Decision Time

“Hmm. The identification card does appear to be valid,” Misses Rosazza concludes, once it makes a path back to her after visiting both sides of the bench desk. “Very well, we will acknowledge and accept your claim of ownership of this slave.”

“Do you require a demonstration?” Amy asks archly, and a couple of the members of the board cough as Misses Rosazza shakes her head in assurance they do not. “Good. Now, as his lawful owner, I must protest his continued mistreatment.”

“State and Municipal Law has repeatedly failed to enforce the Permanent Restraining Order which was issued against the younger Mister Fandorin,” Amy says firmly, “While it should not fall to this board to take an appropriative action ...”

“It is clear that neither the state, nor local law,” Amy continues, “are willing to take action. Only this board remains with the authority to take some manner of enforcement action against Boris Dmietrievich Fandorin, to compel compliance.”

“Your complaint is noted, Miss Goodheart,” Mister Whitlock noted, “We would be intrigued to hear what you would ask the Board to do about him. The Board recognises we possess the authority to take action, against community residents.”

“You have the authority to issue a direct threat to his allowance to live here,” Amy says calmly, “Inform him his father's wealth does not promise him preferential treatment in this community. Advise him he will be banished if he continues.”

“The Board has the authority to force a resident to sell,” Amy continues, “Enact an Ordinance that establishes any single resident who demonstrates a consistent disregard for state and local law can be explicitly evicted from the community.”

“You can see that I am physically larger than my cock slave,” Amy says firmly, “He is not trained for martial arts, either. Boris is considerably larger than him and has assaulted him on three separate occasions during our time at high school.”

“It is unfair, and unreasonable, to expect my slave to simply fight back,” Amy pushes, “he would be irrevocably harmed.” Members of the board examined me for a moment, then looked at her. I don't really know what to make of the moment.

“You make a valid recommendation, Miss Goodheart,” Misses Rosazza says, after a long moment of silent consideration, offering a nod of reassurance, “The Board will review this matter. You may expect a decision after our midday recess.”

Translation, with other orders of business to be deliberated on in private, not until they've had lunch. Not unreasonable, even on a slow day. It isn't as if it matters what time they enact an ordinance, today, the outcome is broadly the same one.

“Thank you,” Amy nods, before turning to me, “come, slut. Let's return home.” I don't answer verbally, since I don't have to. Amy walks, and I stand, moving to walk at her side, just the faintest quarter-step behind her, so I'm easy for her to see.

“Well, that was productive,” Amy mumbles as soon as we are outside of the administrative structure, entirely, looking at me as we walk. “You were an excellently good boy and I am proud of you, whore. Is there anything treat you would like?”

The mention of a treat makes my spine arch a little, and I bite my lip. I like being told I have been more than satisfactory, and I like being told that I have earned a reward. Amelia's never been the kind of person to test you, either, which I love.

“Well, the treat would need to be not food,” I say, “since the only food I am allowed is chocolate and milk, so ... a cocobolo paddle, maybe? So you could paddle me, sometimes, if you want?” Amy's eyes crinkle a little as she offers me a wide grin.

“Kinky,” she snickers, “albeit, since you are a masochistic slut, that does seem a fair ask. Very well, whore, I will look for one online or someone who can make a custom one. I think we could even slowly build our own little library of fun toys.”

“So are we headed to your house or mine?” she asks, and I freeze and blink at her, prompting her to grin, triumphantly, at me. “What, you thought that because you're property, the rules of our friendship would change in some weird fashion?”

“I asked first, so it's up to you!” she tells me, “It's a beautiful Monday morning. The twins will be home, because summer. Our parents will be at work, because those fuckers aren't attending university or about to be attending university, either.”

“Mm,” I hum thoughtfully, “I think your house. Dean will be home, right? So if I am really hungry at lunch we can call the twins so I can have four servings of milk instead of two or three.” Amy smiles at me, pleased with my visible forethought.

“Good boy,” she says warmly as we walk, veering to cross the street to head toward her house, “Yes, Dean is home today. He's pursuing his doctorate, so he's still living at home. Our parents insisted.” I nod, as that makes sense, knowing them.

“Your parents are relatively flush, and only have two children to put through university,” I observe, as we head for their house, “I would have been shocked if they had decided to make him do more work for it.” He already had worked, hard.

I don't know what he's studying, but I know he has two separate scholarships. He devotes a considerable amount of time to his nutritional health and athletic fitness, even as he maintains a diligent academic schedule. I find that all impressive.