Ficgift: Two Play, Foreplay
Happy Slightly Belated Birthday 2009, & Happy *Very* Late Birthday 2008…
♥Frodosweetstuff♥
Title: Two Play, Foreplay
Author: Tiriel
Characters: There are others?
Genre: R♥mance
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sam has a vocabulary deficit; Frodo has the answer…
Warnings: Wilfully!blind Frodo and Wilfully!innocent Sam in service to a Lame Plot Device; more fandom clichés than I have apologies available. Also, if you are not fond of extended tease - really extended tease - I should spare yourself the discomfort and delete forthwith!
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money
Story notes: Of no artistic merit whatever, being merely one more excuse to get them into bed (but you knew that anyway, didn’t you?) This excuse came about in 2003, when a purveyor of fun-in-the-bedroom products sponsored National Foreplay Day in the UK (followed immediately, logically enough, by National Orgasm Day… See here for the press clip that prompted my interest, though the sponsoring company seems no longer to exist)
The notion stimulated my imagination vis à vis Frodo and Sam (well, it would, wouldn’t it?), and I had the starts of a fic in no time. But I was also writing The Perfect Match at the time and that took over rather insistently. 30 July came and went without this particular piece of Hobbitsmut™ reaching any conclusion whatever, still less the one so eagerly sought by Frodo and Sam. As ever, I simply filed as a WiP with next year in mind. Unfortunately the concept of NFD was a flop (in purely commercial terms, that is…) and the exercise was never repeated. Um. As a business enterprise, I mean.
My NFP Day fic has languished ever since in my F/S WiPs with Shape, Needing Completion file (as opposed to Starts and Snips Needing Stories - yes, that is how anal I am!) ♥Frodosweetstuff♥ has a proud record of inveigling encouraging me into completing partly-written tales, so it seemed appropriate to finish one for her Birthday… It just didn’t quite happen last year (or since; Frodo and Sam have been busy inspiring other writers for an awfully long time *sobs*) but I hope that the 11,000+ words of 2P4P may extend to encompass two birthdays instead of the latest one alone! *squirms with embarrassment* Dear Stef, I hope the rest of the story may live up to the expectation roused by what you saw before! *squishes*
(The Astute Reader will note that I have, quite distressingly, exceeded my remit. It was Frodo and Sam who insisted that NFD and NOD should here be combined - their wish being forever my command. I trust said Reader may not be too aggrieved by a merger thus unsanctioned by my prompt…)
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff™
~~~
‘Mr Frodo?’
Frodo set cup and saucer carefully on the draining board - the tea having gone cold as usual when he had other things on his mind - and turned.
Sam was standing in the doorway that led away to the pantries, looking rather hesitant. He had come through from the furthestmost cellar, where he’d been adjusting the contents of the wine racks; Frodo had recently hosted a number of formal dinners, and rather more bottles than expected had vanished beyond recovery. He noted the flecks of dried whitewash on Sam’s shoulders and in his hair, but resolutely stopped himself from reaching to brush them off as though he had some right to touch at will.
‘What is it, Sam?’
‘Mr Frodo, can I ask you about a word, sir?’
‘A word, Sam? Well, of course you may. What is it - something you’ve been reading?’
‘No!’ His answer was rather forceful, Frodo thought, and wondered what could possibly be amiss with Sam. He’d seemed rather preoccupied, these past few days, but today he’d been positively distracted, right from the moment he said Good morning, and chinked the cup and saucer with Frodo’s tea onto the nightstand, before opening his bedroom curtains. It said much that Frodo had noticed Sam’s agitation, for he was usually busy keeping his own under firm control. It was not, of course, only the control that was firm; these days, Sam’s presence provided his wake up call in more ways than one.
Each of them had spent a busy morning since then, but every time they had spoken, Frodo thought Sam a trifle unsettled for some reason. He could well understand being bothered by a lack of the right word - it happened to him quite often when he was attempting translation from the Elvish. He would have been surprised if Sam had been puzzled by anything in the books he had borrowed recently, though, for Sam’s intelligence was more than equal to making out meaning from context if need be. But one not found in his reading?
‘It’s - it may not be a very proper word, sir. But I can’t think of anybody else who knows as much about words as you do and I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind…’
Sam’s voice trailed off uncertainly, and Frodo suspected he may be wondering what his Gaffer would say to hear him asking an improper question of his master.
‘Ah. Well, my vocabulary of naughty words used to be quite extensive, Sam, but I haven’t had much use for them recently, so I may be rather rusty! Still, I shall do my best. What word is it?’
‘I don’t think it’s exactly a naughty word, sir,’ Sam said with a mild blush. ‘I just never heard it before and it’s something to do with a game - only I never saw it played so maybe it is a bit naughty. It’s… the word is… fourplay. It’s what our Daisy said when May told her off for spending so much time off in the dark with Ned Berryman - though I never saw four of them go off together. Naught but a bit o’ fourplay, she said to May, only the way she said it, I didn’t like to ask.’
‘Ah.’ Frodo understood now what had prompted the query, and perhaps also what had caused his unsettlement. Having attained the status of tween at last, Sam was old enough to receive (and for Gaffer to allow him to accept) the invitation to Dal Braithwaite’s recent birthday party - an occasion hosted and attended by hobbits who were all somewhat older than he. He would have coped, of course, with the more grownup manners and food - and even the drink he was now officially permitted (since, like many teens, he’d actually been enjoying it illicitly for several years now). But Frodo could well imagine him feeling at a loss when it came to the sort of games that may have been played afterwards.
‘The word is foreplay - f-o-r-e, as in before, Sam.’
‘So what does it mean, exactly, Mr Frodo?’
Frodo sighed inwardly. Of all the questions he didn’t need to have Sam ask him. ‘Foreplay is… well it’s… it’s making someone feel very good,’ he said, rather lamely.
‘Before you play this game, then?’
‘Well… yes, of sorts,’ Frodo agreed - and, Oh! the thought of Sam, playing with him…
‘What game?’ The simple fact that Sam needed to ask the question was one of many reasons Frodo couldn’t play with him. Sam was far too young to be…
With a deep breath for courage to enable him to carry this off without a betraying blush of his own, Frodo said, ‘The game that two hobbits play together - mostly in bed, Sam.’ He almost managed it, too; but then Sam looked directly at him, and Frodo’s face wasn’t the only place where heat was rising.
‘Oh,’ Sam said, also blushing, his gaze dropping quickly to his toes. ‘I’d like to play that game. Stands to reason that if one hobbit can make himself feel good, two hobbits together should be even better…’
Ridiculously, Frodo had not really considered the fact that Sam was-well, it seemed he was old enough to know exactly which game one hobbit could play, alone in his bed. But that didn’t mean…
‘So how does it go, then?’ Sam’s face was very earnest.
‘W-What?’ Frodo was struggling internally with the notion that teaching was always best done through showing; he had to drag his concentration back from the sudden image of Sam, no longer alone in his bed - nor even alone in Frodo’s bed - and from a rather complex move his mind had been demonstrating on Sam’s wonderfully naked body.
‘This foreplay, sir? I ought to know, Mr Frodo. I felt such a fool when they were all full of sly grins, and laughing at me behind my back. They made me feel like a teen again, with their nudging, and their secret smiles and such - and I’m not.’
