So close to Christmas, the thousands of gentle-but-insistent flakes falling, blown in sideways by cold breezes meant most were opening their doors as little as possible. But like clockwork, as our troupe knocked on the door, it opened, prepared to receive us, this time at Paul's house. Instead of checking at the side window, a peephole, or asking who it was, Mary simply opened the door, coffee in-hand, a bright smile greeting us as we began singing.

I never thought I'd be caroling at any point in my life. Home for holiday break, it was the last thing I ever expected to agree to when returning, and it seemed out of place to everyone but my parents who were happy I was getting out there, using my natural vocal talents I mostly kept to myself. After a few years of grade school choir, I knew singing regularly wasn't for me, and couldn't think of what could ever bring me back into it. But watching Mary Paul stand by the door, letting cold air, but warm vocals into her abode certainly highlighted one of the positives of singing in giving a stellar performance, and one of the negatives with the side effects of being that stellar.

Mary leaned against the doorway, letting herself enjoy our merry songs, always letting her eyes drift to Comtesse Richards, our leader, lead singer, and professional, world-renounced, semi-retired Soprano. It wasn't too surprising how she would garner such attention; the rest of us were dressed in nice-looking but warm winter wear mostly obscured by the snow fall. Comtesse by comparison was like the Christmas star compared to us lowly ornaments on the tree, decked out like a Russian fur-loving noblewoman in a white ushanka, white wide fur sleeves she could keep together for warmth over a black fur coat, and white fuzzy boots. And if that didn't complete her "better than you" look, her stunning starlet face, figure, and perfect blonde hair did it. I can't complain much as a brunette head-turner in her early 20's, but it's unfair how good she looks in her mid-40s.

Her moving into the neighborhood was always a strange occurrence. She arrived around the time I headed off for college, so I missed a lot of first-hand reactions and rumors a newcomer might gain. She seemed off-putting to me in a lot of ways, from her conceited name, to her overconfident, magnetic demeanor. In an already exclusive suburb, 14th street was always pretty cliquey to me with how it kept to their own and rarely let outsiders into their inner circle; moderate celebrity or no, Comtesse's rise in popularity was nothing short of a miracle, as she'd befriended everyone in less than two years, and took positions 14th lifers held for years, like lead caroler. Granted, it was hard to argue that she didn't deserve the position, making a good living off of her operatic skills, but even still, her effect on people left me suspicious.

The way Mary stayed rooted in-place, yet comfortably sluggish as she listened to us was pretty surreal. I kept expecting her to drop her coffee the way her shoulders slumped, but her body seemed to know how to keep herself up while letting most everything else sink. As Mary's stared directly, glassily at Comtesse, she stared and sung back with purpose. As we sung Silent Night to her, it only seemed to deepen whatever state she was in. When Mark Paul showed at her side at the doorway, he stood next to his wife, innocuously enjoying the song compared to his wife. With Comtesse at the lead, half of Silent Night was practically our leader's solo act. But with the follow-up melodic equivalent to Silent Night, her unique version of "A Christmas Lullaby," the rest of us were just echoing back-up singers for Comtesse's custom lyrics and enchanting tones.

"Hushaby, hushaby.
Christmas stars are in the sky;"

I watched in awe of seeing very-conservative Mary snuggle up her back affectionately into Mark's front, literally seeing stars with Comtesse's practically seductive soprano intonations.

"Sweet the bells of Christmas Eve-
Lovelies, each a kiss receive-"

I swear I say Mary Paul's lips nearly pucker, and actually bite her lip like a sexed-up model, all out of sight of Mark just enjoying the song.

"Hushaby, goodnight,
Hushaby, goodnight!"

There was some recognition in her eyes as Comtesse hit that part of the song like a crescendo; I'm sure that vocal carried through their house like it carried through every crevice of Mary's mind, reaffirming something in Mary's head. Mark was taken by that part of the song noticeably, but very lightly, on the opposite spectrum of Mary. Under a rather layman's guess, the wife hit an implanted, suggested memory of the pleasure of Comtesse's singing, wanting it, needing it, probably addicted to it.

