Sam-Frodo The Lord Of The Rings Fanfict

arayn

summary: Frodo terbangun di Mordor saat Sam menyentuhnya, dan berpura-pura tertidur untuk melihat apa yang akan terjadi.
author: FennelSeed (FS), USA
chapter(s): only 1!
website: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/1396194/1/A-Dark-Night-and-a-Light-Sleeper

A Dark Light and a Light Sleeper

-Malam Gelap dan Tidur yang Terbangunkan
(well, I guess this is the best Indonesian title I can get, any saran buat dirubah?)

Sentuhan itu membangunkanku. kau baik sekali, Sam, membiarkanku tertidur dengan kakimu sebagai bantal, dan aku pasti telah tertidur sangat lama, karena aku telah bermimpi -- mimpi yang menggabungkan kenangan masa kecil dan teman baru seperti Galadriel dan Faramir -- Tapi itu bukan mimpi buruk. Aku merasa itu sedikit aneh tapi baik untuk perubahan. Saat aku perlahan-lahan bangun dari mimpiku, entah bagaimana kita telah bergeser sehingga kepalaku sekarang bertumpu pada seikat kain di tanah batu, dan kakiku di pangkuanmu. Aku membiarkan mataku terbuka sedikit saja, kulihat bahwa saat itu masih tengah malam (atau kapanpun itu dalam waktu Mordor), maka aku menutup mataku lagi. Aku memutuskan untuk tidur lebih lama lagi.

Tapi kemudian aku jadi ingin tahu tentang sentuhan itu.

Tanganmu berada diatas badanku, berat tetapi tidak tidak-nyaman, di antara kakiku. Apakah ini disengaja? Apakah kau juga tertidur? Aku bisa saja berbalik badan, atau menyenggol tanganmu dengan lututku, tetapi jujur aku penasaran. Jika aku hanya diam, apa yang akan terjadi? Sebab aku yakin tanganmu sempat membelaiku, aku yakin itu bukan hanya berat tanganmu yang membangunkanku.

Ah - ya. Tak lama kemudian, setelah aku tetap diam, dan terus bernapas dalam-dalam dan teratur, tanganmu bergerak lagi. Ia berkedut pelan, menyentuh pola dan mencari di sekitar bagian depan celanaku, mencari tahu bentuk dan ukuranku. Aku berusaha yang terbaik untuk terus tampak tertidur, dan aku mendengarkan. Aku harus memastikannya. Bisa saja kau hanya bergerak karena mimpi.

Setelah setengah menit lebih, pernapasanmu terlalu singkat-singkat, terlalu goyah, untuk terdengar seperti hobbit yang tertidur. Karena itu aku tahu sentuhanmu disengaja, bukan karena mimpi. Ah, Sam, Sam. Aku melihat aku bukan satu-satunya yang "penasaran" malam ini. Aku tidak pernah mengira kau akan seperti ini sebelumnya. Haruskah aku terkejut? Aku kira sedikit, iya. Tapi setelah semua yang telah kita lihat dan segala sesuatu yang kita telah lalui, setelah pendakian mengerikan kemarin, naik tangga gelap, dan tiruan neraka dari Morgul Vale (agak kabur dalam ingatanku karena Cincin itu telah mengganggu pikiranku akhir-akhir ini), ini tidak terlalu mengejutkan. Bahkan menghibur.

"Tuan Frodo?" Kau berbisik sambil sedikit menggerakkan tangan di atasku. Aku memutuskan untuk tidak menjawab. Apa yang akan kau lakukan jika kau mengira aku masih tertidur?

Beberapa saat kemudian kau melanjutkan merabaku, ringan, dengan jari-jari yang "pemalu" dan napas yang gemetar. Kau tidak akan berani melakukan ini jika aku terjaga. Kau akan lebih memilih untuk memeluk Lady Galadriel dan memaksakan ciuman padanya daripada melakukan sesuatu yang bisa menyinggung perasaanku. Aku tahu betapa kau peduli padaku. Aku tahu kau mencintaiku dalam suatu arti -- aku tidak akan seberani ini jika tidak tahu itu -- tapi aku tidak tahu kau mencintaiku dalam arti ini. Haruskah aku merasa terganggu, dikhianati? Aku rasa tidak. Kau sangat bersemangat menggerakkan tanganmu, aku tahu, tetapi kau tidak kasar atau arogan atau licik. Kau tampaknya berpikir bahwa kau akan merendahkanku karena tindakanmu. Itulah betapa kau sangat menghargaiku, itu sebabnya kau begitu gugup. Namun kau tidak berhenti, seolah-olah kau tidak dapat menahan dirimu sendiri.

Haruskah aku menolak ini? Tukang kebun laki-lakiku, sahabatku, penjagaku, melakukan hal sebebas ini? Aku tak akan menolak. Bahkan, sentuhanmu, Sam sayang, menyebabkan perubahan padaku sekarang, tentu kau memperhatikannya. Perasaanku campur-aduk, aku merasa makin tegang dan makin besar di sana, dan jari-jarimu pasti merasakan yang lebih keras sekarang. Celana beludru yang kukenakan, dan kain tipis di bawahnya, tidak akan berbuat banyak untuk menyembunyikan yang terjadi di baliknya dari tanganmu. Apakah reaksi seperti ini yang seharusnya aku, sebagai majikanmu, berikan? Aku tahu beberapa majikan terbiasa mendapatkan hal seperti ini dari pelayan mereka. Mereka akan membuka kancing celana mereka sekarang dan mulai mendesah erotis kepada "teman muda" mereka, yang akan patuh. Majikan yang lain, seperti Bilbo mungkin, akan tersinggung. Ia mungkin akan bangun dan menghajar pelayan itu di seluruh wajah untuk perilaku seperti itu, kemudian menyuruhnya pergi.

Aku tidak pernah bisa memukulmu, Sam, dan tentu saja tidak bisa menyuruhmu pergi, apalagi sekarang. Hubungan majikan-pelayan kita tidak seperti teman tidur, apalagi teman jauh, walau kurasa teman tidur yang paling mendekati.

Tapi ternyata hubungan kita lebih dekat daripada yang aku sadari, karena, ah, aku tidak keberatan dengan apa yang kau lakukan. Aku pernah belajar untuk berpura-pura tidur seperti banyak anak yang lain, dulu, dan keterampilan ini ternyata berguna untukku dengan sangat baik sekarang, tapi sulit untuk tidak mengeluarkan suara, untuk memberitahumu "Tolong sedikit lebih tinggi," atau "Tolong sedikit lebih kuat." Aku tidak dapat berbicara; Kau akan berhenti seketika karena malu dan panik jika aku berbicara, bukan? Dan aku tidak ingin kau berhenti.

Sekarang kau menggosokku perlahan dengan seluruh tanganmu, bukan hanya ujung jarimu. Aku mendengarmu menelan ludah, setiap beberapa menit, seperti kau sedang dalam penderitaan ketegangan dan gairah. Pernapasanmu bahkan makin tidak stabil daripada sebelumnya. Tentu dalam "tidur"ku, aku akan diizinkan untuk bergeser sedikit dan mendesah pelan dalam kenikmatan, maka kulakukan itu: kuangkat pinggulku, dua kali, perlahan-lahan, ke tanganmu, dan menggeser kepala ke samping dengan desahan lembut, untuk menyemangatimu. Kau mengambil napas yang terdengar seperti tusukan nafsu, lalu meremas sedikit lebih kuat. Oh... ya, seperti itu. Aku sangat ingin mengatakannya dengan keras

Kau tidak perlu malu, Sam. Ini adalah ide yang baik, ide bagus. Tubuhmu pasti sudah tahu bahwa aku membutuhkan ini -- bahwa kami berdua membutuhkan ini -- sebuah pengingat dari hal nikmat yang bisa didapat di dunia. Sudah terlalu lama sejak aku "bersenang-senang" dengan diriku sendiri, aku bahkan tidak bisa ingat kapan terakhir kali, dan sekarang kau sudah membangunkan makhluk rakus dalam diriku. Aku bahkan membayangkanmu, beberapa kali, dulu, dan sekarang sudah sangat lama sejak saat-saat itu -- oh, ya, sedikit lebih ke bawah di antara kedua kakiku seperti itu, aku akan membuka pahaku untuk memudahkanmu -- maka ini tidak terlihat sesalah seperti yang kau pikir aku akan pikir. Jika pun ini salah, aku tidak peduli; besok kita akan mengikuti Gollum ke dalam terowongan dan mungkin kita tidak akan pernah keluar dari sana, jadi siapa yang akan menghakimi kita untuk saat ini, di sini dan sekarang? Jangan merasa tersiksa, Sam, jangan menyesal, terus lakukan apa yang kau lakukan sekarang, dan aku tidak akan mempermalukanmu dengan berbicara atau membuka mataku.

Kita berdua bernapas dengan cepat sekarang. Aku tidak ragu-ragu lagi untuk menggerakkan pinggulku ke tanganmu ketika nafsu menyuruhku. Aku hanya berhati-hati untuk menjaga gerakanku untuk tetap terlihat seperti orang yang tertidur, seperti seorang remaja yang sedang dalam mimpi yang erotis. Kau telah membawaku cukup jauh sehingga jika kau berhenti aku akan berteriak, aku bersumpah. Tapi apa kau benar-benar akan melakukan ini sampai akhir? Akankah kau melakukan itu padaku? Menarikku melintasi garis kepuasan itu dan kemudian membiarkan celanaku basah dan bernoda? Mungkin sedikit noda tidak akan terlihat, pakaian kami berada dalam keadaan "sangat bernoda" sekarang, tapi itu tidak akan nyaman dan aku berharap, oh, betapa aku berharap, hanya berharap agar kau akan memiliki keberanian untuk membuka celanaku dan memakai saputangan di sana dan "menyelesaikannya" dengan itu. Akan menjadi sentuhan yang "beradab" di permukaan yang dingin dan keras ini, jauh dari kamar mandi dan tempat tidur, dan akan terasa sangat baik, tanganmu menyentuhku secara langsung, tanpa ada beludru di antara kita ...

Dari gemerisik, gerakan sesekali yang mengenai kakiku, dan napasmu, aku tahu bahwa kau "membelaiku" dengan satu tangan dan dirimu sendiri dengan tangan yang lain. Kau sungguh hebat, Sayang. Melalui celanamu? Di dalam celanamu? Luar celanamu? Oh betapa aku ingin melihat... betapa aku ingin menyentuh...

Gerakan lincah terasa di pusarku, dan tiba-tiba tanganmu lebih dekat, lebih nyata. Aku melengkungkan punggungku sedikit, dan hampir mengerang keras. Kau telah entah bagaimana membuka cukup kancing untuk mencapai ke dalam dan membelaiku, di bawah beludru, di atas kain tipis. Oh, jangan berhenti di situ, Sam, pindahkan lipatan itu ke samping, temukan lipatannya, bebaskan aku, "belai" aku di luar.

Aku menggeliat dan mendesah cukup keras dan kau tampaknya memahami keinginanku, dan, ajaibnya, didorong oleh keinginanmu sendiri, atau karena keinginan untuk membantu menjagaku tetap bersih dan kering, kau mengambil risiko: kau membuka celana dalamku, mengeluarkannya (betapa terampil tanganmu!), dan kemudian -- ah, sekarang aku mengerang keras-keras, lembut, lembut -- Terasa telapak tanganmu pada kulitku, dan kau meremas dan membelainya - tapi kau melakukannya terlalu lembut, sungguh penyiksaan bagiku. Aku tahu, kau tidak ingin membangunkanku, tapi, oh, oh, tolong, kau harus lebih kuat sekarang, kau harus sadar bahwa tidak mungkin ada yang tetap tertidur jika diperlakukan seperti ini, buang kehati-hatianmu dan lakukan ini lebih kuat dan cepat, Sam.

Kau menjawab permohonan dalam diam-ku. Tanganmu menggenggamnya dan bergerak semakin cepat menuju akhir yang sekarang tak terelakkan. kepalaku bergeser, berpura-pura mengigau, dari satu sisi ke sisi lain, aku mengintip sedikit untuk melihatnya, dan di bawah sinar bulan samar, aku melihat sekilas kepalamu membungkuk dan menatap bagian diriku yang telah kau keluarkan, bibirmu terbuka dalam napas yang cepat, tanganmu bekerja padaku dan pada dirimu sendiri, dan kau pun pasti telah melepas celanamu sendiri, aku bisa tahu dari sudut pergelangan tanganmu. Ah, ide itu... kau tahu betapa aku ingin melakukan itu untukmu? Pernahkah kau berani berharap bahwa itu mungkin terlintas dalam pikiranku? Kau membuatku begitu bersemangat, aku akan melakukan apapun untuk kesenanganmu, apapun...

Aku tidak bisa menahannya. Aku bergerak keatas mengikuti sentuhanmu dan kemudian berhenti. Aliran bintang tampaknya mengalir melalui darahku dan keluar di antara kedua kakiku. Peganganmu padanya menjadi licin dan panas; cairan menetes ke pusarku. Aku mendengarmu terkesiap, dan kemudian dari sentakan di bawah kakiku dan remasan yang tiba-tiba dan kemudian berkurangnya remasan itu secara perlahan, aku tahu kau telah mencapai klimaks juga.

Pelan-pelan kau melepaskannya. Dengan berhati-hati, sangat hati-hati, membersihkannya dengan saputangan seperti yang kubayangkan, dan entah bagaimana memakaikan celanaku kembali dengan sangat lembut hingga aku mungkin tak akan terbangun jika aku benar-benar tertidur. Kau bergeming sedikit dan kurasakan beberapa gerakan lembut saat kau mungkin melakukan hal yang sama untuk dirimu sendiri. Kemudian kau merosot ke dinding gua dan mengistirahatkan tanganmu di atas kakiku, dan kita terdiam.

Aku terhanyut dalam kantuk, bertanya-tanya apakah aku harus mengatakan sesuatu kepadamu besok -- tapi apa? "Omong-omong, terima kasih untuk yang kemarin malam."? -- ketika kau gemetar sedikit, dan aku mendengar tarikan nafas yang basah dan tajam. Aku menunggu, dan segera aku mendengar lagi, diikuti dengan isakan lembut tapi penuh penderitaan.

