"No," Chris had said. "No. Absolutely not."

"Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"There's a first time for everything."

"You'll love him," Ken said, "he's perfect, needs only the slightest polish."

"...Like knowing that he's gay. And sexually submissive." Chris sighed. "This is training, not therapy, Ken."

Ken ticked points off on her fingers. "He's beautiful. Strong, muscular. You won't have to train any bad habits out of him..."

"Because he doesn't have any habits, Ken," Chris said. "Because he doesn't know he's a submissive."

"He's so eager to please. He'll do anything you ask for and beg for more. He punishes himself when you don't punish him. He has almost the most thirst for obedience I've ever seen," Ken said. "The most since Robin."

There was silence for a moment. 

"That's not fair," Chris said. 

"Yep."

"That's really, really not fair."

"Yep."

"I'll clear my schedule."

Which is how Chris found himself sitting in his living room waiting for Marlo to appear. 

He isn't really sure what he's walking into; he'd known it wasn't going to be like basic, but he was still kind of expecting to be like basic. 

Chris Parker's living room, in short, is not in fact like basic. He's still holding himself like he would in front of an officer, back straight and head up and shoulders back; he doesn't try to hide the way he walks. 

"Kneel. Gracefully, please."

The doctor cleared him four months ago. He doesn't manage gracefully but he can kneel. 

"Hm. Up."

He stands. 

"I don't normally work with ex-military." Or people suffering from enormous quantities of sexual repression. "Ken begged me to take a chance on you. Do you think you'll make me regret it?"

"No, sir." 

"Good. Do you have personal affairs that I need to set aside time for you to resolve?"

"No, sir." 

He drops the folder onto his desk. It makes a sudden, loud sound. 

"For the next eight weeks, you will be required to maintain absolute obedience and respect. You do not have rights. You will not have privacy, free speech, pleasure, or choices in anything, unless I allow it. You will not be permitted to ask questions, unless I allow it. You will not be permitted to touch yourself or other people, unless I allow it. You will obey me immediately, completely, and without question. I will correct your behavior as I deem appropriate. 

"You will refer to me as 'Chris.' I am your trainer. I am not your master and I will not be addressed as such. 

"You will answer any question I ask you completely and honestly, to the best of your ability.  

"If you are experiencing a physical problem, you will notify me immediately. I cannot sell broken property. Otherwise, you have no way of changing what is going on if it is difficult or boring or uncomfortable or it hurts or you don't like it. If you want something to stop, the door is unlocked. You can leave and never see me again. Otherwise, you shall do as I say. 

"I do not care who you were before you walked in that door. I do not care where you lived, what you did, or what you want to be when you leave. You are raw material and I will shape you as I please.

"Do you understand?"

His face changes slightly at the word master. 

"Yes, Chris." He says Chris almost exactly the way he'd previously said sir. 

Good instincts. 

"You may ask questions. I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity, it will not come often."

"Are you aware of my medical history?" 

"Ken Mandarin has sent me your file. But summarize it to make sure there was not a miscommunication."

"Partial knee replacement surgery sixteen months ago. Post traumatic stress diagnosis." Those aren't the only thing in his file but they're the only things that are still relevant. 

"That's what your file said. Further questions?"

He really should take the opportunity, but he doesn't actually have anything else he needs to know the answer to. "No, Chris." 

Very trusting or very stupid. Possibly both. 

"That's a mistake."

"Your state of information is the only thing my asking would have any impact on."  

Trusting, then. But such good instincts. It is obvious what Ken sees in him. 

Chris stands, leaves the room, and returns with a binder. "Take your bags to the first room on the left. You will find a chest; the chest is for your things. Unpack and organize your belongings in some reasonable way. Return to the table and memorize the contents of this binder. Take particular note of any positions you think you will be unable to do with your knee. I will see you at dinner."

"Yes, Chris." 

He goes to the first room on his left. He unpacks; clothes on this side of the chest, everything else on that side, organized more for space efficiency than in any particular order. He returns to the table and looks over the contents of the binder. 

It is actually not possible to memorize this in one afternoon. 

Chris can't possibly be unaware of that. 

He looks at the section divides and get started on reading over the first section. He can't have the entire thing memorized by dinner; if he tries he'll forget nearly everything he's read within an hour. But he can start. 

The contents say:

Section I. Virtues of a Submissive

Section II. Protocol.

1. Physical preparation.
2. Body control.
3. Forms of address.
4. Positions.
5. Voice commands.
6. Voice training.
7. Basic service.
8. Personal attendance.
9. Public attendance.
10. Escorting.
11. Lending out.
12. Mindfulness.
13. Awareness of others.
14. Self-discipline. 
15. Personal care and fitness. 

Section II. Service. 

1. Fundamental skills.
2. Housework.
3. Home maintenance.
4. Yardwork.
5. Laundry.
6. Cooking.
7. Shopping and errands.
8. Automotive. 
9. Travel.
10. Secretarial.
11. Computer/electronic.
12. Financial. 
13. Health care.
14. Child care.
15. Animal care.
16. Art.
17. Companionship.
18. Personal grooming and body service.

Alright. He reads section I and section II.4, making mental notes of any position he can't do with his knee and at least considering how it might be altered so he could do it, and if he has time he reads sections II.1-II.3. 

Section I informs him of the importance of honor, integrity, truthfulness, humility, courtesy, loyalty, self-denial, and achievement. 

Section II.4 is devoted to extremely detailed and precise descriptions of how to enter a room, kneel, carry things, follow your master around the room, and so forth. There is a reference to a position called "open" that is not present in the text. II.1 is devoted to grooming; II.2 to the fact that he is not supposed to fidget, bite his nails, or in general make any movements that are not calculated, deliberate, and graceful; II.3 to the appropriate forms of politeness when addressing a superior in various circumstances. (They are very complicated.) 

When the sun is setting, Chris appears in the living room carrying a bag of sushi.

He pushes the binder forward and gives Chris his full attention. 

Chris unpacks the bag. 

"When you are in service, depending on your master's preference, you may serve him at dinner, eat separately, eat with the other slaves, or eat sitting on the floor. But I shall have you eat with me. Tell me what you learned this afternoon."

