"Interlude in Lorien" Parts V and VI

[frodoslegacy]

Sam kept his eyes on those of his master, as Frodo lowered his hands to his own. He watched the blue darken and seem to expand, indeed Frodo's eyes threatened to blot out everything, everything. Every fear that he held, every rejection he had suffered, every tear he had shed was becoming obliterated under his gaze. It was greater than any caress Sam had thus far known, and he was enveloped in it.

Sam's own eyes kept their slightly desperate sheen, and he widened them as Frodo's reassurances penetrated. He felt very sweet and blessed relief wash through him now, as Frodo's hand brushed his cheek. So soft, that. So gentle. Had anyone ever been so gentle, Sam wondered. He almost lifted his fingers to touch the very spot, to some how capture the feeling that it engendered in his heart.

And as Frodo moved all the closer to him, to his lips, he inclined his own head to meet him. He nodded to answer Frodo's question, then opened his lips under Frodo's.

Frodo’s eyes were closed but he felt it the moment that Sam’s resistance melted away under the caress of his fingertips and the brush of his lips. He felt it when the gardener’s back, which had been holding him stiffly upright, relaxed. He felt it when Sam lips opened, yieldingly, under Frodo’s own.

Frodo smiled a little around their kiss and knelt up a bit more, so that he was positioned slightly above Samwise. Using the leverage that this gave him, Frodo pressed his lips more forcefully against Sam’s, and extended his tongue to trace about the edges of Sam’s lips lightly. Feeling the gardener tremble a bit under him and taking that for a good sign, Frodo gently pushed his tongue past Sam’s lips and into Sam’s mouth, seeking out the tongue hidden in its lair inside.

Frodo’s hand slid from its caress of Sam’s cheek to the tip of Sam’s delightfully pointed ear, and stroked it gently. As their kiss deepened, Frodo ran his fingertips slowly and languorously down the side of Sam’s ear, pausing to pinch the lobe between his fingers. Then he ran them back up the side again, pressing it gently with his thumb and index finger.

“Mmm…” It was more an exhalation of breath than speech. But there were more important ways to communicate sometimes, as even this bookish hobbit knew.

With his dear master over him, his graceful fingers seeking out his sensitive ear, Sam knew he was lost. He moaned against Frodo's lush mouth, and wrapped his arms around him. The sensation that Frodo was creating was hypnotizing, and Sam felt the need between his legs increase. His ears were just so very sensitive, and Frodo seemed to know where to stroke, just where to pinch. And Sam's mind whirled, wondering if he knew such about other parts of his body.

Frodo's tongue was forceful, and somehow that felt right to Sam. He found that he loved it. Loved the notion of the willowy Master of Bag End coercing him a bit, seducing him...and his ears flamed red. But the thought persisted, unbidden in his mind, and he pressed himself closer to Frodo.

He moaned again when his flesh met Frodo's own, and he wanted to remember the silky warmth, the rough and sweet shock of the meeting. His fingers found the small of Frodo's back, and he stroked there, traveling up Frodo's spine, and caressing the back of his neck...tangling in the soft curls there.

He pulled back a bit from the kiss, biting at Frodo's lips, now bruised and beautifully swollen from the kissing. What had Frodo said to him? That he wanted this, wanted very much to do this? Sam stroked his thumb then across Frodo's lips, traced it across his cheek to his ear, and leaned in very close to it, his lips almost touching the pink shell.

"Frodo?" He began softly, hesitantly. "Please..."

Frodo felt Sam wrap his arms around him and pull him closer, felt the primal, comforting contact of skin on skin, and something in his heart lifted. Then Sam uttered some soft moans and Frodo found this encouraging indeed-and felt elated!

But he forced himself to remain calm, not to rush, and continued teasing Sam’s ear with his fingertips; now pinching the rounded tip between his thumb and index finger, now sliding a fingertip in to lightly caress the opening of Sam’s ear canal.

