An Afternoon Walk

Once we reach the Goodheart home, Amy smiles at me, “Leave your clothes in the car. Let's go for a walk, slut. I want to let you have some time to acclimate to being nude community-wide. I want to be sure people see you and know you're mine.”

“Yes, Amy,” I answer, getting out of the car and abandoning the clothes I am not allowed to wear, anyway, now. I wait, as Amy gets out of the car and circles around to me. Her eyes travel down me, roaming over me with authentic appreciation.

“Do you think you will feel embarrassed, walking around nude, everywhere?” Amy asks, and I tilt my head, thinking on it. I don't have a say, and I know it, but sentiments of embarrassment? My lips pull to one side, and my eyes move skywards.

“I mean, I don't really have a say,” I observe, “but, I don't know. I don't think I will? I don't think I have anything to feel embarrassed about.” I pause and look down over my form, taking myself in, my lips pursed with a thoughtful expression.

“I mean, it isn't as if someone stole my clothes, or I forgot to put them on,” I add, “so, no. I doubt that I'll be embarrassed.” Granted, I have no way to know until we head out for our walk, and run into someone. I pause, as a thought occurs to me.

“Oh, but what about my ID? I need my registration ID,” I note. Amy blinks and stares at me for a moment, then groans and nods, motioning. I lean into the car, arching my spine when I feel her rest a palm on my ass, as I am retrieving my ID card.

“Okay, here you are, Amy,” I hold it out, handing it over to her. Amy takes it, sliding my identification into her pocket, and she nods. When she motions, I walk with her, leaving her family's yard and stepping out into the open, onto the sidewalk.

I don't know if the ordinance that compels my nudity would mean I could face public use. As we walk, I realise that doesn't really matter, either. I won't have any vote in the matter, if Amy orders me to kneel and service someone, it'd be required.

The warm sun and gentle breeze on my skin, the scent of fresh air in my lungs, we walk. The sensation of harsh concrete, under my bare soles, is unfamiliar. It's probably been seven years since I walked anywhere barefoot. Now, I'm bare nude.

“So, Amy,” I preface, and she looks over at me as we walk, “am I allowed to talk freely, ask questions freely, or would you prefer me to remain silent, when we're in public, like this? I don't ever want to be a disappointment to you, or anything.”

“Oh, my beautiful sunshine slut,” Amy says, stopping, and so I stop with her, as she turns to me, lifting her hands to cup my cheeks, “You could never, ever be a disappointment. Don't change. I have one very specific viewpoint on that topic.”

“What's that?” I ask, as I suspect she wants me to.

“If you don't want your slave to speak, you don't deserve to have one,” Amy tells me, assertively, “Faggot or not, and you most certainly are, you are also my best friend, as ever. It's natural to be worried, to feel concerned about these changes.”

“You can talk to me. You can ask questions. You can express your concerns, your fears, your worries,” Amy assures me as she steps close, her forehead to mine, “I love you. You will always be my best friend, faggot. You're mine to take care of.”

“It is my privilege to reassure you,” she tells me, kissing my forehead, “So, yes. Questions are allowed, my beloved sweet-whore. I will only be upset if you quit being you, for some reason. You do that I'll find a way to deprogram you, you slut.”

“Amy ...” My eyes flutter and I lean into her touch, and her hands slide down my neck, looping around behind it. I wrap my arms around her hips and close my eyes, resting my forehead on the nape of her neck. She breathes me in, sighing.

“Mine,” she whispers in my ear, and I shiver faintly against her, “Mine. Mine. Mine, mine, mine.” I purr, involuntarily, and Amy chuckles in my ear. She pulls back slowly, enough to make eye contact, but not so much to pull from my arms.

“You like that, do you?” she enquires archly, her lips pulling to one side in a smug, self-satisfied smirk, “Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.” I blush, involuntarily, biting my lower lip, and her smirk broadens into a confident, contented smile, one worth living for.

“So, I wanted to ask,” I focus my mind on what inspired the initial question, “are we on a general leisurely stroll about the neighbourhood, or, headed somewhere?” Amy, by way of response, turns and motions in a specific direction ahead of us.

“The community marketplace,” she says, “It likely won't be crowded at this time of day, but, I want to buy you something. Your reminder about needing your registration with you made me realise you need ... well, not a purse, obviously, but ...”

“You need a satchel, to carry stuff,” Amy concludes, and I nod obediently. She eases back, and I let my arms drift off of her, allowing her to turn and, with that, we resume walking. Now, though, I know where we're headed. She's getting me a gift!

“Thank you, Amy,” I reply, walking with her. I don't know if we'll run into someone before we reach the market, but there will absolutely be someone at the community marketplace, not including the vendors. I have to be ready to be seen, now.

“So, what kind of satchel were you thinking of getting me?” I ask, and Amy chuckles and rolls her shoulders, turning her palms skywards, as she glances over at me. I tilt my head, smiling back when Amy simply smiles at me with affection.

“I was going to let you choose whichever one you want, actually,” Amy answers, “or maybe two. You know, for fashion's sake, and all. I mean, you wouldn't need to choose your satchel to go with your wardrobe, but it could match with mine?”

“Ooh. I like that idea!” I answer enthusiastically. Not that satchels usually came in a whole-ass rainbow of colours, but I'm sure that black and tan are available. I've got to wait, either way, to see what the selection looks like, when we get there.