I never thought that I would meet this world's Rihanna, at all. Even knowing the sheer probability of meeting any Earth celebrity equivalent was high, I still held some kind of reverence for the original figures of my previous life. But here she was: Riana. A name closes enough to trigger the memories of early 21st-century music of my old Earth.
Wayne West had essentially gifted her to me. A favor, he called it, but really, it was a test of power and an acknowledgement of my rising status. In this society, giving someone a woman—particularly one known for her hip-hop groupie status—was the ultimate mark of respect, or perhaps, servitude.
And now, Riana belonged to me. Entirely. She was, by West's declaration and society's willing confirmation, my bitch, my hoe, a woman who genuinely belonged to me, established by that bizarre, aggressive social construct. I didn't have to fight for it; it was simply handed over like a legal document.
I sat on the luxurious, heated toilet seat—the lid fortunately down—in the overly opulent bathroom of Wayne West's studio mansion. The tile was pristine white, reflecting the harsh LED strips above, making the small room feel like a sterile shrine to hedonism.
Riana was kneeling before me, her dark hair sweeping over my thighs. She was already working, diligently, worshipfully. Her lips were wrapped around the thick length of me, the intensity of her devotion translated into raw, mechanical effort.
"Schlurp. Schluuup. Sllllrrrpppp~"
The sound bounced off the marble walls, loud and unapologetic. It was the sound of complete, enthusiastic surrender. She was loving it, doing the dirty work devotedly, seemingly intent on gaining my absolute affection, or at least, my complete sexual acknowledgement.
My hand rested lightly on the crown of her head, my fingers tangling in the softness of her treated hair. I watched her face, the way her eyes kept darting up, checking my expression for approval. She wasn't performing; she was auditioning for a role she desperately wanted.
"You know, Riana," I murmured, my voice low, slightly thickened by the arousal building in my core. "West said you were enthusiastic."
She broke suction just enough to speak, her breath warm and slick against my skin. "Schluuup. I am, Sael… I am."
"Good girl." I leaned back slightly, letting the cool porcelain of the tank press against my spine. "But let me ask you something important, girl. Really important."
She paused her rhythmic movement, though my cock remained trapped lightly between her lips. Her eyes, dark and wide, looked up, waiting. The intensity in her gaze was disarming. She looked ready to sign a contract in blood if I asked.
"Do you really want to be my woman?" I asked, using the loaded term. In this world, 'my woman' wasn't just a girlfriend. Depending on the context, it was close to a legal chattel, it meant a commitment I wasn't sure a woman like Riana would genuinely accept.
"Smack♥ Mmmwah♥ Kisss" She didn't hesitate. She rested the length of me momentarily on her wet, parted lips, gave it a tender, possessive kiss—a gesture that felt less sexual and more like an oath—and then spoke, her voice thick with conviction.
"Yes. A thousand times yes, Sael. I want nothing else."
That was the answer. It wasn't a casual boast or a flirtation. It was serious. Riana, the equivalent of a global superstar, was volunteering for the role of exclusive subordinate.
"Schlurp. Schluuup." She began sucking again, the movement deep and deliberate this time, pushing her devotion to the maximum limit. Her throat worked visibly as she tried to take more of me.
"Ugh. Ughk. Ugh" A small, muffled sound escaped her throat as she struggled, but she didn't pull back. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming.
I gripped her hair slightly tighter, not in malice, but to anchor her. "Tell me you know, what that means, Riana."
She continued her aggressive, dedicated effort, pulling back only a centimeter to gasp the words out, her eyes watering slightly from the pressure she was putting on her own throat.
"It means… I would always be willing to serve you. Always. Sucking you, preparing my pussy just for you. Nobody else gets to touch it. Nobody else gets to look at it, unless you say so. I am yours. Schluuup… Sllrrppp!!!"
She dived back into the action, aiming for speed and depth, trying to erase the previous pause with aggressive obedience. Wayne West had done more than just pass off a groupie. He had delivered a high-value asset, self-selecting for exclusivity.
"Hold up a second," I commanded gently, and she immediately froze, waiting. I pulled myself free just enough to look her directly in the eye, the moisture on my cock glistening under the bright lights.
"I need you to understand something, Riana. Becoming my woman, my bitch—whatever title you want to use—means exactly what you said…. You can no longer goes around. You are mine exclusively."
I leaned in, my gaze intense. "If I take you on, you are off the market… It means, no more parties for favors… No more industry hookups to climb the ladder…. If I find out you've given anyone else even a look, the partnership is over, and your social status goes from 'Sael VT' woman' to 'undesirable filth' in a heartbeat."
It was a harsh reality, but necessary in this world. Exclusivity was a massive social and legal statement.
She looked up at me, not with fear, but with a wide, genuine beam of relief, as if I had just offered her the keys to a kingdom she had been desperately knocking on the door of.
"That's exactly what I want, Sael," she whispered, reaching out to cup my balls gently, her hand warm and reverent.
"I hate going around…. I hate having to smile for these old men…. Wayne was the only one who didn't try to break me, and he saw that I just wanted… stability…. I want you to be the only one who owns me…. I want to be your property, fully. I Agreed. Absolutely agreed… I want the condition."
She pressed my cock back against her lips and eagerly swallowed the length of me again.
"Schlurp. Schluuup. Schlurp."
The sound was louder now, more confident, knowing she had passed the test.
With that kind of condition, she wasn't just a hookup; she was my Partner. And by the bizarre, hyper-legalistic law of New USA, a partner who publicly agrees to exclusivity cannot just fuck around without severe repercussions. This meant Riana was willing to trade her fame potential for security and dominance under my banner. I smiled, a slow, satisfied grin. This felt better than anything. This was acquiring loyalty, not just flesh, it was a permanence situation for her.
"Alright, Riana," I said, sinking back into the pleasure, letting her take control of the intensity. I tangled my fingers deep in her hair. She groaned happily against my cock, acknowledging the declaration.
