Courts of Privilege

Pedro had learned, over four years at Harwick & Stein, that banking was less about numbers and more about knowing when to keep your mouth shut. The caning at George's house, the buggerings from the chairman, the assault in the gym changing room by Harry and James — each one had been filed away in a locked drawer at the back of his mind, right next to the ring he'd picked out for Natalie and the vague feeling that maybe, just maybe, he should have gone into teaching instead.

The New York trip had been exactly what he needed. A week of proper work, proper restaurants, proper bars with proper cocktails. Manhattan in late spring, with its yellow cabs and steam vents and women in sunglasses who looked like they'd stepped out of magazines. George had been on good form — generous, relaxed, almost paternal in the way he'd steered Pedro through meetings at Leximan Brothers. For a few days, Pedro had felt like a normal young banker, not someone's plaything.

So when Travis Jackson, one of Leximan's senior partners, suggested a Friday evening game of tennis at his country club in New Jersey before their overnight flight back to London, Pedro had thought: why not? One more American experience. A bit of fresh air. A Pimms or two. What could possibly go wrong?

The country club was the kind of place that smelled of cut grass and old money. Travis met them at the entrance, all six foot one of him, broad-shouldered in a crisp white polo shirt, his light brown hair — specked with grey at the temples — swept back from a clean-shaven face that looked like it had never spent a day indoors. He shook George's hand with a grip that lasted a beat too long.

"And this must be Pedro," Travis said, turning that wide American smile on him. "George talks about you constantly."

"Only the good bits," George said, clapping Pedro on the shoulder.

Travis had invited one of Leximan's junior associates to even things up. Brad Crew was twenty-seven, blonde, with a floppy fringe that kept falling into his eyes and a fresh-faced look that suggested he still thought the world was fundamentally fair. He was built like a rower — muscular, well-proportioned, about five ten — and he greeted Pedro with an easy grin and a fist bump that made Pedro feel momentarily like they were on the same team.

Which, he would later realise, they were. Just not in the way he'd assumed.

They sat in the bar — empty apart from them, the bartender having disappeared somewhere into the back — and drank Pimms. Travis ordered the first round with the casual authority of a man who owned the place, or at least had a standing tab that suggested he might as well.

"So," Travis said, leaning back in his leather chair and looking at George with a twinkle in his eye, "you still think you can play tennis? I seem to recall the last time we played, you spent more time arguing line calls than actually hitting the ball."

George snorted. "That was in 2019, and the line call was wrong. You know it was wrong."

"Every line call you've ever disputed was wrong, in your opinion."

"That's because I have good eyesight."

Travis laughed — a big, room-filling laugh. Brad grinned into his drink. Pedro watched the two older men circle each other, recognising the dynamic instantly. George was his mentor, his boss, the man who'd taken him to dinners and taught him how to read a balance sheet and, on one memorable occasion, stood by while Pedro got caned by his former headmaster. Travis was George's American mirror — same age bracket, same seniority, same restless competitive energy. They'd known each other for years, and the rivalry between them was the kind that had calcified into something almost affectionate, like two old dogs growling at each other through a fence.

Another round of Pimms arrived. The sun was dropping outside, casting long amber shadows across the bar floor.

"Tell you what," Travis said, swirling his drink. "Let's make this interesting."

George raised an eyebrow. "Interesting how?"

"Proper wager. Not money — you'd never let me hear the end of it if you lost cash. No, I'm thinking something more..." Travis paused, searching for the word. "Traditional."

Pedro's fingers tightened around his glass. The word 'traditional' landed in his chest like a stone dropped into still water.

"What do you mean, traditional?" George asked, and Pedro could hear the careful edge in his voice — not concern, exactly, but the tone of a man making sure he understands the terms before agreeing to anything.

Travis leaned forward. "Simple. Losing pair — the junior associate takes the punishment. American style and British style, both. Fifty licks with the frat paddle hanging on the wall in the club room. Twenty-five from each of the winners. That's the American part." He paused. "Then they get buggered by the senior associate of the winning team. That's the British part."

He winked. Then laughed, loud and long.

"Unless you're chicken, George."