Aku bisa berpura-pura tidur melalui banyak hal, Sam sayang, tapi aku tidak akan berpura-pura tidur saat kau menangis. Mungkin kau dipenuhi oleh rasa malu pada apa yang baru saja kau lakukan. Mungkin kau rindu rumah dan ketakutan. Mungkin kau membenci telah menjadi apa hidupmu, dan aku lah yang telah menyebabkannya. Mungkin semua hal itu digabung menjadi satu, atau sesuatu yang lain yang aku belum tebak. Apa pun itu, aku tidak akan, aku tidak bisa, berbaring di sini dan mengabaikanmu. Aku katakan dengan lantang, dengan suara yang kuharap terdengar mengantuk dan baru saja terbangun, "Sam? Ada apa?"

Diam. Kemudian kau berbisik, "Tidak ada. Semuanya baik-baik saja. Kau kembali lah tidur."

Aku duduk dengan hati-hati. -- bulan sudah pergi ke balik awan, dan gua sekarang hampir gelap gulita. -- Aku membelai wajahmu dengan satu tangan, dan merasakan air mata. Duduk di pangkuanmu, aku memelukmu. "Jangan menangis," aku memohon.

Kau balas memelukku, dan membiarkan wajahmu jatuh ke bahuku. Dari napasmu yang terisak aku tahu kau masih menangis. "Ini semua begitu mengerikan," kau bergumam. "Kau layak mendapatkan yang lebih baik daripada semua ini. Kau tidak seharusnya berada di sini."

"Setidaknya kau bersamaku," kataku, dan entah bagaimana aku bisa menjaga suaraku tetap halus meskipun kau sudah hampir menusuk hatiku dengan kasih yang manis.

"Kau layak mendapatkan yang lebih baik daripada aku di sini," katamu.

"Aku tidak ingin siapapun disini selain kamu," jawabku. Dan pada saat ini, ini benar-benar benar. Ketika pertempuran musuh atau menghadapi bagian-bagian berbahaya dari Mordor, ya, kadang-kadang aku berpikir akan sangat berguna jika ada Aragorn atau Gandalf atau orang lain bersama kita. Tapi selalu kau juga. Tidak pernah aku membayangkan hidup tanpamu. Aku ingin mengatakan ini, tapi aku tidak ingin kau menebak bahwa aku sudah terbangun sejak tadi. Aku punya perasaan itu hanya akan membuatmu merasa lebih terguncang dari sekarang. Aku berharap ini adalah keputusan yang tepat. "Ayolah," kataku. "Berbaringlah, kau perlu tidur."

Kau memang sudah lelah, jadi kau mengizinkanku untuk menarikmu ke bawah ke lantai gua dan membaringkanmu di mana aku berbaring tadi. Aku duduk dan menjaga kakimu di pangkuanku, dan membelai lututmu dengan lembut sampai kau bernapas tenang dan lambat.

Aku melihat beberapa bintang yang terlihat melalui celah bebatuan. Beberapa saat kemudian, ketika aku hampir yakin kau sudah tertidur, aku berbisik, "Sejak tadi aku sudah terbangun. Aku menyukainya. Tolong jangan khawatir."

Kau tidak menjawab atau bergerak. Tapi mungkin kau mendengarku, dan hanya pura-pura tidur.

arayn

ini teks aslinya:

A Dark Night and a Light Sleeper
Author: Fennelseed
---Frodo awakens in Mordor to find Sam touching him, and pretends to be asleep to see what transpires. (SLASH)---

Disclaimer: Hobbits and place-names and so forth do not belong to me, and I am not paid for such writings.

The touch awakens me. It was kind of you, Sam, to let me fall asleep with your legs as my pillow, and I must have slept fairly deeply, because I had been dreaming - a strange dream combining childhood memories and recent acquaintances like Galadriel and Faramir. But it was not a nightmare. I feel strangely good for a change, and as I slowly emerge from the dream I find that somehow we have shifted so that my head is on a bundle of cloth on the stone ground, and my legs are across your lap. I let my eyes flicker open just a bit, just enough to see that it is still the middle of the night (or what passes for it in the realm of Mordor), and so I close them again. I would rather sleep longer.

But then I am also curious about that touch.

Your hand is lying upon me, heavy but not uncomfortable, between my legs. Is this accidental? Are you asleep as well? I could turn over, or nudge your hand away with my knee, but in honesty I'm curious. If I stay still, what will happen? For I am sure you gave me a caress; I am sure it wasn't just the weight of your hand that awakened me.

Ah - yes. In another moment, after I have lain quiet for a spell, and kept my breathing deep and regular, your hand moves again. It twitches like a stealthy mouse, and touches a searching pattern around the front of my trousers, finding out the shape and size of me. I do my best to seem asleep, and I listen. I must know if you are merely sleepwalking, as it were, before I can form an opinion on this.

After half a minute more, I decide your breathing is too shallow, too unsteady, to be that of a sleeping hobbit's. For that matter, your touch is too deliberate, not dreamlike enough. Ah, Sam, Sam. I see I am not the only one who is curious tonight. I never would have expected this of you. Should I be shocked? I suppose I am, to some degree. But after everything we have seen and everything we have been through, after yesterday's horrible climb up those dark stairs, and the hellish vision of the Morgul Vale (made fuzzy in my memory by what the Ring has been doing to my mind lately), this isn't really shocking. In fact, it is almost amusing.

"Asleep?" you whisper. Your hand hovers above me. I decide not to answer. What will you do if you think I am?

I find out a few moments later. You resume feeling me, lightly, with shy fingers and shaky breath. You wouldn't dare do this if I were awake. You would sooner seize the Lady Galadriel to your chest and force a kiss upon her than do anything that might offend me. I know how you care for me. I know you love me in some fashion - without that knowledge I could never have got this far - but I didn't know you loved me in *this* fashion. Should I feel violated, betrayed? I don't. You are excited, that I can tell, but you are not rough or arrogant or sly. You seem to think you are risking blasphemy, heresy, by your act. That is how highly you esteem me; that is why you are so nervous. And yet you aren't stopping, as if you can't help yourself.

Should I be repelled? My male gardener, my best friend, my guardian, taking such liberties? I am not repelled. In fact, your touch, dear Sam, is doing things to me, as surely you are noticing. I feel myself stirring; I feel tighter and fuller there, and to your fingers I must feel harder by now. The worn velvet of these trousers, and the thin linen beneath, will not do much to hide this fact from questing hands. Is this how I, as your master, should be reacting? I know some masters are used to this from their hired help. They would unbutton their trousers right now and start muttering erotic directives to their young friend, who would blithely obey. Other masters, such as Bilbo perhaps, would be scandalized. They might sit up and strike their lad across the face for such behavior, then send him packing.

I could never strike you, Sam, and could certainly not send you away, especially not now. Our master-valet relationship is not like either of those two types, bedfellows or distant companions, but I suppose it is closer to the former.

Apparently it is closer than I realized, because, ah, I do not mind what you are doing. I learned to feign sleep like every other child did, long ago, and this skill is serving me well now, but it is difficult not to murmur appreciation, not to tell you "A little higher, please," or "A little harder, please." I can't speak; you would stop instantly in utter shame and panic if I did. Wouldn't you? And I don't want you to stop.

Now you are rubbing me slowly with your whole hand, not just your fingertips. I hear you swallow, every few minutes, in what must be an agony, for you, of suspense and arousal. Your breathing is even less steady than before. I decide that in my "sleep" I would be allowed to shift around a bit and sigh in pleasure, so I do: I lift my hips, twice, slowly, into your hand, and let my head fall aside with a soft hum, to encourage you. You take in your breath in what sounds like a stab of desire, and give me a slightly harder squeeze. Oh...*yes*, *like that*. I wish I could say it aloud.

You needn't be ashamed, Sam. This was a good idea, a wonderful idea. Your body must have known that I needed this - that we both needed this - a reminder of the delicious things to be had in the world. It has been far too long since I took this kind of pleasure of myself; I can't even remember the last time; and now you've awakened a ravenous creature in me. I've even thought of you, a few times, ages ago now it seems - oh, yes, dip down lower between my legs like that; I'll open my thighs to make it easier for you - and so this doesn't seem as wrong as you'd think I would find it. If it is wrong, I do not care; tomorrow we follow Gollum into a tunnel from which we may never emerge, so who will judge us for this moment, here and now? Don't feel agonized, Sam, don't feel sorry; just keep doing what you are doing, and I'll not shame you by speaking or opening my eyes.

We are both breathing fast now. I am not hesitating to rock my hips against your hand when the urge takes me. I am only careful to keep my movements drowsy in appearance, the twisting of an adolescent in an erotic dream. You've taken me far enough that if you stop I will scream, I swear it - but will you actually see this through to the end? Would you do that to me? Pull me across that ecstatic line and then leave me wet and stained and still buttoned-up? Not that the stains would show, our clothes being in such a state by now, but it wouldn't be comfortable and I wish, oh, how I wish, that you would just have the nerve to unfasten me and drape a handkerchief there and finish it that way. It would be a touch of civilization on this cold, hard surface, far away from baths and feather-beds, and it would feel so good, your hand touching me directly, no velvet between us...

From the rustling, the occasional movement against my leg, and your breathing, I realize that you are stroking me with one hand and yourself with the other. How coordinated you are, dear. Through your clothes? Inside your clothes? *Outside* your clothes? Oh how I want to see...how I want to touch...

A deft flick at my navel, and suddenly your hand is closer, more real - I arch my back a bit, and almost moan out loud. You have somehow undone enough buttons to reach in and stroke me, under the velvet, on top of the linen. Oh, don't stop there, Sam, just move those folds aside, find the flap, free me, stroke me outside.

I am squirming and sighing enough that you seem to understand the urgency, and, miraculously, driven by your own desire, or by the wish to help keep me clean and dry, you take the plunge: you nudge open my linens, slip me out (how very skilful your hands are!), and then - ah, now I do moan aloud, softly, softly - it is your palm on my skin, and you squeeze and caress - but you do it too lightly; it's torture. After all, you do not want to wake me up, but, oh, oh, please, you must be firmer now; you must realize that no one could sleep through this; just throw aside such caution and *do it harder*, Sam.

You answer my silent plea. Your hand grips me and moves on an increasingly fast course towards the now-inevitable end. Shifting my head deliriously from one side to the other, I let my eyelashes flutter open just enough to see through them, and in the faint moonlight, I catch a quick glimpse of your head bowed and gazing at the parts of me you have exposed, your lips apart in rapid breathing, your hands at work on me and on yourself - and you must have unfastened your own trousers as well, I can tell by the angle of your wrist. Ah, the idea of that...do you know how much I would like to do that to you? Have you dared to hope that it might cross my mind? You have me so excited, I would do anything for your pleasure, anything...

I cannot hold back. I spiral up into your touch and break into a thousand tantalized pieces. A stream of stars seems to surge through my blood and out between my legs. Your grip on me becomes slick and hot; fluid drips onto my navel. I hear you gasp, and then from the jolt under my legs and the inadvertent squeeze and then slackening of your hand on me, I know you have reached a climax as well.

Quietly you let go. You carefully, so carefully, touch me up with the handkerchief I had envisioned, and somehow refasten my clothes so gently that I might actually have been able to sleep through it. There is a quiet spell and some soft movement while you presumably do the same for yourself. Then you slump back against the cave wall and rest a hand on my leg, and we are still.

I am drifting into drowsiness, wondering if I should say something to you tomorrow - but what? "By the way, thank you for last night"? - when you tremble a little, and I hear a wet, sharp inhalation. I wait, and soon I hear another, followed by a soft choke of misery.

I can pretend to sleep through many things, Sam dearest, but I will not pretend to sleep while you are crying. Perhaps you are consumed with shame at what you just did. Perhaps you are homesick and frightened. Perhaps you hate what your life has become, and where I have led you. Perhaps it is all of these things together, or something else I haven't guessed at. Whatever it is, I will not, I cannot, lie here and ignore you. I say aloud, in a voice intended to sound sleepy and just-awoken, "Sam? What's the matter?"

Silence. Then you whisper, "Nothing. Everything's all right. You go back to sleep."

I sit up carefully - the moon has gone behind clouds, and our cave is now nearly pitch black. I find your face with one hand, and feel tears. Sitting across your lap, I hug you. "Don't cry," I beg.

You hold me, and let your face fall to my shoulder. From your torn breathing I can tell you are still weeping. "This is all so horrible," you mumble. "You deserve better than all this. You shouldn't've had to be here."

"At least you're with me," I say, and somehow I keep my voice smooth even though you've nearly pierced my heart with pity and sweetness.

"You deserve better than *me* here," you say.

"I don't want anyone here but you," I answer. And at the moment, this is absolutely true. When fighting enemies or facing the treacherous passages of Mordor, yes, sometimes I have thought it would be very useful to have Aragorn or Gandalf or someone else with us. But always you as well. Never do I picture life without you. I would tell you this, but I don't want you to guess that I've been awake all this time. I have the feeling it would only make you feel more wretched right now. I hope this is the right decision. "Come on," I say. "Lie down; you need to sleep."

You are, naturally, tired, so you allow me to pull you down to the cave floor and arrange you where I was lying earlier. I sit up and keep your legs in my lap, and stroke your knee softly until your breathing is calm and slow.

I watch the few stars that are visible through the opening of the rocks. A while later, when I am almost sure you are asleep, I whisper, "I was awake. I liked it. Please don't worry."

You don't answer or move. But perhaps you heard me, and are only pretending to sleep.

arayn

buat yang suka the lord of the ring, please kalo pernah baca cerita tentang Sam-Frodo di share! please!

tamagokill

aaaa... •.♥.•(◦ˆ⌣ˆ◦)•.♥ •.♥.•

arayn

This is the best fanfic so far:

Nocturnal Admissions
Sam witnesses Frodo having one of those dreams. Much awkwardness and misunderstanding and hotness ensues.
Author: Fennelseed
Rating: NC-17



Author's note: Since we know the hobbits have potatoes, which are a New World food, I figured they should also be allowed to have chocolate by the same token. This message brought to you by the More Chocolate In Middle-Earth Foundation.



* * *

Sam emerges gradually from sleep. The coverlet under him is unusually soft and fine, and without opening his eyes he fingers it and ponders the texture. Then he remembers where he is, smiles, and snuggles into the pillow contentedly, thinking of last night while he drifts in a half-awake doze.