"COUGHH!! Ugh. Ughk." She was pushing her skills to the limit again, trying to take the full length of me deep into her throat, desperate to please.
"That's it," I encouraged, enjoying the feeling of her total absorption. "You're doing so good for your Daddy…. So devoted. Show me how much you want this, Baby girl."
She increased the speed, pulling and pushing with incredible focus. Her eyes, still wide and focused, met mine through the blur of hair. The sound of her effort filled the room—a wet, enthusiastic symphony.
"Schluuup! Schluuup! Mmmph!"
I felt the blood pound in my erection, swelling it further against her dedicated throat. The small choking sounds became more frequent, but she never let up, refusing to let an inch of me escape her control.
'She is genuinely committed,' I thought, letting a wave of possessive pleasure wash over me. I shifted my hips forward slightly, adding my own pressure to the movement, forcing the pace.
"Take it all, Riana," I commanded, my breath hitching slightly. "Show me that loyalty is more than just words. Swallow your prize!"
Her response was pure, animal desire. She clamped down, squeezing with her internal muscles, producing a sound that was pure, aggressive suction.
"Schlurp! SCHLUUUUP! Ugh!"
The heat, the friction, the raw, explicit sound of her devotion—it hammered at the careful control I usually maintained. My core clenched, sensation tightening like a drum skin ready to burst.
I closed my eyes, tilting my head back against the wall, absorbing the pleasure of conquest and the raw, skilled talent of my new woman. The bathroom might have been sterile, but the action was anything but. It was dirty, dominant, and exactly the kind of validation I needed in this chaotic new existence.
"Schlurp. Schluuup. Ughk."
She was definitely going to be worth the investment. And if her dedication in the bedroom matched her commitment to exclusivity, then Sael Hardcox had just gained a very valuable—and exceptionally compliant—Partner. The thought made the pressure in my groin almost unbearable.
I let out a low groan. "Faster, Ri. Show me the music."
She needed no further urging. The pace doubled, becoming a frantic, rhythmic plea for dominance and acceptance.
"Schlurp! Schlurp! Schlurp!"
"That's right," I reiterated, my voice low and authoritative, a sharp contrast to the casual demeanor I usually maintained.
Riana paused her work for just a second, her dark eyes looking up at mine, swimming with liquid pleasure and gratitude.
"I love it, daddy," she murmured, the words vibrating against the base of my erection. "It's everything. Thank you."
Before I could reply, she dropped her head again, burying her face into me, the frantic pace of her devotion returning instantly. The sound of her mouth closing around me was intense and visceral.
"Schlurp. Schluuup!! Schlurp!"
She wanted this. She wanted the status, the recognition, the security that came with being tied to the hottest thing in Hollywood—And she was earning it with every forceful, desperate pull.
I grabbed a handful of her hair, not cruelly, but firmly, needing to guide her intensity.
"I love it when you're desperate, Riana," I growled, my voice catching slightly as the sensation shot straight into my core. "Take it deeper. Every inch of my cock, clean down your throat…. Understand me?"
"Yes, daddy," Riana choked out, the affirmation muffled deep down, followed by a sound that was less a suck and more an absolute ingestion.
"Ugh. Ughk. Lick…♥ Suck, suck" The frantic, wet rhythm intensified. My thick, heavy shaft was being dragged against the back of her mouth, stretching and ravaging her delicate throat. The combined sound of her inhaling my length and the lack of air in her lungs created a violent, intoxicating symphony in the echoing confines of the tiled room.
"Schluuup. Schlurp. Guk!! GUHUK!!! AUURRHHHH~."
Riana was purring now, a low, wet sound that I barely registered over the pounding blood in my ears. She pulled back slightly, her eyes watering, praising me even as she struggled.
"Do you… love my throat, daddy?" she whispered, swallowing hard, trying to keep up the pace. "It's so big… so thick. You're too much for me."
"It's perfect, bitch," I replied instantly, the control I had seized tightening. The praise only fueled my need to dominate her completely.
I shifted my weight, reaching down again, grabbing her head with both hands this time, my knuckles white against her scalp. Rough and dominant, I pulled her forcefully as I drove forward, standing upright and using my hips to piston into her face relentlessly.
"Take it! Swallow me!" I commanded; the words barely audible over the increasing pace of the assault.
"Slap! slap! slap! slap…!!" Her throat was ravaged by my assault. The choking sound became a desperate, throaty gurgle as she was forced to accommodate my entire length with brutal speed.
"Ughk. Ughk. Schlurp. Schluuup. COUGH!"
My balls tightened fiercely. The divine pressure was starting to build, overwhelming the last vestige of my calm, analytical self. I was nothing but raw instinct and need.
Riana, sensing the imminent climax, forced out a desperate plea, her voice almost entirely muffled by my pounding organ.
"Cum… in my throat, daddy! Feed me! I want to be fed with your cum!"
That was all the permission the animal part of my brain needed. With one last, definitive, powerful shove, I drove my cock deep inside of her mouth—a violent, satisfying intrusion that rammed down her throat just moments before my release.
The feeling was utterly explosive, volcanic. I cummed so much, a desperate, shuddering, long stream of pure, white-hot ecstasy that felt absolutely divine.
"AAHH!!! " My knees wobbled slightly, and I leaned onto the counter for support as the load just kept coming.
"Spurt! Spurt… SSpppurrrtt!" Riana's response was immediate and violent. She bucked and choked, hands flying up to clutch at my thighs as she struggled against the sheer volume of the release.
"Ugh. Ughk. Cough… cough!" My thick, hot sperms spurted and trailed out of the sides of her mouth, mixing with the saliva she couldn't swallow fast enough. She struggled valiantly, her throat working even as she gagged.
I stood there, breathing heavily, watching her. The rough edges of my dominance hadn't faded yet. My voice was tight.
"Swallow it slow…. Eat everything, Riana. Every drop I give you."
She looked up, her eyes glossy and unfocused, trails of my load drying on her lips and chin. The submission was absolute.
