A Year in Christmastown

"This is the first time that we have been allowed to look in upon this process," the narrator tells us breathlessly, clearly excited for this opportunity! The camera follows the elves into a building just now being introduced to the viewers. This building is tall with modern design. Eight gleaming vats front the building, hidden behind thick, clear glass walls. There is a small door set right in the center, and through this door the elves travel.

The scene changes to an elf-sized gym. The equipment is modern, the sort of which can be found in any modern-day gym. The six elf pairs talk, and one pair is clearly elected leader. The other five pairs take up standing positions in front of the normally-sized elves. Now, for the first time, the audio really kicks on.

Elf voices are higher-pitched but not squeaky. There is a bit of a rasp to their voice. But it is clear and intelligible to the viewership. "We call this the Trials," the male elected-leader elf explains. "In order to achieve entry into Brewhouse, you must undergo the most stringent of physical tests. You think those elves working in Santa's Workshop need endurance?" this elf says with a very sneering tone in his voice, not merely casting but hurling aspersions towards the workshop elves. "And make NO mistake," this elven voice booms, "that we will take ONLY the best male and best female. And you WILL be mated pairs," he adds dangerously. But as he continues, his voice softens. "But out of necessity, only within these walls. You do not have to be mated pairs outside." His voice hardens again. "Though it is highly unlikely that you will ever mingle with workshop elves for the rest of your lives," he says, now imbuing a deep warning tone into his words. "We," he said, gesturing to the ten other elves that stand in front of each of the five candidates, "are the tightest family that you will ever have here. Not once have I regretted my choice. And for the winners? Neither will you."

His opening speech concluded, the screen dissolves into a rather typical training montage. But it is not all about weights and physical fitness. First the three male elves are shown pumping their iron, sweating and explosively yelling with the exertion. Then the next scene has the three elves on their hands and knees, some form of suction device affixed to their erect penises. A wheel, gleaming metal, turns steadily. Attached to it is a long rod, and the camera follows the rod until it shows a phallic object entering and withdrawing the asshole of the elf. Their faces are strained, their natural green tint paling until they are almost white.

The two female elves are likewise then shown pushing their muscles to the point of failure. Then, like the males, they are shown in an all-fours position. Large suction devices are affixed to their small breasts, and behind them a machine relentlessly slides phallic devices into their bodies, alternating between her vagina and ass.

The scene changes to the elves sprinting hard around an indoor track. The next scene shows them again affixed to the sex machines. As this montage continues to switch between the exercise and the sexual trials, their body shapes begin to change. Two of the three elves begin to develop that longer body, the broad chest and the strong, thick legs. Their penises elongate. Both of the female elves begin to show the sprouting of her breast, and the expansion of her hips.

The close-ups of their faces show the exertion. It's obvious that both sorts of training are as draining and exhausting as the other. A scene is shown, one male and one female elf, ending their physical workouts, their faces long and drawn, towels dripping with green-tinged sweat draped around the backs of their necks. The second, the other male and other female elf, being helped off of the fucking devices. The male elf's penis is hugely erect with a thick, deeply-colored head and testicles swollen. But any attempt for anyone to touch it is met with a startled, defensive reaction. The female elf moves slowly as if every part of her crotch was in searing pain and her breasts so full of milk that the slightest suction would be akin to a bursting dam, sending warm milk spraying wildly everywhere. The trainees are shown later in bed, their bodies rising and falling in unison as they slumber deeply.

Here, the screen goes black for a moment so that advertisers can hock their wares.

When the screen returns, once more we viewers are treated to that expansive panorama of the land. But the crispness of the light is gone.

"Autumn," our narrator intones somberly. "And there is much work to be done."

Almost abruptly, the camera zooms in on the cottage. The female elf now holds an infant on her hip as she rises on the tips of her feet to kiss her husband's lips. He accepts her kiss, and jams his peaked hat over his head. A lunchpail swings as he walks, and he joins a steady stream of elves all headed to the workshop. There is little talk and nearly no laughter. It is a serious time, and the fear they all share is that they will fall behind. This is no small task, to cover this wide globe with presents for the good boys and girls of the world, and these elves take their jobs very seriously.

