Table of Contents Definition and Etymology - 2 Adaptations by Lee Benoit - 3 An Innocent Misunderstanding by S. Blaise - 15 Ain’t Misbehavin’ by Syd McGinley - 25 Contributors’ Bios - 41 A Torquere Press Toy Box - 1 .
Definition: Anal beads are a sex toy consisting of several small balls attached together in series which are continuously inserted through the anus into the rectum and then removed with varying speeds depending on the effect desired (most typically at orgasm to enhance climax). Those who use anal beads enjoy the pleasurable feeling they receive as the ball passes through the narrow sphincter of the anus. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anal_beads Etymology: 1377, bede "prayer bead," from O.E. gebed "prayer," from P.Gmc. *beðan (cf. M.Du. bede, O.H.G. beta, Ger. bitte, Goth. bida). Shift in meaning came via beads threaded on a string to count prayers, and in phrases like to bid one's beads, to count one's beads. Ger. cognate Bitte is the usual word for conversational request "please." Also related to bid (O.E. biddan) and Goth. bidjan "to ask, pray." Sense transferred to "drop of liquid" 1596; to "small knob forming front sight of a gun" 1831 (Kentucky slang); hence draw a bead on "take aim at," 1841, U.S. colloquial. Source: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=bead A Torquere Press Toy Box - 2 .
Adaptations by Lee Benoit Paulo didn’t mind vanilla sex. It was pleasant. Mannered, even. Getting off, especially with Master Preston, was always his first choice, however it happened. But when Preston started diffidently inviting Paulo to make love, instead of issuing his usual orders -- warmly inflected -- to fuck, Paulo started to worry. Then the spankings stopped.
“And his health is more fragile than yours.” Whoa! “What? He’s fine! He would have told me if he had any new problem.” Wouldn’t he? Paulo was grateful he’d knelt, or surely his knees would have buckled. As it was, his spine sagged at the thought of Preston having a serious health condition. “Consider his old problems, Paulo,” Tasim said patiently. “Old problems.” Paulo thought out loud. “He only has the one. Is something else wrong? Why wouldn’t he tell me himself?” The panicky edge made his voice go sharp, and Paulo winced. “And that one, were it to worsen?” “His arthritis? That’s no big deal. I give him massages with my vovo’s liniment, I take good care of him!” Paulo hated to contradict Tasim, but really, Preston’s hands were fine. His grandmother’s salve made a real difference. It did. “When was the last time he bound you?” Tasim didn’t wait for Paulo’s embarrassed answer before continuing. “Flogged you? Spanked you?” Paulo couldn’t contain his moan of dismay. “And when I tried provoking him he thought I had-- oh, gods!” Tasim finished for him. “He thinks you have lost respect for him. He believes without his hands he is useless as a top. Perhaps he is right?” The North African Dom reached out a long-fingered hand and raised Paulo’s chin, forcing eye contact. “He’s wrong,” Paulo whispered. “So, so wrong. I thought he’d lost his. desire for me.” Tasim chuckled, keeping hold of Paulo’s chin. “Oh, I think that would take more than sore hands. Much more indeed.” Now that he knew what the problem was, Paulo knew he could fix it. He told Tasim so. “Beware, Paulo, of topping from below. There is no surer path to destroy the accord you and your master share.” Paulo thanked Tasim for the tea and the advice and hurried toward home, formulating a plan along the way.
*** If anyone had asked, Preston would have insisted he wasn’t hiding in his office until Paulo left for the day. He would have claimed he needed a break from the retro-feminist consciousness- raisers Paulo was mutilating. “I heard he snapped a good whip, I heard he had a style. And so I came to see him to submit for a while. And there he was this Master, a stranger to my eyes. Strumming my pain with his fingers, Changing my life with his tools, Licking me softly with his tongue, Licking me open with his tongue, Owning my whole life with his words, Domming me all night with his dong.” Roberta Flack would have thrashed Paulo soundly for that rendition, Preston thought, and then froze. An aging R&B singer could top his boy, but he couldn’t? Preston admitted to himself that maybe he was hiding after all. He rubbed his hands, starting at the wrist and tracking up the fine bones to his aching knuckles. Paulo’s massages were heaven, but they hadn’t stalled the progression of his arthritis. He supposed he should feel lucky that he could still type, still work, but he wasn’t in that place right now. Tasim would accuse him of self-pity, and Preston would be hard pressed to argue against it. Paulo had moved on to Helen Reddy -- “I am bottom, I’m your whore” -- and Preston shook himself. The altered lyrics were ridiculous, and consummately Paulo. Paulo hadn’t changed, except in response to Preston’s withdrawal. Visiting Tasim had been out of character for Paulo, and Preston had worried that his boy might be seeking alternatives to a Dom who was losing his skills to osteoarthritis. But listening to Paulo sing, Preston took heart. Maybe his sub wasn’t on his way out the door just yet, except to go fix his uncle’s truck. Breakfast was slightly awkward. “Don’t you like your burrito, Sir?” Paulo’s kicked-puppy look was not what Preston needed right now. “Just not hungry, Paulo. Clear up, why don’t you? I’m going to go get some work done.” Paulo nodded and slipped Preston’s untouched sausage and egg wrap into a baggie to take with him. “Did you have a chance to look--” Preston knew what Paulo was going to ask and interrupted as gently as he could given his rising A Torquere Press Toy Box - 5 .
