The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  The Middleman

  by Gregory A. Kompes

  Copyright 2012 by Gregory A. Kompes

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  Digital Edition

  Cover Design by Michael O’Neil

  The material in The Middle Man represents the artistic vision of the author published herein and is their sole property. No part of this text may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author. The author may be contacted through Fabulist Flash Publishing.

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  For more fiction or nonfiction by Gregory A. Kompes, please visit www.Kompes.com

  Dedicated to

  Joseph James Kompes

  The Middleman

  by Gregory A. Kompes

  Chapter One

  I slammed the door and ran; tears streamed down my face. My bare feet slapped against hot pavement; more tears stained my face. I reached the corner and stood under a neighbor's tree, panting, crying.

  This wasn't a new experience. It had been played out over and over during my childhood. Unable to face or deal with the emotions in our house I ran; I cried. None of the neighbors, most of whom were on my newspaper route, ever mentioned the outbursts.

  "What's your dog's name?"

  I looked up at the handsome young man. He was thin and most would consider him tall. Well, he was taller than me, so I guess he was tall. His hair dark; his eyes dark. Hair curled out of his open shirt. His eyes were glazed from a night of partying. He smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

  "Aristotle," I answered. "And, yours?"

  "I don't have a dog." He looked around, just to be sure. "I’m Sam," he said with a wink, or maybe he had a bit of dust in his eye. "Can I walk with you?"

  "What do you think, boy? Should we walk with this stray for a bit?"

  Aristotle was a friendly sort and acquiesced. We three walked. We three sniffed the air. Aristotle lifted his leg and Sam looked longingly, like it was something he'd like to do, too. Sadly for Sam, it wasn't something he could legally do in public, especially with the sun up. We arrived at the corner of 18 Street and Seventh Avenue. Aristotle started to make the turn from the avenue to the street. "This is our turn," I said.

  "I gathered. He's a mutt with a routine," said Sam with another wink.

  "Pedigreed with a routine," I replied and gave the leash a tug. Aristotle considered his options, backed up a few steps, sat at my feet with a lean into my legs.

  "He's handsome," said Sam.

  "So are you," I said.

  "Shall we see what we both look like without clothes?" Sam asked. We eyed each other.

  One of the reasons I lived in Chelsea was to pick up a stray or two. I walked the dog rather early just to have the opportunity.

  "I can't imagine what good you'll be in bed," I said, stalling. I hadn't yet made a decision. He was handsome. He was my type. I leaned in and kissed him, light at first, harder. Startled, his lips parted. Our tongues darted, playing a delightful game of tag. Good kisser. "Come on," I said when we breathed.

  As we walked the half block to my brownstone his hand came up into the crook of my arm. Aristotle didn't give notice. The dog was an excellent judge of character. In fact, I trusted his judgment better than my own.

  I keyed us in and slipped the collar and leash off the dog, tossed him a biscuit from my pocket.

  "Do I get a treat, too?"

  I offered Sam a biscuit.

  He took it and sniffed. "I'll save it for later," he said then looked at the dog who eyed the treat.

  "Aristotle, sit pretty," I said. The dog sat and raised his front paws off the ground.

  "Cute," said Sam. He tossed the biscuit to the dog. "So, how many live here?"

  "There are three of us," I answered.

  "Just three of you in the whole building?"

  "It's a house. It's never been divided." It was always awkward having new people in, especially young bar trash, and having to explain the house to them. But, we do what we need to if we're to get laid in this world. I love my home and it is impressive to young people who suffer through small, overcrowded apartments.

  To be fair, I wasn't that much older than the boy, maybe ten years.

  Sam let out an "oh boy" whistle. I can't whistle myself and I'm always impressed by men who can—women who can, too, although I never pick them up in the mornings. I have picked up my fair share of women, but those end up being clients or life-long friends.

  “Restroom?”

