Nutcracer Christmas Partying

December, 2023

"Good evening, Mr. Reynolds. I hope you enjoyed the show. We haven't seen you for some time."

"I was doing the European tour for most of the last year, Fritz," I said. Fritz had worked the backstage at Lincoln Center's Koch Theater for as long as I could remember—since before my first ballet here, a couple of months shy of turning nineteen. He had worked his way up to backstage manager just as I had worked my way from the dance line to principal roles. "I've been touring the ballets there, checking out how other companies do it." I didn't say that I only was back in New York now because the pandemic had lessened enough that they could do Frank's memorial service.

"I hope you haven't given up dancing," Fritz said. "You were the best Cavalier in the annual productions we did here of

The Nutcracker

back in the day."

"That was twenty years ago, Fritz," I said. "No, I haven't danced in a ballet for some time. Not since . . ." I couldn't bring myself to say it.

"Not since Mr. Carlton died?"

"No, not since Frank left us. I always danced for him." I could talk to Fritz about this. He had always been understanding. And he'd idolized Franklin Carlton, who had been a mainstay here. His money had helped provide these productions.

"When they said we could do

The Nutcracker

again this year, I'd hoped you'd be back—maybe in the role of Herr Drosselmeyer. The production just doesn't seem the same without you in some role."

"It doesn't seem the same to me to be watching from the audience and not in it in some role, I admit," I said. "Maybe next year."

"I do hope so," Fritz said. "When did you first start in it here? You must have been a child."

"I was eighteen, in the background dance line. I think I had four costume changes. In the early eighties."

"Well, it's good to see you again backstage. Are those flowers for anyone in particular?"

* * * *

December, 1983

I was nearly nineteen. I wanted to be a professional ballet dancer in the worst way. It was my first professional production,

The Nutcracker

, with the New York Ballet, at Lincoln Center, my first visit to New York. It was a beginning, but it threatened to be an end too. I couldn't afford to go on—not unless I found a way to earn more. I was willing to do about anything to be able to continue trying in the New York ballet, and I had some assets in addition to the dancing ability. I was young, good-looking, very fit albeit sight and lithe, and I'd gone with men before. I wasn't coerced to go with men. That had been a choice completely independent of the ballet. So, it was natural to use that as I could. I was headed to the Long Island shore opposite Fire Island to use that.

"They're just renting it for the week. It doesn't belong to any of the men who will be at the party, Adam."

I had remarked on how lush the mansion was that Gregor was bringing Kyle, Win, and me to as candy for a private Christmas multiday party in an area called Babylon, on Long Island. The driveway was long, flanked by now-leafless trees that a hunk of a black man was stringing white fairy lights on as we drove up to the house. I looked up at him where he balanced on a ladder and he stared back down at me with a knowing smile. My body quivered.

Did he know what sort of party I and the other guys were coming to? Did he know that we were the entertainment? We obviously were too young to be guests at a party in a venue like this.

I didn't feel guilty nor was I embarrassed about coming to this party and letting men cover me. I was only eighteen—so were Kyle and Win—but we were all mentally old and tough for our ages. We knew what we had to do to get ahead in professional ballet. We were all in New York City for December, gathered from across the country. I was training at the Philadelphia Dance Academy, at least through the end of the month when my family no longer could afford tuition there and I'd maybe have to give up my goal of being a premier ballet dancer. What I'd earn from this party plus what little I'd be paid for dancing the line in Tchaikovsky's

The Nutcracker

at Lincoln Center would just get me to the end of the year—another two weeks. Of course, if there was a generous tip, I could go on longer. Gregor had told me the tips would be good.

Gregor Gerinko, the dance master for this NYC Ballet performance of

The Nutcracker

, had made the arrangements for us to be at the party and had driven us out to Babylon in a rental car. Kyle, a blond from Cleveland; Win, half-Chinese from San Francisco; and dark, Jewish me from Philadelphia, were all in the weekend cast of the Christmas ballet, performing background dance line duties in several different costumes each in roles going from mice to mechanical dolls, to toy soldiers, so we were free in the middle of this week before Christmas to take on this extra gig. We all had male ballet dancer bodies: less-than-normal height, willowy stature just beginning to muscle up, and limber, flexible bodies. Each in our own ways we were beautiful young men—more beautiful than handsome.

