Anthology Toy Box Words

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008

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Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

CONTENTS

This Sweet Trade
What to Do On a Friday Night
Shattering Silence
Contributors' Bios

* * * *

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Definition: (noun) 1. a unit of language, consisting of one

or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that
functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Words are
composed of one or more morphemes and are either the
smallest units susceptible of independent use or consist of
two or three such units combined under certain linking
conditions, as with the loss of primary accent. Words are
usually separated by spaces in writing, and are distinguished
phonologically, as by accent, in many languages.

Source: Dictionary.com

dictionary.reference.com/browse/word

Etymology: O.E. word "speech, talk, utterance, word,"

from P.Gmc. *wurdan (cf. O.S., O.Fris. word, Du. woord,
O.H.G., Ger. wort, O.N. orð, Goth. waurd), from PIE
*were-"speak, say" (see verb). The meaning "promise" was in
O.E., as was the theological sense. In the plural, the meaning
"verbal altercation" (as in to have words with someone) dates
from 1462. Wordy is O.E. wordig "verbose." Wording "choice
of words" apparently was coined by Milton (in
"Eikonoklastes," 1649). Word processor first recorded 1970. A
word to the wise is from L. phrase verbum sapienti satis est
"a word to the wise is enough." Word of mouth is recorded
from c.1553.

Source: Online Etymology Dictionary

www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=word&searchmode=
none

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

This Sweet Trade

by A. Leigh Jones
December 1661—June 1662
The Caribbean Sea
Dearest Bello,
If I could find the words, I would tell you of all the things

I've seen, the men I've met, the color of the sky at night and
the sounds of the sea birds in the morning. Even then, truly,
there would be no way to explain how it feels to be at sea like
this, one man among many on a ship bound for Port Royal
and the wilds of Jamaica. The sea is relentless, pounding
against the ship day and night, storms and sunshine, and
always there is the sea, always, and always I know there is
nothing but rum and wood, just the remnants of former trees,
to keep the whole of us afloat.

They say the Isle of Tortuga does eat men alive, and a

man such as myself, a passenger, must not disembark, but I
shall try nonetheless. Even if I should not obtain the shore, I
will endeavor to have the Captain post this letter for me when
he makes delivery of certain cargo.

These men, these sailors, this is not the Royal Navy, Bello.

Some are barely more than children and many have been
conscripted, and have been at sea for most of their lives.
Some have wives and some have not, and many have not
seen a woman in more moons than they can count. A good
many of them are like me, like us, but also, they are not.
Thus far I have seen no tenderness among them, although

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

they rut like the sun might not rise tomorrow if they do not,
cocks hard beneath their breeches by day, bare backs in the
moonlight by night, their sounds riding high on the salt air,
mixing with the sounds of the sea. Every gasp, every grunt,
every groan, waves slapping the sides of the ship and men's
thighs slapping into each other.

Even when I was dizzy with seasickness and flux, as I was

at the first, desperately ill and at the rails more often than
not, my cock would stiffen to hear them and I would want, I
would want. I would slide my hand down the front of my
trousers, silent, for I share a berth with three others
(hammocks strung from wall to wall, moving with ship,
always moving as I am always wanting), my gut in seven
kinds of turmoil, and still my seed would spill for you, hot
over my fingers, sticky in the palm of my hand.

I know this voyage is meant by my father to be a

punishment, as is my banishment to Jamaica, just as your
father has sent you to live amongst the monks until such time
as he calls for you again. I am not at all certain this missive
will find you, especially given its contents, but as yours found
me in London before this ship set sail, I must assume the
reverse route will also find you well. I have never felt so free
as I do right now, and I pray you are continuing to find what
solace you may in your studies, in the Italian countryside, and
also in yourself.

My memories of our first fumblings in your father's stables

have given me great comfort, as did your letter recounting
our last time together. I confess I have read it over and over
again, listening to the men as they fuck where they may,

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

your words as vivid as my memories, your cock in my hand,
your lips, the scent of horses and hay on your skin. There is
nothing on all the ocean that smells like you, not even your
letter, not anymore. You wrote these words and I hear them
at night when I close my eyes:

I can still feel you inside me, if I try, although my fingers

are nothing of your cock, two of them together, three, and
still it is not like you, your breath on my neck, your cock
inside of me, the heat of it, the stretch ... I left my
fingerprints on your hips, on your arms. I sunk my teeth into
your flesh. I was selfish in my desire to be with you for as
long as I could, remembered pleasure pulsing through me,
the taste my own seed so much like yours and not at all the
same.

Forgive the ink-pools, Bello. I have spilled clumsily and

forgotten the sand, so carried away in these few moments of
privacy, writing your words and carrying them from my
fingers to my cock, dark along my shaft, my own thumbprint
right at the head, right over the slit, a tease, a tease where
your tongue should be, your mouth. Bitter ink stains my lips
now, too, my lips, my cock, my fingers. You make me dizzy
with need, and this life at sea, the salt air, it makes me wild,
reckless, wanting.

I must go above deck now, stand my turn at watch. I will

take up this letter once more when next I find myself alone,
and will endeavor to find my thoughts again, if the wind has
not carried them all away.

Days go by, weeks. Night after night I think of you, your

letter concealed with these pages, hidden in the pocket I did

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

sew inside the leg of these trousers long before we set sail. I
am meant to disembark when we reach Jamaica and take up
the post my father has arranged. To listen to the men, my
services would indeed be heartily received, but they say, as
well, that the ships sailing in and out of Port Royal are in
near-constant need of a Surgeon's services.

Though I am not formally trained I have already proven

my worth on this voyage, tending the wounds of the sailors
after the Surgeon with whom we set sail fell ill of the flux. He
was buried at sea while the air was still cool and I had yet to
find my sea legs; it was soon after we had first left port. You
see, they do not boil their water as we learned to do on the
banks of the Seine, and the flux takes many men both at sea
and after, landfall no certain guarantor of life.

I remember when we learned that essential truth, you and

I on the run from the Castle guards, you shirtless still and I
pulled from sound sleep, the Count you had been courting at
long last well-buggered and the Countess outraged. Just as I
began to fear for our horses and our lives, the smoke of the
Romany fires did guide us to safety, their wooden rafts tied
along the riverbank, lanterns strung between the brightly
colored tents, children playing and men singing, and the wine,
oh, there was so much wine!

I remember the woman we shared those nights along the

Seine, so beautiful, her laugh, her breasts, soft and full, dark
nipples sweet on our tongues ... Do you remember her, too,
Bello? She was lovely, but it was your body I wanted most,
your hands in my hair and your cock in my mouth, though I
did enjoy her, too, the creamy insides of her thighs, the slick

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

heat of her cunt and the way she rode you, moaning softly
into my mouth. I enjoyed the way your eyes found mine as
you came inside her, and I enjoyed her, as well, I cannot lie.
Moreover, I would not, even if I could. She was delicious, a
rare treat, and yet, I do not crave her, do not long for her, do
not wish for more.

No, I favor men, Bello, and I say this to you now: I will not

marry as my father wishes, will not court the fine daughters
of the Landed English should I live to see Jamaica's shores. I
will not, though it would win me much good grace back home.
I am not being noble in my refusal, nor is this a boyish
rebellion against the ties that bind a son to his father, me to
mine and you to yours. I simply do not wish to marry. I am
stubborn, as you well know, strong-willed even when I am
wrong, and God alone can save me when I know I am in the
right, and though my back does bear the scars of it, I do not
care. I am willing to suffer these marks, to be looked upon
with disdain, to be ugly in the eyes of other, lesser men, if
that be the price I must pay to wear my own skin.

Bello, I beg you to understand. I will not return to England.

I will not return at all.

Just over a fortnight ago, we were nearly boarded off the

coast of Curacao. Such a near thing, I could see with my own
eyes the paint on their bodies and the gold in their ears:
Spaniard Pirates, every last one. There was a powerful fog
that morning, thick and heavy, and the sun had just barely
taken the horizon, pale light hanging in the air, impenetrable,
so that we did not see them until it was almost too late, and
only our absolute silence saved us from certain peril. We

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

manned the ship's guns and armed ourselves with pistols and
daggers, those with the skill to wield a cutlass doing so
fearlessly. Bello, our adventures together did serve me well
that morn! So close did our ships pass, I could have reached
out and picked a Pirate's pocket if I so chose, though even I
am not so foolish. We fought hand to hand and ship to ship,
the sun burning through the fog just as we struck, many of us
wounded and many more of them.