Then Sam stroked the small of Frodo’s back and this sent little shivers racing up Frodo’s spine, and when Sam followed the path of the shivers with his fingertips, this birthed dozens of new shivers that almost distracted Frodo from what he was doing. So sweet, these light, gentle caresses after months of physical hardship and pain! But Frodo was nothing if not a determined hobbit, and he kept on with his tongue’s exploration of Sam’s warm, yielding mouth until Sam himself broke the kiss and commenced nibbling along the edge of Frodo’s bottom lip, something Frodo had never experienced before. It made Frodo gasp a little.

But then Sam stopped this and lightly, reverently, touched Frodo’s lip instead, then spoke two words in naught more than a whisper.

Please? Frodo searched Sam’s face with wide eyes. Please what, Frodo wondered. Please stop? Please do something different? Please… WHAT? Everything depended on Frodo getting this right! Yet his gardener, whom he had known for years and years, was suddenly proving very difficult to read.

Unconsciously holding his breath, Frodo waited for what Sam would say next.

Sam felt, more than heard, the gentle intake of breath from his master. Gracious, but why was it so much easier giving, than getting? It seemed he had things quite backwards, which his Gaffer would say was nothin' new at all, but Sam's young heart was filled to overflowing with love, and the rest of him felt feverish and desperate. Desperate suddenly for more contact, for more touching, for more pleasure.

A war raged in Sam's breast, and subtly the tide had turned, and his reluctance to be so loved was being replaced by his innocent need, and his yearning to get still closer to his Frodo. Frodo's fingers were so deceptively strong...they seemed fragile, and incapable of much but writing elvish poetry, or perhaps drawing a map. But on Sam's skin, they were so sure, so deft, so very capable. His fingers seemed to test each bit of Sam resolve, seeking out the sloping silk of his ears, and Sam felt heat blooming inside himself.

But Sam was still a stubborn Gamgee, and was still somewhat afeared of the passion coursing through him, and it was terribly hard to go on! He should have liked more to push Frodo's delicate form back onto their cloaks, and pleasure him again with his lips and tongue. And, he suddenly smiled to himself, he would do that again. But now he had to find his resolve to go on, to complete the circle that he started, telling Frodo that he loved him. It seemed such a simple thing, drawing a circle, any small lad or lass could do so in the dirt. But *this* circle, it was not complete, and without such closure, Sam was afraid that everything kept inside it--love, devotion, friendship, bravery--would slip away.

Their circle would only be complete if Sam could accept this affection, this gift, from Frodo. So he took his own deep breath, and went on, softly, his face now burning against Frodo's neck.

"Please...Frodo...don't stop, sir."

Frodo watched the competing emotions chase each other across his gardener’s open face without understanding them. Sam seemed to be struggling with some internal conflict that went even beyond the “cold feet” of an inexperienced young lad. Frodo couldn’t remember being that conflicted himself, but then again, at heart he was more adventurous than the responsible young Gamgee whose circumstances had forced him grow up faster than his years. To be sure, Frodo--once known as the “worst young rascal in the Bucklands”--had matured and mellowed some in the time he had lived at Bag End, but he still could be quite determined when pursuing something he enjoyed doing. Though these last few years that tended to mean staying up all night reading Elvish verse and sipping wine rather than stealing mushrooms!

Finally, Samwise smiled a mysterious little smile, buried his face against Frodo’s neck, and murmured his assent. Frodo exhaled heavily without even realizing he had been holding his breath and smiled over Sam’s shoulder-a smile that was part relief, part delight. Impulsively, Frodo wrapped his arms around Sam and hugged him tight, his heart (and, truth be told, another organ as well) filling with warmth for his friend. Then he entwined his fingers in the Gamgee’s mussy curls and gently pulled Sam’s head back and kissed him again, passionately and firmly on the mouth.

Then Frodo kissed the tip of the gardener’s nose; and then he kissed the dimple in Sam’s chin, pausing to dart his tongue back and forth across the cleft, the cleft that he had always secretly found quite handsome.

Feeling rather feline, Frodo extended his tongue and ran it down the side of Sam’s neck, stopping only when he reached the hollow where the neck met the sturdy shoulder. Frodo lapped about this hollow with his tongue and then latched on to it with his lips, sucking at the skin gently at first, then increasing the pressure.