I don't know what it was, it sounded crazy enough to theorize, but somehow, Comtesse's singing was either triggering her audience into hypnosis, or it was supernaturally hypnotic just at the mere sound of it. The possibility seemed far-fetched just because she'd been singing at shows for years, and she couldn't have hypnotized thousands of people by now. Could she have? Imagining a large auditorium full of mindlessly aroused crowds was a dangerous-enough thought to get lost in, Below Mary Paul's thick red sweater, though I couldn't see from my angle, I bet money that this audience's panties were soaked with how her thighs clenched together.

Everyone besides Mark had to have seen what happened, the other carolers, me, Mary, and certainly Comtesse; I can only assume the other carolers were programmed to be blissfully unaware of all the sexy stuff going on, accept it as completely normal, or even feeling it bubbling up under their heavy winter coats, to be taken advantage of later. We were rewarded for our efforts with a dual, clapping pair of "bravos" and "encores." I think that's what riled me up the most about her; living in a town that never let me get away with anything, this fresh faced-charmer is getting away with everything, applauded for things the locals would call heinous. Getting one over on the adults with tricks and wordplay, exploiting them with genius tactics, rarely worked. Comtesse was doing it with ease, doing it with the fucking cheesiest songs possible, and no one like a Comtesse sings these kinds of songs without some big benefit.

The Paul's door eventually closed on us, once they reluctantly accepted us having to move on to another house. We were convinced to stop in for a few minutes for some treats in their kitchen, were we talked for a little, and everyone applauded my contribution.

"Well done, Rhonda," came from everyone, but it was especially praising from Comtesse herself. "I'm so glad you took us up on the offer this year; yours is a valued talent that shouldn't be wasted. Take it from me," she smiled her perfect, veiled-in-condescension smile. I smiled back nearly the same way, hiding how little I would take it from her, unlike everyone else.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Richards."

"Please Ronnie, call me Comtesse."

I let the "Ronnie" shit slide, not letting her stupid name-calling ruin my shot at exposing her. Even if she was supernaturally-charged with hypnotic power, I was sure some strategy or kryptonite could be found to use against her. I couldn't wait to find something incriminating enough to nail her on, though I had to keep a watchful eye as I knew it would have to be something she couldn't bullshit her way out of that everyone else would believe. Especially with my parents, which is how I found out about Comtesse's little manipulation in the first place. Making fast friends out of my parents, I noticed Comtesse around them frequently. And being in a psychology concentration, all the little signs of psychological conditioning and hypnosis were plain to see, how automatically they praised the singer just at the mention of her name, how often they felt compelled to listen to her old opera CDs, and how any suggestion she made to them was bought wholesale, to my skeptical parents of all people.

Calling home once, I could tell I caught my mom unexpectedly, as she sounded near-panicked when she answered, and sleepily zombified once she thought she hit mute on the phone, hearing Comtesse's singing and my mother's breathless reaction. Since then, I went into a deep dive of the hypnosis part of my studies, and some independent study on the subject, to see how deep the rabbit hole Comtesse dug into 14th street. I needed little more evidence than what she did to the other houses on our route.

***

"Lullaby, Lullaby,
Lovelies in their dreamings lie;"

We sung next for the Banks family. Melissa was playing with their toddlers deeper into the house, and really wasn't much for caroling. Brad was though, and fortunately could soak up the performance all to himself, especially with the outline of his hard boner making more and more of an impression in his pants.

"Every one in white is gowned,
Hush, make not a single sound!"

Comtesse sung a hypnotic lullaby to his mind to be brainless, and bloodless as most of it rushed southbound, to let his arousal do the thinking for him. But he stayed mentally and verbally silent as commanded. Everyone present seemed affected while I just tried to look concentrated, even enraptured enough. Behind my earmuffs, no one could see the wireless buds in my ears, putting out noises canceling whatever effects Comtesse was having.

