Chapter 104 : Finding the Space Between Notes
New York, Lower Manhattan – Alex's POV
The rehearsal space hasn't changed much since the last time I was here.
Same scuffed hardwood floor, same mismatched amps pushed against the walls like furniture no one's bothered to replace. The air smells faintly of dust, warm electronics, and coffee that's been reheated too many times. Cables snake across the floor in familiar patterns, taped down where someone once tripped and swore it wouldn't happen again.
It's comfortable in the way places become when they've absorbed enough hours of work to stop feeling temporary.
Dazzler is already here when we arrive.
Not center stage. Not waiting to be acknowledged. She's standing slightly off to the side, humming under her breath, testing a handheld mic without plugging it in yet. No warm-up theatrics. Just sound, felt internally first.
Gwen gives her a quick nod as she sets her guitar down. No greeting speech. No awkward "ready?" The assumption is already there: we're here to work.
MJ drops her bag by the amp and starts flipping through her notes, eyes sharp, posture alert. Darcy is already poking at a pedal she doesn't technically need to touch, mostly because not touching things has never been her instinct. Cindy Moon sits cross-legged on the floor near her rig, tuning by ear, head tilted slightly as if she's listening to something under the surface. Betty Brant leans against the wall, arms folded, watching the room settle with the quiet attention of someone who notices more than she speaks.
Lyz Allan plugs in last, methodical, making sure her levels are exactly where she left them the previous session.
No one announces Dazzler's presence.
They don't have to.
Gwen strums a chord—not a count-in, just a sound to anchor the room. The others respond almost reflexively. A bass note slides into place. Drums follow, light at first, testing the shape of the rhythm without committing to it.
Dazzler doesn't jump in.
She listens.
That's the first thing that stands out.
She tracks the tempo with her body, a subtle shift of weight from heel to toe, head moving in time. When the groove locks—not perfectly, but close enough to be interesting—she lifts the mic and adds a single note.
Not a lyric. Just tone.
It slips into the space between Gwen's vocal line and the harmony Cindy's been sketching out, not overpowering either, just… aligning. The sound isn't loud, but it changes the room immediately. The air feels denser, like something just found its place in the mix.
MJ's eyes flick up, sharp.
Gwen keeps playing, but her shoulders loosen a fraction, instinctively adjusting her phrasing to make room. She doesn't look at Dazzler yet. She doesn't need to. The music is already doing the conversation.
They run the verse once.
Then again.
The second time, Dazzler adds a harmony—low, restrained, sliding under Gwen's lead instead of competing with it. It's not flashy. It's precise. She's feeling out the edges, testing where she can press without distorting the shape.
Cindy mirrors her on the next pass, weaving a higher line that shouldn't work but does, the two voices brushing past each other without colliding.
Lyz adjusts the rhythm section almost imperceptibly, tightening the pocket so the vocals have something solid to sit on.
Betty nods once, to no one in particular.
I lean back against the wall, hands in my pockets, and watch.
No one is directing this.
That's the point.
Gwen cuts the song halfway through with a raised hand. "Let's take it from the bridge."
No explanation. No critique.
They do.
This time, Dazzler doesn't wait for the opening. She enters on the downbeat, confident now, voice carrying more weight, but still disciplined. The sound swells—not louder, just fuller. It's the difference between a room with good acoustics and one that suddenly feels like it was built for music.
Dazzler smiles, but it's small, contained. She doesn't take the moment and run with it. She lets it pass back into the group.
MJ steps closer, listening critically, then says, "Try that same line, but don't resolve it. Leave it hanging."
Dazzler nods immediately. No debate.
They try it again.
The unresolved harmony leaves a tension in the air that snaps satisfyingly when Gwen comes back in on the next line. It's subtle, but it changes the emotional contour of the song. Makes it lean forward.
Cindy exhales, pleased. "That's better."
Lyz glances at MJ. "You want to keep that through the second chorus?"
MJ considers for half a second. "Yes. But softer."
Dazzler adjusts without comment.
What strikes me isn't how good she is—everyone here is good. It's how quickly she reads the room. She's not inserting herself. She's integrating. Finding the negative space and occupying it just enough to matter.