"I was able to read through section II.4 —" and he summarizes the sections, includes the notes he'd made on which positions he probably won't be able to do; he mentions a potential alteration once, and gauges Chris's expression to see if he should continue to do so. 

"It is an important aspect of service to take initiative when you think your master wants something."

He'd been half-expecting to be told that was presumptuous. He's glowing, just a little bit, at Chris's smile. 

He looks softer after that, more relaxed; his voice is less clipped. 

Goddammit, he is like Robin. That is inconvenient. 

How are his table manners?

He's mirroring Chris in terms of formality; he gestures marginally more when he's relaxed but mostly he's still. He has a habit of covering his mouth when he opens it. 

"Don't cover your mouth when you open it."

"Yes, Chris." 

He keeps lifting his hand and putting it back down again; after the fifth time he does that he looks visibly annoyed at himself for a second before his face clears. 

"Bend over the table. Away from the food, please."

He does. 

"Count."

Chris punches him in the meaty part of his shoulder. Not hard; it won't be painful, it will just knock the breath out of him. 

"— one." 

He hits him four more times in quick succession, aiming for different parts of Marlo's upper back. 

"After you are punished, you say 'thank you, Chris.'"

He nods. "Thank you, Chris." 

"Good boy. You took that well."

"Thank you, Chris," he repeats, in a different tone. 

(He's glowing again.) 

"Eat." Chris sits and follows his own instructions. "I am in charge of disciplining you. I will punish your faults when I see fit. I do not appreciate having to interrupt my meal because you cannot control your annoyance at your imperfections. Are we understood?"

He blinks twice. "Yes, Chris." 

He sits down. He eats. 

After dinner, Chris says, "After dinner each day, you will take your accumulated punishments. You will have an hour of free time, less the time it takes to punish you. You may lie down and rest, go for a walk or read any book in the house. You may ask permission to do some other form of recreation. After your free time, today you will study. You will go to bed at 9:30. You have a cot at the foot of my bed where you will sleep. You will not leave your bed until 6 a.m. unless you have a physical need to do so. When you wake up, you will not speak unless spoken to. You will prepare my coffee and stand at attention until you are needed."

Nod. "Yes, Chris." 

He hasn't been given permission to ask questions, so he doesn't ask how Chris likes his coffee. Probably Chris will tell him in the morning in any case. 

"Milk, no sugar."

…huh. 

Another nod. "Yes, Chris." 

Then Chris will curl up on a corner of the couch to write something out longhand. 

Marlo finds a book that looks interesting and finds a chair that isn't in Chris's direct line of sight and reads. 

His posture is different. Not a lot, but he's not holding himself at attention. 

Interesting. Chris makes a note of it but doesn't correct it. 

He fidgets more, like this; he tries to keep it to small things, doesn't entirely succeed. 

He reads until his time is up. 

Chris doesn't prompt him when his free time is up, doesn't seem to notice, watches Marlo to see what he does.

He looks at Chris for a moment — it's possible that he actually hasn't noticed the time but Marlo would be surprised — and then, when Chris doesn't respond, puts the book down and notes the page and goes back to the table to study. 

He can see the smile in his peripheral vision. He doesn't stop studying but you can see from his face, from the way his shoulders relax, that he's noticed. 

He's very sensitive to praise. Not sure whether it's best to beat that out of him or cultivate it. Some masters like their slaves responsive. 

At 9:20pm precisely, Chris puts aside his paper with a sigh, goes to the bathroom, changes into pajamas, goes into bed, and regrets that he can't yet have Marlo getting himself off on Chris's boot to help him go to sleep.

He reaches a stopping point at 9:26, which gives him less time than he'd like but more time than he needs. He's in his cot by 9:30. 

Chris does not dream, or at least doesn't remember that he dreams.

He wakes up a little after six and checks whether Marlo is in bed.

He is. 

(He dreams about — he never remembers what he dreams about anyway and he certainly doesn't remember now.) 

Chris kicks him. "Lazy. You wake up before me."

He jolts awake; it takes him half a second to realize where he is, and then he's on his feet and standing at attention. "Yes, Chris." 

Chris backhands him. "That's not what you say when you're punished."

Being told what's expected of him isn't a punishment. 

"Thank you, Chris." 

"I was going to put you through your paces this morning but I'm not sure I have a use for a lazy, disobedient slave."

His hands are shaking, just a little. 

He nods. 

"Go make me coffee and eggs."

Chris reads the newspaper and ignores him. 

He nods anyway. 

Chris likes his coffee with milk and no sugar — he doesn't know how Chris wants his eggs so he just hopes that scrambled is fine. 

It seems to be fine, judging by the fact that Chris continues to ignore him. 

When he's finished eating, he's silent for two minutes.

Marlo isn't going to be the first to speak. 

"Plates are to be cleared away at the end of meals."

"Yes, Chris." 

He clears the plate and silverware (and the cup if Chris is finished with it) and (lazy) washes it and dries it and puts it away. 

"Let's give you another chance, Marlo, shall we? Attention."

Head up shoulders back spine straight feet shoulder-width apart hands clasped behind his back body angled towards Chris. 

Chris circles him, making little adjustments. "Your pelvis should be tilted like so. And don't fidget. Again."

"Yes, Chris." He wasn't fidgeting before. He adjusts his hips the way Chris says to. 

"Let's try the adjustment for kneeling you thought of."

On his knees, weight shifted backwards so it's over his feet, shoulders back head down hands clasped behind his neck. 

"Hm. Let's see it with your feet spread a bit more widely."

He does. Chris was right, of course; it's easier to balance this way. 

For the next two and a half hours, Chris runs him through every single one of the slave positions and the transitions between them. He adjusts Marlo's posture.

At the end he says, "That was graceful. You have potential."

"Thank you, sir." His posture doesn't change but his face softens. 

The doorbell rings. 

"Stay," Chris says, and answers it. 

A pretty blonde woman in her forties and a white-haired man in an exquisitely tailored suit enter. 

"Greta, Emil," Chris says, "glad you could make it on such short notice."

…he shouldn't kneel for a long time but he's not sure how long Chris will be and he can handle it for a few minutes. 

He stays. 

"Stand," Chris says. "Greta and Emil will be handling your examination for the Marketplace today. I will be in the room, but act as if I am not here."