"Yes, daddy," Riana muttered, forcing herself to gulp down everything slowly, painstakingly cleaning the remnants of our intense exchange.
The raw intensity of the moment slowly bled into a familiar, satisfying calm. My breathing steadied. Riana choked and coughed one last time, a residual spasm in her throat, before slowly backing her head away, freeing me. The sight of my now-slick, heavy cock slowly sliding free of her wet, ruined mouth was undeniably hot.
I looked down at her, a genuinely appreciative smirk crossing my face.
"You look so hot when my cock comes out of your mouth like that," I said, the gravel in my voice smoothing out into my usual casual tone.
Riana's chest was heaving, but a flush of pride crossed her cheeks. "Thank you, daddy."
She immediately leaned back down, the dutiful submissive, and began to lick away every last trace of the encounter from my shaft, the "Schlurp. Schluuup" sound now a slow, meticulous cleaning instead of a desperate plea. When she was satisfied, she looked up, her lips wet and full.
I nodded, calmly and lovingly tucking my cock back into my pants. I used a thick, plush towel from the rack nearest me to dry my hands, suddenly feeling the need to return to the real world—or at least, the bizarre, hyper-real world of Hollywood entertainment elite.
Riana moved gracefully over to the large mirror flanked by theatrical lights. She began to touch up her face—checking her foundation, smoothing her hair, a practiced routine honed by years of being ready for the camera, or at least, the eyes of a potentate like West.
As she worked, she began to tell me her story, her voice soft but direct, meeting my gaze in the mirror's reflection.
"I was an orphan, Sael. From New Barbos…. Always alone, always having to fight for the scraps," she confessed, her practiced hands expertly hiding the redness around her eyes. "I came to New USA to become the singer I dreamed I'd be. The voice, the spotlight, the whole thing."
She sighed, applying a fresh coat of high-gloss lip serum. "But I realized fast that this industry is harsher than the streets of Barbos…. Talent is ten percent of it. Connections, brutality, and willingness to bleed—that's the other ninety…. So, I picked the easy way. I became a rapper's bitch. A ho… It eased the road to achieving the dream."
I listened to her calmly. It was a hell of a life story, but depressingly common in this era of corporate predation. She wasn't seeking sympathy; she was laying out the facts of her life, establishing the value of the transaction we just cemented. I finished wiping my hands and leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms.
"And you're fine with that easy way?" I asked, not judging, just confirming the landscape she operated in.
She paused, turning completely around to face me, leaning back against the marble counter, a self-deprecating smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"It's gotten me this far, Sael. And now it's gotten me to you."
I already knew the answer to my next question, but I needed to hear her say it, to confirm the depth of understanding that led to her fierce devotion just moments ago.
"Do you know me, Riana? Really know me?"
"I do, daddy," she confessed, her voice dropping slightly, now laced with reverence.
"Sael VT. The current Hollywood big name. The king pin of the new wave. I know about you, what you can do, and the noise Meteor Studio is making." She pushed off the counter and took a step toward me, her arms opening slightly in a gesture that was both welcoming and explanatory.
"I've followed you ever since 'Rivers Flow In You' hit the Net… That track changed the game; it felt like a breath of clean air in the smog of this city."
She continued, her expression turning serious. "Wayne West has been clamoring about you for weeks…. The way he talks, you're not just a producer, you're a guaranteed win... God's gift to entertainment."
"When he made the offer," she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, competitive edge, "the offer to be yours—to be officially tied to the Meteor Studio—you think I was the only one who stepped up?"
I stood straighter, a feeling of genuine shock cutting through my self-possession. I thought West had just thrown me the hot girl nearest him, a typical display of alpha male generosity.
"The entire West groupie structure—every single one of those girls in West's orbit, and a few he 'borrowed' from other rappers—they all wanted it," Riana revealed.
"It was a feeding frenzy when they realized West was willing to use his favor for it…. Not just me. The whole group was clamoring."
My eyebrows shot up. I stared at her, processing the information. "You're telling me that's true? You had to compete for the chance to be my partner?"
Riana nodded, the small, victorious smile finally returning, shining with a hard-won satisfaction. "It's absolutely true. And I won."
The realization hit me: my reputation, thanks to the undeniable success of the media I was introducing, was already far outstripping my young age and my physical appearance. Being Sael VT wasn't just about selling music and movies; it was about attaining a level of social currency that warped the existing power structures. The simple act of registering Riana as my partner wasn't just a strategic chess move to raise up the ladder, it was an instant promotion in the brutal, hyper-sexualized hierarchy of Hollywood underworld. Riana knew it, and she fought like hell to claim the prize.
I felt a quiet thrill of power. My empire wasn't just built on code and intellectual property; it was built on aspiration, desire, and the dominance I projected.
"Good," I said, nodding slowly.
I smirked, running a hand through my hair. "You're lucky, you know?"
Riana blinked up at me, lips still glistening, before breaking into a small smile.
"Yes." Then, in a move that had me raising an eyebrow, she shuffled forward, her bare knees pressing into the cool tile, and took my hand in hers. "Thank you."
The sincerity in her voice threw me. I wasn't used to gratitude after that kind of transaction. My thumb brushed against her cheek, feeling the warmth there.
"You're welcome." I matched her energy because, hell, why not? Then, because curiosity was a bastard I couldn't ignore, I asked, "Have you ever sing for anyone?"
Her expression flickered. "No. I always get… sidelined."
A damn shame, if true. "Really? that's sad… how about you Sing something for me."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yeah, really. Just a little."
The way her face lit up? That shit was addictive. Riana inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders like she was stepping onto a stage, and then— "Ahhhh~ ooohhh~"
'Holy fuck. ' Her voice echoed in that bathroom. Rich, smooth, with a raspy edge that sent chills down my spine. It wasn't just good—it was Rihanna-level good. Maybe better. The kind of voice that made record execs sign blank checks.
I held up a hand. "Stop."
She froze mid-note, confusion creasing her brow. "Did I—?"