They move through another song.
Then another.
Not everything lands. One harmony muddies the rhythm; Gwen stops and shakes her head, thoughtful rather than frustrated. Dazzler pulls back immediately, listens again, recalibrates. No ego. No defensiveness.
It works better than expected.
The room shifts.
Not dramatically. No one says it out loud. But the music starts to feel like something that wants an audience.
I've seen enough rehearsals to recognize the difference.
There's practice, where you're fixing problems.
And then there's rehearsal, where you're discovering potential.
This is the second.
During a break, people scatter without ceremony. Water bottles. Adjustments. Cindy sits back on the floor again, stretching. Lyz checks her phone, then sets it face down, attention returning to the room.
Dazzler leans against an amp, breathing evenly, eyes unfocused—not tired, just processing.
Gwen steps closer, casual. "That last harmony—you found it fast."
Dazzler shrugs lightly. "It was already there. I just… stepped into it."
MJ nods. "You didn't force it. That helps."
"That's usually where things break," Dazzler says simply.
No one disagrees.
They don't talk about joining. They don't talk about labels. The conversation stays anchored to the work—what felt right, what might need tightening, where the energy peaks without tipping into excess.
Betty speaks up for the first time in a while. "If this goes onstage like that," she says, measured, "people are going to notice."
Not hype. Observation.
Dazzler looks at Gwen then, direct but unpressured. "If you want to try this again," she says, "I'm around. No expectations."
Gwen meets her gaze. "Good. Because we're not done exploring it."
The second half of rehearsal is looser.
They experiment more. Let sections breathe. Try a tempo that's probably too slow, then abandon it without ceremony. Dazzler starts anticipating Gwen's phrasing now, coming in half a beat earlier, or hanging back just enough to create tension.
The band responds instinctively.
This is where it becomes clear how it would feel live.
Not louder. Not bigger.
More present.
When they finally stop, no one rushes to pack up. There's a shared reluctance to break the moment, like standing up too fast after sitting somewhere comfortable.
Gwen wipes her hands on her jeans, thoughtful. "We should run this again tomorrow."
MJ nods. "Same time. Same setup."
Cindy smiles, tired and satisfied. "I want to see what it does after a night's rest."
Dazzler glances around the room. "I can be back."
No commitment demanded. No contract implied.
Just alignment.
As they start to pack up, I push off the wall and step closer—not to lead, just to be present.
The space empties gradually. Cables coiled. Amps powered down. The room returns to its familiar, slightly chaotic stillness.
Conversations taper off into practical goodbyes. Cindy leaves first, headphones already on, half-absorbed in whatever she's replaying in her head. Lyz follows with a nod and a reminder about timing tomorrow. Gwen walks Dazzler to the door, their exchange easy, unforced—nothing concluded, nothing postponed, just an understanding that this will continue.
MJ waits.
Not deliberately, not pointedly. She finishes packing her bag at the same unhurried pace she's kept all evening, then looks up when the room is nearly empty.
"Alex," she says, calm. "Can you stay a minute?"
It isn't a request that needs justification. Gwen glances back, reads the moment instantly, and gives me a small nod—no question in it, just trust—before she and Dazzler step out together. The door closes softly behind them.
Gwen glances back, reads the moment instantly, and gives me a small nod—no question in it, just trust—before she and Dazzler step out together. The door closes softly behind them
The rehearsal room feels different with the sound gone. Bigger. Quieter. The kind of quiet that holds instead of empties.
MJ sets her bag down instead of shouldering it. She doesn't move closer right away. She just leans against one of the amps, arms loosely crossed, eyes on me—not searching, not guarded.
I patted the space beside me. "Sit. Talk."
She didn't sit beside me. Instead, she turned and lowered herself onto my lap, facing me, her legs straddling my thighs. The warm, solid weight of her settled against me, her belly a gentle press against my own. Her scent—vanilla, sweat, and something uniquely, fundamentally her—wrapped around me. She looped her arms around my neck, her fingers playing with the hair at my nape.