Yesterday was Frodo's 40th birthday, and he celebrated it modestly, gathering only a handful of friends at Bag End, and feeding them with the finest dining and the best wines. Sam helped prepare the food, but Frodo insisted that he join them at table, and leave the cooking to the lads and lasses he brought in from Hobbiton. Frodo also insisted that they all drink a toast to Bilbo's health since it was Mr. Bilbo's birthday too (even though nobody knew where he was anymore), and then an hour before midnight Frodo yawned hugely and told everyone he was an ancient old man who needed his sleep, and that they all must get home.

(To Sam's eyes, and surely to everyone else's, Frodo isn't the least bit ancient - in fact, he'd pass for a tween if you didn't know him; that's how fresh-skinned and limber he is.)

Frodo handed out mathoms at the door, and everyone thanked him and went home happy.

But he told Sam to wait, and stay a bit longer, if he could. Sam said he could - there's nothing he likes better than staying longer at Bag End with Mr. Frodo, even if he's put to work doing dishes. But Frodo didn't make Sam do dishes. He gave Sam his gift: a tiny book in Elvish, no bigger than Sam's hand, but with the most astonishingly intricate drawings and perfect small writing. How anyone penned such hair-fine lines is beyond Sam, but it's the most beautiful hand-made thing he's ever seen.

"I can barely read it, of course," Sam said shyly, bent over the book at the fireside, in Frodo's parlor. "My Elvish, it's not as good as yours..."

"Tell you what," Frodo said, loosely fingering open another button on his shirt. He was looking flushed; the night was awfully warm, and the fire and the company had made the smial hotter than noon in summer. "Stay overnight, and I'll read some with you. You know, the way children do - a sleeping-over party! Only we won't be telling goblin stories; we'll be telling stories of kings, in the most elegant languages that exist. Come on, Sam, you must! It's my birthday and I command you."

There was, indeed, no way Sam could say no to that. He ran - literally, ran - back to his house to let his Gaffer know he'd be at Bag End all night (that got him some grumbling, but not too much - Mr. Frodo knows best, after all), and then ran back up to Bag End with a change of clothes tucked under his arm for the morning. When he got there, Frodo was clearing the last of the dessert dishes off the table. He'd sent the serving lads and lasses home and the place was quiet.

"It's hot in here, isn't it?" Frodo greeted. "Phew! That cook-fire, on a night like this..." He shook his head, and pushed a window open farther. "That'll be letting the moths in, but it's unbearable in here now. Come on - let's read in my room instead. This parlor won't be cool till morning."

They went into Frodo's room and lit several candles, and found that actually it wasn't all that much cooler in there; so Frodo propped open that window too, but the night air just wasn't moving. Well, it didn't matter, Frodo laughed - they could go casual. They changed into nightshirts (Sam kept his eyes averted, even though they'd changed in front of each other before), and sat on pillows on the lush rugs to read in the candlelight, for it was slightly cooler in the bottom half of the room. And eventually the hour got late; and under the enchanting sound of Frodo's voice alternating between Elvish and Common-Tongue, Sam's eyes grew heavy; and then Frodo was chuckling and telling him to get up on the bed and go to sleep.

That's where Sam has found himself now. He opens his eyes and finds the room mostly dark - the candles have been blown out - but a gray early-dawn light is beginning to come in through the open window. Now the air from that window is fresh and cool, and the room is comfortable. And Sam is lying on top of the covers, on Frodo's huge bed, and Frodo is asleep beside him.

And Frodo is naked.

Sam turns slowly onto his side and stares at this vision. He doesn't remember Frodo taking his nightshirt off. He knows they didn't do anything with each other - why, they've never so much as kissed (not that Sam would mind). Must be that Frodo was too warm in the middle of the night, and threw the garment aside. Sam thinks he sees an edge of white, over on the floor on Frodo's side; that must be it. He takes another look at the casually-flung limbs and deep-breathing body beside him, and swallows against a sudden surge of desire. He should cover up Frodo. He should get that shirt and cover him up. Because, well, see, Frodo is...aroused. In his sleep, there, he's hard; it's pointing up toward his belly-button.

But then, Frodo probably doesn't want to be covered up, if he's too hot; and in any case, getting hard when you're asleep isn't anything unusual - Sam wakes up that way nearly every day, seems like. He'll just shut his eyes again and maybe go back to sleep, and when Frodo wakes up he'll never know Sam saw him like this. And Sam can think about this all later, when he's alone, when it's safe to think about this.

Sam shuts his eyes.

Frodo whimpers.

Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is shifting now; atop the covers, his body slowly twists, like he's having a dream. Sam wonders if he's all right, if it's a nightmare or anything. He watches with concern, trying not to look at that erection (it's still there; fine, he looked). Then Frodo pushes his hips upward, with dream-time slowness, and whimpers low again. Sam's concern melts into heat as he suddenly knows exactly what kind of dream Frodo is having.

Sam gets hard too, then, trapped between his thighs as he lies on his side. He flexes his thigh muscles to rub it, watching as Frodo's hand squeezes a pillow and Frodo's knees twitch open wider. His head is turned to the outside of the bed, exposing a stretch of pale neck, but as another undulation ripples through his hips, he rocks his head to the other side, face turned to Sam. Frodo's long-lashed eyelids seem to tremble, as if his eyes are moving beneath them, and now his lips fall open to let his breath move in and out.

Sam bites his lower lip and squeezes himself tighter between his thighs, squirming back and forth a little to increase the sensation, because this is too much; he can't watch this and not feel the same way. He lets his eyes go back where they want to: to Frodo's groin, lifting and falling in waves, like Frodo is making love to some maiden (or lad?) in his dream - and making progress, from the look of him. He's breathing faster, and unless Sam's eyes are mistaken, he's harder now too; the head is protruding more from the looser folds of the shaft than before. Sam knows his looks like that when he gets especially hard - which is a state he's approaching now. His heart pounding, Sam squirms and presses his thighs around his hot flesh, longing so much to just reach his hand down and touch himself...but how could he, here in Mr. Frodo's bed?...

Frodo is whimpering continually now, and gently tosses his head from side to side. His pelvis rotates and seeks; his hardness strains against his dream-object; his thighs part, and Sam can see, in the growing dawn light, the swollen sac hanging like a pair of ripe apricots in that private nook of Frodo's skin. Sam presses his mouth to his arm to halt a groan. The mad idea has entered his head that he would like to lick those apricots...

Frodo's hips pump upward insistently, two, three, four times, and he tenses. Then, as Sam watches in an erotically-induced paralysis, Frodo groans, and without anything even touching him, semen trickles and spurts onto his bare skin, coating him from nipples to navel.

Sam's mind is whirling; he's thinking this is too good to be real, and at the same time knows with astonishment that it is real; and above all he desperately wants to come too, wants it so much that he almost does come. But the chance of Frodo waking up holds him back. Plus, his instinct for taking care of Mr. Frodo is clamoring in his mind: Sam can't leave him to wake up like this, all clammy and messy; think how humiliated Frodo would be! If it's possible, it would be much better to wipe him off without waking him up, and then Frodo would have his dignity when he did awake, and Sam would have an amazingly wondrous memory that he would never, ever speak of to anybody.

So while Frodo's muscles relax onto the bedcovers, one by one, and his taut flesh starts to sag in exhaustion, Sam leans to the floor and grabs up his own kerchief, a faded green cotton thing that he knots around his neck to keep the sun off. Hardly daring to breathe, he edges his torso toward Frodo, and settles the kerchief onto Frodo's wet stomach with a shaking hand.

All it takes is one hesitant swipe, though, and Frodo catches his breath and opens his eyes. "Sam, what are you...?" he mumbles in confusion, looking down his chest. Sam has frozen in terror, and a second later Frodo's eyes go wide. "Sam!" he cries in protest, seizing the kerchief to himself and shoving Sam's hand away.

"It's all right," Sam attempts. "I was just-"

"Just what?" Frodo mops himself up in quick, horrified movements.

"You were dreaming," Sam begs, "and it ended - that way - and I didn't want you to wake up and be...ashamed..."

"So you tried to clean me?" Frodo drops the kerchief between them as if repulsed, sweeps up his nightshirt from the floor, and wriggles into it faster than Sam thought possible. "That is above - well above - and beyond your call of duty," Frodo says, with a ghastly false laugh, as he tugs his shirt into place.

"I'm sorry," Sam answers helplessly. "I meant no harm..."

Frodo won't look at him. In fact, Frodo isn't looking at anything: he's dropped his face to his hands and is sitting hunched over on the bed. "I cannot believe this," he mumbles. "Can't believe it." His dark hair tumbles between his knuckles. Sam thinks it's even more lovely now, the curls disarrayed and wild from sleep, than when it's clean and combed and tidy. He wants to stroke those curls, make Frodo feel better, but he knows touching him probably isn't the way to do that right now.

"Don't be upset, sir," he whispers. "Please don't be."

Frodo shakes his head slowly, and does not look up. The white nightshirt drapes and clings on his body, enough so Sam can see he's shaking a little.

"How about if I start breakfast?" Sam suggests, hoping a change in topic - or the idea of food, at least - will improve Frodo's mood.

Frodo's fingers rub slow deep circles around his eye sockets. His hands and his shock of hair make it impossible for Sam to see his eyes. "I'm sure you understand that I can't face you right now," Frodo says softly. "Please help yourself to any of the leftovers from last night. Take some home to your family, if you wish."

"Sir," Sam begins, wounded, but that was clearly a dismissal and there's nothing more he dares say. He pulls back, slips his feet to the floor, puts on his trousers, removes his nightshirt, puts on the shirt he brought with him, and, after a moment of uncertainty, picks up the wadded green kerchief from the bed. Frodo does not look at him, or uncover his face, the whole time. All Sam can see are glimpses of Frodo's chin and lips, so perfectly formed and so stiff that they're seemingly carved of marble. Holding his bundle of clothing, Sam murmurs, "I'll see you later, then." He waits at the door for an answer, waits for a full count of ten, but Frodo says nothing. Sam goes out quietly.

He feels accosted by the rising sun outside. He walks down to his home without noticing anything around him except the sunlight and the annoying dust of the road as it sifts over his feet. He gets inside and passes his sister and says hello without thinking, and shuts himself into his own room. Last night's shirt and waistcoat fall to the floor. He leans against his door with the green kerchief clutched in his hand. He is hurt and he is confused, but most of all he is hard, very hard, and that needs to be dealt with first.

He undoes his breeches rapidly, still standing there with his back against the door, and shoves them down just enough so they're out of the way. With one hand he grips himself and begins stroking, and with the other he presses the kerchief to his nose. Through the familiar scents of cotton and his own garments he smells the sharp, marsh-dank, rainwater-fresh, intensely intimate smell of Frodo's seed. His thighs tense, his hips move with his hand; he's so close and so swollen that he aches. The thought of Frodo feeling like this...the image of Frodo naked and aroused and twisting...the knowledge that this is what he smells like down there...

Sam comes in a matter of seconds, soiling his trousers and a patch of floor between his feet. His knees buckle and he slides to the dusty wooden floor, breathing through his mouth with the kerchief still crumpled to his nose.

"Oh," he sighs, feeling like he has just spent four hours running at full sprint across the countryside.

He knows Frodo is unhappy and probably too embarrassed to look him in the eye for a while. He suspects Frodo might even be angry with him for presuming to try cleaning him up. He bets there's some unpleasantness ahead from all this. But he cannot say he wishes it never happened. He feels guilty for thinking so, but deep at heart, Sam Gamgee has to admit he's over-the-moon thrilled.

* * *

Frodo cannot move from the bed. When Sam is gone, he merely tips over so he is curled on his side, and keeps pressing his palms into his eyes. This is so far beyond ordinary humiliation that he cannot even manage to weep in self-pity. He is calmly, fatally certain that he will never be able to face any living soul ever again. Not if they're Gamgees, at any rate. He groans into his hands.

You deserved it, whispers a voice in his head, meanwhile.

You were asking for it. You were wicked, and you played with fire, and the fire won.

The worst is knowing that this voice is right.

Last night started out so well. He'd thought about it for weeks beforehand, how he would conjure a way to get Sam to stay overnight. He'd spent days at different shops, different markets, to find a mathom that was beautiful enough and perfect enough for his Sam. He'd made sure that the fires were well stoked that night in Bag End so that the smial would be toasty-warm. The weather cooperated by being hot and still. Sam was clearly pleased with the gift and the invitation to stay; he acted charmed, and charming, and bashful. He was so trusting, falling asleep with his head on Frodo's shoulder, just a matter of hours ago, right there on the floor.

Frodo cringes miserably, remembering the sweet beauty of Sam's skin, golden and soft-looking in the candlelight, his lips so tempting, a patch of strong bare thigh showing where Sam's nightshirt had hitched up. Certainly, Frodo wanted to touch him, kiss him, but he wouldn't have dared. One thing at a time, he had decided. As slowly as Sam wants to take it. Ideas and thoughts first; words next; actions last of all.

So Frodo did what he'd fantasized about, what he'd planned: took off his clothes after blowing the candles out, and lay down naked beside Sam, thrilled with his own nerve, with what he was offering his beloved. Sam would wake up in the morning and see him there, would get to look at Frodo's body, would start thinking about being Frodo's lover if he hadn't thought of it before now...

But then Frodo dreamed, while he lay there on his back, that Sam had rolled over and started to kiss him. Because this was a dream, and because Sam clearly wanted to do this, Frodo didn't give a thought to his "actions last of all" plan. Instead, he helped Sam out of his nightshirt and looked Sam's naked body up and down, whimpering when he saw how large and hard Sam was. Sam straddled him then, knees planted on either side of Frodo's chest, and started rocking back and forth so that their erections rubbed together (slick and silky in the dream, with none of the awkward friction that might exist in reality).

It feels so good, Frodo told him.

Mmm, Sam...

Ohhh, Sam moaned, arching his back.

I want you...I'm so hard it hurts...

Keep going, Frodo begged, straining against him, straining for more of him. Like that, yes, just like that.

Oh - I can't hold back, gasped Sam, I'm going to come - it's com- I'm going to - ohhh!...

Oh, Sam!

And then Frodo came instead. In reality. Before Sam's very eyes.

And rather than asking him in a sultry voice who he'd been dreaming about, Sam apparently saw him as just a poor messy sleeper who needed tending to. Trying to clean him...for the love of heaven...

