"Santa's Elves Will Do WHAT?"

"Santa's Elves Will Do WHAT?" She Demanded

It's too bad none of the guys were there to see Lana's face. When she looked up from the "report"—well, the sorry little list of "donations"—those green eyes flashed like a stalking tiger's. She tossed her shining chestnut hair as though to shake off the whole weary world.

"You're telling me that 465 bucks is the TOTAL that this whole town of 6,500 people and 234 businesses gave to our Christmas Fund for Hospitalized and Institutionalized Children"?

None of the five of us at the table, all seniors at Iron Mountain Regional High School, dared meet her eyes. I pretended to study the report and said, "I thought sure we would get more, when Henry Anderson at the hardware store started us with 200 bucks."

"Ellen," said Lana, her voice saintly with patience. "He gave that because he has inappropriate fantasies about you. You have the biggest boobs in the class and the blondest hair."

"WHAT?" I demanded.

"All right, sorry," said Lana, not sounding sorry, "but I think it's true."

Geraldine Fitzgerald, the intellectual of our group—her father was an English teacher--said, earnestly: "That gives me an idea, Lana."

"What?" asked Lana, and the word fell with the sound of a snowball hitting a wall.

"Well, what if we produce a nude calendar and sell it?" Gerry's pixie face, with short-cut black hair, bangs, and an adorable delicacy, looked proudly defiant. "Yes," she said. "If they don't want to give, then we sacrifice ourselves...like...like Vestal Virgins... We are all 18 years old, right? Let's act like it?"

"Yeah," I said, "but no." And I saw Georgia and Marcia nod their heads. Hey, the five of us at the table, with a few other sexy classmates, could have created the Cum Calendar of Iron Mountain--but you don't DO that in high school.

Lana was nodding her head, Lana, the untouchable Swedish princess, with the face, skin, dimples, hair, and...well, tits--beyond everyone's wildest fantasy. Lana was slowly nodding assent, her face down, examining the pathetic report of giving.

She said, "No, I don't think so, not a calendar. It's a great idea, Gerry, but we don't have time. Less than a month. We want the money for the kids THIS Christmas, right?"

"Oh, yeah," conceded Gerry, "we couldn't..."

Lana interrupted, "But we could sort of...auction off our bods...to raise more money." She lifted her face and looked at us, one by one. "We're all pretty girls," she said. "I've seen you all in the shower at gym." She was nodding to herself. "I think we have a product."

No one could have gotten away with this but Lana Erickson, the virgin of Iron Mountain, untouchable. If SHE were willing...

"What, then?" asked Georgia, our import from Charlston, South Carolina. She rose from her chair to stretch. The guys called it her "hard-on move" but not to her face. Georgia asked, "What do you have in mind, beautiful?" And she added, "I'm for sale. Just a piece of ass on the shelf."

"It isn't like that," said Lana severely.

"Then what, hon?" Georgia drawled.

"Santa's elves," announced Lana, as though revealing a long-hidden secret. "Santa's elves in your own home giving you and your guests their presents from under your tree, serving the eggnog, keeping the fire burning merrily..."

"Go down on your guests," said the always dirty-mouthed Marcia.

"No," said Lana, dismissing it. "No one is going to rape you, baby. If you turn out to WANT to give some, that's fine. Just turn the tips over to the Children's fund. ALL the tips."

"Tips for tits," said Gerry. "Good."

"You have any?" asked Georgia, and it was supposed to be joke, but, as my grandmother said, "It isn't a joke unless everyone is laughing."

Gerry said, primly, "Many guys actually prefer my tits to those things that swing and bang with nipples as big as chocolate chip cookies."

"All right, everyone, shut up," said Lana. "First, we need costumes. Second, we need to make an announcement that reaches mostly men. Third, we need to know what to charge." She added, looking up at us: "Assuming there are no shrinking violets, here? Assuming we are all woman enough?"

"Talk, talk, talk, talk...forever," drawled Georgia.

"Oh?" asked Lana quietly, getting to her feet, her eyes hurling darts. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse. Her gaze never wavered from Georgia, whose own gaze found the floor irresistibly fascinating, so that, at the end, Lana had to announce, "Ready or not, Georgia..."

She stood stark naked. A big girl, with the rosy complexion of the Swedish maiden, a waist still narrow, and flaring hips with the light brown pussy right at the center. Legs, face, generous boobs with ample nipples, the whole works—Lana had them.

"Want to join me, Georgia?"

"No, please," Georgia muttered. "I'm with you all the way. But not now, okay?"

"Sure," said Lana, and calmly took her seat. Her breasts were big enough to rest on the table...

"Okay, Gerry is in charge of costumes. Skimpy panties--not a real thong-=and a skimpy push-up bra, okay? All the guys want tits most, right? And then little hats. But listen, we have string ties on top and bottom, and the two ends of the strings hang way down, right? We're sending the message: pay and tug the strings, right?"

"Are we FUCKING for the money?" asked Marcia.

"Nope, that's entirely our choice, Marcia. But if you get a tip, it goes to the kids, right?"

She waited a moment for protests. "Okay, then. I will send out the ad over the internet to specific groups. No general advertising. The ad will warn that if this becomes public, it may have to be called off."

"Yeah? Who's going to go for this?" I asked.

"Well, we've got the seven fraternities of Mountain View College, right?"

"Oh, shit," I said, ashamed at how slow I was. I was nodding, now. "Yeah, jeez, they'll do it..."

"Men's clubs like the Lions," Lana was saying. "Businesses having Christmas parties for mostly male employees. But I think mostly individual guys with some real dough, don't you? You KNOW Iron Mountain has them. Nice, discreet Christmas Eve with the guys--at home and us scantily clad serving the drinks..."

Georgia was nodding her head, sagely, brown eyes thoughtful. "We're going to need more gals."

"I think you're right," said Lana judiciously. "Georgia, you do some discreet recruiting, all right?" She paused and then, with a smile, asked: "What ARE your boobies like, Georgia?"

There was a very long silence, but Georgia McIlany was a sport. She said, "Okay, in the spirit of the enterprise," and already had tossed aside her sweater. Behind her back, she was undoing her bra. And then it dropped. Georgia smiled and looked around at us.

Lana breathed, reverently, "Old Saint Nick, Georgia. Those are stunning."

"Yours too, baby," said Georgia generously. "Let's get back to business. I'm getting excited as hell."

"I think we're going to need some guys," said Lana.

"GUYS?" asked Marcia. "For heaven's sake..."

"Marcia," said Lana calmly. "There has been a revolution. Have you heard of it? It's called "feminism." And women want sex, openly, now. Do you know how many girls go to male strip shows?"

Marcia's pretty face was wrinkled into a frown. "Yeah, I guess, right. My girlfriend had a male stripper at her birthday."

"We need to audition them, though," said Lana.

"You mean, handsome?" I asked.

Lana shrugged her shoulders. "Yeah, but a lot of weight in their pants, too. Girls like bulge in the BVDs just like guys like—what did Millay write? 'The high sweet breast of spring...'?"

And that ended the planning meeting, except, well, Lana stood up and took a breath, incidentally asserting her chest with a big smile, and said: "Show me, girls. I know you're all sensational."

And we did, peeling and then standing around the table, quite naked, breasts on display, assertive, and, just above the height of the top of the table, some distinctly unshaven triangles...

"Now, go do it," Lana commanded.