It had taken Arthur exactly nineteen days to understand the rhythm of the room.
Not the rhythm of the markets—he'd picked that up quickly, his master's courses had helped, and his internship at Lazard too. No, the rhythm of the trading floor itself. Its very breath. The background noise that rose a notch when New York opened, the scraping of chairs at 3:30 p.m., the sudden bursts of laughter followed by silence, the moments when everyone hung up their headsets at once and you could almost hear the servers chugging in the racks in the basement. It had taken Arthur nineteen days to feel that rhythm in his bones, and for the last two days he'd been starting to think he might not leave.
It was past four o'clock on Thursday afternoon and John Pearce had summoned him with a nod as he passed by his station.
John, thirty-eight, was the kind of guy you noticed before you'd even heard his voice. Six foot one, broad-shouldered, his chest straining slightly even in tailored poplin shirts. Dark brown hair slicked back with discreet gel, his temples beginning to gray in a way that suited his square face. A clean jawline, strong features, the kind of face that must have been very handsome at twenty-five and had simply matured since. He had maintained the physique of an active man—strong shoulders, arms, and legs—with a rounded, self-assured belly that spilled slightly below his belt, the mark of years of fine dining and deals sealed over champagne. It wasn't neglect. It was the paunch of someone who earns well and makes no apologies for it. That day he wore a white Turnbull & Asser shirt, the top two buttons undone, and a steel Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist. His charcoal gray Brioni suit trousers hung perfectly. John Pearce was what some called a golden boy—except he was past the boy stage, the gilding had thickened, and he knew it.
Tim Walsh was at his desk next door, headphones around his neck, watching four screens simultaneously with that slightly electric look he maintained from 3 p.m. until closing time. Thirty-six years old, Tim. More compact than John—six foot two, 220 pounds of muscle mass maintained three times a week in the gym in the building next door. His blue Ralph Purple Label shirt was a little tighter around the biceps than John's suits, but intentionally so. Tim was the type who wanted to be noticed. A model he'd met in Ibiza two years earlier, an eighteen-month-old daughter named Lily, and a white Porsche Macan parked in parking lot B. In that order of importance, according to him.
Arthur, for his part, was twenty-three years old, six feet tall, and weighed the hefty 150 pounds of a semi-retired swimmer. Blond, with short hair on the sides and slightly longer on top, which he didn't style. A clean face, almost too clean for this place—skin still clear, features still a little round, the kind of face that would look ten years younger in ten years. That Thursday, he was wearing his navy Hugo Boss suit, a white shirt without a tie, and brown Oxford shoes. He had graduated five months prior, brought here by a recruitment drive in November, and he still had the feeling, at times, that someone was going to tap him on the shoulder and tell him there had been a mistake.
John had stopped in front of him with his hands in his pockets.
"Tonight is closing night, Arthur."
"Yes, I saw it in the calendar."
“It’s not the same as seeing it on the calendar and actually being there.” He smiled—not maliciously, but with the assurance of someone who has learned to distinguish between knowing and understanding. “Tim and I run the desk until around 2:00 a.m. Untangling positions, making reconciliations, all the end-of-month stuff. We were looking for someone available to work with us tonight.”
Arthur felt something tighten in his chest. In a good way.
" I am here. "
"Good." John glanced at his Patek. "Let's go out first. An hour and a half of paddle tennis in the private room at Covent Garden—it clears the head before a long night. How about it?"
Arthur had said yes without even asking if it was an invitation or a summons. He had learned soon enough that the two amounted to the same thing, with those two.
*
The padel court was a ten-minute Uber ride away, in a Covent Garden basement accessed through an unmarked courtyard. Three indoor courts, private changing rooms bookable by the hour, and a clientele that didn't want to queue. John was a regular there—the guy at reception had called him by his first name and given him three badges without anyone asking for them.
They had pushed open the door to the changing rooms.