No, he wasn’t. And what that almost grown-hobbit physique was doing to Frodo now, merely by being thought upon, was most definitely adult. And - Frodo couldn’t help himself by now, he had to look, surreptitiously and rather shamefacedly - there was definite evidence to support the theory that Sam was as alive to possibility as Frodo himself, now. But at Sam’s age, merely talking about such things could-well, anyway…
Moving carefully, Frodo pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, gingerly, indicating to Sam that he should do the same. They faced each other across the table. It was safer thus, Frodo reasoned, with that small part of his mind still available for such practical matters. He tucked each foot resolutely behind a leg of his chair, to avoid even the smallest possibility that one or other may take a mind of its own, and sidle off to stroke gently at Sam’s well-muscled calves, and the thatch of bright hair spilling silkily across strong, straight toes. The weather had been wet and quite miserable for several days now, hence Sam’s occupation in the pantries rather than in the garden. His feet were therefore without their usual coat of grass clippings, the odd dozen or so of seedheads, and an intermittent skim of garden soil. Frodo knew that silkiness quite well, for he had once been called upon to cold compress a sprained ankle for Sam, in the days when Sam’s leg was still simply Sam’s leg, and holding it fast had caused no such tremors as the memory, upon which Frodo’s imagination was wont to dwell, when Sam was absent and he needed that reminder.
He had caught himself more than once, observing the agility of Sam’s toes; the way he would use them to steady a line while he knocked in the peg to tie it to, thus ensuring neat rows for drawing drills or the planting out of seedlings; the way they held taut the strings on a parcel while he melted the sealing wax, ready to drip it deftly onto the knot. It had been quite easy, thenceforth, to delegate the entire business of parcel-sealing, on the grounds that, ‘You make a far neater job of it, Sam!’ Indeed, certain elderly relatives had begun to remark upon Frodo’s thoughtfulness in despatching bulky mathoms, each of them requiring large quantities of brown paper and yards and yards of string - and many a blob of bright red wax - at random times of the year.
In fact, he’d almost decided that he was developing something of a foot fetish, the way his eyes were drawn to those fascinating feet. But when it became clear that the only ones that caused him even a momentary shiver were Sam’s, he realised with some relief that, in the general run of things, he was not.
‘Mr Frodo?’
Sam’s voice broke into his reverie, rather fortunately, at the point at which Frodo’s mind, whilst acknowledging the perfection of Sam’s nether digits, had, in fact risen inexorably higher - though the table between them formed an all too opaque barrier to the direct contemplation of- He shook his head and forced his mind back to Sam’s dilemma.
‘Sam, I ought not to-’
‘Leave me in the dark about these things, Mr Frodo? If you don’t mind, that is?’
Mind? Frodo drew a deep breath. ‘No, Sam, I don’t mind.’ Which was possibly at once the least and the most truthful statement he had made throughout this conversation. He could do this, he could. He could keep to matters theoretical, and his hands, if not his imagination, off Samwise.
‘Well, now. You know, of course that-well, that some things feel better than others?’ He concentrated his gaze on his own hands, resting on that peskily solid table top, for to look at Sam may render it impossible to actually say these things at all.
When Sam did not reply at once, Frodo risked a peep upward at his face, to find him with eyes similarly cast down, and blushing rather furiously now. His only reply was a swift, embarrassed nod.
Frodo cleared his throat, and continued, ‘And not every-one,’ he managed to avoid the word body, over which his tongue would definitely have stumbled-
…would have swept long and languorous strokes over a chest honeyed by the warmth of the sun, graced with an alluring patch of golden curls, between two plump and perfect nipples…
Clearing his throat once more, he resumed, ‘Not everyone likes the same things. What may feel rather wonderful to me, (Sam’s hands on his bare skin, anywhere at all…) would possibly not feel the same to-’ he very nearly said you, but the image that accompanied the combination of word and thought, was not lightly to be set loose, so he altered it quickly to, ‘-to someone else.’
Sam seemed dubious. ‘Surely the same touch should feel the same to everybody?’ He had no trouble with the latter word, but Frodo had to speak sternly to his imagination, and examine his fingernails quite intently to avoid his eyes following the trend of his thought.
‘It seems not, Sam. Everyone is different, so they feel things differently.’ The notion that telling was less effective than showing, returned strongly. Surely if he simply demonstrated - a brief touch couldn’t be that wrong, could it?
…his fingers running lightly, longingly, from the crown of Sam’s golden head, over sun-tinted muscle and sinew, and then down - Frodo’s own stomach muscles clenched, now - down below his waistband… where the sun never reached, and Sam would be pale and oh so tempting…
He shook his head again, hoping to clear it. ‘There are many different-um-ways you can try. That’s part of the fun, actually - finding out what each of-’ he so nearly said us that the gulp as he swallowed the word was quite audible in the quiet kitchen, ‘-what you and your lass enjoy most.’ And hadn’t that word taken some getting out! But Sam had asked about foreplay as between lads and lasses, and that was how he’d want to use it. He didn’t need to know that Frodo’s own experience was not wholly confined to lasses, nor that Arlo had been more expert in this than any lass that had ever laid hands on Frodo.
On Sam’s hands - and nowhere else! he told himself sternly, and plunged in with the request before he could think twice about it.
‘Put out your hands, please, Sam? This is just one way that-that I used to-’ Frodo swallowed again, ‘-used to really like - when I was younger, of course.’
Sam placed both hands, palms down, on the kitchen table, his head on one side, face alight with interest and expectation. Slowly and delicately, Frodo trailed his own fingers from Sam’s wrists to his fingertips, barely skimming the layer of fine hair that glinted an almost invisible gold. And although he was providing the touch, the sensation of Sam’s skin - the warmth of it so close beneath his own - ignited tiny, hot flashes which raced unerringly to where Frodo could well have done without the extra stimulation.
Used to like, indeed! He had liked doing it - and had very much liked having it done for him - this, and so much more. But here and now - this was far beyond mere liking. This was doing it for - to - with Sam…
‘Oh!’ Sam jumped, snatched his hands back, and looked at them wonderingly. ‘That was-nice, Mr Frodo. I never had my hands feel like that before.’ And he put them eagerly forth again.
‘Turn them over, please.’ Frodo’s own hands were practically trembling now. His stomach clenched again, remembering his long ago lover and the effect of that gentle touch - a stroke so light it was almost not there, with an effect unbelievably potent; remembering too, where it had led then - and he wished with all his heart that he had never begun this exercise in theory, with the hobbit he never could have in that same way.
But this was a gift he could offer, to make of it what Sam would. Perhaps Sam would not feel it as he had - and if he did, that could be nothing to Frodo. He must only hope that whomever Sam gifted it to in his turn would appreciate the care - maybe even the love, too - that Sam would undoubtedly put into his caresses.
Sam’s strong, capable hands waited quiescent on the table, fingers curling slightly upward - his eyes fixed on them as though he didn’t dare look at his master. Gaffer wouldn’t have approved of this for a single minute, of course; Sam was very likely torn between his thirst for knowledge and a healthy respect for his father’s constant warning as to knowing his place.
Recklessly, Frodo banished all such thoughts from his mind and brushed a finger, scarce a touch at all, from the soft skin at the pulse point of Sam’s wrists to the tips of his longest fingers, then down again, to swirl intricate patterns, slow patterns of infinite stealth, upon those broad palms. He dared a glance at Sam’s face, knowing quite well that he must not meet his eyes, for he could never then maintain a purely theoretical position in this impromptu lesson.
