Muse 1 : Joey King

Scene 1

The studio was less a room and more a concept. All white lacquer, brushed aluminum, and soft, recessed lighting that made West Hollywood’s most expensive recording space feel like the inside of an Apple product designed by God. A floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles, a constant reminder of the prize. Joey King bounced on the balls of her feet in the vocal booth, a bundle of kinetic, expensive energy in pastel yoga pants and a cropped hoodie. She radiated ambition. It was practically a perfume.

“Okay, so, one more time from the top of the chorus?” she asked, her voice crackling with a professional eagerness through the monitors. “I think I can give it a little more… I dunno, sparkle?”

Leo Vance leaned back in his chair, a dark, still point in the bright room. He steepled his fingers, observing her through the triple-paned glass. He hadn’t said much for the last hour, just let her run through the demo, a slick, soulless piece of pop confection called ‘Vibration.’ He’d listened, he’d analyzed, and he’d found the flaw. It was a fatal one.

“The sparkle is there, Joey,” he said, his voice a smooth, calming baritone that filled the control room. “The pitch is perfect. The timing is studio-perfect. It’s a technically flawless vocal take from a very talented actress.”

Joey beamed, her famous, girl-next-door smile lighting up the booth. “Oh, thank God. I was so nervous—”

“And that’s the problem,” Leo cut in, his tone unchanged. “It’s the voice of an actress. You’re playing the part of a pop star. You’re hitting all your marks, reading your lines perfectly. But the audience doesn’t buy tickets to watch a pop star act sexy. They pay because they believe she is sexy. Your voice is coming from your throat. A hit record comes from the cunt.”

The smile on Joey’s face faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion and a hot blush that bloomed across her cheeks. “I… what?”

“It’s a technical note,” Leo said, waving a dismissive hand, as if discussing microphone placement. “The song is called ‘Vibration.’ It’s about feeling the bass in your bones, about a lover’s touch sending shivers through you. It’s a fuck track, Joey. A really good one, potentially. But you’re singing it like you’re describing the fuck track to a friend over brunch. There’s no… resonance. No physical truth to it.”

He stood up and walked to the glass, placing a hand on it. He was a master of inhabiting a space, of making it his. “Come out here.”

She hesitated for a beat, then pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door and stepped into the control room. The air was different in here. Colder. More serious. It smelled like him—expensive cologne and the faint, electric tang of ozone.

“Your problem is breath support,” he continued, circling her like a shark. “You’re breathing from your chest, like an actor trained to project to the back row of a theater. A pop vocal, a sexy vocal, needs to come from the core. From the diaphragm. From deep in your belly.” He stopped in front of her, his presence intense, unwavering. “Show me how you breathe.”

“I… I just… breathe?” she stammered, thrown off balance.

“Breathe for the song,” he clarified. He placed his hands on her waist, his thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh of her stomach just above the waistband of her yoga pants. His touch was clinical, yet shockingly intimate. “Now sing the first line of the chorus. ‘Feel that vibration.’”

She swallowed, hyper-aware of his hands on her. She sang the line. Her voice was breathy, a little shaky.

“See?” he said, not unkindly. “I felt nothing. No tension. No power. All throat.” He slid his hands lower, his palms now resting flat on her lower abdomen. “The power is here. This is your engine. We need to turn it on.” He looked her directly in the eye. “I have a technique. It’s unconventional. It’s what I used with—well, it’s what I use when I need to turn an actress into an icon. It requires absolute trust.”

The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy. He was offering her the secret key to the kingdom. All she had to do was let him put it in the lock. The ambition in her eyes burned away the hesitation. “Okay,” she whispered. “What do I do?”

“Lie on the floor,” he commanded softly.

She obeyed, lying on her back on the plush, charcoal-grey rug in the center of the room. The ceiling lights seemed impossibly far away. Leo knelt beside her, a predator’s grace in his movements.

“This exercise opens up the diaphragm and connects it to the pelvic floor,” he explained, his voice a low murmur. “It’s the source of your carnal energy. We’re going to route that energy directly to your vocal cords.” He placed one hand back on her lower stomach and the other on the inside of her thigh, his touch still unnervingly professional. “I want you to take a deep breath, and as you exhale, I want you to hum. A low, steady note. And as you hum, I want you to push up against my hand. Clench your core. Feel the connection.”