Pedro looked at Brad. Brad looked at Pedro. They both did the same quick mental calculation: our bosses are making a bet where we're the collateral. This is insane. They won't actually go through with it.

George drained his Pimms. "You're on."

Pedro opened his mouth to say something — anything — but George was already standing up, pulling off his jumper, heading for the courts. Brad gave Pedro a shrug that said *what can you do* and followed.

The tennis was genuinely good. Travis had clearly been playing regularly, his serve powerful and precise, his net game aggressive. George was steadier, a baseline player with a knack for placement that came from years of patience. Pedro, for his part, was decent — quick on his feet, good returns, his tight five-foot-eight frame moving lightly across the clay. Brad was athletic but raw, overhitting his forehand and apologising every time he did.

They took the first set 6-4, Pedro and George. George was triumphant, punching the air after the final point, and Travis looked genuinely irritated.

"You got lucky," Travis called across the net.

"Skill, old boy. Pure skill."

The second set was tighter. Travis found his range, Brad stopped apologising and started actually playing, and the momentum shifted. They went to a tie-break, which Travis and Brad took 7-6 after Pedro double-faulted at a critical moment. He kicked the clay under his shoes and swore under his breath.

The third set was all Travis and Brad. Travis was playing like a man possessed, his muscular arms whipping the racket through the air with controlled fury, and Brad was feeding him at the net with surprising accuracy. They took it 6-3.

"Good game," George said at the end, shaking Travis's hand across the net. He was gracious in defeat, but Pedro could see the tension in his jaw, the way his grip lingered a second too long. George hated losing. Always had.

They walked back to the club room, towels around their necks, sweating and laughing about a couple of wild shots. The room was still empty. A paddle — a proper wooden frat paddle, dark oak with a row of holes drilled along its length — hung on the wall above the fireplace, displayed like a museum piece.

Travis ordered another round of Pimms. They sat on the leather sofa, cooling off. Pedro was thirsty and drank his quickly, thinking about the flight, about getting home, about calling Natalie from the taxi.

"Well," George said, checking his watch, "we should think about heading to the airport. Flight's at ten."

"I'll drive you," Travis said. "Good luck getting a cab out here at this hour."

"Brilliant, thanks Trav."

Travis smiled. Then stood up. Walked to the wall. Took the paddle down.

"First things first, though," he said, turning to face them. He held the paddle at his side, his expression shifting from friendly host to something harder, something with an edge. "Time to settle up."

Nobody moved. George laughed — a short, uncertain laugh. "Come on, Travis. Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Brad looked at his boss. "Wait — you're not actually—"

"A deal's a deal, Brad. You lost. Your British colleague here pays the price." Travis pointed the paddle at Pedro. "Trousers down, pants down, bend over the arm of the sofa."

Pedro laughed too. It was the only response that made sense. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

Pedro looked at George. George looked at the floor, then at the paddle, then at Pedro. His face was unreadable.

"George?" Pedro said.

"Do as he says," George said quietly. "Let's just get it done and get to the airport."

The words hit Pedro like a cold wave. He knew that tone. He'd heard it before — at the dinner with Alistair, at the gym, at every moment when George had stepped aside and let something happen. George was mild-mannered, sure. But he had an edge, and the edge was always the same: *this is how things work, and you will go along with it.*

Pedro stood up. His hands were shaking slightly. He told himself it was just a paddling — he'd been caned before, for God's sake — and then they'd be in the car and on the way to the airport and this would go in the drawer with everything else.

He undid his belt. Dropped his trousers. Dropped his pants. The leather of the sofa arm was cool against his stomach as he bent over, his pale, tight arse exposed to the room. He heard Brad inhale sharply behind him.

"Good boy," Travis said, and there was nothing warm in it.

The first swat was a shock — a flat, explosive crack that sent a jolt through Pedro's whole body. The paddle was heavy, the holes reducing air resistance so it landed with full force. Pedro gritted his teeth.

"Count them," Travis said.

The second swat landed lower, across the crease where his arse met his thighs. The third was higher, catching the top of his cheeks. Travis was methodical, spacing them out, making each one count. By the fifth, Pedro's skin was on fire. By the tenth, he was howling — he couldn't help it, the pain was sharp and relentless, each swat landing on fresh skin or overlapping the previous welts.