Sam’s eyes were fortunately closed now, but the hitch in his breathing, and his expression - tight, concentrated, needy - told Frodo that he was not alone in his appreciation of feather-light foreplay. More than that, though, it brought back to him the realisation that what he was doing was both dangerous and completely wrong. Dangerous, because he had reached the absolute limit of his ability to continue with the pretence that this was merely a practical demonstration of what Sam had asked to know. Wrong, because Sam was young and innocent and Frodo was both old enough to know better, and his employer into the bargain. The shame of knowing that he was taking advantage of Sam, swept him abruptly from his chair.
‘That’s just an example, to get you started, as it were,’ he said, with some difficulty. ‘Just remember that-that wherever you may bestow it, a slow and gentle touch is often the most pleasurable, and you’ll be fine. I wish you all luck with your pretty lass, whoever she may be. And now I really must get on.’
He turned to leave the kitchen, clinging to the last shreds of dignity and control, but as he reached the doorway, he paused. Keeping his back to Sam, he cleared his throat yet again. He should provide Sam all the information he may need, in order to help him, no matter the cost to himself.
‘It-that feels-feels really good, if-if you-on really sensitive places.’
That was it, he could manage no more. His pace was necessarily curbed to a walk, though his instinct was to rush away as fast as he could, to shut himself in the study. The bedroom would have been too much of a giveaway, of course, and the bathroom even worse, for the tiled floor meant that sound carried most effectively.
Breathing heavily, he collapsed onto the chair by his desk, giving himself an admonitory pinch. Sam should not hear anything untoward, if Frodo could help it.
Fool, fool, fool, FOOL! That was stupid and reckless in the extreme, and you know it! Sam needs time to grow into his own hobbit, and he does not need a lovesick old nincompoop taking advantage of his youth! He probably wanted to know so that he could use it on some pretty young lass he has his eye on already - Rose Cotton, like as not - and you came within an ames ace of ruining it for him forever!
The thought was more effective than cold water - that his actions may deny Sam the chance ever to know what sweet enticement a lover’s lightest touch could bring. Frodo sighed and picked up his quill, dipping its nib into the inkwell and squaring up to the massive ledger that awaited him. A few entries in the crop yield gain/loss in respect of previous year/s and seed requirement/present year columns should be more than enough to depress whatever intention his mind and body may have of lingering lovingly on a hobbit whose perfections could never be Frodo’s to truly cherish.
###
Despite an extremely restless night, Frodo awoke at once when Sam tapped lightly on the door the following morning. He came in, as always, with the ritual cup of tea, setting it down to draw back the curtains and murmur a few quietly cheerful words about the weather. Even a sky weeping with rain could wrest a positive comment from Sam, as to how much better a slow soak would be for soil in need of water. He had provided Frodo’s wake-up call almost since the day Bilbo left - since the day, in fact, that Frodo had almost slept through his first appearance before the Farthing Moot, when the principle item of business consisted of formally accepting one Baggins in place of another. Sam had saved him that embarrassment, coming in with early tea and a respectful, ‘Good morning, Mr Frodo! Nice bright day for a journey, sir, and breakfast’s all but ready when you are.’
He never seemed to mind if Frodo - in no hurry to rise, when there was nowhere in particular he must be that day - merely grunted in reply and turned over for an extended snooze. But that had not happened for some time now; these days, an extra few minutes of sleep could not possibly compete with his eagerness for the day’s first glimpse of Samwise - even if Frodo must cant one knee modestly to prevent him from realising exactly how pleased his master was to see him. Sam never lingered for more than a polite word or two, correctly leaving Frodo to drink his tea in privacy - which was fortunate, of course. An entire conversation conducted at his bedside - when Sam was delectably morning fresh and Frodo already completely aroused - must soon enough (and gentlehobbitly manners notwithstanding) have degenerated into something completely uncalled for and also terribly inappropriate; something along the lines of, ‘Sam, I love you. Please get into this bed and ravish me!’
On this particular morning, however, Frodo knew himself unequal even to the most limited of exchanges. He didn’t roll over to face Sam, when he heard the quiet clink of china; didn’t yawn and stretch into his usual, conveniently discreet position as the curtain hooks began their rattle along the rails, and sunshine flooded into the room. Deliberately, he didn’t stir at all, willing Sam to believe him asleep.
‘Nice and sunny today after all that rain, Mr Frodo,’ Sam said, ‘and warm as anything! It’ll bring the garden on a treat, this will!’
There was a silence, and Frodo held still, waiting - expecting next to hear the door close again, quietly.
Instead, the very faintest of sounds - foothair, barely grazing the nap of carpet - told him that Sam was approaching the bed, and he willed his breath not to catch, now.
‘Mr Frodo?’ Sam’s voice was not much above a whisper this time - so soft and low that Frodo had no difficulty whatever imagining the words of love he would one day murmur to his chosen lass. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and hoped the sound didn’t echo in Sam’s ears the way it did in his.
What happened next was definitely not a part of the usual morning ritual.
The weather was indeed as fair and warm as Sam had said, and Frodo had not needed to sleep the way he usually did, curled tight beneath the covers - like a dormouse in winter, Sam had once told him, in the days when such a comment would occasion nothing more than a shared laugh. Lying on his side, right arm above the coverlet, his nightshirt alone was more than enough covering for a fine morning of late Spring. But he shivered now as its fabric brushed against his skin - a soft caress of worn white cotton that drifted lightly from shoulder almost to elbow.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and froze, waiting for Sam to… for Sam to… His mind tumbled over and over the many wonderful things Sam may or may not do next. But what he actually heard was the click of the door handle settling back into place. He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes, and groaned aloud. Had he really believed that Sam would-?
Baggins, you are beyond foolish!
Whatever he might like to imagine, that had not been a caress. Had it?
No, of course not. Sam had merely reached out to shake him by the shoulder, that was all. He’d simply thought better of it at the last moment - probably assuming his master had spent yet another late night amongst his books, and was thus in real need of a lie-in.
The only explanation Frodo could find for that momentary - and quite delicious - illusion was that he had quite simply taken leave of his senses at last. He had begun to hallucinate his dearest wishes - a not unusual side effect, he understood from his reading, of unreciprocated passion. That must be it because Sam wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t touch his master inappropriately, really he wouldn’t.
More was the pity.
Frodo sighed and reached for the damp washcloth; he had found it prudent of late to place one usefully in concealment by his bedside each night.
###
The kitchen was redolent of bacon and sausage, already waiting on a warmed plate with a generous quantity of mushrooms. Sam was sliding a pair of plumply orange-yolked eggs onto the fried bread.
‘There you go, sir,’ he said, and set the plate neatly down in Frodo’s usual place at table. Everything else was also in its accustomed spot - teapot in its knitted cosy, with milk jug and sugar bowl, cup, saucer and teaspoon; toast rack full, honey waiting in the cut glass jar with its twizzly beechwood dipper usefully to hand; butter curled onto a dish exactly as Bell had taught Sam was the Quality way, bread ready for slicing should Frodo require it. Everything, in fact, that a hobbit could possibly require to make a truly excellent breakfast; everything, that was, except a place laid for Sam. There was only an already steaming mug, waiting quietly beside the teapot.
‘You’re not joining me this morning, Sam,’ Frodo said, and hoped it hadn’t sounded quite as petulant as he suspected it might. He simply enjoyed his breakfast more if Sam were there. At busy times, though, he would often take a mug, and maybe a slice of toast, out into the garden with him; this being Sam’s second breakfast, of course, his day having begun so much earlier than Frodo’s.
