Ficgift: Two Play, Foreplay
Part Two
It was teatime and Frodo went in search of Sam, bearing a tray with tea and a plate of still-warm scones, split and thickly buttered. He was perfectly capable of cooking for himself despite all Sam’s conviction to the contrary, and had whisked up a fresh batch; baking providing a far more soothing occupation than any accounts ledger. It was quite definitely time for a break, he realised, when the row on which he was working - which should have tallied a formidable rank of figures whose import he had quite forgotten - contained instead an entry which read, quite simply, Sam+Frodo= … the dots bearing for him a significance that stretched far beyond mere omission.
Sam’s welcome seemed just a trifle stilted, and Frodo couldn’t quite decide if the difficulty in meeting his master’s eyes was his usual embarrassment at being waited on, or something more. He remained somewhat subdued as Frodo poured and sugared the tea and passed over his mug, but when asked about his progress so far, his telling began quite easily: what he had achieved already today, what was still to do, and just how this fitted into The Grand Plan for the garden this season. His enthusiasm soon swept away any lingering awkwardness and all was as usual between them.
In fact, things had returned so far toward normal - with all of Frodo’s distraction concentrated upon the sight of a pink tongue flicking out to collect stray crumbs (to say nothing of buttery smears) - that, when Sam collected mugs and plates back onto the tray and lifted it to pass it to him, Frodo had almost forgotten the touching issue. He dropped his gaze hastily, hoping Sam may not have noticed his preoccupation with matters rather more personal than the tricky question of whether purple petunias or blue lobelia would make the better show alongside the marigolds this year.
His mind directed once more to the practicality of accepting the tray, Frodo curled his fingers quite confidently beneath its rim, the weight transferring with ease from one to the other. But then-
Frodo’s mind shut down so fast that Sam was three-quarters of the way to the potting shed before the blood returned to his brain and thought was possible once more. And it was a very good thing that his grip on the tray was suddenly so tight that his knuckles showed stark white, or what had occurred would have proved quite literally shattering, too.
No, he really had not imagined that.
The passing of a tea tray from one hobbit to another did not require the softly stealthy stroke of strong and calloused hands from fingertip to wrists that had been susceptible always to that gentle blandishment, though Frodo was perfectly prepared henceforth to institute such a requirement; provided only that it was limited to such transactions as they occurred within the confines of Bag End - and even then, strictly to those between himself and Sam.
And it was quite definitely not rampant imagination that was currently making a concerted bid to burst the buttons right off his trousers.
He contrived somehow to make his way back into the smial and to deposit his burden on the table without the loss of more than an odd teaspoon - and his wits, of course. For he was surely losing them now - Sam couldn’t really be mounting a deliberate campaign with the object of driving his master right out of them. Could he?
He wouldn’t deliberately tease his master into an overwhelming state of desire, then walk away and leave him practically vibrating with need - would he? Ah, but Sam didn’t know of his ability to arouse that master, simply by being, so he couldn’t know about the vibration either.
Could he?
###
Frodo shut himself away in the study for the remainder of the day. When Sam knocked to say that he had finished his work and was leaving, Frodo’s supper being well underway and only needing to be served, he only called a reply through the closed door. Once sure that Sam had left, he went through to the kitchen and removed his meal to the cool of the larder.
He had a great deal of thinking to do before he could face Sam again - in the parlour at first, until gathering shadow sent him early to bed rather than face the bother of lighting lamps. But light or dark, his mind travelled the same ground over and over, constantly at war with his body’s desire to relive the many ways, accidental or not, that Sam had touched him, since that innocent question had brought about this crisis in Frodo’s conscience.
Until now, it had been possible to ascribe each and every one of the incidents that had so disturbed his equanimity (amongst other things), to an imagination spiralling wildly out of his control.
That secret touch beneath the tea-tray, though, that must have been deliberate - but was it really proof of anything, beyond a wish on Sam’s part to make his master feel good? Had Frodo, in fact, overestimated the extent of Sam’s appreciation of feather-light foreplay? Could Sam actually believe it to be simply a pleasant, even a friendly thing to offer, and not as rivetingly arousing to him as it was to Frodo. He may - it seemed unlikely but it was just possible - he may be merely reciprocating what had been offered to him, and in the same altruistic manner.
Frodo had, however unwillingly - no, not unwillingly, only selfishly, wanting to give Sam pleasure under a convenient pretext; he had introduced Sam to the delights of foreplay. But he had done so with the intention, if never the wish, that Sam may use such arts to seduce a lass into his arms and, eventually, his bed. He had made that point at the time, quite plainly (if reluctantly), he thought, so that Sam should not suspect him of any ulterior motive. So whatever Sam was doing, he was doing with full intent.
In truth, Sam’s touching of him, uninvited - as between servant and master - was as inappropriate as his own must be, from master to servant, if unwelcome; and, Frodo reasoned further, for Sam to do any such thing was a risk far greater than his own. An outright and even angry rejection might not only mean Sam losing his post as gardener and servant at Bag End and, lacking a reference, never finding another; far more cogently, his Gaffer would probably - and despite the recent entry into tweenage - tan his son’s backside from here to Bywater and back again if he so much as suspected him of propositioning the Master.
Frodo grinned wryly at the thought, but quickly sobered. That was, in essence, exactly what Sam had done; what Frodo remained uncertain of, was why.
If all he intended was the opportunity for further foreplay with that master, it may be better for both if Sam were to seek another post - with the best reference that Frodo could provide. For he could not - would not - betray his love for Sam in such a casual, unfeeling way. He needed Sam in his life and in his bed. He needed Sam’s love. But if Sam wanted no more of him than the transient pleasures of touch, then Frodo could not continue to keep him near. It would hurt too much, to have him so close and even willing, yet so far from what Frodo truly wanted. And it would not be fair to Sam.
The day dawned at last, after a night of repeated awakenings. But awake or asleep, his uncertainties vied relentlessly in Frodo’s mind and dreams. In some, Sam was every bit as loving as he could wish, and that one real instance of Sam’s hand delicately stroking him overlaid all earlier memories, so that Frodo had never in his life made love with anyone but Sam. In others - far less palatable if perhaps more likely - Sam was no more than accommodating of his master’s need for touch, until proficient enough himself to approach whichever lass he’d an eye to.
