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not there. I wish it was true. “Must have been a bad boy.”
    “My slave’s previous masters wasted far too much energy on him,” my master explains, not elaborating further.
    I bite my lip to keep from protesting, to keep from crying out. Is that really all I am to him, a waste of energy? Is it not even worth his time to beat me; is that what he’s saying? I can’t help but sob, curling my arms tighter around my face and trying to press myself into the wall.
    “Well, with a smart mouth like that, no wonder!” Torenze exclaims. “I bet he could be taken down a notch with a good thorough whipping, though. Maybe on a regular basis, keep that ass nice and sore.”
    “He requires only a minimum level of pain and correction to be brought under control,” my master comments. “Marking him and damaging him that badly was a complete waste of energy and counterproductive to teaching him anything. Look at him now, Oliver, imagine how hysterical he’d be if I were to use a whip on him. He’d be unable to process anything. They need balance.”
    My head spins. Is that all this is about, then? He’s not treating me well, he’s conserving energy? Being more productive? Bringing me under control? I’ve never tried to convince myself that he really cares about me, but I thought he at least saw me as a person. I thought he had some respect for me.
    I want to hate him, but I can’t, not just yet. It’s too fast, too awful, and he’s given me a reprieve, hasn’t he?
    “Turn around, Sascha.”
    I obey instantly, considering his words. Processing . Not thinking, not what humans do. Just processing. Like a machine, or maybe an animal.
    “Put your head and your hands back against the wall and don’t move them.”
    I do so, and I’m suddenly struck by the realization that he’s going to hit the front of me as well. Not just my legs, this time; he’s told me to hold my head back because he’s going to hit my chest. It’s all I can do not to fall to the floor and beg him not to do it, but that didn’t work out so well last time, and this fucking man is watching us. It’s not so much that it would be inappropriate that stops me, it’s the fact that Torenze would enjoy it. I won’t give him that satisfaction, not if I can help it.
    I don’t beg, but I yelp as the leather snaps across my chest, lighting a fire between my shoulders and across my sternum. I’ve been hit there before, with fists or on accident, but I’ve never intentionally been beaten there. It’s more intimate, somehow, and the fact that my master would be looking into my eyes if he was focused on anything at all makes it that much worse. Somehow, I feel violated. The lashes move lower, and I can’t help but squirm as the belt snaps across my nipples, searing me with pain.
    “Look at him move, he must like it! You’ve got yourself a pain slut, don’t you?”
    My master stops, and I’m not sure whether to be grateful or angry. If anything, it gives me a minute to compose myself. I like pain, but not this kind, and not like this. Torenze clearly has no idea what it looks like when someone enjoys pain, not someone other than himself.
    “Do you enjoy this, Sascha?” my master asks. He doesn’t really sound curious though, he sounds like he’s reciting lines from a play.
    “No, master,” I grind out, wanting nothing more than to cup my hands over my chest and cry for hours. “I do not enjoy this and I’m sorry I misbehaved.” In a different situation, I might enjoy something similar, but all I feel now is horror and mortification and burning pain.
    “I’ll continue, then,” he says, almost a whisper.
    The belt is louder as it snaps across my chest a few more times.
    He continues, thankfully avoiding my stomach and crotch, and picks up the momentum again at my thighs, and then down my legs. I can tell he’s barely putting any force behind his swing, using the belt with practiced ease to avoid wrapping it around my legs, but it still hurts,