Studio Surrender: Her Slow Claim by the Producer

I still remember every detail of that afternoon in Sullivan’s private studio like it was burned into me. My wife Yvonne sat in the passenger seat of our car as we pulled up to the unmarked building on the edge of the industrial district, her long dark hair falling in waves over one shoulder, those full lips already glossy because she had reapplied her lipstick three times on the drive over. She was twenty-eight, stunning in that effortless way that made men stare, an aspiring singer with a voice that could wrap around you and squeeze. I was just the husband who drove her there, the guy who believed this meeting with the famous producer might finally be her big break.

Sullivan opened the heavy door himself. Forty-two, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper stubble, eyes that didn’t bother hiding what they wanted. He looked at Yvonne first, then at me, then back at her like I was already furniture. “Yvonne,” he said, voice low and rough, taking her hand longer than necessary. “I’ve heard the demos. That voice of yours is going to make people do stupid things.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. I watched her cheeks flush and her nipples tighten under the thin blouse she had chosen—deliberately low-cut, deliberately tight. I felt the first ugly twist of powerlessness right there in the doorway.

He led us inside. The control room smelled of leather and old coffee and expensive electronics. I took the chair he pointed me toward, the one off to the side behind the glass, while he walked Yvonne straight into the live room. She glanced back at me once, eyes bright, and I tried to smile like a supportive husband. Sullivan’s hand settled on the small of her back as he showed her the microphone, fingers spanning wide enough that his pinky grazed the upper curve of her ass. He didn’t pretend it was accidental. “You sound best when you’re a little breathless,” he told her, loud enough for the open mics to catch it in my headphones. “I want that edge today.”

I sat there with my hands on my knees, cock already half-hard and hating myself for it, watching him circle her. He adjusted the mic stand so she had to lean forward slightly, which pushed her tits out against the thin fabric. Then he stepped in behind her, close enough that her ass almost brushed his thighs, and reached around to tilt her chin up. “Sing for me, Yvonne. Something slow. Something that makes you wet.”

She laughed, nervous and excited at once, and started the first take. Her voice filled the room, rich and smoky. Sullivan didn’t move away. He stayed right there, hands resting lightly on her hips while she sang, thumbs stroking small circles over the fabric of her skirt. I could see her breathing change. Between lines she would glance at me through the glass, those lust-drunk eyes finding mine, and I felt my face burn. He whispered something against her ear—I couldn’t hear the words yet, only saw her lips part and her lashes flutter. The next phrase came out softer, almost a moan shaped into melody.

“Again,” Sullivan said after the take. He didn’t step back. His palms slid higher, framing her waist, then drifted down to cup the outsides of her thighs. “You’re holding back. I can feel how tight you’re keeping yourself. Let it out.” Yvonne’s voice cracked on the next chorus in the best way, a little gasp escaping into the mic. She looked straight at me this time, pupils blown, and mouthed something I couldn’t catch. My cock strained hard against my zipper. I shifted in the chair, ashamed of how much I needed to see what came next and how little I could do to stop it.