Frodo knew he had come at last to the end of his tether. He simply had to know one way or the other, whether the stealthy slide of any part of Sam against Frodo, and most specifically (since he was all but naked here, barring the thinnest garment he could find) of fingers on night shirt, arousing far beyond their reach, could mean the more that he so fervently desired; or whether Sam’s waking of him today must be the last.
He still hoped, of course; he really hoped that both of them wanted the same thing; that it may be possible for Sam to love him in return. But the more he thought about it, the less sure he seemed to become. A stratagem of sorts was clearly called for, and the sooner the better. He was determined though that should all go awry, the blame would be his alone. Whatever the reason, were Sam to leave his service, no fault should be laid at his feet. Frodo sighed, composed himself, and waited.
###
The morning ritual began as ever with Sam’s cheerful comment on the day’s prospects - ‘Looks like being a warm ’un again, Mr Frodo - the first strawberries’ll be ripe afore we knows it, if this keeps up!’ - over the clink of china. A brisk rattle of curtain hooks let in bright sunshine to form a momentary halo around his head, that Frodo just caught from the corner of his eye.
For this morning, Frodo was not lying turned away from Sam - he was on his back, covers pushed down as if they were making him too hot. Sam was not to know - yet - that he was the principle cause of that heat, rather than the prevailing weather; or that it was against his gaze that those blameless covers must be artfully and concealingly bunched, just below waist level. Frodo had considered dispensing with the nightshirt altogether, deciding in the end that such an unprecedented action may unsettle Sam too much. He was breathing deeply in order to simulate sleep, his eyes almost closed; the very thinnest sliver of sight seeped through the dark fringe of his lashes.
He had deliberately left undone every button on his nightshirt, the fingers of one hand still artistically entangled, so it may seem to Sam that he’d dragged it away in search of cooler air. The other lay free across his middle - both hands outside the covers for a definite reason. He watched as Sam approached the bed, hoping that the lash-filtered smile may be as fond as it looked. It took a considerable effort to keep his breathing steady whilst Sam simply stood there, regarding him. Even with his view so restricted, Frodo rather thought that gaze may be appreciative, for Sam was concentrating quite intently on the unaccustomed stretch of skin so obligingly displayed by the absence of nightshirt.
Frodo’s artistry had stretched to the almost uncovering of a single nipple - little more than a hint, from where Sam was standing, he hoped; perfect for a tease that could be explained away as accidental, should that be necessary. He intended - with some success, if Sam’s suddenly indrawn breath was shock of the good kind - that the sight may bring him into the right frame of mind for what Frodo sincerely hoped would follow. Of course, Sam may not have the same nipple fetish that Frodo admittedly possessed, but Frodo cherished great hope that he may be as open to instruction - in the giving, if not the receiving - as ever he had been in the rudiments of grammar.
Sam’s tongue came out - a quick and nervous swipe to wet his lips - and Frodo was sure his breathing had quickened, too. He was having to really work at keeping his own to a steady rhythm, now, and he wished that Sam would get on and do something.
Sam did. He took his bottom lip between his teeth - his habit when faced with a challenge; out in the garden over some knotty problem with the year’s rotation, perhaps; or when tackling a book that stretched the boundaries of his understanding. It was a habit that had begun to affect Frodo deeply, for it spoke to him always of the mobility of Sam’s mouth; of how agile his tongue may be, and where Sam may bestow it, given sufficient encouragement; how his teeth seemed exactly made to provide nibbling of the most deliciously arousing kind; and how wonderful those lips would feel, warm and wet and sucking strongly, on any single part of Frodo…
He swallowed - too loudly, he thought. Letting his head sag further into the pillow, he tugged the entangled hand a little sideways to distract Sam from realising he was awake. He knew at once that it had worked, for he could almost feel Sam’s eyes travel the slope of his neck; feel its heat slide down and down over slightly damp and sleep-flushed skin, to the now fully revealed nipple. It was also fully aroused, now, and standing to attention - seeking, in fact, exactly the kind of the attention for which the rest of Frodo was practically panting.
He began to wonder how much longer he could keep up this pretence. But he couldn’t make his move - not yet, for Sam had actually done nothing as yet that any efficient - if possibly over-inquisitive - servant may not have done of a morning. And to move without a sign from Sam would be a terrible mistake, may lead to misunderstandings, to anger - to parting, even. It was not a risk Frodo was prepared to take, for to lose Sam - as friend and expert gardener if not as lover - was a deprivation never to be borne if he could help it.
Seemingly satisfied that Frodo was still asleep, Sam’s smile somehow became at once rather shy and yet very determined. He reached a tentative finger to touch the nightshirt, gliding softly from wrist to shoulder, much as he had done before. Using every scrap of willpower he possessed, Frodo managed to hold still beneath the exquisite caress. Somehow, he kept his breaths quiet and even, his eyelids from lifting. For this time Sam did not remove his hand entirely. A darting glance from beneath his lids told Frodo that the hand was hovering, Sam’s fingers now pointing eagerly where Frodo was quite desperate for their touch.
He waited. Still and silent and inwardly vibrating to the very quick, he waited, as Sam’s hand ventured slowly - so slowly that Frodo feared his skin may scream his frustration - slowly but unerringly to the pert nipple that was all but waving for attention, now. He was almost sure he could feel Sam’s warmth coming closer and closer, and he fought the need to gasp, to open his eyes to the full and watch Sam’s face as he struggled with the temptation to give in to what he wanted - what Frodo so much wanted him - to do.
Finally-Sam’s finger finally touched him, light and gently hesitant - clearly wanting to give far more than the mere brush that was all he dared risk.
And Frodo groaned aloud from the pleasure of it.
Startled, Sam choked back a cry and made to step away from the bed, but quick as winking, Frodo let go of cloth and seized Sam’s wrists instead.
Shaking within that firm grasp, Sam blushed, his face vivid with guilt. Quite unable to look up, he only fixed his eyes on Frodo’s hands and gave himself up to his deserved imprisonment.
‘S-s-s-’ he began, but his stammer of apology was lost as Frodo took up one unresisting hand and brought it unhurriedly, palm inward, to his mouth. With pointed tongue he chased the lines that mapped Sam’s life, and painted the same spiralling patterns his fingertips had shown to Sam already.
