The booth

The artist left at midnight and took the noise with them. I saved the session, killed the talkback, and stood at the desk in my black hoodie with the headphones still around my neck because I forget they are there. The booth was dim, meters dark, the room tone finally mine. Vince locked the outer door. He knows the look I get when I am done being competent.

I said I want you to edge me. Here, in the chair, hoodie on until I say otherwise. No collar tonight, that is for a night when I ask for it. Your hands, and you do not let me come until I have asked three times and you believe me. He repeated it. He asked if I had eaten. I had. He asked if I wanted the headphones on. I said on, then off when I need your voice more than the hush.

I sat in the studio chair and he turned me toward him. Headphones on, the room reduced to my own breath and the small creak of leather. His palms started on my knees and stayed there until I nodded. Then under the hoodie, over my breasts, thumbs slow. Then on my cunt, over the cotton, a pressure that promised and did not deliver. I rocked. He took his hand away. He did it again, fingers under the cloth this time, circling my clit, fucking into my cunt, curling, gone. My hands stayed on the armrests because he had asked and I had agreed.

Twice I begged and twice he eased off, kissing my knee, sliding a headphone cup back to ask if I was still in. I was. The third time I took the headphones off myself so he would hear every word. Please let me come. I am asking. I want your hand to stay in my cunt. He believed me. He fucked me with three fingers and his thumb steady on my clit and I came so hard the chair rolled an inch and knocked a pencil off the desk. He stayed with me, mouth at my temple, other hand braced so I would not tip. My cunt kept pulsing on his fingers. He got me water from the green room and waited until my legs worked.