"I'm yours, Alex," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Completely. You know that. The harem, the rules… Gwen explained it all. I love you. I'm carrying your child." Her eyes searched mine, intense. "But it's all… inside. Private. I want something… outside."
I kept my hands on her hips, steadying her. "What do you want, MJ?"
"A mark," she said, the word leaving her lips with a kind of reverent finality. "A sign. From you. Something that tells me, and maybe… if they look close enough… tells others, that I belong to someone. That I have an owner. That I'm claimed." A blush crept up her neck, but her gaze didn't waver. "We've talked about the… the dynamic. What I need. What I crave from you. The submission. You know I fantasize about it. About you just… taking. Controlling."
I did know. It was a core part of the beautiful, complex woman in my lap—the passionate performer who needed, on a deep, visceral level, to surrender that control to someone she trusted absolutely. My thumb stroked the swell of her hip through the dress. "You want a collar."
She exhaled, a shuddery breath of relief, as if I'd lifted a weight. "Yes. But not just for… for here. For the bedroom. I found something." She shifted, reaching into the small bag she'd left by the sofa. Her movement pressed her more firmly into my lap, and I felt myself stir in response. She pulled out a small velvet box and opened it.
Inside, on a bed of black silk, lay a collar. It was beautiful in its severity. A band of supple black leather, about an inch wide, with a sturdy, polished steel O-ring at the front. It was simple, elegant, and unambiguously what it was.
"This is for you," she said, her voice trembling with anticipation. "For when we're alone. For when you want to… to direct me." She took a deep breath. "But I also want something for out there. Something discreet. A necklace you choose. A bracelet you lock on me. Something only we know the meaning of, but that I can feel against my skin all day, reminding me." Her eyes were pleading now, hungry for this symbol of possession. "Will you? Will you put your mark on me? Both ways?"
I took the box from her hands. The leather was cool and smooth under my fingertips. I looked from the collar to her face, to the faint, proud swell of her belly beneath the dress. A protective ferocity, sharp and hot, lanced through me. This woman. Carrying my child. Asking me, begging me, to claim her even more thoroughly. It was the most profound gift of trust I could imagine.
"Yes," I said, the word absolute. "But the public symbol… we find that together. Something perfect. Something that doesn't shout, but… whispers. To you. To me." I lifted the collar from the box. The steel ring gleamed dully in the studio lights. "And this… this is for now."
A full-body shiver went through her. Her lips parted. "Yes. Please."
"Stand up," I instructed, my tone shifting into that calm, commanding register she responded to like a tuning fork.
She rose from my lap, her legs slightly unsteady. She turned her back to me, presenting the nape of her neck. Her red hair was piled in a messy bun, leaving the delicate skin exposed. I stood, the collar in my hands. I brought it around her throat, the leather cool against her flushed skin. She held perfectly still, her breathing shallow and fast. I fastened the buckle at the back, snug but not tight, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. The O-ring rested in the hollow of her throat, a dark, declarative punctuation.
The effect was instantaneous and electric. Her posture changed. The slight slouch of pregnancy vanished, replaced by a straight-backed, receptive stillness. Her shoulders dropped. She was waiting.
I reached into the box again. Beneath the collar's inset was a thin, matching leather leash, about four feet long, with a steel clip. I attached it to the O-ring with a definitive click.
The sound seemed to vibrate through her. She let out a soft, shuddering sigh.
I gave the leash a gentle, experimental tug. Not enough to move her, just enough for her to feel the pressure, the connection, the guidance. Her head tilted back slightly, a low moan catching in her throat.
"This is what you wanted," I stated, winding the leash once around my fist, shortening the distance between us to just a few feet. The leather was taut, a physical line of power.
"It's what I need," she breathed, her voice already husky with surrender.
"On your knees."
She went down gracefully, her knees sinking onto the worn rug in front of the sofa. She looked up at me, her green eyes huge and dark, the collar a stark, beautiful contrast against her pale skin. The leash hung from my fist to her throat, a constant, undeniable tether.
I sat back on the sofa, spreading my legs. "You know what to do."