It was clean, simple, and functional without being luxurious. A corridor tiled in matte black, numbered light oak lockers in two rows, benches made of dark wood slats. The lighting was warm, amber, not clinical. It smelled of deodorant and slightly of warm fabric—the hallmark of locker rooms that see active bodies pass through but are cleaned regularly.
John had opened locker 7 and placed his sports bag halfheartedly on it. Tim had taken lock 9. Arthur had taken lock 11.
John had begun to change. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the hanger built into the locker. His tie, which he had already loosened in the taxi, followed. Then he undid his cufflinks—two yellow gold discs tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. He took his shirt out of his trousers, unbuttoned it, and pulled it off with a sweeping motion. His torso was revealed. Broad, well-built, with a moderately dense carpet of brown hair covering his pecs and extending down toward his navel, tapering around his belly. That belly, now fully visible, round and firm, sitting there without self-consciousness, supported by a belt of muscle beneath. The ease of a body that has stopped striving for perfection and is quite content with it.
He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down. Underneath, he wore black boxing briefs with a subtle Prince of Wales check—wide-legged, high-waisted, by Derek Rose. The fabric hung loosely around his thighs and buttocks, the stylish parachute of a man who has money and no longer has to stand in line to prove his taste.
Tim had followed his own, more abrupt rhythm. He popped the buttons of his blue shirt with almost industrial precision, ripped it off by the shoulders, and tossed it into the locker. His torso was more sculpted than John's—defined pecs, visible abs without being machine-sculpted, and hard, rounded shoulders. He had very little body hair, just a thin line running from his navel down. He undid his Ferragamo belt and slid his pants down.
His current boxer shorts were off-white Emporio Armani, modal fabric, with a logo band on the elastic. He looked at them for a second, rummaged in his bag, and pulled out another pair—a navy blue Lacoste Sport sports brief, racerback cut, very fitted.
"Wait, are you taking off your boxer shorts to put on briefs?" John had asked without looking up from his shoelaces.
"To play, I need to have my balls where they belong." Tim had swung the Armani over his feet, stood there completely naked for two seconds searching for his briefs in his bag. No embarrassment. The movement of a man who grew up in locker rooms. He put on the briefs, adjusted them, and looked at himself in the mirror with satisfaction.
Arthur, for his part, had taken his time. He had taken off his shirt, his shoes, his socks. His pants. He was wearing black Calvin Klein Essential boxer shorts, the classic stretch cotton model with the logo band. He had kept them on. He had taken his heather gray Under Armour sports t-shirt out of his bag, his black Adidas shorts with the three white stripes, his white Nike Air Zoom Vapor sneakers with a red accent.
John watched him put on his t-shirt. "Have you ever played paddle tennis?"
"Twice. During internships in Barcelona."
"So never." He smiled. "It doesn't matter, we're not going to Wimbledon tonight."
"Thank you, boss."
"Boss, that's good. Keep that in mind."
Tim had tied his shoelaces and straightened up. "Come on, guys."
*
They had played for forty-five minutes.
John and Arthur against Tim, who was playing alone and had hired a court assistant to keep score. Then the three of them played together in a free-form, long rally, where no one was really counting. John played well—precise, economical in his movements, clean paddle shots. Tim played hard, sending smashes that didn't always need to be smashes. Arthur played decently but lost points on angles he hadn't yet noticed.
It was good. The heat rising in his trapezius muscles, the sweat starting to stick to his t-shirt on his back, the sharp sound of the ball hitting the glass. John shouting "good shot" when he was on a rally, Tim teasing him about a mistake, saying "there's the next Federer" with an English accent he didn't have.
When they had finished, Arthur's forehead was shining and his shoulders were feeling hot.
"Quick shower and we're off," John had said.
*
The changing rooms were still theirs alone. The door had closed behind them, the noise from the corridor had disappeared.
Tim grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and pulled it off in a fluid upward motion. His bare chest glistened with a thin layer of sweat, his pecs still slightly bulging from exertion. He rolled the t-shirt into a ball and tossed it into his locker. John did the same, a sweeping gesture over his head, his broad, hairy chest revealed with his belly beneath, sweat glistening on its surface.