‘Is this what you are seeking, Sam - the thrill of touching and being touched that way?’ he asked, the husky murmur returning to him, warm and damp, from the very closeness of that hand. Sam’s eyes had fallen shut, and he shuddered in Frodo’s grasp, under the spell of breath and tongue. That it was a thrill Frodo could not doubt, even before Sam’s stuttered whisper of assent. His own eyes wide now, he could see just how thrilled Sam was. Not even the shame of being caught could diminish his body’s response to Frodo’s touch.
‘And is this-’ he paused to dart wet trails between Sam’s fingers, instantly feeling the differences - the curve of solid, gardener’s callouses protecting softer, more delicate skin; he thought of that rough-smooth contrast gliding over his own most sensitive places, and he shivered. Nipping lightly, then, at the web from thumb to forefinger, he asked forgiveness in a sweep of tongue and received it in the drag of Sam’s breath that begged where he could not. ‘Is this all that you want of me, or can there be more to it for you, Sam - more than just a need for foreplay?’
‘More, sir, please, much more! It’s you - never naught and nobody but you!’ His eyes met Frodo’s, sparking gold now amid the green, and his answer tumbled out so fast and earnest that Frodo could not doubt the truth of it - the truth of Sam’s heart, at last.
And somehow the knowing - the relief - gave him the control not to drag Sam instantly into his bed. This was not the quick and meaningless tumble of a servant such as some gentlehobbits may see as their due. This was his Samwise, who mattered now to Frodo more than anyone left in his world. His Sam should know the sweetness of love-making, so that if in the future he took another to his bed, he would remember only the love and tenderness he had known, and show that to his new love, whoever she - or he - may be.
Sam was trembling now, and Frodo raised a hand once more to his lips, laying a brief kiss to his palm. ‘I should very much like to kiss you, Sam,’ he said, ‘properly, this time.’ Still holding fast to that hand, he rose onto his knees at the edge of the bed. Ruckled bedclothes or not, there was now no disguising his desire, and Sam could not mistake his intent. But Frodo had made only a request; the choice must be Sam’s alone. It was one thing to know yourself wanted, quite another to see the evidence so firm and full before you. Frodo remembered his own trepidation when faced with Arlo’s need so long ago; his own first experience of pleasure with a body not his own.
‘May I, Sam? Please?’
Sam stared, speechless for one endless moment, then swallowed and nodded, an eager desperation clear on his face as he brought up his eyes to meet Frodo’s.
Frodo riffled one hand into his hair, its tawny fall just as silky and arousing as ever he had imagined it to be; gently cupping Sam’s head toward him as the other tilted his chin. The first meeting of their mouths was no more than a slow, dry press of lips, and Frodo knew at once that Sam may have snatched teasing kisses in boisterous teen games - may even have bestowed a shy kiss in more privacy - but he had never dared further than that. He had neither kissed nor been kissed as Frodo invited now - delicate kisses with a damp swirl of tongue to ease their way, his lips plucking softly at Sam’s, suckling them to a riper plumpness.
‘Hold me, Sam, please!’ he said, and gasped at the heat of Sam’s hands through the thin lawn. The firmness of those honest callouses was lost to a touch as careful as Sam would use for the most precious of his seedlings.
The very thought increased Frodo’s need for more. He asked in a liquid slide of tongue between top lip and bottom, and Sam replied on a stifled moan, opening to him in an instant. Frodo delved within, relishing the subtle taste of his Sam for the first time, skating his fingers lightly from Sam’s chin down the warm planes of neck and shoulders, down the front of Sam’s shirt to flicker a thumbnail over-
But Sam jerked sharply at that, choking a cry into Frodo’s mouth. He pulled away quickly to fall forward onto the bed.
‘Sam?’ Frodo said, and stroked a hand down his shoulder. But Sam only curled himself into a tight ball, breathing fast, and would neither look at nor answer him. ‘Oh, Sam!’ Tenderness tightened his voice to a whisper as he realised Sam’s embarrassment. He leaned to kiss the little he could see of Sam’s cheek. ‘Don’t fret, love - I take it as a great compliment to my skill! And the very same thing happened to me, when I discovered such pleasure for the first time. Look at me, Sam - please?’
He stroked Sam’s hair back from his ear, and placed a kiss to the soft skin just beneath. Sam hesitated, then rolled onto his back, still keeping his eyes shuttered against Frodo’s gaze.
‘You aren’t sorry, are you, Sam? I don’t want you to, but if-if this is too much and you feel you must go, I shall understand. I’m sorry, I really did not mean-’
Sam set one hand on Frodo’s arm and shook his head determinedly. ‘It’s only that I feel such a fool, Mr Frodo - like a teen that can’t last more’n five minutes!’
‘I didn’t want you to last, Sam!’ Frodo confessed. ‘I wanted to see you like that - and you turned away at the crucial moment! I shall have to begin all over again…’ He smiled, but then said seriously, ‘Sam, I very much want you in my bed, but you need to know that this is not play of any kind, for me. I love you, Sam, but you are young, there may be others with whom you-’
‘No!’ Sam said. ‘Only ever you, Mr Frodo. When I’m - you know - in bed on my own, like we said,’ one hand, waving downward, indicated all that he couldn’t say aloud, ‘then, it’s always been you that I-I think of, then. That I imagine…you know…’ He blushed again and his voice trailed off, but Frodo felt a sudden wave of tender understanding for his shy young love.
‘I should like to see you do that, one day,’ he said, with a grin for Sam’s sudden confusion and a blush that out-hued every other, ‘but for now… Do you remember what I said about really sensitive places, Sam? I’m going to show you exactly what I meant!’
‘B-but what about you, Mr Frodo,’ Sam asked. ‘Can’t I…’ He hesitated again, seeming uncertain that he could give to Frodo the pleasure he had just received.
‘Not yet, Sam. I’m older than you, so I can last!’ Though, he admitted to himself, not for much longer, now; but the pleasure of being with Sam like this was surely worth the wait.