Our neighbor's stare was glassily fixed, and much as the main soprano was lustily fixed. Brad Banks was the highest-ranking DILF on the block; with movie star looks and a pleasant demeanor, every woman hit on him at some point, even a younger, dumber me. Comtesse's looks surpassed his, but it was easy to reason using the hypnotic power of her singing to get Brad to do or be whatever she wanted. I wasn't jealous, I just understood, just like I understood I couldn't falter in my back up part as we all listened to that angelic crooning.

"Lullaby, goodnight,
Lullaby, goodnight!"

Recognition flashed in Brad's eyes right before his head nodded forward, still standing upright. Everyone smiled as Comtesse gigglingly reached out to tap his scalp several times, instantly waking him up.

"Sorry guys, tiring work week. But that singing was...it was glorious. Thank you so much." He spoke to all of us, but his eyes never left Comtesse.

"Anytime," the songstress smiled back, her expression really mouthing "anytime I want you."

As the Banks door closed on us, we felt the breeze picking up a little. Comtesse gave a little shiver, turning to her troupe.

"What do you say guys? Want to do one more, or pack it in for the night? No shame in quitting while we're not frozen yet."

An encouraging chorus behind me pleaded "one more," claiming "the singing keeps me warm," and of course "we'll follow your lead, Comtesse."

My contribution spoke to Comtesse's well-being. "Are you sure you're up for it Ms. Rich-I mean, Comtesse? You look a little cold," I took my subliminal jab at the older woman.

"No, those are performance jitters. Even career singers like me get them every now and again. Side effect of doing what I love. I think one more house can't hurt; we surely can't waste a valued talent like you, Ronnie."

She wasn't kidding about not being cold, as she set her gloved hand on mine. The heat radiating from it seemed weird; I couldn't even tell if it was really her head, or my skin's reaction to her. Yeah, she was hot in a lot of ways, but she wasn't getting to me. Not at all.

***

Even if I felt a little floaty heading towards the Livingston's house, kinda feeling my steps but just at the cusp of floating away while other parts of me were on autopilot, she wasn't getting to me. Even if we skipped the other boring songs and went straight into "Silent Night" and granted encores of Comtesse's "Christmas Lullaby," she wasn't going to get to me. Even if I could barely hear anyone else singing, my own voice singing, fading to the divine onslaught of Comtesse's hypnotic soprano...okay, maybe she was getting to me somewhat at that point.

"Rockaby, rockaby,
Christmastide draweth nigh,"

I still hold with pride how I was the least affected around me, how I still managed to fight with the hidden headphones and my own will. Certainly no one else bothered to try, especially not the Maude and Ted who were lewdly leaning, really grinding into one another in-front of us, possibly in full view of the neighborhood if it wasn't for the snow. Each spouse had a hand reaching into the other's pants; the pair just stood there, existing to be aroused, never taking their eyes off of their elegantly-singing Aphrodite who didn't bother hiding her own smutty smile.

"Quiet now the drowsy feet,
Lovelies fucking so still and sweet."

I almost missed the obvious ad-libbed lyric, trying to not be as lost as the rest, finding it compoundingly difficult. Peripheral vision told me no one else was moving awkwardly, and yet it felt like all those sounds, the purposeful singing, the breathy, orgasmic edging from the Livingstons, swirled around me, were singing directly to me.

"Sweetest dreams, goodnight,
Sweetest dreams goodnight!"

The last lyrics whichever encore this was felt like I was the target audience. All of it tried to find a breach between the my ears and the earbuds. I didn't let it, forcing myself into the distracting noise keeping me grounded and wired. Somehow, somewhere between my eyes fluttering and my voice faltering, just before I felt like I was going to collapse on the Livingston's porch, clapping brought me back from the brink. I woke up like I was in a crazy-boring lecture, trying to play it off like I was always attentive.

I noticed the Livingston's looked dazed, but three-quarter's satisfied. My guess is Comtesse hadn't let them cum yet, and would maybe let them finish later. Thinking that they were clapping with precum on their hands, I used the charge that thought gave me to stay awake. They invited us in like most of the other houses, but we graciously declined, wishing them happy holidays. We walked away as I imagined them edging at Comtesse's command, or maybe them screaming her name to finally get off in their bedroom.