"No, no. You're insane. Like, 'why the fuck are you not signed already?' insane." I stared at her, mind racing. "You said, you want to be a singer? 'Cause I can make that happen."
Riana's breath hitched. "You… you really mean that?"
I grinned. "Yeah. And you're gonna be huge... I can make that happen..."
Her lips trembled before splitting into an ear-to-ear smile. The kind of look that said I've been waiting my whole life to hear that.
Then, because I wasn't above capitalizing on the moment, I tugged her up by the wrist, spinning her until her back hit the counter.
My free hand slid down the curve of her waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "But first… let's celebrate."
She shivered, breath hitching. "How?"
I leaned in, lips grazing her ear. "You already know."
"Ah!" A sharp gasp burst from her lips as my palm cracked against her ass—"PAH!"—the sound bouncing off the marble. Riana arched, fingers scrambling against the countertop. "F-Fuck—!"
"You liked that?" I growled, teeth nipping at her neck.
"Y-Yes—!" She whined, hips rolling back instinctively. I didn't bother hiding my grin. This world might've been a corporate dystopian hellhole, but at least it didn't skimp on fun.
"Schlurp. Schluuup."
The slick, obscene sounds of her mouth working filled the space between us as I guided her head back down. My fingers tightened in her curls, setting a brutal pace. "Good girl. Just like that."
Riana moaned around me, the vibrations teasing a groan from my throat. Her eyes flicked up—dark, desperate, devoted—and that was enough to push me over.
"Spluuurt! Spluuurt Spluuurt!"
She choked—"Ughk!"—but swallowed every last drop, panting as she pulled back. "...Did I... do good?"
I yanked her up, crashing our mouths together, tasting myself on her tongue. "Better than good." Gripping her thighs, I hoisted her onto the counter, knocking over a damn near gold-plated soap dispenser in the process.
Riana's legs locked around my waist as I shoved her dress up, fingers slipping under the lace of her panties.
"AAHH—!" Her back arched off the mirror as I worked her over, sharp, erratic cries bouncing off the tile.
"Louder," I ordered, biting down on her collarbone. "Let the whole fucking studio hear you."
She obeyed—"Ah… Aahhh… Aaahhh♥~!"—her nails raking down my back as she came undone.
By the time we were done, that bathroom looked like a warzone. Towels on the floor, makeup smeared, and Riana slumped against me, boneless and breathless.
"So," I murmured, tucking a frizzy curl behind her ear. "Ready to be a star?"
She laughed, soft and disbelieving. "...Yeah."
Good. Because one way or another, I was making damn sure the world heard her. The air, still thick with the lingering scent of expensive cologne, Riana's sweet perfume, and something muskier that hadn't quite dissipated from our recent… session, felt charged with a different kind of energy now. My back leaned against the cool, smooth surface of the door, and I watched Riana.
She was on her knees again, a vision of raw vulnerability and fervent gratitude. Her eyes, usually so sharp and confident, were wide and glistening, reflecting the soft glow of the recessed lighting. Her dark, voluminous hair, still a little disheveled from our earlier exertions, spilled over her shoulders as she bowed her head.
It was a stark contrast to the fierce, commanding presence she adopted for the cameras and the stage. Here, in this private moment, she was utterly subdued, utterly mine.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice husky, a fragile tremble in its depths. She said it again, louder this time, her head still bowed, almost reverently. "Thank you, Sael."
I watched her, my analytical mind already dissecting the nuances of her posture, the sincerity in her tone. My hand, which had been resting on my hip, slowly reached out, a silent invitation. She didn't hesitate. With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, she shifted, crawling forward on her knees until she was directly in front of me.
Her lithe body angled just so, and then, with a profound exhalation, she laid her head gently on my lap. The weight was comforting, grounding. I felt the soft brush of her hair against my jeans, the subtle warmth of her skin through the fabric.
Her words came then, muffled against my thigh, but clear in their intent. "I… I will be forever grateful to you, Sael. Forever." The emphasis on "forever" was palpable, a promise carved into the very air between us.
"I never want to be parted from you. Never. I promise, I swear, no matter what happens, no matter what this world throws at us… I will always be your bitch. Always your partner."
I felt a small, curious tremor run through me. Not a physical one, but a ripple in the calm surface of my internal world. It wasn't often I encountered such unfiltered, intense devotion. Most people, even those who claimed loyalty, had an agenda, a hidden caveat. But her words, delivered with such raw emotion, such unreserved surrender, felt… genuine. Her head remained on my lap, her body still, a silent testament to her pledge.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, allowing her words to echo, to settle. Then, I asked, my voice low, a soft rumble in the quiet space, "Really?"
She lifted her head slightly, her gaze meeting mine directly. Those large eyes, pools of deep brown, were unwavering, serious. "Yes," she affirmed, the single word ringing with an almost fierce conviction.
"No matter what. You saved me, Sael. You truly did. And I…" she trailed off, her throat working, a testament to the depth of her feeling.
A slow smile touched my lips, a genuine, unforced curve. "I believe you," I said, my thumb gently caressing the soft skin of her temple. The texture was smooth, delicate.
"For now." My brow furrowed slightly, a calculated glint in my eyes. "For now, you should just act normal. Like a bitch enamored with her new daddy?"
A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips then, a flash of the woman she was to the world, mixed with the submissive she was to me. It was a fascinating blend. She didn't speak, but her eyes held a silent question, an eagerness to please.
I nodded, a silent affirmation of her understanding. The cover story was simple, effective, and had the added bonus of being… mostly true. She was enamored, and I was, for all intents and purposes, her new daddy. The thought brought a peculiar sort of warmth to my chest.
"Got it," she murmured, her voice regaining a touch of its usual confidence, though still tinged with that newfound deference. "And it's the truth anyway."
It was. And that made it all the more potent. With a final, gentle pat to her head, I rose, offering her a hand. She took it, slender fingers wrapping around mine, and I pulled her to her feet with an easy strength. We both took a moment to straighten our clothes, to smooth down any tell-tale creases, to compose our expressions.