Frodo bent to take Sam’s mouth again, and felt all shyness and anxiety melt into the kiss. Sam was gaining confidence in this, at least, enough that he was kissing as much as he was kissed, and Frodo could not remember such sweetness ever before. He tensed only slightly when Frodo smoothed a hand over him once more, roaming lightly from collar bone to the curve of ribs, unloosing buttons as he went, his fingers slipping beneath Sam’s shirt, then, to trail delicate whorls upon his skin. Sam moaned quietly when Frodo ended the kiss, sliding down to take an already taut nipple between his lips. He tugged at it lightly, and Sam’s breath came sharp and hitching; Frodo knew without looking what a wonderful thing it was, in some ways, to be a tween.
His mouth wandered playfully from one to the other, sucking, flickering - teasing Sam into forgetting just where that hand may be as it quested stealthily, ever lower. Encountering Sam’s waistband, Frodo circled a finger briefly beneath it, smiling into Sam’s skin as he shivered. He skated outward then, over Sam’s hip and down the outside of his thigh, the homespun rough beneath his fingers after the smooth warm stretch of Sam himself.
And now he brought the hand up slowly, along the inner curve of thigh, and Sam’s legs fell open on the instant, as the other hand paused at the fastening of his breeches.
‘Is this all right, Sam?’
Sam could only nod and watch as Frodo’s fingers released button after button. When the last remnants of clothing were pulled away, he managed, ‘S-sticky!’
‘Just a little!’ Frodo grinned fondly, and reached for the really useful cloth, wiping away the mess on Sam’s belly. No matter how carefully he tried to avoid it, as yet, his knuckles grazed the solid hardness now returning, and Sam gasped.
Frodo set aside the cloth and whispered, ‘Really sensitive places, Sam!’ as he leaned close to bestow more kisses - but not to Sam’s mouth, not this time. At the first touch of his lips, Sam jerked and writhed; when Frodo added a wet slide of tongue, he panted harshly. His fists lay slack at his sides, opening and closing helplessly as if he would use them but had not a thought spare to direct them. His eyes met Frodo’s, half-lidded now, their green smudging to a smoky sage, and his mouth moved as if he would say something. No words would come, but the sounds that escaped him - low and desperate in his throat - told Frodo everything he wished to know of Sam’s enjoyment and his desire for more.
‘Shh…’ he soothed, and turned his head to press his lips briefly to the inside of Sam’s thigh, then lifted away to blow again, softly cooling heated skin. ‘I have you, my Samwise…’
The time for play of any kind was past, now, Sam’s need too urgent to wait longer. Frodo set to work in earnest, abandoning light and teasing touches, or the flicker of his tongue, for the solid grasp of one hand above the tangle of wiry curl, and a keenly dedicated suckling. Only moments later Sam was pulsing into his mouth, his face tight with the agony of a pleasure he’d known for the very first time.
Frodo swallowed around him, gentling him back into the world with licks and soft kisses, but he was so close himself, now. He clutched at Sam, pushing, rubbing, twisting fiercely against him, against Sam’s leg, caught up in the most frantic rhythm of all. So close, so close, yet never close enough, until Sam found again the use of his hands. Quite what he intended then, Frodo was never to discover. No sooner had one broad strong hand cupped itself around him than he was there - his body arching into a reckless delight he had not known in many a year.
Languid and boneless from the curls on his head to those that warmed his toes, he still managed somehow to heave himself up to lie beside Sam. Sam smiled at him, a soft and sated smile that showed him to be no less shattered by the love they had made between them. Frodo rolled toward him for a short, sweet kiss, but both hobbits were asleep before either one could say a single word.
###
When next Frodo opened his eyes, the sun had travelled far across the sky - but it was not the change of light and shadow that awoke him.
What woke him was the gradual awareness of mouth and fingers upon him, sliding, stroking, petting… Sam’s careful exploration was magically discovering his every secret place, each tiny stretch or crook of skin that was somehow so much more receptive; that would ever quicken desire within him, swift and sharp. A quick flash of surprise melted into wonder, that Sam should be so good at this, when he’d not even been properly kissed before today. Yet here he was, not only finding out Frodo’s secrets but using them against him, on him, making him writhe and shudder with desperate need.
How could Sam have taken two short lessons in foreplay to heart so quickly and so completely?
With an effort, he pushed up onto one elbow. He had to see Sam doing this to him - Sam, who was looking at him now as if Frodo was everything he’d ever wanted and never thought to have. He said nothing, though. No need, after all, to ask if Frodo liked what he was doing, or if he even wanted it at all. Frodo’s body was doing a fine job all on its own of telling Sam just how much it welcomed, how deeply it revelled in his touch. He could feel the fine red flush upon his skin, the ache of longing in nipples peaked already, glistening damp yet hopeful still of more. He shivered with anticipation as Sam smiled up at him, and dipped his head to follow the liquid trail he’d paused at Frodo’s waking, lips and tongue working slowly and methodically down and down and-
And then Sam nudged at him with a tentative lick, circling and sliding wetly, over and around, and Frodo was suddenly harder than he’d ever been before. He drew a sharp breath, his mouth dust-dry now, swallowing tight and almost impossible. Sam was panting too, his breath gusting hot and cold over Frodo’s skin as he explored where he’d never touched in this way before. Frodo splayed his fingers on the sheet below him - splayed and clutched and splayed again - wanting, wanting, needing - but there was no relief to be found there, only in-
He groaned aloud at the first, the glorious warm wet cling of Sam’s mouth all around him. He tried to thrust for more - more of that deep and careful suckling, more of the wicked tongue that was surely more skilful in these first clumsy, wonderful attempts than ever his could be. But Sam held him effortlessly down with one firm hand, and clicked that agile tongue against him, warning and provocation in one, bringing him closer with every hard-won breath.
But it wasn’t enough…not yet…not quite…he couldn’t…he…
Ahhh!
Sam’s hand was there, curling tight beneath his mouth, the tightness Frodo needed for that final, dizzying fall. As the pleasure cut through him over and over - terrible and astonishing at once - he heard Sam cry out beside him, and the sudden jerking spatter on his skin said this was no selfish taking of what Sam had so much wanted to give.
‘I liked today’s lesson…even better…than the last!’ Sam panted, still breathless as Frodo tugged him to lie at his side.
