Ivan had gone off rambling, "I mean, a turtleneck--really, Yevgeny? It's like you're not even trying. A collared shirt or a..."

He forgot he'd left that stuff on the dresser; a blush painted his face and his train of thought ran right off a cliff (then proceeded to sink to the farthest most reaches of the sea floor). It wasn't that he was shy, far from it, but he really only appreciated the thought or occurrence of candid discovers when he was aroused.

And surprisingly, he wasn't right now.

So he grabbed the beads in one hand, opened the top drawer with the other and swept the contents of his dresser inside. The anal beads were like cherries on a sundae as he shut the drawer.

Ivan wanted a sundae.