Remembering what Sam had found so astonishing before, Frodo brushed his fingers back and forth across the gardener’s nipples. He discovered that they were as hard as little stones and this made Frodo smile. Suddenly, passion flared up within Frodo and, without warning, Frodo bit down on the bit of flesh with his teeth while pinching the nearest nipple firmly between his thumb and index finger.

He had been chiding himself earlier for always taking from Sam. Now, it seemed, he had something to give in return.
There could surely be nothing, not one thing better, then the feeling of Frodo's soft mouth exploring the planes of Sam's neck and shoulder. But Sam was mistaken. He moaned when Frodo's fingers sought his nipples again, and he could scarcely keep still, wanting to crush his master against him, hungry for the feel of his flesh against his own. And when Frodo's cunning little teeth claimed their prize, Sam's hips bucked up, and his organ stiffened further, almost painfully.

Just like the little bite. Almost painful, but so full of the sweet promise of more pleasures, hitherto unknown to the Shire gardener. The feelings of wanting to claim Frodo again were receding, replaced by intense feelings of wanting to claimed himself. His cheeks flamed, and his fingers moved through Frodo's hair, sliding under the curls at the base of his neck to stroke the silky skin there, then down the elegant line of his back, his touch feathers down Frodo's spine.

Sam wondered how he could feel both flooded and light all at once. He was never so aware of his body as he was now. When he had seen Frodo naked, pale in the ethereal moonlight, he felt ashamed of his sturdy hobbit frame. He knew he was none so beautiful as Frodo, and he tried to hide for as long as he could. Now, it was harder to hold on to self-consciousness and doubt. It was there, no mistaking it, really, but it was drifting away, his nerve-endings zinging with pleasure, seeking to overtake everything else that Sam was afraid of.

Enflamed, Frodo alternated between nipping sharply at the flesh just below Sam’s neck and lapping it soothingly with his tongue, marveling at the different responses each action produced in his friend. The former brought quick, quiet gasps, while the latter brought long, low exhalations close to moans. Frodo enjoyed them both. He kept this up until even in the dim light he could see that the anointed area had turned from a small red spot to a much larger black and blue one.

Frodo lifted his head and smiled mischievously into his friend’s half-closed, rather dazed eyes, then moved his mouth down to Sam’s left nipple, which by this time was a hard little nub of flesh a few shades darker than the gardener’s tanned chest. Frodo proceeded to gleefully give the nipple the same treatment as he had that wonderful spot on Sam’s neck. Frodo’s hands, meanwhile had slid around to explore the gardener’s broad back. He ran them slowly and firmly downwards, all the way, one on each side of Sam’s spine, then kneaded away gently but firmly at Sam’s lower back.

After a few moments, Frodo slid his tongue across Sam’s chest, wrinkling his nose a bit as some of the gardener’s blonde fuzz tickled his nose, and dipped his tongue into the hollow of Sam’s breastbone, loving the slightly sweaty dampness he found there, even on this chilly night. Frodo tongued this cleft as lovingly as he had the one on Sam’s chin. Then he turned his attentions to Sam’s other nipple, lest it feel left out.

By this time, Sam was making considerably more noise, as well as fidgeting a bit on their cloak-blanket.

Frodo slid his tongue down to Sam’s belly button and circled it a few times, then stabbed it fiercely into the little space, eliciting the sharpest gasp of all.

Frodo was very, very aware of Sam’s erect organ, so close to his chin now. Tantalizingly close. But he was careful to not so much as graze it.

Yet.

**** **** **** *****

One would think that there were only so many ways that one could be startled and surprised. But minute by minute, Sam was finding out that this was not so. The depths of these feelings were infinite--not like the black chasm of the mine, but like a field of wild flowers, a sea of riotous color and scent, threatening to overwhelm, but only bringing more and more joy. He did writhe and moan under Frodo's fingers, and his warm, wet mouth, and Sam lost his fear and his doubt. He wanted this. He wanted to know the finish as well as he knew the beginning, for he would never forget this. It may never come again, but he would not forget one moment of this interlude.

Maybe it was some elven magic in the night, maybe it was the relief of having told Frodo his deepest secret, his dearest want, but something had changed for Sam. Some knot had been loosened within him, and he felt it slip, felt his fear float up and away from him, lost, not in field of flowers, but of stars. Only then did he feel rooted to this pleasure, this absolutely amazing pleasure, that his master was creating in his solid flesh.