‘Weeds wait for no hobbit in weather like this, sir,’ Sam said, setting the frying pan aside to cool and checking the fire in the stove, ‘so I’d best be off out there afore they gets ahead of me! Gaffer reckons as the wet spell, with this warm weather following so close behind, means the frosts are safely over for the year. I’ll be making a start, today, on getting the tender bedding out of the frames and into the ground.’
Tempted though he may be, Frodo resolutely resisted unseemly comment that must surely lead to an invitation that Sam should, without delay, sample the tenderness to be found within his bedding; and merely nodded.
With less enthusiasm than it deserved, he forked up a chunk of sausage, smeared it liberally with yolk, dabbed it into a pool of the brown sauce that Daisy made almost as well as Bell used to, and - almost morosely - chewed the result. Goodness - whatever was the matter with him this morning, behaving like a lovelorn tween? Maybe he couldn’t help the first part of that, but he was out of his tweens and ought by now to have grown into a hobbit who was adult enough to know there were things he couldn’t have in this life - the foremost of which was Sam Gamgee.
Yesterday’s little episode had clearly unsettled him far more than he realised.
‘There’s the rest of the ham, and plenty of salad stuff for lunch, sir, and a fowl stewing in the bottom oven for your supper. I’ll pop a few taters and whatnot in, afore I goes home.’ Sam lifted the kettle from its place on the range and poured a generous amount of hot water into the washing up bowl, swishing the soap cage in preparation for Frodo’s dishes when he finished eating. All being as prepared as he could make it, he was ready to go - obviously keen to answer the call of his beloved garden, and not reckoning on wasting much more time on his master today.
Frodo tried not to sigh. ‘Very well, Sam,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Enjoy yourself out there!’
‘Yessir!’ Sam said. He picked up his mug of tea, walking quietly behind Frodo’s chair on his way to the door and-
Frodo almost choked on a mouthful of fried bread as Sam’s shadow passed swiftly through the open door and out into the garden.
He surely had not imagined that?
A hobbit with his mind on his breakfast - well, mostly on his breakfast - simply did not imagine a feather-light brush of fingers to the back of his neck. And he could scarcely blame the sudden constriction within his trousers on a meal as yet barely begun.
Frodo was certain - absolutely convinced - that every hair on his head was actually rising now, each one seeking again the touch that had just set his heart racing and every inch of his skin alight with need.
He gasped, swallowed, and closed his eyes, willing himself to live the moment - the sensation - once again. There was he, sitting quietly at the table, enjoying his breakfast, and there was Sam, walking silently from the kitchen sink toward the door. There went Sam’s left hand, reaching for the mug of well-sweetened tea that awaited him by the teapot. And here - here was his right hand in an almost casual upward drift; almost casual but quite definitely threading the hair that rested on Frodo’s collar… quite definitely gliding, swift yet subtle, across the skin beneath. And, yes, there went the havoc, skittering wildly through a body that was already more than receptive…
Sam had touched him. Devastatingly. Again.
But, no. There went his imagination - more vivid than ever, where Sam was concerned - running away with him once more. All Sam had done was to set a hand to the back of Frodo’s chair, merely easing his way between it and the dresser. That his fingers had grazed his master’s hair was no more than an accident in passing. It was possibly just a little surprising that he had not instantly apologised; but perhaps he had considered that, hair not being sentient, Frodo would not notice.
But not noticing Sam had been impossible for some time. Frodo had come to the conclusion that his senses had somehow honed themselves to a sharper awareness of everything that Sam did or said - or simply was; so it was perhaps not really surprising that even his hair would react to Sam’s touch.
The keen edge of want settled to its accustomed level, and he found he could breathe easily once more - though the morsel of bacon currently impaled upon his fork could induce in him only a feeling of nausea. It was all the fault of that little talk, he thought, with a revivifying draught of tea to help matters along. That same vivid - all right fevered, when it came to Sam - that same fevered imagination had spent the entire night conjuring dreams in which Sam’s fingers had touched him absolutely everywhere, and Frodo had touched right back again, with escalating and perfectly predictable results that in the dream had been more than satisfying; the recurring stickiness of reality being never a problem there. But Frodo would have traded its absence in a trice for the chance to share that satisfaction in truth.
Such dreams always left him feeling more bereft than ever, of course, and a temporary increase in his awareness of Sam was really only to be expected.
He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. The half-full plate before him had completely lost its allure. With a sigh he finished the cup of tea and collected up the remains of his breakfast; Daddy Twofoot’s hens would really enjoy their supper, he thought - with a brief hope that their digestions might not be impaired by what was, after all, a form of cannibalism. But Twofoot fed their baked, crushed eggshells back to them as part of the grit they apparently needed, so perhaps a small amount of actual egg wouldn’t hurt. More important, though, was that Sam should not be hurt by his scraping of a perfectly prepared meal into the waste bucket. He placed the uneaten toast artistically on top, and resolved to peel his own potatoes for the evening meal - sufficient that the parings would finally conceal completely the incriminating evidence of his loss of appetite. And he would slip along The Row with the bucket himself, to save Sam the effort and himself the possibility of discovery.
###
The next few days were a form of sweet torture and surely equal - at least in the annals of love - to anything Beren could have suffered in the dungeons of Morgoth.
They were marked by an inordinate and surely increasing amount of possibly unintentional touching and of almost-but-not-quite caresses. Of Sam moving hastily and, on the face of it, quite innocently out of Frodo’s way; preceded, of course, by an equally inordinate amount of Sam being in it. Each time, it seemed, a different part of Frodo was the happy beneficiary. There was the momentary and maybe accidental easing of one broad shoulder alongside Frodo’s; and a perhaps unintended but nonetheless close encounter of a shapely, well-rounded hip that for one dizzying instant grazed against his own as Sam squeezed deftly past. Of course, a strong arm very likely would pass close to Frodo, were Sam to stretch for jar or packet or tool on a shelf just above him, and thus lightly brush his hair in passing. Their hands were quite liable to clash awkwardly if they reached as one for a single item; or their feet, should one of Sam’s snake out to retrieve something dropped that had landed, quite fortuitously, just by Frodo’s own; so that for seconds - or ages - on end, foothair must merge and tease, the dark with the fair. And on one most notable occasion, there was a possibly inadvertent - but appreciably protracted - shift of Sam’s thigh, tight against Frodo’s bottom, as they scrambled together on hands and knees to replace a smouldering log, fallen from the hearth; and hadn’t that set things alight…
Each occurrence was unfailingly marked by rapid disappearances on two fronts: of Sam from wherever the incident may have taken place; and of almost every spare ounce of blood that Frodo possessed, to active service southward of his waistband. Marked also by a complete inability in Frodo to do anything other than stare after Sam, mouth opening and closing in fair emulation of the huge, uncatchable pike that had for years lurked just out of range at one of his favourite fishing places.
There had been further possibly-not-wake-up-but-quite-distinctly-arousing touches to the sleeve of his nightshirt (Frodo had hunted in vain for a thinner one - preferably with all the texture of a new-made cobweb; such a change could, with some plausibility, be ascribed to the warmer weather). And the essential washcloth had, of course, been called increasingly into play.
He had begun to feel anticipatorily dizzy whenever Sam came into a room with him at all; and by the time he took to his bed at night, he was quite certain that if Sam had entered his room - for whatever innocent reason - and cast so much as a heavy glance toward his master, all would have been over without Frodo having even a moment to appreciate it. So to speak.