I learned thus one of the men I have stood watch beside

these many weeks, Cohen, is a Jew, escaped from the slavery
of the Spaniard ships some years previous and eager still to
take his revenge. He fought for his life and mine, too, for his
honor and for this ship, and he stood beside me in Surgery
afterward, his own wounded arm messily stitched, and
assisted me as he was able. We lost two men overboard, their
injuries unknown to me, three on deck were dead before I
reached them, and one we lost to the Spaniard's guns long
after we sailed on, his arm blown off by the powder and burns
across his chest, more blood lost than my skills could
overcome. We took their cargo and their coin and left their
ship behind, damaged beyond seaworthiness, and now, Bello,
you are learning the truth of the matter.

I did not go ashore when we reached Tortuga, nor did I

give this letter to the Captain, despite knowing full well he
was bound for the post, though I did give him what coin I had
promised. I am a man of my word, as always I have been. I
entrusted the ship's Master with a letter for the man who was
to meet me at the Jamaican port, a barrister and a man all
aboard who have had cause to know him say is trustworthy.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

The letter was only to explain to him in far fewer words what
I am explaining to you now. There were many ships anchored
in Tortuga's Bay when we arrived, and to hear tell, though
these ships do fly England's colours they are not at all like the
ship upon which I set sail. No, these were Buccaneer ships,
many of them, roving just this side of lawlessness, seeking
treasure wherever they may find it, and I would be lying if I
said the idea did not instantly appeal.

I could hear the men aboard these ships carousing late

into the night, the rum flowing as free as the song, French
and English together, fist-fights and laughter floating over the
water of the bay, so clear you could see the bottom even by
moonlight, so blue by day it rivals the clearest summer sky. It
sounds a paradise, I know, and it looks one, too, the land
lush with all manner of greenery, and yet, there is heat like
you could not imagine. The wetness in the air when the wind
stills is enough to suffocate a man where he stands, and as I
said, the men speak of Tortuga in hushed tones, as if the
island itself might hear them, might come for them whilst
they slept. And thus, those of us not bid to do so by the
Captain himself felt no need to venture ashore despite our
lengthy journey.

We were anchored two nights already and set to sail for

Jamaica the following morn, the decks below too stuffy to
countenance and nothing but drink to alleviate my boredom
as I sat beneath the stars, my legs stretched across the deck
and back against the hold. I know not how long I waited
before Cohen sat down beside me, his bare arm brushing
against mine, his skin damp with sweat and heated through.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

When at last he did speak, he said he knew the Captain of the
ship anchored just starboard, the Katherine's Bounty. He was
certain her Captain and most of these others would sail into
Jamaica's Port Royal a fortnight hence, two at the outset, and
would welcome me aboard if I should wish to rove with them,
and right then my head began to spin. Me, a Buccaneer!

I could barely contain my heart within my chest it did beat

so fast, the thrill of the possibility and Cohen so close, his
skin flushed, his desire to keep my company beyond the last
days of our voyage plain to see. Whether it was just
friendship he sought or more, I could not be certain, though
we had become closer since our encounter with the Spaniard
ship. Just friendship, I thought, though my cock stiffened to
see him thus, bare-chested in the moonlight and his tongue
darting out over his dark lips. I had imagined him many
times, Bello, naked and writhing against me, your words in
my head and his body covering mine.

I had to pull myself together quickly then, just a swift rub

of my palm against my crotch to steady me, as Cohen said he
thought it possible that the Captain might forego Jamaica if
he could acquire substantial crew here, as there was still
plenty of time for a smart Captain to take a prize before the
issuing of New Orders required his return to Port Royal. I
admit I was not certain what precisely he meant at the time,
but as I wished to meet this Captain before I considered his
idea further, we and three others rowed a small boat
alongside her. We were greeted heartily by her crew, once
Cohen and the others were recognized, promptly plied with
sweetened rum and tales until the Captain spotted us,

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

beckoned Cohen into his cabin, and myself as well, as I had
already quite attached myself to Cohen's hip.

And so you know now what I am to say next, I know you

do, Bello. If you are able to flee the monks and reach the
shore, I would beg you board a ship bound for Jamaica and
seek out my barrister, for I have left him instructions
pertaining to your arrival, be it six months hence or six years.
He will know where to find me, and what to do with you until
such time as I am able to collect you up again and hold you
close. Yes, I am at sea, as you must certainly have
ascertained by now, and serving as the Surgeon to this ship's
crew and her Captain. I am not nearly the sailor Cohen is,
though I am learning as I go, and I do have it on good
authority I will always be welcome aboard a roving ship, this
or any other, so long as the men in my care do not die at an
alarming rate. And lo, men do yet die, with regard for any
Surgeon's skill, but that is to be expected.

This is a dangerous life, Bello, though perhaps not more so

than life on Jamaica itself, where men die so quickly it's nigh
impossible to work a plantation without slave labour. Most
men do not trouble their morals over such things, not as I do,
and not as I know you would. I have spent but a few days
there myself, long enough to send a short note to you
advising of this longer missive to follow and interspersed with
every other pertinent detail, the code of which I hope amused
you, and as well to make my barrister's acquaintance, as fine
and trustworthy a man as I had been led to believe.

As well, I did survey with Cohen the parcel to which he

sought the deed when last he was in port. It is in the

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

mountains, high above the sea and so lush we had no choice
but to tether the horses we had borrowed for the day and
walk the last of the distance ourselves. Roving is at once
brutal and brilliant, costly and lucrative, and the men who
take this risk be every bit as rough as the sea herself, but a
life such as this is a freedom I have never known, and I
cannot imagine I would ever be willing to give it up without a
fight.

Cohen lies beside me as I write this, no desk have we

aboard this ship, with his hand curved around the inkpot and
his breath warm on my skin, the ink staining my fingers and
the deck of the cabin we share with two other of the crew. He
is learned, quick with sums and fluent in the language of the
Spaniards, as valued for this ability as for his skills at sail. He
does read to me sometimes, when the winds are still and
there is naught to do, or we speak of ideas, philosophies,
mathematics; we speak of you, of you and I and of your
words, and we take our pleasure together, our bodies slick
with sweat, our gasps muffled in each other's skin, not for
secrecy but for privacy, for this is still a new thing between us
and the men are as bored as we, enjoying a good tease at
our expense almost as well as a good romp of their own.

Just now Cohen whispered in my ear, bade me tell you

how he found me watching him this morn, naught but a
length of cloth wrapped around my waist and my cock
standing straight out like a sail in a stiff wind, but I cannot,
Bello, for I did but hardly notice. Cohen was at the watch, the
sun rising up over the horizon and I had just woken, the ship
quiet and the sea a glassy still. Though I knew I would see

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

him at the lookout, I was still taken aback by his form. All
lean muscle is he, tall and wiry, wet breeches clinging to his
body and his dark hair tied back with a crimson square, long
curls hanging down his back in a thick rope. He was stunning,
Bello, his cock outlined by the rising sun, soft and vulnerable,
the ridge accentuated by the practices of his people, and of a
sudden I had a notion to protect it, to protect him, so
beautiful and bare.

And his mouth, Bello, when you are here, if you should

come, you will taste it for yourself, the plush heat of him, the
sweetness. I could not help but kiss him then and there,
press him back and back until there was only cool damp wood
of the mast and the heat of his mouth, his body, his naked
cock, shorn of its foreskin. I had to take it in hand and line it
up to mine, slit to slit, and draw my own foreskin forward
until it slid over the dark head of my cock and onto his, wet
already with early seed. Oh, he did shiver then, his whole
body, and I could feel his heartbeat, feel it beat as if it were
my own. One slow stroke and then another and another,
Cohen moaning with such abandon I almost lost myself in the
sound of him, the feel of him, his cock throbbing inside my
skin, spurt of hot seed against my open slit, filling my
foreskin and spilling over, so intense my vision blurred, my
own seed shooting forth like an echo, so overcome with
sensation it seemed an afterthought to me, although the feel
of it did drive Cohen as wild as his pleasure drove me.