"There are six men at the party," Gregor said as we approached the house. "You are to give them whatever they want. There's a cook and a coordinator, but you guys will be the waiters and servers to attend to the men's needs and desires. The waiter duties are secondary to what they want sexually. Don't ask them any questions that would lead to their identities. This is a very private party. They are paying you well for what you'll provide. Just always look happy to be there and with them—and treat them all like they are hung gods, no matter what their looks or their age. Open your legs to them on demand and treat them like they are the best stud you've ever had."

"You'll be there too, of course," Kyle said.

"No. I have to go back to the production," Gerinko said. "I'll be back to pick you up Thursday evening. The party here ends that afternoon. Don't go wild at the party in ways that breaks anything in the house. It's being rented. You're there for these men. You are to be their sex slaves for the three days of the party."

We certainly couldn't say we didn't know what was expected of us. I'd let men do me before. I hadn't been in an orgy, though, and I was a little excited about the prospect of what could come. He said there would be six of them at the party.

As we were climbing out of the rental car and being motioned into the ornate double front doors of the mansion by a scowling, thuggish looking man in his forties who was identified as Steve, the party coordinator, I sensed we were being watched. It was chilly, but not cold for a December in New York, but the thought of what I would be doing for the next couple of days made me tremble and shimmer a bit and I pulled my coat tightly around me. I looked back at the long driveway we'd just come down and my eyes met those of the black hunk on the ladder, stringing lights. His gaze was piercing. I wondered if he was some sort of gardener or handyman here and whether he knew how the house would be used for the next couple of days. And I wondered if he knew how three eighteen-year-old male ballet dancer would be used as well.

Was he into this as well or did he view us with disdain?

I'd never been with a black man before. I had been used in Philadelphia by men I needed to help me in becoming a ballet dancer, so there was nothing new in what would be happening here, but they'd always been regular men—nothing dangerous or forbidden about them. And none of them had been black—or as muscular as the man on the ladder.

But it seemed in the way that black man on the ladder looked at me that he knew—and that it turned him on as much as it must be turning on the six men coming together to have this mid-week party with three eighteen-year-old male dancers the week before Christmas.

* * * *

The six men we partied with in the Babylon mansion didn't tell us who they were—either as individuals or to each other—but they talked comfortably among themselves and it wasn't hard to understand that they all were involved somehow in the stock market in the city or that they socialized together there and went to the same gym. It was also clear that they were all wealthy, as they would have to be to party like this. They obviously had partied like this before and were comfortable doing it. They ranged in age from the late thirties to the early fifties, and although some were a little heavier than others and some less handsome than others, I would have guessed they all gymed regularly. They all had "good-enough" bodies and I got the idea that they wouldn't let anyone hang with them who didn't. Some revealed they were married and some mentioned that they had children. None of them were embarrassed in acknowledging this in the context we were in. They didn't say that to Win, Kyle, or me, of course, just to each other in conversations we heard.

We three guys weren't people to them. We were just Christmas season toys for them to enjoy. We could be moving close to them in the room and it was like we weren't even there except to be eye candy.

They had this party business down pat. They didn't use names. They just called each other One from the obviously most important one down to Six, one of the youngest ones—someone who evidently worked for One in the city. They did most everything a group of gay, but macho, men would do in a laid-back multiday party in a well-appointed house. They played cards and pool. They watched sports on TV. They bantered with each other about sports and business. They wore what they wanted, which in the case of the younger and more ripped ones, wasn't more than athletic shorts. They drank constantly, but only smoked outside.

And they fucked the three eighteen-year-old ballet dancers who wandered around, serving and servicing them. When they had the notion, they just grabbed one of us and put us under them. Every one of them was significantly bigger and heavier than any of us dancers. This casual using on a whim and when they had gotten it up was what they were at the party to enjoy. And we catered to their fantasies, going down on our backs, spreading and opening our legs to them wherever we landed, and arching our backs, rocking against their crotches, and moaning for them when they stuck it in us—telling them they were irresistible studs.

