Part 12: Ruin Me

Note to Readers: If you have been liking my story so far, consider supporting me on Patreon

Part 12: Ruin Me (Finale)

I stumbled back, panting, dazed, trying to make sense of his words—his voice still rasping in my ears.

“I said,” Dylan growled, stepping forward, his thick cock bobbing between his legs as he moved, “get your fucking clothes off.”

I obeyed. I didn’t even think. My shirt came off in one motion, my jeans shoved down, boxers peeled after, clumsily kicking them aside. My hands were shaking, adrenaline and lust flooding me. I barely made it onto the couch before he was already climbing over me, grabbing my legs, dragging me into place.

He was strong. So strong.

His mouth was on my neck instantly—hot, hungry, biting. His cock pressed hard against my stomach, slick with spit and pre-cum, and I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop feeling him, grabbing at his back, shoulders, anywhere I could reach.

“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he whispered against my ear. “Wearing those tight jeans, sneaking around… jerking me off like some filthy little secret.”

I whimpered.

“You wanted to get fucked, didn’t you?” he said, hand sliding down, wrapping around the back of my thigh and pushing it up.

“Yeah,” I breathed, voice cracking.

He kissed me then—filthy and rough, like he was trying to devour the last breath out of my lungs. I moaned into his mouth as he grinded against me, his cock dragging along mine, hot and slick between our stomachs.

Then his hand slipped between us.

Fingers slid lower. Testing. Circling.

I gasped.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice softer for a second. “I got you.”

He reached for the bottle of lube already tossed beside the couch—he must’ve planned this—and slicked his fingers quickly before sliding one inside me. My body tensed, then opened, slowly, as he worked me open, one finger, then two, curling, stretching, teasing.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured, watching me with this stunned, almost reverent look. “So fucking good already.”

I was moaning shamelessly, hand gripping his bicep, back arching with every thrust of his fingers.

“I need you,” I gasped. “Dylan—please.”

“I’ve waited too long for this.”

His hands gripped my waist, strong and possessive, pulling me back as the thick head of his cock pressed against my hole. I gasped, body going tense.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice suddenly gentler. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow.

Thick.

Stretching me open inch by inch, forcing my body to take him, to feel him—every vein, every pulse, every twitch of that cock as it filled me deeper than I thought possible.

“F-fuck,” I choked out, eyes wide, nails digging into the couch cushion.

Dylan groaned behind me, like he was struggling to hold back. “So fucking tight,” he growled. “You were made for this.”

He bottomed out, hips flush to my ass, balls pressed firm and heavy. We stayed like that for a second, both panting, our bodies shaking.

Then he pulled out—slow—and slammed back in.

I cried out, loud and ****.

He did it again. And again. His rhythm building, harder, deeper, until my whole body rocked forward with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping filled the room. That and my moans. His grunts. The filthy sounds of him owning me.

“I want to hear you,” he growled, fucking me harder now, sweat dripping off him. “Let the whole damn neighborhood hear who you belong to.”

“Dylan,” I gasped. “You feel so—oh god—”

“That’s right,” he panted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Dylan—yes—fuck—”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanked me back, his chest now flush against my spine. I could feel his abs flexing every time he thrust into me.

“You begged for this,” he hissed into my ear. “You earned this.”

He fucked me like he meant it.

Like every second we’d waited had boiled into this exact moment.

I was wrecked—sweaty, shaking, moaning into the cushions as he took me from behind with brutal, aching need. My cock was leaking nonstop, untouched, dribbling onto the couch.

“Wanna see your face,” Dylan growled suddenly, pulling out.

He flipped me over like I weighed nothing, dragged my legs over his shoulders, and shoved back in with a single thrust. I screamed.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, watching me fall apart. “Look at that face. Ruined for me.”

I couldn’t stop shaking.

He drilled into me harder now, relentless, sweat rolling down his chest, eyes locked on mine like this was more than just fucking—it was claiming.

He leaned down, his lips crashing into mine between thrusts, sloppy and breathless. “You’re mine,” he panted. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I cried. “Yours, Dylan—yours.”

He growled into my mouth like a wild animal, grabbing my hips and slamming into me so hard I nearly came right then.

“You close?” he grunted.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He reached between us, wrapped his hand around my cock, and pumped once.

I came with a shout, body locking up, cum painting my stomach in thick, hot ropes. I was trembling, twitching, falling apart beneath him.

I exploded.

Thick white ropes shot up my stomach, coating my chest, twitching with every hard thrust of his cock still inside me. I shook through it, moaning, gasping, writhing.

“Fuck, fuck—” Dylan hissed—and then he grabbed my hips tight, slammed in one last time, and went still.

I felt it.

Hot. Deep. So much of it.

And Dylan didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pace turning frantic. “Fuck, Troy—gonna—”

He slammed deep once more—and came.

Hard.

He buried himself to the base, cock twitching inside me as his whole body shook with it. I could feel him pulsing, unloading, filling me up with everything he had. A low, guttural groan left his throat as he came so deep it made my head spin.

He came inside me with a loud moan, forehead pressed to mine, body shaking as he filled me.

We stayed like that for a long moment—both panting, drenched in sweat and cum, our bodies tangled, hearts pounding.

Then he leaned back just enough to look at me.

I blinked up at him.

He was grinning. All cocky, all Dylan. “Told you the wait would be worth it.”

I huffed a laugh, still trembling. “You arrogant bastard.”

“You love it.”

“I hate how much I do.”

He kissed me again. This time slower. Sweeter.

Then he flopped down next to me, dragging me into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I laid there on his chest, sticky and sore and satisfied in a way I’d never known. His fingers tangled in my hair. His other hand rubbed lazy circles into my back.

I could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath me.

His heartbeat slowing.

His breathing evening out.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough but soft now.

I nodded into his neck. “More than okay.”

We didn’t say much after that.

Just laid there, tangled up in sweat and cum and heavy breathing, my body still twitching from everything he’d just done to it. His arm slung over me. His chest rising and falling under my cheek. No pressure. No labels. Just the crash after the storm.

Eventually, he let out a lazy, cocky sigh. “Didn’t know you’d go full spaghetti noodle on me.”

I groaned, smacking his chest. “Don’t ruin it.”

He laughed—that laugh—and pulled me closer anyway, all smug warmth and muscle.

I didn’t say it out loud, but yeah. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be straight.

But he sure as hell just ruined me in the best way possible.

And that was enough.

• StoriesByTroy

Thank you so much for reading my story. This marks the end of the 12-part series, and I’m truly grateful you’ve come along for the ride.

If you enjoyed following Troy and Dylan's journey, consider supporting me by subscribing to my Patreon (StoriesByTroy) for early access, bonus scenes, and exclusive content—or by leaving a little tip here.

Your support helps me keep writing, and it means the world. Drop a comment, DM me, or share your favorite moment—I love hearing from you.