Frodo groans, louder, and clutches his hair in both fists. He's disgusting and pitiful and an idiot and has probably ruined his chances with Sam, and may as well give up society at large.

His stomach growls. Slowly he uncurls himself, sighs, and trudges out to the pantry, where an array of sumptuous leftovers meets his eye. He seizes a rhubarb pie, a beef pastry, and a fork, and tromps back to his study to eat like a hog in solitude. It doesn't matter if gentlehobbits don't eat rhubarb pie for breakfast. Frodo has clearly gone too far to be considered a gentlehobbit anymore by anyone's standards. He slumps into his chair and digs into the food with no consideration whatsoever for table manners.

* * *

Sam doesn't see Frodo for the rest of that day, nor the next, though he goes up to Bag End both days and works for hours in the garden. The only way he knows Frodo is home is from the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of silverware from behind the meticulously closed curtains and doors. Sam's willing to be patient. He's willing to let Frodo hide his face for a little while - why, if the roles were reversed, he'd be blushing to outdo the sunset for the next ten years, and surely wouldn't be able to face Frodo for some time.

But Sam is concerned, and does want to see Frodo, since (he has to admit to himself) he's more or less completely smitten with him and just wants to make sure Frodo will talk to him again someday. Ideally, Frodo will even invite him to stay overnight again someday, and maybe that time Sam will have the nerve to brush him a kiss goodnight, or even snuggle up against him, and if their hands start to wander, well, that would be more than fine...but Sam's getting ahead of himself now. He blinks to bring himself back to the present, and firmly closes the shed door after putting the shovel away.

It's the evening of the second day. Before he can lose his nerve, he advances to the door of Bag End and cautiously taps at it. Frodo doesn't answer. The door isn't locked, though, so Sam goes in. What he finds is dishes everywhere: casseroles and pie plates and custard cups and tea mugs and dinner plates, all scattered with crumbs and topped with sticky silverware. Frodo isn't anywhere to be seen, but Sam can guess he's behind that closed study door. Sam steps around an empty basket that once contained pears, and knocks. "Mr. Frodo?" he asks. "You all right, there?"

"Fine, Sam," comes the soft answer.

"Can I make you anything for supper?"

"No, thank you. The food from the party is tiding me over quite well."

"I see that," Sam mutters, not loud enough to be heard. Then he offers, raising his voice again, "I'll just tidy it up out here a bit, then, and be on my way."

"Thank you," Frodo says, almost too quiet to catch.

It takes Sam near an hour to clean up and put away all those dishes and forks and spoons, but Frodo still doesn't come out.

Sam's beginning to formulate plans, two days later, to break in through a window if need be and force Frodo to see that things aren't so bad, and even tell him that, for goodness' sake, he liked what he saw. But luckily he doesn't have to do anything so drastic: he looks up from the autumn perennials, toward the end of the afternoon that day, to see Frodo ambling toward him, hands in his pockets. Frodo looks shy and serious, but not angry.

"Hello," says the somber, beautiful master of Bag End.

" 'Ey," Sam answers, and mentally kicks himself for not being more eloquent.

"I wanted to say..." Frodo draws shapes in the grass with his toe, and focuses intensely on that. "...that I'm sorry. For everything, the other morning."

"The morning..."

"After the party." Frodo gives him a brief glance under his lashes, seemingly to make sure Sam understands which day they're talking about. As if Sam has lots of such mornings and therefore might be in doubt.

"You didn't do nothing to be sorry for," Sam says.

Frodo sighs, and turns his gaze to the gold-tinted clouds in the west. "Well, I shouldn't have been so sharp with you. And I still can't believe what I...well." He shakes his head.

"You were just upset. I don't blame you for that. And as for having the dream in the first place..." Sam isn't sure whether to go on; Frodo has shot him a cautious look. But he can hardly leave the sentiment unfinished now, so he continues: "Never say you're sorry for dreams. They're not your fault."

Frodo shrugs one shoulder, and turns aside. "I feel a fool, all the same."

"Don't. I feel a fool, too. I - I could've handled it better."

Frodo's glance at him now is almost shocked. Sam catches the unintentional double entendre, blushes hot, and quickly adds:

"I don't mean handled it - not it - not - oh, I only mean I shouldn't have startled you." Sam looks, flustered, down at the flowers he's planting. Everything that seemed so clear and tender and perfect for the last few days is suddenly now a pitiful mess.

To his surprise and relief, Frodo laughs, a rueful chuckle. "We're an awkward scenario, aren't we, Sam, dear?"

He sounds embarrassed, not seductive, but that "dear" still shoots into Sam's blood like a thunderclap. Sam has never been "dear" before, not to Frodo. All he can manage in answer is a chuckle of his own.

Frodo strolls a step or two toward the smial, then stops, and turns around again. "I didn't...say anything, did I? In my sleep."

"No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"You sort of - murmured, I suppose - but I couldn't catch no words."

"I didn't say a...name?"

"No." Sam dares to smile again, and to tease, "Why? Were you dreaming of someone I know?"

Frodo looks flustered, and almost annoyed. "That's enough of that," he warns, and goes back toward the smial. "Goodnight," he calls briefly over his shoulder.

Sam stares after him, stares at the flowers, sits back on his heels and stares at the sunset. Now, what in the name of heaven was all that?

Then, in a flash, he knows. It all makes sense.

A few seconds after that, he thinks he must be wrong, he couldn't know - that couldn't be the answer. Frodo wasn't dreaming of him. But...calling him "dear," asking him to stay behind when the others had left, inviting him to sleep in his bed, looking at him the way he sometimes does...is the explanation as simple and as wonderful as that? Sam's heart seems to be thumping in a vast circuit all over his insides.

Sam doesn't know if he's right. He gets the rest of the flowers planted, hands unsteady in the comforting soil, and brushes the loose dirt off the surrounding grass. He doesn't know, but he's willing to gamble on it - for think of the winnings! And by the time he's putting away the gardening tools, Sam knows just what he'll do to test this idea: he will lie.

* * *

Frodo has finished off a griddle-cake with jam, and is in the pantry, prodding a wheel of cheese with a fork to see if it's still fresh enough to eat, when he hears the knock on the front door. He pauses, jam-sticky lips twisted in a grimace. He isn't sure he wants to receive visitors yet, since he hasn't quite reconciled himself to the notion of rejoining society. But maybe it's Sam, and maybe that would be all right, since he seemed so sympathetic yesterday when Frodo apologized to him - why, he nearly asked the magic question ("Who did you dream of?")...and, for that matter, Frodo nearly answered. Sam probably meant nothing by it, but hope, Frodo is finding, really does spring damnably eternal.

Before he knows it, Frodo is at the door, cautiously opening it a couple of inches to peek outside. Sam lifts his chin and beams a warm smile at him. "Afternoon, Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo feels a hitch in his heartbeat - not fair for Sam's mere voice to give him goosebumps; really not fair - and opens the door further. "Hullo, Sam. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I thought maybe I could do for you." Sam lifts a wooden box covered with a cloth. "I just checked in on your springhouse, and found some luscious-looking things left over from that party. Thought maybe you didn't know they were there, and I wouldn't want them to go to waste."

"The springhouse!" Frodo takes the box and lets Sam inside. "I didn't even think to look there. Those serving lasses must have taken them down there." He carries it to the kitchen table and removes the cloth. The collection of mince pies, bottled cream, fruit salad, and chocolates he finds inside lifts his spirits considerably. "I knew there should be some chocolate left over!" he says, reaching in to take things out and spread them on the table.

Sam has closed the front door and followed him into the kitchen. "Is there now? Funny, that. I had a dream last night about chocolate."

"Everyone ought to dream about chocolate." Frodo unwraps the paper from a large bar of it, and inhales the sweet, dark scent.

"Matter of fact," Sam continues, and now he sounds shy, "it was one of those dreams. I...I think your dream gave mine ideas, like."

Frodo pauses, and lifts his eyes to Sam, hoping he understood correctly. "You...had a dream like mine? Last night?"

He sees that Sam is blushing. "Yes, sir," Sam admits.

"About chocolate?"

"Oh - not just about chocolate." Sam laughs, picks up a fork, and starts rearranging pieces of fruit in the salad bowl. "There was a person in it too."

"Oh." Frodo's knees aren't too steady; he sits down at the table.

Sam follows suit, sliding gracefully into a chair next to Frodo, still toying with the fruit salad. "I'll tell you about it, if you like...but you'd have to promise you wouldn't tell no one."

Frodo starts breaking the chocolate into pieces. He laughs shakily. "After what you could say about me? No, I wouldn't tell, Sam."

"Well..." Sam sends Frodo a becomingly bashful glance. "It started out with me here in the kitchen, as it happens, with you."

"Mm-hm," Frodo agrees, focusing on the chocolate.

"I was showing you how to make a chocolate dip for fruit and biscuits and things. You know the type of dip I mean? You take heavy cream..." Sam picks up a bottle of cream, gives it a shake, and removes the cork. "...Pour some out and put it over a low fire, and melt bits of chocolate in it." He pulls a soup bowl closer, and pours cream into it. "I shan't bother melting it now, but here, try this." He picks up one of the chocolate shards under Frodo's hands, and dips it into the bowl until it (and Sam's fingertips) are coated with cream. He licks a drop off his finger, then holds out the piece of chocolate for Frodo to eat.

Nearly drooling for one reason and another, Frodo obediently opens his mouth and eats the cream-covered chocolate morsel from Sam's wet fingers. It tastes divine, of course. "Mm," Frodo agrees in approval, a soft hum.

"Nice, isn't it? So where was I?...aye, we were in here melting the chocolate. And I dipped in a piece of fruit and gave you that..." Sam spears an apple wedge on a fork, dunks it in the cream, and tilts it toward Frodo.

Frodo is beginning to sense a strange game going on here, but rather likes the direction it seems to be taking. Of course, any moment now Sam will tell him that the dream suddenly took a strange turn and Sam found himself on the kitchen floor with an elf maiden. Frodo sighs, leans over, and takes the apple with his teeth. "What happened then?" Frodo asks through the mouthful of fruit and cream.

"Then..." Sam ducks his head, smiling. "Well, then I..." He runs his finger around the edge of the bowl of cream. "I saw a smudge of chocolate on your lip...and rather than touch it off with a corner of my apron, I...well, I stepped up close and I licked it off, sir."

Frodo takes in a sharp breath. Sam's finger comes to a stop on the bowl, and his eyes lift carefully to Frodo's. The look in them is hopeful, sweet, and, unless Frodo is getting things very wrong, amorous. They stare at each other for a few silent seconds, then Frodo takes hold of the seat of his chair and pulls it closer to Sam. He picks up a broken piece of chocolate, dips it into the cream, and offers it up for Sam's lips. Sam watches his every move, then returns his eyes to Frodo's as he takes the chocolate into his mouth. "Mm," he murmurs in thanks.

"What did I do then?" Frodo asks. Knowing the rest of this dream has become the most important thing in the world to him. More important even than dessert.

Sam swallows the chocolate. His face is aglow with blushing, but he answers the question: "You licked me back. Sir."

"No need to call me 'sir' when I'm licking chocolate off you," Frodo says; he means it to sound like a joke, but it comes out low and breathy.

One side of Sam's mouth curls upward in a smile. "I'll remember that."

"Well. Go on," Frodo requests.

"Well, then," Sam resumes, "then we...well...I'm not sure how it happened, but I was on this table right here...sitting on the edge of it, and you were standing before me, kissing me, and I was kissing you right back; and the chocolate, it was getting everywhere...so I said we oughtn't get our clothes all dirty like that, and...and so we took them off..."

Somehow during all this, Frodo and Sam have leaned closer and closer to each other, elbows propped on the table, and now they are quite within kissing distance. This, and the things Sam has been saying in his halting, husky voice, have been arousing Frodo almost to the point of madness.

"Do you..." Frodo interrupts. "Do you mean to say...I was the one in your dream? All the way to the...end?"

Eyes moving along Frodo's features, Sam nods slowly. "All the way."

Frodo closes his eyes in a second of rapture, and then reopens them, worried. "And you - enjoyed this? You're not afraid to tell me about it?"

"It's like I said," Sam says, still husky, still inches from Frodo's mouth. "Can't control what you dream of. And yes. I enjoyed it quite a bit."

"Do you know," Frodo says, almost whispering, "there's a bit of cream there, on your lip..."

"Is there?" Sam whispers back. Rather than move to wipe it off, he tilts his head, quite in the manner of someone expecting a...

Kiss. Frodo is doing it before he knows how he got there. His tongue is delicately tasting cream and chocolate on Sam's upper lip, and then their mouths are pressed together, and Sam is definitely responding, and they have slid forward on their chairs so their knees are interlocked. Frodo is beginning to suspect that Sam made up this whole dream story, as all the elements were entirely too convenient; but, considering the purpose for doing so, Frodo thinks that is fine; that is just fine.

* * *

It was only a white lie, of course, a lie for good purposes. And, anyway, there was such a solid kernel of truth at its heart that it was hardly a proper lie at all. But it did the trick, Sam is thinking, heart soaring and loins swelling as he kisses Frodo at the kitchen table. True, he didn't have that dream or anything like it last night, but he easily could have, the way he feels; and now he knows that telling the tale was worth it, every step of the way.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo sighs, clasping his arms around Sam's neck. "Did you know, before this...?"

"How I felt? Sure I knew. How you felt, I just guessed. Hoped, more like."

"I've felt it for so long I can't even remember when..." Frodo shakes his head, then looks up and gives Sam a quizzical smile. "What did you do, when you left here that morning?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm just wondering what somebody does after seeing something like that. Do they go on with their morning as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, or what?"

Sam releases a self-conscious laugh, and shakes his head, looking down. His hands slip around Frodo's waist and begin to play with Frodo's velvet belt-loops. "I...to tell you the truth...I went home and shut myself in my room, and...took care of things in a right hurry." He casts Frodo a quick, shy glance. "You know what I mean. Don't make me say it."

"Oh," Frodo groans, and slides in closer to kiss Sam's neck. "Poor Sam," he murmurs. "I shouldn't have chased you away. You should have stayed. And done it here. Where I could help you." This last is whispered, hot against Sam's cheek.