Part Two
♥Frodosweetstuff♥
Title: Two Play, Foreplay
Author: Tiriel
Characters: There are others?
Genre: R♥mance
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sam has a vocabulary deficit; Frodo has the answer…
Warnings: Wilfully!blind Frodo and Wilfully!innocent Sam in service to a Lame Plot Device; more fandom clichés than I have apologies available. Also, if you are not fond of extended tease - really extended tease - I should spare yourself the discomfort and delete forthwith!
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money
Story notes: Of no artistic merit whatever, being merely one more excuse to get them into bed (but you knew that anyway, didn’t you?) This excuse came about in 2003, when a purveyor of fun-in-the-bedroom products sponsored National Foreplay Day in the UK (followed immediately, logically enough, by National Orgasm Day… See here for the press clip that prompted my interest, though the sponsoring company seems no longer to exist)
The notion stimulated my imagination vis à vis Frodo and Sam (well, it would, wouldn’t it?), and I had the starts of a fic in no time. But I was also writing The Perfect Match at the time and that took over rather insistently. 30 July came and went without this particular piece of Hobbitsmut™ reaching any conclusion whatever, still less the one so eagerly sought by Frodo and Sam. As ever, I simply filed as a WiP with next year in mind. Unfortunately the concept of NFD was a flop (in purely commercial terms, that is…) and the exercise was never repeated. Um. As a business enterprise, I mean.
My NFP Day fic has languished ever since in my F/S WiPs with Shape, Needing Completion file (as opposed to Starts and Snips Needing Stories - yes, that is how anal I am!) ♥Frodosweetstuff♥ has a proud record of inveigling encouraging me into completing partly-written tales, so it seemed appropriate to finish one for her Birthday… It just didn’t quite happen last year (or since; Frodo and Sam have been busy inspiring other writers for an awfully long time *sobs*) but I hope that the 11,000+ words of 2P4P may extend to encompass two birthdays instead of the latest one alone! *squirms with embarrassment* Dear Stef, I hope the rest of the story may live up to the expectation roused by what you saw before! *squishes*
(The Astute Reader will note that I have, quite distressingly, exceeded my remit. It was Frodo and Sam who insisted that NFD and NOD should here be combined - their wish being forever my command. I trust said Reader may not be too aggrieved by a merger thus unsanctioned by my prompt…)
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff™
~~~
‘Mr Frodo?’
Frodo set cup and saucer carefully on the draining board - the tea having gone cold as usual when he had other things on his mind - and turned.
Sam was standing in the doorway that led away to the pantries, looking rather hesitant. He had come through from the furthestmost cellar, where he’d been adjusting the contents of the wine racks; Frodo had recently hosted a number of formal dinners, and rather more bottles than expected had vanished beyond recovery. He noted the flecks of dried whitewash on Sam’s shoulders and in his hair, but resolutely stopped himself from reaching to brush them off as though he had some right to touch at will.
‘What is it, Sam?’
‘Mr Frodo, can I ask you about a word, sir?’
‘A word, Sam? Well, of course you may. What is it - something you’ve been reading?’
‘No!’ His answer was rather forceful, Frodo thought, and wondered what could possibly be amiss with Sam. He’d seemed rather preoccupied, these past few days, but today he’d been positively distracted, right from the moment he said Good morning, and chinked the cup and saucer with Frodo’s tea onto the nightstand, before opening his bedroom curtains. It said much that Frodo had noticed Sam’s agitation, for he was usually busy keeping his own under firm control. It was not, of course, only the control that was firm; these days, Sam’s presence provided his wake up call in more ways than one.
Each of them had spent a busy morning since then, but every time they had spoken, Frodo thought Sam a trifle unsettled for some reason. He could well understand being bothered by a lack of the right word - it happened to him quite often when he was attempting translation from the Elvish. He would have been surprised if Sam had been puzzled by anything in the books he had borrowed recently, though, for Sam’s intelligence was more than equal to making out meaning from context if need be. But one not found in his reading?
‘It’s - it may not be a very proper word, sir. But I can’t think of anybody else who knows as much about words as you do and I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind…’
Sam’s voice trailed off uncertainly, and Frodo suspected he may be wondering what his Gaffer would say to hear him asking an improper question of his master.
‘Ah. Well, my vocabulary of naughty words used to be quite extensive, Sam, but I haven’t had much use for them recently, so I may be rather rusty! Still, I shall do my best. What word is it?’
‘I don’t think it’s exactly a naughty word, sir,’ Sam said with a mild blush. ‘I just never heard it before and it’s something to do with a game - only I never saw it played so maybe it is a bit naughty. It’s… the word is… fourplay. It’s what our Daisy said when May told her off for spending so much time off in the dark with Ned Berryman - though I never saw four of them go off together. Naught but a bit o’ fourplay, she said to May, only the way she said it, I didn’t like to ask.’
‘Ah.’ Frodo understood now what had prompted the query, and perhaps also what had caused his unsettlement. Having attained the status of tween at last, Sam was old enough to receive (and for Gaffer to allow him to accept) the invitation to Dal Braithwaite’s recent birthday party - an occasion hosted and attended by hobbits who were all somewhat older than he. He would have coped, of course, with the more grownup manners and food - and even the drink he was now officially permitted (since, like many teens, he’d actually been enjoying it illicitly for several years now). But Frodo could well imagine him feeling at a loss when it came to the sort of games that may have been played afterwards.
‘The word is foreplay - f-o-r-e, as in before, Sam.’
‘So what does it mean, exactly, Mr Frodo?’
Frodo sighed inwardly. Of all the questions he didn’t need to have Sam ask him. ‘Foreplay is… well it’s… it’s making someone feel very good,’ he said, rather lamely.
‘Before you play this game, then?’
‘Well… yes, of sorts,’ Frodo agreed - and, Oh! the thought of Sam, playing with him…
‘What game?’ The simple fact that Sam needed to ask the question was one of many reasons Frodo couldn’t play with him. Sam was far too young to be…
With a deep breath for courage to enable him to carry this off without a betraying blush of his own, Frodo said, ‘The game that two hobbits play together - mostly in bed, Sam.’ He almost managed it, too; but then Sam looked directly at him, and Frodo’s face wasn’t the only place where heat was rising.
‘Oh,’ Sam said, also blushing, his gaze dropping quickly to his toes. ‘I’d like to play that game. Stands to reason that if one hobbit can make himself feel good, two hobbits together should be even better…’
Ridiculously, Frodo had not really considered the fact that Sam was-well, it seemed he was old enough to know exactly which game one hobbit could play, alone in his bed. But that didn’t mean…
‘So how does it go, then?’ Sam’s face was very earnest.
‘W-What?’ Frodo was struggling internally with the notion that teaching was always best done through showing; he had to drag his concentration back from the sudden image of Sam, no longer alone in his bed - nor even alone in Frodo’s bed - and from a rather complex move his mind had been demonstrating on Sam’s wonderfully naked body.
‘This foreplay, sir? I ought to know, Mr Frodo. I felt such a fool when they were all full of sly grins, and laughing at me behind my back. They made me feel like a teen again, with their nudging, and their secret smiles and such - and I’m not.’