It was a glorious way to start the day, our last at sea for

the next several as we shall be back in Port Royal by the
morrow, where I shall post this letter at long last. Cohen says

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

to tell you he is looking forward to your arrival whenever it
may be. He says to write that he is hard behind me now, that
he has inked your name on my skin with his fingers, that he
will speak of you when we lie together tonight, and Bello, my
cock is hard, writing this to you now, too, leaking into my
breeches, begging for attention. I am imagining both of you
inside me, rubbing against each other with every thrust. So
full would I be, so aching with my pleasure, my seed would
spill though my own cock be untouched, your hands wrapped
into Cohen's hair and his steady on your hips, your thighs,
your back, holding us all together.

Even if you should no longer desire my favor, come and

join me in this sweet trade. Come and be free. And know that
if some grave harm should befall me before we next meet,
you will not be alone here, and you will not be abandoned. I
beg you put aside your concerns and come to us, Bello, come
to me, for I will be here always, waiting with open arms.

Across time, across oceans, I am forever your friend,
James Edward
Katherine's Bounty
Port Royal, Jamaica

[Back to Table of Contents]

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

What to Do On a Friday Night

By Misa Izanaki
It was Friday night and Aoi was home by himself with no

where to go and nothing to do. Hell must have frozen over or
something because that never happened. Okay, it never used
to happen, but that was before he got hit by a car and fucked
up his knee. Aoi had been mostly apartment-bound ever
since. It wasn't so bad, really, except when he wanted to go
out by himself, and then Aoi felt like he was under house
arrest. All he needed was one of those tracking things on his
ankle.

Okay, maybe he was being melodramatic. Aya and Itsuki

were just worried about him and it wasn't like Aoi couldn't go
anywhere. He just had to take someone with him. Of course,
the one time he felt like taking a walk, no one was home. Aya
was off working his cute, little tush off at the diner down the
street and Itsuki, well, Aoi wasn't sure where his foxy man
was. That left him stranded, unless he wanted to sneak out.
Aoi sighed and flipped on the TV. It was a nice thought, but
sneaking out wasn't really an option unless he wanted to get
yelled at and chained to the bed. He surfed through half a
dozen channels before turning the television off again. He was
restless and there wasn't anything on TV that would hold his
attention for more than a few minutes.

Aoi brushed a few errant strands of long, dark hair behind

a pointed ear and pushed himself off the couch in irritation.
He should have been downstairs dancing a full shift at the

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Body Shop but Kale was keeping Aoi on half schedule just so
he wouldn't push himself or his knee too hard. Aoi was pretty
damned sure that Itsuki had had something to do with that.
At least he was dancing again, even if that over protective fox
of his watched him like a mother bear. It could have been
worse, though. Six months ago, Aoi was pretty damned sure
that he was never going to strip again.

And his knee was getting better. Even if it still ached when

the weather changed. Stupid accident ... That was the last
time Aoi ever ran into traffic, even if there were kittens
involved.

"I guess I could clear out the closet." Aoi sighed again. He

hated cleaning, but Aya had asked him to deal with the black
hole that he and his lovers called a hall closet. It was
something to do. Besides, Aoi was pretty sure that Itsuki had
hidden his birthday present in there and this gave him a
prime peeking opportunity. How could Aoi pass that up?

Well, that settled things. Aoi headed to the closet in the

short hallway that separated the bedrooms from the living
room. He opened the door carefully and peeked inside.
Everything in there was balanced just right and pulling one
thing out could potentially cover Aoi in an avalanche of books,
boxes, winter bedding, and toys. It was risky to go in there,
but so worth it, since it was also Itsuki's favorite place to hide
presents.

Aoi blew a bit of hair out of his eyes and scanned the top

shelf of the closet. He caught a glimpse of something vaguely
box-shaped that was wrapped in that dark, metallic wrapping
paper that his foxy man was fond of using. It was half hidden

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

under another box and the Scrabble game his friend Dante
had given him as a gag gift one year. That had to be it.
Unless Itsuki was squirreling away Christmas presents a little
earlier than usual.

"Stupid, tall fox..." Aoi pushed himself onto the balls of his

feet and reached for the box. It was just out of reach which
was probably what Itsuki had wanted. "Okay, new plan."

There was another box on the closet floor, probably full of

manga by the size and shape of it. Aoi was sure that it would
hold his weight. Okay, pretty sure. He tested it with his foot
before climbing up. Aoi wanted to peek at his birthday
present, but he didn't want to break anything while doing it.
The box was a little wobbly but it held and put Aoi at the
perfect peeking height.

"Aoi!" Itsuki called from the living room. "Sorry I

disappeared on you love, but Kale wanted to have a meeting
with his bouncers..." Itsuki peered into the hall, his foxy ears
twitching in curiosity. "What are you doing?"

"Um ... I felt like playing Scrabble." Aoi grabbed the game

on top of his present and held it out in front of him. Oh, boy,
he was in trouble now.

"Right." Itsuki didn't look convinced at all. "You were trying

to peek at your birthday present, weren't you?"

"I wouldn't do that."
"You don't play Scrabble either." Itsuki folded those

muscled arms over his broad chest. Nope, he wasn't buying
it, not one bit.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"No, but I was thinking that a little strip Scrabble might be

fun." Aoi slipped his free arm around Itsuki's neck and rubbed
against those sexy muscles.

"Strip Scrabble?"
"Yup, whoever loses the round has to lose a piece of

clothing. It's kind of like strip poker, just with ... Scrabble."

Itsuki's ears drooped a little. "Wouldn't it be easier if I just

tossed you on the couch and fucked you cross-eyed?"

"Yeah, but playing the game is part of the fun." Aoi

nuzzled Itsuki's cheek and stroked Itsuki's furry ears with his
free hand.

"Spelling is not fun."
"Come on, Itsuki ... words can be really sexy."
"If you say so." Itsuki scooped Aoi up and carried him

through the living room and into the kitchen. "I still think my
plan is better."

"Really? So you don't like it when Aya talks dirty to you?"

Aoi trailed his finger through Itsuki's spiky, sable hair. "Or
when I tell you what a sexy fox you are?"

"I do like that." Itsuki grinned and whapped Aoi with his

tail. "But it also helps that you're usually naked and rubbing
that sweet body against me when you do it."

"It's fine if you don't want to play with me ... I'll just wait

until Aya comes home." Aoi sat himself across the table from
his fox and opened the Scrabble box, fiddling with the pieces.
"I'm sure he'll be game."

"I never said I wasn't willing." Itsuki rubbed Aoi's calf with

his foot. "I like playing with you. I always have."

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"Cool!" Aoi bounced as he set up the board. He couldn't

help it; he was kind of excited. Granted, the idea of strip
Scrabble had started off as a distraction, but it was turning
into a whole lot more. Certain words always turned Aoi on,
especially in Itsuki's low, sexy voice. The trick was getting his
fox to say them without laughing.

It would have been a whole lot easier if Aoi got turned on

by words that turned up in normal conversation. But no,
weird words made him horny ... 'pirate,' 'kumquat,' and the
weirdest one of all: 'onomatopoeia.' None of those were
terribly sexy, not by a long shot.

Luckily, there were lots of other things that turned Aoi on,

so he could keep his word fetish to himself. Though, it would
have been nice to hear either of his lovers whisper dirty
things about pirates or kumquats in his ear at least once.

"Aoi?"
One of the letter tiles smacked Aoi in the forehead,

startling him out of his thoughts. "Hey!"

"Stop daydreaming, love." Itsuki glanced over at Aoi, his

tail wagging lazily. "I thought you wanted to play."

"I do, I was just ... plotting what I'm going to do with you

once you're naked." Aoi rubbed his hands together.
"Mwahaha."

"I don't know. You might be at a slight disadvantage

considering that you're wearing a whole lot less than I am."