"Fifteen," Travis announced cheerfully. "Halfway there."

George was watching from the other sofa, his Pimms in his hand, his expression tight. Pedro caught his eye once and looked away. He could see the discomfort there, but also the resignation. George knew how this worked.

After twenty-five, Travis stopped. Pedro was breathing hard, his arse blazing, his eyes wet. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Your turn, Brad," Travis said, handing the paddle over.

Brad took it uncertainly. He looked at Pedro's raised, reddened backside, then at his boss. "I'm not sure I should—"

"You're on the winning team, Brad. That means you participate. Twenty-five. Don't hold back."

Brad stepped into position. He was hesitant at first — the first few swats were almost apologetic, landing softer than Travis's. But something shifted around swat number five. Maybe it was the way the paddle felt in his hands, or the sight of Pedro's arse turning from red to deep crimson, or the simple thrill of having power over someone who outranked him. Whatever it was, Brad started swinging harder. By swat fifteen, he was putting his full weight behind it, his muscular arm driving the paddle down with a force that made Pedro cry out with each impact.

"Good man," Travis said approvingly.

Pedro was gripping the sofa cushion, his knuckles white, his face pressed into the leather. His arse felt like it was being flayed. Every swat was a fresh explosion of pain on top of pain, and he could feel his whole body trembling with the effort of staying in position.

"Twenty-five," Brad said, landing the final one with a crack that echoed around the room. He stepped back, breathing hard, his floppy fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat. He looked slightly dazed, like he'd surprised himself.

Pedro stayed bent over, gasping. His arse was a mess — swollen, hot, the skin an angry red that was already purpling at the edges. He just needed a minute. Then they'd go.

But Travis was already moving. Pedro heard the sound of a zip, the rustle of fabric, and turned his head to see the American senior partner striding toward him, shorts dropped, his hard cock in one hand and a small tub of Vaseline in the other. He'd pulled it from his sports bag with the ease of a man who'd done this before.

"What the fuck—" Pedro started.

"British part of the punishment," Travis said, coating his cock with Vaseline. He was thick — not absurdly long, but girthy, the head flushed and slick. "You know how this works, Pedro. George tells me you're familiar with the concept."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pedro said, panic rising in his voice. "I've got a girlfriend. I'm about to propose—"

"A deal's a deal." Travis positioned himself behind Pedro, one large hand pressing down on the small of Pedro's back. "And a good banker never reneges on a deal."

Pedro tried to straighten up, but Travis's hand was heavy, and before he could twist away, he felt the blunt head of Travis's cock pushing against his hole. He clenched, but the Vaseline was doing its job, and Travis was insistent — a steady, unrelenting pressure that popped past Pedro's resistance and slid inside.

"Fuck," Pedro hissed. The intrusion was sharp, immediate, Travis's girth stretching him open. His arse was still throbbing from the paddling, and the combination of pain — the swollen, tender skin of his cheeks, the deep ache of being entered — was almost overwhelming.

Travis started moving. Slow at first, long deliberate strokes that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, each thrust accompanied by a low grunt. Then faster. His hands gripped Pedro's hips, his broad shoulders looming over Pedro's bent form, and he settled into a rhythm that was practiced and relentless.

"You know, George," Travis said, not breaking stride, "I bet this is pretty familiar for you two. Word around the bank is that Pedro here gets passed around more than the office birthday card."

"That's not—" Pedro started.

"Shut up and take it," Travis said, driving in harder.

Pedro's face burned. He could feel his cock — traitorously — half-hard against the leather of the sofa, stimulated by the pressure of Travis's thrusts against his prostate. He hated that. He hated that his body responded to this, that after the caning and the buggerings and the gym assault, his nerve endings had apparently learned to interpret this particular combination of pain and penetration as something other than pure violation.

George was sitting on the opposite sofa, watching. His face was like stone. Pedro couldn't read him — couldn't tell if he was aroused, ashamed, furious, or all three. He'd looked away when Pedro caught his eye earlier, and now he was staring at the wall above the fireplace, at the empty hook where the paddle had hung.