No, he wasn’t. And what that almost grown-hobbit physique was doing to Frodo now, merely by being thought upon, was most definitely adult. And - Frodo couldn’t help himself by now, he had to look, surreptitiously and rather shamefacedly - there was definite evidence to support the theory that Sam was as alive to possibility as Frodo himself, now. But at Sam’s age, merely talking about such things could-well, anyway…
Moving carefully, Frodo pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, gingerly, indicating to Sam that he should do the same. They faced each other across the table. It was safer thus, Frodo reasoned, with that small part of his mind still available for such practical matters. He tucked each foot resolutely behind a leg of his chair, to avoid even the smallest possibility that one or other may take a mind of its own, and sidle off to stroke gently at Sam’s well-muscled calves, and the thatch of bright hair spilling silkily across strong, straight toes. The weather had been wet and quite miserable for several days now, hence Sam’s occupation in the pantries rather than in the garden. His feet were therefore without their usual coat of grass clippings, the odd dozen or so of seedheads, and an intermittent skim of garden soil. Frodo knew that silkiness quite well, for he had once been called upon to cold compress a sprained ankle for Sam, in the days when Sam’s leg was still simply Sam’s leg, and holding it fast had caused no such tremors as the memory, upon which Frodo’s imagination was wont to dwell, when Sam was absent and he needed that reminder.
He had caught himself more than once, observing the agility of Sam’s toes; the way he would use them to steady a line while he knocked in the peg to tie it to, thus ensuring neat rows for drawing drills or the planting out of seedlings; the way they held taut the strings on a parcel while he melted the sealing wax, ready to drip it deftly onto the knot. It had been quite easy, thenceforth, to delegate the entire business of parcel-sealing, on the grounds that, ‘You make a far neater job of it, Sam!’ Indeed, certain elderly relatives had begun to remark upon Frodo’s thoughtfulness in despatching bulky mathoms, each of them requiring large quantities of brown paper and yards and yards of string - and many a blob of bright red wax - at random times of the year.
In fact, he’d almost decided that he was developing something of a foot fetish, the way his eyes were drawn to those fascinating feet. But when it became clear that the only ones that caused him even a momentary shiver were Sam’s, he realised with some relief that, in the general run of things, he was not.
‘Mr Frodo?’
Sam’s voice broke into his reverie, rather fortunately, at the point at which Frodo’s mind, whilst acknowledging the perfection of Sam’s nether digits, had, in fact risen inexorably higher - though the table between them formed an all too opaque barrier to the direct contemplation of- He shook his head and forced his mind back to Sam’s dilemma.
‘Sam, I ought not to-’
‘Leave me in the dark about these things, Mr Frodo? If you don’t mind, that is?’
Mind? Frodo drew a deep breath. ‘No, Sam, I don’t mind.’ Which was possibly at once the least and the most truthful statement he had made throughout this conversation. He could do this, he could. He could keep to matters theoretical, and his hands, if not his imagination, off Samwise.
‘Well, now. You know, of course that-well, that some things feel better than others?’ He concentrated his gaze on his own hands, resting on that peskily solid table top, for to look at Sam may render it impossible to actually say these things at all.
When Sam did not reply at once, Frodo risked a peep upward at his face, to find him with eyes similarly cast down, and blushing rather furiously now. His only reply was a swift, embarrassed nod.
Frodo cleared his throat, and continued, ‘And not every-one,’ he managed to avoid the word body, over which his tongue would definitely have stumbled-
…would have swept long and languorous strokes over a chest honeyed by the warmth of the sun, graced with an alluring patch of golden curls, between two plump and perfect nipples…
Clearing his throat once more, he resumed, ‘Not everyone likes the same things. What may feel rather wonderful to me, (Sam’s hands on his bare skin, anywhere at all…) would possibly not feel the same to-’ he very nearly said you, but the image that accompanied the combination of word and thought, was not lightly to be set loose, so he altered it quickly to, ‘-to someone else.’
Sam seemed dubious. ‘Surely the same touch should feel the same to everybody?’ He had no trouble with the latter word, but Frodo had to speak sternly to his imagination, and examine his fingernails quite intently to avoid his eyes following the trend of his thought.
‘It seems not, Sam. Everyone is different, so they feel things differently.’ The notion that telling was less effective than showing, returned strongly. Surely if he simply demonstrated - a brief touch couldn’t be that wrong, could it?
…his fingers running lightly, longingly, from the crown of Sam’s golden head, over sun-tinted muscle and sinew, and then down - Frodo’s own stomach muscles clenched, now - down below his waistband… where the sun never reached, and Sam would be pale and oh so tempting…
He shook his head again, hoping to clear it. ‘There are many different-um-ways you can try. That’s part of the fun, actually - finding out what each of-’ he so nearly said us that the gulp as he swallowed the word was quite audible in the quiet kitchen, ‘-what you and your lass enjoy most.’ And hadn’t that word taken some getting out! But Sam had asked about foreplay as between lads and lasses, and that was how he’d want to use it. He didn’t need to know that Frodo’s own experience was not wholly confined to lasses, nor that Arlo had been more expert in this than any lass that had ever laid hands on Frodo.
On Sam’s hands - and nowhere else! he told himself sternly, and plunged in with the request before he could think twice about it.
‘Put out your hands, please, Sam? This is just one way that-that I used to-’ Frodo swallowed again, ‘-used to really like - when I was younger, of course.’
Sam placed both hands, palms down, on the kitchen table, his head on one side, face alight with interest and expectation. Slowly and delicately, Frodo trailed his own fingers from Sam’s wrists to his fingertips, barely skimming the layer of fine hair that glinted an almost invisible gold. And although he was providing the touch, the sensation of Sam’s skin - the warmth of it so close beneath his own - ignited tiny, hot flashes which raced unerringly to where Frodo could well have done without the extra stimulation.
Used to like, indeed! He had liked doing it - and had very much liked having it done for him - this, and so much more. But here and now - this was far beyond mere liking. This was doing it for - to - with Sam…
‘Oh!’ Sam jumped, snatched his hands back, and looked at them wonderingly. ‘That was-nice, Mr Frodo. I never had my hands feel like that before.’ And he put them eagerly forth again.
‘Turn them over, please.’ Frodo’s own hands were practically trembling now. His stomach clenched again, remembering his long ago lover and the effect of that gentle touch - a stroke so light it was almost not there, with an effect unbelievably potent; remembering too, where it had led then - and he wished with all his heart that he had never begun this exercise in theory, with the hobbit he never could have in that same way.
But this was a gift he could offer, to make of it what Sam would. Perhaps Sam would not feel it as he had - and if he did, that could be nothing to Frodo. He must only hope that whomever Sam gifted it to in his turn would appreciate the care - maybe even the love, too - that Sam would undoubtedly put into his caresses.
Sam’s strong, capable hands waited quiescent on the table, fingers curling slightly upward - his eyes fixed on them as though he didn’t dare look at his master. Gaffer wouldn’t have approved of this for a single minute, of course; Sam was very likely torn between his thirst for knowledge and a healthy respect for his father’s constant warning as to knowing his place.
Recklessly, Frodo banished all such thoughts from his mind and brushed a finger, scarce a touch at all, from the soft skin at the pulse point of Sam’s wrists to the tips of his longest fingers, then down again, to swirl intricate patterns, slow patterns of infinite stealth, upon those broad palms. He dared a glance at Sam’s face, knowing quite well that he must not meet his eyes, for he could never then maintain a purely theoretical position in this impromptu lesson.