When the time came to be invited to Comtesse's "humble" abode, a practical mansion on our block, everyone was game but me. All the complaining and jeering to peer pressure me into joining them was easier to brush off than Comtesse's genuine questions of concern.

"Are you alright, Ronnie? You look a little out of it."

"I-I'm fine. Just, uh, didn't get that much sleep last night. Too much excitement from thinking about caroling today!" We all laughed, and I didn't care if they knew I was lying. But I hated the sincerity in our leader's voice as she replied.

"I definitely know what you mean."

"Yeah...I do think I might get to bed a little early, or maybe just a short nap for myself."

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," Comtesse agreed. "Can't have a valued talent like yours losing beauty sleep; always better for the chords when you're well-rested. Hopefully we'll see you later, or sooner, if you want to join the festivities."

***

I broke away as quickly and as inconspicuously as I could, really hoping the snow would mask my drowsy walk home. Don't know what it was, but I was feeling rather out of it, moreso than I let them assume I was. I don't think I would've minded falling into the most convenient pile of snow on someone else's property, just getting a good nap in, hoping I wouldn't have any dreams wet enough to melt the snow around me.

With the remaining willpower I had left, I made it home, closing the front door and leaning against the back, surprised I was able to stay upright still. My original plan of undercover caroling and immediately after gathering up what information I could to convince and alert someone, anyone had been subverted beyond the will to even try. I was about to solider myself upstairs to collapse on my bed, when a knock at my door, shocked me awake enough to stand upright again, but not aware enough to check the peephole before opening.

"Hello again Ronnie, my valued talent," Comtesse caroled to me at my own front door, singing innocuous sentences laced with power. The dam I thought protected me from her spell broke through, and everything I'd resisted just washed over me. And for the first time, I could feel my insides light up at her choice description of me, giving way to...it felt like wanting to meet her approval, through compliance. "I know you said you were going to bed. But you look like you really, really want to goooo....toooo....sleeeeeepppppp..." the way her vocals lowered several seductive octaves brought me down with them, and consciousness collapsed without a hint of ironic worry. No matter what happened, deep inside, I knew I was safe. I knew Comtesse had me.

***

Yawning was the first thing I felt myself doing, feeling allowed to be mindful again. Everything just felt good and warm; I'd must've gotten a sinfully good nap in and slept the afternoon away; the clock on the wall said it'd only been two hours. It took more time than it should've for me to realize that that wasn't my clock, that I wasn't in my room, or even my house.

Eyes darted from the loveseat I was sitting in, to the large run in front of, and to the fireplace my loveseat was facing, and over to the smiling caroler in an identical seat next to mine.

"Welcome back, Ronnie. How was your nap? Luxurious, I hope."

Panicked screams of protest and anger, animated body movements, making threats with whatever I could find around me as a weapon, all decent ideas that came to my fleeting right ideas. But all I did was take a deep breath, look around Comtesse's huge retiring room, and stare sternly.

"You kidnapped me."

"Kidnapping? How do you figure?"

"How else did I get here?"

Comtesse's knowing smile should've made me want to vomit, but the opposite effect came from staring at her lips too long.

"I merely offered you an invitation, and unlike your initial obstinance, you gratefully accepted this time."

"When you put it like that, maybe I should 'invite' the cops over so you can explain to them how...whatever invitations you extend are legal."

I hated how her lopsided smile was even too cute.

"Somehow...I don't think that will yield the effect you currently want. When it comes to hearing some kind of criminal claim, they'll either listen to you, or they'll listen to me. And I think you know well enough by now that everyone, everyone listens to me."

She rose from her seat, and seemed to be wearing only a cute, pink thick sweater, and nothing below. She headed to the bar to pour some scotch into a few glasses. In full view, I saw her pour two neat glasses with nothing else, and handing one to me as if I was an old friend visiting.

"How? How are you doing all of this?"

Taking a slow sip, my question seemed to warm her like the liquor or the nearby fire.

"How I've waited for someone to ask me that," she spoke with the most sincerity I'd ever heard her lips produce. This supervillainess really wanted a chance to reveal her evil plan, and chose a pawn like me to do it; "confused yet interested" didn't even begin to describe myself.

