The call came while he was still lying in bed, shirtless, sweat dried to his skin and a dull ache still pulsing deep in his body from what Clinton had done to him that afternoon.
"Hey baby," her voice rang through the phone, soft and unaware, "I've missed you all week. Can I come over tonight? I need you."
Jenson stared at the ceiling. His throat tightened.
He hadn't even thought about her in days.
Not really.
He'd barely texted back. Every time he looked at her name, all he could think about was the way Clinton had bent him over his own desk, the way he had kissed him like he owned him, the way Jenson had begged for more like some used-up whore who didn't even remember what normal felt like.
But she still thought he was hers.
He tried to respond. "Yeah, maybe we—"
His voice cracked.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie.
He couldn't even imagine touching her now. Not when his body still belonged to someone else.
"I'm not feeling well," he finally said, the lie tasting like ash. "Maybe tomorrow."
She sounded disappointed, but sweet. Still trusting. "Okay. Rest up. I love you."
He didn't say it back.
When the call ended, he just stared at the phone in his hand for a long, silent minute.
Then he got up, pulled on jeans, didn't even bother with underwear, and left the apartment without thinking.
He knew where to go.
Clinton lived in a quiet neighborhood just off campus. Jenson had never been there before, but he found the house easily. Sleek, black gate. Trim hedges. No lights except one lamp glowing behind drawn curtains.
His heart was pounding.
He rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later, the door opened. Clinton stood there barefoot, in a black T-shirt and sweats, holding a glass of dark liquor. His eyes trailed over Jenson slowly, like he'd been expecting him.
Jenson didn't wait.
"I can't do this anymore," he said quietly.
Clinton arched a brow. "Then why are you here?"
Jenson's throat worked. He felt small. Raw.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered. "You've ruined me."
Clinton didn't speak for a second. Then he smiled — not wide, just enough to darken the air between them.
"Good," he said softly. "Let me ruin you more."
He stepped aside, and Jenson entered.
The house was quiet. Clean. It smelled like spice and wood and something expensive. The door clicked shut behind him.
"Take off your shoes," Clinton said, walking into the living room.
Jenson obeyed.
Clinton sat on a wide leather chair, legs parted slightly, drink still in hand.
"Kneel."
Jenson dropped without hesitation.
His knees sank into the soft rug as he looked up at the professor who had unraveled him piece by piece. Clinton set the glass down and reached for his waistband, slowly undoing the drawstring, then tugging his sweats down to his thighs.
His cock was already half hard.
"Open your mouth."
Jenson did, lips parting in anticipation.
Clinton didn't ease in.
He shoved the thick length between Jenson's lips, groaning as the heat of his mouth swallowed him. Jenson gagged, eyes watering, but he didn't pull back. He gripped Clinton's thighs and took him deeper.
"That's it," Clinton breathed. "You know your place now, don't you?"
Jenson moaned around him, sucking harder.
Clinton's hand slid into his hair, guiding him, controlling the rhythm. Jenson bobbed his head, tongue swirling around the shaft, jaw aching as he struggled to take all of it.
"You're such a good little mouth," Clinton said, thrusting into him. "Who owns you?"
Jenson pulled off for just a second. "You."
"Say it again."
"You own me," he whispered, lips swollen, eyes glassy.
Clinton shoved back into his mouth. Jenson moaned, saliva dripping down his chin.
After a few more strokes, Clinton grunted and pulled out.
"Get on the couch."
Jenson scrambled to obey, stripping off his shirt as he went. He lay back, legs spread, cock flushed and leaking.
Clinton didn't climb on top of him right away.
Instead, he sank to his knees.
Jenson's eyes widened.
"What are you—"
"Shut up," Clinton said, gripping his thighs. "You've earned this."
Then he swallowed him.
Jenson's head slammed back against the cushion. "Fuck!"
Clinton's mouth was hot and wet and relentless. He licked up the shaft, teased the head, sucked until Jenson was shaking. He took him deep, deeper than Jenson thought possible, throat working around the length.
Jenson was panting, legs twitching. "I'm gonna come, fuck, please…"
Clinton pulled off with a wicked smirk.
"Not yet."
He climbed onto the couch, straddling Jenson's hips. He spat in his hand and slicked himself again before gripping Jenson's cock.
"You're going to fuck me now," he said. "You think you're ruined? You're just getting started."
He guided the thick head to his entrance and pushed down slowly.
Jenson moaned, watching as Clinton sank onto him inch by inch, tight heat swallowing him whole.
"Jesus," he gasped. "You feel so…"
Clinton rolled his hips, smirking. "Say it."
"So good."
Clinton began to ride him.
Slow at first, grinding, taking his time like he knew exactly how to break him. Jenson gripped his waist, eyes locked on the way Clinton moved. It was hypnotic, filthy, and perfect.
The pace quickened. Clinton bounced harder, grinding down, moaning as he took Jenson deeper with every thrust.
"You're mine," he growled.
"Yes," Jenson gasped. "Fuck, yes."
Their bodies slapped together. Sweat glistened across Clinton's chest. Jenson sat up and sucked one of his nipples into his mouth, biting lightly.
Clinton groaned. "You love this, don't you?"
"I can't stop," Jenson admitted. "I don't want to."
Clinton leaned down and kissed him, deep and filthy, still grinding on his cock. Their tongues slid together, moans caught between their teeth.
Jenson felt his orgasm building again.
"Please," he begged. "Let me come."
Clinton didn't stop moving. "Come inside me. Fill me up."
That was all it took.
Jenson let go, groaning as he came hard, cock pulsing deep inside Clinton's tight heat. He held him tight, buried to the hilt, shaking from the force of it.
Clinton didn't stop riding him.
He stroked himself while grinding down, chasing his own release.
Then with a low, guttural moan, he came all over Jenson's stomach, ropes of cum painting his skin.
They collapsed together, tangled and sticky, panting in silence.
Jenson didn't care about anything else.
Not the phone buzzing in his jeans on the floor.
Not the girlfriend he couldn't face.
Not the guilt.
He just lay there, wrecked and content, under the man who had ruined him.
And deep down…
He wanted to be ruined again.