My Producer Begs Please

The studio still smelled like warm boards and the vanilla she dabbed at her throat, and Nathaniel had been hard since the second chorus. Twenty-eight, producer, supposed to be the adult in the room. He sat behind the console with his jaw locked and watched Vanessa through the glass, twenty-four and already too good at this, headphones swallowing her dark hair while she laid the last vocal like she was undressing with her mouth.

Months. That was how long he had wanted her on her knees. Not the polite industry want, not the careful kind a man could file under professional interest. The ugly kind. The kind that showed up when she leaned over the desk and her dress gaped, when she asked if he liked her lower, when she held a note until his cock ached against his zipper and he had to pretend the fader needed both hands. He had never touched her. He had only gotten hard, night after night, and she had only pretended not to see it.

“Again,” he said into the talkback. His voice came out rough. “Slower. Make me believe you want it.”

Her eyes opened. She looked straight at him, and the smile that pulled at her mouth was small and mean and sweet. “You already believe it.” The mic caught every word. “I can see it from here. That bulge has been trying to punch through your pants since I hit the bridge.”

Heat climbed his neck. “Vanessa.”

“Nathaniel.” She dragged his name the way she dragged the high note. “Don’t hide it. Sit back. Let me look while I finish.”

He should have killed the talkback. He sat back instead, because she told him to, and the ache got worse, obvious and obscene against the denim. She watched his lap while she sang the rest, voice gone honey-thick and ruined, eyes never leaving the shape of him. By the time the chorus died his hand was crushing the arm of the chair.

She pulled the headphones off. The booth door opened. She came out barefoot, boots left by the stool, a thin black dress clinging to her hips and the tops of her thighs. The room was dim except for the board lights and the lamp over the old studio couch. She stopped between his knees and looked down at him like she meant to wreck the mix on purpose.

“You’ve been hard for me for months,” she said. Not a question. “I tease you because I want you mean. I want you to stop being careful.”

His pulse kicked. “Say what you want. Clearly.”

She swallowed, but her eyes didn’t drop. “I want you to tie me up. I want you to use me. Rough. Filthy. I’m sober, I’m sure, and I’m begging. Tie me up and use me, Nathaniel. Please.”

The please landed low in his gut. He had been craving exactly that surrender so long it felt like a bruise, and hearing her hand it over made his control thin as paper. He reached past her and killed the record arm. The red lights died. No mics live. No one else in the building. Just the two of them and the hum of the gear.

“You get a word,” he said. “Red stops everything. Yellow slows me down. Green means keep going. Say them back.”

“Red stops. Yellow slows. Green means don’t you dare stop.” Her breath shook. “Green. Right now. Green.”

“Then get on your knees.”

She went down like she had been waiting for the order. The carpet bit her knees. Her hands settled on his thighs and her face tipped up, pretty and flushed and already gone somewhere obedient. “Sir,” she said, and the word wrecked him. “Please. Bind my wrists. Use the studio cables. I want to feel them. I want you to stop asking and start taking what I’ve been begging you for.”

Something in him snapped clean.

He stood so fast the chair rolled back. His hand found her hair and yanked, not cruel enough to injure, hard enough to bow her throat and drag a gasp out of her. “Up,” he said, and she rose with him, stumbling, eyes bright. He walked her to the couch and bent her over the arm, dress rucked to her waist in one rough shove. Black panties, soaked through, the cotton dark and clinging to her. He hooked them and dragged them down her legs. The scent of her hit him, hot and slick and shameless.

“Open.”

She opened. He stuffed the wet panties into her mouth, packed them in until her cheeks rounded and her moan came out muffled and desperate. “You’ll be my filthy little fucktoy for the night,” he told her, mouth at her ear. “Nod if that’s what you begged for.”

She nodded hard. A broken sound vibrated against the gag. Her thighs pressed together and didn’t hide how wet she was. He caught her wrists behind her, pulled a spare XLR from the hook on the wall, and wound the cable around them the way she had asked, snug, checked with two fingers so the blood still moved, then cinched it. She tested the bind and whimpered when it held.

“Good girl,” he said, and felt her shake. “Color.”

She made a noise that was trying to be green. He pulled the panties out just long enough for the word.

“Green,” she gasped. “Sir, green, please—”

He pushed them back in. “Then you don’t get to talk unless I take those out. You get to take it.”

He had silk in the drawer under the console. He had bought the restraints weeks ago, soft black lengths meant for a woman who had not yet asked, and he had told himself it was nothing, a stupid private hope. Tonight it wasn’t hope. He fetched them, came back, and laid her on the couch on her back. The old leather creaked. He unbound the cable only long enough to spread her, then tied her again the way his hunger wanted: wrists up and out to the couch frame with the silk, ankles wide to the legs with audio cables looped and knotted, a check at each pulse point, her body open and shaking and completely his. The dress stayed bunched at her ribs. No bra. Her tits rose and fell, nipples tight, and between her spread thighs her pussy glistened, swollen, already dripping onto the leather.

“Look at you,” he said. He dragged two fingers through her and held them up so she could see the shine. “Dripping for your producer. Months of teasing me with that voice and this is what you wanted. Tied open. Used.”

She moaned through the gag, hips trying to chase his hand. He didn’t give it to her. He rolled her just enough to get at her ass, one cheek then the other, and brought his palm down.

