A Christmas Carl - the Sequel

Carl's New Year

This is an original fiction story, obviously inspired by an old Christmas classic. Why should "Screwge" be old and wrinkled? We all know hot, but sour, young men. The previous chapter is based on the classic. This is all new, but perhaps a logical sequel. No one under 18 is engaged in sexual activity in this story. Happy New Year. © 2023. All rights reserved. BD

The townhouse was ablaze in light. None of my neighbors could believe the level of festivity promised by the activity. My home had been dark and quiet for many years. In fact people often walked to the other side of the street when passing—it was considered bad luck to walk before the black door of a haunted house. But, not tonight.

All the gas lights were turned up to the max. The candles in the chandeliers were all lit. Fires had been set in all the hearths. Covers had been removed from the reception room furniture—and all had been moved to the perimeter of the room to provide for dancing. The rugs had been rolled and stored and the hardwoods polished to a gleaming shine. That room, with high ceilings and elaborate woodwork spanned the entire front of the house with five high arched-window-French doors opening to balconies onto the street.

I had hired a half dozen assistants for cook to prepare a suitable banquet and extra cleaners to open and air the bedrooms on the top floor that had not seen use in recent years, but I somehow assumed they would be occupied, again and again, tonight. Even the servants' quarters under the eaves had been prepared for the "overflow." A house of doom had been transformed into a home teaming with light and love and promise.

It was a grand double-wide, brick corner townhouse, with four stories, a generous basement for storage and even a gabled carriage barn with staff quarters above--beyond the deep (now dormant and snow-covered) garden. But it hadn't seen such glory in years. It was the night to celebrate the New Year and I was hosting! The new Carl Ebenezer Screwge was hosting a party!

I had invited all the young staff of Screwge & Marley and had borrowed some of my nephew Brent's guest list to supplement. Brent, his partner and a dozen or so young men were coming. And Sir Michael Bottomley, my latest conquest and newest partner, had graciously agreed to co-host the evening with me. (Brent was there to insure the party was lively and memorable—since it had been years since I had entertained on this scale and with this particular kind of guest list; Mike was there to insure that I had fun.)

It was going to be a delicate balancing act. Several of my partners and some of the young men had wives or female partners—who were invited and had accepted, but the bulk of the guest list were accustomed to "going with men." We would have "discretion" on the dance floor and in the adjacent hall where the food and drink would be available—at least until the witching hour. But the two upper floors would be "stag only." Of course, I expected the double hourglass staircase would see a great deal of traffic.

I had carefully worded the invitations to the couples to suggest a supper-dance until midnight to hail in the New Year; but the others had been told they were welcome to spend the night.

My life had totally changed in only a week. The love of my life, Jacob Marley, who had died over seven years ago, had visited me as a Ghost on Christmas Eve and convinced me to re-enter the world of pleasure. At my nephew's party the next night, I had enjoyed the favors of several handsome young guys—but had been bewitched by Mike—a young, tall rake of handsome features, a Mediterranean complexion, with black hair, a muscular physique, and prodigious reproductive equipment. I was already looking forward to his return to my bed—where we had spent many "productive" hours the previous Christmas weekend. He was quickly becoming one of my favorites of all time, and certainly my guy of the moment, perhaps longer.

I had just begun to unravel his complexities and character on Christmas weekend. He was an only child, the son of a wealthy landed family in the north of England. But, when his father had discovered he had a male lover—a rough and tumble servant no less, from the fields, both had been banished from the estate.

Fortunately, Mike had already completed his studies at Christ Church and was able to enter the banking world. Not the banking world of the British aristocracy—his father had seen to it that he was blackballed over the entire Old City. He was talented however and was employed by one of the new continental investment banking upstarts.

His first partner, the farmhand, soon fell away. He hated the city, the people, and didn't fit with Mike's new acquaintances. The young man became morose, refused to socialize, and one day, he just disappeared. Mike was devastated, but was advised to ease his despondency with hours in the new upper crust gymnasium that had opened in the city.