"Believe it or not, there's no huge scheme in all this; just a bit of experimental fun."

"E..experimental? Yeah, don't believe that one."

"Well, truth is often stranger than fiction. I dated a sound engineer a few years ago; nice-enough guy, worked in the same circles, and seemed to have an ear for improvements I could make to keep myself going."

"Keep yourself going?"

"Operatic singers unfortunately have shelf-lives, expiring based on some ridiculous opinions. You always look for an edge to keep playing whatever game you're playing."

"So you were sleeping your way to stay on top?"

Narrowed green eyes looked towards my hazel ones, annoyed but amused.

"Eventually I found my sound engineer had a hypno-fetish, or a fetish for hypnosis-related things. And yeah, it almost freaked me out too. Almost. I could've ended things with him right then and there, but curiosity got the best of me, and I asked him what was the appeal. I was so very glad I did; to listen to him...romantically describe his love of surrendering to some kind of mind control. To be a willing pawn to someone else's whims; I have to admit, putting it like that kept me rooted."

I didn't admit the same, taking a sip of my scotch, letting the liquor's and her monologue's burn travel down my throat.

"Once he mentioned a fantasy or two of me controlling him with 'the power of song' he called it, and spoke of the possibilities of it being real, I shifted from 'rooted' to 'invested.' Needless to say, after a lot of research and discovery, he got to live out several of his fantasies, which eventually became whatever I wanted him to fantasize about."

"For obvious reasons, he was an enthusiastic teacher, turning his student into his master, or Mistress as the term in hypno-kink can go. He even devised my secret weapon to enhance my voice leagues more potent."

"What secret weapon?"

Next to her chair, Comtesse grabbed and produced a CD. "Demoed performances of my singing."

"I...don't see what's so special about that."

"It wouldn't seem special, not in the first few tracks. But as the music would continue, my singing would be slightly less pronounced, making way for more...open-minded sounds, like binaurals, and subliminal tracks linking singing and the singer to specific suggestions. They'd all start with the beginner's CD, and when they would find themselves asking for more, intermediate and advanced CDs would soon follow, with varying degrees of deeper binaural levels and suggestions tailored to obedience, helpless sexual reactions, and other things I wanted. Soon, they would be so much a part of their psyche, it was like I'd always been there, leading them, like puppets literally dancing to my tune."

"So...you mean..."

"Pretty much. The Brad Banks, Mary Paul, the Sandersons, the Livingstons, much of 14th Street. Not to mention singing rivals in my profession, friends, even a mogul or two more than happy to support me for life while I perform totally at my leisure, they all love my singing. And 14th Street especially when annual caroling rolls around, they live for it."

"Just by listening to those tracks?"

"They think the CDs are secret recordings unable to be published under severe contract and copyright disputes. Their first exclusive, privileged listen pacifies them, then they fall asleep before the CD ends and feel compelled to listen later and try to finish it from start to finish. They never do, but the satisfaction remains. And once that album's programming is well established, they have a few more to repeat the cycle for, until neighbors and anyone of my choosing is literally my slave."

Truth or fiction, her explanation was captivating enough that I downed the rest of my drink sooner than I expected, thirsting for it to be real, and slightly satisfied that it probably was.

"And you're telling me all this, assuming it's true, why?"

"So far, you're the first anywhere to have ever gotten suspicious about what I've been doing. One of my commands to my slaves was to keep a watchful eye and inform me of whomever around them might suspect something is amiss. Imagine my surprise when the first time it happened, it was from a college girl like yourself, Ronnie."

I didn't want to believe her plans were so thorough, or my high-class neighborhood was so brainless (before Comtesse's CDs) that they never saw her coming, but it was hard to deny the swell of pride in myself.

"You deserve that little bit of pride; I thought you'd be going for investigative journalism at school or something similar, what a cute little Nancy Drew type you are, though I guess psychology makes sense for what you figured out. But the more I found out about you, sort of like my affinity for mind control, the more invested I became."

