The Unspoken Rules of Harwick & Stein

Pedro's alarm went off at 5:45 a.m., and he slapped it silent with the kind of practiced precision that only three years of City commuting could drill into a person. The flat was still dark. Natalie was a warm shape under the duvet, breathing slowly, completely unaware that her boyfriend was about to spend the longest working day of the year at Harwick & Stein.

He dressed quietly, made a protein shake, and was out the door by six-thirty. The streets were that particular shade of London grey that could mean dawn or dusk—you never quite knew. Today was accounts sign-off day. The day when every team in the bank had to reconcile, verify, and sign off on their quarterly books before the deadline. It meant everyone in. It meant a long slog. It meant no gym at lunchtime, no quick escape, no leaving your desk before George gave the nod.

That was why Pedro was heading in early. The bank had a small but well-equipped gym in the basement, and if he didn't use it now, he wouldn't get another chance until tomorrow morning. He swiped through the turnstile at 7:05, took the service lift down to the basement, and found the gym empty. Perfect.

He worked through a solid routine—deadlifts, rows, accessory work for his back and shoulders. Forty minutes, no messing about. By the time he was done, his tight, compact frame was pumped and glistening. At five-foot-eight, he carried muscle well, his pale skin showing every vein and striation. He hit the showers, shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out with a towel wrapped around his waist just as the changing room door swung open.

Harry walked in first, still in his rugby-style gym kit, a sweat-darkened compression shirt clinging to his tanned, thickly built torso. He was six-two, broad, with a dark buzzcut and the kind of presence that made smaller men instinctively step aside. Behind him came Josh—taller than Pedro by a few inches, lean and muscular, dark brown curly hair damp with sweat, moving with the easy confidence of someone who'd been at the bank long enough to think he'd seen it all.

"Pedro," Harry said, nodding. "Early start."

"Same as you," Pedro replied, smiling politely. He held his towel at his hip with one hand, the other reaching for his wash bag on the bench.

Josh dropped his gym bag on the opposite bench and unzipped it. "Big day today. You ready for the marathon?"

"Born ready," Pedro said, half-joking.

Harry leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You always say the right thing, don't you? That's your gift."

There was something in his tone—something that made Pedro pause mid-reach. It wasn't quite hostile. But it wasn't friendly either.

"What can I say," Pedro offered lightly. "I try."

Josh snorted. "He tries. Listen to that, Harry. The man tries."

Pedro laughed, but it came out thin. He glanced at his watch. He needed to be upstairs in twenty minutes. George expected him early on accounts day. But Harry and Josh were both senior to him—not his direct managers, but above him in the hierarchy. He couldn't exactly tell them to hurry up so he could get dressed.

Harry pushed off the wall and took a step closer. "So what is it, Pedro? What's the secret? Because you've been here three years and you're already further along than Josh and I were at five. That's not normal."

"It's not a secret," Pedro said carefully. "I just work hard. George has given me opportunities, and I've taken them."

"George has given you opportunities," Josh repeated, mimicking Pedro's accent just slightly. "Yeah, we noticed. You're the golden boy. The teacher's pet."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would," Harry said. He was close now—close enough that Pedro could smell the sweat on him, the iron tang of a hard workout. "We'd all say that. You're the boss's favourite. And we're curious about what that actually means."

Pedro felt a flicker of unease. He thought about the dinner at George's house. He thought about Alistair—the board chair—and the meeting that had gone somewhere Pedro still couldn't fully reconcile with the rest of his life. He hadn't told Natalie. He hadn't told anyone. The memory of it sat in his gut like something swallowed that wouldn't digest.

"I don't know what you mean," Pedro said.

Harry smiled. It was a slow, wide smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I think you do. I think you know exactly what I mean. Especially about your little meeting with the chairman."

Pedro's stomach dropped. "What about it?"

Josh had stopped rummaging in his bag. He was watching now, his pale face sharp with attention. "Go on, Pedro. Tell us about the traditional English way of doing things. We heard it's very effective."