‘You learned a great deal from each of them, Sam,’ Frodo said, kissing him softly, ‘and I have very high expectations of the next…’
~#~#~#~
A/N: I am perfectly certain that you can imagine the next lesson Frodo wishes to teach; let me know when you've written it… :-)
(Part One was here)
It was teatime and Frodo went in search of Sam, bearing a tray with tea and a plate of still-warm scones, split and thickly buttered. He was perfectly capable of cooking for himself despite all Sam’s conviction to the contrary, and had whisked up a fresh batch; baking providing a far more soothing occupation than any accounts ledger. It was quite definitely time for a break, he realised, when the row on which he was working - which should have tallied a formidable rank of figures whose import he had quite forgotten - contained instead an entry which read, quite simply, Sam+Frodo= … the dots bearing for him a significance that stretched far beyond mere omission.
Sam’s welcome seemed just a trifle stilted, and Frodo couldn’t quite decide if the difficulty in meeting his master’s eyes was his usual embarrassment at being waited on, or something more. He remained somewhat subdued as Frodo poured and sugared the tea and passed over his mug, but when asked about his progress so far, his telling began quite easily: what he had achieved already today, what was still to do, and just how this fitted into The Grand Plan for the garden this season. His enthusiasm soon swept away any lingering awkwardness and all was as usual between them.
In fact, things had returned so far toward normal - with all of Frodo’s distraction concentrated upon the sight of a pink tongue flicking out to collect stray crumbs (to say nothing of buttery smears) - that, when Sam collected mugs and plates back onto the tray and lifted it to pass it to him, Frodo had almost forgotten the touching issue. He dropped his gaze hastily, hoping Sam may not have noticed his preoccupation with matters rather more personal than the tricky question of whether purple petunias or blue lobelia would make the better show alongside the marigolds this year.
His mind directed once more to the practicality of accepting the tray, Frodo curled his fingers quite confidently beneath its rim, the weight transferring with ease from one to the other. But then-
Frodo’s mind shut down so fast that Sam was three-quarters of the way to the potting shed before the blood returned to his brain and thought was possible once more. And it was a very good thing that his grip on the tray was suddenly so tight that his knuckles showed stark white, or what had occurred would have proved quite literally shattering, too.
No, he really had not imagined that.
The passing of a tea tray from one hobbit to another did not require the softly stealthy stroke of strong and calloused hands from fingertip to wrists that had been susceptible always to that gentle blandishment, though Frodo was perfectly prepared henceforth to institute such a requirement; provided only that it was limited to such transactions as they occurred within the confines of Bag End - and even then, strictly to those between himself and Sam.
And it was quite definitely not rampant imagination that was currently making a concerted bid to burst the buttons right off his trousers.
He contrived somehow to make his way back into the smial and to deposit his burden on the table without the loss of more than an odd teaspoon - and his wits, of course. For he was surely losing them now - Sam couldn’t really be mounting a deliberate campaign with the object of driving his master right out of them. Could he?
He wouldn’t deliberately tease his master into an overwhelming state of desire, then walk away and leave him practically vibrating with need - would he? Ah, but Sam didn’t know of his ability to arouse that master, simply by being, so he couldn’t know about the vibration either.
Could he?
###
Frodo shut himself away in the study for the remainder of the day. When Sam knocked to say that he had finished his work and was leaving, Frodo’s supper being well underway and only needing to be served, he only called a reply through the closed door. Once sure that Sam had left, he went through to the kitchen and removed his meal to the cool of the larder.
He had a great deal of thinking to do before he could face Sam again - in the parlour at first, until gathering shadow sent him early to bed rather than face the bother of lighting lamps. But light or dark, his mind travelled the same ground over and over, constantly at war with his body’s desire to relive the many ways, accidental or not, that Sam had touched him, since that innocent question had brought about this crisis in Frodo’s conscience.
Until now, it had been possible to ascribe each and every one of the incidents that had so disturbed his equanimity (amongst other things), to an imagination spiralling wildly out of his control.
That secret touch beneath the tea-tray, though, that must have been deliberate - but was it really proof of anything, beyond a wish on Sam’s part to make his master feel good? Had Frodo, in fact, overestimated the extent of Sam’s appreciation of feather-light foreplay? Could Sam actually believe it to be simply a pleasant, even a friendly thing to offer, and not as rivetingly arousing to him as it was to Frodo. He may - it seemed unlikely but it was just possible - he may be merely reciprocating what had been offered to him, and in the same altruistic manner.
Frodo had, however unwillingly - no, not unwillingly, only selfishly, wanting to give Sam pleasure under a convenient pretext; he had introduced Sam to the delights of foreplay. But he had done so with the intention, if never the wish, that Sam may use such arts to seduce a lass into his arms and, eventually, his bed. He had made that point at the time, quite plainly (if reluctantly), he thought, so that Sam should not suspect him of any ulterior motive. So whatever Sam was doing, he was doing with full intent.
In truth, Sam’s touching of him, uninvited - as between servant and master - was as inappropriate as his own must be, from master to servant, if unwelcome; and, Frodo reasoned further, for Sam to do any such thing was a risk far greater than his own. An outright and even angry rejection might not only mean Sam losing his post as gardener and servant at Bag End and, lacking a reference, never finding another; far more cogently, his Gaffer would probably - and despite the recent entry into tweenage - tan his son’s backside from here to Bywater and back again if he so much as suspected him of propositioning the Master.
Frodo grinned wryly at the thought, but quickly sobered. That was, in essence, exactly what Sam had done; what Frodo remained uncertain of, was why.
If all he intended was the opportunity for further foreplay with that master, it may be better for both if Sam were to seek another post - with the best reference that Frodo could provide. For he could not - would not - betray his love for Sam in such a casual, unfeeling way. He needed Sam in his life and in his bed. He needed Sam’s love. But if Sam wanted no more of him than the transient pleasures of touch, then Frodo could not continue to keep him near. It would hurt too much, to have him so close and even willing, yet so far from what Frodo truly wanted. And it would not be fair to Sam.
The day dawned at last, after a night of repeated awakenings. But awake or asleep, his uncertainties vied relentlessly in Frodo’s mind and dreams. In some, Sam was every bit as loving as he could wish, and that one real instance of Sam’s hand delicately stroking him overlaid all earlier memories, so that Frodo had never in his life made love with anyone but Sam. In others - far less palatable if perhaps more likely - Sam was no more than accommodating of his master’s need for touch, until proficient enough himself to approach whichever lass he’d an eye to.