More than her words, the naked, pointed look she extended my way, and brought her bare legs into the chair as if to keep her juices from falling wantonly out of her, filled me with apprehension, but also with unrestrained butterflies, to know the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen found a reason, even a desire, to connect with me.

"You're like this interesting inverse of myself. Both of us growing up in stuffy, affluent towns, rarely unable to fully express ourselves, and yet we still manage. Mind pursuits, vocal talents, both of us gravitating toward one instead of the other, and yet from opposite ends, we've arrived at the same place."

"It helps when one of us drove the other here."

"I never asked you to follow my tail, but I'll never complain if the destination is kissing my ass sweetly if I sing it to you."

"Fuck you, Comtesse," I spoke her name like a stained position rather than a given birth title.

"If you play the cards I deal you right. And of course you will," she singsonged and winked at me, sauntering out of her chair to get more scotch. Gentle, implied commands sunk into me as I found myself staring at her ass, watching the hips swing back and forth. Running my hand through my hair, I noticed my earbuds from earlier were still in my head, still on low volume. I wanted to rip them off and toss them across the room for all the good they did in saving me, but the volume got progressively louder as I heard what the distracting noise really was - more binaurals and subliminals, but I distinctly heard "Ronnie" being spoken too.

Wide eyes were met with musical laughter over from the bar. "Afraid so, sweetie. It certainly was a...sound plan, but I accounted for that sound, of course. And before you ask, no, I typically don't personalize tracks I give future slaves. See how special you are now?"

The strong urge to hurl my glass at her or the fireplace never turned into a full-fledged thought to act on, so I reluctantly let her refill my glass, huffing at my lack of control, merely wondering how the hell I got caught in the first place.

Apparent mind-reader that my hostess was, she responded to my thoughts. "Alright my valued talent, think to the beginning. With clarity." The last sentence was sung, and information I was trying to squeeze from a stone flooded out into my head all of a sudden.

***

"Of course, I wonder how you didn't see this coming."

Her voice sounded off in the background, shedding light to my memories as I first discovered what Comtesse meant to my household when I wasn't there. That phone call with Mom and Ms. Richards, the sound of her hesitating to know I was possibly on the phone too. New knowledge given to me painted that in an all different light, as I imagined my mother kneeling before her Mistress, explaining to Comtesse how her daughter may have heard their exchange.

"Someone as potent and as powerful as me could've been careless. But I'm not."

A taunting singsong put a spotlight on Comtesse's form standing above Mom, toying with her however she wanted physically, bringing those lips to Mom's ear, singing commands that just sounded like siren's enchantments to me. I didn't need to hear the lyrics to understand them. A plan was forming, and a plan I didn't know I was at the center of.

"A college girl shuttling home more weekends than not? Either she's severely homesick, or severely sick for something. Or maybe a better term is...addicted."

I did come back home often, keeping a keen eye on everything my parents did, even researching putting hidden cams and recording equipment all around the house, and even Ms. Richard's house if I could find a way to sneak in there undetected. I had so many spy inclinations planned, but all of that got hazy at some point. Hazy like forgetful dreams. Forgetful dreams like ones I couldn't help but have whenever I came back home. At some point, coming home meant having these dreams, dreams filled with focusing on that singing. All the nuances, qualities, and rhythms of her voice, I told myself I was merely analyzing why her voice was lovely. I never admitted to myself how much I was falling in love with that voice, and how she spoke to ever-vulnerable parts of me.

"Have you ever paid attention to how an addiction starts? That little persistent, ever-so-insistent tingle, that inches you toward your new inclination, your new fixation. It doesn't matter where it comes from, or how far removed it started; once it's in you, it's a part of you."

It mattered to me a lot the moment I saw my parents sneaking into my room, placing headphones over my ears, transforming normal sleep into extremely-guided dreams. They were coordinated enough to keep track of my sleeping patterns to put them on once I fell asleep, and remove them before I woke up. It should've mattered more, that level of coerced betrayal...but it didn't outweigh what the voice, that song, did to me. Waking up every morning, missing it on my mind.

"It isn't long before that pleasant tingle turns into a gentle tug, and every reason you can think of to stay close to it becomes such a valid excuse, you'd swear it was the real reason why you needed to pursue it."