Damn, Itsuki was right. The kitsune had just come home

and was still fully clothed, while Aoi had been sitting around
the house in a pair beach shorts and little else. At least Aoi
had remembered to put underwear on that morning.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"We'll see. I may not be smart, but I am a better speller

than you are."

"Hrrr, all know is that I'm going to push you over this table

and fuck you silly." Itsuki shoved a big hand into the fake
velvet bag and pulled out a hand full of letters. "Well, after
you lose, anyway."

"And what happens if I win?" Aoi took his time with his

letters, pulling them out one at a time and arranging them on
his rack.

"Same thing, just you get to gloat instead of me." Itsuki

picked up his first letter and grinned hungrily at Aoi. "Come
on, let's get naked."

* * * *

Aoi tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for Itsuki to

finish his turn. His kitsune was putting way too much thought
into their game. At this rate, they were going to be playing all
night, or at least until Aya came home.

"Do you mind?" Itsuki looked annoyed. Aoi could tell by

the way those sable fox ears flicked back.

"Sorry." Aoi sat back in his chair, trying not to fidget. It

was hard, though. "Oh, will you spell something already?"

"You're just mad because I'm winning."
"No, you're just taking too long. And you're not winning,

either."

"Really? Who's closer to being naked?"
Stupid fox was right. Aoi was ahead technically, since he

had managed to win two out three rounds, but he was still
losing in the clothing department. He was down to his boxers

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

while Itsuki still had his jeans and underwear on. All because
that sneaky fox of his started off with more clothes on and
claimed his belt as one of them. Of course, that Double Word
Score in the last round with 'phallic' didn't help either. Aoi
would have argued the point more, if he didn't have an ace
up his sleeve or, in this case, a 'q' in his rack of letters. He
just had to figure out what to spell with it.

"I will be." Itsuki grinned and put a few more letters down.

"'Pirate'! Beat that."

Oh, Aoi loved the way Itsuki said 'pirate'. Something about

the way the word rolled off his kitsune's tongue with the
slight purr on the 'r' sent a shiver down Aoi's spine and
straight to his cock. Damn, that was sexy, and very
distracting.

"Aoi." Itsuki waved his hand in front of Aoi's face. "Back to

earth, love. It's your turn."

"What, sorry, where were we?"
"You were about to lose."
"You wish." Aoi fished around for a few new letters. He

pulled out the tiles and sighed. What the hell was he
supposed to do with a 'k' and an extra 'u'? Aoi looked at the
board again trying to figure something out. Wait a minute ...
Oh, perfect. He set down his letters spelling 'kumquat'. "Take
that!"

Itsuki raised a sable eyebrow in confusion. "What the hell's

a kumquat?"

Aoi felt his cock twitch. Oh, that sounded even better than

'pirate' did. "I-it's a fruit."

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"You're making that up. There's no such thing as a

kumquat."

"It looks like an itty bitty orange and tastes like a lemon."
"And why do they call it a kumquat?"
"I don't know." Aoi had to bite his lip to keep from

groaning. Itsuki probably had no idea how turned on he was.
"C-come on, lose the pants."

"Kumquat..." Itsuki snickered as he stood and unbuttoned

his jeans. "It sounds too dirty to be a fruit."

That was all Aoi could take. Scrabble tiles scattered as Aoi

climbed over the kitchen table. He grabbed a handful of
Itsuki's spiky, sable hair and kissed his foxy man hard. Aoi
closed his eyes as their tongues tangled together. Itsuki
wrapped his arms around Aoi's waist and pulled him closer.
Oh, that was something Aoi never got tired of.

"Hrr, what was that for?" Itsuki nipped at Aoi's bottom lip.
"What can I say, I love your voice." Aoi knelt up on the

table with his hands trailing over Itsuki's chest. "It makes me
so horny."

"I can tell." Itsuki slipped his fingers under the waistband

of Aoi's boxers and rubbed against his already straining
length. "You're rock hard."

"Mmn, can't help it." Aoi lifted his hips, trying to increase

the friction against his cock. "Can you say 'kumquat' again?"

"Why 'kumquat'?"
"I don't know."
"Aoi, tell me." Itsuki pushed Aoi's chin up and looked him

in the eye.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"I—" Aoi blushed. Damn Itsuki and those copper-colored

eyes of his. His foxy man always had that effect on him, even
after all the years they had been together. "It turns me on ...
that and 'pirate'."

"Pirates?"
"The word 'pirate', jerk." Aoi swatted at Itsuki's arm

teasingly.

"Hrr, 'kumquat' and 'pirate'." Itsuki purred the words

slowly, accenting each syllable with a pull on Aoi's cock. The
kitsune grinned and slid a free hand over Aoi's hip, petting his
ass. "You always surprise me, love."

Aoi bit his lip and rocked between the hand on his cock

and the fingers rubbing against his hole. That, along with the
low rumble of Itsuki's voice in his ear, was more than enough
to push Aoi over the edge.

"Itsuki!" Aoi wrapped his arms around Itsuki's neck and

groaned against that broad, bronzed shoulder as he came. He
bucked against Itsuki's hand, spurting hot come all over the
kitsune's chest.

Itsuki grinned and nipped at Aoi's cheek. "Who knew that a

few words could get you worked up?"

"What can I say? I'm easy." Aoi tweaked his lover's furry

ear. "Thank you."

"Hrr, you should have told me sooner."
"I thought you'd laugh."
"'Kumquat' is a weird word to be turned on by." Itsuki

wiped a bit of come from his chest and licked it off his finger.
He gave Aoi a long and hungry look. "Any other words I
should know about?"

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Aoi swung his long legs over the edge of the table and sat

back, leaning on his hands. "Not really ... well, there is
'onomatopoeia'."

"O-no-ma-what?"
"Never mind." Aoi tugged at the waistband of Itsuki's

boxers, freeing that hard, eager cock. He wrapped his hand
around the shaft, stroking the taut flesh. It was like steel
wrapped in suede. Just the thought of that thick prick sliding
into him made Aoi hard again. "Mmm, my sexy fox ... even if
you can't say 'onomatopoeia'."

"You'll just have to live with 'pirate' and 'kumquat', I

guess." Itsuki brought his tail forward and trailed it against
Aoi's thigh.

It was a dirty trick on Itsuki's part. That sexy fox knew

how much Aoi loved the feel of that soft, dark brown fur
against his skin. Well, two could play at that game. Aoi leaned
forward and flicked his tongue over the slick tip of Itsuki's
cock.

There was a low, rumbly growl and Itsuki's fingers tangled

in Aoi's hair, nudging his head lower. Oh, his foxy man must
have liked that. Aoi grinned and lapped at Itsuki's length
again, this time from base to tip.

"Please, love, no more teasing." Itsuki glanced down with

a hopeful look.

"I don't know, teasing you is kind of fun." Aoi fingered his

lover's heavy balls.

"Please ... with a cherry on top. Or should it be a

kumquat?"

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"Very funny." Aoi pressed a finger against the slit in

Itsuki's cock. "You're lucky that I love you."

"Hrr, I know." Itsuki tugged one of the slim, steel rings

laced through Aoi's nipples. "That's why you're going to let
me carry you to the couch and fuck you."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that." Aoi scooted closer, rubbing

their cocks together. "My big, strong fox."

Itsuki lifted Aoi easily and set him gently on the couch.

Despite all the growling, Itsuki was a big softy, especially
when it came to Aoi. Not that his foxy man would ever admit
it.

"Can you lube yourself up, love?" Itsuki dropped a quick

kiss on Aoi's shoulder and kicked off his jeans. "I don't know
if I have the patience right now."

"Sure thing." Aoi rolled onto his hands and knees and

reached between the cushions of the couch. There was a tube
in there somewhere, at least there had been the last time. His
fingers closed around cool plastic. Bingo! Aoi squirted some
lube onto his fingers and slid two of them into his ass. He
shifted, spreading his knees and lifting his ass. His foxy man
deserved a little show, didn't he?

Aoi curled his fingers and pushed them deeper, nudging

his gland. He glanced hungrily over his shoulder. "Itsuki..."