Within a few months, Mike had built an attractive physique and had become a champion handball player—the sport of choice for up-and-coming young aristocrats. He had so many offers of "partnership" that he was literally sleeping in a different bed each night. Finally, he had settled on one, and they had moved in together for over a year—until Phillip had contracted one of the frequent wintertime consumptive illnesses that usually resulted in death. Mike had nursed him as he wasted away. When the young man finally passed, Mike discovered that he had been left a sizable estate—with a title. Sir Michael Bottomley emerged—with a perfect physique, prowess on the court, a reputation in banking, 29 years old—but once again without family or regular friends. Then he had met Brent.

He and Brent had tried for a time, but the chemistry wasn't there. But Mike did become a regular at Brent's many parties—until the fateful evening on Christmas when he had spotted me. As he told me later, lightning had flashed; he had heard the thunder in his ears. He had spent the night and the next two days and nights at my townhouse. And it left him hungry for more, much more. Fortunately for me, I was the object of his desire. And the feelings of attraction were mutual. Marley had re-awakened my appetite for a companion, one who would warm my bed, and respond to my advances.

The days during the week after Christmas at S&M were still vivid in my mind. I had always punished the mistakes of the younger staff with a trip to the dungeon in the cellar of the firm. There I regularly dealt out punishments to the young rakes who had failed us in some way. They knew the routine: down the stairs, enter, strip, and bend for punishment—whatever suited my fancy at that moment. It was quite satisfactory for me. But, word traveled fast after Christmas that I was a new man. Everyone wondered how that would impact the dungeon activities. So unfortunately, the quality of the work at S&M suffered—there were mistakes after mistakes. If I didn't exact punishment, we would soon be ruined! I spent a good part of every day "disciplining" the attractive young employees in the dungeon. My suede whips were fraying; my palm was burning; the plugs were softening; my balls were always drained; and the bench needed new upholstery! They all wanted to experience the new Carl Screwge. How could I deny them? But, apparently I would need to change the rules. I simply couldn't keep that up!

Even Bob had made a large and obvious mistake on Monday morning—delivering the wrong files to the wrong partners. When I discovered the error, Bob threw up his hands, winked and headed for the stairs. By the time I arrived to mete out his punishment, he was already naked and outstretched on the bench, offering his magnificent little ass for my pleasure. I approached and he pushed up to meet my hand as my palm struck flesh. Then I mounted, squeezed his cock as hard as I was able, plunged, stroked deep and hard, and filled him with my cream. "Thank you, Carl. May I have another? Your gifts are always welcome."

We both laughed—actually laughed, sounds not before heard in that basement room. "Perhaps another day, Bob. I don't want to spoil you for Maryanne."

And, by the end of the week, I had been convinced by Bob to turn the dungeon into a staff-only recreation room, open before and after work and during the lunch hour. We would install the basic equipment for a first class exercise gym—and multiply the "stations" for "joint" exercises. Of course, Mike had described his own gym in some detail—and I wanted a private place for our occasional times together. A new level of discipline had come to S&M.

I had already heard that S&M was becoming famous over the Old City for the perks and fringe benefits being offered to young employees. We were deluged with applications.

******

On the eve of the New Year, Mike had arrived in the early afternoon, carting two valises of clothes—he was going to change for the party at the townhouse and, of course, spend the weekend. (I wondered why he thought he might need clothes after tonight?) After making one last check of the arrangements and instructing the cooks and servants, we had bathed together in a giant copper vessel and had jumped into my giant new feather bed.

The bed was an immediate hit. The down was so deep that both of us were soon sunk deep inside—and nearly invisible in all the frothy white duvets. And so we played the old blind man's game that I hadn't since I was a youth. Effectively blind, hands and legs sought flesh, gripping and stroking when possible. He found and grabbed my rock hard cock and drew it into his mouth. This led me easily to his; my lips went to his head, my fingers to his cleft and hungry opening. Soon we were both in a frenzy, bouncing around in the deep feathers. I pulled off and pulled him up and flipped him. He dropped down on his belly and his rounded globes were all I could see over the ocean of whiteness. They were perfect: high, round, soft over hard; shaved and clean, two perfect mounds of flesh rising over the pillowy sheets. I pounced, and he was under me, as I prepared to enter him for the first time that day. I guess I had won the first round of the game. He was trapped and "it".