Pedro's mouth went dry. There was no way they could know. Alistair had been discreet. George had been careful. The whole thing had been handled quietly—behind closed doors, with handshakes and nods and the unspoken language of old institutions. But something in Josh's voice, something in the way Harry was looking at him, told Pedro that the secret was out. Or at least, a version of it was.

"You've been a bad boy, Pedro," Harry said, and his voice had dropped into something lower, something that wasn't banter anymore. "Working so hard. Making the rest of us look bad. Showing off. Strutting around this place like you own it."

Pedro laughed nervously. "Come on, Harry. That's not—"

"I'm serious." Harry moved fast. His hand closed around Pedro's arm, and before Pedro could react, he was pulled forward, hauled across Harry's broad thigh as the bigger man sat down on the bench. Pedro's towel slipped as he went over—just slid right off his hips and pooled on the floor. He was naked, face down over Harry's lap, his bare arse exposed under the fluorescent changing room lights.

"Nice ass," Josh said from behind them, and he said it with a leer that made Pedro's skin prickle with humiliation.

"Harry, what the fuck—"

Harry's hand came down hard. The crack of palm on bare flesh echoed off the tiled walls. It wasn't playful. It wasn't a joke. It was a full, open-handed spank that stung like hell and left a hot, spreading burn across Pedro's right cheek.

"Ow! Harry, what the—"

Another one. Harder. On the left cheek this time. Pedro flinched, his hands gripping the edge of the bench for balance. Harry's thighs were like tree trunks under him, solid and immovable. Pedro couldn't get leverage. He couldn't twist free.

"You've been a bad boy, Pedro. Making the rest of us look bad." Harry said, and brought his hand down again. And again. And again.

Each slap was deliberate, measured, and genuinely painful. Pedro's arse was on fire. He could feel the heat building, spreading, turning his pale skin the kind of bright red that would last for hours. He clenched his jaw and tried to ride it out, telling himself it would end, that Harry was making a point and would stop.

"Harry, you've made your point," Pedro managed, his voice tight. "Let me up."

"Not yet." Another slap. Pedro's eyes watered. "You need to learn your place."

Josh was standing nearby, arms folded, grinning. "He needs to be brought down a peg or two. Keep going."

Harry kept going. He spanked Pedro until both cheeks were glowing red, until the skin was hot to the touch and Pedro was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making any more noise. His cock was pressed against Harry's thigh, and to his own horror, he could feel it stirring—not from arousal, he told himself, but from the friction, the pressure, the blood flow. But his body was betraying him, and he hated it.

Finally, Harry stopped. He gripped Pedro by the waist and lifted him—actually lifted him, like he weighed nothing—and set him on his knees, then bent him forward over the bench. Pedro's hands hit the wooden surface. His red arse was stuck out behind him, exposed and stinging. He was breathing hard, his dark hair fallen across his forehead, his pale skin flushed with a mix of embarrassment and exertion.

"I know your secret," Harry said, his voice low and steady. "I know you agreed to a traditional English buggering to get ahead. I know what happened with the board chair. And I know what you took to get where you are."

Pedro's heart was hammering. "How do you—"

"Doesn't matter how," Josh cut in. "The point is, we know. And if you could take it from Alistair, you can take it from us."

Pedro heard movement behind him. He heard the rustle of fabric—Harry stepping out of his gym shorts. He heard the sound of Harry spitting into his palm, a wet, deliberate sound, and then the slick noise of him rubbing it along his cock.

Pedro twisted his head around and caught a glimpse. Harry was hard—thick, veined, bigger than Pedro wanted to process. He was stroking himself with a lubed hand, his tanned skin dark against the pale shaft.

"Since you're so experienced at taking a traditional English buggering," Harry said, positioning himself behind Pedro, "I might as well make use of that experience. Long day ahead. Need some relief."

"Harry, no," Pedro said, and his voice cracked. "Whatever you've heard—nothing happened with the board chair. I'm straight. I've got a girlfriend. You can't—"

Harry laughed. It was a short, hard sound. "You can't? That's funny, considering what you've already done. Relax, Pedro. You know you need this."

