Legend of Don Juan Murphy

“Allo, senorita. Jour meal iz good, no?”  He held out a single rose.

The blue-hair nodded, “It is perfect, thank you.”.  She took the rose with a smile.

Her husband rolled his eyes.

“And senore, your meal iz to jour liking?”

“Yes, thank you,” the man said in words dripping of wanting to be elsewhere, or at least in the hope this masked man would go away.

Donald stood and flapped his cape as he lay one more smile from beneath his pencil mustache followed by a quick wink of his right brown eye on the blue-hair. “Vonderful.”

He stepped to the next table where the scene was repeated…the flattered and flirt-willing blue hair with the husband that really did not want to be there.

There would be tables with younger brunettes or redheads, or even a very attractive blue hair that Donald would really enjoy sinking his teeth into, but they were rare. Those women did not usually need the Don Juan fantasy yet. They did not require the man in the mask to get their hearts a-flutter.

He always recalled the opening sequence of the film Don Juan de Marco where Johnny Depp so skillfully brought the unnamed blonde to a glorious orgasm and danced her back to the table. Donald had taken a few of the women guests to bed, but never with the romanticism that film had portrayed. They were usually drunk and/or desperate and were sleeping with the fantasy of Don Juan, not Donald. Donald was a decent actor, but could only keep up the Don Juan masque for so long. Once the black masque he wore at the restaurant was laying on the bed side table was usually when the interest of these women waned.

The restaurant was dark. All wooden fixtures made of the finest mahogany imported from South America…a lie told by the millworker to the architect, mind you, as it was actually Chinese poplar with only mahogany veneers on it. Most of the light appeared to be candles…again, fake teapot LEDs that burned through batteries faster than wax, but gave the ambiance that ownership had wanted.

His mind snapped back to reality as he stepped to the bar. Glancing at Rhonda behind the bar his voice whispered in his native Irish accent, “I need a fecking beer.”

“Keep in character before Victor hears you,” Rhonda scolded in mid-pour of a Corona. Her free hand brushed a stray red hair strand that had escaped from her long ponytail. Her work-uniform little black dress was a little too tight on her chest…of course, that was on purpose by management.

Slipping back into his spanish accent, Donald responded, “Az jou wish, my lady. Perhaps jou vill honour me wid a dance lader. We dirdy dance until dee sun chaze uz benead dah sheeds.”

Hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh before pushing the handle to shut off the beer flow. “What will my fiancé think?”

“He need nod know.” Don looked down, going for coy. “I juss give jou dee pleasure you dezerve when we mage dee mad passionate embrace. Wait…fiancé?”

“DON!” Victor’s voice came from across the bar.

At first glance, Donald was relieved as Victor looked far from angry. It was always so hard to tell as the man only had one volume setting…very fucking loud.

Victor, the real owner of the restaurant, waved and beckoned him over to a table beside window.

Main part of Donald’s portrayal was to pretend he owned the place. On some occasions, unfortunately, he had played the part a little too well and Victor was quick to point it out. Biggest benefit of the job was his drinks being paid for…luckily, Donald was not one to abuse such privileges.

At the table was a normal foursome for this joint. The blue-hair and her husband with, it appeared, two gorgeous daughters in their thirties. Victor was talking with them in his usual host way of exaggerated arm movements to show off the restaurant. It helped that Victor was near seven-foot tall that people tended to listen on the basis of amazement alone.

Donald did his own exaggeration, flapping his black cape and allowing his sword to clang as he walked to them.

“Hank never knew when to quit,” Victor said in his typical Toronto-grunt to the blue-hair with a smile. “Ah, Don.”

Donald was more than a foot shorter, but stood with the confidence of two Victors. “Jes, sir. Jou need my assistance?”

Turning back to his subjects Victor introduced, “May I present Don Juan, our patron chef.” His pronunciation of the name sounded more like Don Wha…apparently it sounded more Spanish in his head.

Donald grabbed both sides of his cape and gave a quick half-bow. This move was something he had specifically picked up from Depp’s portrayal.

As always, the “patron chef” introduction elicited laughs.

“Jes,” Don added to the joke. “Mos egspeck Chef Boyardee, but he nod have dee passion for such tings as I.”

More laughs.

Victor was not impressed with the joke, but he soldiered on. “Don, if I may introduce an old school chum, Hank Weston.”

“It is an honour, Senior Weston.” A quick double-handed shake.

“Hank’s wife, Petra.”

Don quickly drifted around the table and took her hand quickly to his lips. “My lady.” A quick side glance at Hank. “Jour husban iz a lucky man. He knowz diz, I tink.”

Petra gave the expected giggle and blush, quickly pulling a hand to her mouth to cover it. She was really not the usual blue-hair in that her red dress showed very muscled bare shoulders.

Donald guessed, with a quick wink, that nothing on this woman sagged.

“And their daughters Lilly,” Victor said and gestured to the redhead sitting beside her father. Turning to the brunette, he continued, “and Stephanie.”

Again he blinked around the table, and kissed each of the younger women’s hands in turn. “Such beauties, it is my privilege.” His eyes immediately found the short skirts and muscled legs each had tucked under the table. Suddenly a very good feeling started to develop from this.

Victor smiled brightly. “I’ll just get your drink order and need to steal Don away for a moment.”

Donald turned and followed Victor to the bar. “What’s this, mate?”

“Watch the fucking accent.”