As we pushed open the door and stepped back into the recording studio, the cacophony of sound and energy washed over us. The studio was a cavernous space, filled with an array of gleaming equipment, mixing boards that looked like alien starships, and microphones suspended like futuristic metallic fruit. The air hummed with electricity and the faint scent of ozone and stale coffee.
Wayne West booming laugh, was gesturing wildly near a large monitor, while Jamie Foxx, was perched on a stool, nursing a drink. Courtney, was leaning against a console, scrolling through something on her tablet. All three turned their heads as we emerged.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in!" West hollered, his voice echoing in the vast space. A wide grin split his face, and he raised an eyebrow conspiratorially.
"Thought you two were gonna be in there all damn day! What was that, a whole two-song opera you were writing in there, Sael?" His eyes twinkled with mirth, clearly implying something far less artistic.
Courtney chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Yeah, we were wondering just how loud you two were going to get…. Figured you were shaking the foundations."
Jamie, ever the smooth operator, just clapped me on the shoulder, a playful glint in his eyes. "My man Sael, a true gentleman. Taking care of business in private. Respect."
I shrugged, a casual, almost indifferent gesture, though internally I savored the moment. It was a familiar dance, this feigned nonchalance.
"I am like that," I stated, a small, knowing smirk playing on my lips. "Some things are best kept… intimate."
Jamie snorted, taking a sip from his glass. "Usually, people just do it right here, on the couch, in the booth, wherever the mood strikes…. Especially in this business." He gestured around the studio with a sweep of his hand, as if to emphasize the sheer volume of illicit encounters these walls had probably witnessed.
I shook my head, my smile widening. "Not me. I prefer a bit more… discretion." And control, I added silently. Always control.
Jamie just smiled, a broad, appreciative grin, clearly getting my drift. Riana, beside me, offered a demure, almost shy smile to the group, subtly pressing herself a little closer to my side. She was already playing her part, the enamored bitch, perfectly. It was a good start.
********************
The initial teasing died down quickly enough, replaced by the natural ebb and flow of a working studio. Wayne West was already back at his console, fiddling with knobs and faders, while Jamie and Courtney settled into comfortable chairs, their attention now on the upcoming session. Riana remained close, her presence a soft, warm anchor beside me.
"Right then, Riana," I said, turning to her, my voice clear and authoritative, cutting through the low murmur of conversation.
"Go pack your things. You'll be coming with me." It wasn't a question. It was a directive. And she responded instantly, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise, then a quick, eager nod.
"Yes, Sael." Without another word, she turned and moved with a fluid grace towards a side room, presumably to gather her belongings. The promptness of her obedience was satisfying.
Wayne West, who had been observing the exchange, let out a low whistle and gave me a thumb-up. "Damn, Sael," he rumbled, his voice laced with genuine admiration. "That's some dominant attitude right there. I like it."
I merely shrugged, a subtle flexing of my shoulders. It wasn't an act. It was simply… how I operated. Courtney, ever observant, chimed in, her voice crisp.
"He's right. It's rare to see men so naturally dominant like that. And it's… hot." She winked, a playful glint in her eyes, even as she adjusted the cuffs of her suit jacket.
Jamie nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yeah, most guys, they try, but it usually feels forced…. Or that dominance just fades the moment a woman walks into the room. They get all soft and gooey." He chuckled. "But you, Sael? You just… are."
"Men are usually not that naturally dominant and serious all the time, when women are around that dominance faded quickly," Courtney elaborated, her gaze fixed on me with a speculative intensity. "It's like they're performing, and then the audience shows up, and they forget their lines."
I listened to their observations, a small, knowing smile playing on my lips. It was true. In this hypersexualized society, where male reproduction was mandated and sex were often treated as a means to an end, genuine, unyielding male dominance—the kind that wasn't just about physical strength but about an unwavering will—was indeed a rarity. Most men, particularly the younger generation, were either too cowed by the system or too eager to please to maintain a consistent air of authority.
'No wonder I was so irresistible to many,' I mused internally. It wasn't a boast, simply an analytical observation. I wasn't always dominant. Not in every single aspect of my life. When I was with my family, I was protective, yes, but also humble and attentive.
When I was brainstorming with Sunday or Sabine, I was collaborative. But when the situation called for it, when I wanted to be, that primal, unyielding force within me emerged. It was a tool, a weapon, a persuasive aura I could deploy at will. And, as Courtney had pointed out, it was undeniably alluring. It was the calm certainty in my decisions, the quiet conviction in my actions, that set me apart.
"Enough chatter," I said, my voice cutting through the lingering praise, shifting the atmosphere effortlessly from casual banter to focused professionalism.
The time for compliments was over; the time for work had begun. "Let's begin working earnestly, West."
West, a professional through and through despite his boisterous personality, nodded, his expression instantly serious. He turned back to the console, his large hands moving with surprising dexterity over the controls. "Alright, Sael…. Let me play you what I've been cooking up. Got a full album's worth of tracks here. Tell me what you think."
He cued up the first track, and the studio speakers filled with a rich, complex soundscape. Heavy bass lines, intricate synth melodies, a driving beat that pulsated through the floor. It was undeniably well-produced, technically flawless, the kind of polished sound that dominated the airwaves in this era.
"Boom! Bap! Boom!" I listened intently, my head bobbing almost imperceptibly to the rhythm, my eyes half-closed as I allowed the sound to wash over me. I wasn't just hearing the music; I was dissecting it, comparing it to the vast library of Earth's musical history stored in my mind.
Track after track played, each one exhibiting West's undeniable talent as a producer and musician. He had a keen ear for rhythm, a knack for crafting infectious hooks, and a mastery of the studio's capabilities. Jamie and Courtney watched me, their expressions expectant, hoping for a nod of approval, a sign that their star collaborator was impressed.
When the last track faded into silence, leaving behind only the faint hiss of the speakers, I opened my eyes. The silence in the studio was pregnant with anticipation. West looked at me, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, clearly proud of his creations.