She didn't need more instruction. She crawled forward on her knees, the leash going slack as she moved into the space between my legs. Her hands went to my belt, her fingers fumbling only slightly in her eagerness. She got my jeans and boxers open, pushing them down my hips. My cock, already fully hard, sprang free, thick and heavy against my stomach.
Her eyes locked on it, a hungry, worshipful look on her face. She leaned in, but didn't touch me with her mouth yet. Instead, she nuzzled the length of me, her cheek rubbing against my shaft, her warm breath cascading over my skin. She inhaled deeply, as if memorizing my scent. "Mine," she whispered, the word a hot puff against my flesh.
Then her tongue emerged, a pink, wet point that traced a slow, torturous path from the base all the way to the tip. Lick. A long, flat stroke along the underside. Slk. Her mouth opened, and she took just the head inside, swirling her tongue around the sensitive corona before pulling off with a soft pop.
"Tease," I murmured, my voice rough.
A sly smile touched her lips. She was in her element—the performance, the seduction, but now channeled entirely into my pleasure, under my control. She took me deeper, her lips stretching into a perfect 'O' as she worked her way down my length. She was good at this, passionate and attentive, her mouth a hot, wet heaven. Her head began to bob in a slow, steady rhythm, one hand wrapping around my base, the other resting on my thigh for balance. Schlrp. Glrk. Shlrp.
The sounds were filthy and perfect. I watched her, my fist tight on the leash, feeling the slight pull and release as she moved. Her eyes were closed in concentration, her brows slightly furrowed. The collar was a dark band around her throat, emphasizing every swallow, every gasp for air.
My free hand came up and tangled in her red hair, not forcing, just holding, guiding the pace. I tugged on the leash, just a fraction. She moaned around me, the vibration traveling straight to my core. I pulled a little harder, and she understood, taking me deeper, until her nose pressed into my pubic bone. She held it, her throat working valiantly around the intrusion, before I released the tension and let her pull back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to my glistening cock.
"Enough," I said, my voice strained. As much as I wanted to lose myself in her mouth, a different need was pounding through me. A need to connect, to feel her, to be inside the woman carrying my child. To claim her in the most fundamental way possible, while worshipping the life growing within her.
I gave the leash a firm pull, guiding her up. She rose on her knees, her face flushed, her lips swollen and wet. I stood, pulling her up with me by the leash. I turned her, her back to my front, and walked her the few steps to the studio's sturdy, scarred wooden table used for equipment. I swept a few loose cables and a notebook aside with my arm.
"Bend over," I instructed, my lips at her ear. "Hands flat on the table. And be careful of your stomach. Support your weight on your arms."
She obeyed instantly, leaning forward until her torso was angled over the table, her ass presented to me. The black dress rode up, revealing the black lace of her panties. With one hand still holding the leash, I hooked my fingers into the lace at her hips and pulled them down, past her knees, letting them fall to the floor. She was bare, exposed, glistening with her own arousal. The sight of her, collared and bent, her pregnant form arched over the table, was the most potent aphrodisiac I'd ever known.
I released the leash, letting it dangle. I needed both hands. I positioned myself behind her, my knees nudging hers wider apart. I ran my hands over the full, perfect curves of her ass, then down her thighs. My cock, slick with her saliva, nudged against her wet entrance.
I leaned over her, bracing one hand on the table near her head, the other returning to her hip, gripping her possessively. "You're mine, MJ," I growled, the words raw. "This is mine. The life inside you is mine."
"Yes," she sobbed, pushing her hips back in invitation. "Please, Alex. I need to feel you. I need you to… to remind me."
I pushed forward.
Even soaked and ready, the first inch was a tight, breathtaking squeeze. Her body welcomed me, but the fit was snug, incredible. I moved slowly, with infinite care, sinking into her warm, velvety depths one deliberate, measured inch at a time. Her breath hitched with each advance, little gasps and whimpers that fueled the fire in my blood. I bottomed out, my hips pressed firmly against her ass, buried to the hilt. A deep, full shlorp sound marked my complete entry. I was as deep inside her as I could possibly go.
