Originally written in 2009 as a request fic. The requester wanted 'an accident while chopping wood'. ;-)
Mistress Lavender watches Samwise from the parlour window. He is chopping wood, and as it is an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon, he has removed his weskit and shirt. Trickles of sweat glisten as they run down her gardener’s sun-bronzed, muscular chest and back, and her pretty mouth pouts open and her tongue flicks out as if to lick the salty dampness away.
A sigh of fervent admiration escapes her parted lips as Samwise hoists the axe in his capable hands, raises it high and brings it down again in one smooth, practiced motion. His well-developed muscles bunch and ripple before her fascinated gaze, and the solid ‘thunk’ as the axe bites deep into the log and splits it asunder causes shivers to run through her. They end in a certain place that is growing damp and tingly, and unconsciously she presses her lower body against the windowsill to relieve the delicious ache.
And then an unexpected sound reaches her ears through the partially-open window: a groan. Samwise is groaning, as if he is in pain. He sets down the axe and bends at the waist, hands on thighs as he draws in a deep, shuddering breath.
Mistress Lavender’s small hand flies to her throat. Has something happened to her gardener? Is he injured? Ill? The thought is utterly insupportable!
“O, my poor dear Samwise,” she gasps. Hastily, she gathers up the full skirts of her midnight blue silk gown and rustles out of the room.
Mistress Lavender is perspiring and rather out-of-breath when she reaches Samwise’s side. He appears still to be in considerable distress, to judge by the agonised expression on his handsome face, but her soft exclamation of concern never leaves her lips. For the closeness of her stalwart gardener robs her of her ability to speak. A delectable musk and rosemary scent makes her senses swim, while the sight of Samwise’s sweat-darkened honey-gold curls clinging to his brow, and his amber-flecked green eyes glowing against the high flush of colour that exertion has brought to his cheeks, cause a momentary faintness to steal over her. She nearly swoons.
“Mistress Lavender? Is aught amiss?” Samwise shyly asks (for he is always charmingly bashful in her presence).
Mistress Lavender collects her scattered wits with difficulty and replies, “O! No, no, Samwise. I am quite well. I had thought to ask the same question of you, for I heard your pitiful groans from inside the smial, and feared that some mishap had befallen you.”
Her anxious eyes examine Samwise’s body for signs of injury, and stop at the juncture of his powerful thighs. “O!” she exclaims in a breathy voice. “Indeed, you are swollen, right here.” With her fingertips, she lightly touches a prominent bulge beneath the placket of his form-fitting wool breeches. Samwise lets out a stifled moan. “Is it very painful, dearest Samwise?”
Blushing furiously, Samwise replies, “Aye, ‘tis painful and no mistake, Mistress.” Then he adds in a husky baritone, “If there’s aught you could do to ease the pain, I’d be that grateful.”
“I have no training as a healer,” Mistress Lavender says doubtfully. She hesitates then adds, “But as I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue in this state, I shall do my poor best to ease you.” Her voluminous skirts billow around her as she kneels in front of Samwise, heedless of grass stains on the costly fabric. “Perhaps a kiss to start with?” she suggests, now at eye-level with the swelling that strains against his breeches. “’Tis, after all, reputed to be a sovereign remedy that will soothe any… pain.”
She cups her hands firmly around Samwise’s splendid behind and leans in to kiss the warm damp wool. What lies beneath is hot and hard and pulsing, and Samwise lets out another moan, loud and unrestrained this time, as she presses a series of eager kisses upon it. But alas, her kisses, far from soothing, only inflame the more—although Samwise, far from seeming displeased, tangles his fingers in her flowing raven locks and urges her on.
“D-Don’t stop,” he stutters. “Please.”
Despite his plea, Mistress Lavender does stop, and raises her head. She is panting, her bosom beneath the heavily embroidered beadwork that adorns her low-cut bodice heaving with the intensity of her emotions. “But I appear only to be making matters worse,” she pouts. “I shall have to try something else.”
Samwise lets out a groan of frustration, but replies, “W-Whatever pleases you, Mistress.”
A smile flickers at the corners of Mistress Lavender’s lips and vanishes. “This is what pleases me, Samwise,” she says, and her nimble fingers quickly undo the two pairs of horn buttons that hold the placket of his breeches closed. It falls away, and the source of Samwise’s discomfort is revealed: full, flushed and proudly erect it springs forth—a shaft of rigid steel under hot silk.