"Not yet, I want to see you take another finger first."
A nod was all that Aoi could manage. He added a third

digit to the mix, stretching his hole a little more. Aoi moaned,
and rocked back, fucking himself on his own fingers.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"Oh, you are a sexy thing," Itsuki purred and trailed wet,

nipping kisses along Aoi's spine. "I'm going to fuck you hard
and deep, just how you like it."

"Please." Aoi pulled his fingers out and held himself open.

If Itsuki didn't do something soon, Aoi was going to explode,
he was sure of it.

"Maybe next time, I'll dress up as a pirate." Itsuki rubbed

his cock teasingly against Aoi's hole. "You can be my cabin
boy."

"Damn fo—ooh!" Aoi was going to give Itsuki an earful, but

before he could say anything else that sweet cock pushed into
his ass. Aoi's fingers clenched against the arm of the couch as
Itsuki's cock slid deep. No one stretched him like Itsuki did.

"Better?" Itsuki pulled back and slammed his hips forward,

dragging another groan out of Aoi.

"Mmn, definitely."
One big hand slid over Aoi's chest and tugged at his nipple

rings while the other wrapped around his cock. Those fingers
stroked Aoi, keeping pace with the heavy cock sliding in and
out of his ass. Itsuki knew exactly where to touch him, how to
fuck him. No matter how many times they slept together, his
fox always blew his mind.

Aoi moaned again and pushed back, taking his fox to the

hilt. He was close. He could feel the tension building in his
gut. Itsuki must have felt it, too, because he picked up his
pace, fucking Aoi with quick, hard strokes.

Itsuki purred in Aoi's ear. Aoi's brain was too scattered to

catch all of it but he did hear the bit about a pirate doing
something naughty with a kumquat.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

That pushed Aoi over the edge. He tossed his head back

against Itsuki's shoulder as he came. His entire body tensed
and clenched around Itsuki's cock. Aoi slumped against the
arm of the couch panting breathlessly. Oh, that was good.

"Wow." Itsuki leaned against Aoi's back and kissed his

shoulder. "That was intense."

Aoi rolled over so he could pet Itsuki's ears. "Did you come

hard?"

The kitsune grinned back at him. "How could I not with

you squeezing me like that?"

"See, I told you strip Scrabble was a good idea."
"Yes, you were right, love ... for once." Itsuki whapped Aoi

with his tail teasingly. "So, what do you want to do now?"

Aoi tried not to yawn, but it was hard. Sex took a lot of

energy. "I'd say a nap, but we really should clean up before
Aya gets home."

"True." Itsuki shifted to one side and snuggled against Aoi.

"There are Scrabble tiles everywhere."

"Oops." Aoi trailed his fingers through the soft fur of his

lover's tail. "That settles it then, we'll clean up and, when Aya
gets home, play another game of strip Scrabble, just so he
doesn't feel left out."

"Mmn, sounds like a plan to me."

* * * *

Aoi sat on the couch dozing against his kitsune's shoulder

as something random flashed on the TV. He loved lazy days.
He loved them even more when both his lovers were home.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"So what are you two up to?" Aya settled on the couch

next to Aoi.

"Relaxing, that's all." Aoi shifted so he could snuggle with

both men. Aya was warm and still damp from his shower.
Perfect cuddling material. Well, if you asked Aoi, anyway.

"Sounds like a good way to spend th—what the?" Aya

shifted, with a puzzled look on his face, and pulled two
Scrabble tiles from under his thigh. "How'd these get here?"

"Oh, that's where those went." Aoi plucked the wooden

tiles from Aya's hand and set them on the coffee table. "I was
wondering."

"They probably stuck to you last night." Itsuki nibbled on

Aoi's shoulder and reached over to pet Aya's thigh.

"What did you two do last night?"
"You wouldn't know it, but Itsuki plays a mean game of

Scrabble." Aoi winked at his foxy man.

Aya raised a slender, cinnamon-colored eyebrow at the

two of them. "When did you two start playing Scrabble?"

"Well, yesterday, and we ended up making like bunnies on

the couch afterwards."

"Of course, that was after I had to jack him off on the

kitchen table." Itsuki added with a wiggle of his ears.

Aya still looked a little confused. "And how exactly does

Scrabble get you so hot and bothered that you do all that?"

"Well, it was strip Scrabble." Aoi grinned.
"Ah, that would explain things."
"Oh, and it would be even more fun with the three of us."

Itsuki perked up, his tail wagging happily. "What do you
think, Aya-love?"

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

"Sure." Aya stood and stretched, giving Aoi a good long

look at that lithe body of his. "I'm game."

Aoi sighed. Good lord, his bo-ya was sexy.
"Good!" Itsuki slipped his arm around Aya's waist and

pulled him close. "Go for 'kumquat' if you can. 'Pirate' is a
good Scrabble word, too."

"Kumquat?" Aya still looked a little confused. "Okay..."
"Itsuki." Aoi wasn't sure if he wanted to kill his foxy man

or kiss him. 'Kumquat' sounded just as good rolling off of
Aya's tongue as Itsuki's, but he wanted to tell Aya himself,
damn it.

"I'm just helping Aya out. He is at a bit of a disadvantage

after all." Itsuki was trying to look innocent, not that it was
working. Aoi had known the kitsune for way too long to fall
for that.

"Jerk." Aoi stuck his tongue out at his foxy man, not that

he meant it, well, not really.

Oh, that gave Aoi an idea. He glanced over at Aya

hopefully. "Bo-ya, say 'onomatopoeia' for me."

"Um ... 'onomatopoeia'?"
Well, that settled that. Aoi grabbed the Scrabble box off

the kitchen table and started to shoo his lovers toward the
bedroom. "Come on, you two."

"Wouldn't it be easier to play on the kitchen table?"
"Not the way we play." Itsuki scooped Aya up and followed

Aoi.

"Trust us, bo-ya." Aoi nodded in agreement. "This will be

way more fun."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Shattering Silence

By CB Potts
In the spring of '06, I stopped speaking entirely. Not a

sound, not a word, not the merest breath of a thought could
make it past my lips. Silence was my refuge.

It was months before anyone noticed. Even then, the

change went unremarked—one more strange attribute of a
decidedly odd man, the absence of vocal communication was
hardly worth mentioning.

And honestly? As long as the world got to enjoy my

creations, new novels appearing on a semi-regular basis, they
really didn't give a rat's ass about the creator.

That was fine with me.
It wasn't, however, fine with my assistant Marco. At least,

not at first.

A small man, he'd been with me a while by then, doing all

those things that needed doing to make the work possible.

When I'd decided that the Internet was too distracting and

kept me from writing, it was Marco who made the web go
away, replacing it with an electric typewriter.

When that proved to be too smooth, too seductive—for

one could compose nearly as fast on the Selectric as on the
computer, allowing no time for careful thought to insinuate
itself into the process—it was Marco who almost magically
produced an antique Underwood from somewhere, allowing
me to revisit the most mechanical pleasure of capturing
dreams.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

When that failed me—as we both, at that point, had known

it would—Marco was ready with pencil and paper. A
sharpened cupful of potential was proffered every hour on the
hour.

We never talked about this. It just happened—happened in

the same seamless way that pages disappeared from my desk
at the end of the day, only to appear later, neatly bound in
hardback editions that Marco insisted I sign.

"For your fans, Gregory. For your fans."
It did no good to dissuade him of the existence of these

fans. While I doubted them, Marco believed. It was a simple
enough thing to indulge his fancy and sign, so I signed.

That made Marco happy. My silence, however, did not.

* * * *

"Why won't you speak to me?" he asked, after bringing the

breakfast tray to my office. It was nearly a work of art in
itself: obsidian black coffee, paired with butter soft croissants.
A small dish of marmalade, bejeweled with the thin skins of
Seville oranges hanging in citrus-tinged suspension, was
presented in the shadow of the season's first daffodils,
impossibly creamy and pure. "Have I displeased you?"

That was a ridiculous question, for how could I be upset

with Marco? Marco simply was. One might as well be
displeased with the sun for rising, or with the fog for draping
itself round the green fir covered mountainside.

I could not tell him this, so I went to the window to show

him. French windows, they swung outward—an unusual
affectation in this part of the world, but one I could not live

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

without. The need to push open the glass and insert my
presence into the uncaring wilderness came far too frequently
and insistently to be ignored.