Pedro started to say something else—a protest, a threat, something—but Harry pushed forward and the words dissolved into a sharp gasp. Harry entered him in one rough, deliberate thrust. No warning. No patience. Just the thick, blunt pressure of him pushing inside, and Pedro's body opening up around it whether he wanted it to or not.

"Fuck," Pedro hissed, gripping the bench. The stretch was intense—too much, too fast. The spit was barely enough. It burned.

Harry didn't care. He started to fuck Pedro with hard, deep strokes, each one shoving Pedro forward against the bench. His hands gripped Pedro's hips, his thick fingers digging into the flesh just above the red, spanked cheeks. He was using Pedro's body like a tool—not making love, not even pretending to be gentle. Just taking what he wanted.

"This is what you're good at," Harry said through gritted teeth. "This is your real talent. Not the spreadsheets. Not the client calls. This."

Pedro's face was pressed against the bench. His eyes were closed. He could feel every inch of Harry inside him, the friction, the pressure, the relentless pace. His own cock was hanging between his legs, soft now, swinging with each thrust. The pain was fading into something else—something he didn't want to name, something that sat at the base of his spine and made his breath come in short, involuntary bursts.

"Pull out," Pedro said. "Harry, I've had enough. Pull out."

Harry didn't pull out. He fucked Pedro harder. The bench creaked under them. The changing room was hot and close, the air thick with sweat and the sound of skin on skin.

"You're going to take it," Harry said. "And you're going to take my load, just like you took Alistair's."

"I didn't—"

"Shut up."

Harry's pace quickened. His breathing got heavier, ragged. Pedro could feel him getting bigger inside—thicker, harder, the cock swelling as Harry got close. Pedro clenched his jaw and told himself it would be over soon. That Harry would finish and this would end and he could go upstairs and pretend none of this had happened.

Harry tensed. His hands tightened on Pedro's hips. He drove in deep—one, two, three final thrusts—and then let out a roar that bounced off the tiled walls. Pedro felt it: the hot, pulsing rush of Harry coming inside him. Spurt after spurt, deep and deliberate, filling him up. Harry held himself there for a moment, breathing hard, his cock twitching inside Pedro as the last of it drained out.

Then he pulled out. Fast. Pedro felt the sudden emptiness, the ache, and then the warm trickle of spunk starting to leak from his hole. Harry gave his arse a sharp slap—the same kind of slap he'd been delivering all along—and stepped back.

"Your turn," Harry said to Josh. "Don't take all day. The accounts meeting starts in fifteen."

Pedro was still bent over the bench. His legs were shaking. His arse was on fire—red, sore, and now dripping with another man's spunk. He was trying to process what had just happened, trying to form a thought, a plan, a coherent sentence. But before he could move, Josh was behind him.

Josh was already hard, stroking himself quickly. He was thinner than Harry but long, his pale cock jutting out from a trimmed nest of dark hair. He didn't say much. He positioned himself, lined up, and pushed in.

The slide was easier this time. Harry's load had lubed Pedro's hole, and Josh slipped in with less resistance. Pedro groaned as he felt Josh bottom out—deeper than Harry, hitting a spot that made his stomach clench.

"This is your lesson," Josh said, his voice tight and focused, "for being too diligent. For making the rest of us look bad. For being a good little boy."

He fucked Pedro with functional efficiency—no theatrics, no excess. Just steady, purposeful thrusts, like he was completing a transaction. Pedro could feel Harry's spunk squelching around Josh's cock, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the changing room. Josh's hands were on Pedro's lower back, pressing him flat against the bench.

Harry was standing nearby, watching, his cock still half-hard and dripping. "Go on, Josh. Fill him up."

Josh's pace quickened. He was close already—the whole thing had been fast, almost clinical. Pedro barely had time to protest, barely had time to think. Josh let out a grunt, drove in deep, and Pedro felt it again—that hot, pulsing flood. Josh came inside him with a few short, hard thrusts, adding his load to Harry's, and then held still for a moment, catching his breath.