"What an unusual position," Greta says. "Pretty, though. He has a nice face."

He stands. "Yes, Chris." 

He doesn't know how to address Greta, but she wasn't speaking to him, so he doesn't have to figure it out just yet. 

Chris sits on a corner of the couch with a notebook and pen and does not seem to be paying any attention to the goings-on.

The old man says, "I am Dr. Emil Kaufmann, and this is my slave, Doctor Greta Mueller. What is your name, boy?"

"Marlo Lane, Doctor." 

"We are here to examine you, my boy, to certify that you are in good mental and physical health and prepare your file for the Marketplace. Your records will be considered confidential but they will be released to your owner when you are purchased. Do you understand and consent to be examined?"

"Yes, Doctor." 

"Please answer the questions as honestly and completely as possible. No need to take a lot of time to think about your answer-- I just want you to speak off the top of your head."

Trying to answer off the top of his head often takes more thought than just letting himself think about it. "Yes, Doctor." 

Dr. Emil has a kind and thoughtful manner. He listens like you are the most important person in the world and he has set aside everything to concentrate only on you. He is completely nonjudgmental; nothing you can say disturbs the calmness of his countenance. People feel a strange urge to open up to him.

Greta is taking notes.

The questions jump seemingly randomly from topic to topic. What were Marlo's relationships with his parents like? What did he think of military service? Has he ever been arrested, and for what? When was he first aware of sexual feelings? What does the word 'friendship' mean to him? What does he think about his PTSD diagnosis? Who does he think was the best president in his lifetime? What percentage of his life would he say is happy? How many people had he had sex with, and what did he think about having sex with them? How often does he masturbate, and how? Is he religious? What are his favorite books? If he had a vulva, what would it look like?

Marlo, as a rule, does not trust strange urges to open up to people. 

His parents wanted the best life possible for him and he's grateful for the work they did to ensure it. It was a privilege to be able to serve his country. He has not. Fourteen, maybe, he's not sure. Trust. He still isn't sure what he thinks of his PTSD diagnosis. Not Clinton. He doesn't know but maybe 70%? Two and it was fine but nothing special. Every couple of months; he doesn't know how to answer how. He is religious; he doesn't put any particular emphasis on the present tense but it is definitely a sentence in present tense. He likes Narnia. He can't say he's ever thought about it. 

Emil's nonjudgmental smile never wavers.

Chris ignores the interview and concentrates on whatever it is he's writing.

After a few minutes of this his eyes stop darting over to Chris. 

Lunchtime!

"You will not speak unless spoken to," Chris says at the beginning of lunch, and he is not spoken to.

He wouldn't have had much to contribute, anyway. The conversation consists of incomprehensible gossip about someone named Geoff Nagel, whom Chris seems to find personally offensive on every conceivable level. 

He eats and does his best to follow the conversation anyway, keeps track of the specific traits Chris finds offensive. 

Reasons Why Geoff Nagel Is Offensive, According To Chris:

--He thinks slaves should be treated like members of the family.
--He lets sheer sloppiness go uncorrected. (It appears that Chris has two categories, "sloppiness" and "perfection.")
--He recruits slaves who are clearly unsuited for the lifestyle and are traumatized by it. 
--He sells to owners who want a girlfriend who can't say "no," not a slave. 
--He punishes slaves when he wants to punish them instead of maintaining a consistent system of rewards and punishments.
--His slaves are poorly trained and unsuitable for anything but a handful of tasks. (The tasks go unnamed.)
--His slaves are not graceful.
--His slaves think that you should respect their preferences.
--His slaves require orders instead of being able to figure out what you want on their own. 
--He speaks in California psychobabble. 
--He thinks he's as good as Anderson. 

There are things he's curious about, of course, like "Who's Anderson" or "what tasks." Obviously, he doesn't ask. 

He eats. He doesn't have to remember to keep his hand down, because he isn't talking, but he makes a mental note of it all the same. 

After lunch, Chris returns to his writing and Emil takes up Greta's position as notetaker. 

"I'll need you to take off your clothes for the examination," Greta says.

"Yes, Doctor." He takes his clothes off. 

Greta is efficient and businesslike. 

She listens to his heart and lungs, takes hair and saliva and blood samples, asks him to pee in a cup, looks into his mouth and ears, takes his vital signs. She asks him about vaccinations, allergies, whether he uses sunscreen, whether he needs glasses, whether he's ever been hospitalized, how often he exercises and what he does, his family medical history. She asks him to do a series of stretches, to stand on one foot, to do as many jumping jacks as he can, to jump as high as possible. 

He gets a flu shot every year. No allergies as far as he's aware. Uses sunscreen when it's bright out or there's snow but not otherwise. Doesn't need glasses. He was hospitalized sixteen months ago after his knee surgery. He was internationally adopted and doesn't know his family history. He exercises daily; he swims and lifts weights. He'd done other things prior to the surgery. He can't do all the stretches; he can stand on one foot but shouldn't stand on his right foot for long. 

Greta kneels between his legs and inspects his genitalia with gloved fingers. She is as professional and cool about this as about every other part of the physical. "Healthy, no signs of trauma," she reports. She measures length and girth with a tape measure. "Any history of sexual dysfunction? Erectile dysfunction, anorgasmia, premature ejaculation...?"

He has no idea why that would be relevant but it's not like he's going to ask. No, but he considers the question before answering. 

"Why were you hesitating?"

He could answer that question in a couple of ways but the answer he lands on first is "I wasn't sure." 

"Can you explain?"

"Sex is generally uninteresting but not in a way I'd describe as medical dysfunction." 

She makes a "hm" sound and asks him about how often he eats vegetables. 

Oh good that topic's over. Less often than he used to — he cooked for himself less right after the surgery — and less often than he'd like but often. 

When they leave, Chris puts his notebook aside and says, "Hands on the wall."

He puts his hands on the wall. 

Chris leaves and returns with a well-used strap. 

He hits him across the back, hard, ten times. "For glancing at me when I told you to act like I wasn't there." Ten strikes. "For pausing before answering questions." Ten strikes. "For fidgeting." Ten strikes. "For failing to answer questions." Ten strikes. 

He continues, listing off every minor flaw Marlo had today. 

