Part 2

You didn’t have a chance to search much more of the phone when it buzzed with a notification. Your thumb hovered over the screen, still slick with the remains of your release, as you realized a new text from an unknown number had come through. Your pulse kicked up. No way. You’d assumed this phone was just a graveyard of old filth, but the little "Delivered" tag under the message told you the truth: it was still synced to Bryce’s iCloud. Fresh. Live. Updating in real fucking time.

You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. But your cock twitched against your palm, already half-hard again as you tapped the notification. The number wasn’t saved on this phone so this must be someone new or maybe he just didn’t save his lover’s numbers for privacy.The photo loaded instantly—a selfie, dimly lit, the angle just low enough to show Bryce pressed against a broad broad back of an older man, his head tilted back in a lazy, post-sex grin. His hands were splayed over the man’s impressive chest and stomach, fingers dangerously close to the waistband of his belt. Bryce is wearing the same over-washed pair jeans he’d had on when he handed you this phone today. Your breath hitched. That was recent. The timestamp confirmed it: sent twenty minutes ago. While you’d been jerking off to his old videos, Bryce had been out railing some silver fox. The man’s cologne probably still clinging to his skin.

Then the texts started rolling in, one after another, like they were happening in real time. Your free hand clenched into a fist as you read, knuckles white.

Unknown: Still feel you dripping down my thigh. Fucking hell, boy. 

Bryce: Good. Want you to remember who owns that tight ass of yours. 

Unknown: Next time I’m bending you over my desk and fucking you raw. No lube. Just spit and your whimpering. 

Bryce: Promise? ;) Gonna ride your dick so hard you’ll forget your own name.

Your cock throbbed, leaking onto your fingers. This wasn’t just some hookup—this was dirty. Filthy. The kind of power play that made your balls ache. You scrolled up, heart hammering, and saw the older man’s name at the top of the thread: Bill. His boss. The pieces clicked together with a sick, exhilarating clarity. All those nights he’d had to “work late” and bailed on your plans, he was getting his ass stretched by some dominant bastard while you sat here, dick in hand, nothing but a voyeur to his real life.

The last message made your stomach flip.

Bryce: Miss you already. Wish you were here to fuck my mouth again. 

Bill: Soon, slut. Gonna make you swallow every drop this time. No spitting.

You groaned, thumb pressing too hard on the screen as you imagined it—Bryce on his knees in some plush office, Bill’s thick cock shoved down his throat, his hands tangled in Bryce’s hair, forcing him to take it all. The visual was too much. Your own cock pulsed, desperate for friction, but you couldn’t look away. Not even when another photo came through—this one a close-up of Bill’s hand wrapped around Bryce’s throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make Bryce’s lips part in a silent gasp. The caption read: Next time, it’s your turn to choke on me.

Fuck. Fuck, you were hard, aching, the head of your cock wet with precome as you stroked yourself in rough, desperate pulls. This wasn’t just sex. This was a lot more. The way Bryce talked to him—whiny, needy, obsessed—it wasn’t just a fuckbuddy thing. He was in deep. And you? You were just the pathetic friend jerking off to the crumbs of his real life, your own release nothing compared to the raw, filthy connection they had.

The phone buzzed again. You almost dropped it.

Bill: Goodnight, babe. Dream of my cock.

His reply was instant.

Bryce: Always do.