There's a brief moment of pride. He wasn't spoken to; he doesn't speak. 

"Stand up. Shirt off. At attention. Let's see you."

On his feet, naked and at attention. His face is blank. 

"How long have you been keeping this precious little thing from us? Four months?"

"Three weeks."

"Really?" Rachel sounds surprised. 

The way he's holding himself doesn't change, but there's something in his face that softens at Chris's tone. 

"Not very stoic, is he?" Rachel says. 

"He responds very strongly to praise. I decided to keep that. It's a selling point among some owners."

— his face goes blank again. 

She circles him, runs her fingers down his chest, touches his shoulders, squeezes his ass. She pays close attention, but not like she's paying attention to a person-- more like she's examining a thing available for sale. 

"He's good-looking, I can say that for him."

"Very much so."

He feels vaguely nauseous. He doesn't respond to the touch; he focuses as hard as he can on Chris. 

Chris kisses his forehead. "You will do wonderfully and I am proud of you."

He leaves.

"Thank you, Chris," very quietly to the closing door. 

Theres nothing to focus on now but Rachel. Marlo tries anyway, thinks over that last forehead kiss over and over again, remembers the tone of Chris's voice. 

Rachel takes a whip out of her bag. "Up against the wall, please."

He goes up against the wall. He tries not to think. 

Rachel whips him.

Her style is... different than Chris's, somehow. It's hard to say exactly what is different, but something about the rhythm is different, the speed, the strength she puts behind the blows. 

"Make noises for me," she says. "Be pretty."

He doesn't know how to be pretty but he can make small punched-out ah noises when the whip connects. 

"Oh, you are precious," she says delightedly. "So pretty. If only Chris could see you."

If only Chris could see you. 

He — Chris said to think of it as something he was doing to please Chris — the sounds don't get any louder but they do get more intense. 

"He dotes on you, you know," she says, punctuating her words with strikes of the whip. "You're his favorite. I've known him since he was fifteen and I've never seen him say he was proud of a slave before they even did anything before."

The sound he makes at You're his favorite feels like it was ripped out of him. 

"Other slaves, he calls worthless wretches who deserve to lick his boot. You, he kisses. Because, apparently"-- she whips him hard after each word-- "you are flawless."

He — he can't, tell, what response she wants, and he can't think clearly for long enough to work it out — he's not sure he could be quiet if he tried — you're his favorite you're his favorite, he dotes on you, you he kisses —