He doesn't protest that there were no questions that he failed to answer. He can take a lot of hits before he lets a sound slip through his teeth but he doesn't manage to be completely silent. 

For the last ten, he says, "I won't tell you what you did wrong to earn these. Call it an exercise."

He was so wrong that — 

He nods. "Thank you, Chris." 

"Turn around."

He turns around. 

Chris kisses his forehead. "Good boy. You did well today. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Chris." 

He's glowing. 

(There is maybe physical evidence of this, if Chris happens to look down.) 

He glances between Marlo's legs and says, "that's a normal reaction." Is Marlo ready to be touched? No, not yet. "You may get yourself off tonight."

Chris is still smiling. It's fine. He can still feel his face and shoulders heating up. "Thank you, Chris." 

Chris kisses Marlo's temple. "Pretty boy."

A soft gasp. "Thank you, Chris." 

"Go put some clothes on." He pauses. "You may take as much time as you wish."

He nods. "Yes, Chris. Thank you, Chris." 

He gets clothes on. 

He takes four minutes to lean against the wall and get his breathing and heartbeat back to normal. Two more minutes to press the base of his hands into his eyes and calm down. 

He comes back out. 

Chris is eating a bowl of soup Greta brought as if none of that had just happened. 

He stands at attention and waits for Chris to need something. 

"Eat. Do you have any questions about the errors you made today?"

Might as well. 

"Was the last error failing to be quiet during my punishment?" 

"No. In fact, many owners appreciate hearing noises."

…Nod. 

"Thank you, Chris," he says. 

He eats. 

After dinner, Marlo has his hour of free time. 

Chris is reading about accounting. He doesn't seem to be paying attention, but as Marlo has previously learned, Chris not seeming to be paying attention will not prevent him from giving you a twenty-minute explanation of all your inadequacies.

He has more nervous energy than usual; it feels like there's a live current just under his skin. He tries to continue reading the book from yesterday; after ten minutes he decides this isn't going to get anywhere, does twelve push-ups, and tries again. 

"It is," Chris comments, "conventionally considered to be 'night' at this time."

— so it is. 

"Thank you, Chris," he says, and finds an empty room. 

He leans against the wall and closes his eyes and tries not to think too much. (He thinks anyway. About — the impact on his back, and nothing else.) 

When he's done, the thrumming under his skin is quiet. 

Chris doesn't comment when he returns.

He never really feels clean after he's done that. This time is no different.

He's able to concentrate on reading, now. 

Chris watches him for a bit.

...then stands up, walks over to him, and puts a hand in his hair.

"Good boy."

He melts into Chris's hand. "Thank you, Chris." 

Chris strokes his hair affectionately and a little possessively. 

A soft torn-off sound from the back of his throat. Marlo melts just a little more. 

Having his hair petted plausibly counts as a recreational activity!

Marlo isn't thinking about that right now. He's too focused on Chris's hands in his hair, on the way Chris is smiling. 

But yes, it does. 

With the exception of the one hour in the evening, there is not a single moment for the next week that Marlo is not busy. 

Chris approves the exercise routine Marlo was doing, with some modifications and some yoga. He adds a daily meditation practice-- ten minutes, on the theory that if Marlo was left alone with his thoughts for much longer he might explode. To build on Marlo's military background, Chris hires a specialist slave, Sensei Chen, to teach him martial arts for bodyguarding. Every inch of Chris's house is scrubbed, polished, waxed, and dusted several times over. Marlo cooks three meals a day. He memorizes innumerable details of protocol. He is drilled on forms of address and body positions until he can do them in his sleep. When Chris runs errands, he stands behind Chris's shoulder and holds his things. When Chris works, he stands at attention near his desk, ready to fetch whatever Chris may need. Mealtimes are spent being quizzed on everything from the proper way to clean silver to how Marlo would respond to his owner having a stalker. 

On the third day, Chris gives Marlo a journal. "I expect you to write in it daily, at least two pages," he says. "I won't read it."

Chris is demanding, relentless, and perfectionist. Anything that is not done perfectly-- a mantel with a speck of dust, a stumble when he's carrying a package, a sentence with imperfect grammar, a kata or lift with slightly incorrect form-- must be redone. At one point, Marlo spends two hours walking into and out of the room until Chris is satisfied with how he did it. When Chris thinks Marlo should be doing better than he is-- and he often does-- his words are harsh: "lazy" and "disobedient" are joined by "arrogant," "willful," and "weak." If Marlo executes something flawlessly the first time, he earns a smile or a "good boy." Chris is visibly unhappy when he has to give an order to have something he wants accomplished; when Marlo correctly anticipates what is needed, Chris will not only praise him but sometimes even stroke his hair.

Though he extensively studies the etiquette of such encounters, Marlo does not encounter other slaves, owners, or trainers. 

Every evening, after dinner, Marlo is hit, dozens of strokes, with the strap or a cane or a whip or Chris's bare hands. As he hits him, Chris explains every mistake Marlo made over the course of the day, every deviation from the behavior of a good slave. When the punishment is finished, Chris kisses his forehead and praises him, points out some details of Marlo's behavior that day that were particularly excellent, assures him that he has the potential to be a fine slave and that Chris is pleased with him. Unlike the first time, Marlo is clothed; also unlike the first time, Marlo is not given permission to masturbate.  

He learns. Not just forms and terms of address, but how to tell when Chris wants him back quickly and when Chris wants him to do extra work, how to tell what Chris will want from him. 

Arrogant and willful and weak join lazy and disobedient in echoing around his head when he pauses to let them. Medititation practice is taken up almost entirely with letting them. He writes two pages every day; sometimes he accomplishes this by copying out things he's trying to memorize, but he does accomplish it. 

He learns to look forward to after dinner; the beatings hurt but he feels clean when they're finished, he glows when Chris tells him what he's done well. The echoing stops, at least until he does something wrong again, which inevitably he will. 

He continues to not remember his dreams. 

One evening, Chris looks at Marlo's back and says, "this won't work. You're solid bruise across your entire back."

…he does his best not to interpret that as "you've needed so much punishing that you're making it more inconvenient to punish you," because if Chris meant that he would say that. 

Chris is not known for his willingness to hide his disdain from his slaves, no.