Frodo knew he had come at last to the end of his tether. He simply had to know one way or the other, whether the stealthy slide of any part of Sam against Frodo, and most specifically (since he was all but naked here, barring the thinnest garment he could find) of fingers on night shirt, arousing far beyond their reach, could mean the more that he so fervently desired; or whether Sam’s waking of him today must be the last.
He still hoped, of course; he really hoped that both of them wanted the same thing; that it may be possible for Sam to love him in return. But the more he thought about it, the less sure he seemed to become. A stratagem of sorts was clearly called for, and the sooner the better. He was determined though that should all go awry, the blame would be his alone. Whatever the reason, were Sam to leave his service, no fault should be laid at his feet. Frodo sighed, composed himself, and waited.
###
The morning ritual began as ever with Sam’s cheerful comment on the day’s prospects - ‘Looks like being a warm ’un again, Mr Frodo - the first strawberries’ll be ripe afore we knows it, if this keeps up!’ - over the clink of china. A brisk rattle of curtain hooks let in bright sunshine to form a momentary halo around his head, that Frodo just caught from the corner of his eye.
For this morning, Frodo was not lying turned away from Sam - he was on his back, covers pushed down as if they were making him too hot. Sam was not to know - yet - that he was the principle cause of that heat, rather than the prevailing weather; or that it was against his gaze that those blameless covers must be artfully and concealingly bunched, just below waist level. Frodo had considered dispensing with the nightshirt altogether, deciding in the end that such an unprecedented action may unsettle Sam too much. He was breathing deeply in order to simulate sleep, his eyes almost closed; the very thinnest sliver of sight seeped through the dark fringe of his lashes.
He had deliberately left undone every button on his nightshirt, the fingers of one hand still artistically entangled, so it may seem to Sam that he’d dragged it away in search of cooler air. The other lay free across his middle - both hands outside the covers for a definite reason. He watched as Sam approached the bed, hoping that the lash-filtered smile may be as fond as it looked. It took a considerable effort to keep his breathing steady whilst Sam simply stood there, regarding him. Even with his view so restricted, Frodo rather thought that gaze may be appreciative, for Sam was concentrating quite intently on the unaccustomed stretch of skin so obligingly displayed by the absence of nightshirt.
Frodo’s artistry had stretched to the almost uncovering of a single nipple - little more than a hint, from where Sam was standing, he hoped; perfect for a tease that could be explained away as accidental, should that be necessary. He intended - with some success, if Sam’s suddenly indrawn breath was shock of the good kind - that the sight may bring him into the right frame of mind for what Frodo sincerely hoped would follow. Of course, Sam may not have the same nipple fetish that Frodo admittedly possessed, but Frodo cherished great hope that he may be as open to instruction - in the giving, if not the receiving - as ever he had been in the rudiments of grammar.
Sam’s tongue came out - a quick and nervous swipe to wet his lips - and Frodo was sure his breathing had quickened, too. He was having to really work at keeping his own to a steady rhythm, now, and he wished that Sam would get on and do something.
Sam did. He took his bottom lip between his teeth - his habit when faced with a challenge; out in the garden over some knotty problem with the year’s rotation, perhaps; or when tackling a book that stretched the boundaries of his understanding. It was a habit that had begun to affect Frodo deeply, for it spoke to him always of the mobility of Sam’s mouth; of how agile his tongue may be, and where Sam may bestow it, given sufficient encouragement; how his teeth seemed exactly made to provide nibbling of the most deliciously arousing kind; and how wonderful those lips would feel, warm and wet and sucking strongly, on any single part of Frodo…
He swallowed - too loudly, he thought. Letting his head sag further into the pillow, he tugged the entangled hand a little sideways to distract Sam from realising he was awake. He knew at once that it had worked, for he could almost feel Sam’s eyes travel the slope of his neck; feel its heat slide down and down over slightly damp and sleep-flushed skin, to the now fully revealed nipple. It was also fully aroused, now, and standing to attention - seeking, in fact, exactly the kind of the attention for which the rest of Frodo was practically panting.
He began to wonder how much longer he could keep up this pretence. But he couldn’t make his move - not yet, for Sam had actually done nothing as yet that any efficient - if possibly over-inquisitive - servant may not have done of a morning. And to move without a sign from Sam would be a terrible mistake, may lead to misunderstandings, to anger - to parting, even. It was not a risk Frodo was prepared to take, for to lose Sam - as friend and expert gardener if not as lover - was a deprivation never to be borne if he could help it.
Seemingly satisfied that Frodo was still asleep, Sam’s smile somehow became at once rather shy and yet very determined. He reached a tentative finger to touch the nightshirt, gliding softly from wrist to shoulder, much as he had done before. Using every scrap of willpower he possessed, Frodo managed to hold still beneath the exquisite caress. Somehow, he kept his breaths quiet and even, his eyelids from lifting. For this time Sam did not remove his hand entirely. A darting glance from beneath his lids told Frodo that the hand was hovering, Sam’s fingers now pointing eagerly where Frodo was quite desperate for their touch.
He waited. Still and silent and inwardly vibrating to the very quick, he waited, as Sam’s hand ventured slowly - so slowly that Frodo feared his skin may scream his frustration - slowly but unerringly to the pert nipple that was all but waving for attention, now. He was almost sure he could feel Sam’s warmth coming closer and closer, and he fought the need to gasp, to open his eyes to the full and watch Sam’s face as he struggled with the temptation to give in to what he wanted - what Frodo so much wanted him - to do.
Finally-Sam’s finger finally touched him, light and gently hesitant - clearly wanting to give far more than the mere brush that was all he dared risk.
And Frodo groaned aloud from the pleasure of it.
Startled, Sam choked back a cry and made to step away from the bed, but quick as winking, Frodo let go of cloth and seized Sam’s wrists instead.
Shaking within that firm grasp, Sam blushed, his face vivid with guilt. Quite unable to look up, he only fixed his eyes on Frodo’s hands and gave himself up to his deserved imprisonment.
‘S-s-s-’ he began, but his stammer of apology was lost as Frodo took up one unresisting hand and brought it unhurriedly, palm inward, to his mouth. With pointed tongue he chased the lines that mapped Sam’s life, and painted the same spiralling patterns his fingertips had shown to Sam already.