Regardless of my weird dreams, my investigating never stopped. I always kept an eye on Comtesse when I was back home. How immaculate she always looked, how poised and glorious she seemed. How I wished she would come over to visit my parents, just so I could catch her in some act. That was the only reason that mattered, I convinced myself.

"And no matter how strong that magnetizing pull gets, there's no greater spike in pleasure you could experience than when your addiction comes to your door, places itself in-front of you, waiting for exposure, waiting to expose you."

It was the weekend at home when the first sign of the leaves starting to turn, something that should've been an insignificant memory of mine, except for a redacted memory coming to light. That light started out as a doorbell ringing, me opening it, and being face-to-face with Comtesse Richards herself. I was speechless standing in-front of the target of my "investigation," and speechless in how I was made to not remember her just showing up like that.

"M-m...m-my parents aren't h-home right now, Ms. Richards?" I tried to speak diplomatically.

"I'm sorry, I'm not here for them...I'm here for you, Ronnie." That was the first time she called me that, and I was too shocked to correct her, let alone to stop her singing to me in greeting. "We're looking for volunteers for holiday carolers on 14th Street, and you have been called to serve..."

"S-s-serve..."

"Yesss, sweeetttiieee. Ssseerrvvvee." The way she turned that one-syllable word into a crooning command brought me to my knees. And just like I hoped, she stepped in the doorway, locked it behind her, and stepped up to tower over me. I tried to think of what to do or say, to exert some will, and all my body, my mouth could come up with is.

"H-how..may...I....?" In trying to put myself back together in that moment, I didn't know I'd constructed a slave. The rest of the pieces her singing picked up, as she sung my clothes away, lyrics leashing me all the way to our living room where she had me gently remove her white, pristine pantsuit and lick my way all over her chest, thighs, and wet pussy that stained our couch. All the while she sung to me, threading fingers into my hair, letting that scent do to my nostrils what siren songs did to my ears.

At some point, I knew my parents returned home while I was licking her out. The lyrics changed, but the spirits stayed high. Eventually they were fucking one another while I licked her out to an umpteenth orgasm. At the sound of "the loveliest family reunion" from her lips, we all came together, like a family thinking as one. I could only remember smiling when she was done with me, her cum still staining my lips, the scent of it...

"And when you became exposed, you found your true self, my addicted, valuable girl with the talented tongue, among other things. Unable to hide yourself, unwilling to hide yourself, unless to told, for my amusement. Tethered to me, bonded, enslaved, your heart singing to find yourself indulging in your addiction, kept safe and protected by it. Knowing the next time you wake up, you won't have to hide anymore, and just be my valued talent..."

***

Gently snapping out of my memories, I took in my surroundings again, appreciating everything as I was awake again, more awake than when I woke up earlier that day. I don't even remember closing my eyes as I recalled everything, it was all like a second's worth of recollection. Comtesse, Mistress, just smiled at me, and I beamed one right back at her, wanting to thank her for being allowed to be my truer self again, but my voice croaked a little as it'd been a while since I'd said anything.

I looked over to the stand next to my chair, and saw my scotch, plus a glass of water that wasn't there before.

"I figured you'd need something more appropriate for your dry throat, so I got you some water."

I graciously picked up the glass and took a long sip, inhaling deeply as I enjoyed how cool and refreshing it was. My senses picked up more than the usual watery taste though, as I inhaled again, suddenly thirsting and hungry for something else. At the rim of the glass, I saw a clear substance smeared over it, unidentifiable by sight, but unmissable by scent.

"And I figured you'd appreciate a little...additive, for flavoring. Something special to go with the roaring fireplace."

I turned to the warming flames nearby, still the only source of light in the room, and then to Comtesse who'd already set her feet on the floor, spreading her legs wide, firelight glinting of glistening liquids, ready for my addicted tongue.

"I meant my roaring fireplace."

I swallowed the remainder of my water before I went to my knees, reaching out to grasp her ass in the seat and pull her delicious slit towards me. Amidst the sounds of worship her love-slave gave, I thought I heard the faint noise of binaurals in the background, followed by strange singing, and the sounds of strained arousal around me.