He sits. "Pants off. Lie across my lap."

…okay. 

He does. 

"There was water on one of the glasses." Chris spanks him. "You almost dropped a book." Spank. "You gave an incorrect answer about what to do if your master's guests demand contradictory things." Spank. "You covered your mouth when you opened it four times." Spank, spank, spank, spank. 

Normally, Chris's style of punishment is to start as hard as possible and then get harder. But the spanking starts lightly, almost not painfully at all, and builds gradually, with the intent that Marlo will have endorphins floating through his system by the time there's any real pain. 

It's much lighter than Chris usually uses, at the beginning. He tries not to read too much into that, or into the way Chris hits him harder as it goes on. 

He doesn't think about the contact. About the warmth. Runner's high sets in after a few minutes and then he's not thinking about much of anything. 

Chris continues to list off failings. Marlo's hair wasn't dry enough when he was done grooming in the morning. He made eye contact with Chris three times when his eyes were supposed to be downcast. He was unacceptably slow to answer a question. He made a noise when he was clearing the plates. The spanking is firm but not harsh, and calculated to be the pleasurable sort of pain. 

He stops and places his hand on Marlo's red ass, strokes it, then spanks him again. "Your back arched when you were squatting."

A soft high-pitched broken sound, at the touch. 

It's like — it's like when Chris is gentle afterwards, except that when it comes in the middle Marlo's so much more grateful for it. 

When he's finished, Chris rests his hand on Marlo's ass. "Good slave."

He shifts a bit to see if Marlo is hard.

"— Thank you, Chris." He sounds like he's about to cry. 

(He is.) 

"You've improved immensely since you first walked through that door and I think in seven weeks you shall be an excellent slave."

Chris strokes his ass gently and traces little circles on it, while murmuring about how Marlo is a good boy and a good slave and he makes Chris very proud.

He makes tiny little whimpering sounds and relaxes into the contact. (He's — overly sensitive because of the hitting — it's not actually any different from when Chris touches his hair, or after any other punishment, if Chris usually followed punishments with touching his back that would feel like this too — he doesn't think about the logical implications of that thought.)

(There are rocks less hard than Marlo is right now.)  

Chris bends over and kisses the back of his head. "If you'd like to go get yourself off, you can."

When Chris kisses him his breath comes out a sob. The sentence takes him a moment to parse.

"— thank you Chris," he says, and gets up and walks to the bathroom on shaky legs and does not think. 

It takes him about ten minutes to come back out, and he's obviously been crying. 

Chris takes one look at his face, stands up, and hugs him. 

He buries his face in Chris's shoulder and — he really hopes this is okay — hugs him back, holds on tight like he hasn't been hugged in years. 

"Shhh. Shhh. It's okay. It's okay. You're good, you're all good." Chris pets his hair. 

His breath hitches like he's crying again. (Chris's shoulder stays dry.) 

Gradually gradually gradually, he starts to relax into Chris's chest. 

Chris is significantly smaller than Marlo but still manages to project an air of protectiveness and a sense that he will keep Marlo safe. 

He touches Marlo's hair and back gently, careful not to hurt his bruises.

He's so (strict/gentle/punishing/kind) good. Marlo notices absently that he's clinging. 

"Would you like to tell me what this is all about?"

It is, distinctly, not an order.

"I," very quietly into Chris's shoulder, "I don't know," and his voice is shaking. "— I don't know what it's about not I don't know whether I want to tell you," he adds, all in a rush. 

"It seems to me," Chris says, holding him tightly, "you became aroused when you were being spanked, and you're having difficulty handling that."

Cling. "That's part of it, yes." 

Chris considers and discards "so clearly you know at least a little of what this is about."

Instead he says, "I'm not mad at you. I think you have done well."

"Thank you, Chris." 

Chris pulls him onto the couch and continues to hold him. "What else is part of it?" His voice is gentle.

It takes him a moment to detangle his thoughts. "Can't remember the last time anyone was this gentle," which is true but — he doesn't follow that rabbit — maybe he should follow that rabbit — he doesn't. 

"'Gentle' is not a word I'm accustomed to hear when describing my training style."

"Not the training style. This," and he makes a vague gesture at the two of them (that he knows Chris can't see because it's behind him, but he doesn't have the words for what this is.) 

"I'm not sure I know what 'this' is if it's not referring to your training."

He curls inward just a little at the tone. "The way you're holding me. The way you touch my hair. Nobody's — in so long —" 

"Ah."

Chris makes a mental note that physical affection is perhaps the best reward for Marlo. 

He uncurls, shifts so they fit around each other better. 

In general, rewards should be rationed. But he wants Marlo to have new, positive associations with submissive sexuality. He keeps holding him. 

He gently strokes Marlo's hair. "Do you think that's why your punishments are arousing?"

"I. Yes." That's definitely part of why. He does not follow that rabbit. 

"The only reason?"

"No, Chris." 

"Do you want to tell me the other reasons?" His voice is accepting and so, so gentle.

He doesn't — "It's.

I wouldn't if it wasn't you." 

"Slaves usually develop an emotional connection to their trainers."

Nod. 

"Thank you, Chris." 

That's enough epiphanies for one day. 

"I'd suggest you journal about this although, of course, I have no way to enforce this suggestion."

Another nod. "Yes, Chris." 

Chris holds Marlo for the rest of the night. 

Some part of him is insistent that he's never going to be held like this again. That part of him is almost certainly ridiculous but it's very hard to ignore. He relaxes into Chris. 

"You may stay in my bed with me tonight."

"Thank you, Chris." He shifts closer, then relaxes into him again. 

Chris falls asleep with an arm around Marlo. He sleeps soundly that night.

He falls asleep with Chris's arm around him, and sleeps more soundly than he has in years, and doesn't remember what he'd dreamed of. 

The next few days continue mostly as they did before. Now, when Marlo does something well-- which he does more often, these days-- Chris hugs him, or kisses his forehead, or perhaps touches him on the shoulder, in addition to the usual praise. 

In the evenings, Marlo is ordered to take off his pants and then spanked over Chris's knee. The spankings are harder than the first one, more like the way Chris hit him on his back. The strap is occasionally used. Afterwards, Chris touches his back and ass for a while, then gives him permission to masturbate; after Marlo masturbates, Chris holds him briefly, for ten or fifteen minutes, and gives him some specific praise. 