It was a game with them. Two or three of them might be standing or sitting around, having a conversation, and one of them could grab a guy and fuck him right there while the conversation just kept on going.

The three of us wore only short Scottish kilts, with nothing underneath, and Santa hats to mark the holiday. Our job was to float around, looking huggable, playing in their games or watching TV with them, as they desired. We got their drinks and the snacks. We let them explore our bodies with their hands and their lips and let them fondle our mounds and crevices where and when they wanted. And we knelt in front of them and took their cocks in our throats when they desired. And we lay down for them, flipped our kilts up, and took their shafts in our asses as and where they wanted. They knew we were dancers in a production of

The Nutcracker

, and it was a running joke for one of them to grab one of us by the nuts and squeeze for us to entertain the rest while our eyes watered, we begged for mercy, and they chanted, "Nutcracker, nutcracker."

They laid us where and when they wanted. There were six bedrooms on the second level, one for each of them, and more, smaller ones in the third, attic level for the ballet dancers—although none of us spent as much time in our own bedrooms as in one or more of the six rooms on the second floor—or on the floor, a table, or a sofa in the party rooms. Indeed, none of us spent much time at all without a cock in our throat or our ass channel.

We each knew what was entailed in coming to this party. We each were being paid well. Even though still eighteen, none of us were virgins to men. Each of us wanted to come out of this with a great tip.

One of the first-floor rooms was an ideal party room. It was large, with banks of French doors out onto the terrace on two sides, one overlooking the Great South Bay, with Fire Island beyond. The room had a long bar, a card table, a pool table, several long couches, ottomans, a large fireplace with a roaring fire, three large-screen TVs, providing coverage of a college football bowl game that could be seen from all angles but that was receiving little attention, and, in a bow to the season, a huge, lit, and decorated Christmas tree.

We were well into the Monday afternoon, with the men from One to Six gathered in one room for the first time, and making full use of both the bar and the three ballet dancers.

Win was belly down on an ottoman in front of the fireplace, kilt flipped up in back, and Two mounted on his ass, grasping his hips, and fucking him. Four was crouched in front of Win's face, cupping the guy's head in his hands, and feeding his cock down Win's throat.

Kyle was buried in one of the couches, a very muscular Five crouched between his thighs, with Kyle's ankles on Five's shoulders, and the tightening and releasing of Five's plump buttocks cheeks making obvious he was plowing Kyle's anal channel. At eighteen and dancers, all three of us were flexible, and the men delighted in putting us into athletic, taxing positions.

For my part, I was chest down on the surface of the bar at one end, grabbing the far edge of the top, with Three standing between my spread thighs, gripping my legs under my knees to raise and spread them, lifting my ass to his face, and eating my hole out. When I was well open, he lowered and hooked my knees on his hips, lowered my ass to the level of his crotch, worked his erection inside me, and fucked the shit out of me.

While four of them were feasting on the three dancers, One and Six sat at the other end of the bar, paying more attention to the football game than the rest of us were, watching the fucking, and talking—they were talking shop of their financial firm as far as I could catch.

The end of the bar was next to a glassed French door. When I turned my face in that direction, I saw that the black guy who had been stringing tree lights in front had now moved around to the back and had been clipping boxwood bushes. He wasn't doing that when I looked, though. He had stopped and turned to watch me getting fucked in the family room on the bar top. He was still holding clippers in one hand, but he was rubbing his crotch with the other. He was bundled up enough that I couldn't tell how well-built he was. But he was certainly a handsome, bald dude. Black and a bit thuggish. I shivered in arousal—more for him than for the forty-something man who was fucking me.

Although I'd been done a fair number of times since I'd turned eighteen, I'd yet to be fucked by a black dude. I'd heard they could be bulls in size and vigor. I wondered. I certainly wondered about this one watching me while Three fucked me.

