Nutcracker Ballet

by Allen Baker

My dance troupe is always the best. Ask any critic who knows of our elite group. They'll tell you. It isn't just my conceit, it's the truth. But there are damn good reasons for it: I work like hell, and there's no other dance group in the world who performs our repertoire.

Of course, recruitment is the starting point. You've got to find talent in the early stages and court it. Dancers, especially male dancers are not always easy to convince. They don't always recognize their potential. If they don't realize they have natural ability, they don't come knocking at my door to apply. So I spend hours and hours scouting out likely prospects and wooing them to audition for the troupe. But if I can just get them to once visit our studio and watch a workout session, I have them hooked.

I meet a new recruit in the lobby and stand to chat with him, getting him to relax. I usually wear black tights without a shirt. And nothing underneath. I'm well-endowed and hang obscenely visible in tight latex. I figure the nearly naked look eases them into the session a bit. The dancers always practice nude, and it can be a shock to a visitor. At first I warned them ahead of time, but too many great prospects just didn't show. Guess it scared them off. So we chat in the lobby, and I introduce some of the dancers as they drift in off the street and head to the lockers. When I figure most of the guys have arrived and have had time to doff their duds, I lead the new guy up the stairs and into the studio. I've learned it works best to just assume an attitude of "this is how it's done" and let the guy adjust on his own. If I try to talk it through, he usually will feel compelled to protest before he's had time to come to terms with it. So I just point him to a chair at the side and start the practice.

All of our music is seductively rhythmic. Sensuous, repeated low notes establish the beat. Erotic cadences from exotic places dominate the dancers. They dance alone. They flow and writhe with the sounds. They meld with the music and join it. Romance it. Marry it. It coerces them, seduces them, stimulates them. They become aroused, and their manhood elongate and engorge. Then they begin to respond to each other's movements, in ever-changing pairings and groupings. The dances turn erotic, then pornographic.

Throughout, I will have been keeping a careful eye on my visitor, watching for panic or positive response. If a wild look of terror spreads across the boy's face and his eyes search for escape, I know I've chosen incorrectly. But I've become a good judge over the years, and that's rarely the case. Usually, a hand will subconsciously drape over the crotch in an unrealized attempt to cover his growing response. But soon, the hand begins to add to the visual stimulation. It begins to rub, then knead the fabric and its swelling contents. Soon the rub turns to grope. That's when I know it's time for my next move.

I ease into the chair beside him and begin my litany. "I bet your body is every bit as nice as these. As limber as these. I bet your muscles would shimmer with sweat, like John there or Cal. I can just see you sway with this music, join with it, flow. You'd be good out there, wouldn't you. Oh, just look at that. That just makes my mouth water. Makes me want to strip down and join in. It's hypnotic, isn't it. You could do this, you know. Maybe not right now, but you could learn. I can teach you to be lithe like Matt over there, and as accomplished as James. Oh, damn, isn't that heaven itself. Shit, it's torturous to just sit here and watch. Sit here in envy and desire. What you think? Is this what you're meant to do? Is this your future? Is this what you want in your life? I can make it happen for you. I can train you? I can mold your body, fine tune it, sculpt it into one these flowing Greek statues. One of these perfect wet-dream images. What do you say? You ready to join us? Are you ready?"

My cadence is timed to the musical beat. My voice low and melodic. I slowly lower my volume and alter the distance between us until I am a rasping whisper a scant inch from his ear. I become his inner voice. He begins to feel my speech inside his head as I ply my invocation to his mind. His mind which responds with physical reactions in another part of his anatomy. When it's obvious that he's no longer attempting to be circumspect at massaging his crotch. When his movements are blatant masturbation through his pants, I clandestinely signal to the nearest pair of dancers to join us.