Warmth surges to the hardness between Sam's legs, and all he can do is clutch Frodo and breathe, deep, fast, in and out. He feels Frodo's forehead fall to his shoulder, and there is a pause, then Frodo is moving his arm. With his face turned down that direction, he must be able to see what is happening in Sam's lap, and - oh, yes - he is touching Sam there, closing his hand around him, through Sam's trousers. And squeezing it. Sam's head sinks heavily to Frodo's shoulder. "Ohhhh, Frodo," he hears himself moan.

"That's it, Sam, that's it," Frodo whispers in encouragement.

Sam's not sure whether Frodo is encouraging Sam's enthusiastic reaction or his informal use of Frodo's name. Whichever. He repeats both, by gasping, at a stronger squeeze, "Frodo...ahh..."

"You're so hard, even after having a wet dream this morning?" Frodo purrs, rubbing at him. "Aren't you a marvel."

"Well, I...it might have been yesterday, come to think of it..."

"Ah. I see." Something sly in Frodo's voice makes Sam lift his head, and he realizes that Frodo has seen through him.

"All right," Sam admits. "But I think about it all the time, and that's a fact."

"Chocolate specifically, or just dessert in general?" Now Frodo's teasing. But his hand is still feeling about at Sam's groin, in a very distracting and mouth-watering manner.

"About you," Sam groans. "And the part about finishing myself that morning...that was true. There's more, even. I had your...your...the kerchief, and it smelled of...well...you know; and it was the best, naughtiest thing I ever felt, till now. Please don't stop." He thrusts against Frodo's hand, which has slowed down.

"I do feel we're being rather too naughty," says Frodo, and now he sounds almost sad. He takes away his hand and touches Sam's face instead - any other day, a delightful gesture; today, so frustrating Sam almost screams. "Oh, Sam, I had wanted to do this right. Didn't want to rush you...and here I am, molesting you in a hurry, in the least comfortable chairs I own..."

Sam swallows, trying to contain his raging desires, and wraps his hand around Frodo's, at his cheek. "Maybe," he says, bringing the hand to his own chest, "maybe we should've done all this sooner. Maybe this is our bodies telling us we're more than ready to do this, and it's just we're late getting started."

A smile glimmers on Frodo's full, sugar-slicked lips. "You mean, if I'd kissed you on my last birthday, as I wanted to, then we'd already be making love to each other by now?"

"I'd have been quite happy with that schedule," Sam responds.

"I'm not rushing you? You're certain?"

"Sir - Frodo - if you don't go on touching me, right quick, I'm going to have to rush home again for some privacy, if you take my meaning."

"I take it. I will take it, thank you." Frodo inhales a shuddering breath, and lunges forward again to kiss Sam. His hand dives back down and grips Sam's erection, kneading it against Sam's thigh.

"Mmmmm..." The sound comes from Sam's throat as his tongue fences with Frodo's. Meanwhile, Frodo tugs Sam's hand down to where his velvet trousers are tented out in front, and helps wrap Sam's fingers around the hardness. Even through the thick and undoubtedly expensive fabric, Sam can feel heat, and the slight curve in the hard length, and the slope of foreskin toward the tip. As Sam's fingers explore, Frodo shivers and whimpers, quite as he did in his sleep. Sam whimpers in response, and has to spread his legs wide to accommodate the increasing size of things down there.

Frodo disentangles his tongue and whispers, "You said you could handle it better. I see you were right."

A giddy laugh ripples through Sam, followed by a rush of lust. "I didn't mean that, but it's true I wanted to touch it," he confesses, turning his face to Frodo's neck again. "So much...when I was watching you have that dream...I wanted to touch it, and...and lick it..."

"Ohhh, careful, careful what that does to me..."

"I want to do everything to you." Both hands, at both groins, seize and stroke harder.

"And I want to let you." Frodo plants a wet kiss on Sam's mouth, and breaks it off to give Sam a sultry look from under heavy eyelids. "Would you like to know what you were doing in my dream?"

Sam grins. "Ah-ha, so it was me."

"Of course it was; what did you think?"

"Then tell me, because whatever I was doing must have felt awful good, the way you were moaning." Sam bends to nuzzle the curve where Frodo's neck meets his shoulder. "I want to be sure I do it right." Sam slides his hand down Frodo's length to the base, down to what he pictured as apricots, and cups them. With that velvet over them, they do feel rather like apricots, he finds - but apricots have never made him feel like this.

Frodo is nearly panting at the touch. "Well, we were in the bedroom, and you...you know, maybe I should show you instead."

"A fine plan," Sam breathes.

They catch each other by the hand, and Frodo pulls Sam down the hallway to his bedroom. He lets go of Sam's hand, closes the door and turns the lock, and carefully ties the window-curtains shut. "I don't want even the slightest chance of anyone disturbing this," he says. Then he turns to face Sam, an arm's length away on the same plush rug where they were reading on his birthday. The curtained afternoon light casts a soft pink glow to the room, creating an air of secrecy and private explorations. Everything aches exquisitely, from Sam's throat to his arousal to his toes, as he watches Frodo begin to undress.

"We were naked," Frodo begins as explanation. "I really was, of course, but in the dream you took off your nightshirt too."

"I guess that's only fair," Sam says. He tugs off his suspenders and works at getting his shirt buttons undone.

Frodo peels off his shirt and drops it to the floor, and unbuttons his trousers. "You know, I...I wanted you to see me naked," he confesses, as he very slowly opens the folds of velvet. "I wanted you to start thinking of me, if you hadn't before."

"I had," Sam interrupts. He shoves down his trousers and steps out of them, but out of a lingering shyness keeps his linens on - which is ridiculous, considering they're sticking out a good several inches in front, with a wet spot at the tip where Sam's been unable to keep back an overflow of excitement. Not much they're hiding, at this rate. He sees Frodo's eyes lock onto that, and a haze of arousal seems to cloud them.

Frodo pulls his trousers and his linens outward, edges them around his own erection, and drops them to the floor. He kicks them backward with one foot, and stands naked before Sam. "You know, I looked when you were changing that night," he says, his voice several notes lower than usual, and his eyes still returning quite frequently to Sam's groin, "and I thought it would last me quite a few months, that glimpse of what I saw...but now...if I can't see you hard, without that underwear in the way, I think I'll die of frustration."

Sam swallows, and carefully pulls down his underpants. He pushes them to the side with his foot, concentrating on that. His erection feels so incredibly stiff he's almost too embarrassed to look at it himself. He lets his gaze rise to Frodo's instead, and that puts him in mind of the last time he saw it, which gives him the bravery to say, "What were we doing in your dream, then? After taking off our clothes."

"I was here..." Frodo walks to the bed and stretches out onto it. He catches Sam's wrist and pulls him down. "You were beside me."

Sam lands on the mattress in a tangle of knees and elbows. They laugh breathlessly, and pause for a few moments to kiss and to embrace, savoring the feel of bare skin brushing together from head to toe. Sam finds his hips are pushing against Frodo's side in an urgent rhythm, and he feels a touch of wetness on his own pelvic bone, where Frodo's arousal is bumping against him. "Oh, you feel so good," he gasps into Frodo's mouth. "What'd we do next? Hurry..."

"Well, you told me it felt good..." Frodo's mouth forms a delectable smile. "Or was it that you wanted me? Oh, either way... And then...you were up here..." He takes hold of Sam around the waist and hauls him on top.

Sam finds his knees being arranged so that he is straddling Frodo at the hips. He sits up, leaning on his heels, spreads his hands on Frodo's warm chest, and goes on pumping slowly against him. "Then?" he requests.

Frodo's eyes are fluttering shut with each thrust, but he reopens them and gropes about on the bedside table until he catches hold of a small bottle. "Then...we went on like this, but...mmm...it was slippery...so here...let's try this..." He removes the stopper, pours what looks like a clear oil onto his fingers, and grips Sam's erection, rubbing it all around, and underneath, and down the inside of Sam's thighs.

Sam nearly comes at the feel of it. "Ohhh, my...oh...what is that?"

"Mineral oil," pants Frodo.

"And why do you...have it...here?"

Frodo squeezes his own erection with a new splash of oil, bites his lip in what looks like a holding-back of an orgasm, and then re-corks the bottle and puts it aside. He wriggles against Sam, and a demure smile touches his lips. "You're not the only one who can play by himself," he says.

"Ahh...aren't you clever. So...this is how we did it?" Sam asks, sliding up and down.

"Yes...so...mmmm...keep doing it..." Frodo is writhing and lifting under him, hot and slick.

"Well, since we're in this position...I hear tell there's other things we could do." Sam's heart is thundering with anticipation, and a little bit of fear.

He watches Frodo's eyes widen. "Are you saying you'd..."

Sam leans down till their foreheads are touching. "Like you said: you're not the only one who's played by himself."

* * *

Frodo is astounded, and more than a little confused. How could you penetrate someone else by yourself? Or be penetrated? Unless you - oh. He takes Sam's hips again, and slides him down to lie beside him. "What is it you've done, you naughty lad, and what is it you want me to do?"

Sam is breathing very fast. "Here," he says. He takes Frodo's oiled fingers and brings them down, under his groin, to behind, till Frodo is touching the right place. He pushes two of them so they slip inside him. Frodo takes it from there, and slides them deeper, and wriggles them a little once he thinks he's found the spot. He's only managed to get his own fingers an inch or two into himself - he just isn't flexible enough for more than that - but he knows it can feel ever so good.

And Sam seems to concur. His eyes close and he gasps, "Oh...oh yes..."

"Mm...you want it deeper? Will it hurt you?"

"Another finger," Sam begs. "N-no...it won't hurt me..." As Frodo complies, Sam groans again. Then he flutters his eyes open and adds, shyly, "I've managed a...a candle, before. Don't tell anyone."

"Oh, I won't. Not lighted, I hope?"

Sam vibrates with laughter, shaking his head "no", and then drops the laughter in favor of another sobbing plea for Frodo to press deeper. Their mouths meet and their tongues wrap together. Then Sam is climbing on top of Frodo, pulling away Frodo's hand and taking hold of Frodo's arousal instead. There is some awkward maneuvering, some moments where Frodo can't see because Sam's hair is in his eyes, and then Frodo feels himself being enveloped by hot, close flesh. He arches his back and cries out incoherently; it feels too searingly wonderful to be believed.

Above him, Sam is doing the same, arching his spine and moaning, rocking up and down on Frodo. "Oh, ohhhh, Frodo...I can't...can't stop it...touch...please..."

Frodo takes hold of Sam's throbbing erection, at his belly, and begins rubbing fervently with his oiled hands. "Keep going Sam...keep...oh yes...oh please...ohhHHH!" His shoulders slam back into the mattress as his hips jolt upward, and he feels the hot spurt of his release inside Sam, spreading down the length of him.

"Frodo-oh...ohhh!"

He feels an answering spatter of warmth on his chest, and opens his eyes to be treated to the exquisite sight of Sam with his head thrown back, straddling him, swollen-hard, and coming in shudder after shudder.

When both of them finally stop moving, Sam pulls loose and collapses beside Frodo, who puts both arms around him.

" 'Ey," Frodo whispers, in fond imitation.

"Hm?" Sam answers.

"I love you. And want you, desperately, carnally, always; but I do love you as well."

Sam raises his head and smiles, creasing the edges of his warm brown eyes. "And I love you. Not quite just in a servant-master kind of fashion, neither."

Frodo laughs. "Well, we can play like that if you want..."

"Maybe tomorrow." Sam's eyes twinkle. He looks down at the mess on Frodo's chest, and then asks, "Do I have permission to clean this up?"

"Seeing as it's yours, I should hope so."

Sam laughs, leans over him and fetches a kerchief from the pocket of his trousers, on the floor. "Why, sorry, Mr. Frodo!" he says in mock horror as he dabs up Frodo's belly. "Never meant to do that all over you!"

Frodo lays his arm over his eyes, laughing. When Sam is done, and rolls off the bed to collect their clothes, Frodo props himself up on his elbows and asks, "Say: do you think you can stay here tonight again?"

"That all depends. Do you think you'll be wearing any clothing?"

"I'm afraid I shan't be."

"Then I..." Sam steps close and kisses Frodo, damp, on the mouth. "...shall definitely be here. With chocolate in tow."

arayn

THIS one's the real best (again, so far ) :

Wines, Vines, and Veils
Frodo accidentally enrolls himself and Sam in a sex game at the Brandy Hall Grape Harvest. Oops. Nothing for it but to make the best of the situation, you know?
Author: Fennelseed
Rating: NC-17



Author's note: We know good Shire wine comes from the Southfarthing, but I've decided grapes can grow in Buckland as well. That said, this is clearly just a plot device to enable hobbit smut.

Warnings: het content. Hobbits engaging in unhygienic promiscuity that should not be imitated by readers. Reckless mix of religious ceremonial features (quasi-Dionysian rites, seven veils, etc). Attempts to read intellectual depth into fic strongly discouraged.

* * *

"... most of the folk of the old Shire regarded the Bucklanders as peculiar..." (FOTR, Chapter 5: "A Conspiracy Unmasked")

* * *

Was Frodo imagining things, or had Pippin snickered into his sleeve upon seeing Sam? But he hardly had a moment to suspect it, for a second later, his young cousin was hugging him and saying, "Welcome, Frodo! Have you missed Merry's queer old Hall?"

"Not very much," Frodo joked. He cast a fond look up the face of Brandy Hall, which, after years of his cozy country life in Bag End, looked like the entire town of Hobbiton stacked up into one hillside. It was teeming with activity: servants and gentlehobbits alike tramped in and out with armloads of fresh vines, boxes of grapes, and (of course) barrels of wine. The married mistresses and their children were commandeering the vines and decorating the Hall, inside and out. Serving lasses dashed around with baskets of laundry, and leaned out of windows to view the newcomers. As Frodo looked up, an auburn-haired one with pretty dimples sent him a wink before giggling and ducking out of sight.

"Frodo!" Merry's greeting diverted his attention. Before Frodo knew it, he was being embraced and spun around, by a Merry wearing an alarmingly purple waistcoat. "Welcome home!"

"You look just the color of the grapes," Frodo laughed, pinching the waistcoat.

"We'll get you dressed up proper, too." Merry looked aside for Frodo's companion, and seemed startled to find Sam waiting there. "Oh! Hullo, Sam. So you've come as well?"

