The Soundproof Studio

The email had come late Tuesday night, cryptic and unsigned: Voice actor needed. Midnight session. Specialty attire provided. Reply if intrigued. My bank account was teetering on empty, and curiosity outweighed caution, so I’d typed a quick Yes and hit send. The response was immediate—an address in the industrial district, a nondescript building I’d driven past a hundred times without notice. Now, at 11:55 p.m., I stood before its steel door, clutching my phone as a cold wind bit through my jacket.
The door buzzed open before I could knock, revealing a narrow hallway with flickering fluorescent lights. At the end, a figure waited—an audio engineer, I assumed—his silhouette lean and still. “You’re on time,” he said, his voice crisp, carrying a faint rasp like he’d spent too many nights shouting over soundboards. “Come in.”
The studio was a marvel of modern design: sleek black walls lined with jagged foam panels, a glassed-in recording booth glowing faintly under soft LED strips. A mixing console bristled with dials and sliders, and microphones hung like sentinels from stands. The air smelled faintly of electronics and something sharper—rubber, maybe. He turned to face me, and I caught my breath. He was older than I’d expected, mid-thirties, with dark hair swept back and eyes that glinted behind wire-rimmed glasses. His shirt was plain, but his hands were gloved in thin, glossy LaTeX, the material catching the light as he gestured to a folded bundle on a chair.
“Your attire,” he said. “For the project.”
I unfolded it—a LaTeX bodysuit, black and seamless, its surface shimmering like wet ink. “This… isn’t standard,” I said, my voice wavering.
He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “This isn’t a standard gig. It’s an erotic audiobook—experimental. The suit amplifies sound. Every creak, every breath, every… movement. You’ll wear it, read the script, and we’ll capture it all. Still intrigued?”
My pulse quickened. I’d done voice work before—commercials, a few podcasts—but nothing like this. The money was good, though, and the strange pull of the unknown tugged at me. “Okay,” I said, taking the suit. “Where do I change?”
“Booth’s fine. It’s private enough.” He turned back to the console, giving me space—or pretending to.
The booth was small, its foam walls swallowing sound as I stripped down. The LaTeX was cool against my skin, stretching as I slid it on, clinging tighter with every tug. It molded to my body—arms, chest, legs—until I felt encased, the glossy surface outlining every curve. It creaked faintly as I moved, a sound that echoed in the silence, and my skin prickled with a mix of nerves and something else—something electric. I stepped out, adjusting the suit’s collar, and his eyes flicked up, appraising.
“Good fit,” he said, his tone clinical but edged with something darker. He handed me a script—ten pages, typed, explicit. “Start at the top. Slow. Let the suit work.”
I slipped on the headphones, the mic hovering inches from my lips, and began. “Her breath caught as the fabric tightened…” The words felt foreign, intimate, and the LaTeX amplified every shift—each inhale, each rustle as I turned a page. His voice crackled through the headphones, steady but low. “Slower. Feel it.”
I tried again, letting my voice drop, and the suit responded, creaking as my chest rose, the mic catching the slick slide of my arms against my sides. Heat crept up my neck, and I stumbled over a line—“His hands pressed her down, the rubber warm against her skin…”—my own suit mimicking the words, its grip a constant tease.
“Stop,” he said, stepping into the booth. The door clicked shut, sealing us in silence. “You’re holding back. It’s not just sound—it’s sensation. Let it in.” He stood close, his gloved hands flexing, and my breath hitched, loud in the mic.
“How?” I asked, barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer with words. His hand brushed my shoulder, the LaTeX glove sliding against my suit, a slick friction that sent a jolt through me. “Like this,” he murmured, his voice a command now. “Read again.”
I did, and this time he stayed, his hands guiding me—tracing my arms, pressing my back, each touch amplified by the suit’s tight hold. The script grew bolder—“She arched, the material stretching, her gasps swallowed by the night…”—and my voice wavered, the creak of LaTeX filling the space as he knelt, his fingers grazing my thighs. The mic caught it all, a symphony of rubber and breath, and I couldn’t tell if I was performing or unraveling.
“Perfect,” he said, his tone rougher now, and I felt him shift—closer, hotter. The script fell from my hands, forgotten, as his gloves slid lower, teasing where the suit stretched thinnest. My knees buckled, and he caught me, pressing me against the foam wall, its texture a stark contrast to the glossy heat between us.
“You’re recording this,” I gasped, half-question, half-plea.
“Every sound,” he confirmed, and then his lips were on mine—hard, hungry, the mic dangling forgotten as the suit creaked with our movement. His hands roamed, peeling open a hidden zipper at my chest, the cool air a shock against my flushed skin. I tugged at his shirt, but he pinned my wrists, the LaTeX gloves firm against my pulse.
“Not yet,” he growled, and slid the zipper lower, exposing me fully. His mouth followed, tracing my collarbone, then lower, the mic catching my moan as the suit stretched tight around my trembling legs. He knelt again, parting my thighs, and his tongue found me through a slit I hadn’t noticed—strategic, deliberate. The LaTeX clung, amplifying every lick, every shudder, until I was gripping the foam, the creak of rubber a desperate rhythm.
I pulled him up, frantic, and he shed his shirt, revealing a lean chest dusted with dark hair. His own LaTeX pants gleamed as he freed himself, pressing against me, the slick friction of our suits igniting sparks. He lifted me, pinning me to the wall, and thrust—slow at first, then harder, the creak of LaTeX mingling with our gasps, the mic dangling inches away, capturing it all. The suit tightened with every move, a relentless lover that pushed me higher, and I came undone, a sharp cry echoing in the booth as he followed, his grip bruising through the glossy black.
We sank to the floor, breathless, the LaTeX slick with sweat, still clinging like a possessive embrace. He adjusted his glasses, a faint smirk returning. “That’ll sell,” he said, nodding to the console where the red recording light still blinked.
I laughed, shaky, the suit creaking as I leaned against him. “Next session’s when?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, and I knew I’d be back.