He pulled out. Gave Pedro's arse a slap—same as Harry had done, same sharp, humiliating crack. Pedro flinched.

Both men laughed. They grabbed their towels and headed for the showers, already talking about the day ahead—about quarterly figures, about a client lunch next week, about whether the coffee machine on the third floor was working again. As if nothing had happened. As if what they'd just done was as routine as a morning workout.

Pedro stayed bent over the bench. He could feel both loads inside him—warm, wet, shifting. They were already leaking out, trickling down his inner thigh. His arse was throbbing, red, tender. His hole was swollen and slick. He felt dirty. Used. Like a thing that had been borrowed and returned without a thank you.

He wanted to get back in the shower. He wanted to scrub himself clean, wash away the sweat and the come and the shame of it. But Harry and Josh were in the showers now, and he could hear them talking and laughing, and the thought of standing under the same water as them made his stomach turn.

He looked at his watch. He had seven minutes before George expected him upstairs.

With a slow, heavy movement, Pedro straightened up. His back ached. His legs were unsteady. He found his towel on the floor, wiped his thighs as best he could, and started getting dressed. Underwear. Shirt. Trousers. Suit jacket. Tie. Each layer felt like armour, but it wasn't enough. He could still feel it—the wetness, the heat, the ache. Two loads sitting inside him, with no way to clean them out.

He checked himself in the mirror. He looked presentable. Professional. The same Pedro who walked into the bank every morning, ready to work. No one would know. No one would see.

He took the lift to the fourth floor. The office was already buzzing—people at desks, screens glowing, the low hum of a bank in full swing. George spotted him from across the floor and waved him over with a smile.

"Pedro! Good man. Ready for the marathon?"

"Ready, George."

"Good. We've got the Meridian account to close by two, and the rest of the day is clearing the backlog. Coffee's on the side. Grab a seat."

Pedro sat down at his desk. The moment he did, he felt it—a slow, warm trickle. He shifted in his chair, clenched, but it was no use. The spunk was working its way out, soaking into his underwear, making the fabric cling to him. He was going to sit here all day—through the longest working day of the year—with Harry and Josh inside him, their loads leaking out of him, sticky and warm and constant.

He opened his laptop. He answered emails. He took a phone call. He reviewed a spreadsheet. And underneath it all, every time he shifted in his chair, every time he stood up to get coffee, every time he crossed the floor to speak to a colleague, he felt it. The wetness. The ache. The reminder.

At half past three, he was walking back from the kitchen with a fresh coffee when he ran into Harry and Josh by the lifts. They were both in shirtsleeves, ties loosened, looking like two men in the middle of a long but manageable day.

"Pedro," Harry said, nodding. "How's the Meridian account?"

"Nearly closed," Pedro said. His voice was even. Professional.

"Good man," Josh said. "Keep it up."

There was a beat of silence. The kind of silence that only Pedro could read. Harry and Josh were looking at him with the same easy, casual expressions they always wore—office banter, colleague camaraderie, nothing to see here.

Then, as Pedro turned to walk away, Harry reached out and slapped his arse. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just a friendly, open-palmed pat—the kind of thing you'd see on a rugby pitch or in a pub after a win. Anyone watching would have thought nothing of it. Just lads being lads.

But Pedro felt it. He felt it in the sore flesh beneath his trousers, in the bruised skin that was still warm from the morning. He felt it in the slick, wet mess that had been soaking into his underwear for eight hours. And he knew exactly what it meant.

Harry wasn't being friendly. He was making a point. That arse was his now. Theirs. Property of the old boy's network, claimed and marked and filed away for future use.

Pedro kept walking. He didn't look back. He went back to his desk, sat down, felt the familiar warm squelch, and pulled up the Meridian file.

He had work to do.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the humiliation and the anger and the sticky, uncomfortable truth of what had happened, a small, quiet voice was asking him a question he wasn't ready to answer: if George called him into his office next week and offered him another promotion—if the price was the same as before—would he say yes?

He stared at the spreadsheet. The numbers blurred.

Probably.