‘Is this what you are seeking, Sam - the thrill of touching and being touched that way?’ he asked, the husky murmur returning to him, warm and damp, from the very closeness of that hand. Sam’s eyes had fallen shut, and he shuddered in Frodo’s grasp, under the spell of breath and tongue. That it was a thrill Frodo could not doubt, even before Sam’s stuttered whisper of assent. His own eyes wide now, he could see just how thrilled Sam was. Not even the shame of being caught could diminish his body’s response to Frodo’s touch.
‘And is this-’ he paused to dart wet trails between Sam’s fingers, instantly feeling the differences - the curve of solid, gardener’s callouses protecting softer, more delicate skin; he thought of that rough-smooth contrast gliding over his own most sensitive places, and he shivered. Nipping lightly, then, at the web from thumb to forefinger, he asked forgiveness in a sweep of tongue and received it in the drag of Sam’s breath that begged where he could not. ‘Is this all that you want of me, or can there be more to it for you, Sam - more than just a need for foreplay?’
‘More, sir, please, much more! It’s you - never naught and nobody but you!’ His eyes met Frodo’s, sparking gold now amid the green, and his answer tumbled out so fast and earnest that Frodo could not doubt the truth of it - the truth of Sam’s heart, at last.
And somehow the knowing - the relief - gave him the control not to drag Sam instantly into his bed. This was not the quick and meaningless tumble of a servant such as some gentlehobbits may see as their due. This was his Samwise, who mattered now to Frodo more than anyone left in his world. His Sam should know the sweetness of love-making, so that if in the future he took another to his bed, he would remember only the love and tenderness he had known, and show that to his new love, whoever she - or he - may be.
Sam was trembling now, and Frodo raised a hand once more to his lips, laying a brief kiss to his palm. ‘I should very much like to kiss you, Sam,’ he said, ‘properly, this time.’ Still holding fast to that hand, he rose onto his knees at the edge of the bed. Ruckled bedclothes or not, there was now no disguising his desire, and Sam could not mistake his intent. But Frodo had made only a request; the choice must be Sam’s alone. It was one thing to know yourself wanted, quite another to see the evidence so firm and full before you. Frodo remembered his own trepidation when faced with Arlo’s need so long ago; his own first experience of pleasure with a body not his own.
‘May I, Sam? Please?’
Sam stared, speechless for one endless moment, then swallowed and nodded, an eager desperation clear on his face as he brought up his eyes to meet Frodo’s.
Frodo riffled one hand into his hair, its tawny fall just as silky and arousing as ever he had imagined it to be; gently cupping Sam’s head toward him as the other tilted his chin. The first meeting of their mouths was no more than a slow, dry press of lips, and Frodo knew at once that Sam may have snatched teasing kisses in boisterous teen games - may even have bestowed a shy kiss in more privacy - but he had never dared further than that. He had neither kissed nor been kissed as Frodo invited now - delicate kisses with a damp swirl of tongue to ease their way, his lips plucking softly at Sam’s, suckling them to a riper plumpness.
‘Hold me, Sam, please!’ he said, and gasped at the heat of Sam’s hands through the thin lawn. The firmness of those honest callouses was lost to a touch as careful as Sam would use for the most precious of his seedlings.
The very thought increased Frodo’s need for more. He asked in a liquid slide of tongue between top lip and bottom, and Sam replied on a stifled moan, opening to him in an instant. Frodo delved within, relishing the subtle taste of his Sam for the first time, skating his fingers lightly from Sam’s chin down the warm planes of neck and shoulders, down the front of Sam’s shirt to flicker a thumbnail over-
But Sam jerked sharply at that, choking a cry into Frodo’s mouth. He pulled away quickly to fall forward onto the bed.
‘Sam?’ Frodo said, and stroked a hand down his shoulder. But Sam only curled himself into a tight ball, breathing fast, and would neither look at nor answer him. ‘Oh, Sam!’ Tenderness tightened his voice to a whisper as he realised Sam’s embarrassment. He leaned to kiss the little he could see of Sam’s cheek. ‘Don’t fret, love - I take it as a great compliment to my skill! And the very same thing happened to me, when I discovered such pleasure for the first time. Look at me, Sam - please?’
He stroked Sam’s hair back from his ear, and placed a kiss to the soft skin just beneath. Sam hesitated, then rolled onto his back, still keeping his eyes shuttered against Frodo’s gaze.
‘You aren’t sorry, are you, Sam? I don’t want you to, but if-if this is too much and you feel you must go, I shall understand. I’m sorry, I really did not mean-’
Sam set one hand on Frodo’s arm and shook his head determinedly. ‘It’s only that I feel such a fool, Mr Frodo - like a teen that can’t last more’n five minutes!’
‘I didn’t want you to last, Sam!’ Frodo confessed. ‘I wanted to see you like that - and you turned away at the crucial moment! I shall have to begin all over again…’ He smiled, but then said seriously, ‘Sam, I very much want you in my bed, but you need to know that this is not play of any kind, for me. I love you, Sam, but you are young, there may be others with whom you-’
‘No!’ Sam said. ‘Only ever you, Mr Frodo. When I’m - you know - in bed on my own, like we said,’ one hand, waving downward, indicated all that he couldn’t say aloud, ‘then, it’s always been you that I-I think of, then. That I imagine…you know…’ He blushed again and his voice trailed off, but Frodo felt a sudden wave of tender understanding for his shy young love.
‘I should like to see you do that, one day,’ he said, with a grin for Sam’s sudden confusion and a blush that out-hued every other, ‘but for now… Do you remember what I said about really sensitive places, Sam? I’m going to show you exactly what I meant!’
‘B-but what about you, Mr Frodo,’ Sam asked. ‘Can’t I…’ He hesitated again, seeming uncertain that he could give to Frodo the pleasure he had just received.
‘Not yet, Sam. I’m older than you, so I can last!’ Though, he admitted to himself, not for much longer, now; but the pleasure of being with Sam like this was surely worth the wait.