They do so, gradually. Easing near, then rubbing against his foot or leg. Then turn to caress his clothing and hair and face. Then they ease him away from his chair and insinuate him into the larger gathering who surround him. They center him into the dance, and now everyone rubs, sways, gyrates against his clothed body. But they all know not to touch his crotch or begin to disrobe him. This has to be his choice. He must commit to joining. But what chance does he have against his own raging hormones, surrounded by a virtual orgy of naked youth? His hand goes to his buttons, and his shirt rides away on a sea of flesh. Then shoes, socks, and jeans follow. Now he's down to the final commitment, the jockeys. That patch of white shows between the mass of flowing limbs, gleaming torsos, bobbing gonads. Then they, too, disappear to one side, and he is ours.

* * * * *

Then come the long months and years of formal training. Proper, classical training. Hours of learning about one's body and muscles and how they work. Grueling weeks of torment and aching limbs and throbbing feet. The time passes quickly but seems endless. Then one day, he looks in the mirror and knows that my seductive whisperings were not lies. They were promises that have been fulfilled. He is a dancer. My dancer. A worthy member of our troupe.

It's at that time that he is ready to participate in his first recital. Our recitals are like no others. They are never publicized. Tickets are not available through a box office or ticket service. The theater is not open to the public. Our performances are sponsored by a select group of wealthy men. Rich men whose homes are palatial enough to house their own theaters large enough to accommodate our dance troupe and our orchestra. The orchestra usually numbers about twenty men. Men only. The invitation list is exclusive, the attendance fee astronomical. The audience will number thirty or forty. Again, men only. Men dressed in formal attire for an evening at the ballet. Men who appreciate the beauty of the male body in motion. Men who appreciate pain.

Our provocative dance program is always the same. It starts with scantily clad dancers who entice and tease, but never touch themselves or others. The next set of dances evolves from subtle self-adjustments to blatant groping of others. Then comes the progression to total nudity. The dancers seductively strip each other, arouse each other. Then they slip among the audience and relieve them of bow ties and cummerbunds and adorn their fellow dancers with these new items that accentuate the lack of other clothing. Thus, they encourage the audience to participate. And so, as the tempos flare and the rhythms pound and the dancers indulge in blatantly more sexual activities, the audience barriers dissolve. All clothing is suddenly optional, and dancers and audience loose distinction. The lines of dance and sex orgy blur and disappear. Many orgasms occur. Much tension is released. But the ultimate climax is saved for the traditional ending piece: The Nutcracker.

The newest member of the troupe has not yet been exposed to this tradition. Therefore, he is told to stand by and observe. The honor of playing the Prince goes to the oldest member of the troupe. This will be his last appearance with our group. This is his swan song. He trembles with anticipation and dread. He has denied himself all evening, preserving his single, blasting orgasm for this long awaited dance. Just before his entrance, I give him an encouraging hug and band his balls with an elastricator. He's never felt this pleasure/pain before. He must concentrate very hard to keep from being distracted from the dance. But he is determined to be the star of the show, and he has danced through pain before. He will shine in this his hour.

Near the end of the number, the King of the Rats and his minions overpower the Prince and hold him spread eagled over one of the outsized packages. The dancers strip him of his princely garb. The Rat King grabs the three-foot-tall Nutcracker and offers it to the host of the event. He rises from his place in the audience and approaches the Prince who begins to struggle in true fear. But his friends hold him fast to save him from the humiliation of running away and he never loses his pounding erection. The host places the Prince's scrotum into the wooden statue's jaw and slams down on the handle behind its back. The Prince's body spasms, and his climaxing dick shoots his mancream all over his chest and face. His scream mingles with the music, punctuates it. The host offers the Nutcracker to a delighted friend who has his own chance to manipulate the mechanism against the Prince's helpless testicles. Then another member of the audience, and another. By the time they've all taken their turn, the Prince is hoarse and delirious and babbling. He no longer has any nuts left to crack. There's nothing but a bloody, mangled scrotum full of mush. And as the orchestra's final notes fade away, there's not a dry crotch in the theater.

And so, the newest dance recruit learns the ultimate fate of all our dancers, including himself. The Prince retires from our group with the attendance fees for the evening, usually well in excess of a million dollars. If he invests wisely, he could retire. Most go on to audition to other dance troupes. But if so, they usually refuse to dance The Nutcracker ever again.