Jewelry? More cash? Drugs? He’s got a lot of drugs. 

You shake your head to every thing he offers. It starts to infuriate him. What, now you’re too good for him? 

He gets rammy, asks you what the hell you want then, if you think you’re too good for him now, that he could have anyone he wanted. 

And maybe you have a short temper, maybe you’re just sick of him. But you grab his shirt and shake him around a little, tell him to knock it the fuck off. Reminds him a little of how dad used to push him around when he was little, before he was big enough to get his head smashed in. And maybe the wires got crossed, and that fear mixes with arousal, adrenaline beginning to form. 

But he gets hard. The pitiful little thing between his legs standing at attention. 

…you go with him to that same motel room. You suck him off and he cums in watery spurts on your tongue, too blissed to even care that you spit it out. He’s hooked on you. He takes you out to a 24 hour diner and begs you to make an arrangement with him. 

Reluctantly, you agree. You feel guilty taking his money when he’s so desperate like this, but he practically grovels at your feet, to the despair of the waitress. 

So a relationship is formed. You politely decline his excessive gifts in favor for smaller trinkets, which he doesn’t quite understand. But if a thrift store brooch is what gets him a handy, then he’s not complaining. 

Hidden bakery shop sweets, second hand jewelry, hell, he’s even given you sea glass and river rocks. And eventually, he notices that…you aren’t asking for things in return. You still seem happy to touch him, to put him in his place. And you accept the gifts, but you aren’t demanding them. 

Insert mushy feelings here. Franco begins to refer to you as his partner more regularly, and you’ve even kissed him on the mouth! A couple times! 

Life is good. At least for a little while. 

Because murkoff will eventually come knocking, and if you’re in the picture then Jenny is never disemboweled. 

“Mm, and still ass up like a whore.” You can’t help it, drunk on the power you have over him, if only in this moment.

Your fingers crook before he can bark out another nonsensical insult, and a whimper bleeds from his tongue.

“Oh? And what was that?”

“Fuh-fuckin’ nothin’—“

“Yeah? It’s nothin?”

You do it again, and he writhes on the rusted spring mattress, drooling into the pillow.

“Fuck!” He cries, pleading and defeated. “Too much, y-yer givin’ me too much,”

It’s like he’s trying to wriggle away from your fingers, and the sheer audacity of it has you bracing your other hand against his lower back and pressing him into the bed, fingers digging into him rougher. A steady, ruthless pace fueled by sick arousal.

“Nuh uh, Frankie,” you laugh, dodging his kicking leg. “You’re gonna take it, and you’re gonna like it.”

“Mama,” he wheedles, thin and tight, his breaths heaving.

“Yeah, keep that up,” it truly does something to you, makes you feel all hot and liquid in the belly when he calls you that. Always has. This place is ruining you, and you can’t find it in yourself to care.

His hips buck and rut against the stained sheets, clawing until the fitted sheet pops off the corners of the bed.

“Muh-mother, mother may I?” It’s slurred and lurid, drooling from his lips and he sucks it back up. It’s revolting. You want to make him cum his brains out.

“Sure, why not.” You settle, rubbing circles into the tender spot that makes him howl.

It doesn’t take him much longer after that, maybe a moment or two before he’s spilling with a guttural groan, dick completely untouched. Oh, that does things to you.

You don’t have too long before you hear the shuttle siren blare through the suburbs, and your fingers slide out of him quicker than it takes him to comprehend he’s spent the entire trial getting finger fucked.

“Ohh, that’s my cue,” you click your tongue against your teeth, an apologetic hum. You’re getting off the bed and he’s frantically pulling his pants up, belt dangling loose around his waist, fumbling for Lupara.

“‘Give ya an extra three second headstart,” he pants, stumbling off the bed.

“Oh please, it’ll take you at least five to buckle your belt.”

“Wastin’ time, toots.”