Chapter 56: Confession No. 38: The Vinyl Room
The sign on the rusted metal door read: AFTER HOURS ONLY.
Zariah hesitated. Her fingers hovered over the door handle.
She’d been invited formally, even. A private text from Keon Maddox himself. The man whose soundscapes had gone viral for their raw energy, whose voice had earned him cult status underground. Rumor had it, women had climaxed from just hearing his breath on a track.
She wasn’t here to swoon.
She was here to work.
Her docuseries on urban sound culture needed a final voiceover. He’d agreed one night, no retakes, no phones.
The moment she stepped inside, the space swallowed her.
Red lights. Low hums. A wall of analog dials. Rows of vinyl. Smoke scented like cedar and sin.
He stood behind the booth, in shadows. Hoodie low over his face.
“Zariah Cole,” he drawled into the mic. His voice slid into her chest like warm oil. “Didn’t think you’d come.”
She raised a brow. “I said I would.”
“Then lock the door.”
She did.
He motioned to the sound booth.
“Strip,” he said.
She stared.
“Excuse me?”
He leaned forward, voice thick.
“You wanted my sound. I want yours. Every sigh. Every moan. Every fuckin’ gasp. You’re going to sit in that chair, headphones on, and read what I give you—until I say stop.”
She should’ve left.
But her body burned.
She entered the booth.
A single chair. A mic on a long arm. Black velvet walls. And a sheet of paper waiting.
She sat. Slid the headphones on.
His voice crackled through the headset.
“Good girl. Start with the first line.”
She looked down.
"I touched myself today thinking about your voice."
Her cheeks flushed. But she read it aloud.
He hummed, low and dangerous.
“Slower. Like you mean it.”
She obeyed.
More lines followed each more personal. Dirtier. She began to feel the wetness gather between her thighs.
Then came the vibrator.
A soft buzz under the chair.
Her breath caught.
“Slide forward,” he said. “Let the sound fuck you.”
She gasped as it made contact.
He moaned softly into her ears. “That’s it. Let me hear how wet you are.”
The studio filled with her sounds. Mic hot. Speakers pulsing with every breath.
He directed her rhythm. Up. Down. Pause. Repeat.
She moaned his name.
He growled back, “Not yet. Don’t you dare come.”
The sound slowed. Her body screamed.
Then silence.
He entered the booth.
No words.
He pulled the headphones from her ears, kissed her deeply. His fingers slid down and found her soaked folds.
“Beg.”
“I need it.”
“What do you need?”
“Your voice. Your fingers. Your”
She gasped as he slipped two inside, fucking her slowly as his tongue trailed along her neck.
He whispered into the mic:
“Come for me, Zariah. Let the whole fucking world hear it.”
She came hard, clutching the mic stand, crying out so loud it distorted the recording.
Later, she sat breathless, legs trembling, watching him layer her climax over a bassline.
He handed her a vinyl pressed right there in the studio.
“No digital copies. Just this.”
She left with it pressed to her chest.
The next night, she returned.
The studio was empty.
Only the turntable remained.
She played the record.
It was just her moans looped.
Over and over. Her pleasure. Her voice. Her body, immortalized in sound.
And in the distance his voice.
“Next track coming soon.”
But Zariah couldn’t stay away.
A week passed. Then another. She returned again this time in a short skirt, no panties, headphones already around her neck.
She stepped into the darkened studio. And he was there.
Waiting.
He didn’t speak.
He just lifted the mic boom, handed her a fresh page of dialogue, and played back the previous night’s recording. Her own moans layered beneath a pulsing bassline. Her breath synced with the drop.
He whispered: “Now it’s your turn to make me come with your voice.”
This time, she stayed until sunrise.