  “Second door, there on the left.” I watched Sam as he walked toward where I’d indicated. He had a great ass, accentuated by tight jeans; my dick stirred in my trousers.

  He returned a few moments later and picked up our conversation. "Are you married to any of the people who live here? Father to any of them?"

  "Would it matter?" I led us back to the kitchen.

  "Only if they're home," Sam said eyeing the coffee pot. “That smells good.” He pointed to the pot.

  I grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and poured. "Cream? Sugar?"

  "No, black is fine." Sam took his mug, gave a soft blow over the top, took a full drink. "Mmm," he murmured. "It's been a long night and this tastes really good."

  "So, where did your friends ditch you?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.

  "A smoker!" he said with enthusiasm and pulled out a pack of his own. He placed his hand on mine as I held my ornately engraved Zippo to his cigarette. "Thanks," he exhaled, taking the lighter from me. "Nice."

  "It was a gift from a client."

  "What's your gig?" he asked, propping himself up against the counter, casually leaning with one leg over the other showing off his big, booted feet.

  I hesitated to tell morning boys that I'm a psychic. It's not that I'm embarrassed by my job. I love my job. I love connecting the living with the dead. I like getting to see beyond the veil, to have a taste of the other side, to witness the future before it happens. As I contemplated he cocked his head like Aristotle often does. My team told me he could handle the truth. "Psychic" I said. "And, yours?"

  He didn't skip a beat. "Musician. Piano usually. Keyboards in general. Theater by choice."

  I crooked my finger and gave it a come-hither wiggle. He followed as directed through the dining room. Nice that the guy could take direction. I slid the panel door into its pocket to reveal the second parlor. Yes, it's true, I have two parlors. Very old fashioned. In the house’s past, one would have been for the men and the second for the ladies and to greet visitors. I like the history of my home so I had them both restored. I straightened my finger, pointed at the grand piano in the corner.

  "Nice," he headed right to it, sat, opened the lid off the keys, played a long arpeggio from low to high. "Wow!" Sam cracked his knuckles before he launched into an intricate Mozart piece.

  I lowered myself into the wingback chair nearest the piano and watched him play. His long, thin fingers were agile and swift; his posture perfect. I wanted to take him right there, just bend him over the keyboard and fuck him. Instead, I listened in awe to his brilliant talent. I smoked.

  He finished; the last chord rang off the polished wainscoting. I tamped out my cigarette.

  "I don't know," said Sam.

  "What don't you know?" I asked enjoying his playful nature.

  The boy swung a leg over the piano bench. "Where my friends ditched me. I don't know where my friends ditched me. I remember we were at the Eagle. Silas, that's my best friend, he met some guys and ended up in the sling in the back room
. I love him, you know, but I just don't need to see my friends get fucked like that. Eric,” Sam looked up at me, “another friend. He was licking some guy's boots. Also not my thing.” With that pronouncement he looked at me with, was it warning? “I went outside for some air and this leather daddy offered me a joint. I took a hit, took another hit. That's all I really remember. Musta been laced with something, that joint." He smiled at me, exposing perfect, white teeth.

  Neither of us spoke. He discovered his previous smoke had burned out in the ashtray and lit a fresh cigarette; early morning sunlight crept through the sheer curtains; we watched the smoke curl through the light in silence, both of us, I suspect, remembering other times in the backroom of the Eagle or smoking a joint laced with something.

  Sam broke the moment. "Where's the john from here? I need to pee again."

  "Second door. The first is the coat closet."

  Sam got up and walked out of the room.

  It's always awkward for me. I can make that first move, the kiss on the street. That's rather a test, especially in the light of day. If he's willing to kiss on the street I know there's hope that he’ll be the kind of guy who will go along with my odd lifestyle. That’s also the moment Aristotle will let me know if this one is worthy of our time. If not, the dog will begin to tug gently on his leash. Sadly, once I get them home, I usually wait for them to decide what direction things will go.