"Mr. Frodo invited me, sir. You look to have a fine harvest this year."

"Er - yes! Yes, thank you, Sam. Er, Snowie will show you below-stairs and get you set up. Snowie! Snowdrop!"

A buxom serving lass, with masses of dark hair unbefitting her name, rushed down the front steps and caught up Sam by the arm. "Come on, then! I'm Snowie." She glanced coquettishly at Frodo and cooed, "Ooh, ain't your master a fine one! They'll be fighting over a place on his list tonight."

"Snowie!" reprimanded Merry, pinching her on the rear.

Snowdrop giggled and hauled Sam away. Sam had a moment to shrug, wide-eyed, to Frodo before being pulled into the Hall.

Merry and Pippin immediately rounded on Frodo, grinning, eyes alight, as if they had just learned a fabulously scandalous secret.

"Frodo! I never knew!" Pippin said.

"Samwise! Really!" Merry joined in. "Must say, he is looking rather handsome these days. You sly creature." Merry punched him on the arm.

"What are you two on about?" Frodo asked, bewildered.

"He is the servant you asked along, isn't he?" Pippin asked, glancing around as if for any other servants Frodo might have brought along.

"Yes."

Merry's face shifted into a look of mild alarm. "And which part of 'Bring your most desirable servant' did you misunderstand, dear cousin?"

"Sam is my most desirable servant," Frodo insisted. "He does fine work. And I don't really have any other servants. There's the girl who does the wash some weeks, but I hardly know her..."

Now Merry and Pippin looked as if they had both come down with headaches. They groaned; Pippin put his hands to his temples, and Merry rubbed his eyes.

"Frodo," Merry explained, as if about to teach a child the alphabet, "you know what goes on at the Grape Harvest, don't you?"

"The servants get to...play games with the masters?" Frodo said, feeling terribly adrift.

"Don't you remember those games? From when you lived here before?"

"Yes. There was dancing, and they stamped on the grapes, and they brought out the wine that had been aging for two years, and there were kissing games; something about blindfolds or veils..."

"The veils," Pippin interjected. "What do you remember about the veils?"

"You...had a certain number of them, wrapped about you, and you gave one to each person you wanted to kiss? Something like that..."

Merry spun away and paced a few steps, as if exasperated beyond endurance. He returned to Frodo, hands on hips. "Yes. That's how you do it. If you're twelve."

"We play the grown-up game of the veils now," Pippin said.

"You two aren't grown up," Frodo said, looking from one of them to the other. "You haven't come of age."

"It's for tweens and unmarried folk," Merry explained, slicing his hand down through the air and hitting it against his other palm for emphasis. "And their favorite servants. The ones they want to--" He paused over the word, teeth set, eyes darting aside for listeners.

"Tup," Pippin helpfully whispered.

Frodo felt dizzy. "Oh, dear."

"No one has to do it," Merry quickly added. "But the gentlefolk each get their own room, they get wrapped in seven veils apiece--wearing nothing under them, naturally--and then seven of the servants, one by one, come to visit them."

"And maybe tup them," Pippin said again.

"Seven?" said the aghast Frodo. "You sleep with seven servants? In one night?"

"Keep your voice down," hissed Merry.

"What for? It would seem everyone in the Shire knew this but me!"

"You don't really do it with all seven," Pippin said. "Most of them just tease you, especially at first."

"Yes," Merry resumed. "Each servant takes one veil off you."

"Oh, and then there's the eighth veil, over your eyes," Pippin pointed out.

"Right, well," Merry conceded, "the seventh servant has the option of taking that one off too. But it's up to them."

"What--" Frodo started, then rerouted the question. "How--where was I--what do I do now?"

"Well, obviously you need to get changed. You can't wear these clothes to dinner." Merry struck Frodo's traveling coat with the back of his hand.

"No! About Sam! I have to get him out of there. He couldn't have known. I never meant..."

"If he didn't know before, he knows now," Pippin remarked. "Snowdrop will have told him, just as we're telling you."

Frodo groaned and covered his face. "What must he think of me? Turning him over to the Brandy Hall gentlehobbits and their...urges..."

"He'll be fine," Merry said, sounding irritated. "For heaven's sake, Frodo, the veils game is servants' choice. He only goes into the rooms he wants to, and only does what he wants to do with the people in them."

"Servants' choice?" Frodo echoed.

"That's why it's such fun," Pippin said gleefully. "We choose the servants who participate, but they choose which of us to toy with, and how far to go!"

"It's their reward, for getting ordered around by us all year," Merry explained. "Just this one night, they do as they please to their masters and mistresses."

Frodo's mouth was now completely open in shock. "You don't mean to say that our fair female cousins are being raped by the servants of the field--"

"No no no no no," Merry snapped. "No one gets like that. Everyone has their honor. It's all consensual. Lord, can you ever have a good time?"

"I knew we should have invited him before this year," sighed Pippin.

"I must find Sam before this goes any further," Frodo said. "I must tell him I didn't know about this when I invited him, and pull us out of the game."

His cousins looked shocked. "Frodo, how rude!" Pippin said.

"And spoil his night?" Merry joined in. "Dangle a treat in front of him and then take it away?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Frodo gnawed on his lip, dithering over his awkward set of choices. "It's all up to him, you say? He doesn't have to do it? I've only given him the choice?"

"Exactly," Merry said.

"He only does it if he wants to," Pippin assured.

"Which he won't," Frodo answered. "Of course he won't."

"It's up to him." Merry shrugged.

"Unless of course..." Pippin began carefully, and stopped, as if he could not think and talk at the same time.

"Unless of course what?" Frodo shot back.

"Well, it's only...Sam might do it because he thinks Frodo wants him to," Pippin reasoned. "He seems awfully loyal that way."

Frodo's heart started racing in panic. "What?"

"That's true," Merry admitted. "I could see that."

"I have to tell him I didn't mean it!" Frodo repeated. "I don't want him to think I...I..." Have been daydreaming about how sweet he is and how much I'd love an excuse to roll around with him, was more or less what Frodo meant to say, but his face promptly reminded him, with a surging blush, that he had daydreamed such things, and fairly often lately too. But that shouldn't matter. Daydreams were not to be acted upon or spoken of, were they? That was what made them daydreams.

"You'll have a fine time," Merry said. "I'm sure you shall." The sly tone of his voice suggested he had spied the blush.

"Maybe I shouldn't participate," Frodo said, his voice faint. "Maybe I should claim I've a headache."

"No, Frodo!" Pippin insisted. "If Sam's doing it just to please you, then you have to be there!"

"Oh, this is absolutely insane," Frodo whined.

"Pippin's right, I'm afraid," Merry said. "Same as it would be rude to invite him and then un-invite him, it would also be terribly rude to invite him and then not participate yourself. It's like asking a lass to a dance and then standing her up."

"Was I absent the day we were taught this, in learning our manners?" Frodo wanted to know.

"Trust us," Pippin soothed. "You know things are peculiar in Buckland."

"I'm only beginning to appreciate just how true that is," Frodo said.

Merry smacked him on the shoulder. "You're from here as well! Don't pretend otherwise."

"In the best possible outcome," Frodo said, ignoring the unfortunate fact of his ancestry for the time being, "Sam is flattered by my invitation but opts not to participate. I get wrapped up in veils and kissed by a few of your servants, but not too dreadfully molested or manhandled. The next day I tell Sam, in light laughing words, that I had no idea what would happen, and good gracious I hope his evening wasn't too terrible? He forgives me and assures me he had a pleasant time sampling Buckland wines and learning ribald songs in the downstairs corridors. And we return to Bag End with our dignity more or less intact. Now tell me, is this the slightest bit plausible?"

"Absolutely," Merry said.

"Perfectly," Pippin said.

"All right," Frodo said after a moment.

"Lovely." Merry eased his arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Are you ready to come inside now?"

Frodo nodded sheepishly, and let himself be led indoors. It was impressive really, how much embarrassment he had got himself into before even crossing the threshold of Brandy Hall. Usually he had to be there two or three whole hours before his cousins embroiled him in something that sounded as if it should be illegal.

* * *

Dinner was a long drawn-out affair, which Frodo would have found completely unbearable if it hadn't been for the softening effect of the Buckland wines. They did help loosen the tension that tortured him whenever he thought of the festivities that were to follow, which he thought of approximately every twenty seconds. He had not had a moment to speak to Sam, who had been sucked into the cyclone of the servants' activities tonight, but he saw him a few times across the dining room. Luckily, when their eyes met, Sam smiled, a smile of bashfulness and appreciation that left no doubt as to whether he had been informed about the veils game. It made Frodo's heart pound in his throat, and all he could do was smile back, hoping it looked wry and charming, and not sickly or leering.

While Frodo was flicking around some grapes on his dessert plate, Merry jumped up and struck a wine glass with a spoon.

"Thank you all for attending the Brandy Hall Grape Harvest!" Merry announced, already slurring his words a little. The crowded table of hobbits, along with the line of servants along the wall, cheered for him. Some pounded their silverware on the table. "As we are finally drawing to the close of our magnificent feast, and are, I hope, feeling the warming effects of our many wines--" He paused while more cheers threatened to drown out his voice. Frodo had to laugh at the look of false modesty that Merry took on, bowing to his guests. "--as we are, I say, done with our feast, may I ask that all the eligible gentlehobbits at our table, and their very desirable hand-selected servants, adjourn with me to the upstairs parlor?" Merry concluded with a lascivious grin and wide twinkling eyes, rousing an even louder burst of cheers from his guests, who immediately started jumping up from the table.

The elderly and the married gentlehobbits were laughing and shaking their heads, and calling out comments about how they were going to stay well away from the upstairs rooms tonight. The children were giggling--though, Frodo thought, if they were anything like he had been, they didn't know the half of what was about to go on up there.

His limbs felt numb as he fatalistically joined the raucous exodus up the stairs. He twisted around as he ascended, hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of Sam, but Sam and the other servants had vanished--probably to reappear from their own staircase.

When he reached the upstairs parlor, which was lit with only a few candles and festooned with green grapevines all along the walls, he was herded into a line along with the other gentlehobbits. Merry and the serving lass named Snowie were rushing about with armloads of cloth, handing out bundles of it. Snowie had changed into an exotic outfit: she wore a purplish-red sleeveless tunic of sorts (dyed in wine, perhaps), which reached only to her knees and was gathered at the waist by a narrow green sash. It dipped low at her bosom, and had enough cloth in the skirts to let her move freely, though it was nowhere near as full as the dresses of hobbit lasses usually were. Curling grapevines twined around her upper arms. A wreath of grape leaves adorned her head. Her eyes were outlined with some sort of ink, which looked to be purple, though it was difficult to tell in this low light.

Before Frodo could stare further, a bundle of cloth was shoved into his arms. "Your veils, Frodo," Merry greeted.

"How do I..." Frodo started to ask, looking at the tangled fabric, but Merry was already moving on.

"Someone'll help you; don't fret," he replied. He got the last bundle into a hobbit's arms, then hooked Snowie's elbow into his and drew her to the front of the line. "Attention, please, gentlehobbits!" Merry shouted. "Very soon you will be led into your rooms and dressed in your veils--and then very soon after that you shall be undressed of them, if all goes well."

Everyone in the line (except Frodo) hooted and clapped.

"We have a remarkably high number participating tonight," Merry went on: "twenty gentlehobbits, each of whom have chosen one desirable servant to participate with them. It's no secret who I've asked along--" He got an arm around Snowie's waist, and tugged her close, while she giggled. "--but the beauty of this game means that even I cannot know whether she'll choose to have me. May we have the servants out here, please?"

Snowie beckoned to an open doorway, and a line of twenty grinning, tunic-and-vine-wearing servants sauntered into view, to stand opposite the line of gentlehobbits. Frodo quickly found Sam among them, down toward the far end, and his breath caught. Sam looked unutterably beautiful, draped in that tunic, his arms bare, his head crowned with green leaves, his bright eyes marked and accentuated by a dark border. All Frodo could do was gaze in an enchanted panic, feeling his pulse throbbing in every inch of his body. For me? he thought. You did this because you thought I wanted you to?

As if in answer to his silent question, Sam lifted his eyes, met Frodo's, and smiled shyly. His fingers lifted in a ripple of a wave.

Frodo rippled his fingers back, nearly dropping his armful of veils.

"These lovely servants," Merry shouted, diverting Frodo's attention, "have all seen the lot of you, and have picked their favorites, and worked out among themselves who they shall visit tonight. It is a secret damnably well kept, which none of the best efforts of myself or any of my cousins has been able to penetrate, any of these years."

Down the line, Pippin shouted in answer, "I came very close once!"

"Aye, we caught you at the window, we did!" shouted back a servant lass from across the room, and everyone whooped in laughter.

"We're in their hands tonight, lads and lasses," Merry went on. "They don't have to tell us who they are, nor take our orders, nor give in to our personal whims. We don't have to give in to theirs either, of course--but if we want our laundry washed without a wrinkle, and our meals prepared with our favorite spices for the next month or so, then I'd say we better!" He gave Snowie another squeeze, while everyone laughed.

"Your rooms," Merry shouted above the din, "will be private, and well furnished. As a side product from our fine harvest, we provide these little bottles--" He held up a tiny clear glass bottle. "--of grapeseed oil. Edible and kind to the skin. I'm sure you can think of a few uses for it if you put your mind to it."

Lord, Frodo thought while the rest cackled and hollered again, what must Sam think of my family? What must he think of me? He ventured a glance at his servant, and caught him looking away, with a smile still on his lips. At least Sam seemed amused. That was reassuring.

"So without further ado," Merry declared, "gentlehobbits: find your black veils, and put them on!" From a heap of cloth at his feet, Merry drew out a length of filmy black. As it rippled in the air, Frodo could see a point of candlelight through it, faintly, from the flame that stood on the mantel behind Merry. Snowie caught the cloth and wrapped it around Merry's head, tying it at the back so his eyes were covered.

The other gentlehobbits were doing the same for themselves, their servants coming forward to help them. Frodo pieced apart the different veils he held, which were all either green or purple, until finding the slender black one among them.

"Shall I help you with that, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo looked up with a gasp to find Sam and his exotically darkened eyes watching him from a step away. "Oh--er, all right. Thank you." Frodo let Sam take the veil from his hands, and turned around so Sam could tie it at the back of his head. The thin fabric closed over his vision, turning the room into a dim haze of moving shadows and diffused light-points. "I had no idea what to expect, you know," Frodo said, trying to sound jovial. "Goodness, I can scarcely see through this."

