rapper matt uses your sex tape as ad-libs
You found out by accident.
Sitting cross-legged on the studio couch, you were sipping from a water bottle, scrolling your phone, barely listening as the speakers played the rough mix of Matt’s new track. The beat dark and slow, your favorite kind. But something about the background caught your attention. A soft, breathy moan. Familiar.
You blinked, looking up, suddenly very aware of the sound coming through the speakers.
Then again. A soft gasp. Followed by a sharp cry.
“Matt.” Your voice was flat, jaw already dropping as the track played on, each beat layered with your moans, whimpers, the wet sound of skin slapping against skin, your ragged breaths.
Matt was leaned back in the producer’s chair, arms folded, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips like he was just waiting for you to figure it out.
Your moans bled into the beat, layered under the bass. Your gasps, your little cries, the sound of your body getting wrecked, all laced into the track like they belonged there.
“…Is this from—” you started, voice barely working. “Matt. Did you use our—”
He nodded once, cocky and slow. “Every sound.”
Your stomach flipped. “You’re sick.”
You stared at him, stunned silent, as the song continued each filthy sound from that night looped and layered into the beat. Your breath hitched when your voice came through again, whispering “fuck, right there” in the background.
Matt stood slowly, coming over to where you sat, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. He didn’t answer you. He just reached down, grabbed your chin, and tilted your head up.
“You said don’t forget you when I’m famous.” he reminded you.
“That’s not what I fucking meant.” You say.
“You hear that?” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “That little whimper? That’s when I had you face down, barely able to think.”
He kissed you, slow and deep, while your own moans echoed from the speakers behind him.
His hand slipped between your legs, pressing through your leggings, and your hips bucked into him on instinct.
“You gonna make some more for me?” he asked, grinning as the beat played behind him, filthy and full of you. “Need some fresh vocals, baby.”
You didn’t answer, not with words.
The pressure of his fingers through your leggings made it impossible to think, let alone speak. The track was still playing behind him, your moans echoing off the studio walls, syncing perfectly with the beat. Each sound you’d made that night turned into something rhythmic, hypnotic. It should’ve been humiliating.
But you were wet. Throbbing.
Matt could feel it, too. His smirk widened as his palm dragged slow, deliberate circles against your cunt.
“Already dripping,” he murmured. “Didn’t even touch you properly yet.”
The idea of him playing you like an instrument all over again, with every dirty sound recorded, captured, used. It had your legs going weak.
He dropped to his knees like it was nothing. Like he belonged there.
Fingers hooked the waistband of your leggings, dragging them down until they pooled at your ankles. He didn’t bother taking your panties off, he just pulled them to the side with one knuckle and groaned under his breath.
“Fuck. Missed this pussy.”
His mouth was on you before you could answer.
Tongue hot and messy, licking through your folds, not giving a single fuck about technique. Sucking, slurping, eating like he wanted the mic to catch everything. And it did.
You heard it, heard the wet noises, your gasp, your little cry of “Matt…oh my god” cut through the beat still playing in the background.
He pulled back for half a second, just to smirk up at you. “That mic’s live.”
Your thighs clenched around his head.
“You’re fucking recording this?” you panted, brain swimming.
“Uh-huh.” He flicked his tongue over your clit, fast, wicked.
Your fingers scrambled for balance, clutching the edge of the console behind you as your body writhed under his mouth. He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place as he devoured you, letting every moan, whimper, and curse get swallowed by the mic.
He was going to use this. Turn your orgasm into a hit.
And god, that just pushed you over the edge.
You came with a cry, back arching, hips grinding against his face, and the mic caught all of it, the tremble in your voice, the broken gasps, the wet suck of his mouth still working you through it.
Matt stood up after, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking cocky as hell.
“You hear that?” he said, nodding toward the playback.
Your orgasm, looped and layered into the beat, already sounded like part of the track.
“Perfect” he said, tugging your panties down the rest of the way. His eyes dragged over your body like he owned it, like he already knew the sound of it breaking apart. “Now bend over, baby.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“Let’s make this track go platinum.”
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