Arthur had mimicked the movement. He took off his Under Armour t-shirt, felt the cool air of the locker room on his damp skin. His torso was leaner than the other two — broad shoulders, slightly visible ribs, the abs of a swimmer rather than a gym man.
Tim looked at him for a second. "How many years have you been swimming?"
"Twelve. Arrested at nineteen."
"It shows."
They had taken off their shorts. Tim pulled off his Lacoste briefs—quickly, without warning. He was naked, his penis flaccid, his testicles, his skin still warm from exercise. He opened his locker to grab his toiletries with the same nonchalance as if someone had asked him the time. John, in turn—Derek Rose's boxer shorts slid down with his shorts in one fluid motion, he stepped neatly over them. Naked too. His stomach now clearly visible, the brown hair at his lower back, his penis hanging heavy at rest between his thick thighs. The two naked men, their belongings on the hooks, were already heading towards the showers.
Arthur had taken down his Calvin Klein jeans and placed them on the bench. He was naked too. The sensation of the air between his thighs, the cool tiles beneath his feet.
The shower area was communal — three shower heads separated by half-height partitions, with no door. They each took one, side by side. The water took a few seconds to heat up.
Arthur put his head under the stream, felt the salt and sweat dissolve. He poured Kiehl's shower gel into his palm and began to soap his shoulders, neck, and chest.
To his left, Tim was scrubbing his head with almost aggressive vigor, water cascading over his shoulders, white soap running down his sides. He had bent slightly forward to soap his legs, a position that briefly exposed his buttocks, the crease. Naturally. For a few seconds.
To his right, John was taking his time. He had lathered up his chest, his armpits, and slowly moved the soap down his stomach, his lower abdomen. His hands were between his legs—his genitals, his testicles—the methodical movements of a man who had been washing himself for forty years. He had lifted one foot onto the edge of the shower tray to soap his calf, his ankle.
Arthur had done the same. Shoulders, torso, stomach. He had slipped his hands under the stream, soaped his flaccid penis, his testicles—the movements one makes in private, but he was doing them there, fifty centimeters from two colleagues. A heightened awareness of it. Not uncomfortable. Just new.
Tim had looked in his direction, laughing.
"Hey Arthur. Welcome to the locker room."
John chuckled from behind his apple. "The first month is something else, isn't it?"
"It doesn't seem to be a problem for either of you."
"We've been showering together for twelve years." Tim nodded towards John. "I've seen his balls more often than my wife sees hers."
John looked up at the ceiling. "I don't even know what that means."
They had rinsed off. The water had stopped. A dull silence fell over the room. They picked up their towels and dried themselves in an easy calm. Tim started with his hair, vigorously. John with his torso and legs, methodically. Arthur imitated them, aware of something simple: that he was finding his feet in something, that it was normal, that things were going well.
They had gotten dressed again. John in his Derek Rose boxer shorts, grey Brioni jeans, and buttoned-up Turnbull & Asser trousers. Tim in his white Armani and midnight blue Brioni jeans. Arthur in his Calvin Klein, navy Hugo Boss trousers, and Oxford derbies. Twelve minutes. When they came back out into the courtyard, the March night was falling on Covent Garden, the restaurant lights glowing orange in the cold.
*
The Uber had dropped them off at 10:45 PM in front of the glass tower in Canary Wharf. The lobby was deserted, the security guard was waving, the gates were open.
Thirty-first floor. The large glass-walled room overlooking the river. The Isle of Dogs below, the lights of Canary Wharf fanning out, the dark Thames reflecting it all, shimmering. The night. Their night.
John had placed the bags on the central table—a rectangular glass and metal one, seating eight, occupied that evening by three laptops, their cables, and their secondary monitors. Tim had brought out the takeaway boxes: Padella, pasta, two sauces, a focaccia. A bag of Nando's, grilled chicken, coleslaw. Three Oranginas. They ate standing around the table, the lids turned upside down as makeshift plates, and it lasted as long as it lasted.