"Think that's the idea," Sam said.

"I suppose so." Frodo shifted the rest of the veils, uselessly, between his hands. "Sam..." he began, and paused to get up the courage to apologize, or thank him, or at least wish him a pleasurable evening, but nothing would come out.

"Sir?"

"Do you know how I...put the rest of these on?" Frodo asked. Oh, well. Not what he'd meant to say, but getting Sam to undress him and wrap veils around him mightn't be too bad.

"Someone else'll be doing that for you, sir." Sam laid a hand on his back. "I'll be leaving you now."

"But--Sam--"

Too late. Another shadow moved between Frodo and the nearest candle, and a cool hand slipped onto his elbow. "Come right with me, Mr. Frodo," said a perky feminine voice.

"Oh. Hello. All right..." Frodo let her guide him out of the room and down the hall. He could hear the coaxing servant guides and the laughing blindfolded gentlehobbits before and behind him. Somewhere in the corridor ahead, he was sure he heard Pippin say, "Ooh! Saucy to touch me there, when I can't see what you're doing!"

Then he was pulled into a quiet room, and the closing of a door cut away the voices. It was comfortably warm. He could see the glow of a fire through his veil, and the spark of one candle in a corner, but when he turned to look elsewhere he couldn't make out more than the vaguest dark shapes. A bookcase? A wardrobe? A bed? A chest? Without seeing the details, he wasn't sure which room of Brandy Hall he was in. Not that it particularly mattered.

"Come here," said the lilting voice. She led him aside, and when he reached out a hand he found a vertical, wobbly wooden surface--a dressing screen, most likely. Her hand released him, and he heard the rustle of cloth as she moved away. "You can take off that veil for the moment," she said, from the other side of the screen.

Frodo set down his bundle of other veils, and pulled the blindfold off. He was indeed behind a dressing screen, confined against a wall, with only the firelight bouncing off the ceiling to light his way. He still could see nothing of the room or the servant lass. "All right," he answered. "Now what?"

"Drape those veils over the screen, please, sir."

Frodo untangled his collection of veils--some green, some purple; in varying widths and lengths--and flung each one over the top of the screen so they dangled like vines.

"Now let's start with you handing out your shirt and breeches, and your linens too," she instructed, a teasing voice from unseen lips.

Here we go, Frodo thought, closing his eyes in resignation for a moment. "All right," he said, and did as he was told. He draped each piece of his clothing over the screen, one by one, and watched as, one by one, they disappeared, pulled down by the girl on the other side. He stood naked, arms placed protectively, clutching his black veil in one hand.

"See this one?" the lass said. One of the green veils, a wide one, jerked as she tugged the other end of it.

"Yes."

"Take that and wrap it round you like a diaper--cover up your important bits front and back, as it were."

Frodo was only too happy to do so. He was feeling awfully exposed. He yanked down the green veil and spent a minute or two swathing himself around the hips and between the legs with it, until he was adequately covered. He tucked the loose end into the rest, and said, "Finished. What now?"

"This one--" A purple veil moved. "--goes round your belly. This one--" A green veil was tugged. "--around your chest."

Frodo pulled those down, and wrapped them as instructed. They went faster, having less complicated anatomy to cover. "Where do the others go?" he asked.

"The green ones, one around each arm. The purple, one around each of your thighs. Do your legs first. You may need help with your arms. I'll do that for you, but only after you put that black veil back on."

Frodo wound the purple veils around each leg, from hip to mid-thigh, and then slipped his black veil, still knotted, back over his eyes. "All right. I've put the black one back on."

The screen moved with a whisper. The lass's voice was closer when she spoke. "Good. Don't you look a treat to unwrap! I hate to add more to you." Nonetheless, she took the two remaining veils and twined them around Frodo's arms. By the time she was done he felt like a burn victim, bandaged almost from head to toe. This was supposed to be erotic?

But then she led him across the room, and pushed him until he fell backward onto a bed. She cuddled up beside him; he felt her soft breasts pillowing against his ribs.

"What--what are we doing?" Frodo asked, his hand instinctively settling on her back.

"I'm your first," she said, lips touching his ear. "So I'm deciding which veil to take off you."

"Oh. Of course." His last word was obscured by the brush of her mouth against his.

"Hmm," she giggled in speculation, touching one veil and then another and another, her hand roaming from his arms to his chest to his legs.

"Maybe this one?" Frodo suggested, touching the blindfold.

"Can't do that one, sir," she reminded him. "Only your seventh can. Not that folks don't bend the rules a bit."

"That's right; I'd forgotten. This is my first time..."

Her hand slipped underneath the veil on his chest, stroking his skin. "Your first time?" she said, surprised. "Ain't I a lucky lass!"

"Oh, I don't mean my first time." He smiled nervously. "No, not at all. Just my first, er, adult Grape Harvest."

"Oh." She settled halfway on top of him, and slid her hand to his belly instead, exploring beneath the veil there. "Would've seemed a proper waste, a handsome hobbit of thirty, never having tumbled anyone."

"Thirty-five," he confessed, "but you're right, I was actually twenty-mmff!" She had kissed him again, and he decided sharing the precise age at which he'd lost his virginity was really not important right now. It had been months--years, more like--since he'd kissed someone this way, and he was surprised at how quickly his nervousness melted into comfort with it. Before he knew it he was relaxing into the deep pile of blankets (were those grape leaves scattered on the bed beneath him?), both arms around the curvy lass, enjoying the way she felt on top of him.

Suddenly she jumped up. "Oops! Hourglass is almost done. Your second'll be here soon."

"Oh," said the dazed Frodo. "Hourglass?"

"Aye. We each get about a quarter of an hour, going by the hourglass in the room."

"Ah. Well, it certainly has been pleasant, Miss, er..."

"No names, silly," she teased. "Now, before I go..."

Frodo felt her hands at his waist, and for a moment he panicked, thinking she was going to take the most intimate veil off him, leaving him exposed for all six of the remaining servants. But no--she was only teasing. She unwrapped and pulled away the veil around his belly, and said, "There, now. That one's never comfortable anyway, after a nice big meal, is it, sir?"

"No," Frodo admitted. "Thank you. Very considerate."

"I hope the rest treat you well," she said. "I imagine they will. You were quite the desired one tonight in the servants' hall."

"Oh...well," Frodo laughed modestly.

A knock on the door saved him from having to stammer further.

"There he is," she said. "Bye, now, sir."

"Bye," Frodo said, propping himself up on his elbows and tilting his head to see if any other angles made it easier to see through his veil. All he could see were the movement of dark forms, and he heard a murmur and giggle as the door opened and shut again.

Then steps padded gently toward him. He, she had said. Frodo's heart started drumming fast. What if this was Sam?

"Well, well, sir," said a young male voice--not Sam's. Frodo relaxed again, partly in relief and partly in disappointment. "Hope you don't mind if a lad cuddles up to you a little." The mattress tipped on one side as the lad climbed onto it beside him.

"No, I--I don't mind," Frodo said.

"Didn't think so, seeing as how you invited one." It sounded like the lad was grinning.

"You've got me there," Frodo admitted.

"Well," said the lad, who now sounded a bit husky, "I count myself lucky." He leaned over Frodo, eased him down onto his back, and started nibbling at Frodo's neck.

Frodo closed his eyes--they were useless anyway, under that blindfold. Both servants so far had smelled superficially of crushed grape leaves, but the lad's bare shoulder, inches from his nose, carried a masculine spiciness while the lass had possessed something more like flowery sweetness. He was hard pressed to know which he liked better. But that trick of the lad's, massaging Frodo's neck with his mouth, was spreading heat steadily down his torso. He murmured a sound of approval, without meaning to.

"You like that?" whispered the lad.

"Yes...it's...rather nice."

"You can try doing it to me, as well." The lad's hand cupped Frodo's face, and turned it inward.

Frodo settled shaky arms around the lad's muscled body, and began kissing his neck. All the while, he wondered wildly, Is this the second footman? The stable-lad? That youngster I saw at the water pump? Who? The eagerness with which the lad wriggled up against him, causing Frodo to feel his excitement under the tunic, made Frodo think he couldn't be very old, and he prayed desperately that Merry wasn't letting anyone below twenty play this game. Could he live with himself if this turned out to be a child?

He also wondered why he hadn't worried about the lass's age. And then he knew it was because he hadn't got hard until this lad started in on him.

"Mm, I've a mind to cheat and take everything off you," the lad murmured, his hands sliding up and down the bare strip of skin at Frodo's waist.

"Oh, no, we...we mustn't cheat..."

The lad paused, and then muttered a curse. "Time's up, nearly. Well, much as I'd like a look here--" He brushed a hand against Frodo's groin, making Frodo jolt. "--I won't be giving that away to your next one. So I'll just take this..." He slid down to Frodo's left leg, unraveled the veil there, and pressed a kiss into the inside of his thigh. "...and bid you goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight," gasped Frodo. He didn't try to sit up this time when the lad left. He just laid his arm over his forehead, and caught his breath, sparing a moment to wonder whether he would have done any of this if it hadn't been for those four glasses of wine with dinner.

Then Number Three was upon him. Three was a lass again, with a sultry low-pitched giggle, and a way of straddling him and sliding up and down without undressing either of them that made the time fly by. He sighed in disappointment when she got up to leave.

"Let's make you match that other leg," she said, and whisked away the veil from his right thigh. Then she was gone, and Four came in.

Four was also a lass, who spent the allotted time teasing him by trailing one finger up and down his erection, through his intimate green veil, while they kissed. She also encouraged him to reach inside her tunic and play with her breasts, and she moaned with such pleasure when he did so that he nearly threw her onto her back and attacked her, despite being unable to see her. But then it was time for her to choose a veil, and she chose the one around his chest, and before leaving wound him up further by sucking each nipple.

Then she scurried out, and Five arrived, another lad. It wasn't Sam--in fact, the lad ingenuously told him he was a stable-lad who remembered Frodo from his years at Brandy Hall, and had always fancied his looks. Frodo thought he could conjure up a face to go with the voice, a dark-haired lightly-freckled fellow with a sunny smile. But instead of picturing that face, Frodo let himself imagine it was Sam. The lad drew Frodo's hand up under his tunic, and had Frodo toy with him, and moaned softly in Frodo's ear how good it felt. Frodo thought of Sam doing this with someone else, possibly right this moment, and had to clench his teeth in a burst of arousal and jealousy. Please let Sam be next, he thought. Please, please.

The stable-lad unwrapped one of Frodo's arm-veils, and, with a mischievous laugh, used it to tie Frodo's arm to the bedpost. "Bet your sixth'll like the look of that," he said. Then he kissed Frodo on the mouth, rather sweetly, and added, "Thank you, Mr. Frodo."

And Frodo left his arm tied, thinking longingly that Sam might walk in next and be deeply aroused by the sight. But of course Six turned out to be another lass, and before Frodo could get too disappointed, she distracted him by letting him feel the slick wetness beneath her skirts, with his free hand. "Oh," he gasped, his body straining and reminding him urgently that it knew very well what to do with such things if he would only let it. Meanwhile, his mind stood aside, aghast, and reminded him in a scandalized screech that he had no idea who this young female was, and therefore the last place he should have his hand or any other part of his anatomy was there.

His anatomy didn't listen. Six helped kindle it by worming her hand under his crotch-veil and stroking his flesh in slow, teasing pushes.

"Oh, that's..." he groaned, "...yes...oh, if you don't stop...I..."

"I know, I know," she assured, rubbing her nose against his, and sliding down to nuzzle his nipples. "You want to save it for your seventh. We all do. Luckily, we're almost there." She pulled his hand out of her tunic, clucking her tongue in reluctance, and then removed the veil on his free arm. "I like the look of that," she observed, and dragged his arm up to the other bedpost, and tied it there with the veil. "I bet your seventh will, too."

"If Seven is the last," he said, "will they set the hourglass as well?"

"No," she said, tightening the knot on his wrist. "Seven lasts all night, if you want 'em to. We're done setting time limits now." The shadow that was Six leaned down, and ran her hands luxuriantly up and down Frodo's bare torso. "Have a good time, sir. I know I shall."

"Thank you," Frodo said, but now he had begun trembling. This was the moment of truth. If Seven wasn't Sam, it would be too upsetting to bear. But if it was Sam...then that was practically too terrifying to think about.

The door closed. Frodo held still and listened. He strained to see through the black veil. If his hands had been free, he would have torn it off; rules be damned. A shadow shifted, and a step approached.

"Who's there?" Frodo whispered.

A finger touched his lips. A knee sank onto the mattress beside him. He felt a touch on one of his tied arms, and heard a breath of chuckling.

"Sam?" Frodo ventured.

"Shh," echoed a whisper, and lips met his mouth. The kiss was gentle but determined, pushing Frodo down into the blankets, urging the tension out of him. The lad felt right, he smelled right (even under that tangy grape-leaf smell), but, oh, why couldn't Frodo's hands be free, to touch his form and make sure? Frodo tried in vain to tug loose one of his wrists, whimpering in frustration.

Seven settled himself down upon Frodo's hips, and ran the backs of his fingers up Frodo's right arm. "Don't like being tied?" he whispered.

The voice settled Frodo's doubts--almost. "Sam," he breathed again.

"No names," murmured the voice, sounding amused. It could have been Sam--but then it also could have been someone who happened to sound like Sam. Or was trying to sound like Sam. "Now let's see," the Seventh continued softly. "Is it better for me if you're tied, or untied?"

"You can take off my blindfold," Frodo said. "You're the seventh. Please. Let me see you."

"Eh..." He seemed to be considering. His finger trailed down Frodo's chest to the last green veil. "There's this one to take off, first."

"But--" Frodo began. He was cut off by the lad bending down and kissing him again. An arm slipped under Frodo's back to support him, bringing their chests up flush. Oh, yes--that form felt like Samwise; strong, just the right size, softly padded in a few pleasing places. And he was kissing Frodo, kissing him with tongue, kissing him very well, kissing him when Frodo was nearly naked... Frodo gave in to the embrace, wrapping a leg around his companion and pushing the tunic up with his foot.

