The Mechanic’s Apprentice – Part 19

Everyone in this story is 18+

Transformation

I took Gabby’s hand as we weaved through the crowd, the music pounding in my ears. Someone whistled from the corner. “Looks like Gabby and Ry are back on", followed by laughter. I ignored it, my chest tightening as we climbed the stairs.

We stepped into one of the bedrooms, the muffled sounds of the party fading as Gabby closed the door behind us. She leaned against it, her gaze fixed on me, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “So, Ryder,” she murmured, stepping closer, “we gonna pick up where we left off?”

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening, but not for the reasons it used to. Her hands slid up my chest, her touch familiar but suddenly foreign. She leaned in, her lips brushing against my neck, and for a moment, I froze. But then another image flashed in my mind—Connor. The way he’d looked at me, the sound of his laugh, the hurt in his eyes the last time we’d spoken.

I stiffened and gently pulled back. “Gabby, wait.”

Her smirk faltered. “What?”

“I can’t do this,” I said, stepping back further. “I’m sorry. I thought I could, but—”

Her eyes narrowed, anger flashing across her face. “Are you serious? You bring me up here, and now you’re backing out?”

“I didn’t mean to—” I started, but she cut me off.

“Whatever, Ryder,” she snapped, her tone dripping with venom. “It’s not like it would’ve been worth it anyway. You’d probably cum after five seconds like always.”

I let out a short laugh, surprising even myself. “Actually, Gabs,” I said, keeping my tone light but firm, “I’ve been practicing. It’s two whole minutes now. But hey, sorry I wasn’t the best boyfriend. Really. And honestly? The best thing you ever did for us both was breaking up with me. So thanks for that.”

Her jaw dropped, her glare sharpening.

Gabby scoffed, her lips curling into a mocking smirk. “Oh wow, two whole minutes. Must be because the ugly bitches you’ve been with after me don’t do it for you!”

I blinked, taken aback for a second before the words tumbled out of me, sharp and unfiltered. “Yeah, no,” I said, stepping closer, my voice steady. “Oh, he does it for me all right! A male fucking ballerina. Would you believe that?”

Her smirk faltered, confusion flickering in her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I didn’t bother explaining. I turned and headed down the stairs, my heart pounding harder than I’d like to admit. The whispers and glances from the others didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t that guy—not with Gabby, not with anyone. And for the first time in a while, I felt okay with that.

The house was quiet when I got back home, the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet the only sound. Mom had already gone to bed; her door was shut, a sliver of light from her bedside lamp visible under the crack. I tiptoed past, heading for my room.

Inside, I kicked off my shoes and threw my jacket over the back of my desk chair. The familiar clutter of my room felt suffocating tonight. I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, my chest heavy with the weight of everything. The party, Gabby, Connor—God, especially Connor.

I still felt like a fuckup. No, scratch that—I was a fuckup. My eyes landed on my phone, half-buried in the mess on my nightstand. I reached for it, scrolling aimlessly until I remembered what Elena had said. Christmas Ballet Show.

I hesitated, fingers hovering over the school’s website. Connor wouldn’t want me there, I knew that. But… it wasn’t about him wanting me there. It was about seeing him one last time. Watching him dance live, something I hadn’t done since… since everything. Maybe after that, I could move on. Maybe.

The tickets were easy enough to find. Two clicks, and they were reserved. My stomach twisted as I stared at the confirmation email. It felt both like a step forward and a step deeper into the mess I’d made.

I tossed my phone onto the bed and leaned back, running a hand through my hair. I needed to sleep, to get my head straight. But the tightness in my chest wouldn’t let up. My body was buzzing, restless, and I knew exactly how to get some relief.

I grabbed my laptop and opened Pornhub, scrolling through the usual mix of thumbnails. A guy fucking a girl—nothing. Another couple going at it—still nothing. I groaned, shifting uncomfortably as I clicked aimlessly.

Then I stopped, my fingers hovering over the trackpad. I closed the browser and opened my camera roll instead. My thumb slid over to a picture of Connor, one I’d snapped some time ago when he wasn’t paying attention. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hair messy, his blue eyes locked on his phone, a soft smile on his lips.

The reaction was instant. Heat rushed through me, my breath hitching as I felt the stir down below. Fuck! I thought, cursing under my breath.

What the hell was wrong with me? Connor was furious with me, wouldn’t even look at me, and here I was—pining like a lovesick idiot.

But I needed something—anything—to feel a little less hollow. Some endorphins. I grabbed my dick, frustration coursing through me as I worked myself over in a fast, angry jerk-off session. My grip was tight, my breaths short and sharp, like I could somehow exorcise all the guilt, anger, and loneliness in one furious moment. It was desperate, mechanical, more about drowning out the noise in my head than anything else.

It didn’t take long—my thoughts were still a mess of Connor’s smile, his touch, and the way his voice cracked when he yelled at me.

I clenched my jaw as I came, my dick pulsing out hard jets that only left me feeling more hollow. The cum lay splattered across my abs, stark and uncomfortably cold—a glaring reminder of just how pathetic this all felt.

I stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving, my mind already racing again. Great, I thought bitterly, reaching for some tissues off the nightstand to clean up the mess. The only person who actually does it for me hates my guts. Forever.