Around 10:30 PM, Tim waited until John's mouth was full before speaking.
"By the way, Arthur."
Arthur had looked up.
"There's something John and I do on nights like this."
John looked at Tim with the expression of a man who knows exactly what will happen next and agrees to let him out.
"What kind of thing is that?"
Tim had put down his Nando's. "It started two years ago. A closing night like this one—here, same office, same table. We were going full throttle from 4 p.m., untying positions until 2 a.m., the kind of night where you're so in your head you can't get out. Around 10 p.m. we took a break, right here, standing exactly where you are. And John said—"
John had swallowed. "If you have to tell the story, tell it well."
"He said, 'Damn, my balls weigh ten kilos, I can't think straight.' Tim smiled. 'Me too.' And we looked at each other. And it became obvious."
Arthur was waiting.
“We jerked off. Each of us in our own corner, but in the same room. To clear our heads before the final sprint.” Tim said it with the same tone as if he were describing a post-workout stretching strategy. “We came in the same glass. Just for kicks. And since then, every closing night, we do it again. Bet: whoever trades the worst tonight eats the glass.”
Silence.
Arthur had looked at Tim. Then at John.
John had picked up his fork again. "I agree. It's ridiculous. And I'll probably do it again tonight."
Arthur had put his down. "Wait. Drinking the glass... have you done that before?"
" Yeah. "
"And what is it? It's..."
"Disgusting." John, without hesitation. "It's objectively disgusting. But it's protein." A pause. "And I've only lost once."
Arthur had looked at Tim.
Tim shrugged with an almost proud expression. "I lost the other times."
"And how is it?"
Tim thought for two seconds, completely serious. "Thick. A little bitter. Hot." He looked at John. "Well, yours is strong. You've got good juice, John, I'm not saying otherwise."
John closed his eyes for a second. "I'm delighted to hear that."
"Objectively."
Arthur had looked at the Thames through the bay window. The lights shimmering on the dark water. Thirty-first floor. Two hundred meters above the river.
"And tonight, because I'm here, you don't do it."
Tim made a vague gesture. "John said we couldn't force you to do something like that."
"Exactly." John.
"But." Tim raised a finger. "Unless you're up for it. No pressure."
John looked at Arthur with the expression of a man who neither wants to convince nor discourage. Who lets things take their course.
Arthur was twenty-three. He was on the thirty-oneth floor in Canary Wharf at night, eating Nando's with two married traders who were about to masturbate together in an office whiskey glass. He had participated in far more absurd pool hazing rituals.
"I'm not closed to it."
Tim had placed his Nando's down with a precise gesture, like putting down a pen after signing something important.
" GOOD. "
John had sighed — but he hadn't said no.
Tim had crossed his arms. "Listen, Arthur, let's organize this properly. It's not a mess." He started counting on his fingers. "Rule one: no suits. Open shirts, dress socks, underwear at ankles or mid-thigh. Rule two: everyone in their own chair, everyone in their own corner, no one looks at anyone else if they don't want to. Rule three: no porn—it's against the rules in the office, and anyway, we don't need it. Rule four: the glass in the center of the table, everyone takes turns ejaculating in it."
He cleared his throat. "Rules of the game."
Arthur had looked at the office glass in question — a thick glass whisky tumbler, the kind you find in boardrooms for gala evenings.
"Are you serious about the glass thing?"
" Completely. "
"And whoever trades the worst tonight eats the glass."
"That's the principle of betting. Bets are open."
John had looked at the tumbler. "I'm not going to trade with that stuff in my throat."
"No one is asking you to do it now. Betting is open until the end of the session."
Tim looked at Arthur. "So."
Arthur stood up. "Come on."
It took a fairly precise organization for Tim to be pleased with himself.
