Reunion Sparks: Long-Distance Lover Begs in the Studio Booth

The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed like dying insects as Everett pushed open the heavy door to Damon’s private studio. At twenty-eight, the voice actor had built a solid career narrating everything from fantasy epics to the kind of filthy erotic audio that paid the bills with a filthy smile. Fourteen months apart from the man waiting inside had left him raw, aching in ways no scripted moan could satisfy. His cock had been half-hard the entire drive over, just knowing what tonight promised.

Damon looked up from the mixing board, thirty-one years old and every inch the seasoned sound engineer who owned this downtown loft studio outright. His dark hair was longer than Everett remembered, curling at the nape, and the black thermal shirt stretched across shoulders that had clearly kept up with weights even through the long distance. Those sharp hazel eyes locked on Everett immediately, and the air thickened.

“Fourteen fucking months,” Damon said, voice already low. He crossed the small control room in two strides and pulled Everett against him. The hug wasn’t polite. It was arms like steel bands, chests colliding, the unmistakable press of Damon’s thickening cock against Everett’s hip through their jeans. “You smell the same. Like sin and that stupid cedar cologne.”

Everett laughed, shaky, burying his face in Damon’s neck. “Missed you so much I almost crashed the car twice thinking about your voice in my ear every night.” They’d survived on phone sex—Damon’s growled commands while Everett jerked himself raw in hotel rooms between gigs—but nothing replaced skin. Nothing replaced this.

Damon pulled back just enough to look at him, thumb brushing Everett’s lower lip. “I’ve got a new script. Client wants it raw, unfiltered. Two guys who haven’t fucked in over a year finally breaking. Sound familiar?” His grin was wicked. “Figured we’d cut it live tonight. Just you and me in the booth. No one else in the building. Soundproofed to hell.”

Everett’s pulse kicked hard. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

They stepped into the booth together. The space was tiny—barely six by six—lined with dense acoustic foam that swallowed every sound the moment the heavy door sealed. One stool, one large-diaphragm microphone suspended from a boom arm, a single music stand holding the script pages. The air felt thicker here, warmer, like the walls themselves were listening. Damon adjusted the mic height, deliberately brushing his forearm across Everett’s chest as he did. The contact sent electricity straight to Everett’s groin.

“Script’s on the stand,” Damon murmured, close enough that Everett felt the heat of his breath on his ear. “We read it together. I’ll feed you lines, you give them back filthier. Client wants authenticity.” His hand lingered at the small of Everett’s back before he finally sat on the edge of the stool, leaving just enough room for Everett to stand between his spread thighs.

They started.

The script was pure pornography. Everett’s trained voice—deep, velvet, the one that made thousands of listeners come in their cars—read the first lines with professional smoothness. “I’ve been thinking about your cock for thirteen months. How thick it feels stretching my throat.”

Damon’s response through the shared mic was supposed to be the top’s reply, but his timbre had already dropped, roughening at the edges. “Then get on your knees and show me how much you missed it, boy.”

Their eyes met over the microphone. Everett’s breath hitched. The script called for the bottom to describe sucking in explicit detail—tongue swirling under the head, throat relaxing, gagging wetly—but the words stopped feeling like performance. Damon’s gaze had gone dark, pupils blown. He shifted on the stool, and Everett saw the thick line of his erection straining against his jeans. Deliberately, Damon widened his knees so Everett’s thigh pressed between them.

The booth felt smaller with every line. Everett leaned in to read the next passage, their cheeks nearly touching. “I want you to use my mouth until I’m dripping spit down my chin, then bend me over and fuck me raw. No condom. Just your bare cock slamming into me until I can’t think.”

Damon’s hand landed on Everett’s hip, steadying him. Or claiming him. The touch burned through the denim. “Keep going,” he growled, no longer reading. His thumb stroked slow circles right above the waistband. “Tell the mic how bad you need it.”

Everett’s cock throbbed painfully. He was leaking; he could feel the wet spot growing in his briefs. The soundproofing made every breath, every rustle of clothing, obscenely loud in their shared space. He read the next line but let his own hunger bleed through, making the performance vanish. “I’ve fingered myself every night listening to your old recordings, but it’s not enough. I need your cock, Damon. I need you to wreck me.”

The script pages fluttered as Everett’s hands started to shake. Damon’s fingers tightened on his hip, then slid up under the hem of his shirt, palm hot against bare skin. Their faces were inches apart now. Heavy eye contact. No escaping it. Everett could smell Damon’s cologne, the faint musk of his skin, the unmistakable scent of male arousal rising between them.

Damon’s voice when he answered was no longer engineered. It was gravel and possession. “You think you can say shit like that into my mic and I won’t lose my mind?” He leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of Everett’s ear. “Read the next part. The one where the bottom begs to be filled.”