  "So, what's your name?" Sam asked. He stood in the doorway. Obviously, we were done with the concert portion of the morning.

  "Duke," I answered.

  Aristotle nudged up next to him, sat, leaned into him. Always a very good sign when the dog offered approval so early on. Sam rubbed the dog's head, but kept his eyes on me.

  "Can I see more of the house? Like the bedroom?"

  There it was, the next step, the move I waited for. "Sure." I got up from the chair. Sam didn't move as I approached so I kissed him. This was a softer kiss, what some romance novels call a lingering kiss. We pulled tight into each other, felt erections press together through denim and tweed. I took his hand and led the way up the stairs to the second floor.

  "All the doors are closed," he said, looking around the hallway.

  I didn't respond, opened the single door on the right.

  My bedroom is the only major house architectural change in the house. It occupies half of the second floor, a combination of three bedrooms and a bathroom were combined to make up a comfortable master suite, complete with fireplace. The only thing missing is a nice view, but in Manhattan one can't have everything; at least not on the lower Westside, where none of the buildings top five stories.

  "Wow!"

  "Out!" I commanded.

  Sam looked at me with shock in his eyes, but turned to go.

  Aristotle walked out of the room and I closed the door.

  "Oh, you didn't mean me."

  "No," I whispered. We moved closer and I unbuttoned his shirt, giving it a tug to release the tails from his pants. I ran my hands over his hairy chest. He quivered lightly as I grazed his nipples. We kissed again, this time he took the lead, his tongue darting and exploring my mouth. All the while, I worked his shirt buttons and belt before taking on my own buttons.

  With the morning boys, there’s no need to be overly slow and easy. This isn’t making love, but fucking. For one, most of them left and I rarely, if ever, saw them again. Two, they’ve been out partying all night. There’s never any telling how much energy they’ll have. Within moments we were naked and entangled in the sheets.

  Sam stopped, looked me in the face, and said: “Top or bottom?”

  “I’m going to fuck you,” I replied.

  With little effort, Sam kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his pants, and was out of them, naked in front of me. I dropped to my knees and took his stiff cock in my mouth. He tasted of salt and nutmeg. I backed off and licked salty pre-come from the slit of his dick, ran my tongue along his heavily veined shaft, and settled in to lap his balls, all the while nudging him back toward the bed. With a gentle push, he fell back on the mattress, his dick in the air like a flag pole.

  “Sure you don’t just want to climb up on that,” he said with a chuckle.

  I kicked off my shoes and drop my pants and underwear to the floor, leaving them in a soft heap as I crawled atop the handsome man in my bed. I enjoyed the sensation of his cock pushing at my ass as I kissed and suckled his nipples. The buds and aureoles were the smallest I’d ever seen before. As I nibbled the second one he moaned and pushed his crotch into me. Kissing my way up his neck, I rested my lips on his, pushing my tongue into his mouth and once again enjoying the combination of beer, cigarettes, and coffee that lingered there.

  “Sure I can’t just fuck you?”

  “So romantic,” I chided playfully, rolling off of him, toward the top of the bed. From the nightstand drawer I produced lube, condoms, and a small brown bottle.

  “Poppers!” he squealed like a girl and joined me on his knees.

  As I worked the condom over my dick, he took a long sniff of the amyl nitrate, first in one nostril and then the other. By the time I was stroking my cock with lube, he had a wonderful smile on his face.

  In a svelte, single action, Sam yanked my legs, forcing me quickly to my back. He pushed my head down, and without much time or any additional lube, he lowered himself down on my cock. Whoosh. As he took my entire shaft, he again breathed deeply on the little brown bottle of Jungle Juice and without any attention from me, began to ride me, not just up and down, but a gentle forward and back motion as well.

  “You just lay there, Daddy, and I’ll do all the work.”