“This is big. He’s a food critic.”


“He is an old friend, so figure we have some wiggle room. I would like you to distract, though. Focus on the daughters. They need a dance partner. Think the redhead is just divorced…could be wrong but think that’s what I saw on Facebook recently.”

“I see. Dee masder of romanze iz ad jour servize.”

“Don’t fucking blow it.”

Donald gave him a quick boot heel snap and bow.

“And Donald,” Rhonda chirped in having heard the conversation. She smiled and waited as Victor walked off to check on other customers before continuing, “I want the last dance tonight.”

Pencil mustache raised with his grin. The omen seemed to be that when Rhonda asked him for a dance, he got laid.

He had no idea.

As expected, the evening went swimmingly…helped that both Lilly and Stephanie were champion swimmers, which explained the muscled legs, and Amazons, which explained them being twin towers over Donald…the short Irishman pretending to be the short Spainiard.

The ambiance was fantastico, the dancing was dirty, and the meal was mediocre and slightly over cooked.

Hank, critic or not, stayed to close the bar that night. He and Petra dancing up their own storm while Donald enjoyed his threesome sober. As the evening went on it was confirmed that Lilly was still going through a divorce and seemed to think it was too long since she had been laid.

Donald could not recall staying in character quite that long before. The first reminder of his inner Irishman slipped out as he closed the cab door sending Hank and Petra home. He stepped back into the restaurant, Mariachi music from the speakers, and saw both Lilly and Stephanie eying him from their bar stools. Quietly the words slipped from his mouth, “Feck, me.”

Again he had no idea.

Unlike so many previous times with women he did not think he deserved, he stayed sober. The sisters had a hotel room that they took him back to.

Donald could not shake the feeling that this was simply too good to be true until they had him pinned against the wall, each on her respective knees while they shared the cock that protruded from the open fly of his slacks..

“Holy, feck, dis is awesome,” he said with a gasp as Lilly, the divorcing redhead, deep-throated him.

Stephanie laughed. “Lill.” She nudged her sister. “He’s not Latino even. He’s Irish.”

With a sigh, he admitted, “Aye, ’tis true.”

Lilly grinned around the tip of his cock. She took it out just long enough to say, “Even better. Give me your lucky charms.” She returned to her prize while Stephanie sucked on his balls.

His eyes rolled more from the comment than the pleasure, but it was close.  He knew these were not the brightest of bulbs, but Donald was a firm believer in the cliché that beggars cannot be choosers.

Pants were soon around Donald’s ankles and one of the sisters, he could not tell which, had a finger in his anus.

Both sisters came up for air, so to speak, at the same time. All their clothes had, mystically, vanished some time when Donald had not noticed…even sober. Lilly grabbed his penis and pulled him to the bed before they finally got the remainder of his clothes off.

Finally, something happened that Donald expected.

Both women gasped at the scars across his chest.

Pushing him on to his back, each lay either side.

“How did you get these?” Lilly asked tracing a fingertip along one that crossed from one nipple to the other.

With a sighed his eyes met the Lilly’s gorgeous green eyes. He also gave quick look at Stephanie, who had the same shade of green eyes and currently had her hand wrapped around his cock. “I got caught in the crossfire once during a Protestant protest in Belfast that the IRA did not appreciate.”

Both women cooed their sympathy as he told the details of the event and showed the four bullet holes it had left him one…one frighteningly close to his groin which each sister appreciatively kissed.

“So brave a man,” Stephanie said as she straddled and slipped his cock inside her.

“So fucking hot,” Lilly said as, facing her sister, she straddled Donald’s face.

Donald stopped talking and did one of his favourite activities. He adored the taste of pussy.

He awoke an hour later with one of the sisters on each shoulder.

They each kissed him deeply.

Lilly licked her lips and squeezed his cock one more time. “That was fun.”

Stephanie gave a quick bite to his left nipple. “You have to go. Our limo will be picking us up in an hour.”

“Oh, well then,” Donald said with slight quiet shock. He had left a bed under cover of darkness often enough, but never been sent on his way like this.

“We’ll come and see you again,” Lilly said followed by another kiss.

Donald dressed and left just as the Stephanie started the shower. He quickly made his way home and climbed over the overdue laundry and old newspapers on the floor into his own bed.

At four that afternoon…ten hours sleep and eight Advil later…he walked back into The Don Juan Cafe in costume.

“As I live and breathe,” Rhonda exclaimed as she prepared for the opening in an hour. “I figured those two would have killed you.”

Donald shrugged and smiled. “No such luck, love.”

“Where is he?” Victor’s voice was muffled by the swinging door to the kitchen. The giant quickly popped out nearly bumping his head on the hanging light just outside the door. He carried a folded newspaper in his left that he slapped with his right. “Don, you did fantastic last night.” He raised his arms and knuckles beat the ceiling. “Raving review, though I suspect Hank was too inebriated to remember much as some of his details were odd.”

“Good. Glad to be of dee service.” Another snap heel bow.

Victor beamed and returned to the kitchen with nothing more than a celebratory laugh.

“I have to ask, did you sleep with both?” Rhonda asked with a sly grin as she placed wine glasses in the overhead hanger.

“Don Juan ne’er kiss an tell.”

“Did you use the IRA story?”

Donald winked. “Gimme a fecking beer.”

Rhonda exploded with laughter. “You’re such a fuckin’ gigolo. So full of shit.”

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