Everett swallowed hard. His own cock was fully hard now, obscenely outlined in his jeans. “I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me bare until I’m gaping and dripping your load. Please, Damon. I’m so fucking empty without you.”

The admission cracked on the last word—not acting. Real. Fourteen months of only hearing Damon’s voice through a phone speaker, of coming untouched just from the memory of his cock splitting him open. The mic caught every syllable.

Damon’s control snapped visibly. One second he was still pretending to be professional, the next his hand shot up, gripping the back of Everett’s neck in a bruising hold. Fingers dug into the hair at his nape, yanking him closer until their foreheads pressed together.

“You’re done playing,” Damon snarled, voice so low the mic still picked it up, raw and filthy. “You just admitted on my recording how bad you need my cock in your ass. I’m going to give you exactly what you’re begging for, baby. Right here. Right now.”

Everett’s knees nearly buckled. The grip on his neck felt like coming home and being claimed all at once. “Yes,” he gasped, the word pure consent, pure need. “God, yes. I want it. I want you to fuck me raw, Damon. I consent. I’m yours—use me.”

Damon crushed their mouths together.

The kiss was violent, desperate. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing, fourteen months of separation exploding between them. Everett moaned into Damon’s mouth, grinding his trapped cock against the engineer’s thigh. Damon tasted like coffee and mint and pure sex. His free hand dropped between them, palming Everett’s erection roughly through his jeans, squeezing until Everett whimpered.

They broke apart only long enough for Damon to growl against his lips, “Tell me again. Say it clear so the mic hears you want this.”

“I want your bare cock in my ass,” Everett panted, voice wrecked. “I want you to fuck me until I scream. No rubber. Breed me if you need to. I’m clean, you’re clean, and I’ve waited too fucking long. Please, Damon.”

Damon’s answer was a feral sound. He spun Everett around suddenly, pressing his chest to the foam-covered wall. The microphone swung closer on its boom, capturing every harsh breath. Damon’s hands were everywhere—yanking Everett’s shirt up, raking nails down his back, then dropping to his belt. The leather hissed free. The button popped. The zipper rasped down.

In one brutal tug, Damon yanked Everett’s jeans and briefs down to mid-thigh. Cool air hit his bare ass and aching cock. Everett’s dick slapped up against his stomach, flushed dark and dripping steadily onto the floor of the booth. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and so fucking turned on he could barely breathe.

Damon’s palm smoothed over one bare cheek, then gripped hard, spreading him. “Look at this perfect hole,” he muttered, voice pure gravel. “Twitching for me already. Fourteen months and it still remembers who it belongs to.”

Everett pushed back into the touch, desperate. His forehead rested against the acoustic foam as Damon’s fingers teased down his crack, circling his entrance without pushing inside yet. The tension coiled tighter—Damon’s belt buckle clinked behind him, the sound of a zipper lowering. Everett’s heart hammered against his ribs.

He knew they were past the script now. This was real. And as Damon’s thick cock finally sprang free and slapped hot and heavy against his bare ass, Everett realized with a shudder that the night was only beginning.

The real fucking hadn’t even started yet.

The real fucking hadn’t even started yet.

Damon’s thick cock slid hot between Everett’s cheeks, the blunt head catching on his rim and making the twenty-eight-year-old voice actor whimper. But Damon didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead he gripped Everett’s hips, spun him, and shoved him down over the narrow studio desk that ran along the back wall of the booth. Everett’s chest hit the cool surface, papers scattering, the suspended microphone swinging closer like it wanted to capture every filthy second. His jeans were still tangled around his thighs, cock trapped against the desk’s edge, leaking steadily.

“Fourteen months of listening to you moan through a phone,” Damon growled, dropping to his knees behind him. “I’m tasting what’s mine first.” He spread Everett’s ass with both hands, thumbs digging into firm muscle, and spit. A thick, warm glob landed directly on Everett’s hole, sliding down the crease. Damon’s mouth followed immediately, aggressive and starving. His tongue flattened wide, lapping from balls to tailbone in one filthy stroke, then speared straight into the clenching ring of muscle. No teasing. He ate him like a man possessed—loud, wet, obscene sounds filling the tiny soundproofed space. His beard scraped sensitive skin while his tongue fucked in and out, curling, sucking, biting at the rim before diving deep again.

Everett’s legs started shaking within seconds. “Fuck—Damon—” His hands scrabbled for purchase on the desk as the thirty-one-year-old sound engineer buried his face harder, growling into his ass. The vibrations made Everett’s hole flutter around Damon’s thrusting tongue. Every lick felt like it reached deeper, claiming territory that had been empty for over a year. Everett’s thighs trembled violently; his cock throbbed untouched, smearing pre-cum across the desk. Interior heat coiled tight in his gut, the wet heat of Damon’s mouth almost too much after so long without it. He pushed back, desperate, riding that relentless tongue until his knees nearly gave out. “I’m gonna—shit, I’m shaking, I can’t—”

Damon pulled back only long enough to spit again, two fingers joining his tongue this time, stretching him open with rough insistence. Then he stood, towering over Everett’s bent form. The fat head of his bare cock nudged the spit-slick hole. “You’re going to take every inch raw, baby. Just like you begged into my mic.”

