Beinnan: Old English preposition meaning "in, within".
Doctor John H Watson, M.D., was not a stodgy man. If one asked his former lovers, he was regularly described as adventurous, open-minded, and attuned to the needs of his partner(s), however pedestrian or bizarre they may seem in turn. While he had never ventured to a BDSM dungeon nor found himself particularly enamored with breath play, he would likely consider himself relatively experimental in the bedroom, eager to try new positions and introduce new stimuli into lovemaking.
So why was chancing upon Sherlock's vast collection of vibrators making him seethe with irritation?
It wasn't that he was jealous of the inert objects, their various textures and colors gleaming innocently, arranged carefully inside a velvet-lined trunk. No, he was well aware that Sherlock favored his living, breathing lover more than the buzzing caress of his sex toys: the younger Holmes brother did not share Mycroft's objectophilia. Nor did he consider it cheating any more than his occasional wank in the shower made him a philanderer. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of sparkling, jiggling, clacking phallic objects that overwhelmed him, as he dragged the heavy steam-freighter trunk out of the closet to further examine them?
There was certainly a lot of them: by sight alone, John could count 30, and there were several nested compartments below the first, each hinged to open as the chest was fully opened. Each object was carefully pressed into a velvet form molded to its contours, and there were small placards pinned to the fabric at the top of each one giving their name and status ("Waterproof"; "AAA batteries"; "Anal only"), as if Sherlock's mass of stimulators was simply a bizarre butterfly collection from a deranged fetishist. There were actually some spots empty, with a tiny piece of tape covered in Sherlock's scrawl explaining the absence: "Taken for cleaning"; "Out for repairs"; "On loan". Like a private museum of G-spot stimulators, clitoral vibrators, butt plugs and dildos.
Jesus Christ, was there another case?
John sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration. Knowing that his own equipment could never provide that dizzying array of color, form, length, vibration settings, or attachments was a little disheartening. An irrational, purely emotional reaction, but still. The idea of anyone – anything – experiencing Sherlock's breathless moan, the stricture of his tight body as he condensed himself around John's member, the helpless shudders of his shoulders and throat as he rode out an orgasm , made the doctor jealous beyond belief.
Okay, so maybe he was jealous.
He was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the sex catalog's curator standing behind him.
"Ah," Sherlock said neutrally. "I see you've found my collection."
John's hands tightened so hard he was afraid he would snap the double-ended dildo he was holding. "Excellent observation."
"Anything of interest to you?"
"Yes, actually - why the hell do you possibly need so many fucking sex toys?"
"Why do people need so many dolls or teacups or glass bottles or nutcrackers or rubber ducks or stamps? I collect them, John. But unlike dolls or teacups or glass bottles or nutcrackers or rubber ducks or stamps, these serve an . . . enticing purpose. They are a useful collection."
"I gathered that," John grumbled, throwing down the dildo and turning around just in time to see Sherlock wince at the abuse to his toy. "Why did you hide these from me?"
The detective looked genuinely surprised. "I didn't: they've always been there in the closet. I use them when you're not present as I didn't want to distract you from the other, nonsexual activities you perform while in our flat."
"You could have mentioned them to me," his partner sulked, standing up.
"The topic never arose. Also, I considered that since you regularly masturbate in the shower – I know because these sessions add 4:30 to your usual shower time of 8:23 – you would not be averse to myself also performing manual stimulation, as long as I was discreet."
"Yes, but I don't have hundreds of sex toys just lying around!" John shouted.
"They're not lying around," Sherlock countered calmly. "All 235 of them are packed away in two nondescript freight trunks. To the casual observer of this apartment, those trunks are likely filled with clothing, mementos, possibly photographs. There is nothing in the outward appearance to suggest that they contain large amounts of sexual stimulators."
John sighed deeply, about to leave the room when Sherlock's hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around. He looked up to see the detective's eyes two endless, vast pools of darkness, his pupils dilated obscenely.
"Would you like to use one on me?" Sherlock asked softly, his voice husky as it were being achingly dragged across his vocal cords. "Then you won't be so . . . jealous."
All the blood drained from the doctor's face, making a beeline straight to his groin. He opened his mouth to speak, but only an embarrassing squeak fell out. Sherlock shot him a predatory leer, leaning in to brush his lips against his partner's ear.