Frodo bent to take Sam’s mouth again, and felt all shyness and anxiety melt into the kiss. Sam was gaining confidence in this, at least, enough that he was kissing as much as he was kissed, and Frodo could not remember such sweetness ever before. He tensed only slightly when Frodo smoothed a hand over him once more, roaming lightly from collar bone to the curve of ribs, unloosing buttons as he went, his fingers slipping beneath Sam’s shirt, then, to trail delicate whorls upon his skin. Sam moaned quietly when Frodo ended the kiss, sliding down to take an already taut nipple between his lips. He tugged at it lightly, and Sam’s breath came sharp and hitching; Frodo knew without looking what a wonderful thing it was, in some ways, to be a tween.
His mouth wandered playfully from one to the other, sucking, flickering - teasing Sam into forgetting just where that hand may be as it quested stealthily, ever lower. Encountering Sam’s waistband, Frodo circled a finger briefly beneath it, smiling into Sam’s skin as he shivered. He skated outward then, over Sam’s hip and down the outside of his thigh, the homespun rough beneath his fingers after the smooth warm stretch of Sam himself.
And now he brought the hand up slowly, along the inner curve of thigh, and Sam’s legs fell open on the instant, as the other hand paused at the fastening of his breeches.
‘Is this all right, Sam?’
Sam could only nod and watch as Frodo’s fingers released button after button. When the last remnants of clothing were pulled away, he managed, ‘S-sticky!’
‘Just a little!’ Frodo grinned fondly, and reached for the really useful cloth, wiping away the mess on Sam’s belly. No matter how carefully he tried to avoid it, as yet, his knuckles grazed the solid hardness now returning, and Sam gasped.
Frodo set aside the cloth and whispered, ‘Really sensitive places, Sam!’ as he leaned close to bestow more kisses - but not to Sam’s mouth, not this time. At the first touch of his lips, Sam jerked and writhed; when Frodo added a wet slide of tongue, he panted harshly. His fists lay slack at his sides, opening and closing helplessly as if he would use them but had not a thought spare to direct them. His eyes met Frodo’s, half-lidded now, their green smudging to a smoky sage, and his mouth moved as if he would say something. No words would come, but the sounds that escaped him - low and desperate in his throat - told Frodo everything he wished to know of Sam’s enjoyment and his desire for more.
‘Shh…’ he soothed, and turned his head to press his lips briefly to the inside of Sam’s thigh, then lifted away to blow again, softly cooling heated skin. ‘I have you, my Samwise…’
The time for play of any kind was past, now, Sam’s need too urgent to wait longer. Frodo set to work in earnest, abandoning light and teasing touches, or the flicker of his tongue, for the solid grasp of one hand above the tangle of wiry curl, and a keenly dedicated suckling. Only moments later Sam was pulsing into his mouth, his face tight with the agony of a pleasure he’d known for the very first time.
Frodo swallowed around him, gentling him back into the world with licks and soft kisses, but he was so close himself, now. He clutched at Sam, pushing, rubbing, twisting fiercely against him, against Sam’s leg, caught up in the most frantic rhythm of all. So close, so close, yet never close enough, until Sam found again the use of his hands. Quite what he intended then, Frodo was never to discover. No sooner had one broad strong hand cupped itself around him than he was there - his body arching into a reckless delight he had not known in many a year.
Languid and boneless from the curls on his head to those that warmed his toes, he still managed somehow to heave himself up to lie beside Sam. Sam smiled at him, a soft and sated smile that showed him to be no less shattered by the love they had made between them. Frodo rolled toward him for a short, sweet kiss, but both hobbits were asleep before either one could say a single word.
###
When next Frodo opened his eyes, the sun had travelled far across the sky - but it was not the change of light and shadow that awoke him.
What woke him was the gradual awareness of mouth and fingers upon him, sliding, stroking, petting… Sam’s careful exploration was magically discovering his every secret place, each tiny stretch or crook of skin that was somehow so much more receptive; that would ever quicken desire within him, swift and sharp. A quick flash of surprise melted into wonder, that Sam should be so good at this, when he’d not even been properly kissed before today. Yet here he was, not only finding out Frodo’s secrets but using them against him, on him, making him writhe and shudder with desperate need.
How could Sam have taken two short lessons in foreplay to heart so quickly and so completely?
With an effort, he pushed up onto one elbow. He had to see Sam doing this to him - Sam, who was looking at him now as if Frodo was everything he’d ever wanted and never thought to have. He said nothing, though. No need, after all, to ask if Frodo liked what he was doing, or if he even wanted it at all. Frodo’s body was doing a fine job all on its own of telling Sam just how much it welcomed, how deeply it revelled in his touch. He could feel the fine red flush upon his skin, the ache of longing in nipples peaked already, glistening damp yet hopeful still of more. He shivered with anticipation as Sam smiled up at him, and dipped his head to follow the liquid trail he’d paused at Frodo’s waking, lips and tongue working slowly and methodically down and down and-
And then Sam nudged at him with a tentative lick, circling and sliding wetly, over and around, and Frodo was suddenly harder than he’d ever been before. He drew a sharp breath, his mouth dust-dry now, swallowing tight and almost impossible. Sam was panting too, his breath gusting hot and cold over Frodo’s skin as he explored where he’d never touched in this way before. Frodo splayed his fingers on the sheet below him - splayed and clutched and splayed again - wanting, wanting, needing - but there was no relief to be found there, only in-
He groaned aloud at the first, the glorious warm wet cling of Sam’s mouth all around him. He tried to thrust for more - more of that deep and careful suckling, more of the wicked tongue that was surely more skilful in these first clumsy, wonderful attempts than ever his could be. But Sam held him effortlessly down with one firm hand, and clicked that agile tongue against him, warning and provocation in one, bringing him closer with every hard-won breath.
But it wasn’t enough…not yet…not quite…he couldn’t…he…
Ahhh!
Sam’s hand was there, curling tight beneath his mouth, the tightness Frodo needed for that final, dizzying fall. As the pleasure cut through him over and over - terrible and astonishing at once - he heard Sam cry out beside him, and the sudden jerking spatter on his skin said this was no selfish taking of what Sam had so much wanted to give.
‘I liked today’s lesson…even better…than the last!’ Sam panted, still breathless as Frodo tugged him to lie at his side.
‘You learned a great deal from each of them, Sam,’ Frodo said, kissing him softly, ‘and I have very high expectations of the next…’
~#~#~#~
A/N: I am perfectly certain that you can imagine the next lesson Frodo wishes to teach; let me know when you've written it… :-)
(Part One was here)