Sometimes his thoughts go in directions he would prefer they didn't, when Chris touches him. It isn't about that — it isn't, it can't be, Chris's touch is bright and pure and clean, it can't be about that — those thoughts are obnoxious but not a real problem. He has other things to think about. 

He still feels — unclean — when he finishes; it feels like a layer of grime settled into his skin, deep enough that no amount of washing can get it out. But the pain before is purifying and afterwards, when Chris holds him and tells him what he'd done well, that feels like purifying too. 

He learns. He studies. He improves. He messes up less; he gets things right the first try more.

Anyone who knew him before and saw him now would say he was shining. 

One morning, Chris says, "you will learn how to give a massage. Good massages are a skill in high demand."

He's not really sure why Chris feels the need to justify this but he's perfectly happy to not ask. "Yes, Chris." 

One of the side rooms has been outfitted with a massage table.

Chris pulls off his shirt in a businesslike fashion. His torso is the slim V of a swimmer; his pecs and abs are well-formed. A tattoo of a phoenix starts at his nipples and continues down under the waistband of his pants, its eyes in the center of his chest, its claws pointing directly between his legs. Red flames lick both sides of his stomach, encasing blue and red wings.

He takes off his pants. Underneath he's wearing a jockstrap that covers his genitals but otherwise leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The phoenix, it appears, is rising from gray ashes.

The tattoo design is gorgeous. He keeps his eyes where they belong. 

He's roughly ninety percent sure he doesn't also need to take his own clothes off. He definitely doesn't know about this task to be able to anticipate what Chris will want him to do first; he waits for orders. 

Chris lies on the massage bed. The jockstrap reveals his entire ass to Marlo's view. His upper arm has three V-shaped marks on it. 

"You should begin by checking the client's back for cuts or abrasions that might make the massage unpleasant," Chris says, "and asking if they need any adjustments, such as a towel under their knees, to make them feel more comfortable. You will find massage oil in the upper right drawer of the table. Begin with an effleurage movement, to distribute the oil, warm up the skin, and allow the client to get used to your touch. Begin at the neck and run your hands all the way down my spine and back up."  

He gets the oil from the drawer. "Do you need any adjustments, Chris?" 

"I do not."

He spreads the oil over his hands — he's not really sure how much to use but decides it's better to have more than he needs than not enough — and does as he was told, moving his palms in small circles down Chris's back to the base of his spine and back up to his neck. 

"Marlo, have you ever made a study of human anatomy?"

"I haven't, Chris." 

"Perhaps if you were less ignorant you would know that the human spine is typically considered to extend to the tailbone, which is well below the hip."

"Yes, Chris." 

He does the motion again, goes down to Chris's tailbone this time. Does his best to ignore all of the… everything. 

"Good. Try it again with more pressure."

He does. He pushes aside a really excessive number of thoughts; he'll deal with that next time he has a chance. 

Chris continues to give him instructions. 

It turns out that massage involves an awful lot of... everything. 

It certainly does. 

When Marlo notices his thoughts going somewhere they shouldn't, he quietly redirects power away from that part of his brain. 

Half an hour later, Chris says, "Not bad at all for your first time. We'll practice this three times a week."

"Yes, Chris," he says. 

Over the course of the next week and a half, Marlo spends six or seven hours massaging every inch of Chris's naked body except for the parts covered by his jockstrap. 

Chris is, of course, also teaching Marlo massage skills. When you only have two months to perfect someone, it's important to make things serve more than one purpose.

He gets very very good at shutting down thoughts before they begin. 

He also gets very good at giving massages. Birds and stones and what all. 

Marlo shutting down his thoughts is, in fact, the opposite of the goal here. 

At the end of a very pleasant foot massage, Chris says, "you are progressing quite nicely as a body slave."

He edges around the thought body slave. 

"Thank you, Chris." 

"But, of course, there are more skills involved in being a body slave than the ones I have taught you so far, and we will concentrate on those more next month. Grooming and dressing your master. Attendance at parties. Sex," he adds, off-handedly, as if it were not the whole point of the conversation.

He will interact with that thought later. 

"Yes, Chris."

That's the "I'm repressing this thought" face. Not acceptable right now. 

"My associate Rachel will visit tonight to begin your sexual training."

Rachel owes him a favor anyway. 

It doesn't matter. Not unless he wants to walk out the door and never come back. 

"Yes, Chris." 

"Tell me what you're feeling."

"I… have never enjoyed sex much and I don't anticipate that changing. Chris." 

Says the man who has been jerking off every day after being spanked for two weeks. 

"You are not here to enjoy sex. You are here to be used in the way that your master pleases, which may include sex."

You asked what I was feeling, he doesn't say. 

"Yes, Chris," he says. 

Chris hugs him and kisses his forehead. "I am confident in your ability to please Rachel."

"Thank you, Chris." His voice has gone soft. 

Chris kisses his forehead one last time and leaves. "Study."

"Yes, Chris," he says to the closing door. 

He studies. 

Chris calls Rachel, argues with her, calls in his favor, and schedules Marlo's first attempt at sexual service for tonight.

He tells Marlo to scrub the walls. He feels full of restless energy. He is too good at his job to let that make him pickier than usual.

About an hour before Rachel is scheduled to arrive, Chris says, "you should take your punishment now. Rachel may want to use you all night."

"Yes, Chris." 

Pants off. Across Chris's lap. He tries not to think about tonight. 

The spanking builds slowly. Chris pauses between strokes to touch him. 

Usually it takes a while for Marlo to start to let sounds through his throat. Not this time. 

When he starts letting sounds through his throat, Chris says, "good boy", and then continues the litany of his inadequacy.

He moans softly at good boy and the sounds get louder. 

When the spanking is done, Chris pets Marlo from his shoulder to the crease where his ass meets his thigh. 

"I suggest," he says, "you think of sex with Rachel as something you are doing to please me. Perhaps it will make it more enjoyable."

"Yes, Chris." His voice is very soft. 

Chris touches him and praises him until a knock comes at the door.

"On your belly," he says.

"Yes, Chris." 