He stepped beside me, going up on tiptoe a bit to peer into

the gray-tinged verdant landscape that was my answer.

A long moment we stood there, his brown eyes flickering

from the unkempt expanse to the almost equally disheveled
surface of my face, searching for the relationship between
them.

At last he spoke.
"I see," he said, although his tone belied him.
Perhaps he did not need understanding to be content. I do

not know. But Marco never raised the question of my silence
again, and for that, I was grateful.

You see, if Marco had continued pressing, I would have at

some point broken—and in breaking, revealed a truth so
terrible my heart ached near to bursting, every time I thought
about it.

* * * *

I was running out of words.
It might not seem like such a thing was even possible,

especially for someone renowned as one of the world's most
prolific authors.

After all, hadn't I penned (or, more correctly, upon recall,

composed on the Selectric) the wildly popular Sin Sisters
mystery series? Seventeen books right there: over a million
words, easily, when you stopped to count them all. Add to
that the Harker books—better written, certainly, if not as

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

popular—and you've another million. A handful of stand alone
titles, just to round out the corners.

One would imagine that a shortage of words was not my

problem.

That's the rub, though. Twenty six letters, in almost

infinite permutations, had served me well for decades. Now
they'd had enough.

I thought at first they were abandoning me, fleeing out of

sheer exhaustion. That my talent felt itself wasted on what
the critics termed 'enjoyable if predictable' mysteries and
decided to take up with someone who would write about the
magnificence of the human spirit or the cold, dark forgotten
corners of our collective soul.

But then I read—and one sure sign of the writer who feels

the muse faltering is to check his consumption of other
people's work, there's a clear and direct relationship—about
the hummingbird's heartbeat.

That's when it all became clear to me.

* * * *

You see, we all come into existence with a pre-determined,

finite number of heartbeats. I won't bore you with the science
here. The hows and whys of theory seldom matter. It's the
application that proves the relevance.

In this case, we all have roughly the same number of

heartbeats allotted to us—man and beast, fish and fowl—a
few hundred thousand iterations of that familiar rub-dub, rub-
dub rhythm, and then it's time to go. The heart simply stops,
and failing heroic measures and mechanical interventions of

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

the kind my poor Underwood could only mutely envy, it's
game over.

Smaller creatures—the hummingbird in question, for

example—beat through their allotment of heartbeats at a
tremendous rate, departing this mortal coil mere moments
after arriving on it. Larger, slower creatures linger longer,
their cardiac metronome ticking away at a more sedate pace.

A simple enough theory, really. Easy to grasp. The type of

idea I almost intuitively understood.

All quite lovely, really, until you take the concept to the

next logical step.

If we are born with a finite number of heartbeats

programmed into us, might not the same be true for other
things? If we had preset limits on our physical existence,
would there not also inevitably be limits on our intellectual
selves? Might there not be a point where we'd exhausted all
of our ideas, used up all of our words?

Forgive me a little egotism for a moment when I say this is

clearly not a problem for most people. While everyone's
hearts beat away a fairly consistent pace, we don't all spend
the same proportion of our time thinking.

I have a brother, Paul, and I can tell you with absolute

confidence that he has not had an original thought since the
spring of '78. If conservation of mental energy was the sole
determining factor in longevity, my brother would stand a
very good chance of claiming Methuselah's fame for his own.

I have no such comforting claims to make regarding my

own existence. Having established long ago an almost total
lack of ability for most physical endeavors, I've based my life

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

entire on mental agility. My sole profit center—the source of
my value to the world—lay squarely between my ears.

And now, I realized, I'd come perilously close to using it

up.

* * * *

There were consolations, of course, and the finest of these

was Marco.

I couldn't tell you exactly when he'd moved into the house.

I worked odd hours, always, and it was a comfort to have him
there.

Marco had an uncanny way of knowing when I'd need

him—appearing, almost magically, with the ream of paper or
perfectly timed sandwich. Anything, everything was possible,
as long as it kept the work going.

And at those times—once rare, now damnably frequent—

when I couldn't work, Marco's presence was more than a
comfort.

It was a delight.

* * * *

He liked to sing, Marco did, while he showered. A rich,

booming baritone, he would stand under the water and make
the most incredible music. Songs that would put one in mind
of the tiny island cluster that must have been his ancestral
homeland, all toppled white columns and dark-eyed smiling
lovers, gay with white-bright smiles.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

He didn't miss a note the first time I stepped into the

bathroom to watch him shower. Only the merest flicker of his
eyelids indicated any surprise that I would be there at all.

Marco's voice was magnificent, but it paled in comparison

with his body. Compact and well-muscled, he had the
shoulders of a young bull—bulging like the full end of an
onion near a thickly-corded neck, tapering only slightly before
reconnecting at the elbow.

His stomach was hard, rather than taut—the type of

musculature that gave voice to Marco's life outside of my
presence, for no one maintains a physique like that by hauling
paper a few hundred sheets at a time. Crystal rivers of water
spilled over his body, seeking out the subtle valleys defined
by abdominal muscle, sluicing over the angled pelvic bones,
the softened steel curvature of hips at ease, framing a thick,
proud, black-furred cock.

Perhaps my eyes lingered overlong, for when at last they

traveled away, Marco had stopped singing. Instead, he
stared, his own brown eyes filled with some unshared
knowledge.

My decision to stay silent in no way involved Marco, but he

kept his peace just the same. A fresh cloud of steam rose
round him in the shower, convenient cover for both the center
and possessor of attention.

I left, fleeing to my own room, my own bed, to be freshly

startled by both myself and the sudden terrible longing I felt
for Marco.

Such emotion, while certainly not outside of my

knowledge, had not been part of my experience before.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Desire as a concept was a familiarity, desire most manifestly
made flesh this way was something else entirely.

Thinking on this, around this, near this, letting my mind

explore this new territory, had occupied me so entirely that I
very nearly failed to notice Marco when he entered my room,
clad in only a white towel.

Very nearly failed is still nominally successful, though, and

very rapidly I found all of my attention fixed upon Marco.

"If you cannot speak," he said, "then you cannot tell me

no." The towel fell to the floor, suddenly superfluous.

His words continued, melodious and nearly meaningless,

as I learned that Marco's cock rediscovered was even more
enticing than it had been upon initial encounter.

"It also means you can't ask for what you really want."

Marco stepped closer. "I have to guess."

His fingers were feather-light against my face, one set

alighting on either side of my temple, hesitant, questioning. "I
do not wish to guess the wrong way now."

Surprise followed surprise that day, as I leaned forward

into the gesture. His palms were strong, a gentle masculine
cradle, caressing and controlling all at once.

"But perhaps I am, for once in my life, guessing right, this

time."

My head went back, lips going up to meet lips suddenly not

speaking, occupied instead with kissing.

And while kissing itself was not a thing wholly unfamiliar to

me, Marco's kisses were unlike any I'd ever known. Here was
heat and pressure and the purest of pure needs.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Words, words—when your whole life has been—is—words,

you would think speech would be the most natural reaction in
the world. To tell Marco how I desired him, to thank him for
his kisses and beg for still more—that is what a man of words
should have done.

Yet, as we've more than established, my words were

failing me. Mute, I could not ask. Struck silent, I'd no way
vocal to express myself.

This did not trouble Marco. Denied oral assurance, he

found his comfort in physical response—the certainty that a
gentle push upon the shoulders would bring me to my knees,
that letting a velvety cockhead trace across my lips would
cause them to open.

"Yes," Marco said. His hands were on my head, gentle, just

above my ears. "I have guessed properly."

It's hard to say who moved first—he, with almost inhuman

restraint and his customary politeness, or me, astounded by
what I was doing. But move we did—slowly at first. A dream
rhythm, more and ever more of his cock pushing into my
mouth, my lips sliding further and further down with each
pass.

For the very first time, it struck me how strangely silent

we were; while I could, obviously, make no sound, Marco,
too, kept silent. We'd reached a place that transcended the
need for words. Communication had shifted to a deeper, more
intimate platform—all that could be conveyed by touch alone
was.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

It did not take long, then. Fiction is different, you know,

than even fantasy realized. Marco's breathing quickened,
deepened, took on a ragged rhythm all its own.

