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."