The first smack cracked loud in the quiet studio. She jolted, a shocked sound muffled by wet cotton. He did it again, harder, watching the skin bloom. Again. Again. He set a rhythm, left, right, the meat of her ass going pink and then hot red, each hit answered by a thicker moan and a fresh pulse of wet between her legs. He paused to rub the heat in, to feel her clench around nothing, then spanked her until both cheeks glowed and her eyes were wet and wild and still begging.

“Color,” he said, tugging the gag aside.

“Green,” she sobbed. “God, Sir, green, it hurts so good, please don’t stop being mean—”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, filthy and brief, and stuffed the panties back in. “You’re going to come on my cock like the cock-hungry slut you are. And you’re going to thank me after.”

He stripped fast. Shirt, pants, briefs. His cock sprang up thick and flushed, already wet at the tip from how long he had been suffering behind that glass. He knelt between her spread thighs, rubbed the head through her slick folds, and watched her try to rock down onto him. The restraints held. She couldn’t take what she wanted. She could only wait.

“Ask,” he said, pulling the gag down again.

“Please fuck me,” she rushed out. “Please, Sir, use my pussy, I need it, I’ve needed it for months, put it in, please—”

He shoved the cotton back between her teeth and pushed in.

She was tight and scalding and so wet he sank to the root in one long drive. Her back arched off the leather. A broken, gagged cry filled the room. He stayed buried, letting her flutter around him, one hand braced by her head, the other closing lightly around her throat. Not a squeeze that stole her air. A hold. A claim. His thumb rested where he could feel her pulse racing, and he watched her eyes to make sure the want stayed want.

“Mine tonight,” he said, and started to fuck her.

Missionary, deep, filthy. The couch knocked the wall with every thrust. Her bound wrists strained at the silk. Her tits bounced. He choked her just enough to make her eyes go heavy and her cunt clamp, then eased off, then did it again while he pounded her, the wet sound of it obscene under the hum of the unused monitors. She took every inch. She moaned through the panties like the song she had been singing was finally honest. He angled his hips and ground against her clit on the in-stroke until her thighs shook in the cables and she was crying around the gag, not from pain, from how close she was and how little control she had left.

“Not yet,” he growled. “You don’t come until I say. You come when I decide my fucktoy has earned it.”

He pulled out. She whined, empty, dripping. He flipped her with careful rough hands, minding the ties, resetting her on her knees with her chest down and her ass up, wrists still bound in front of her and looped to the couch frame, ankles still wide. Doggy. Open. Red ass glowing under the lamp. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, and slammed into her from behind.

The new angle ruined her. He could feel it, the way she gushed around him, the way her moan went high and helpless. He railed her. No patience left. Hips snapping, balls slapping her clit, one hand in her hair, the other cracking down on her already burning ass whenever she tried to muffle herself quieter than he wanted.

“Loud,” he ordered. “Let me hear what a cock-hungry slut sounds like when her producer uses her. This is what you begged for. Take it.”

She did. She pushed back as much as the restraints allowed, greedy, wrecked, meeting him stroke for stroke. He called her his filthy little fucktoy, his studio slut, his pretty bound hole, and every degrading word made her wetter. The panties in her mouth were soaked with spit. Drool shone on her chin. Her ass was bright red and hot under his palm. He reached under her and rubbed her clit in tight mean circles while he fucked her deep, and her whole body started to seize.

“Now,” he said. “Squirt for me. Come on my cock. Give it.”

She broke. The orgasm hit so hard her cunt clamped and then flooded, a hot rush splashing his thighs and the leather, her scream trapped in the gag and shaking through her ribs. He didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, hair pulled tight, watching her squirt again in a weaker pulse while she sobbed and shook and kept coming, bound and used and exactly as filthy as she had asked to be.

His own edge slammed up fast. He pulled out at the last second, fisted his cock, and stroked hard over her back. The first rope hit between her shoulder blades. The next striped her red ass. He groaned her name and kept coming, thick pulses painting her bound, trembling body, dripping down the curve of her waist, catching in the small of her back, marking her while she knelt there shaking and used.

He stayed over her until the last spurt faded, breathing like he had run the stairs. Then he eased the panties from her mouth. She gasped, wet-lipped, wrecked, a blissful ruined smile already trying to form.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse and sweet. “Sir. Thank you. Please keep me. I want to be your personal submissive. Your studio pet. Discipline me. Use me after sessions. I want regular nights like this. Please don’t let this be once.”

He kissed her, possessive, deep, tasting her spit and the edge of her moan. “You’re mine,” he said against her mouth. “Regular discipline. I’ll tie you when I want. You’ll beg when I tell you to. We’ll cut vocals and then I’ll ruin you on this couch until you can’t sing anything but my name. That’s the deal if you still want it when you’re untied.”

“I want it,” she said, immediate, clear. “Green. Always green for that.”

He started on the ankle cables first, gentle now, rubbing the marks, checking her feet, kissing the inside of one knee while cum cooled on her skin and she shivered under his hands. The silk at her wrists came slower. He worked the knots loose and massaged her fingers, and she watched him with that soft destroyed smile, already his in the way she had begged to be.

She didn’t tell him the rest.

While he thought he was planning their next filthy session, turning over which night he would clear the studio and which cable he would keep in the drawer beside the silk, Vanessa already knew the calendar. She had blocked every Thursday after ten for the next two months in the shared schedule that morning, before she ever walked into the booth, before she teased his cock through the glass, before she got on her knees and called him Sir. The holds were filed under vocal comps. Her manager thought she was chasing a better take. Nathaniel, kissing her wrist as the last silk fell away, didn’t know she had decided weeks ago that those nights belonged to him, and that she was going to spend every one of them begging her producer to tie her up and use her again.