"The workshop elves stream into the shops," our narrator lets us know next. The interior of the workshop is shown, and every table and seat is filled, with elves bent over and working hard. "Some elves say that the warehouse duty is the most strenuous of all chores in Christmastown." Another enormous warehouse is shown, and a small army of elves moves impeccably wrapped boxes from the wrapping station to its storage location. These are the Western toys that have to be done first, the electronics and battery operated and dolls that move and cry. They are the last to be delivered, and must be the first to be stored. Close ups of the elves toting the wrapped toys are shown, and faces are already drawn from fatigue.

The long table of wrappers is filled by older elves. Whether male or female, these hands move with precision. Though not quite robots. "Some enjoy adding a little flair to the wrapping," the narrator states. An elderly elf ends his last taping with a flourish, before handing the box to the waiting packager. She has a smile on her face as she passes off this gift to the handler, and turns to retrieve the next. As her tongue pokes into the corner of her mouth, her face becomes a mask of concentration. The camera pans back, showing the long lines of older elves, their expressions all similar.

"The workshop elves remain quite busy, and will remain in their chairs for hours upon end," he relates as the camera returns to the row upon row of elves matching gifts to children.

One table has a red light begin to glow. The elf, who had been seeking a gift after reviewing a name, double-checks the work. His face reflects sudden sadness and disappointment, and he picks up a black pencil and slowly strikes the name from his list. Somewhere, a child will not be receiving the gift that he or she wanted so badly, but failed to behave in a manner required by the parents. The elf takes a moment and sips at a glass of water, then sighs heavily. Work must continue, and the next name and item is consulted, and the work continues.

"And Mrs. Claus remains feverishly busy in her kitchen," we are told next. As the shot changes to the still-gleaming kitchen, it's apparent that Mrs. Claus has been sampling her sweet concoctions. Her midsection is far more rounded, her breasts fuller and thicker, and her cheeks puffy. And yet, we watch her directing traffic with ease, and the pace here in the kitchen is no less than that of the workshop elves.

A timer goes off, and she points at an oven and calls a name. An elf scurries over, protective mitts over her hands. She yanks on the over, and withdraws not a sweet, but a perfectly golden turkey. As the elf sets the turkey down, Mrs. Claus approaches and we see her cast a critical eye upon the bird. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Her smile says it all - done, and perfectly well.

"Where's Poppa?" she asks an elf.

"Maintenance," the elf reports back.

"Ach!" she cries out. "You, Nathandriel, fetch him, would you?"

The elf seems brightened by the opportunity to escape the mayhem of the kitchen. "Right away, mum!" she replies, already trotting towards the door.

As the camera cuts to a dining room, Santa himself lumbers into the room. Gone is the muscular, gaunt man that worked the reindeer back into shape over the summer. Neither, however, has he reached his Christmas Day plumpness. But like Mrs. Claus, his belly has expanded and overall his body has become fleshier.

Mrs. Claus studies his form critically. "You're a week behind, dear," she tells her, clucking her tongue in disapproval. "Make sure you have seconds!" she smiles at him. He nods, though his attack on the juicy meat just carved off of the bird - the steam still wafting into the air - is rather voracious. The camera closes in on Santa's jaws chewing steadily and with force. He throws a glance at the camera, and dons a crafty look. Another steaming chunk of meat is lifted, impaled by his fork, and he winks at the camera before popping the morsel into his mouth.

"Indeed, Mr. Claus will be eating often as he fattens up for the big day." Our narrator once more utters a soft chuckle, perhaps for his own amusement. "He doesn't seem to mind," our narrator opines, as the camera pulls back from the still-chomping Mr. Claus.

"With all of the able-bodied elves hard at work, it's up to the first and second year mothers to take over the educational and rearing duties. This work," the narrator says seriously, "is among the most difficult yet revered in all of Christmastown."

