Vocational Training

"What have we got, Roscoe?"

"Mostly nice. Five million, six hun-"

"Cut to the chase, elf!"

"Yes, Sir, Santa, er, Sir. We've got six in Brazil."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"How convenient."

"Yes, Sir. Two prostitutes, a secretary, a dental hygienist, and two divorcees."

"Okay, nobody will miss the whores or the divorced girls. Oh, wait, kids?"

"No, Santa."

"Good. What about the other two?"

"Secretary is a temp. No one will miss her. As for the dentist, well, let's just say he's not a real dentist. People get their teeth cleaned, but it's just a cover. They're there for other, er, medicinal reasons. If you catch my drift."

Santa stood. He was a dwarf, not an elf. Yet he towered over the little guy just as a human would tower over him.

"Get on it."

"Er, Sir, don't you want to see the list?"

"Roscoe, you are head elf. You fuck up and your ass is grass. So don't fuck up, just make it happen. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir, Santa, Sir. But there's something I-"

"Roscoe, damnit, go!"

***

"Okay let's get saddled up!"

"Uh, Sir, they don't wear saddles."

"Oh, bite me, Kevin."

Roscoe surveyed the scene. The elves led the reindeer out of their stalls, lined them up, fastened the harnesses.

"Whoa! Kev, my man, not Vixen! Shit! You put a girl in there and the whole thing goes to puppy doo. Yeah, the big guy can control her, but she's just sucking up to him. You know, equal rights for girl deer and all that bullshit. And the other deer just go into strut mode, all the blood leaves their brains and ends up in their dicks. It's like she's the only bitch we got."

"Uh, Sir, she IS the only, er, female reindeer we have."

"Kevin, you're starting to piss me off."

"Sorry, Sir. Uh, how about Baxter?"

"Yeah, what the fuck." he waved his hand. "Whatever."

Finally the reindeer were assembled. Roscoe climbed aboard the sleigh, shook the reins.

"Come on, assholes. Let's go!"

He snickered and nudged Kevin.

"Know why I call them assholes?"

"Uh, er, no, Sir. Why?"

"The fuck! Look! What the hell do you see? Huh? Eight assholes. Shit."

The trip to Brazil took an instant, a bit less, actually - .638 of an instant to be precise.

"Hang a left at the church, down two blocks and up one, yellow house."

Roscoe steered the reindeer toward the yellow house, landed on the lawn. Yeah, the big guy comes down the chimney, but not elves. He walked up to the door and knocked.

"¿Si?"

"Er, Conchita Vasques?"

"Si."

The elves were on her in a thrice, or four seconds, give or take. They may be small little buggers, but they're fast and strong. Soon they had her hogtied and gagged. Two elves held open the big, red sack while Roscoe and Kevin rolled her in.

"One down, five to go. Where next?"

"South, two miles, hang a right at the park."

"Got it. Let's go assholes!"

***

Roscoe landed the sleigh and steered for the manufacturing complex. He and Kevin and a third elf hefted the sack with the six helpless, bound women.

"Bring it around back, get Stu and what's his name to put the deer away, then come back. We'll save you some. Promise."

They hefted the bag and upended it in the warm room. The six women spilled out, squealing, squirming, flopping around like fish on a deck. They had made the trip at night. Three of the women were in different nightgowns, the whores were dressed like, well, whores, one was naked. Santa stepped over.

"Hm. Not bad. Not bad. Not great, but not bad."

Roscoe resisted the urge to tell Santa to go fuck himself. This was prime beaver. Grade A. Number 1. He had spent days working the list. One was even a virgin. But he held his tongue. Elves lived forever ... unless they ticked Santa off. That's what happened to Ben. One day he's in your face, the next, well, no more Ben.

The human population was growing faster than the elves by a factor of like 10 to 1 and every once in a while an elf would, er, go awol. Which was why they went on these yearly forays. The humans weren't as long-lived, but they were productive and entertaining. Very entertaining.

"Strip 'em. Let's see what we've got."

"She's a virgin."

"Who?"

"The short blonde."

"Really? Why didn't you tell me?"

I tried, but you blew me off, asshole.

"Dunno. Just thought it would be a nice surprise I guess."

"Okay. I'll give this one my personal attention."

He grabbed the girl, hoisted her to her feet as easily as you or I would lift a doll. Santa may be a right jolly old elf (er, dwarf) but he's fucking strong. He carried the squirming girl out of the factory and into his private office.

"Hey! Hey, Kev, what the-"

"Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, Kevin, my man, you're my go-to guy, but I get first pick. Okay? Tell you what - you pick the girl, I pick the hole. You get a fifty-fifty chance. Is that fair or what?'