She did as she was told. She breathed in, and as she exhaled, a low hum filled the room. She clenched her stomach muscles, and the note grew stronger, more resonant.

“Good,” he praised. “Now again. But this time, I want you to focus on the other point of contact.” His fingers on her inner thigh pressed a little deeper. “As you hum, I want you to squeeze your thighs together. Tighter. Feel how that engages a different set of muscles? Deeper ones. That’s where the grit is. That’s the sub-bass of your voice.”

She hummed again, squeezing her thighs together. A flush of heat spread through her. The hum was different this time. Lower. Throatier. Arousal was coloring the note, giving it a texture it didn’t have before.

“You feel that?” he whispered, leaning closer. “That’s the truth. Your body doesn’t know how to lie. Let’s add another layer.”

His hand slid from her thigh, up over the curve of her hip, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of her yoga pants. He pulled them down, slowly, methodically, revealing a small scrap of pink lace. He didn’t stop until the pants were pooled around her ankles. His gaze was intense, analytical, like a scientist observing a specimen.

“The problem with pop music,” he murmured, his voice a hypnotic caress, “is that it’s too clean. Too processed. We need to get some noise in the signal. Something raw.” His fingers, warm and sure, slipped beneath the lace edge of her panties. “Now, hum for me again, Joey. Let’s see what happens to the pitch when I find your frequency.”

Her breath hitched as his finger found her clit. The hum that escaped her lips was a broken, **** thing.

“No, no,” he chided gently. “Control. Support the note. Don’t let the pleasure override the technique. The pleasure is the technique.”

He began to rub her, a slow, steady rhythm that was maddeningly precise. “Breathe in for four… hum for eight… match my tempo. That’s it. Feel how the vibration in your throat mirrors the vibration down here? It’s the same energy. We’re just opening the channel.”

She was lost. Her mind, usually buzzing with career moves and social media strategy, was wiped clean, replaced by a feedback loop of pure sensation and his calm, constant instruction. He was producing her body, mixing her arousal in real time.

“You’re getting closer,” he whispered, his knuckles pressing into her as his thumb worked magic. “Your pitch is rising. That’s good. The chorus needs that lift. But I need you to sing the words now. Give me the line. ‘Feel that vibration…’”

“F-Feel…” she gasped, her hips starting to buck. “Feel that… vi-bra-tion…” Her voice was no longer the clean, polished instrument from the booth. It was raw, ragged, dripping with sex. It was the voice of a star.

“Perfect,” he breathed. He leaned over and grabbed the Neumann mic from its stand, holding the capsule inches from her lips. The red ‘RECORD’ light flickered on. “Now give me the whole chorus. And I want you to come on the last line. I want to capture the exact moment your control shatters. That’s the take. That’s the hit.”

He pushed two fingers inside her, stretching her, filling her, while his thumb continued its relentless rhythm. She was going to pieces, her body convulsing on the floor of the multi-million-dollar studio.

“Sing, Joey,” he commanded, his voice a seductive growl in her ear. “Sing for your career.”

She sang. The words poured out of her, a ****, melodic confession of pleasure. As her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, shuddering wave, she screamed the final line of the song into the microphone, her voice breaking into a sound that was half-sob, half-ecstasy.

When the shaking finally subsided, she lay panting on the rug, a mess of sweat and come, the expensive microphone still hovering over her face. Leo stood up, his expression unreadable. He walked back to the console and hit the spacebar.

Her voice filled the room. It was terrifying. It was obscene. It was undeniably the most incredible thing she had ever heard. The raw pleasure, the ragged desperation, the final, shattering cry—it was all there, captured in pristine, high-fidelity audio. It wasn’t the sound of an actress playing a pop star. It was the sound of a fucking pop star.

She pulled her yoga pants up, her hands trembling as she sat up. She looked at him, her eyes wide with a cocktail of shame, awe, and a dark, thrilling excitement.

Leo simply nodded, his face a mask of artistic satisfaction. “See?” he said calmly. “Now that’s resonance.”

He had given her the proof. He had shown her the method. Now, she had to decide just how far she was willing to go to top the charts.