A ragged cry tore from her throat. "Oh, god… Alex… you're so deep… you feel…" Her words dissolved into a moan as I began to move.
My thrusts were not the frantic, driving pace I'd used with Wendy. This was different. This was a slow, deep, worshipful claiming. I pulled back almost all the way, savoring the drag of her tight inner walls, then pushed back in with that same careful, profound stroke. Each penetration was a deliberate act of possession, each withdrawal a promise of return. The pace was a slow, rolling rhythm, deep and thorough. Thud… schlllp… thud…
My hand on her hip kept her steady, my other arm braced near her head, my body curving over hers in a protective arc. I could feel the new firmness of her belly pressed against the table, the subtle curve that was our child. The thought, the reality of it, sent a surge of emotion and lust so powerful it was dizzying.
"You're so beautiful like this," I murmured, my lips against her shoulder. "Taking me so perfectly. Growing our baby. My good girl. My perfect, pregnant girl."
She wept then, quiet, overwhelmed sobs of pleasure and emotion. "Don't stop… please, don't ever stop…"
I kept the rhythm, deep and slow, each thrust a calculated invasion of her senses. The tension built not in a frantic race, but in a slow, steady climb. Her inner muscles began to flutter around me, a telltale sign. I slid my hand from her hip around to the front, my fingers slipping through her damp curls until I found her clit. It was a hard, throbbing bead, begging for attention. I pressed the pad of my thumb against it, rubbing in slow, firm circles, perfectly synchronized with my deep, penetrating strokes.
"Alex… I'm… I'm gonna…"
"Come for me," I commanded, my voice a husky rasp. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
Her climax broke over her with a powerful, rolling intensity. It wasn't a sharp, screaming peak, but a deep, full-body undulation, a wave of pleasure that seemed to originate from the very core of her, from where our child lay. Her back arched, a long, broken moan echoing in the studio as her channel clenched and rippled around me in a series of intense, milking pulses. Warmth flooded my shaft, her release joining the slick friction. She shuddered, her arms trembling as she held herself up, completely lost in the sensation.
It pushed me over the edge. The sight of her, the feel of her climax, the knowledge of what we'd created together—it was too much. My own control shattered. My slow, deep thrusts became harder, faster, more urgent. I slammed into her, my hips meeting her ass with solid, wet smacks that echoed off the walls.
"Gonna fill you," I grunted, my vision blurring at the edges. "Gonna pump my cum so deep into my pregnant woman…"
I drove into her one last, final time, burying myself as deep as her body would allow, and held. My body locked, every muscle corded tight.
The eruption was cataclysmic. A voluminous, scalding SPLURT erupted from me, a hot, liquid flood that shot directly into her deepest recesses. She cried out, her body jerking with the intimate impact. A second, massive gush followed instantly, GLORCH, a seemingly endless torrent that painted her insides, claiming the space around our growing child. The pulses kept coming—splurt… splurt… splort—heavy, thick, and deliberate, each one a primal stamp of ownership, a biological affirmation. I could feel the heat spreading inside her, the incredible, intimate fullness of my release.
I collapsed over her, my weight carefully supported on my arms, my body still twitching as the last few weak spurts left me. I was buried inside her, still connected, still claiming. Our harsh, ragged breaths were the only sound. The air smelled of sex, leather, and us.
Slowly, carefully, I pulled out. The sound was a wet, sucking pop. The moment I withdrew, a rush of my cum followed, a warm, pearly stream that flowed out of her and dripped onto the floor between her legs. She gasped, a sharp, sensitive sound at the sudden emptiness and the undeniable spill.
I straightened up, my legs unsteady. I unfastened the collar's buckle, sliding it gently from her throat. The red mark it left was faint, temporary. The other mark, the one inside her, was anything but.
She pushed herself upright, turning to face me. Her face was a mess of tears, smudged mascara, and radiant, sated joy. She looked at the puddle on the floor, then back at me, a slow, blissful smile spreading across her face. She stepped into me, ignoring the mess, and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my chest. Her hands found mine, and our fingers intertwined, lacing together tightly, a silent, profound bond that spoke more than words ever could.