I took a deep breath. "They're good," I said, my voice calm, analytical, devoid of exaggerated enthusiasm or dismissive scorn.
"Really good, actually. The production is flawless, the instrumentation is tight, and you clearly know your way around a beat." I let my gaze sweep across West, then Jamie and Courtney.
"By this world's standard, these are all solid tracks. Potential chart-toppers, in fact."
A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the room. West nodded, a satisfied smile blooming on his face. Jamie leaned back, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Courtney even offered a small, appreciative nod.
Then, I delivered the kicker, my tone remaining even, factual. "But they're not songs that will go hit."
The smiles vanished. The collective sigh of relief turned into a collective gasp of disbelief. Jamie's jaw dropped. Courtney's eyes, which had softened, now sharpened into pinpricks of concern.
"What do you mean, 'not a hit'?" Jamie exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "These are fire, Sael! Pure fire!"
Courtney, ever the manager, tried to reason with me, her voice edged with a mix of shock and frustration. "Sael, these are exactly what the market is eating up right now. Wayne's got his finger on the pulse of the industry. These are guaranteed to perform well."
I held their gazes, unblinking, unyielding. "Perform well, yes. Become iconic, no. A transient success, perhaps. But not a phenomenon. Not a song that defines an era. Not a universal anthem." I stood my ground, my posture relaxed but firm, a rock amidst their sudden storm of confusion. My perspective was simply too vast, too informed by a future that they couldn't possibly fathom.
Their "good" was merely a step on the ladder; my "hit" was the summit. West, to his credit, remained composed, though I could see a slight twitch in his jaw, a muscle working beneath his cheek. There was irritation there, certainly, a touch of wounded pride, but he was a professional. He took a slow breath, his
*************
The plush, sound-dampened walls of Wayne West's private studio are supposed to soak up sound, but right now, it feels like they're absorbing my patience instead. The air is thick, not with the usual creative buzz, but with a palpable, prickly frustration. I know it's coming from Wayne. He'd just finished showcasing his latest tracks, the ones he'd poured weeks of his soul into, the ones he was sure were his next magnum opus.
I remained perched on the ergonomic stool, my posture deliberately relaxed. I hadn't leaned forward once. My head, topped with what I know is disarmingly messy dark hair, was tilted slightly, my eyes half-lidded. I must have looked like I was in a trance—or, more accurately, profoundly bored.
"Alright, what about this one?" Wayne demanded after the last track faded—a complex, synth-heavy mess with an almost tribal beat. He leaned back in his leather chair, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, looking expectantly at me, then at Jamie Foxx and Courtney, who were sitting nearby, equally invested in my reaction.
I simply gave a dismissive flick of my wrist. "Too much bass. The low end is drowning the vocal chop. It's… muddy."
I watched Wayne's jaw tighten. He'd meticulously EQ'd that bass, and I knew it. "Muddy? You serious, kid?"
"And," I continued, completely unfazed by his visible irritation, "The tempo shift? It feels less like a surprise and more like the track just… tripped over its own feet. It's too fast for the verse, then too slow for the hook. It loses its cohesion."
I noticed Jamie shift uncomfortably, and Courtney's cool mask finally cracked into a slight frown. They felt it, too. This quiet, unassuming kid—me, barely out of my teens—was casually tearing apart Wayne West's work with razor-sharp precision. I was a direct challenge to the undisputed king of this musical landscape.
Wayne huffed, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "You know how much work goes into these tracks, Sael? The concepts, the layers, the… the feel? You just gonna dismiss it with a flick of your hand?"
"I'm just telling you what I hear," I replied, keeping my voice annoyingly calm. Honestly, I wasn't trying to be condescending; my internal monologue was far more analytical than malicious. The sound profile of this era is just so different. They prioritize raw power over clarity, impact over resonance. It's a fundamental difference in mixing philosophy, and I wasn't going to lie to him.
Wayne, stewing, decided to try to prove me wrong. He cued up another track, a ballad this time, intricate and emotionally charged. "And this one? Is this 'too lame' or 'too slow' for your sophisticated palate?" he asked, a sarcastic edge in his voice that could cut glass.
I listened, my expression unchanged. When it finished, I nodded slowly. "The piano line is beautiful, truly. But that synth pad underneath… it's a cheap blanket. It smothers the authenticity of the melody. It's trying too hard to be epic when the raw emotion of the piano is already enough. Too much gloss, not enough grit."
Wayne clenched his fists. This nigga. This nigga. I saw the glances exchanged between Jamie and Courtney. Their collective, unspoken thought was, This guy is too much. They'd seen confidence, they'd seen swagger, but this was an almost scientific detachment, a calm dismantling that clearly felt more insulting than a full-blown rant.
"You know what?" Wayne finally exploded, slamming a hand down on the console, the sound cracking through the studio's comfortable silence. "You listen to these tracks, every single one of them, and you find a fault. 'Too much bass,' 'too lame,' 'too slow,' 'too fast.' Every damn comment is sharp, precise, like you got a goddamn sonic scalpel in your ear. But you know what?" His eyes narrowed, challenging me.
"Words are cheap. Real talk? Show me what's real. Show me what you got, Sael. What's your definition of real?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. Finally. He's taking the bait. I knew my casual dismissiveness would eventually provoke a challenge. It's the human competitive instinct, especially in creatives.
I pushed myself off the stool, my movements fluid and unhurried. "Alright," I said, my voice still low, almost a murmur. "You asked."
I pulled my sleek, metallic terminal from my pocket. It was a standard-issue model, ubiquitous in New San Antonio, but in my hand, it felt like a portal to another dimension. My thumbs began to dance across the holographic interface in a dizzying blur of motion.
Wayne, Jamie, and Courtney watched, hypnotized. The annoyance slowly began to morph into a flicker of curiosity.
I opened a file directory. The screen flickered, displaying an impossibly long list. Folder after folder, each one labeled with cryptic alphanumeric codes or single, evocative words. 'Project Nightingale,' 'Echoes,' 'Synapse,' 'Tempest.' Scrolling, scrolling. The list seemed to go on forever, a digital abyss of sonic potential.