They had pushed the takeaway boxes into a corner, placed the computers at one end of the table, leaving the middle clear. The thick glass tumbler had been placed in the geometric center, like a trophy in a locker room.
Tim had started. No fuss. He took his Brioni jacket by the lapels and pulled it off with a swift movement, hooking it over the back of his chair. Then, hands on the buckle of his Ferragamo belt—snap—he undid it. Button of trousers, zipper. The trousers slid down his legs and gathered over his derbies. He stepped over them, placed them on the back of the chair over the jacket. Standing in black dress socks, a blue shirt open to the chest, and his white Emporio Armani. He took an office chair, pulled it slightly away from the table, and sat down.
He had slipped his thumbs into the elastic of his boxer shorts, pulling them down to mid-thigh. His penis was visible at rest, long, with his testicles hanging freely. He took it in his right hand and began.
John had done the same, in order and at his own pace. Charcoal-grey Brioni jacket draped over the back of the chair. Belt undone. Trousers falling with the same dull thud of heavy fabric to the floor. He picked them up neatly and set them down. He sat in his chair, legs spread wide, dark dress socks on his feet. He undid the two remaining buttons of his Turnbull & Asser shirt, not completely—just enough to let the hem loosen. He slid his Derek Rose boxer shorts down to his ankles and left them there, wrapped around his derbies like a loose lasso.
Arthur had watched the two of them without haste. He took off his Hugo Boss jacket, folded it in half on the edge of the table, unbuckled his belt, pulled his trousers down to his ankles, and sat down without stepping over them, the navy fabric piled high over his brown derbies. He opened his white shirt at the chest, the two ends hanging down on either side. He pulled his Calvin Klein jeans down to mid-thigh.
Three men in rolling office chairs on the thirty-first floor. Open shirts, dress socks, underwear around their knees or ankles. Laptops open at one end of the table, their screens casting a cold blue light. The Thames beyond the bay window, the river lights flickering in the darkness.
Tim had broken the silence.
"When was the last time you came, Arthur?"
Arthur stared at his hands. "Last Friday."
"Five days. Full balls. Good. And you, John?"
John had his elbows on the armrests, his wrist beginning to move gently. "Saturday."
"Damn, what's that you got in there—a kidney?"
"Shut up and get to work, Tim."
Tim chuckled. He was working, after all. His penis felt firm under his hand, thick now, fully erect, his testicles slightly raised. He settled back in his chair, his lower back lifted off the backrest, his thighs spread, his feet flat on the floor. A position that allowed for effortless wrist movement. He slightly rolled up the hem of his shirt for a clear view.
"Oh shit." He sighed. "Things are heating up fast tonight, guys."
John made a short sound from his chair. His legs were slightly apart, his right ankle crossed over his left knee for a moment, then lowered, his Derek Rose boxer shorts bunched up around his derbies. He had his penis firmly in his hand, a solid erection despite his age, his belly spilling slightly out from under his open shirt. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his jaw relaxed.
"It feels good." Tim. For no one in particular. Observation.
"Undoubtedly." John, sec.
Arthur had his own rhythm, slower, more introspective. A familiar feeling in an unfamiliar setting. His black dress socks on the office floor, his navy trousers piled high over his brown derbies, his white shirt open to reveal his chest. His wrist was steady, his eyes half-closed, one hand resting on his free thigh.
"Hey." Tim looked towards John. "You shaved again this month, you bastard."
John hadn't looked up. "I'm maintaining it."
"Your wife is asking you that?"
"My business, Tim."
"My wife wants me to shave everything off. She can't stand it. I tell her I'll try, but I always forget."
"You're lying."
"Obviously." Tim had quickened his pace slightly, his breathing changing. "And you, Arthur? What does your girlfriend like?"
Arthur kept his eyes fixed on himself. "She said nothing."
" Lucky. "
John let out a low, barely audible "hm". Something was rising in his shoulders, a slight tension.
