Chapter 2: Bottomless Mimosas & Bottomless Brothers
The scent of pine and yesterday’s turkey fat hung in the December air, cut through now by the sharp tang of fresh lumber and sweat. The grand dining hall from last month was pristine again, the long mahogany table cleared save for a sprawling blueprint. Finn leaned over it, a pencil behind his ear, his fingers tracing a proposed expansion for the brewery’s bottling line.
Owen was on the floor nearby, doing one-armed push-ups, his broad back rippling under a thin sheen of sweat. He wore only a pair of grey boxer briefs, the fabric straining over the pronounced curve of his ass with each controlled dip.
The front door banged open, bringing in a gust of cold air and two men stomping snow from their boots. It was Mick, the plumber, a bear of a man with thick forearms, and Ben from the hardware store, younger, with a perpetual smear of grease on his cheek.
“Pipe’s fixed in the guest bath,” Mick announced, his voice a low rumble. He dropped his toolbag by the door and shrugged out of his coat. His flannel shirt followed, revealing a thicket of salt-and-pepper chest hair. “But you’ve got a slow drip under the kitchen sink. Gonna need a new washer.”
“After coffee,” Finn said, not looking up from his blueprint.
Ben was already heading for the kitchen, shedding his own layers. He passed Noah, who was curled on the window seat tuning his guitar, fingers deft on the pegs. Without breaking his concentration on a tricky chord, Noah shifted his hips as Ben, now naked from the waist down, his uncut cock already half-hard and dangling heavily between his legs, slid a hand into the waistband of Noah’s sweatpants. Ben’s fingers found the cleft of his ass, rubbing in slow, practical circles as he called out, “Mick, you want the dark roast or the blond?”
“Dark,” Mick grunted. He’d walked over to Owen, who had moved into a plank position. Mick put a boot gently on Owen’s back, adding weight. Owen’s arms trembled, but he held firm. “Kid’s got core strength,” Mick said, almost to himself. He unbuckled his own work pants, let them fall, and freed a thick, cut cock, ruddy and straight. He spat into his palm, gave himself two lazy strokes, and then pressed the head against Owen’s exposed shoulder blade, sliding it down the groove of his spine. Owen just kept planking, his breathing even.
In the kitchen, Caleb was up on the counter again, this time wrestling with a bag of coffee beans. He was barefoot, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black briefs that hugged the compact swell of his buttocks and the obvious bulge at the front. Liam’s agent, Daniel, was back, leaning against the fridge with a cell phone to his ear. “The gallery wants the prints by Friday, Liam, no exceptions,” he said into the phone. With his free hand, he hooked a finger into the waistband of Caleb’s briefs and tugged them down. Caleb stepped out of them, his own cock, slim and cut, bouncing free. He went back to measuring coffee grounds as Daniel, still on his call, knelt and took Caleb into his mouth without missing a beat in his conversation. “Yes, the matte finish. Absolutely.”
The back door slid open and their neighbor, Mr. Peterson, a fit man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed silver beard, walked in holding a casserole dish. “Miriam sent over the leftover scalloped potatoes,” he said, his eyes scanning the room. He set the dish on the table next to Finn’s blueprint, his gaze settling on Finn’s backside, clad in worn jeans.
“Tell her thanks,” Finn said, finally straightening up. He turned, and seeing Mr. Peterson’s appraising look, gave a slight nod. Peterson unbuttoned his own corduroys, pushing them and his boxers down to mid-thigh, revealing strong, hairless thighs and a generous, veined uncut cock. Finn, practical as ever, knelt on the hardwood, taking Peterson into his mouth with a matter-of-fact proficiency, his eyes returning to the blueprint on the table as he worked.
Noah’s chord progression filled the space, a melancholic melody. Ben, still fingering him, had started to lick at Noah’s neck. “That’s a pretty one,” Ben murmured against his skin, his other hand sliding down to cup Noah’s balls through his sweats.
“It’s about the morning light,” Noah murmured back, his eyes closed, his hips pushing back softly against Ben’s fingers. Ben took the hint, pulling Noah’s sweats and underwear down in one motion. Noah’s ass was pale, the cheeks full and softly dimpled. Ben, whose own cock was now fully erect—a good seven inches, thick and curved slightly upward—spat into his palm and pressed himself against Noah’s entrance. He pushed in with a single, steady motion, both of them letting out a quiet, concurrent sigh. Noah kept playing the guitar, his fingers finding a new rhythm on the strings that mirrored the slow, deep thrusts Ben established behind him.
Mick was fucking Owen now, who had risen to his hands and knees. Mick’s heavy balls slapped against Owen’s taut scrotum with each drive. Owen’s face was calm, focused, looking at the pattern in the rug. His own cock, thick and flushed, hung stiff between his arms. “Gonna need… that washer size,” Mick grunted, his pace increasing.
“Top drawer… by the fridge,” Finn managed around Mr. Peterson, whose hands were now tangled in Finn’s dark hair, guiding him with gentle pressure. Peterson was nodding along to Noah’s music, his hips making small, shallow thrusts.
Caleb was coming into Daniel’s mouth, his small hands gripping the edge of the counter, his back arching. Daniel swallowed without a sound, ending his phone call with a “Okay, Friday it is.” He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and reached for the now-full coffee carafe. “Anyone for a cup?” he asked the room.
“Yes, please,” said Owen, his voice tight but even as Mick slammed into him, his own release pulsing onto the rug beneath him. Mick followed a moment later, groaning as he emptied himself into Owen, his large body shuddering. He pulled out, tucked himself back into his pants, and headed for the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “I’ll find that washer.”
Ben was finishing with Noah, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper. He came inside him with a quiet gasp, resting his forehead between Noah’s shoulder blades as the last notes of the song faded. He pulled out, patted Noah’s flank, and went to help Mick under the sink.
Noah set his guitar aside and reached for a nearby towel, cleaning himself with a few efficient wipes. Mr. Peterson gave a final, gentle thrust into Finn’s mouth and finished, his body stiffening for a second before relaxing. Finn stood, accepted the towel Noah handed him, and wiped his lips.
The room settled into a quiet hum of post-coital normality. The coffee was poured. Mick clanged under the sink. Finn returned to his blueprint, now with a fresh mug beside him. Owen stretched his muscles, cat-like, before pulling on his briefs and heading to the fridge for a protein shake.
Caleb, still naked, hopped off the counter and snatched a piece of cold toast from a plate. “So, Finn,” he said, crumbs falling on his bare chest. “You think the expansion’s gonna handle the holiday demand?”
Finn sipped his coffee, his eyes scanning the drawn lines. “It’ll have to. The town’s counting on it.”
Just another ordinary day in December in the Callahan house.