He gets down on the floor and tries his level best not to think about anything at all. 

Chris takes her coat and they make small talk at the door. 

"Oh!" Rachel says when she sees Marlo. "He's beautiful, isn't he? Such good form."

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 — 

She stops whipping him. "I'm not so sure you are flawless. Come into the bedroom."

He nods. "Yes, Rachel." 

He follows her. 

"You call me 'ma'am.'"

She pulls off her shirt, skirt, and underwear. She's a very conventionally attractive woman: her breasts are large and well-formed, her waist slim, her hips curvy, her legs long.

"Yes, ma'am." 

She is, objectively, attractive. Marlo can't feel anything but dread. 

She sits on the bed. "Kiss me."

"Yes, ma'am." 

Whenever he's kissed girls before, there was leadup. Kissing Rachel with none at all feels even more strange and vaguely-unpleasant than kissing usually feels. 

She puts a hand in his hair and pulls it while she's kissing him. 

She probably wants a reaction — he hisses and moves his head pliantly where she seems to want it and keeps kissing her. 

She takes one of his hands and places it on her breast.

He's still not really sure what one is supposed to do with breasts but how about he holds it? that works. He puts his other hand on Rachel's side and kisses her deeper. 

She makes a "hm" noise into his mouth and then guides his hand with hers, showing him how to touch it.

He can do that. It's just following instructions, it's not that hard. 

He feels like he's slightly to the left of himself. 

"Kiss down my neck," she says, pulling away from the kiss. She glances at his facial expression and says, "show me what makes Chris like you so much."

Okay. Okay. He, he can do that. 

He arranges his face so it's smiling and touches her the way she'd taught him and kisses her again, moves from her mouth to her jawline down her neck and back up. You, he kisses. Because, apparently, you are flawless. 

She rewards him with little hisses and moans that would probably be a lot more interesting if he were attracted to women at all. 

It's good to know what she likes, he can repeat it. He moves his hand from her breast to the back of her shoulder, pulls her a little bit closer, Melissa liked when he did that, and he rubs the thumb of his other hand in small circles against her side. 

"Yes, like that-- try kissing my breasts."

Rachel ponders whether to mention that Marlo is incurably depressing and concludes that mentioning it would probably just make him more depressing. 

Alright. He can do that. He keeps kissing her neck for a moment before he murmurs "Yes, ma'am" against her skin and moves down. 

"Mm, yes, like that-- a little to the right-- very good-- softer-- try using your hands too-- oh, you are a fast learner."

An incurably depressing fast learner, but we can't have everything.

He focuses entirely on Rachel's responses to what he's doing; it doesn't take long to learn what kind of pressure she likes, and where she likes it. 

She's been around slaves long enough to know how to think of them as being a sort of mobile sex toy. 

"Oooh, very nice. So this is why Chris loves you-- ooh."

Oh — for just a second there he can almost operate on instinct, for just a second there kissing – someone – almost feels natural —the feeling fades after barely half a second, of course, but it was there — he runs his hands over her and lets So this is why Chris loves you echo around in his head. 

Huh. Apparently Marlo's depressingness is curable with mentions of Chris.

Rachel says, "Get between my legs, I'm going to give Chris a review of your oral skills."

"Yes ma'am." 

He isn't completely unfamiliar with this but he's much less familiar with it than he is with kissing. He sticks to kissing his way down her torso and putting his hands on her hips until he has more of an idea where she wants him to start. 

She grabs his head and shoves it where she wants it to go. "Lick."

Yes okay he can do that that is doable. 

She gives him instructions about what to do and guides his head with her hands and pulls his hair hard when he gets it wrong. 

Then he'll continue to learn quickly. 

And when he gets it right she says, "ooh, yes, exactly-- ah-- good boy, Chris loves you, good boy--"

He inhales sharply and whimpers against her and — he can't do this on instinct even now but he moves more naturally. 

"Good boy," she says experimentally, "good boy."

It doesn't have nearly as much of an effect but it has any; he shivers and repeats the thing he'd just done with his tongue. 

"...While you're going down on me, think about Chris and how happy you're making him and how pleased he will be with you when you're done. And I will be able to tell if you don't."

He closes his eyes and — he dotes on you, you know, you're his favorite — remembers the way it feels when Chris touches his hair, remembers being held, remembers sleeping beside him remembers Chris's hands over his bruises — he's only vaguely aware of what his tongue is doing — you, he kisses. because, apparently, you are flawless — it hurts to sit down and Chris's hands are so warm afterwards — he's holding onto Rachel's thighs and moving exactly the way she showed him. 

She shudders and clenches her thighs around his face and finishes. 

"Good boy," she says. "Are you hard?"

He wasn't, before she said to —

He nods. "Yes, ma'am." 

"Condoms are in the nightstand. Get one, put it on, and fuck me. Keep your eyes closed. Think about Chris. Don't come until I tell you."

This is literally the most depressing sex she has ever had. Chris owes her so many favors for this.

Okay — okay. He can do that. "Yes ma'am."

He puts the condom on and closes his eyes again and thinks about Chris, about Chris hitting him and about Chris holding him after he's hit and about Chris touching his hair and telling him he'd done well and about Chris kissing his forehead and saying I'm proud of you — 

This he can do without being told how. 

She runs her fingers down his chest and stomach. It's a very nice stomach. Chris will get good money on this one. 

"Slower," she says, and "harder", and "touch my clit."

"Yes, ma'am," and he goes slower, and harder, and reaches down to touch her clit, and — you, he kisses. because, apparently, you are flawless — kisses her neck, her jaw, her shoulders. 

"Nice touch," she says approvingly, "good boy."

Slight shiver. He keeps doing that, keeps rubbing small circles over Rachel's clit, keeps his eyes closed and keeps playing over memories of Chris. 

Rachel looks at him critically. He really is very attractive when he's turned on. Shame about him being gay.

She grabs his hand and moves it the way she wants. 

Then he'll be moving his hand the way she wants. He's only halfway aware of what's going on outside of his skull and given her instructions Rachel probably prefers it that way, but he can do as he's told and still be focusing on Chris telling him he's good, that he's done well, that — 

— he holds himself back from the edge — 

He is very, very beautiful when he's edging. He would probably be even more beautiful if she'd caused it.