  “Good boy,” I said, enjoying the fantasy he brought to the game. I reached for the bottle, he gave it without the lid, and I raised my head to sniff. He kept moving the whole time, but in slow motion now. As the drug hit my brain, I felt a wave and rush of energy. Even though he picked up his pace again, everything felt hot and slow.

  I loved the site of him, his hairy, underdeveloped chest heaving above me. His dark hair, slick with sweat and stuck to his forehead. Sam’s soft, lovely smile. I reached out for his chest, but he gently pushed my hands away, so I settled them on his thighs. Not guiding his actions, but feeling him in a more complex way as he rode my cock and put on his show, all the while, every few moments, hitting the bottle of poppers.

  “I’m getting close,” he said. Sam hadn’t even touched his cock.

  I reached to take it in my hand, to stroke him off. But, he pushed me away. There wasn’t any anger or even control in the action.

  “No need,” he said.

  I leaned forward and he again handed me the bottle. I took two long sniffs and offered the bottle back, but he shook his head no. With his eyes focused on my face, his thrusts grew slower and longer. Then, as he sat his full weight on my lap, his sphincter muscle clamped around the base of my dick and he shot a hot stream of come all over my stomach.

  Time stopped as I watched spurt after spurt of white liquid shoot out of his perfect cock. I wanted to feel that inside of me. I wanted him to fuck me.

  Sam leaned forward and kissed me; as he moved, his ass rose from my cock. I pushed my crotch up to keep my dick inside of him. He moaned, pulled back his head, and placed his hand firmly on my shoulder. “Wait.”

  I stopped all motion. I didn’t want this moment to end, but I didn’t want to hurt him either. His ass massaged my cock, stroking it through ripples and waves of muscles contracting and expanding. Then, to my disappointment, he quickly pulled off of me. Without words, he layed himself out on his stomach, his ass slightly raised.

  “Well, climb on and fuck me, Daddy.”

  I found it amusing the he kept calling me “Daddy,” when it was quite obvious he was in total control.

  I did as told, pulling myself up to my knees, adding a fresh coating of lube, and then, straddling him, I slid my throbbing dick into his ass. There was no resistance. Within a few strokes, I had a comfortable position and enjoye
d not only the feeling of his steaming ass enveloping my dick, but the sight of his swimmer’s V shaped back.

  I reached forward and grabbed the poppers from the bed. My lubed fingers fumbled with the cap, but I finally got it off. I took two very long drags, enjoying the metallic odor of the drug. Just as it hit me, I came. I didn’t say a word, just pushed hard into him and he clenched his muscles tight around me. I shuddered through the waves of come that released from me and then dropped forward, my full weight and length on top of Sam.

  He moved his arms and I feared I might be hurting him, but he simply took my hands from his sides and pulled them under his torso, causing my arms to wrap around him.

  “Hmmm,” he murmured. “Great way to end the night.”

  “Or, begin the day,” I whispered into his ear. I kissed his sweaty neck, enjoying the salt and musk of him as our breathing returned to normal. I could feel my dick softening and slipping from inside of him. We both resisted, but our attempts final proved futile. I rolled off of him and we lay side by side, me on my back, Sam on his stomach.

  "Sir?" accompanied a light tapping at the door.

  I looked at the clock, 11:11. I pulled the sheet over our naked bodies and reached for the pocket watch on the nightstand. "Yes, Malcolm," I answered. Each morning, I gave the watch six winds while I checked the date: Wednesday.

  The butler opened the door, his head popping around the corner. "Would you and your guest like lunch here?"

  "That would be nice, thank you."

  "Very good, Sir," he said as his head disappeared around the door.

  "Hold on, Malcolm." I poked the boy. "Sam. Sam!"

  "Hmm?"

  "Any food allergies? Anything you hate?"

  He rolled over, the sheet dropped away leaving him naked and exposed. He scratched his balls. "Hmm?"

  "Malcolm is bringing us up lunch, but I don't want to kill you because of a peanut allergy or something."