"Gregory," he said, each word more precious to me for its

rarity. "If you are going to stop, you need to stop now."

Instead, I pressed on, pushing forward, sucking harder.

The need was so great, so strong—I could not stop myself.

Nor could Marco. Gentle fingers hardened to demanding

steel, holding my head in place while his thick cock jumped
and twitched against my tongue.

"Swallow me," Marco murmured and, with that, I did.
A dozen little kisses followed, cleaning his shiny, softening

shaft. It was impossible to stop, to break contact until I
absolutely had to.

Marco smiled. "I hope that gave you pleasure, my friend.

That my guess was not too bold."

In reply, I bowed further, kissing the silky soft top of one

of Marco's feet, then the other, before rocking back on my
heels and looking up at Marco.

"I see," he said, a strange new smile on his face. A quick

bend, and he'd recovered the discarded towel. "Good night,
Gregory."

* * * *

Our routine altered significantly after that point. Many

things were unchanged, of course. Had we casual observers,
they could not have been faulted for failing to notice any
variance in the passage of our days.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Marco still brought me gallons of black coffee and handled

all of the correspondence. If I expressed the slightest whim, it
was fulfilled. A post it note saying, "Must research
mushrooms," one day resulted in an Amazon box of books the
next. Pages still disappeared from my desk regularly. I never
lacked for sharp pencils.

Yet it was clear now that Marco was in charge. After rising

in the morning, I would go to the writing table. There I would
remain, composing all the while, until Marco would appear in
the doorway and say, "Come, Gregory."

At that point, our routine would begin anew. Each night

became a celebration of Marco's guesses, my compliance, and
the eternal silence throughout.

I began to live for the moments—those precious seconds—

when I could rattle Marco's composure. My heart would leap
when I heard the throaty sigh triggered by my tongue tracing
along a particularly sensitive bit of skin. I loved the almost
feline purr my love gave when he discovered that I would,
upon command, lick my own seed from his fingers.

That's when I learned that those minutes came with a

price. You didn't just stumble upon such bliss. You had to
earn it.

* * * *

"The work, Gregory," Marco said, "is the most important

thing." The day's output of pages had been particularly
meager—not surprising, considering the sheer amount of time
I'd devoted to thinking about Marco. "I am guessing that you

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

do not want this," and here, he fanned the pitiable few pages
I'd produced under my nose, "to become the norm."

I shook my head. Precious few books would be written at

that pace.

"Then it is my responsibility to ensure that it doesn't." He

leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. "You will not leave the
table until another page you write. Is that understood?"

I stared at him, at flat black eyes that clearly meant

business. Marco was not smiling.

I picked up my pencil. What's one page, after all, when I'd

already written thousands? A dozen scrawled sentences—ten,
if I was being wordy—and the thing was done.

No sweat.
No problem.
Easy as pie.
Except of course, for the fact that the words wouldn't

come.

This was ridiculous. There's nothing easier in the world to

write than dialogue—a few sing-song bits of conversation, and
the page would just flow...

"I'm waiting, Gregory."
Still, no words. No words at all. For an eternity, no words.

Time itself sat still while I searched for a noun, a verb—an
adjective lost in the wilderness, desperate to modify.

Hell, I'd have settled for a gerund.
The silence doubled and redoubled while I sat there,

inwardly cursing myself and my stupid, useless story twelve
times over.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Then time, which had stopped, suddenly started to fly. In a

nano-second—strike that, it was a fraction of a nano-second,
Marco burst into the room, pulling me out of my chair and
over his lap.

"You are not listening to me, Gregory!" The thin fabric of

my khakis did nothing to shield me, to spare my ass from
Marco's flat, hard hand.

Nor did my pants do anything to conceal my growing

arousal, the thickening and swelling of my shaft that
increased with every swat.

It was mortifying: the position I was in, the pleasure I was

finding there—all laid, quite literally, in Marco's lap.

"You need to focus on your work, Gregory." The tone was

carefully neutral, now that the spanking had stopped. Marco's
hand still rested on my ass, possessive. "This, you owe to
your fans."

A shift of the knees and suddenly I was standing in front of

Marco, my achingly hard cock tenting out the front of my
pants.

Marco took no notice, choosing instead to focus his

attention on my eyes. "Is that understood?"

I nodded, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. It was hard

not to feel ashamed—petty, lazy—in the face of his
determination, of the overt concern for the fans.

"Good." Marco tilted his head toward the writing table.

"Then back to work." He smiled, a damnably small smile.
"Perhaps if you write two pages now, we shall address your ...
condition ... after."

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

My desk chair had never seemed so hard before—a seat

normally more than sufficiently padded was now as unyielding
as granite. The tender surface of my ass protested every bit
of contact—but the words?

The words were flying. They came fast and furious, as if

some door that had been jammed shut in my mind, holding
all of the creativity pinned within, had suddenly been flung
wide open.

One page filled, almost instantly, in a giddy burst of

euphoria. Word followed word followed word, a hysterical
conceptual parade, tumbling out of my mind onto the paper
at an incredible rate. The next page went even faster,
paragraph piling upon paragraph until a pivotal plot point
presented itself and I was reaching for a third piece of paper.

All the while, Marco stood watching. Watching and smiling.
Time collapsed, into a stream of words and story and

sweat. I'd honestly forgotten that it could be like this, how
writing this way was just like playing with a lover—being
swept up into a strong pair of arms and carried along, a
sensory experience one both participates in and watches, a
mute recorder taking in every detail as the story unfolds itself
before you. It was like flying, it was like sex, it was perfection
itself...

And when, somewhere around page eight, Marco went

down on his knees and crawled under the table, it got even
better.

* * * *

In the morning, Marco was gone.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

It took me a while to notice it, I'm ashamed to say. I was

so eager to get back into the story, to let that torrent of
words spill over me and through me again, to experience that
most delightful divine possession, that I'd practically bounded
out of bed at first light.

My table, as always, was waiting, with half a ream of blank

pages and a cup of sharpened pencils there for the taking.

I took them, and took them hard. Pages flew from my

table like startled doves, the pristine white surface doubly
defaced, each side covered with line after line of gray script,
small and intense.

It was amazing, pure adrenaline. Writing, when the writing

goes well, is a very physical act: the words don't flow merely
from your fingers. They course along your spine, knotting and
bunching in acid-tinged bursts, pooling up atop your kidneys,
aching to be released.

Letting them loose makes you grin—but it also makes you

sweat. Exertion, purely mental, takes a very tangible toll: my
shirt was drenched through before the morning fog decided to
depart for colder climes.

I shed it, skin clammy with the sudden exposure to the

open air.

That's when I realized hot coffee would be perfect, just the

thing to augment an already superlative morning.

I wanted, and Marco was not there.
For a time, I pondered this. It had been a long evening.

Marco's—ministrations—had continued until nearly dawn,
intensifying as the paragraphs came faster and faster,
culminating with the conclusion of a chapter and ball-

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

emptying bliss. He could very well be still abed, sleeping the
sleep of, if not the just, certainly the very talented.

The thought of Marco in bed, bronze body wrapped 'round

with tangled, white sheets, was too enticing to ignore.

I tried, I promise you. A minute. Maybe two.
But then it was time to discover where my lover was.

* * * *

His room was empty. The bed was neatly made, and when

I checked it with a trembling palm, cold. No trace of warmth
lingered, giving proof that Marco had been there.

The kitchen, then. A faint rumble in my stomach signaled

breakfast time's approach. Perhaps fine delights awaited me
in the kitchen: an omelet studded with ham and peppers,
paired with pumpernickel toast, a fruit salad with all the
colors of the rainbow drenched in citrus.

With perhaps unseemly haste, I went to the kitchen.
It was empty. The coffee pot was clearly off. The counters

were wiped clean. Last night's dishes remained in the
dishwasher, air drying.

Something was strange here.
Marco was not in the living room, nor the library, nor even,

to my disappointment, in the shower.

I returned to my office. Perhaps Marco was searching for

me, a strangely silent zephyr, as I was seeking him.