And teasingly so, as well! Sam bit down on his lip to keep from crying out as Frodo studiously ignored his straining need. He wanted that tongue, now attending to his navel, on his organ! And his fingers tightened on Frodo's back, and he wondered if Frodo was waiting for more encouragement. He wondered if he asked, if Frodo would oblige, or would he smile that elfin smile and tease him some more. Suddenly, both options seemed equally tantalizing to Sam, so he took a deep breath, and spoke:

"Oh, Frodo... please... don't tease your Sam..."

Sam's voice was low and husky. Masculine even; with nearly all traces of his usual deference gone, vanquished by his need. Frodo liked the sound of it very much.

And Frodo nearly laughed out loud when the meaning of Sam's words sunk in. Oh, the delightful irony of Sam's urging him on when only moments before he had been grabbing Frodo's hands to get him to stop! Of course, Frodo would not venture even so much as a chuckle at such a sensitive time, but nevertheless he found Sam's words delightful in so many ways. Not the least of these being that his plea seemed quite the compliment!

Frodo felt proud, giddy, and confident all at once. Tease, eh? I could show him a thing or two about what that word really means, Frodo thought impishly. His eyes danced with playful mischief, though of course Sam did not see this, as Frodo was currently engaged in nipping gently at the skin of Sam's hip and all that was visible was the top of his head.

But, no. Now was not the time for prolonged teasing. Next time, Frodo promised himself, and without further delay, he slid both of his hands under Sam's organ again, cradling it, and stroked his thumbs gently along the top of it, back and forth as far as they would reach. He marveled at the firmness of Sam's organ and felt quite pleased with himself for being responsible for it.

Frodo lowered his head and ran his tongue experimentally down the top of Sam's organ, from the ridge to the base, and back up. Then he tilted his head and repeated this action on each side. As warm as Sam's chest had been, this area was even warmer!

Without looking up, eyes fixed on on his prize, Frodo licked his lips, then scooted backward and downward until he was lying on his belly again. Then he covered the head of Sam's organ with his mouth, and swirled his tongue about the tip of it.

Sam was not prepared for the sudden rush of warmth, of pleasure, that suffused his body as Frodo's mouth covered him. He made a small mewling sound, and felt the very last flicker of doubt become extinguished. A very primal need had been awakened in the young gardener, and he could feel the heat of want fill his blood, his organ stiff with it. Oh, he wanted this never to stop, the velvet glove of Frodo's mouth sheathing the tip of him, caressing him.

He let his hands sink beside him, balling up the cloak in his fists. He was afraid to touch Frodo, afraid that Frodo would take it as a sign that Sam wanted him to stop. His bit down, hard, on his lower lip to keep from crying out, as he was afraid that any sound, too, might distract Frodo.

In his head, an urgent, needy refrain rang: "Don't stop, Frodo... oh, please, I'll do anythin', anythin', if you just keep doin' that... keep doin' that..."

These feelings were richer, more intense, more shattering than Sam had ever imagined. This was not his own hand, not the solitary quiet and dark of his bed. And the feeling that Frodo was engendering in him, in his very flesh, was permanent and deep. It was not like the sudden burst of Gandalf's fireworks, nor like thirst quickly slaked by icy water on a harvest afternoon. This was forever. This was the changing of one season to another to another, the roll of the tide of the vast oceans, the melding of green earth and azure sky.

Frodo had tasted Sam's flesh, and he was hungry for more. He pushed his tongue playfully into that tiny hole, then withdrew it, catching a couple of clear drops of fluid on the tip of his tongue. These first few drops, he discovered, had little taste. Interesting. Frodo sighted down the length of Sam's organ and observed with satisfaction that Sam's member was as sturdy as the rest of him. Frodo wanted it all.

With the heart-shaped head of Sam's member between his lips, Frodo took a deep breath, and then slid further down. Bit by bit, he eased the bone encased in its satiny flesh deeper into his mouth, then deeper still.