Sam’s eyes were fortunately closed now, but the hitch in his breathing, and his expression - tight, concentrated, needy - told Frodo that he was not alone in his appreciation of feather-light foreplay. More than that, though, it brought back to him the realisation that what he was doing was both dangerous and completely wrong. Dangerous, because he had reached the absolute limit of his ability to continue with the pretence that this was merely a practical demonstration of what Sam had asked to know. Wrong, because Sam was young and innocent and Frodo was both old enough to know better, and his employer into the bargain. The shame of knowing that he was taking advantage of Sam, swept him abruptly from his chair.
‘That’s just an example, to get you started, as it were,’ he said, with some difficulty. ‘Just remember that-that wherever you may bestow it, a slow and gentle touch is often the most pleasurable, and you’ll be fine. I wish you all luck with your pretty lass, whoever she may be. And now I really must get on.’
He turned to leave the kitchen, clinging to the last shreds of dignity and control, but as he reached the doorway, he paused. Keeping his back to Sam, he cleared his throat yet again. He should provide Sam all the information he may need, in order to help him, no matter the cost to himself.
‘It-that feels-feels really good, if-if you-on really sensitive places.’
That was it, he could manage no more. His pace was necessarily curbed to a walk, though his instinct was to rush away as fast as he could, to shut himself in the study. The bedroom would have been too much of a giveaway, of course, and the bathroom even worse, for the tiled floor meant that sound carried most effectively.
Breathing heavily, he collapsed onto the chair by his desk, giving himself an admonitory pinch. Sam should not hear anything untoward, if Frodo could help it.
Fool, fool, fool, FOOL! That was stupid and reckless in the extreme, and you know it! Sam needs time to grow into his own hobbit, and he does not need a lovesick old nincompoop taking advantage of his youth! He probably wanted to know so that he could use it on some pretty young lass he has his eye on already - Rose Cotton, like as not - and you came within an ames ace of ruining it for him forever!
The thought was more effective than cold water - that his actions may deny Sam the chance ever to know what sweet enticement a lover’s lightest touch could bring. Frodo sighed and picked up his quill, dipping its nib into the inkwell and squaring up to the massive ledger that awaited him. A few entries in the crop yield gain/loss in respect of previous year/s and seed requirement/present year columns should be more than enough to depress whatever intention his mind and body may have of lingering lovingly on a hobbit whose perfections could never be Frodo’s to truly cherish.
###
Despite an extremely restless night, Frodo awoke at once when Sam tapped lightly on the door the following morning. He came in, as always, with the ritual cup of tea, setting it down to draw back the curtains and murmur a few quietly cheerful words about the weather. Even a sky weeping with rain could wrest a positive comment from Sam, as to how much better a slow soak would be for soil in need of water. He had provided Frodo’s wake-up call almost since the day Bilbo left - since the day, in fact, that Frodo had almost slept through his first appearance before the Farthing Moot, when the principle item of business consisted of formally accepting one Baggins in place of another. Sam had saved him that embarrassment, coming in with early tea and a respectful, ‘Good morning, Mr Frodo! Nice bright day for a journey, sir, and breakfast’s all but ready when you are.’
He never seemed to mind if Frodo - in no hurry to rise, when there was nowhere in particular he must be that day - merely grunted in reply and turned over for an extended snooze. But that had not happened for some time now; these days, an extra few minutes of sleep could not possibly compete with his eagerness for the day’s first glimpse of Samwise - even if Frodo must cant one knee modestly to prevent him from realising exactly how pleased his master was to see him. Sam never lingered for more than a polite word or two, correctly leaving Frodo to drink his tea in privacy - which was fortunate, of course. An entire conversation conducted at his bedside - when Sam was delectably morning fresh and Frodo already completely aroused - must soon enough (and gentlehobbitly manners notwithstanding) have degenerated into something completely uncalled for and also terribly inappropriate; something along the lines of, ‘Sam, I love you. Please get into this bed and ravish me!’
On this particular morning, however, Frodo knew himself unequal even to the most limited of exchanges. He didn’t roll over to face Sam, when he heard the quiet clink of china; didn’t yawn and stretch into his usual, conveniently discreet position as the curtain hooks began their rattle along the rails, and sunshine flooded into the room. Deliberately, he didn’t stir at all, willing Sam to believe him asleep.
‘Nice and sunny today after all that rain, Mr Frodo,’ Sam said, ‘and warm as anything! It’ll bring the garden on a treat, this will!’
There was a silence, and Frodo held still, waiting - expecting next to hear the door close again, quietly.
Instead, the very faintest of sounds - foothair, barely grazing the nap of carpet - told him that Sam was approaching the bed, and he willed his breath not to catch, now.
‘Mr Frodo?’ Sam’s voice was not much above a whisper this time - so soft and low that Frodo had no difficulty whatever imagining the words of love he would one day murmur to his chosen lass. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and hoped the sound didn’t echo in Sam’s ears the way it did in his.
What happened next was definitely not a part of the usual morning ritual.
The weather was indeed as fair and warm as Sam had said, and Frodo had not needed to sleep the way he usually did, curled tight beneath the covers - like a dormouse in winter, Sam had once told him, in the days when such a comment would occasion nothing more than a shared laugh. Lying on his side, right arm above the coverlet, his nightshirt alone was more than enough covering for a fine morning of late Spring. But he shivered now as its fabric brushed against his skin - a soft caress of worn white cotton that drifted lightly from shoulder almost to elbow.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and froze, waiting for Sam to… for Sam to… His mind tumbled over and over the many wonderful things Sam may or may not do next. But what he actually heard was the click of the door handle settling back into place. He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes, and groaned aloud. Had he really believed that Sam would-?
Baggins, you are beyond foolish!
Whatever he might like to imagine, that had not been a caress. Had it?
No, of course not. Sam had merely reached out to shake him by the shoulder, that was all. He’d simply thought better of it at the last moment - probably assuming his master had spent yet another late night amongst his books, and was thus in real need of a lie-in.
The only explanation Frodo could find for that momentary - and quite delicious - illusion was that he had quite simply taken leave of his senses at last. He had begun to hallucinate his dearest wishes - a not unusual side effect, he understood from his reading, of unreciprocated passion. That must be it because Sam wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t touch his master inappropriately, really he wouldn’t.
More was the pity.
Frodo sighed and reached for the damp washcloth; he had found it prudent of late to place one usefully in concealment by his bedside each night.
###
The kitchen was redolent of bacon and sausage, already waiting on a warmed plate with a generous quantity of mushrooms. Sam was sliding a pair of plumply orange-yolked eggs onto the fried bread.
‘There you go, sir,’ he said, and set the plate neatly down in Frodo’s usual place at table. Everything else was also in its accustomed spot - teapot in its knitted cosy, with milk jug and sugar bowl, cup, saucer and teaspoon; toast rack full, honey waiting in the cut glass jar with its twizzly beechwood dipper usefully to hand; butter curled onto a dish exactly as Bell had taught Sam was the Quality way, bread ready for slicing should Frodo require it. Everything, in fact, that a hobbit could possibly require to make a truly excellent breakfast; everything, that was, except a place laid for Sam. There was only an already steaming mug, waiting quietly beside the teapot.
‘You’re not joining me this morning, Sam,’ Frodo said, and hoped it hadn’t sounded quite as petulant as he suspected it might. He simply enjoyed his breakfast more if Sam were there. At busy times, though, he would often take a mug, and maybe a slice of toast, out into the garden with him; this being Sam’s second breakfast, of course, his day having begun so much earlier than Frodo’s.
