“They’re just renting it for the week. It doesn’t belong to any of the men who will be at the party, Aaron.”

I had remarked on how lush the mansion was that Serge was bringing Finn, Paul, and me to as boy candy for a private Christmas multiday party in Bay Shore 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.

Did he know what sort of party I and the other boys were coming to?

I didn’t feel guilty nor was I embarrassed about coming to this party and letting men cover me. I was only fourteen—so were Finn and Paul—but we were all 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.

Serge Karlov, 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 Bay Shore in a rental car. Finn, a blond from Cleveland; Paul, 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.

“There are six men at the party,” Serge said as we approached the house. “You are to give them whatever they want. There’s a cook and a coordinator, but you boys will be the waiters and servers to attend to the men’s needs and desires. 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—and open your legs to them on demand.”

“You’ll be there too, of course,” Finn said.

“No. I have to go back to the production,” Karlov 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.

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 Frank, 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 came 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 fourteen-year-old ballet dancer boys would be used as well.

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.

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 fourteen-year-old boy dancers the week before Christmas.

The six men we partied with in the Bay Shore 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 with boys. 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. Some revealed they were married and some had children. None of them were embarrassed in mentioning this in the context we were in. They didn’t say that to Paul, Finn, or me, of course, just to each other in conversation we heard.

We three boys weren’t people to them. We were just Christmas season toys for them to enjoy.

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 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 fourteen-year-old ballet dancing boys who wondered around, serving and servicing them. When they had the notion, they just grabbed one of us and put us under them. This casual using on 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 back, 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.

The three of us wore only short Scottish kilts, with nothing underneath, and Santa hats to mark the holiday. Our job was to wander 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 boys—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 fourteen, none of us were virgins to men.

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.

Paul 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 Paul’s face, cupping the boy’s head in his hands, and feeding his cock down Paul’s throat.

Finn was buried in one of the couches, a very muscular Five crouched between his thighs, with Finn’s ankles on Five’s shoulders, and the tightening and releasing of Five’s plump buttocks cheeks making obvious he was plowing Finn’s anal channel. At fourteen 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 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 fare number of times since I’d turned fourteen, 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 Paul 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 raised and lowering me on his shaft while he worked my mouth, throat, and nipples with his mouth until he climaxed inside me.

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 business brownnosing One that I didn’t know if he’d ever get around to screwing one of the ballet dancers.

The numbered men went into some sort of meeting in the dining room, closing the doors, in the late afternoon, and Frank, the party coordinator, told us ballet dancers to be scarce, not to be anywhere close to the dining room to make anyone think we were eavesdropping. That was quite all right with me. I felt the urge to be somewhere else altogether anyway, and, pulling on a heavy coat, 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, than 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 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.