The camera moves to a scene of pure, utter chaos, the sort that only a bunch of rambunctious four year olds running about at full tilt and volume can create. Two mothers, one with a slimmer body, clearly a year out from her birth, stand at one end of the room offering smiles and indulgent pats to jostle the elfin children back into play. The other mother retains a more round shape, especially at the breast, and she looks tired and haggard. A spot of wetness appears at her breast, but she seems not to notice; perhaps the toddler pulling frantically at her leg while giggling madly has been sufficient a distraction.

Our young mother, looked upon so lovingly earlier, has drawn a lighter duty. She sits on a rocking chair, her own babe nursing contentedly. As she rocks, little metal bars transfer energy from her rocker to the two bassinets on either side of her chair. Her little one gurgles and fusses; she draws him from her breast and puts his belly against her shoulder. The infant's face looks up in wonder at the camera as the mother's hand slowly glides up and down his back, occasionally patting his chubby little behind with her hand. Before long the elfin infant erupts into a loud, satisfying-sounding belch. The other mothers in the room look over with indulgent expressions. And nearly instantly, the elfin infant's eyes droop and he nods off to sleep. The mother reaches up and strokes the pointy ears lovingly, hovering around the brilliantly-red tips.

The mother stands as another nursing mother steps in. Her child is awake and requires feeding. Our first mother nestles her infant into his crib and steps away, allowing the second to take up the rocking chair. Our first mother returns to the just-emptied chair, sits and takes up the rocking. The room is dim and silent and soft, and the mothers trade knowing looks as their bodies replenish their life-giving milk.

"But it's not just the smallest ones who require adult supervision," the narrator states as the camera moves to inside a classroom. "These youngsters are a year away from graduation, and entry into elfin adulthood." The shot of twelve elves shows them nearly to be physically mature. But the tips of their ears are fading from the brilliant reds of youth to the full shade of their subtle green of adulthood. "Scientists have never been permitted to study these elfin creatures in any great detail. They surmise that the coloration of the ears is a signal for maturity, at least physical maturity," he adds. The screen changes to four youthful elves, none with any telltale redness at the tips of their ears. They are engaged in a snowball fight, laughing and chortling as one large ball is thrown with precision, and smacks another elf right in the forehead, sending a great spray of snow in all directions. The struck elf is staggered, but recovers; his grin is sly as he sends his own well-aimed shot at the now-running elf.

"Boys, it seems, will always simply be boys."

The scene changes to once more show the narrator's face. Rather than the slightly reddened visage seen earlier in the show, now his face seems more sober and direct. "In the brewhouse, the tests of strength and endurance are nearing the end." A shot is given of a tired-looking elf leaving the brewhouse; he is flanked by his two handlers. They exchange tight hugs but it's obvious from the handlers faces that they have seen this before. They turn and enter the brewhouse while the camera lingers on the elf and his slow trudge back to the ordinary workforce.

Inside, the two remaining male and two remaining female elves are back at the gym. Their bodies have been reformed. But rather than dressed in workout gear, they are dressed warmly, and each have empty backs on their backs. The leader, also wearing an empty pack, turns and with a hearty wave, leads off. "We are not permitted to follow these intrepid elves, for there are some secrets that even we are not privy to know." As the line of hiking elves fades into the distant darkness, the shot returns to the narrator. "We are told that they must endure this long hike and spend arduous days and nights picking the proper plants their secret recipe requires. The trip will push them to the very limits of their strength," he reports. "All elves have returned from this trek, but many leave the program within a day of their return."

The return trip is shown; the male elves have all grown thick, scruffy beards - even the two candidates. But the six experienced elves walk smartly - tiredly, but smartly. Their packs are stuffed full and are so high that it seems like a good gust of wind would topple the elf. By comparison, the two male candidate elves look hollow-eyed, and utterly devoid of strength. This, despite a pack that is half the size of the full members of the Brewhouse.

"We are told that, over the years, the Brewhouse has never actually had to make a choice," he relates. "And so," he says in conclusion, his fingers tenting together in front of his face as he dissolves into a scene of a male and female elf embraced by their handlers, "the same is true this year. These two have chosen to leave the program," he says with a trace of sadness. The camera follows them, but from behind and at some height.