‘Weeds wait for no hobbit in weather like this, sir,’ Sam said, setting the frying pan aside to cool and checking the fire in the stove, ‘so I’d best be off out there afore they gets ahead of me! Gaffer reckons as the wet spell, with this warm weather following so close behind, means the frosts are safely over for the year. I’ll be making a start, today, on getting the tender bedding out of the frames and into the ground.’
Tempted though he may be, Frodo resolutely resisted unseemly comment that must surely lead to an invitation that Sam should, without delay, sample the tenderness to be found within his bedding; and merely nodded.
With less enthusiasm than it deserved, he forked up a chunk of sausage, smeared it liberally with yolk, dabbed it into a pool of the brown sauce that Daisy made almost as well as Bell used to, and - almost morosely - chewed the result. Goodness - whatever was the matter with him this morning, behaving like a lovelorn tween? Maybe he couldn’t help the first part of that, but he was out of his tweens and ought by now to have grown into a hobbit who was adult enough to know there were things he couldn’t have in this life - the foremost of which was Sam Gamgee.
Yesterday’s little episode had clearly unsettled him far more than he realised.
‘There’s the rest of the ham, and plenty of salad stuff for lunch, sir, and a fowl stewing in the bottom oven for your supper. I’ll pop a few taters and whatnot in, afore I goes home.’ Sam lifted the kettle from its place on the range and poured a generous amount of hot water into the washing up bowl, swishing the soap cage in preparation for Frodo’s dishes when he finished eating. All being as prepared as he could make it, he was ready to go - obviously keen to answer the call of his beloved garden, and not reckoning on wasting much more time on his master today.
Frodo tried not to sigh. ‘Very well, Sam,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Enjoy yourself out there!’
‘Yessir!’ Sam said. He picked up his mug of tea, walking quietly behind Frodo’s chair on his way to the door and-
Frodo almost choked on a mouthful of fried bread as Sam’s shadow passed swiftly through the open door and out into the garden.
He surely had not imagined that?
A hobbit with his mind on his breakfast - well, mostly on his breakfast - simply did not imagine a feather-light brush of fingers to the back of his neck. And he could scarcely blame the sudden constriction within his trousers on a meal as yet barely begun.
Frodo was certain - absolutely convinced - that every hair on his head was actually rising now, each one seeking again the touch that had just set his heart racing and every inch of his skin alight with need.
He gasped, swallowed, and closed his eyes, willing himself to live the moment - the sensation - once again. There was he, sitting quietly at the table, enjoying his breakfast, and there was Sam, walking silently from the kitchen sink toward the door. There went Sam’s left hand, reaching for the mug of well-sweetened tea that awaited him by the teapot. And here - here was his right hand in an almost casual upward drift; almost casual but quite definitely threading the hair that rested on Frodo’s collar… quite definitely gliding, swift yet subtle, across the skin beneath. And, yes, there went the havoc, skittering wildly through a body that was already more than receptive…
Sam had touched him. Devastatingly. Again.
But, no. There went his imagination - more vivid than ever, where Sam was concerned - running away with him once more. All Sam had done was to set a hand to the back of Frodo’s chair, merely easing his way between it and the dresser. That his fingers had grazed his master’s hair was no more than an accident in passing. It was possibly just a little surprising that he had not instantly apologised; but perhaps he had considered that, hair not being sentient, Frodo would not notice.
But not noticing Sam had been impossible for some time. Frodo had come to the conclusion that his senses had somehow honed themselves to a sharper awareness of everything that Sam did or said - or simply was; so it was perhaps not really surprising that even his hair would react to Sam’s touch.
The keen edge of want settled to its accustomed level, and he found he could breathe easily once more - though the morsel of bacon currently impaled upon his fork could induce in him only a feeling of nausea. It was all the fault of that little talk, he thought, with a revivifying draught of tea to help matters along. That same vivid - all right fevered, when it came to Sam - that same fevered imagination had spent the entire night conjuring dreams in which Sam’s fingers had touched him absolutely everywhere, and Frodo had touched right back again, with escalating and perfectly predictable results that in the dream had been more than satisfying; the recurring stickiness of reality being never a problem there. But Frodo would have traded its absence in a trice for the chance to share that satisfaction in truth.
Such dreams always left him feeling more bereft than ever, of course, and a temporary increase in his awareness of Sam was really only to be expected.
He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. The half-full plate before him had completely lost its allure. With a sigh he finished the cup of tea and collected up the remains of his breakfast; Daddy Twofoot’s hens would really enjoy their supper, he thought - with a brief hope that their digestions might not be impaired by what was, after all, a form of cannibalism. But Twofoot fed their baked, crushed eggshells back to them as part of the grit they apparently needed, so perhaps a small amount of actual egg wouldn’t hurt. More important, though, was that Sam should not be hurt by his scraping of a perfectly prepared meal into the waste bucket. He placed the uneaten toast artistically on top, and resolved to peel his own potatoes for the evening meal - sufficient that the parings would finally conceal completely the incriminating evidence of his loss of appetite. And he would slip along The Row with the bucket himself, to save Sam the effort and himself the possibility of discovery.
###
The next few days were a form of sweet torture and surely equal - at least in the annals of love - to anything Beren could have suffered in the dungeons of Morgoth.
They were marked by an inordinate and surely increasing amount of possibly unintentional touching and of almost-but-not-quite caresses. Of Sam moving hastily and, on the face of it, quite innocently out of Frodo’s way; preceded, of course, by an equally inordinate amount of Sam being in it. Each time, it seemed, a different part of Frodo was the happy beneficiary. There was the momentary and maybe accidental easing of one broad shoulder alongside Frodo’s; and a perhaps unintended but nonetheless close encounter of a shapely, well-rounded hip that for one dizzying instant grazed against his own as Sam squeezed deftly past. Of course, a strong arm very likely would pass close to Frodo, were Sam to stretch for jar or packet or tool on a shelf just above him, and thus lightly brush his hair in passing. Their hands were quite liable to clash awkwardly if they reached as one for a single item; or their feet, should one of Sam’s snake out to retrieve something dropped that had landed, quite fortuitously, just by Frodo’s own; so that for seconds - or ages - on end, foothair must merge and tease, the dark with the fair. And on one most notable occasion, there was a possibly inadvertent - but appreciably protracted - shift of Sam’s thigh, tight against Frodo’s bottom, as they scrambled together on hands and knees to replace a smouldering log, fallen from the hearth; and hadn’t that set things alight…
Each occurrence was unfailingly marked by rapid disappearances on two fronts: of Sam from wherever the incident may have taken place; and of almost every spare ounce of blood that Frodo possessed, to active service southward of his waistband. Marked also by a complete inability in Frodo to do anything other than stare after Sam, mouth opening and closing in fair emulation of the huge, uncatchable pike that had for years lurked just out of range at one of his favourite fishing places.
There had been further possibly-not-wake-up-but-quite-distinctly-arousing touches to the sleeve of his nightshirt (Frodo had hunted in vain for a thinner one - preferably with all the texture of a new-made cobweb; such a change could, with some plausibility, be ascribed to the warmer weather). And the essential washcloth had, of course, been called increasingly into play.
He had begun to feel anticipatorily dizzy whenever Sam came into a room with him at all; and by the time he took to his bed at night, he was quite certain that if Sam had entered his room - for whatever innocent reason - and cast so much as a heavy glance toward his master, all would have been over without Frodo having even a moment to appreciate it. So to speak.
Part Two