Tim was now speaking to himself as much as to the others, his breath slightly ragged. "Yes. Yeah. Fuck. Look at this." He had lowered his gaze to him, his testicles now erect, swollen, the skin taut. "Ah, guys. I want her to eat them tonight. My wife. Fuck."
John coughed, not out of disgust, just gratitude. "Yeah."
Arthur felt the heat rising in his lower abdomen, radiating towards his thighs. He sped up. His breathing changed rhythm, becoming shorter and more controlled.
"I won't last much longer."
"Take the glass." John, perfectly calm voice.
Arthur reached out with his left hand toward the tumbler in the center of the table and brought it closer. A few more seconds, his wrist still moving, the tension building deep in his abdomen—and then it all came out at once. The first spurt hit the bottom of the glass with almost surprising clarity, opaque white, thick, followed by a second, shorter arc, and a third, even shorter. He held the glass perfectly still until the end, his hand trembling slightly, and carefully placed it back in the center of the table. His semen was clear, almost translucent at the edges, thick in the center, resting against the bottom of the tumbler.
"Well done." Tim, without irony.
Arthur sank back into his chair. That feeling of release in his shoulders, his jaw, his trapezius muscles. Something that was truly unwinding. He took a moist wipe from the pack Tim had placed on the table—with disconcerting nonchalance, as if he'd been thinking about it all morning—and slowly wiped himself: the head, the shaft, the wrist. His penis began to go limp, warm and soft, slightly glistening.
John had looked at the glass. Something in his posture had contracted slightly, become more focused.
Tim, meanwhile, was breathing heavily through his nose. "Oh shit. It's rising here." The movement of his wrist had taken on a different speed, more focused, his elbow now moving with it. "Look at this." He reached for the tumbler, picked it up, and held it above him. "Ah—shit—"
He had come all at once. Several successive spurts, more abundant than Arthur's, yellower, warmer to the eye—a dark cream hue that had mingled with the liquid already in the glass without truly blending in. Another trickle ran down his thumb before he straightened the glass. He placed it in the center, methodically wiped himself with a cloth—fingers, palm, then his penis itself, which slowly degreased, the last drops patted away with a second swipe of the cloth.
" So. "
He had put his Emporio Armani back on, in no hurry.
John took another thirty seconds or so. His eyes were half-closed, his rhythm steady and economical, like someone who knows the way well. Then he picked up the tumbler with a sure hand, brought it closer without changing position—still legs open, underwear around his ankles—and finished the job in silence. His streams were slower, more spaced out, but plentiful, a dense, almost matte white that settled on top of the mixture in the glass like a separate layer. He held the contact for a few seconds after the last stream, then placed the tumbler back in the center of the table with the care of a man putting a file back in a neat stack.
" GOOD. "
He took a wipe, cleaned himself thoroughly—first the head, a circular motion, then the length—and threw the wipe into the glass wastebasket at the foot of the table. His penis hung limply over the edge of his still-lowered underwear, the last few seconds before he pulled everything up.
They had gotten dressed again. Tim had pulled up his Armani jacket, fastened his Ferragamo belt, and retrieved his Brioni from the seat back. John had pulled his Derek Rose jacket up to his waist, tucked in his shirt, and fastened his belt as well. Arthur had pulled up his Calvin Klein jacket, stood up, rolled up his navy trousers, and adjusted his belt. The three of them were back in full suits in less than two minutes, as if nothing had happened.
The tumbler was in the center of the table, between the laptops and the leftovers from the takeaway. In the cold light of the screens, the liquid had a slightly opalescent color, the different textures still visible if you looked closely.
Tim had crossed his arms. "The bets are on."
Arthur looked at the glass. Then at his reconciliation files on the screen in front of him.
"I'm not going to lose."
John had reopened his computer. "Nobody ever says that."
Tim had picked up his box of Nando's, taken a clean bite of a chicken leg, and looked at his four screens.
Arthur had reopened his files.
The glass was there, between them, in the Canary Wharf night.
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