14th St. Caroling

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."