His motions quieted as I lubed with fingers and tongue, but his groans of pleasure filled the space. I placed my cockhead at his entrance, reached under to hold him steady with my hands on his pecs, and pulled him up into my lap, impaling him with my hardness as he slid into my gut. My fingers were soon on his nipples. I knew from the dungeon how to handle this situation. My thumb and forefinger grasped and I began to squeeze. He hissed and the tips engorged into hardness, as he pushed back into my chest to find relief. But doing so, pushed me even deeper into his chute. Using the nipples, I pulled him up, released and he slid down over my cock. He whimpered at his total fullness and possession. Then again. And again. He was moaning in pleasure-pain and the hood was rolling back on his erection. His dark purple head began to leak. My palm moved there and I twisted my palm over the head. "My God, Carl. You can't do that. You're driving me out of my mind." I brought my hand to my face, scented the moisture, and licked the palm. He was indeed a delicious boy. I pulled his head around and took his lips into a deep kiss. And then I felt the dry spasms and the tightening of his anal muscle around my penis. He was at the edge. This boy was hot—and quick. My palm moved to his taint and pressed as I fell forward with him into the cloud of feathers. We were both floating, and spasming, and exploding. "No one brings me to paradise, like you, Carl. No one."

"Years of practice, my boy. Someday, we'll visit the dungeon. And then I'll show you how much pleasure follows from a little pain." I rolled off, but pulled him in for a tight embrace as our breathing quelled. He felt so soft and warm.

At that moment the old clock chime struck five times—and we realized it was dusk. The first guests would be arriving soon. It was time to rise and dress. We struggled from the bed, feigning seasickness from the motions we had self-generated. I looked over at Mike. He was hard again and looked into my eyes expectantly. "Later, my boy, later."

We had prescribed a masked costume ball, so typical of a party to issue in the New Year: new year, new persona. Mike was to be the Babe of the New Year while I dressed as the Grim Reaper of the Old—a quite fitting and easy costume for me—I had plenty of black in my wardrobe.

Mike dressed from head to toe in innocent white. (Now that was a disguise!) Over snow white leggings, he wore a "nappy" vee'd in the front, protruding prominently and clipped at the waist with a giant gold and jeweled pin. Somehow he could make even a diaper look sexy. He pulled on a white quilted vest—no shirt under. His bare arm muscles would bulge provocatively throughout the evening. He tucked his hair under a pure white bonnet. On his feet were sole-less slippers of silk. To complete the look, I tied a small dildo with a white ribbon and placed it around his neck—a pacifier until later. A gold sash emblazoned with the numbers of the New Year crossed over it all. He was adorable and cute. And I almost didn't allow him out of the bedroom. The nappy bulge and gaping six pack meant that he would be mauled—and only one gold pin was between him and a "wardrobe malfunction" and an assignation. I pulled him to me and carefully fit one of the locks from the dungeon over the pin—and carefully threaded the key onto a leather cord and tied it around my neck. "I'm the only one who's going to open that package tonight, Mike."

(My possessive dom was still very much a part of my character. Mike was about to say something—probably that it was too soon for possession. But wisely, he remembered he was just a babe for tonight, subject to the control and whims of his "Daddy"—in this case, Father Time. Protests about independence could come later.)

I in turn donned a full body sleeping costume, known as a "long john" of knitted cotton with long sleeves and long legs and with a buttoned drop flap in both front and back. I had to admit, it was tight, totally revealing and obscene. So I pulled an ancient black long cardigan over it all and stepped into black leather slippers. I moved to the mirror and powdered my black hair and tied it in the back, while gluing on a long silver beard. I slipped on a white sleeping cap—as Mike mischievously attached several jingle bells to the long tail. "At least I'll know where you are all night. You are belled, like my cat, my dear Carl." Then, I grabbed an ornate scythe which we had retrieved earlier from the garden shed. Mike stepped up to me and added last year's sash—in black of course. I looked sinister, old and tired—but every bit the dirty old man of fables, ready for one last fling before fading into the netherworld.

"I think you have me at a disadvantage," Mike said, "with button flaps fore and aft, you can play all evening—while you alone will have me later."