"Your emotions are blatant, John. I can read everything on your face and in your eyes. And you're angry because you want to be the only one who makes me scream."
John swallowed heavily, his eyes darting to the case. A warm sweat broke out on his shoulders, and suddenly his jumper felt ten thousand degrees hotter.
"So possessive, my John. It's so . . . primal. A base instinct that overwhelms any rational thought you might have had in your head. Your brainstem is roiling with that hunting urge to mark your territory." Sherlock bit down softly on his lover's ear, his tongue dipping into John's concha with a vulgar flick of its tip. "It's whispering mine, mine, mine, all mine to you."
The doctor's eyes were closed now, his breaths deep and erratic as he struggled to retain control of his bodily functions. He tried in vain to prevent his own tumescence with horrible mental images, but Sherlock's fellation of his auricle was too much to bear. He could feel the detective's chin decline just slightly to look at his groin, and a satisfied smile pressed against the side of his neck.
"You wanted to snap all of those fucking sex toys in half, didn't you."
John just nodded, exhaling sharply through his nose as Sherlock snaked his hand down to grope the growing erection hidden by the ex-soldier's jeans.
"I can think of a much more productive way to use them. Go on, pick one out." The detective gave him a little shove, sending him stumbling to his knees beside the heavy leather grate. John raked his eyes wildly over the assortment, his mind racing as he pondered exactly how he wanted to penetrate his lover.
"I would prefer an anal one, just as a suggestion," Sherlock drawled, casually stripping down and ambling toward the bed. "I haven't used my other non-urinary genital orifice since college, probably, and I doubt it would take well to anything but a speculum."
"Wasn't even thinking of it," John mumbled, his eyes falling upon a sleek black anal vibrator with a minaret-shaped end. Too aroused to waste any further time on his choice, he grabbed it and raced back to the bed, nearly dropping the toy several times as he hastily undid his shirt.
His partner plucked the plug from his hands, examining it with a satisfied grin. "Yes, the Alumina Pace by Tantus. An excellent choice, John. This is one of my personal favorites." With that, Sherlock slid out of his silk boxers, kicking them in a high arc to the other end of the bedroom, where they alighted on a stack of autopsy reports pilfered from St. Barts.
John's hands were shaking with excitement as he uncapped the bottle of lube (Sliquid Sea – Sherlock, despite being a devoted meat-eater, preferred his lubricants vegan) and generously slathered his fingers and the toy with the gelatinous liquid. Sherlock compliantly assumed his receiving position: his bare arse thrust into the air, his head dropped into the dip of his chest, his arms clutching the lowest slat on the headboard and his legs bent wide, relaxed.
The doctor took a moment to relish the total perfection of his partner: fingering the sweet dimples of his lower back, right before the cozy jut of his round ass; running his hands up and down the graceful curve of Sherlock's waist, perfectly fluted like a well-crafted violin; and finally, dancing his digits across Sherlock's tight perineum as the man beneath him bucked and hissed.
"Get on with it," the man groaned, rutting impatiently against the pillow between his legs.
Eager to comply, John used his right hand to spread Sherlock's cheeks apart, exposing his pearly-pink hole to the cinematic light of late afternoon. His left index finger pushed softly against the ring of muscle, as if questioning, and when his partner offered a deep sigh, he continued, his finger pressing into the achingly tight interior. There was no prostate to find, so he instead crooked his finger upward, searching for a pressure point to help stimulate Sherlock's perineal sponge. He was rewarded with a deep, throaty gasp from his partner and a clenched hand reaching for his thigh, making him smile in triumph.
"And that's just the start of it, Sherr," John growled, leaning forward to nip at Sherlock's shoulder. The man beneath him writhed, bucking against his lover's finger for more stimulation, his voice already devolving into pained, needy whimpers.
With a drawn-out motion accompanied by many strangled protests on Sherlock's half, John pulled his index finger out, counting to ten before plunging both his index and middle fingers into Sherlock's impatient body. Sherlock gave only a small cluck of pain: being John's lover, he was used to thicker, and two fingers barely scratched the surface. Again John pressed his fingers against the top wall of his partner's rectum, hearing him give an excited squeal as another wave of pleasure tore through him. John's own erection was pressing anxiously against his boxers, engorged with arousal, and he moved his right hand off of Sherlock's cheeks to touch himself, thumbing his glans as his vision blurred with lust.