He thrust in.

The first deep stroke punched the air from Everett’s lungs. Damon’s cock was thick, veined, and unforgiving after fourteen months apart. The stretch burned so good Everett’s eyes rolled back. Damon gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the grooves of bone, and set a punishing rhythm—long, heavy strokes that slapped their skin together and drove his cock balls-deep on every thrust. The booth amplified everything: the wet squelch of raw fucking, Damon’s low grunts, Everett’s broken moans. Each punishing plunge ground against his prostate, sending sparks up his spine.

“God, you’re still so fucking tight,” Damon snarled, hips snapping harder. “This hole remembers me. Greedy little ring sucking me in bare.” He adjusted his angle and hammered deeper, the desk creaking under Everett’s weight. Everett could only moan, cheek pressed to the wood, ass rippling with every impact. The raw drag of Damon’s cock inside him, no latex, just slick heat and friction, had him spiraling fast. He felt owned, split open, claimed. Fourteen months of lonely nights and silicone toys vanished under the relentless pounding.

After long minutes of that brutal pace, Damon pulled out with a filthy pop, cock glistening with spit and ass juice. He dropped onto the mixing chair in the corner of the booth, legs spread, erection jutting up thick and angry. “Get over here. Ride me reverse. I want to watch that desperate slut ass bounce.”

Everett kicked his jeans the rest of the way off and obeyed instantly, straddling Damon backward. He reached back, lined up the slick cock, and sank down in one smooth drop. The new angle forced a guttural sound from his throat as Damon filled him completely again. Bracing his hands on Damon’s thighs, Everett started bouncing—hard, fast, ass rippling with every downward slam. The chair creaked beneath them. Damon’s hands roamed: one gripping a flexing cheek, spreading him wider so he could watch his bare cock disappear into Everett’s hole; the other wrapping around Everett’s leaking dick and stroking in tight, twisting pulls.

“That’s it, bounce on it, you long-distance slut,” Damon growled right against his ear, voice dripping with degrading heat. “Fourteen months of phone sex and you still sound so fucking desperate. Listen to yourself—moaning like a whore who can’t live without this raw cock splitting him open. You begged so pretty into the mic, didn’t you? ‘Please Damon, wreck me, breed me.’ Yeah, just like that. My needy little recording slut. Bounce harder. Milk my dick with that greedy hole.”

The words hit Everett like strokes, making his cock surge in Damon’s fist. He rode faster, thighs burning, ass slapping loudly against Damon’s lap. The degradation only made him wetter, hole clenching rhythmically around the thick shaft. Sweat slicked their skin. The microphone above them caught every gasp, every slap, every filthy syllable. Everett’s head fell back against Damon’s shoulder as the engineer jerked him faster, thumb smearing the constant flow of pre-cum over the sensitive head.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Damon warned, voice strained. He lifted Everett off his cock with surprising strength, both of them standing on shaky legs. They faced the sound booth’s large glass window that looked into the empty control room. Side by side, they wrapped their hands around each other’s cocks—Everett’s fist flying over Damon’s glistening length, Damon’s palm stroking Everett with perfect pressure. Their mouths crashed together in a messy kiss, tongues sliding as they jerked frantically.

Cum hit the glass first in thick white ropes. Everett came with a broken shout, stripes painting the window in messy arcs that slowly dripped down. Damon followed seconds later, groaning deep as his load joined Everett’s, splattering the glass in heavy spurts until both their cocks were pulsing empty and their fists were slick with shared seed. They kept stroking each other through the aftershocks, milking every drop, breathing ragged against each other’s mouths.

Still breathing hard and covered in cum, they slumped together against the desk, chests heaving, laughter bubbling up between them. The recording levels on the mixing board outside the booth window were completely blown—red peaks frozen on the meters from their unrestrained screams and the wet sounds of raw fucking.

“Jesus, that audio is ruined,” Everett laughed, wiping sweat from his eyes. “We peaked the mic so many times it’s basically just static and moaning.”

Damon chuckled, pulling Everett close and kissing the side of his neck. “Never releasing it. That one’s ours. Private collection.” He traced a finger through the cum on Everett’s stomach, then looked at him seriously, hazel eyes soft despite the filth still drying on their skin. “Good thing too. Because this is only the first of many in-person sessions now that you’re moving back to the city permanently next month.”

Everett turned in his arms, heart still hammering, and met his gaze with a filthy, hopeful grin. “Think you can handle your long-distance slut every single night from now on?”