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Murphy walked down the street whistling a happy tune. He was carrying two loaded grocery bags full of the makings for Ma’s Irish stew. Their shift supervisor had gifted them with five pounds of sirloin for their birthday, and while they were going to enjoy a steak or two from it, the beef would last them longer in a stew. He was salivating at the thought of bloody rare steaks and steaming baked potatoes as he went up in the service elevator to their flat. And for dessert… Murphy smirked. Connor had invited Carrie-Ann Tierney, the latest in their string of pretty cocktail waitresses, for birthday cake and...well.
He kicked open the door and stopped dead. Connor had already started on dessert.
“You fucken bastard! You couldn’t wait for me, could ya?” Murphy groused as he put the bags of groceries on the dining table.
Connor’s face was beet red and still panting, his hips still twitching from his recent orgasm. Carrie-Ann, red-faced as well, grunted in amusement and dropped her legs from around Connor’s hips. Connor gripped the base of his cock to secure the condom, and pulled out, falling sideways onto their joined mattresses.
“Well,” Connor gasped. “When a woman has her hand down your trousers and starts strokin’, you don’t ask questions.”
Murphy cocked his head and pretended to think about it. “I s’pose so.” He grinned at Carrie-Ann, who stretched and growled like the slut she was. They’d met her at O’Malley’s Steakhouse and Lounge and so far she’d lasted the longest. Probably because she couldn’t make up her mind about which one of them she liked best, which suited them just fine. When a girl started to get possessive about either one of them, they got rid of her. Which is why they never went out with “good girls,” since those kinds of women would inevitably want a “relationship,” something neither Connor nor Murphy wanted.
“So,” Carrie-Ann purred. “Wanna have a go, Murph?”
Murphy pursed his lips. “Did Connor make ya come?”
“Fuck yeah,” she moaned, spreading her legs. “Lots.” She still wore her work uniform, hiked up to her waist.
Murphy stared at the wet, rosy flesh between her legs, almost hearing the click of his brain disengaging.
Connor snorted with laughter at the expression on Murphy’s face, staggering upright. He removed the condom, tied it off and tossed it in the general direction of the giant rubbish bin across the one-room flat.
Murphy undid his belt and jeans and shoved them down his legs, kneeling on the shabby mattress between Carrie-Ann’s spread thighs, anticipating a nice quick antipasto fuck. But Connor was distracting him, making a racket rootling through the grocery bags. “What the fuck are ya doin’?” he yelled.
“What the fuck is this shite?” Connor asked, offended. He was staring at a bunch of greenery gingerly held in his fist.
“It’s cilantro, ya fucken retard.” Murphy was really getting annoyed.
“For what?” Connor sniffed it and winced. “You’re not putting it in the stew. I’ll fucken kill ya.”
“Just start on the fucken potatoes, will ya? Leave the rest to me.” He resolutely turned his back on Connor’s plebian food issues and focused on the willing girl in front of him.
He stroked her inner thighs with his thumbs. “Looks like my brother banged ya good,” he said softly. “You’re gonna have bruises.” Carrie-Ann moaned and shifted her hips.
“I sucked him off too,” she whispered, eyeing him. “In the elevator.”
“Did ya?” Murphy asked, picturing Connor’s cock in her mouth, his head thrown back in bliss. It made him instantly hard.
“He tasted real good,” she continued, licking her lips and looking at his bobbing cock.
“Did he?” he panted. It was a rhetorical question. Murphy knew how good Connor tasted. He slowly stroked himself and fingered her pussy.
“Fuck yeah.” She moaned loudly as Murphy stuck two fingers inside her and pressed upward.
“Such a dirty wee girl, aren’t ya? So wet...”
“Wet for you, Murph,” she gasped. “Wet for the both of you…together.”
Murphy fucked her a bit with his fingers, excited over the possibilities of “together.” He eyed the full condom that had missed the trash bin by a few scant inches. “Got him to shoot a big load there, didn’t ya, Carrie-Ann?”
The girl looked at him with half-closed eyes and an evil grin. “Looks like you aren’t doing your job well enough, Murph, if he’s got so much to shoot.”
Murphy raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked at Connor, whose shoulders were tensed, but seemed to be studiously ignoring their conversation, scrubbing potatoes in the sink. Murphy’s eyes lingered on Connor’s naked arse, quivering from his culinary effort. Murphy met Carrie-Ann’s shrewd eyes with his own evil look.
“Connor. Brother,” Murphy called.
“Aye?”
“Ya may have fucked the shit out of this girl, but she’s still talkin’.”
Connor grunted in reply.
Murphy fell forward, dropping onto his elbows, his nose an inch from hers. Carrie-Ann flinched instinctively. He reached for a condom from the pile next to the pillow.
“Apparently, my dear brother didn’t do his job well enough. I’m gonna fuck you stupid.”
***
The dinner was a huge success, followed by a brand new bottle of Jameson Irish whisky and birthday cake, with copious amounts of whipped cream and chocolate sauce used in ways not intended by the manufacturers.
Murphy lay contentedly buzzed and naked on the abused mattress, with his head cradled on Connor’s stomach. He waited while Connor lighted two ciggies and handed one to him. He sucked on it and contemplated the evening’s activities. He blew a smoke ring and smirked, thinking about Carrie-Ann’s crowing triumph as she “forced” the brothers to kiss.
Despite her protestations, they’d sent her packing with enough money for cab fare. No woman had ever stayed overnight with the MacManus twins, no matter how much fun they’d had.
“D’ya think she knows?” Murphy asked.
“She doesn’t know shite,” Connor grunted. “It’s wishful thinking. She won’t know unless you tell her.”
”Wishful thinking? Y’think she wants it to be true?” Murphy had not thought such a thing was possible.
Connor shrugged. “Don’t know about her, but I’ve heard of some women getting off on watching men fuck.”
“Are ya fucken shittin’ me?” Murphy asked, astonished.
Connor didn’t bother defending himself. He just blew smoke at Murphy’s face.
Murphy went back to contemplating his ciggie. “We should find one of them.”
“What, are ya fucken insane?”
“Why not?”
“Do ye want the whole world to know about it, then?” Connor replied, swatting him a good one across the top of his head. “Might as well take out a full page ad in the Boston Globe, for fuck’s sake!”
Murphy was in too mellow a mood to start a tussle. He just rubbed his head and kept smoking.
“I got a recipe for pasta primavera. That’s what the cilantro is for,” he said, conceding.
“You mixing ethnic cuisines now? Isn’t pasta primavera an Italian dish?”
“It’s nouvelle, ya fucken retard. It’s got a creamy cilantro sauce.”
“Fine. As long as you don’t go near Ma’s stew with anything weird.”
“O’course I’m not gonna put cilantro in the stew.” He snorted in laughter at the thought. “Wonder if there’s such a cuisine as Spic-Mick?”
“Don’t know. But there’s a really good dish you ought to try.”
“What?” Murphy asked, knowing he was falling for something terrible.
Connor reached over Murphy’s face to grab his half-hard dick and rub the head against Murphy’s cheek. “It’s called Connor marinated in Carrie-Ann.”
Murphy shoved his hand away and sat up, crushing out his ciggie in the overflowing ashtray. “You’re a sick bastard.”
“Right, and you’re a saint?” Connor handed him his own ciggie to stub out as well.
Murphy rolled over on top of Connor, enjoying the feel of skin against skin, and smiled.
“No saint. Just your brother,” he whispered, and covered his mouth in a hungry kiss.
~Fin~