"'Tis as it should be, my boy. It's my party. And you are mine for the night. If you are good, I'll be sure to bounce you on my lap throughout the evening. But, I'm not letting you stay up too late. We both need your beauty sleep—in my bed of course."

"In one week, I have gone from being your lover to your property. You must think me no better than a woman."

"You forget, Sir Michael, I have had you in my bed—and you, Sir, are no woman!" I reached over and slipped my hand into the nappy and fisted his cock. I looked into his eyes as he began to harden. "Definitely not a woman."

At these words, both of us broke into laughter and proceeded to walk from my room (which I carefully locked behind us) and down the stairs to the brightly lit salon.

A servant, hired for the night, and colorfully dressed as a court yester, was admitting the first guests. Coats and hats were taken and all were ushered to the salon upstairs. I heard one young man remark to another, "What a remarkable door knocker! I wonder how he keeps it so warm?" I smiled. Jacob was here—perhaps as an invisible Ghost, but nevertheless still capable of enjoying a good party. I wonder what costume he had selected? Maybe he'll reveal it to me later. But probably not. If he were at the party, he'd be well-disguised and I wouldn't recognize him.

The costumes were spectacular. Werewolves. Draculas. Witches. Kings and queens. Lords and ladies. Thieves and pickpockets. Mountebanks. A Circus ringmaster (complete with whip), accompanied by a fully-maned lion. There was of course, a toga or two. I noted that many of the S&M young men had elected to cross-dress with matching net stockings, high heels on which they were wobbling, very short frilly red skirts (apparently without undergarments), and body-hugging chemises cut well above their waists. They could easily constitute a chorus line of dancers—maybe later! Bob and Maryanne arrived, dressed as a French Foreign Legionnaire and his wench. They pulled me aside and both hugged and kissed me. "Thank you, Carl. We love you." And then there were the curate and the bishop—obviously to enforce decorum (or maybe even to bless the upcoming one-night unions)!

The colors were wild. The atmosphere was totally festive. Drinks were passed on silver trays and the small orchestra began to play. Soon most were dancing. Brent tried to organize some in-fashion line dances, but the crowd was too diverse and made so many errors that he soon gave up.

A large gong (really a large copper bowl) was rapped, "Messieurs and Mesdames, food is served in the dining room" In that room, platters were laden with cuts of meat, rolls, preserves, fruits, breaded and fried seafood bits, puddings, cakes, and candies.

Within an hour or so, I noticed that several couples had already begun to take an intermission upstairs—including a few heteros--but typically not with their spouses. I noticed that one of my partners, married with six children, disappeared with one of our young clarks. It was after all the last hours of the old year. All "transgressions" would be forgiven at midnight. And what happens at Maison Screwge stays in Maison Screwge!"

(It is quite remarkable how we staid British become French so easily when sex is promised or enjoyed!)

Midnight, the magic bewitching hour soon approached. Another round of champagne was poured and passed as the crowd gathered in the salon. A musician began the countdown. A drum roll preceded a blast of a trumpet and all shouted in the New Year, grabbing anyone nearby for a hug and kiss—and in many cases far more. Mike of course was at my side. "To a new life, Sir Michael." "With you, Carl." His nappied hardness was soon pressed against mine, promising so much more fun later. Then, at the musical cue, we all began the ancient Scottish hymn to the New Year. But my old life was indeed a time that I would soon forget.

Within a short while, many of the guests (mostly the couples) began to depart, thanking and wishing me well in my new life. More than one ogled the magnificent Mike, by my side, obviously envying my upcoming hours. After a short break, the orchestra broke into dance music again—this time more insistently erotic. The party was changing very dramatically in character—and it would continue until near-dawn. Young men were pairing off on the dance floor—and bits of costumes were falling by the dozens. But I had other plans.

I looked over at Brent, motioned to the MC's throne, and invited him to it. "Take over, Brent. It's your party too now."

I scooped Mike up and threw him over my shoulder and headed for the stairs. Soon we were in my room. "It's time to put you to bed, babe. It's way past your bedtime. I pulled the key. "I'm guessing this is something you might like me to use before I tuck you in?"