After the third or fourth time I made her cum, she let me rest against her leg. Catching my breath, and letting light fill my eyes again, I indeed saw the other carolers, naked and singing gently while masturbating to a recording of Mistress singing opera with binaurals and suggestions filling the large room. On the large rug, a collection of Mary Paul, Mr. Banks, the Livingstons, and my Mom were tied in a big orgy that had yet to be satisfied. Seeing everything unfold made me reach in-between my legs for what I knew was an allotted reward from above. She furthered the sensations I was feeling, turning that cheesy caroling song from earlier into audible gold.

Hushaby, hushaby,
Christmas stars are in the sky;
Sweet the bells of Christmas Eve –
Lovelies, each a lick receive –
Hushaby, goodnight,
Hushaby, goodnight!

My mind loved how much more meaningful her words were when sung. At some point, I'd realized I'd fallen deep enough to stop masturbating and just let the song wash all over me. Waking up, seeing her smile down at me, my fingers couldn't help but start again.

Lullaby, lullaby,
Lovelies in their wet dreams lie;
Every one enslaved is bound,
Hush, make not a single sound!
Lullaby, goodnight,
Lullaby, goodnight!

I'd fallen again, but my id was hotter than before, surrounded by multiple sound sources in the room, deaf to them all, except for Comtesse's song. I stroked myself faster, in-time with the lyrics.

Rockaby, rockaby,
Cumming for me draweth nigh;
Stroking now, that rock-hard teat,
Lovelies jerking so still and sweet –
Sweetest dreams, goodnight,
Sweetest dreams, goodnight!

Mistress loved how close we were all getting, holding on unable to reach where our bodies were desperate for, our minds held lovingly captive, waiting for the crescendo that came nearly an eternity later.

"Ccccuuuuuummmmmmm fooor mmmmeeeeeeeeeeee!"

It was hard to hear everyone else's screams over mine, but I knew it was a collective chorus, and dutiful programming left us all mentally thanking our choir director for the another opportunity to voluntarily please her.

"And as for you, my valued talent, I think you're going to find yourself beginning to feel the passion for singing come back to you very soon. I've always wanted my own apprentice I could mold in my image, and how honored you are to follow my lead. And I'll be quite interested to learn what you have learned in your psychology classes; it should be fun learning from a more academic angle. And every time you return home, you'll find an eager student, teacher, and Mistress, ready to receive you. How does that sound?"

I nearly had an aftershock between my legs at the though of more direct attention from Comtesse.

"It sounds like I'm yours, Mistress Comtesse."

"Oh yes you are, my future hypno-songbird."

***

"Hushaby, hushaby,
Christmas stars are in the sky."

It was the next Christmas Eve, and everyone's subconscious favorite time of year again. Time for the 14th Street carolers to spread their cheer. Mistress Comtesse was kept away due to performance scheduling of the season, but her wise counseling left her star pupil in-charge.

"Sweet the bells of Christmas Eve,
Lovelies, each a kiss receive."

All the faithful and mindless carolers backed me up as I sung the way I was taught to, singing Brad Bank's mind out as he stared at me, lust all over his face. I stared back at him, ready to fuck a man I'd dreamed of fucking since adolescence. He was a first to receive a taste of my first custom CD, and was already very programmed to serve me as well as he did Comtesse.

"Hushaby goodnight,
Hushaby goodnight!"

Next to him, just as affected as him, was Melissa "I hate caroling" Banks, desperately in-need of a new title for herself. Comtesse was proud of how I took my first slave on my own, someone Mistress hadn't bothered with, but as hot as I thought she could look under my siren spell, why not?

Both triggered to sleep, I let the carolers behind remain idle as I walked up to the couple and whispered their need to find a babysitter for their kids for the night. I gave both a deep kiss, and stroked their arousals while my practiced soprano melted their ears and minds further.

And to think, I hated caroling once too.

"Now you're singing my tune, now and forever, my valued talent," Mistress Comtesse's repeated internal suggestion helpfully reminded me.