Frodo's progress down Sam's organ continued smoothly until his throat threatened to close when Sam's organ brushed against the back of it. Frodo willed himself not to panic--or choke. He paused, took another deep breath through his nose, and adjusted the position of his head. It worked.

Finally Frodo's lips reached the very base, and his mouth and throat felt full to bursting. Frodo then slid slowly-don't rush!-back upward, sucking gently as he went. He reached the tip of Sam's organ again, and let the edges of his front teeth scrape ever so lightly across the head.

With the exception of some muffled, inarticulate sounds, Sam had gone quiet. To Frodo, this was good news, and with his eyes half closed, he repeated the actions he had just done, more smoothly and seamlessly this time. By the third pass, he felt himself sliding into a bit of a trance, and thought he could keep this up all night, if need be!

From the involuntary jerking and writhing that Sam was doing under him, however, it was likely that that would not be necessary.

As a secret rain began to fall again on the great trees of Lorien, a dangerous, delicious thrill began at the base of Sam's spine. The thrill worked its way all through his solid body, causing heat to coil in his belly, and his hips to move up to meet Frodo's soft, strong lips. He couldn't feel the rain, the trees overhead sheltered them, but he could hear it, and he could feel the caress of a breeze lift his damp curls from his forehead.

He could feel everything now, and there was no stopping the sensation, no stopping the inevitable rush of young, unspent passion. He felt the orgasm flow from his belly, down and out of his organ, into the sweet, warm mouth of the hobbit he called "master", the hobbit he loved more than any other. He tingled with pleasure, and it seemed to flow on and on, never ebbing or cresting. He cried out, piercing the darkness, but still the patter of rain filled his ears, steady, rhythmic, eternal.

He looked down, blearily, at Frodo, at his dark hair shining in the strange, elvish night, and tears slid from his eyes. He couldn't help the tears, and nor could he help the sobs that followed, and his hoping that somehow his Frodo would understand. Sam sat part-way up, and held out his arms to Frodo, wanting his warmth, his scent, his own arms wound around him.

No words he knew would suffice in this moment, no endearment, no promise, so he stayed silent. He wanted to hold this moment in his heart forever, for it was more than want fulfilled, more than need satisfied... it was... it was... an ending, yes... but a beginning, too, for the young gardener.

Suddenly Sam uttered a hoarse cry, and thrust his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into Frodo's mouth. Sam's organ, hard and slick, spasmed repeatedly and filled Frodo's mouth with warm liquid.

Frodo had been working industriously toward this very thing, yet when it happened, he was startled. Startled--and awed. His throat, which he had managed through an act of will to keep from reflexively closing while Sam's organ had been bumping repeatedly against the back of it, now obligingly swallowed the liquid.

When all the liquid was gone, Frodo carefully slid his mouth from the gardener's organ and peered up at Sam, who looked startled too. Startled--and delighted.

Frodo resumed his feline ways, and carefully lapped at Sam's softening organ like a cat grooming its mate, cleaning off any residue that might have accumulated there. He was nearly finished when he felt Sam start sobbing--felt it more than heard it, in fact, for Sam's sobs were nearly silent.

Frodo looked up and when Sam silently held out his arms to him, tears streaming down his face, Frodo felt his heart wrench with tenderness. He quickly knelt up and moved into the other hobbit's arms, then embraced him tightly.

Gentle rain pattered softly on the leaves above them, and Frodo, wrapped in the gardener's muscled arms, and holding him in turn, felt very content. Twin rivers of grief and passion had raged through him this night, then receded. Yet their passage had uncovered something very valuable--something that once uncovered, could never be entirely lost again. Something that would give the formerly bereft ring-bearer the strength to continue on his journey and to ultimately get much further than he ever thought he could.

That something may have been there all along. Or it may have been born this night. Ultimately, it didn't matter from when or where it came. All that mattered was that it was there now, and it made Frodo's chest expand with warmth.

It was love.

Frodo yawned involuntarily, then smiled sheepishly at Sam. He tugged Sam down onto the cloak-blanket with him, and they curled up spoon-fashion, with Sam on the outside, as easily and comfortably as if they had been doing it for years.

"We fit perfectly," Frodo mused, then promptly fell asleep. He slept more soundly that night than any since they had left the Shire.

-End-