No. The writing table remained the same, with the chaotic

pile of my pages drifting slowly to the floor, a half-dulled cup
of pencils standing guard. My chair remained where I'd left it.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

The garage then! I'd not run in a long time, longer than I'd

care to admit in a court of law, but I ran now, frantic to
discover where Marco had gone. He had to be somewhere,
anywhere.

People don't just disappear. They leave, perchance, and

that was a realization that twisted my stomach upon itself,
squeezing an unbelievable volume of bile right up my throat
to splash against the back of my teeth. They leave, but they
don't disappear.

It had been some time since I'd visited the garage, yet it

was much as I remembered. My car, an eminently sensible
sedan, was parked neatly. Marco's motorcycle, angled and
low and dangerous just to look at, crowded alongside it.

The garage smelled empty and unused. A fine layer of dust

was spread over the hood of my car, the ashen motes tracing
around the wiper mounts and ascending the windshield.

Marco's bike was colder than cold.
The front yard, the back. The length of the driveway,

covered in crushed gravel, biting into my feet.

The empty roadway mocked me, stretching to eternity in

either direction, with nary a clue to tell me where Marco
might be. I strained my eyes, trying to force them 'round the
far corner that led the southern route to town, but to no avail.

He was not there.
A cold breeze slid over my shoulders, reminding me that

standing barefoot and bare-chested in the roadway was
perhaps not the best idea I'd ever had. Heart heavy, I
returned to the house.

* * * *

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

I'd written dozens of books, novels and mysteries and

suspense thrillers. You'd think that that would give me insight
into what to do at this point.

You would be wrong.
An hour, maybe, ninety minutes I paced the floor. If Marco

was not here, where was he?

The house was silent, the utter lack of sound growing

heavier by the moment. I'd never heard my house this quiet
before.

Perhaps I'd never listened to it, taking the comforting

background noise of a house occupied entirely for granted.
Bared now, walls had naught to do but reflect silence back to
me, the lack of sound flattening over the floor and pooling at
my feet.

If I were a character in one of my books, I'd know what to

do. I'd have psychic powers or magical insight or an address
book full of bloodhound breeders with nothing but free time
on their hands to call upon. I'd be a retired intelligence
operative or so paranoid that I would have wired every corner
of my house with cameras to record the goings on. It would
be a simple matter of reviewing the tapes, and the mystery
would solve itself.

Plot device after plot device suggested itself, each more

unworkable than the last. Concepts that work beautifully in
fiction fall apart under reality's harsh gaze.

At least that's what one of my critics said, back when I was

still young enough and dumb enough to read reviews.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

The first thing one has to wonder, that review had said, is

why none of Gregory Hewitt's characters have enough brains
to call the police!

The words had stung then.
Now, however, they had a brilliant bit of beauty all their

own.

* * * *

It's one thing to conceive of calling the police. It's another

to actually do it.

Especially when you haven't spoken in forever.
I stared at the phone. The number to the local station

house was highlighted in the phone book: I'd no idea why. It
was something Marco must have done at some point, when
he needed law enforcement, but without that 911-level of
intensity.

What would I say?
My lover is missing, I cannot find him!
Too dramatic, too much information.
I wish to report a missing person.
Well, that's not what I wished, exactly. What I wished was

for things to be normal, for Marco to be here as he always
was, commanding and rewarding and just plain there,
unnoticed perhaps, but omnipresent.

When I write, it's all a race to capture the words before

they get away. They fall onto the page in the order they're
meant to go: it's magic, perhaps, or some small vestige of
talent. I don't analyze it, because it's a bad idea to tamper
with success.

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

That's why, when the words failed to come, I'd had no idea

how to fix it. Marco had been the key to open that lock.

But he wasn't here now, and I needed to do more than

write. I needed to speak. Out loud. To someone who didn't
know the first thing about me, and probably cared even less.

It was terrifying.
The thought of never knowing what had happened to

Marco was doubly so.

The receiver was heavy in my hand, cold plastic alien

against my palm. Its weight against my ear was bizarre,
enough to trigger wave after wave of nausea.

I dropped the phone, startled at the loud clatter it made

against the countertop. Stomach clenching, I ran to the
bathroom, arriving just in time to let waves of bile splash into
the toilet. Drops of cold sweat followed, tumbling from my
forehead like so many discarded diamonds.

After, I was hollow. Empty. Drained.
The way I would have to remain, I realized, if I couldn't

find Marco.

"McHugh, Dispatch."
"Hello." My voice sounded like it had been dragged

backward through a briar patch: scratchy and rough. I should
have done a warm up run before ever picking up the phone.
"This is Gregory Hewitt on Wilsonshire Road, and I've got a
problem."

My heart was pounding so loud that I could hear it echoing

in my head, the thud-thud-thud almost obscuring what
McHugh had to say to me.

"What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Hewitt?"

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

The thudding was louder then, a veritable pounding.
"I think I need to file a missing persons report. My ...

companion is missing."

"His name?" McHugh's voice was like a dog barking, short

and explosive. It hurt my ears.

"Marco." It was so hard to get the words out. My throat

was closing up, the muscles in my neck screaming from the
unfamiliar strain of speaking. "Marco Sarandakos."

"When did you last see Mr. Sarandakos?"
"Late last night."
There was a snort then, or a cough. I couldn't tell. "Mr.

Hewitt, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do until at least
twenty-four hours have elapsed. If your friend hasn't shown
up then, give us a call."

"But his car is here." My voice broke then, hitting a

"We can send some around," McHugh said. "Tomorrow."
Abruptly, the call was over, an obscenely loud dial tone

buzzing in my ear.

I dropped the phone, hard enough that the handset gave a

sickening crack. "God damn it!"

"Don't worry, Gregory. I can fix that." The words had come

from behind me.

I whirled, and there he was: clad in jeans and a t-shirt and

covered with more grease and mud than I'd ever thought
possible. "Marco!"

He was smiling. "It is good to hear you say my name."

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

I grabbed for him, wanting to wrap him tightly in my arms.

"Where were you?" I asked, as he stepped nimbly out of the
way.

"In the basement I have been, trying to fix the heat

exchange unit." Marco spread his arms. "A dirty job." He
cocked his head. "You don't hear how quiet it is?"

"That's all I could hear." Tears, unexpected, sprang to the

corners of my eyes, but I ignored them. "I didn't know where
you were."

"I see this." He reached out with one hand. "Or maybe I

should say that this I hear?"

"I had to." It was all I could say, yet suddenly it was

enough. I was in Marco's arms again, wrapped round with
grease and dirt and heat and joy.

"And for this, I am so very, very glad."
After that?
His kiss spoke volumes enough for both of us.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

Contributors' Bios

Misa Izanaki
Originally from Hawaii, Misa has been writing since she

was twelve. She has a fondness for cats, squirrels, and
anime. Most of her stories come from her muses, the
constantly evolving group of pretty anime-style men who live
in her head, and she is constantly poking at them for new
ideas. When she's not writing, Misa can be found painting war
game miniatures or trying in vain to catch up with her
backlog of comics and books.

A. Leigh Jones
A. Leigh Jones lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she

works for a travel agent and dreams of faraway places. Her
short fiction can be found right here at Torquere, as well as in
the archives at Ideomancer and flashquake. Her first novel,
Forever Crossed, is now available from ImaJinn Books.

CB Potts
CB Potts is not nearly as normal as she seems. Really. We

know. In between penning epic cowgirl love epics and
explosive action adventures for the Chasers line, she stalks
prominent economists and participates in guerrilla gardening
campaigns. Rumors have it that she's now on a one woman
quest to find the highest pair of high heels available without a
prescription, and from what we know of this chick, it's
probably true. She has a website, but it sucks, and if she
doesn't pay the webhost soon, it's sure to disappear. Instead,
visit her Livejournal: cbpotts.livejournal.com which is full of

Toy Box: Words

by CB Potts, A. Leigh Jones, Misa Izanaki

trivia, random musings, memes, political commentary, a
disproportionate amount of whining (or whinging, if you're
British) and the occasional recipe. If you want to email her—
and you should only do so knowing that she is incredibly bad
about responding—reach her at CBPotts@gmail.com

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