The studio is locked up, lights dimmed low, and the air thick with heat. You and John are tangled together on a bed of blankets in the center of the room, hearts racing, skin flushed. There’s no script tonight. No instruments. No plan. Just the steady spin of a reel-to-reel recorder and the feeling that something sacred is about to happen.

He’s close—his lips ghosting over your cheek, his breath catching as he murmurs. “Nothing but our names tonight… let the whole world hear how we need each other.”

You nod, eyes locked with his, your body already trembling in anticipation.

He reaches over, presses record—and the silence is broken.

“John…” Your voice is soft at first, like silk.

His comes right after, deep and hungry. Your name.

Then again. And again.

Louder. Rougher. You’re gasping it—his name, dragged out of you in waves.

He’s crying yours out, almost desperate. There’s no rhythm, no melody—just the raw sound of passion. His name slips from your lips as a moan, then a whimper, then a scream.

Your name crashes out of him like thunder—low, shaking, filled with need.

It’s not pretty. It’s not polished. It’s real.

Twenty minutes of moaned names, breathless gasps, broken cries, sharp whispers, and aching release.

The tape catches every bit of it.

Not a song. Not a performance. Just you and John, needing each other so deeply it has to be recorded.