"Bro, what the hell is that?" Jamie leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Is that… your music library? This ain't no ordinary playlist, man."
"These are… ideas," I clarified, my gaze fixed on the screen.
"Thousands of them. Some are rough sketches, some are fully produced. Concepts, melodies, rhythms, entire symphonies just waiting for a voice." I scrolled further down, past what must have been thousands of individual song files. It was an overwhelming display of sheer creative output.
'They're speechless. Good. The initial shock value is crucial for softening them up. Now for the targeted strike.'
I stopped scrolling. My finger hovered over a specific folder. The label, glowing faintly in the dim studio light, read: 'For West.'
Wayne West leaned forward, his earlier anger completely supplanted by a potent cocktail of disbelief and intense intrigue. "'For West'?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "You mean… you made tracks specifically for me?"
"Consider it collateral," I replied, a hint of genuine warmth now in my voice.
"A small sample of what I can bring to the table. I studied your sonic imprint, your vocal range, your thematic preferences. These are designed to resonate with your artistry."
Jamie let out a soft whistle. "Damn, kid. That's… that's a power move right there."
"They're all numbered," I explained, tilting the terminal slightly so Wayne could see. The 'For West' folder contained exactly ten files, each a pristine, unmarked numeral. "It's a lottery. You pick. Any number between one and ten."
Wayne hesitated, his gaze sweeping over the numbers, then back to my calm, expectant face. The air crackled with anticipation. His eyes lingered, and then, a choice solidified.
"Four," Wayne declared, pointing with a steady finger. "I'll take number four."
I nodded, subtle satisfaction in my eyes. I tapped the screen. The studio's state-of-the-art speakers hummed, a low preparatory thrum, then a heavy silence.
Then, it began.
A synth voice, metallic and precise, cut through the quiet. It wasn't human, but synthesized, a robotic whisper that burrowed directly into the brain.
"VRRRRRR-CHUNK! Worked it. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! make it. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! do it. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! makes us. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! better. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! Faster. VRRRRRR-CHUNK! Stronger."
The words weren't sung so much as sampled and chopped, each syllable landing with an atomic weight, yet strung together with an undeniable, almost hypnotic rhythm. It was a clean, sharp, utterly alien synth line to their current musical landscape, yet undeniably universal.
And then the beat dropped.
It was a rhythmic assault, a funk-infused, electro-driven pulse that hit with the unexpected force of a tidal wave. The bass, oh god, the bass. It wasn't muddy; it was clean, deep, a physical vibration that resonated through the floor, through the very chairs they sat on, directly into their sternums. It enveloped them, not drowning out the synth voice but lifting it.
Wayne West's eyes widened, a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock passing across his face. Jamie leaned forward, his mouth slightly agape. Courtney inhaled sharply.
Then my voice, a mumbled, almost whispered melodic line, layered beneath the hypnotic synth and the driving beat:
"I need you to hurry up now, cause I can't wait much longer…"
My voice wasn't loud or booming; it was an afterthought, a melodic whisper that was impossibly catchy, instantly memorable. It rode the groove, a perfect counterpoint to the robotic declaration, injecting a human element of yearning into the mechanical perfection. The entire track was a masterclass in sonic minimalism, yet it felt impossibly full, bursting with energy and a futuristic retro-cool none of them had ever encountered.
This is Daft Punk, 'Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger,' I mused internally, observing the captivated faces. A classic. A timeless piece of electro-funk. It's exactly the kind of sound this world needs, something clean, impactful, and utterly unique to their current palette. I felt a familiar thrill, seeing the light of recognition, the spark of excitement, ignite in their eyes. This was why I did what I did. To share these forgotten treasures.
When the track finally faded, leaving behind only the ghost of its infectious rhythm in the air, the silence was one of stunned reverence.
Jamie was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. "What… the fuck was that, Sael?" He laughed, a burst of genuine, unbridled joy. "That wasn't just good, man. That was… that was a paradigm shift."
Courtney, still visibly shaken, simply shook her head. "I… I have no words. That beat… it's so simple, but it's everything."
Wayne West slowly leaned back, his head lolling against the leather headrest, his eyes still closed. A long, shuddering breath escaped his lips, as if he'd been holding it for the entire duration of the song.
Then, his eyes snapped open, blazing with an intensity I hadn't seen before. The anger, the irritation, the skepticism – all of it had been completely annihilated, replaced by something akin to spiritual revelation. He pointed a trembling finger at me.
"You… you little genius motherfucker," Wayne breathed out, a low, reverent whisper that bordered on a growl. His voice was thick with emotion, tinged with a newfound respect. "That… that was just one track, wasn't it? From a folder just for me?"
I simply nodded, a humble smile gracing my lips. "Just one of many, Wayne. Just one of many."
Wayne slowly pushed himself up from his chair, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving me. He walked over, a man transformed, the king dethroned and simultaneously re-crowned. He held out a hand, not for a handshake of rivalry, but of profound, unspoken partnership.
"Alright, Sael," Wayne said, his voice now imbued with an almost desperate eagerness.
"Forget everything you said about my album. Forget everything I thought I knew. You just open your damn phone again. And you play me every single one of those 'ideas.' Starting with number five." His grin was wide, feral, and utterly captivated. "Because I officially need to know what the hell else, you're hiding in that genius, perverted little head of yours."
Perverted? He has no idea. Outwardly, I simply offered Wayne a calm, steady look, a silent agreement passing between us.
The bassline hit first—a low, guttural growl that vibrated up from the floor, rattling the gold plaques on Wayne West's soundproofed walls. Then came the drums, a staggered, almost defiant beat, followed by the synth—a soaring, ethereal melody that fused perfectly with the gritty thump.
"Boom! Boom!" echoed from the colossal speakers; each beat was a physical push against my chest. My latest masterstroke, a track I'd simply titled 'Stronger,' flooded the cavernous space, a sonic tidal wave.