temper. “We’ll talk later, Paulo. Your uncle’s waiting.” With that, Preston left the room. He only realized after Paulo’s old car sputtered out of the driveway that they hadn’t kissed goodbye. He puttered with some edits on a new manuscript. He picked up the phone twice to call Tasim, but didn’t dial. He averted his eyes every time they strayed to the glossy black shopping bag Paulo had shyly offered him the night before. Anal beads. For goodness’ sake. He rolled his desk chair back hard enough to catch the area rug in the wheel. Why did everything have to be so frustrating? With a low growl, he snatched up the bag and pulled out the string of black rubber anal beads, rolling them through his fingers like a Rosary. Maybe Paulo was right that the beads would be easier to manipulate than impact toys. Preston hadn’t had the courage to tell his sub that he was losing his pincer-grip along with hand strength. “Can’t we try them, Sir?” Paulo had asked, clearly proud of his idea and hurt that Preston had responded with zero enthusiasm. “Quit topping from below, Paulo,” he’d said. They’d gone to bed without making love. Tasim’s voice filtered into Preston’s brain. “Who’s manipulating whom, here?” Who indeed? Even if the beads were a good idea, Preston couldn’t shake the feeling that his weakening hands were some sort of manifestation of his weakening ability to top Paulo. He made a tight circle with his fist and forced the first bead through. He’d never manage it with lube. He opened his fist and grasped the last bead instead, then tried to pull the string through. No again. His grip just wasn’t powerful enough anymore. He’d explain it to Paulo, come clean. He would say he wouldn’t risk Paulo’s safety by using something on him that he, Preston, couldn’t control. Any scene was his responsibility, after all. Paulo would understand. *** Paulo didn’t understand. Preston was being so stubborn and old-school about this. Paulo was taking advantage of the last of the autumn daylight to get some bulbs into his flowerbeds before the first hard frost. Every time he pushed a papery iris bulb into the prepared soil, he was reminded of the anal beads. They were a really nice set, high-quality rubber, not A Torquere Press Toy Box - 6 .
hard plastic that might slip out of Preston’s grasp or squishy silicone that would be hard to grip. “It was only a suggestion,” he muttered to himself as he worked. He could feel Preston watching him from the patio. They hadn’t had words about the beads. “No, that would require an actual conversation,” Paulo groused to himself, sure Preston couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing and his little trowel got stuck in a subterranean root. Paulo wiggled it, but it wouldn’t come out without dislodging the bulbs he’d already placed. He stood and trotted over to the little garden shed -- the one he just knew would make the perfect playroom, if only Preston ever topped him again -- and retrieved a bulb planter. “Always use the right tool for the job,” he muttered on his way back to the flowerbed. “Only a bad workman blames his tools.” He sounded just like his grandmother. Seemed all he did these days was mutter; he hadn’t been able to sing in ages. Preston was still watching him. Paulo gave a little wave. They were having problems, sure, but he still loved his Master. More than anything. He knelt by the trowel and set the bulb planter around it, shoving down hard on the red wooden handle until he felt the old root give way. He pulled it up, trowel and all, and went back to setting the bulbs in the pattern he’d sketched out. Paulo ignored the advancing twilight until the kitchen light came on, yellowing the blue dusk and making him look up from his work. Preston wasn’t on the patio anymore, was no longer watching him. *** Preston felt like an idiot, but he called the number on the web site he’d found. The one about handicap-adaptive sex toys. “Yes, sir, we can refer you to someone local to you who can customize most toys to fit your needs.” Grimacing all the while, Preston described his “needs” to a total stranger, who gave him a number in Sister City. Preston jotted it down, hung up, and dialed the new number. Most of his attention was on the memory of Paulo matter-of-factly changing tools in the middle of his gardening. That red-handled, cone-shaped digging thing had flipped a switch in Preston’s mind. Preston was startled when a familiar voice came over the line. “Tasim?” “Preston! I’ve been hoping you’d call or better yet, come by.” Momentarily flustered, Preston forgot his manners. “I wasn’t meaning to call you.” He checked the number the online boutique had given him. He should have noticed whose it was. A Torquere Press Toy Box - 7 .
them away again, to lower them the way he was supposed to, when he saw the uncertainty and shame on his Master’s face. “Can you read my mind now?” Paulo blurted. “You’re an open book, most of the time. I’ve shut you out these past few weeks, but I can still read you.” Paulo waited.