The scene dissolves once again, back to the inside of the Brewhouse. The two candidates are back in the gym, both looking sweaty but healthy, while the twelve full members stand in a semi-circle. A bell's clear ring is heard, three chimes. The twelve smarten up their postures, not quite the ramrod straight backs that a soldier might display, but reminiscent as well.

"The boss is none other than Mrs. Claus," he states, but the Mrs. Claus that walks into this room is a very different woman than she who tends to the kitchen. In the kitchen, she had worn long pants and a white top and her red coat, all protected by an apron emblazoned with a lit-up Christmas tree. This Mrs. Claus walks into the room wearing bright red lingerie, the top cut small and tight, lifting the woman's breasts up and causing the excess flesh to spill out atop the cups. The wobble in her flesh draws the eyes of all twelve elves. Her garter belt and skimpy panties and sheer red stockings complete the ensemble. Though older and carrying more weight than the "typical" idea of sensuality demands, Mrs. Claus exudes a certain sexual power. At least she does to the Elves.

"The special ingredient," she says. A burlap bag slung over her shoulder is opened, and she peers inside. She withdraws a small bottle filled with a clear liquid, a dropper lid at the top.

"You have the final recipe from last year?" she asks, her voice a breathy whisper.

"Yes, mum," the Brewmaster relates in confidence. A sudden shot from the side shows that all six male elves are sporting impressive tents in their pants. One, the closest to the camera, shows a sudden jump in the tent.

Mrs. Claus favors the one with the jumpy erection with a fawning smile, and this elf manages to straight up and make himself seem even taller and more muscular. She gives him a little wink, and then her eyes sweep over the female elves. They, too, are enamored of Mrs. Claus. The only physical changes that confirm this come from the bras of the female elves; their nipples are stiff and poking through the front of the fabric, and where all six were heavy-breasted to begin, now their breasts spill over the cups as if they were suddenly swollen.

"Add the ingredient," she tells the Brewmaster. He walks over to a small pot and looks inside, then back at the bottle. He picks it up and swirls it, joining Mrs. Claus in peering at the liquid. He gives her a questioning look.

"Yes," she tells the Brewmaster. He squeezes the bulb and carefully pulls a precise amount of this mysterious liquid into the dropper. He brings the dropper over to the pot, and checks the dosage one more time as compared to the volume of the brew in the pot. He shoots a grin at Mrs. Claus, who manages to nod assent while continuing to stare into the pot, her face showing intense interest. The Brewmaster squeezes the bulb and sends the liquid into the pot. He and Mrs. Claus both then step back from the pot rapidly.

At first, the viewers might think "well, that was underwhelming" as nothing happened. But perhaps fifteen seconds later there comes the sound of a liquid boiling. A stream of vapor begins to rise over the rim of the pot, wafting into the air. A bit of a roar is heard, and then there is a brief for intense sizzle, reminiscent of a steak dropped onto a searing iron skillet. The hubbub dies as quickly as it rose, and then the Brewmaster and Mrs. Claus both step forward to visually inspect the liquid.

"Looks dark," the Brewmaster opines.

"It does." Mrs. Claus sighs. "Discard. We'll try again tomorrow." Two male elves step forward and lift the obviously heavy pot from its position. They bring the pot over to a vat and dump the contents inside. There is nothing further to see at the moment.

Mrs. Claus exits the room, the camera zoomed in on her satin panty clad ass. The viewer might be surprised at its firm look. "We have been told that this ritual, and Mrs. Claus's lingerie, are specific elements to the recipe," he lets us know. As the camera returns to his face, it breaks into a sunny smile. "The brewing is an art, and reliable sources have told us that after the fiasco seven hundred years ago, Mr. Claus has been banished from the Brewhouse forever." He chuckles. "We are told that he never protests this decision, even to this day!"

A brief shot shows the outside, looking colder. "The first snow of late Autumn," our narrator informs us. "All through Christmastown, this blanket of snow has the effect of dulling these elves nocturnal desires." The lump that is now clearly discernible as Mr. and Mrs. Claus rise and fall slowly, a snore heard on the audio. The scene cuts to the couple - now family - who have been shown multiple times throughout the episode. Their bed also shows two lumps rising and falling steadily. The crib is near the bed, on the mother's side.