Jamie Foxx, wired for rhythm, was already a blur of motion. He threw his hands high, fingers splayed as if conducting an invisible orchestra. His head bobbed with a violent enthusiasm, a wide, uncontainable grin stretching across his face. He spun toward me, grabbing my shoulder with surprising, firm force as he bounced on the balls of his feet.
"Yo, Sael! Man, yo!" Jamie's voice was practically a shout over the booming track, raw with unadulterated excitement. "This is it, right here! This ain't just a banger, kid, this is a nuclear banger! Straight to the top of the charts, no lie!"
I offered him a small, knowing smile, the corners of my eyes crinkling. His praise was satisfying, like the perfectly tuned resonance of a freshly struck chord, but I didn't let it ruffle my cool. I just absorbed it, a silent, collected acknowledgment of a job well done.
A few feet away, Wayne stood uncharacteristically still, his gaze fixed on the speakers. His arms were crossed, but his foot tapped an involuntary rhythm against the plush carpet. By his side, Courtney, his sharp-eyed manager, mirrored his stance, her expression one of calculated appraisal. As the final, lingering synth note faded, leaving a rich echo in the air, West let out a low whistle, a sound of genuine awe.
"Damn, Sael," he breathed, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Damn. This song… this is a guaranteed hit. Straight up. No question."
I watched him turn to Courtney. He didn't need to ask her opinion; I could already see her agreement reflected in the subtle tightening of her lips, the slight narrowing of her shrewd gaze. She leaned in closer to him, her voice a low, urgent whisper that just barely cleared the lingering hum of the sound system.
"If this is the result of his lottery ticket, you gotta imagine what the rest are like," I heard her murmur.
"We've got 'Gold Digger' already, a classic in the making, and now 'Stronger'? This is an avalanche, Wayne. An absolute gold rush. No matter what, you need to get this song. All of them."
West's eyes were still glued to me, a predatory gleam mixing with the awe. He nodded vigorously, his agreement so fervent it was borderline desperate.
"You damn right, Court. You damn right." His voice dropped, thick with hyperbole and genuine desire. "If I had to give out my baby mama to get this kind of hit, to get tracks like this, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Hell, I'd do it twice on Sunday."
I caught the tail end of his "baby mama" comment and allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to touch my lips. I knew he wasn't entirely joking, which only added a layer of dark humor to the compliment.
It underscored the stratospheric value he placed on my talent. I remained cool, unruffled, merely acknowledging the intensity, a quiet satisfaction thrumming beneath my calm exterior. West, still buzzing, finally took a seat in front of the main mixing console, his posture now one of urgent business. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on me with an almost pleading intensity.
"Alright, Sael," he said, his voice dropping to a serious, almost reverent tone. "You promised. You said there were more. Don't play with me now, man. Play the rest of them. Show me what else you got cooking."
I walked over to the desk, my movements economical and precise. I tapped a few keys on his computer, navigating through the folders with practiced ease.
"The promised songs," I stated, my voice calm and even, devoid of the theatricality that often-accompanied big reveals.
I selected four more files, dragging them into a newly created playlist.
"Including 'Gold Digger' and 'Stronger,' that makes six tracks for the album." As the files copied over, I leaned slightly closer, my gaze direct.
"These tracks are complete, Wayne…. Full production, fully arranged. They even have guide vocals in them for flow and timing. All you have to do is sing your parts, record 'em, and then get them mixed down."
West peered at the screen, his eyes scanning the new additions: 'Champion,' 'Good Morning,' 'Good Life. Ft Sael,' 'Can't Tell Me Nothing.' A slow, appreciative smile stretched across his face. I could see his vision for the album coalescing, forming a clear, undeniable masterpiece in his mind—a perfect synergy between his established legend and my fresh genius.
But Courtney, ever the pragmatist, was quicker. Her eyes had caught something else. As I navigated the folders, she'd glimpsed a deeper directory, a trove of other unnamed, unplayed files. Her brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of curiosity and ambition in her gaze.
"Hold on a second, Sael," she interjected, her voice smooth but firm, cutting through West's joyful reverie.
"There's a lot more in that folder, isn't there? I saw them. All those other files, they're sitting right there. Why not give those to Wayne too? Finish out the album, make it a true classic from top to bottom."
My head tilted slightly—a subtle acknowledgment of her shrewdness. A slow, knowing smirk played on my lips. I met her gaze evenly, then glanced at West, who suddenly looked like a child caught raiding the cookie jar, his earlier elation tinged with a fresh burst of avarice.
"Ah, Courtney," I chuckled softly, the sound low and confident.
"Sharp as ever, I see." I paused, letting the silence hang.
"But the rest isn't on the deal, now, is it?" My voice was still calm, unhurried, but there was an underlying firmness that left no room for argument.
"Those are… extra. They would cost a lot more, significantly more, for each song." I spread my hands in a gesture of simple, unavoidable fact.
"And none of them, I assure you, are for free."
I let my gaze linger on West, then back to Courtney, a hint of my strategic, almost paternalistic side emerging.
"Look," I continued, my voice softening slightly, though the resolve remained.
"Let's focus on what we have right now. Complete this album first. Get these six tracks recorded, mixed, and released. Let the world hear what we've already created. And once we see how that goes, once we've dominated the charts with this collection... then, we can talk about the rest."
"But for now," I concluded, a definitive finality in my tone, "these six are more than enough to make an impact."
I gestured back to the playlist on the screen. West, though clearly itching for the rest, knew a deal when he heard one. He leaned back in his chair, a frustrated but ultimately satisfied grunt escaping him.
Courtney, for her part, simply gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod. She understood. I wasn't just a talent; I was a shrewd businessman, a master of delayed gratification, and someone who knew the true, astronomical worth of my unique creations.
The negotiation was over, for now. But the tantalizing promise of more hung thick in the air, a silent, lucrative invitation to the future. Now that the deal is set for the first six tracks, what do you think their first big business move should be? Should they start scheduling studio time, or should they focus on the marketing angle first?