"I'm ready," Sherlock rasped curtly, ardently fucking himself against John's still fingers. "Damnit, John . . . I'm ready."
The doctor nodded, leaning closer to his partner's glistening back and regretfully abandoning his tumescence to reach for the toy. Checking that it was still slick, he turned it on its lowest setting, arranging it against the purple-pink ring of Sherlock's anus as the man bucked his hips. With a measured grip, he grasped the end of the toy firmly and pressed it into Sherlock, feeling the man stiffen around its smooth surface, then relax as it began to fill him with a warm buzzing stimulation.
John switched back to his dominant hand to stroke himself, watching as Sherlock's body vibrated with the force of his arousal. Seeing Sherlock unwind, come completely unhinged, and knowing that it was his loving hand that provoked such a reaction: it was enough to make a man go blind with lust.
"Faster," Sherlock moaned, his teeth gritted as he shoved himself against the pillow in front of him, his hands clenching and unclenching on the headboard. John complied, turning the dial incrementally higher as Sherlock's moans increased in volume and intensity. He was positively glowing with sweat now, his sex organ magenta with blood. John watched as the lips of his lover's labia swelled, his hand running furiously along the length of his penis, the sight sending his desire to dizzying heights.
He came quickly with a wild cry, his jissom shooting into a pool between Sherlock's legs, and he immediately returned his attention to the bucking, keening man beneath him. Moving closer to his partner, sandwiching his legs between his own, John used one hand to reach down and press his fingers against the sensitive glans of Sherlock's small penis, the other slowly twisting the dial in the sex toy embedded in his ass.
Sherlock's clitoris throbbed with blood, completely erect under John's gentle fingers. He abandoned the toy for a minute to reach for more lube, coating his fingers as Sherlock feverishly grasped his wrist and led him back to his sex organ. Obediently, John gently swirled the tissue between his thumb and index finger, twisting enough to cause pleasure but not pain. Sherlock let out a sharp bark at this, his head dropping further onto his chest and his knuckles whitening with the strength of his grip. John smiled, ghosting his breath across the creamy expanse of his partner's back and turning up the sex toy just a tiny bit higher, until Sherlock gasped with pleasure.
John's hand stroked Sherlock's labia now, rubbing faster and faster as Sherlock thrusted violently into his careful touch. The man was near, John could tell: his abdominals were clenching spasmodically, curling in around themselves with the force of his impending orgasm. He reached back to finally, achingly, turn the vibrator to its highest setting as he massaged Sherlock's engorged member.
Finally Sherlock let out an ear-piercing scream, savage in its intensity, and collapsed onto John's still-moving hand. A small spume of moisture erupted from inside of him, coating John's hand with a milky residue.
Gingerly pulling out the toy and turning it off, John licked Sherlock's juice from his fingers, smiling a little at the taste. "Your ejaculate, it's-"
"Yes, composed primarily of glucose, sucrose, fructose, prostatic acid phosphate and minimal levels of urea and creatine. So yes, it is sweet."
"Mm. You're just a walking Kinsey Institute, aren't you," John replied affectionately, wrapping his arms around the sweat-slicked skin of his lover. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's damp temple, rubbing his shoulders. "Was that good? Did you like it?"
"I orgasmed," Sherlock replied dreamily.
"That you did. And splendidly."
"It felt nice."
"Have I rendered you incapable of coherent thought?" John asked, his tone teasing as he held his partner closer.
"You have that effect an alarmingly large amount of the time. I blame it on high levels of oxytocin, dopamine and norepinephrine that are released when you are near."
"Mmm. Well, it's nice to have you knocked down to my level. I can sex you silly, apparently."
"I don't mind," Sherlock murmured, nuzzling into John's wiry-haired chest. "Are you jealous anymore?"
"Of the toys? No. In fact, I think a polyamorous relationship with your collection is an excellent idea."
"I concur," the sleepy detective slurred, resting his lips against John's collarbone as he drifted into a half-slumber.