She ponders having another orgasm, decides that ending this excruciatingly embarrassing experience is best for everyone involved, and says, "good boy, you can come."

The only sound he makes is a small, soft oh before he finishes. 

He opens his eyes. "Thank you, ma'am," and his voice is shaking. He gets off of her and takes the condom off and throws it away and kneels on the bed. 

She smiles at him. "You did well. Chris'll be here soon."

"The good news is that he can function sexually with men and women," Rachel says to Chris. 

"That sounds like there's bad news."

"Having sex with Marlo as a woman," Rachel says, "is incredibly depressing."

"He didn't--" Chris said, not quite managing to hide the surprise in his voice.

"Of course not," Rachel says, "he was perfect, like you knew he would be. Utterly obedient, a quick learner, and smiling the entire time. It's just that he doesn't want to have sex with me. And not even in the hot way where I'm forcing him and he's humiliated, because he's one of yours, and so he does everything I say as soon as I say it without protesting."

"Wonderful."

"He just... has an air of wishing it would be over so he can take a shower."

"How am I going to sell that?" Chris says. "Selling a Kinsey 6 is worse than selling a Kinsey 0."

"You could sell him to a woman," Rachel says dubiously, "if she didn't want to have sex with him, or if she had a fetish for very obedient men who sort of want to vomit the entire time. --Oh, by the way, I told him you love him."

"What?!"

"You can't lie to me, Chris, I've known you since you were fourteen, and also you have a type."

"That is not my concern," Chris says, although it absolutely was his concern. "Matters are at a delicate stage with Marlo, I am picking apart a complicated web of self-deception and denial and internalized homophobia, and I don't need complicating--"

"Marlo is a sad kicked little puppy and I am not confident that anyone has ever loved him in his entire life," Rachel says. "He needs to know."

Chris glances at the clock. "This conversation has lasted too long, he'll think he did poorly and it will set back his training. Thank you for your assistance."

"Do you ever get tired," Rachel says to Chris's departing back, "of having training slaves instead of feelings?"

The room smells like her. Marlo desperately wants to take a shower, to get this — whatever feeling this is — off of him. He's still kneeling on the bed when Chris walks in. 

(Chris loves you, runs through his mind unbidden. He dotes on you, you know.) 

He keeps his eyes down even though he's burning to know what Chris's face looks like. 

"Rachel says you did well and were a quick learner and were very capable of hiding how crushingly miserable you were the whole time."

His shoulders curl almost imperceptibly inward. "Thank you, Chris." 

Chris sits down next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulder, and kisses him. 

— oh — 

He freezes for a split second, and then melts into Chris's touch, kisses him back. 

"I suspect," Chris says, with a touch of dry humor, "you would enjoy sex a good deal more if you had it with someone you were actually attracted to."

He's not crying, yet. "I'm," and it comes out a sob. He leans against Chris. 

"You're mine."

"I'm yours." 

He presses as close to Chris as he can get. 

Marlo is going to be kissed very very thoroughly.

And Chris is going to be very very clung to. 

Marlo's shaking. Not in a bad way. 

Chris's face looks... odd. Vulnerable, and peaceful, and relaxed in a way he doesn't normally look. 

"You are very beautiful."

"Thank you." 

Very hesitantly, he puts one hand on Chris's hair. 

"So are you." 

He traces a line down Marlo's cheek. 

"I should be responsible and discuss with you the matter of your sexuality. What I want to do is throw you in bed and fuck you senseless."

"That might help," kiss, "more than one might," kiss, and another kiss, "think —" 

"You are being tempting because you want to get fucked."

"That's true too," soft and breathless. 

Chris kisses him. "I am going to be irresponsible."

Marlo makes a string of desperate sounds into his mouth. 

"Rachel has... made me aware that I love you."

"I love you too," against Chris's mouth, and even if Chris couldn't feel his body language he'd be able to hear the way Marlo is glowing just in his voice. 

Chris kisses him. 

"This is very unprofessonal," he says, removing his shirt. He does not seem very inclined to stop.

It's not like Marlo hasn't gotten to touch him before, but it's different now — different now that there's no task to learn, different now that he's letting his thoughts go any direction they want, different now that he knows — he's careful about it, putting his hands down lightly, only gradually increasing the pressure and moving them over Chris's chest. 

Chris's eyes are closed and his face is blissful and he's not giving any instructions at all.

(Marlo might notice that Chris has two long scars across his chest, covered up by the phoenix tattoo.)

Kissing Chris is easy, as natural as breathing — if this is what kissing is supposed to be then no wonder people enjoy it so much — Marlo has a fair few scars himself, some of which he's prouder of than others; he doesn't ask. 

"I should... tell you something..."

His voice is floaty and distant.

"Mm?" His hands go back to Chris's hair. 

A sharp intake of breath when Marlo's hands touch his hair. 

"When you take off my pants I won't have. What you're expecting."

Marlo's not sure what else he'd have, but, "Okay," and he keeps touching Chris's hair. 

"I have a cunt."

He blinks twice, and then — oh. 

He kisses Chris again. "Okay," and Marlo's hands in Chris's hair are so so gentle. 

Chris touches his chest, his sides, his stomach, his thighs, conspicuously not his dick. 

"You're so beautiful."

"I love you," and he leaves kisses along Chris's jawline, the curve of his throat. 

Marlo thinks he loves him, but his feelings are half "having sex with a person he is attracted to for the first time in his entire life" and half "Chris has deliberately replaced Marlo's entire system of values and goals with the single overarching imperative to please Chris."

It's not a good time to mention that.

Goddamn. 

If he stops having sex with Marlo now, it will be traumatizing and set back Marlo's ability to do sexual service by weeks. He is irritated at how grateful he is that that's the case.

He lets himself go. He floats. He kisses his way down Marlo's body. 

He keeps his hands in Chris's hair, watches Chris's face — he can't really keep kissing him but he'd like to — Chris looks like he's in bliss, he's gorgeous all the time but he's especially gorgeous when he's relaxed like this — "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and runs his hands through Chris's hair. 

He takes Marlo into his mouth.

He is very good at this.

Yes — yes he is — Marlo moans and writhes under him and holds onto Chris's hair like he might fall if he let go —