Brad was watching too, but differently. The young American was leaning against the bar, arms crossed, his fresh-faced expression replaced by something more complex — fascination, maybe, or the dawning understanding that this was how the world actually worked. His eyes tracked Travis's movements, the flex of his muscular arms, the slap of his hips against Pedro's battered arse.

Travis was picking up speed now, his breathing ragged, his thrusts shorter and harder. Pedro could feel every inch of him, could feel the ridge of his cock head catching on the ring of his sphincter with each outward stroke, could feel the slick of the Vaseline giving way to something wetter — Travis's pre-cum, mixing with the petroleum jelly.

"Just pull out before you finish," Pedro managed, his voice strained. "Please."

Travis laughed. "No chance."

He slammed in deep, and Pedro felt him swell — a thickening that stretched him further — and then Travis was coming, his whole body going rigid, a roar tearing from his throat as he pumped his load into Pedro's arse. It was a huge load — Pedro could feel it, hot and thick, spurting deep inside him in pulse after pulse. Travis held himself there, buried to the hilt, his cock twitching as he emptied himself.

Then he pulled out. One smooth motion that left Pedro gaping, his hole wet and swollen, Travis's cum already starting to leak out and run down the inside of his thigh. Travis tucked himself back into his shorts, slapped Pedro's arse — a sharp, stinging slap that made Pedro flinch and pushed more cum out of him — and checked his watch.

"Right," Travis said brightly. "We should get going if we're going to make that flight."

He acted like they'd just finished a game of scrabble.

Pedro stayed bent over the sofa for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened. His arse was on fire — paddled until his arse was a blazing, swollen ruin and then fucked raw — and he could feel Travis's load inside him, warm and shifting, already leaking. He felt dirty. Used. The familiar post-encounter feeling that he'd come to know over four years at Harwick & Stein, like he'd been scrubbed with sandpaper and left out to dry.

He pulled up his pants and trousers slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over his swollen, punished arse. The cum was already soaking through his underwear. There was no time to clean up — Travis was herding them toward the door, keys in hand, and George was already outside, not making eye contact.

The drive to the airport was surreal. Travis chatted about traffic and the weather and a restaurant he wanted to take George to next time he was in New York. Brad sat in the front seat, occasionally glancing back at Pedro in the rear view mirror with an expression that was equal parts guilt and curiosity. George stared out the window. Pedro sat very still, trying not to shift, his arse throbbing against the seat, Travis's load slowly leaking out of him and pooling in his pants.

At the airport, Travis shook George's hand and clapped Pedro on the back. "Great trip, guys. Let's do it again sometime."

"Can't wait," George said flatly.

On the plane, Pedro sat in the window seat and George sat beside him. They didn't talk for the first hour. Pedro could feel the cum — cold now — sticking to his inner thigh, and every time he shifted, his battered arse reminded him of the paddle, of Brad's surprisingly enthusiastic final swats, of Travis's cock driving into him.

Finally, George leaned over. "I'm sorry about that."

"Are you?"

George was quiet for a moment. "No. Not really. But I should be."

Pedro looked out the window at the dark Atlantic below them. He thought about Natalie, about the ring in his bedside drawer, about the life he was building. He thought about the drawer in his mind where he kept these things — the caning, the buggerings, the gym, and now this: a New Jersey country club, a frat paddle, an American's load leaking out of him at thirty thousand feet.

"You know what the worst part is?" Pedro said.

"What?"

"I actually played quite well in that first set."

George stared at him. Then, for the first time all evening, he laughed — a real laugh, startled out of him. Pedro felt his own mouth twitch. It wasn't funny. None of it was funny. But sitting on a plane with a sore arse and another man's cum in his pants, heading home to propose to his girlfriend, Pedro decided that if he couldn't laugh at the absurdity of his life, he'd go mad.

"Next time," George said, still chuckling, "we practice our doubles before we accept any wagers."

"Next time," Pedro said, "we fly commercial and skip the country club entirely."

They clinked their plastic cups of orange juice together like it was a toast, and Pedro settled back in his seat, wincing, and waited for London.