Yes

When we return to the Community Ordinance Board's convening chamber, we are surprised to discover Boris, and also his father, Dmitri, are there. Boris, it would seem, has been made aware of the reason that he and his father have been called.

“What are we even doing here? What is there to discuss?” Boris demanded, as indignant as he was ignorant of the reality, it would seem, “You cannot force me to move. My father owns the house. You cannot evict me from my father's house!”

“Actually, young Mister Fandorin, we can do exactly that,” Misses Rosazza answers, in a calm, almost bland, monotone, raising one eyebrow, “Your father signed a legally-binding agreement with Pacific Discovery Residences, at his purchase.”

“So what?” Boris replied, as Amy remained silent, observational. I took my lead from her, being my lawful Owner, and just remained silent. Even still, Boris noticed that more than one member of the Board had noticed our arrival, glancing at us.

“You! This is your ... !” Boris started, taking a step toward us, before Misses Rosazza abruptly raised her voice, an instance sufficiently rare that Boris froze the moment she did it.

“Boris Dmitrievich Fandorin,” she invoked his full name, and he froze, slowly turning toward her with his one hand still raised, forefinger erected in an accusatory fashion. He quickly jerked his hand down and cleared his throat, straightening.

“Miss Goodheart and Mister Grennan are the reason you have been summoned,” Misses Rosazza returns to her calmer and more serene tone, “but the fault here lies squarely in your personal conduct. Now, as I was saying before you interrupted.”

“The agreement your father signed with PDR entitles this Board to order your father to sell the property and move out,” Mister Whitlock adds, impassively, “It also entitles this Board to demand the eviction and removal of any under his roof.”

“For the last four years, you have received one reprimand after another for conduct unbecoming a resident within this community,” Misses Rosazza continues, “You've just clearly elucidated the reason for your disregard of such reprimands.”

“Therefore, it is the decision of the Community Ordinance Board that, for violence outside the community and an ongoing harassment of those within it,” Misses Rosazza says firmly, “Your father is ordered to evict you. You have 3 days to leave.”

“Where am I supposed to go? I am a college student, I have no other housing available to me!” Boris protests, but no one, in the Community Ordinance Board, looks particularly moved. Even his father, Dmitri, seems more displeased with him.

“That, young Mister Fandorin, is two things,” Misses Rosazza answers in her blandest monotone, “First, it is something you should have considered before conducting yourself improperly, and, second ... thankfully, now, not our problem.”

“Father!” Boris turns, “You must do something about this! Surely there must be something that you can do, about this!” Dmitri raises one eyebrow at his son, then glances toward Amy and I. He looks back at his son, and takes a deep breath.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” Dmitri says, stepping around his son and walking over to us. He is a tall man, and he looms above both of us by several inches, me just that smallest bit more than Amy, as he stops, just outside arm's reach.

“Miss Goodheart, Mister Grennan. Allow me to apologise for my son's unforgivable, utterly unacceptable misconduct,” Dmitri says, “I would offer money, but money cannot adequately compensate for my failure to discipline him enough.”

“Permit me to assure you, Boris will no longer trouble either of you,” Dmitri continues, his son's face in the background blanching as his eyes widen and he stares in disbelief. “I will be sending him to live with his cousins, Vikenti and Vitold.”

“Father! Those two are ... !” Boris starts to protest, before Dmitri half-turns to him, and we see one eyebrow lift archly, while his mouth curves downward austerely. Boris freezes and immediately falls silent, as if paralysed by a sharp stare.

“Return home, Boris, and pack your suitcase. You will be on the bus, this evening,” Dmitri says, his voice ice and stone, cold and unyielding, “I will have your belongings packed professionally, and sent to your new home, up in Manitoba.”

“Consider yourself fortunate that your cousins live in Winnipeg. I will oversee your transfer to a university in that area,” Dmitri intones. then points at the door. Suddenly defeated and deflated, Boris slumps and trudges towards the doorway.

Dmitri follows, his broad-shouldered frame blocking any chance for Boris to even make an attempt to look back toward Amy, or me. As Dmitri opens the door, he speaks, “You are fortunate I do not send you to your grandmother in Poland.”

Then, the door closes behind Dmitri, and they are gone, with the promise Boris will cease to exist by tomorrow morning. Not in the literal sense, but in the context of us ever having to deal with him, ever again. It's a weight from our shoulders.

“Now,” Misses Rosazza says calmly, as the Board's attention turns to us, the only two still in the room, for the moment, “Miss Goodheart, the Community Ordinance Board has a question which must be asked, regarding your new property ...”

“Yes, Misses Rosazza?” Amy answers.

“Does your property live under any standards or conditions, currently, which differ from how he is presented to us at this instant?” Misses Rosazza asks, and Amy nods.

“Yes. At my family's home, and at his family's home, he is forbidden clothes,” Amy replies. The Board members lean back, whispering briefly between themselves, then nod and sit straight, once more.

“Thank you. It is the decision of this Board those in his situation should live in the Community as they do in their homes,” Misses Rosazza says, calmly, “Young Mister Grennan is hereby forbidden from wearing clothing within community gates.”

“Of course, Misses Rosazza,” Amy replies, turning to me, and motioning, “Strip, slut.” Given I have no personal choice in it, I undress in silence, removing my shoes and socks, then each article of clothing in sequence, surrendering them to Amy.

“Good boy, whore,” Amy smiles approvingly, once I am barefoot and nude, standing on the tile. I stretch my feet a little bit as I feel the cool tile underfoot, the little micro-currents of the conditioned air. I inhale deeply, my cheeks a little warmed.

“Come along, now, slut,” Amy motions with her head, “It is time for your tattoo. You should have my mark on you, before the end of the day.” I nod, following Amy out of the convening chamber, keeping me eyes forward, even while some stare.

Once we return to her car, Amy puts my clothes in her back seat, and I get into the passenger seat. I buckle my safety belt, and take a deep breath as she sits beside me and leans over. I glance at her, as her palm cups my right cheek delicately.

“So proud of you, faggot,” she murmurs in my ear, kissing my left cheekbone, resting her forehead gently on my temple. Her thumb caresses my right cheekbone, and she breathes in, out, and in once more, before she sits back into her seat.

Then she focuses, turning the ignition and putting the car in reverse, and she drives. “I'll stop at the gatehouse so you'll be able to get dressed in the car, before we drive out onto the city streets. The tattooist may want you nude, as well, though.”

“Understood, Amy,” I nod obediently, as I process the fact that I may be nude a lot more often, and in many more places, in the future. At least, unless I ask to wear clothes without being stripped nude in as many places as that is a possibility.