This was turning out to be quite a taxing day for me. Two, who was now fucking Win and who was a huge-cocked man, had screwed me on the same ottoman soon after we had arrived that morning, and Five, almost a pleasure to be with as he had a great body, was fairly young, and took his time, had done me in the dining room after they had eaten lunch—the ballet dancers ate separately. He pulled me into his lap as I was passing him in the dining room, and had settled me on his shaft, facing him, and he raised and lowering me on his shaft while he worked my mouth, throat, and nipples with his mouth until he climaxed inside me. Five was a hunk. I didn't mind his attentions and I willingly gave him what he wanted.

One hadn't made use of any of us yet that I could see, although he declared that I'd be in his bed that night. It was obvious that none of the other numbers questioned whatever One said would be done. Six was so busy brownnosing One that I didn't know if he'd ever get around to screwing one of the ballet dancers. I sort of thought he might be bottoming for the others before the party was over.

* * * *

The numbered men went into some sort of meeting in the dining room, closing the doors, in the late afternoon, and Steve, the party coordinator, told us ballet dancers to be scarce, not to be anywhere close to the dining room in case anyone thought we were eavesdropping. That was quite all right with me. I felt the urge to be somewhere else altogether anyway. Pulling on a heavy coat over the flimsy kilt hanging from my waist, I left the house to explore the grounds.

A light snow had fallen since we'd arrived. It had cleared off the stone surfaces but covered the grass. I only had sneakers on my feet, so I stuck to the walks and moved toward the water of the bay between tall boxwood hedges. Half way down to the shore a stone path went off to the left, and, curious, hearing the sound of wood being chopped, I took the path.

It opened to a clearing with a small, picturesque cottage, looking like something from the English Cotswolds. It wasn't so much the cottage that brought me up short and made me gasp, though, as it was in seeing the black man, the groundskeeper I'd seen earlier, in the clearing in front of the cottage, chopping wood on a block. He was stripped to the waist even in the cold air of a New York December, steam coming off his magnificent, muscular chest from the exertion of the chopping. Now that I saw him without the bulky bundling, I could see that he had the physique of a god. Not only that: his chocolate-colored torso was covered with a swirl of bluish tattooing, covering his left side, outlining his beefy pectoral muscle on that side and swirling down his left arm to his wrist.

He looked up, having heard my gasp. We stood there for the longest moment, staring at each other. There was an animal magnetism about the man that held me in place. He had seen me being taken in sex. He knew I would take his cock.

I knew I should turn and bolt, back to the relative safety of the mansion, but I didn't. And when I didn't, he carefully put the ax down, slowly walked over to me like a slinking panther, grasped my wrist, and guided me into the cottage. Whimpering, I didn't resist him. I let him draw me into the building.

Once inside, he turned me, back to the wall, just inside the door. There was a small table beside where he pressed me to wall, where he recently had eaten, because a plate and utensils were still there as well as a dish with a thick slab of butter on it.

He said nothing. Neither did I. He knew what he was going to do. So did I. And he did it.

He stripped me of my coat, leaving me just in the kilt with nothing under it. He grasped my throat in a strong hand and held my head against the wall. His hand went under the kilt. He laced his fingers through my balls at the base of my shaft and squeezed and distended them, pulling whimpers and moans out of me.

"Relax," he growled, continuing to work my balls and cock, which engorged. I worked at responding as directed. He stroked me off, still holding my head to the wall with the grasp of his other hand on my throat. His eyes bored into mine. His face was only inches from mine.

"Come for me," he commanded, and, trembling, I did.

His hand went to the buckle of the kilt holding it to my waist. That undone, the material of the kilt slid to the floor and, other than my sneakers, I was naked.

Pulling back a good six feet, he feasted his eyes on my naked body.

"Very nice," he said. "Perfectly proportioned. Touch yourself."

I did as he directed, starting to come erect again.

"Very nice indeed. Fondle your balls. Now stroke yourself. Nice."

He unbuckled himself, drawing his leather belt out and letting his trousers fall to floor, kicking them aside, he came in closer.