The lad chuckled. "I'll get that out of your way." He sat up. Frodo felt the weight shifting on the mattress, and heard a slither of cloth. When the fellow lay down beside him again, Frodo gasped: naked skin touched him, from toe to shoulder. Most notably, a solid and complicated bundle of flesh pressed his bare thigh. And started moving, very slowly. Frodo's breath quickened along with his partner's.

"Please," Frodo whispered. "Sam, please..." He tugged again at his arm restraints. One seemed a bit loose, but it still didn't give.

The Seventh had begun suckling at Frodo's earlobe, while sliding a hand from Frodo's arm down to his hip. Now the hand fumbled at the veil there, and found the tucked-in end of it, and pulled it free. "Have to get this off you first," murmured that husky voice. "Lift them hips, now."

Frodo, who had too long been cursing the tight wrap he had given himself, complied with joy, pushing upward. Sam--if it was Sam--unraveled the veil with torturous slowness, and finally pulled it free. Frodo let his hips fall back to the mattress, and groaned in relief at feeling the blood rush to swell him even further. His companion was silent for a moment, as if gazing, and then Frodo heard a choked-off sound of desire, and felt a thrust of renewed strength against his leg.

"You can touch me, Sam," Frodo begged, bringing up one thigh to spread himself open. "I'd like it, if you want..."

"No names," the voice whispered, but fingers trailed down his shaft, cupped him beneath, and rolled him gently in a sweat-dampened palm.

"But I know it's you," Frodo said, pulling desperately at his tied wrists. "Oh...oh, that feels good..." One wrist was almost free...almost...though who could think about wrists when someone was doing that to you?

The movement along his leg was faster now, and the voice breathier when it said, "I've an idea you might like." The weight shifted again as the lad leaned over him and fetched something from beside the bed. There was a pause in the movement, then small sounds, as if he was readying some item. Meanwhile, Frodo tried to wriggle that wrist loose. If he could just get an arm free and tear off his blindfold, and make sure it was Sam before devoting all his pent-up lust to the wrong person...

A finger slick with grapeseed oil slid under his groin, and pressed at a private and sensitive opening. Frodo caught his breath. The finger paused, as if awaiting his approval. With a moan, Frodo bent his knee farther out, urging admission. He heard a throaty utterance from his companion, as the finger entered and teased. Thrills blossomed throughout Frodo's body, emanating from the tiny spot.

"Oh please..." Frodo said. "Please, let me touch you." His hand was almost out of that knot--the veil was slipping--

But the Seventh was faster. He shifted quickly, and with a puff of breath, blew out the candle at the bedside. A second later, Frodo yanked his hand free and tore the blindfold off his eyes. But he found himself blinking in darkness. The fire had gone down to mere red embers, far across the room, and without the candle there wasn't enough light to see by. They sat there motionless for a few seconds, breathing fast.

But Frodo had a free hand now, and he reached out until he found his companion's face, and trailed his fingers over it, and into his hair. Sam. It all felt like Sam--Sam, who modestly tried to duck away, but was constrained by the delicate place where he still had one of his fingers. With the other hand, he caught Frodo's questing arm, and whispered, "Please. No names. Please."

"But I know it's you," Frodo repeated, whispering as well.

"Do you?"

Yes!, he wanted to answer impatiently. But instead he closed his mouth, and folded his hand around his friend's.

"All right," Frodo sighed. "All right."

If this was the only night Sam would ever consent to do this, then Frodo didn't want to ruin it by talking too much. Besides, it was servants' choice, wasn't it? And, really, the way Sam had curled his fingertip within Frodo just now--Frodo moaned and let his head fall to Sam's shoulder--that was worth enduring any number of strange rules. "Do it again," he requested, and Sam did, pushing deeper, rubbing harder against Frodo's leg.

"They say there's a spot," said Sam in a gruff whisper, "inside...that feels good to touch...is it there?" His fingertip stroked again, raising goosebumps all over Frodo's skin.

"Mmm...yes," breathed Frodo. "Right there. Untie my other arm? I need to touch you..."

"Reckon that's all right, now it's dark." With a small struggle and a few muttered curses, Sam got the knot undone, and Frodo twined both arms around him.

They fell back onto the blankets and grape leaves, mouths enmeshed, Sam's finger becoming bolder, his arousal sliding fast and hot against Frodo's thigh--he must have applied oil there too. Frodo bucked and cried out at a particularly exquisite twist inside him. He felt a leaf fall from the wreath in Sam's hair, jolted loose, brushing his cheek on the way down.

"Feels good, does it?" said Sam, breathless.

"Uh," was all Frodo could grunt, as an affirmative. He clasped Sam's head close, savoring the kiss, feeling the warm curls and tangled vines against his palm. His other hand wriggled down between them, and met with the oiled flesh pressing his leg. He caught it in a tight grip, and Sam shivered, moaning against Frodo's mouth.

Frodo swallowed, and tilted his head back just enough to say, "I've never done this, but...if I could have this inside me..." He squeezed for emphasis. "...I think I should enjoy it very much. Servants' choice, of course."

"Then my choice," whispered Sam, "is yes." And within seconds he was pulling himself up, planting Frodo's thighs apart with both hands, scrabbling for the bottle in the dark and pouring a new trickle of grapeseed oil down his fingers, into the crevice between Frodo's legs. It turned hot as soon as it touched him, and Frodo couldn't resist reaching down and drawing some of the extra drops upward, to rub along his aching flesh. He shuddered. Kind to the skin, indeed--Merry hadn't been exaggerating. "In," Frodo hissed. "Please."

"Yes, me dear."

Sam's knuckles bumped against him, as if he was steadying himself. Then Frodo felt firm, petal-soft, curved skin, which pushed and quickly became a solid invading entity, stopping an inch or so inside him. Frodo gasped at the pain, but soon the soothing dual warmth of oil and lust gentled him. His unintentional grip on Sam's hip relaxed. "Oh," he murmured.

Sam pushed in another inch, and let out his breath in a grunt. "Can you take that?" he asked, concern flickering into his voice.

Frodo tightened his muscles, squeezing what he held, making Sam moan. His hands slid down Sam's waist, and took hold of his rear, and tugged. "Deeper," he whispered.

Sam gave him another thrust, and this time Frodo felt the tickle of Sam's short hairs against him--he was in about as deep as he could go. "Oh, sir," Sam said in a desperate whimper.

"Do it," Frodo said. "Keep doing it."

Carefully, Sam slid out, then pushed back in. They moaned in unison. Sam's oiled hand grasped Frodo's erection, and stroked.

"Yes," Frodo gasped. "Keep...doing it..."

Sam bucked into him a second time, and a third, then faster, faster; Frodo lost count. He was swelling to rigidity in Sam's pumping grip. He found Sam's other hand braced against the mattress at his shoulder, and seized it tight, interlocking their fingers. The pressure built; he writhed and heard himself begging Sam for more, more, more; and then, at last, warmth pulsed out of him and spread down his belly. He stifled his cries by turning his face aside and biting Sam's wrist, hard. Sam made a noise of protest, but then he too was coming, jolting and trembling, a burst of heat inside Frodo.

They gradually thrashed to a stop. Sam drew his sticky hand away, and carefully pulled out. Frodo bit his lower lip at the residual tingle of pleasure stirred by the motion.

"I shall have to take home some grapeseed oil with me," he murmured, slurring his words, quite exhausted now.

Sam laughed softly, and pressed a bundle of cloth into his hand to clean up with--his servant tunic, from the feel of it. "I'm sure Mr. Merry will see that you do," he answered.

Frodo finished wiping himself off, and dropped the tunic beside them on the bed. "Lord, I'm tired," he sighed.

Sam sidled up to him, and drew a blanket up over them both. Cool crushed grape leaves pattered against Frodo's skin here and there. "Sleep, then."

Frodo smiled, and snuggled up to his warm friend. "Honestly," he mumbled, "I didn't know what to expect tonight. But...thank you."

"No, thank you," Sam whispered.

Frodo hugged him closer, but only for a moment. He was so tired...

* * *

It was late in the morning when Frodo awoke. He was alone, but then he wasn't very surprised at that. Servants had things to do at horribly early hours. He had never envied them that. His head ached when he moved, and he grimaced, muttering curses about wine. He also found that he was naked, sticky, slippery, and plastered with wilted grape leaves, and that the sheets were in sore need of being washed. Looking around in dismay, he was relieved to find a clean, thick robe lying on a chair next to the bed. He hauled himself up and put this on, and shuffled to the wash-basin, tripping over a discarded veil on the way. He cursed again, this time targeting Merry and Brandy Hall and all the insane Bucklanders he couldn't believe he was related to.

However...in the middle of splashing his face with water, he smiled, and felt a pleasant tickle spiral from his stomach up his spine. Sam. Oh, Sam.

Tea had been left for him on a tray, with gentle food that over-imbibers might be able to face the next morning: bread, honey, fruit, and oatmeal. Frodo wasn't very hungry yet, but a sip of tea and a mouthful of bread did start to make his head feel better.

As he sat in a chair by the window with his mug, watching the lads down in the lawn roll away the new barrels of wine to the cellars, someone knocked at his door. He caught his breath. He didn't know yet what exactly he would say to Sam. "Come in," he called.

And, indeed, it was Sam--Sam, who glanced quickly at him once, his eyes still smudged with traces of ink, and then looked down. "I came to see how you were faring this morning, sir," he said, quite proper.

"Not too badly," Frodo answered. "Come in."

Sam nodded, and closed the door behind him. He moved swiftly to the breakfast tray, and knelt beside it. "Will you be wanting any more of this, sir?"

"Leave the strawberries; I'll have them. Grapes I think I've had enough of." Frodo was attempting merriment with the remark, but realized a moment late that it could sound entirely wrong--as if he had no desire of repeating the previous night.

Sam's spine seemed to stiffen, and he set aside the dish of strawberries on the desk near Frodo's knee. "Can I bring you anything else, then, sir?" He kept his eyes lowered, his back turned to Frodo.

Frodo felt it like a stab to the heart. He set his mug down beside the strawberries, delicately. "Sam, I didn't mean... I'm sorry." Sam said nothing; merely nodded, and continued collecting plates and silverware to stack on the tray.

"Did you sleep here all night?" Frodo asked gently. "I don't remember you getting up."

"Don't know what you mean, sir," came the cool answer.

That hurt even more. Frodo pressed his lips together, angry at the game, the stupid rules, the conventions of Brandy Hall that divided him from Sam when back home they were so close... Before Sam could stand up with the tray, Frodo got out of his chair and caught Sam's left wrist. Sam froze. Frodo pushed up the cuff, and revealed what he knew he would see: a curved line of bruise-colored tooth-marks. He lifted his eyes to Sam, who was now blushing and looked rather miserable. "Shall I hold them up to my mouth and see if they fit?" Frodo asked quietly.

Sam tugged his wrist away. "You know they would," he said, barely loud enough to hear.

"Exactly." Frodo fell to his knees beside Sam. "Then why? Why are you pretending it didn't happen? 'No names'? What on earth, Sam?"

"Because...because the things I was going to do..." Sam rubbed his eyes, as if his head hurt too. "I couldn't face you every day and have you know..."

Frodo nodded, after a moment. It was servants' choice. He had put the burden of the initiative on Sam; young, sweet, shy Sam. He had never meant to, but he had forced Sam's hand, and it was no wonder Sam was abashed.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said again. "I honestly didn't know what the party involved when I invited you. I wanted you, yes, very much, but I wouldn't have embarrassed you that way."

"I know," Sam mumbled.

Frodo took his hand, and smiled. "But you did it anyway. Even though you didn't have to."

Sam looked down at Frodo's fingers and answered softly, "And now you know. How wicked I am."

Frodo snorted. "No more wicked than I, Sam. If you think I was joking about wanting to bring home some grapeseed oil--well."

Sam dared a meek glance at Frodo, from his beautiful, tired, outlined eyes. "The servants here, they say...they say it's just that one night. Life's to go back to normal afterward."

"Well, I'm sure that's true," Frodo granted. "If you live at Brandy Hall."

Now Sam's expression was hopeful, and the breath he drew on parted lips made it irresistible for Frodo: he had to fall forward and kiss him. Sam was delicious, and willing, and it was at least a full minute before they found the need to speak again.

When Frodo next opened his eyes and took stock of their position, he found he was sitting in Sam's lap, upon the floor, securely ensconced in his arms.

"All the servants wanted you for their seventh," Sam confided, eyes sparkling now.

"Oh, they did not," said the flattered Frodo, batting him on the back of the head.

"Swear it's true. Maybe not all, but a great number of 'em. I had first pick, though, being the one you invited. I'm not supposed to tell you any of this. It's supposed to be all secret-like, the way they work out who visits who."

"Did you visit anyone else?"

"Aye. Some of the female cousins as seemed approachable. A couple of the menfolk as well. I was Mr. Pippin's second, but don't tell him. I don't think he knew."

Frodo, after gaping in a flare of jealousy, broke into helpless laughter, and rested his forehead on Sam's chest.

"Most of the time," Sam went on, grinning, "I just asked them what they liked, so I could have some things to try on you."

"You didn't...Pippin..." Frodo managed, before bursting into giggles again.

"Ah, you were a thousand times better. Nothing to worry about, sir."

"Oh...no, I'm not worried. Not anymore." Frodo wiped his eyes. "And you can be sure no one else was anywhere near as good as you, either. Nor would I wish to take them home with me."

"Got a few little bottles to take with us," Sam commented. "Not all of 'em wine, either."

"I hear grapeseed oil is quite good to cook with," Frodo said, his hand curling to caress Sam's ear.

"Aye," Sam agreed, slipping a hand into Frodo's robe, fingertips ghosting over a nipple. "Been meaning to experiment with it."

"One thing," Frodo suggested, giving Sam a light kiss. "From now on, we do not let the Brandybucks set behavioral rules for us."

* * *

arayn

SWEET VIDEO! U LOVE SAM-FRODO? U MUST WATCH!

arayn

LOVE IN MORDOR (QUIET A SETTING FOR THE 1ST STORY)

arayn

mordor

arayn

mordor

arayn

mordor

arayn

sweet! just sweeeeeet!

arayn

KISS !!

arayn

OH I LOVE SAM!

arayn

well, I sometimes dream that jamie can be sam too hahaha

arayn

elijah, is perfect for frodo. per fect