"Redhead."

"Redhead? Yeah, how did I fucking guess that. Okay, the redhead. I choose ass."

Kevin's eyes lit up. It wasn't for nothing Roscoe was head elf. Yeah, he'd liked to have had the first shot at her pussy, but without the other elves' support, well, they just might be replacing him like they did Ben. though, truth be told, Ben managed to piss off the elves AND Santa. Adios amigo. And, truth be told again, managing was a whole lot more fun than doing. And besides, there were five women and only four elves. He'd let the others have first choice. That would still leave one extra just for him.

***

They say that any science advanced enough appears to be magic. That goes for elves. The elves controlled the science, Santa controlled the elves.

"How's it going?"

"Last one getting plugged in now, Santa. Er, by the way, how was she?'

"The virgin? Eh, metza metz. Virgins. You know. They're overrated."

Yeah. wouldn't mind getting my dick into an overrated virgin.

"Yeah, that's what I've heard."

Santa clasped his hands behind his back as he walked as he did when he was surveying his domain. His domain being several acres of manufacturing complex staffed by a thousand naked women.

"Number one is over there, number two opposite, number three-"

"Roscoe, tmi, okay?"

"Sorry."

"Is that a new gag? The yellow one?"

"Yeah. It's still your basic ball gag/panel gag combo, but we redesigned the ball to have a groove for their teeth and added an antibacterial compound. We don't have a big dental problem, but it can't hurt."

"Mm."

"And we changed the formulas, both feeding and enema, partly for the same reason, just trying to maintain their health. But, like I said, it's not like we have a problem."

"You elves. Always tinkering."

"Hey, we're elves, we tinker, it's what we do."

Just then an elf walked by. Behind him was one of the women. She walked in an awkward, jerky, robotic fashion. The elf held something that resembled a game controller that was connected to the woman by a thin cord that was plugged into the back of her neck. Between her legs dangled two plastic tubes, one thick, one thin. She wore one of the new yellow gags.

Santa and Roscoe watched as the elf led her to an empty station. He unplugged the cord and plugged it into the machine. He attached the tubes to connections on the floor. He pressed a button.

The woman jerked to life, looking something like a marionette, arms and legs flying this way and that in a kind of macabre dance. After several minutes the movements stopped. The elf turned and gave a thumbs up. Roscoe nodded and the elf pushed another button and the woman reached for a toy part, couldn't quite grasp it. The elf made adjustments on a small keyboard.

"How are the others fitting in?"

"We got the neck jacks in and we're training them. I know it doesn't look like it, but she'll be up to speed in under a month."

"A month? Really?"

"Yeah, we've been tweaking the feedback loop. Three of the last batch were good to go in a bit over three weeks.

"Well well, Roscoe, I'm impressed. Very good."

"Thanks, Santa. Anyway, we control their movements, but the muscles still need to be trained. Kind of like vocational training. You can learn to do something pretty quickly, most skills are pretty basic, pretty repetitive, but it takes hundreds of repetitions before it becomes ingrained, before the muscles develop a memory. Then it pretty much becomes automatic."

"Mm. We've come a long way from the whips and cattle prod days, hey? We've had this new system going on ten years now."

"Yeah, but we still don't have it down pat yet. Every one of them is different, so we have to keep messing around with the programming and formulas and shit."

"Mm. How are the others?"

"Old. Well, not all that old, but being plugged in 24/7, even with rest breaks and feeding, it takes a toll. Used to be we'd be lucky to get 10, 15 years, but that one has been here, I think, 30 years."

"Really?"

"Mm. But we got her when she was, what, 18, 20, something like that. And she's had the benefit of the new, er, system. We'll take her off-line in a few weeks. Once the new one is up to speed we can just swap 'em out. We've made some changes in rehab so she'll be able to feed herself, talk, piss, shit, you know. After 30 years she's pretty much forgotten. Then we'll drop her off by a hospital. She can tell her story, you know, kidnapped into slave labor at the North Pole, raped by elves, yadda yadda yadda. No one will listen."

"So we'll keep six and let, what, four go?"

"Three or four. We have to see what the demand is, but adding a couple each trip seems about right. It's enough to keep up without really taxing our system. Not like that one year where we got blindsided and had to grab, like, fifteen in one shot."

"Mm. So, Roscoe, this muscle memory thing, it'll become automatic, you say."

"Yeah, but like I said, but it takes hundreds of repetitions."

Santa chuckled.

"Unplug the little blonde and bring her to me. I think she could use a bit more, er, vocational training."

 

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12.01.13