“O Samwise!” Mistress Lavender breathes in awestruck tones. “I can see that my task shall not be an easy one. You are so swollen.” She runs a fascinated fingertip along the underside of Samwise’s shaft, tracing the throbbing blue vein up to its ending just beneath the tip, where an opalescent dewdrop round as a pearl clings shivering. Leaning in once more, she laps at the dewdrop with her tongue; Samwise whimpers.
“But I do believe, dearest Samwise,” she vows, sliding her right hand between his quaking thighs to cup his lightly furred sac and fondle the taut twin balls, “that I am… up to the task.” Using her other hand to hold Samwise's shaft steady, her pouty pink lips close around the head and suckle.
Samwise lets out a cry and his fingers tighten in her silken tresses. “Ohhh… Oh, Mistress,” he moans as she continues her suckling and fondling. “Don’t you dare stop now, or I’ll be losin’ my mind for certain.”
Mistress Lavender has no least intention of stopping. But with teeth and tongue now otherwise occupied in a succession of tormenting scrapes, teasing nibbles, and greedy sucks, she cannot reply. Her only recourse is to hum her approval. So powerfully does that hum work on Samwise that he thrusts his hips involuntarily forward; a small spurt of salty, musk-tinged fluid dribbles down the back of her throat, to be eagerly swallowed.
Another approving hum brings another thrust, and Mistress Lavender, proving herself no mere novice at this particular branch of the healing arts, relaxes her throat and opens it wide. Samwise’s shaft, unobstructed, glides in until it is fully engulfed, and the tightly curling nest of coarse bronze hairs at its base tickles Mistress Lavender’s nose and chin.
Releasing her intimate grip on Samwise’s sac, Mistress Lavender moves her hand, seeking along the damp, fur-lined cleft between his buttocks until she finds the hidden opening. She plies the tight-budded hole most skillfully, until first one then a second of her clever small fingers is clenched inside the moist heat of the narrow passage.
Her gardener’s moans, rapidly escalating in intensity and frequency under this new assault, are as music to her ears now, for he will soon find surcease from his suffering. Indeed, he is already on the brink; she can tell by the tension that has invaded his every limb, and by the frantic snap-thrust-snap-thrust of his hips as she croons encouragement low in her throat and her questing fingers find and caress the sensitive hard nubbin of flesh that is the wellspring of sensations dark and almost too intense to bear.
Out of a series of garbled sounds, words emerge: “I… I’m… I’m comin’, Mistress,” Samwise gasps, and moments later, his entire body abruptly stiffens. A cry of ecstasy unimaginable is torn from his throat, and pulses of hot fluid spurt from his shaft to be drunk down by Mistress Lavender with greedy abandon. She doesn’t stop until she is certain Samwise has been drained dry, and his once-swollen shaft is limp and pliant. Only then does she release him, fore and aft, and sit back on her heels, licking her wet lips.
Samwise stands stock still above her, dumb as one struck by lightning; his face is slack with the intensity of his release, and his eyes appear glazed and unfocussed.
“O! My dearest Samwise, are you all right?”
Samwise rouses himself with an effort, and gives a shake, like a dog after a bath. “If’n I were any better, Mistress,” he replies hoarsely, “I’d be laid out on the ground and they’d be preparin’ to bury me.”
“Then the cure was a success?” Mistress Lavender asks coyly, well knowing the answer. “I am most gratified.”
A glint of something that might be humour lights Samwise’s green-gold eyes. “My cure was a success, aye, but it seems to me as we still have a problem, Mistress.” He points at Mistress Lavender’s lap. The skirt of her sumptuous silk gown is tented out, and a wet spot has darkened midnight blue to black.
Mistress Lavender glances down. A slight smile plays over her shapely lips. “It appears that we do, my Samwise,” she agrees.
But when she looks up again, a distinct change has come over her. No longer does she appear the coy, demure Mistress, but a she-cat, fierce and feral, stalking her intended prey: Samwise. Rising up on her knees, she grasps the waistband of his breeches with impatient hands, and tugs downward until the brown wool puddles at his feet. Without a word, Samwise kicks the breeches away; all the while his gaze is fastened to her face, as one held spellbound by the wiles of an enchantress.
Mistress Lavender’s magnificent eyes flash with blue fire as she bids Samwise turn around. Then, “On your hands and knees,” she commands, and hikes her skirts up around her waist, unveiling what lay hidden beneath. “Mistress Lavender has a mind to go riding today.”