Stanford Researched

Once I've finished breakfast, I slide out of my bed and then straighten the covers. Amy returns, as I make my bed, and she pulls my computer chair out, turning it around and sitting on it backward. “So I came over this morning so we could talk.”

“Glad you did,” I answer, “I love you and love seeing you. I don't think I could ever have too much Amy in my life, y'know? You are just wonderful.” Amy smiles at me, like sunshine on water, as her brown eyes focus on mine as I come over to her.

Her arms folded on the backrest of the chair, her cock standing hard and proud through the gap between the backrest and the seat, I kneel down before her. She smiles down at me, and I kiss the crown of her cock, and kiss a trail down to her hilt.

“So, you know how I like to plan in advance. I decided to do some research on Stanford's policies,” Amy says, watching me as I start to worship her cock, again, “Good boy, faggot. You like doing that, slut? I didn't even have to ask for it, this time.”

“Of course I do,” I murmur against her cock, flexing my tongue wide as I lick up her shaft, “You have a magnificent cock.” Amy purrs in contentment as my tongue caresses along her meat, working my way up toward her crown ever so slowly.

“So, Stanford has some relevant policies. Let's say, four days from now, I deprogram you, as planned,” Amy says while my tongue continues a slow ascent, “and then you ask me to reprogram you permanently, officially, and we go register you.”

“Okay,” I answer, “I accept the premise of this thought experiment.” I murmur my answer as I deliver a trail of kisses onto her shaft, each a little lower. I brush my lips against her nuts, licking gently as they sway, her position making them free.

“Well, Stanford does allow cock slaves and otherwise reprogrammed persons as students,” Amy informs me, “unlike, say, basically all of the Christian universities. However, if you are a formally registered cock slave when school resumes, slut?”

“It will sharply alter your university experience going forward,” she says, “You'll be required to live on campus as you do off campus. Meaning you'd need to be nude at all times, with exception for one raincoat, and one winter coat, as needed.”

“You would be required to remove them as soon as you enter a building,” she tells me, “and you'd face a formal reprimand if you don't. Also, if you're a registered cock slave and listed as, say, free-use for family and friends, as things are now?”

“I could use you openly in the hallways, in the library, wherever,” Amy explains, “as long as we follow the rules of the area we're in. Quiet, in the library, for example. That would be an exercise in fucking control. Emphasis on fucking control.”

I grin at the pun, as I kiss my way down her cock, then start to lick a path up once more. Given that my little brother and little sister mean to attend Stanford to be around me more, too? They would be free to use me in the same was Amy could.

“Now, if you're a registered cock slave, your Owner also matters,” Amy says, “because an Owned cock slave can also easily be whored out or shared. For instance, if you chose me as your Owner, I would be free, legally, to let my friends use you.”

“I wouldn't, to be clear,” she states firmly, maintaining our eye contact as I worship her cock adoringly, “I would ask first. You're a faggot, right now, and you'd be a cock slave, for life, if I reprogram you, but you're also my best friend, damn it.”

“I wouldn't get mad if you didn't like every single person I am or become friends with,” she says, “and if you came to me, and said, Hey, Amy. I don't like Jeremiah. I'd like to be excused from servicing him. I would say. Done. No questions asked. Ever.”

“If you have a reason you want to tell me, I'll listen,” she notes, “but I won't ask. I won't expect it. You won't owe me that. If you ask me to reprogram you, and choose me as your Owner? Your body is mine to enjoy, yes, but also mine to protect.”